COVERT WRITERS TAKEDOWN - Joe Bergeron (different ereaders TXT) 📗

table and left.
Friday, May 26, 3:35 p.m.
Murray Herold, his wife, and two children
enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle in a Contemporary Cape
located on the northwest corner of Akron, Ohio. He was
also very comfortable in, and loved, his job as Business
Editor at THE AKRON BEACON JOURNAL.
It was the third, and largest paper he’d worked
at, and he had no desire to matriculate further into any
of the major metropolitan dailies.
The kids had a lot of nice friends, they were
both doing well in school, and his wife had taken a job
as the Business Manager at an Akron orthopedic
surgical group.
He had no qualms about working for Yankee
Echo. While he understood its clandestine and
manipulative aspects, he also felt the organization did
exactly what he was told it was doing - bringing
information to a nation in matters that needed
concentrated attention.
Subjects always fit the flow of the news as it
was being made, so it was easy to justify his stories in
editorial staff meetings.
His deadlines met for the day, he now sat in a
meeting unaware that the retrofitted fax machine
sitting on the desk in his den at home was printing a
‘write negative’ TAC on the Cuban Economic Reform
Plan.
250
Last Sunday, he’d written positive on the plan.
His first thought when he saw the new TAC would be
that Michael Courtney had a game plan he didn’t
understand, but he wouldn’t question it because the
cryptic message stated this was only a short-term
directive.
The hardest part would be to explain his turnaround
to his Managing Editor. He wouldn’t worry
about it, newspaper editors change their minds every
day. It came with the territory - it was his prerogative -
the First Amendment guaranteed it.
While he didn’t know the exact number of
writers Yankee Echo had across the country, he knew
the TAC would set in motion a negative public feeling
towards the President’s plan. If further TAC’s followed,
the effect would be compounded, and, if Courtney
continued to press the issue for any length of time,
there could be a national public outcry against any
investment in Cuba.
Maybe it was for the best, and maybe it wasn’t.
Courtney had been right too many times. His
track record was impressive.
He would think about how much power
Michael Courtney controlled, as would several hundred
other writers around the country, but they all wouldn’t
questioned it.
Murray Herald’s ‘write-neg’ story would appear
in the BEACON JOURNAL on June 2nd as directed.
Friday, May 26, 4:05 p.m.
Wirtham’s Director of Computer operations
stepped into his office
Placing a sheet of paper on his desk, she would
make one brief statement. Although he could quickly
tell who it came from, she felt a responsibility to tell
him.
251
“It’s from Andy.”
He looked up.
“Thanks.”
Although the chalky fax paper contained few
words, the message was clear to him.
ANDY - ANDY
ND50M T STRT
WLND 200M TTL
CNTME PORCEL 1
6:00 TD
MC NDD HRE
WLADV
ANDY - ANDY
St. Croix needed fifty thousand dollars to get
started, and would require two hundred thousand
dollars total. Some for Coverty, and some for him and
Courtney for unexpected contingencies.
He’d asked Wirtham to contact him on the
portable cellular telephone he was carrying - time of
contact 6:00 p.m. today.
In the last two lines of his message he told him
that Courtney was needed in Miami, St. Croix to advise
when.
Their operation was beginning to take form.
Wirtham glanced at his watch wanting to make
sure he had enough time left today to transfer the cash
St. Croix would need. That disclosure during his
upcoming 6:00 p.m. phone conversation would let St.
Croix know he was doing everything in his power to
help activate, and complete the operation.
He only needed a moment of thought to tell
him this was possible.
‘Two hours before I talk to Andy. Banks are
open later on Friday nights. I’ll transfer it to Sunbank.
Andy can get what he needs to get rolling tomorrow
morning, in cash.’ 252
He tapped his intercom.
Gerry, do you know where Michael is?”
She knew there would be a second question
after this one, so she gave him a response to save him
the trouble of asking both.
“He left at twelve-thirty - Kathleen left about
fifteen minutes later.”
“If you hear from either of them, tell them to
call me, please.”
“Will do.”
Turning to the credenza behind his desk, he
opened six folders on his computer before coming to a
password-protected file named TF, which was
appropriate for Transfer Funds.
Within it, he found the JGM Exports checking
account numbers and routing numbers for several
Chevy Chase Bank accounts in the D.C. area. The
corresponding numbers of several appropriate Sunbank
branches in Miami would also be used to route the
funds. He would additionally flag each of these
accounts in Miami to correspond with St. Croix’s JGM
corporate Identification.
He’d completed this procedure many times
before to surreptitiously route JGM funds to many bank
accounts that could only be accessed by The Director of
The Central Intelligence Agency.
The transfer took approximately forty minutes
to complete.
Waiting an additional fifteen minutes, he
identified the availability of funds and was satisfied the
transactions were within the reach of a Zero.
He’d call Andy St. Croix at approximately 6:00
p.m.
253
Friday, May 26, 4:50 p.m.
“I’ll speak with you again soon, Mister
President.”
The telephone connection between Washington,
DC and Havana, Cuba, totally secured, had lasted fiftyfour
minutes. For the Presidents of two nations
speaking together on sensitive subjects, this amount of
time was not unusual.
Juan Ramos Santiago, President of Cuba,
finishing a conversation with Randal Benson, President
of The United States of America, was prepared to sign a
contract with Saito Kushima, now a Japanese
industrialist, and prior, an inflictor of war crimes.
It would be an agreement for Kushima to build
a low-intensity,
high-output manufacturing plant just outside the center
of the capitol of Cuba.
The Plant, initially to be built out to seventy
five thousand square feet of manufacturing space and
offices, would have the capability to expand to two
hundred thousand square feet with attending buildings.
The buildings would belong to Kushima, while
the land beneath them would remain leased Cuban
property.
Additionally, and addendum to the contract
would be the availability of expansion into other areas
of manufacturing in related industrial fields to be
agreed upon in the future.
Kushima would prepare documentation from
its end, and its founder would fly to Cuba to meet
secretly with the new democracy’s President.
Just prior to the contract signing, because he
would have a good-faith document in hand, Saito
Kushima would activate bank accounts in several
Panamanian and Puerto Rican financial institutions
making seventy five million American dollars available
to Randall Benson and Scott Orefice. The other half of
their consulting fee to come later. 254
Benson dialed his CIA Director.
“Scott Orefice.”
“I just spoke with President Santiago, Scotty,
we have a green light to finalize the contract process
with Kushima.”
“I’ll start on that right away, Sir. I wouldn’t be
surprised if Kushima already had his first part
completed.”
“Did you contact Courtney?”
“Yes, Sir. He told me he’d only discuss the
letter with you, and he was very emphatic about it. I’ve
briefed David Eisenberg.”
“He’s not a man we want to alienate, Scotty.
Bring him in Monday at noon. I have some time.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll arrange it.”
Phones were cradled.
Once again, the aged photo came out of the
drawer.
Holding it with both hands, he addressed it for
what he hoped would be the final time.
“Soon, Jonathan, soon.”
Friday, May 26, 6:00 p.m.
Wirtham closed his office door.
Although there was no one left this Friday
afternoon at JGM Exports, the demonstration of
privacy, even if only for himself, was important.
Eight digits were pressed on his desk system
while hilltop satellite dishes responded by bouncing the
electronic request to a cellular phone in Miami.
Two rings
“This is St. Croix.”
“Andy, it’s Robert.”
“Y’all get the TAC, Bobby?”
“Yes, the money’s been transferred. I’ll fax you
the list of Sunbank branches and also the amount of
cash in each one. You’ll also get their corresponding
checking account and routing numbers. 255
Use your corporate ID, the accounts have been
flagged to your number. That‘s your password for
access at all of them.”
There would be no need to appear in person to
collect the cash. Doing so could cause detection.
Instead, the funds would be converted into twenty-two
certified bank checks, each for nine thousand dollars,
with instructions for them to be mailed to a P.O box at
Miami’s smallest post office. The name appearing on
each check would be Matthew Borden, a false
identification St.Croix kept that no one knew about.
Retrieved, the checks could be converted to cash at any
bank of his choosing.
The Zero felt comfortable with that in place.
“OK, where’s Mick, ah need him here.”
“I don’t know, I’m trying to locate him. Do you
think he‘s up for this kind of operation?”
Wirtham understood the potential dangers that
lie ahead. Courtney was invaluable as a Master of
Laws to Yankee Echo. It would be difficult to replace
him should anything go wrong.
“He’s certainly not up for some of the
spontaneity we may have to process, but ah can’t do
this op without a metaphysical component. Ah need a
strong left brain on this that can think quickly. That’s
Mick.”
The former UVM professor knew all too well
how true this was. The most important element right
now was to secure Pat McKenzie.
“I’ll have him contact you as soon as I locate
him.”
The reality of it was St. Croix couldn’t wait for
someone else to contact Courtney. He’d do it himself. It
would probably be as easy as calling him at his hotel.
Wirtham needed information for David
Eisenberg.
256
He wouldn’t get it.
“Andy, when and how are you doing this
operation?”
“Can’t say, Bobby, Zero Intel - sit tight.”
Friday, May 26, 6:17 p.m.
The bellhop couldn’t help but notice her legs.
A sophomore at George Washington University,
he felt like asking her out - but she seemed really flaked
out about something.
Besides, she was leaving.
“Can I call down and get you a cab?”
“No…thank you. I’ve already called for one.
Indicating her luggage, he relayed their future
position.
“These will be at the front door with the
Concierge, Miss.”
From her jeans, she produced a five dollar bill.
He looked in her eyes while accepting the
gratuity.
She was different - like she was thinking about
two things at once.
‘She’s probably going out with a grad student.’
In the hotel lobby, Kay walked to the
registration counter, handing the evening clerk a white
envelope with Courtney’s name on it.
Seeking out the Concierge, he indicated her cab
ride.
Outside, under the glass portico, the cabby was placing
her luggage in the trunk of his vehicle, a yellow, fuelinjected,
turbocharged Chevy.
She approached his vehicle, giving him
instructions in two words while he opened the rear door.
“Dulles - Private.”
257
Friday, May 26, 7:05 p.m.
He’d spent almost seven hours roaming the
city. In all the times he’d come here, he had never
climbed to the top of the Washington Monument -
thought about visiting the Lincoln Memorial - or taken
a tour of The White House - or stood and stared at
Charles Lindbergh’s plane at The Smithsonian Institute
- or even cared to see what was inside The United
States Department of Commerce.
Washington, DC, this afternoon and early
evening, felt all out of perspective to him. The real
power wasn’t here. It wasn’t in a building, or in any
seat of political privilege:
The real power was in forty Laws, written