*
Maria met Florence Geary in downtown Washington at the Woodward and Lothrop department store, which everyone called Woodies. Their rendezvous was the brassiere department. Most agents were men, and any man who followed them in here would be conspicuous. He might even get arrested.
‘I used to be size 34A,’ said Florence. ‘Now I’m 36C. What happened?’
Maria chuckled. At forty-eight she was a little older than Florence. ‘Join the club of middle-aged women,’ she said. ‘I always had a big ass, but I used to have cute little boobs that stood up all on their own. Now I need serious support.’
In two decades in Washington, Maria had assiduously cultivated contacts. She had learned early on how much was achieved – for good or ill – through personal acquaintance. Back in the days when the CIA had been using Florence as a secretary, instead of training her to be an agent as they had promised, Maria had sympathized with her plight, woman to woman. Maria’s contacts were usually women, always liberal. She exchanged information with them, giving early warning of threatening moves by political opponents, and helped them discreetly, often by assigning higher priority to projects that might otherwise be sidelined by conservative men. The men did much the same.
They each picked out half a dozen bras and went to try them on. It was a Tuesday morning, and the changing room was empty. Nevertheless, Florence kept her voice low. ‘Bud McFarlane has come up with a plan that is complete madness,’ she said as she unbuttoned her blouse. ‘But Bill Casey committed the CIA.’ Casey, a crony of President Reagan’s, was head of the CIA. ‘And the President said yes.’
‘What plan?’
‘We’re training assassination squads of foreign nationals to kill terrorists in Beirut. They call it pre-emptive counter-terrorism.’
Maria was shocked. ‘But that’s a crime, by the laws of this country. If they succeed, McFarlane and Casey and Ronald Reagan will all be murderers.’
‘Exactly.’
The two women took off the bras they were wearing and stood side by side in front of the mirror. ‘You see?’ said Florence. ‘They’ve lost that sit-up-and-beg look.’
‘Mine, too.’
There was a time, Maria reflected, when she would have been too embarrassed to do this with a white woman. Maybe things really were changing.
They started to try on the bras. Maria said: ‘Has Casey briefed the intelligence committees?’
‘No. Reagan decided he could just inform the chair and vice-chair of each committee, and the Republican and Democratic leaders of the House and Senate.’
That explained why George Jakes had not heard about this, Maria deduced. Reagan had made a sly move. The intelligence committees had a quota of liberals, to ensure that at least some critical questions were asked. Reagan had found a way to sideline the critics and inform only those he knew would be supportive.
Florence said: ‘One of the teams is here in the States right now, on a two-week training course.’
‘So the whole thing is quite far advanced.’
‘Right.’ Florence looked at herself in a black bra. ‘My Frank is pleased that my bust has changed. He always wanted a wife with big tits. He claims he’s going to church to thank God.’
Maria laughed. ‘You have a nice husband. I hope he likes your new bras.’
‘And what about you? Who will appreciate your underwear?’
‘You know me, I’m a career girl.’
‘Were you always?’
‘There was a guy, a long time ago, but he died.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And no one else since?’
She hardly hesitated. ‘One near miss. You know, I like men, and I like sex, but I’m not prepared to give up my whole life and become an appendage to some guy. Your Frank obviously understands that, but not many men do.’
Florence nodded. ‘Honey, you got that right.’
Maria frowned. ‘What do you want me to do about these murder squads?’ The thought occurred to her that Florence was a secret agent, after all, and she might have found out, or guessed, that Maria had leaked stories to Jasper Murray. Did she want Maria to leak this one?
But Florence said: ‘I don’t want you to do anything, right now. The plan is still a stupid idea that may be nipped in the bud. I just want to be sure that someone outside the intelligence community knows about it. If the shit hits the fan, and Reagan starts lying about murder the way Nixon lied about burglary, at least you will know the truth.’
‘Meanwhile, we just pray that it never happens.’
‘Amen.’
*
‘We’ve selected our first target,’ said Tim Tedder to Cam. ‘We’re going for the big guy.’
‘Fadlallah?’
‘Himself.’
Cam nodded. Muhammad Hussein Fadlallah was a leading Muslim scholar and a Grand Ayatollah. In his sermons he called for armed resistance to the Israeli occupation of Lebanon. Hezbollah said he was their inspiration, no more, but the CIA was convinced he was the mastermind behind the kidnapping campaign. Cam would be glad to see him dead.
Cam and Tim were sitting in Cam’s office at Langley. On his desk was a framed photograph of himself with President Nixon, deep in conversation. Langley was one of the few places where a man could still be proud of having worked for Nixon. ‘Is Fadlallah planning more kidnappings?’ Cam asked.
Tim said: ‘Is the Pope planning more baptisms?’
‘What about the team? Are they trustworthy? Are they under control?’ Florence Geary’s objections had been overruled, but her misgivings had not been stupid, and Cam was now remembering what she had said.
Tim sighed. ‘Cam, if they were trustworthy, responsible people who respected legitimate authority, they wouldn’t be available for hire as paid assassins. They are as reliable as such people ever are. And we have them more or less under control, for now.’
‘Well, at least we’re not financing them. I got the money from the Saudis – three million dollars.’
Tim raised his eyebrows. ‘That was well done.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We might consider putting the whole project technically under the control of Saudi intelligence, to improve deniability.’
‘Good idea. But even then we’ll need a cover story, after Fadlallah is killed.’
Tim thought for a minute then said: ‘Let’s blame Israel.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Everyone will readily believe the Mossad did a thing like this.’
Cam frowned uneasily. ‘I’m still worried. I wish I knew exactly how they were going to do it.’
‘Better if you don’t know.’
‘I have to know. I might go to Lebanon. Get a closer look.’
‘If you do,’ said Tim, ‘go carefully.’