THE ANGRY DOVES
By Dorian Scott Cole
Copyright 1980, 1987, by Dorian Scott Cole
This book is copyright material, not public domain, and all rights are reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in any media. This book may not be sold or included in any collection. The reader may make a printed copy of this book for his personal use.
All characters in this book are a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental
William got tickets for an afternoon flight to France. The purpose was more than just a social call. Despite Kenza's appeal for fair play, William felt it was going to take more than friendly persuasion to handle Khaled. Art Orlinski was skilled in those things, the very things Kenza hated most.
As they packed to leave, Kenza asked, "Who is this Art Orlinsky?"
"He's an old friend."
"CIA?" she huffed, throwing a blouse into the garment bag.
"Yes. You won't like him, I'm sure."
"Why don't we just return to Morocco for a few days?"
"I want to find out some things from him. He was different than me in the way he worked. I admired him for what he could do, and I want to know how he did it."
"Was he nice to people?" she asked hopefully.
He decided he had better hide nothing from her. He hung a shirt in the bag saying, "No. He was very open and confrontational."
Kenza stopped packing. "Worse than you?"
"We did the same things, just differently," William said indifferently, hoping to avoid another confrontation.
"Well, you know my feelings." She continued packing quietly.
"Art used to dream of retiring on the French Riviera with his wife of
forty-two years. He would stand with me on the Mediterranean shore in Algeria and point across the water. 'One day I'm going to sail right across there to the Riviera, and wherever I land, that's where Marge and I are going to build our house.' And ten he would elbow me and add, 'and while she's building it, I'm going to lay on the beach. I've done my work, and when I retire, it's her turn. If she wants a new house, I'll buy the material."
Kenza smiled. "He sounds like a character."
"That he is."
They arrived at Art's home late that afternoon. Art was pleased they were coming, and met them at the door with a friendly smile. He looked older than William remembered. He was all of five eight, with sandy brown hair balding around the edges. His oval face was naturally olive, and all the darker from enjoying the sunny days on the Med, but with deep set wrinkles, especially on the forehead, from frowning. It was not a very friendly face, not a trustworthy face, but definitely a character's face.
"William Duvall, gem of North Africa! Good to see you!"
William bowed with a smile, and shook Art's hand. "Good to see you, too, Art. Mind if we mix business and pleasure? I need some advice."
"Wonderful! My advice was never any good, so we can forget that right away and get down to some serious catching up."
They smiled warmly, and Art led them through the house. William noticed that Art looked happier than he had ever seen him, in spite of his age. Art took them onto the rear deck which overlooked the Med. Marge, his wife, laying on a lounge chair, was sunning herself, and sipping a lemonade. A pleasant breeze balanced against the sunshine, making the deck very comfortable.
Marge rose to greet them. "William! If I had more notice you were
coming, I would have prepared a banquet."
"It takes three days notice for a cake," Art kidded. "You only gave us one."
"Oh, hush," Marge shot back. "How about some lemonade?"
They both looked at Kenza and then back at William. "Still chasing half the women in North Africa, I suppose," Art asked.
"Oh, I think I've caught one," William said, smiling admiringly at Kenza.
"Where's your manners?" Marge asked. "She's been standing in your shadow for two minutes and you've yet to introduce her."
"This is Kenza," William said proudly.
The astonishment was obvious on Art's face. "The very same?"
Art turned to Kenza. "Sixteen years," he said in awe. "I never expected..." He took her hand and shook it, staring at her. "You were a dream I never expected to see."
Kenza blushed and smiled.
"Unhand her, you cad," Marge said, separating them. She winked at Kenza, saying, "Yu've got to watch this one. He's a charmer."
Pretending to be wounded by Marge's remarks, he said, "Let's sit down before Marge stretches the truth so far it breaks." William sat at the small outside table, on a white cast iron chair, and Art sat across from him, while Kenza chose an upright lounge chair near Marge's chair.
"I heard a rumor you left the CIA. If you don't need advice about love, and not about the job either, then what's up?"
"I'm working for the State Department now. Much less bureaucracy, but much higher stakes. For once I can change things, and not just gather information."
Art toasted him with his lemonade. "Good for you."
"Maybe. Maybe not so good. I've managed to stir up a hornet's nest, and I need help. I'm working with terrorists. Moderates and radicals."
"And they're all out to kill us!" Kenza added, sounding scared.
"Good God, William," Art said, looking shocked. "Didn't I teach you not to ruffle their feathers?" He shook his head. "I'm out of business, you know. I really can't help. I won't."
Marge was returning with the glasses of lemonade. "And I won't let him," she said with a scowl, as she handed William a glass. She continued looking at William until he responded.
"OK," he said, raising his hands against her attack. "I didn't intend to drag you into this. I really just want advice." She nodded approvingly and sat down.
"Art, I've watched you time and again, control people," William began. "You get them to do what you want them to do. In a way, that's what I'm going to have to do with some of these terrorists. I've got to keep some of them from starting things that interfere with peace efforts, and right away I have to find a way to keep them from killing Kenza and I."
"If terrorists want you dead, you might as well pick out your casket. Who is after you?"
Art stood up and looked at William, shaking his head. "You don't start small, do you?"
"And Ismail Hamouz, Deputy Parliament Member, in Lebanon."
"Ha!" Art laughed, crossing his arms and turning away. "Buy a nice metal casket that doesn't leak. Bronze is good. Get wood trim. That's my best advice." He stood facing away, looking out over the Med.
William sighed impatiently, knowing that Art could help him if he would. "C'mon, Art, you're an expert. I want to know how you handle people. You could talk someone into jumping off a building."
Art turned back toward him, frowning. "Power games!" he said in disgust. He studied William thoughtfully. "I wish I had spent the last forty years talking people into not jumping off buildings." He turned away again, with a pained expression on his face.
William looked at the two women. Marge was looking down, experiencing her husband's pain. Kenza was smiling at him, pleased with Art's advice. She rose and walked toward William.
Art finally turned back, serious, more open and vulnerable than William had ever seen him. The hard look that characterized Art was gone. "Let me tell you a secret, William. I always admired the way you worked. You were easygoing, straight forward, and pretty honest for an operative. In the end, you got the same job done with a lot less suffering for all concerned. I always wished I could do that."
Kenza put her arm around William, giving him a reassuring hug.
"I always followed the wrong principles," Art began. "Do you remember that list the CIA published on how to win friends and influence people? Well, being nice to people never worked for me. People would take one look at me and for some reason they would immediately become hostile and suspicious. I could wine and dine them until doomsday, and they would never trust me. Why do people react that way to me, William?" he asked with a hurt look on his face.
"Maybe you're too honest. People can see in your eyes that you want something from them."
Art looked at him skeptically. "Thanks for the B.S., I don't believe a word of it. Well anyway, Tom Osborne, Phil Wilson, and I made our own list one
night in a bull session ten years before the CIA made its list. It's just backwards of the CIA list. I could punch someone in the mouth, and then make friends with them. They seemed to trust me then."
"He's not a bad guy after you get to know him," Marge said. "But getting to know him is hell."
They all laughed.
Art sat down, facing both of them, and continued. "When we worked together, you would just walk up to someone, chat with them for a while, and next thing I knew you were pulling all kinds of information out of them like you were old friends. People would just take to you. But I would have to plot and scheme how I was going to drag it out of the next person. Even then I got silence or lies."
"Aw, c'mon Art, you're putting me on. I was just a naive kid who never grew up, knocking around in a big job. I never had any expertise at it; I always looked up to you." William shoved himself back from the table, feeling disgusted by Art's turn from his old self.
"No expertise!" Art shook his head incredulously. "William, you're probably the best operative in the field today. Cecil sings your praises from the time he gets up in the morning til' nightfall. Well, at least noon. You don't know what you have. Believe me, there's a lot of people who wish they could even come close to filling your shoes."
Art stood and pointed to his side. "I have a bullet hole in my side from playing those power games. I almost lost my liver. I sleep, even now, with a gun under my pillow! You think Marge likes that?" He sat down again, looking distraught and weary. "The stress is terrible. I retired at sixty because of heart disease - acute, chronic hypertension the Doc says is mostly job related.
William, one thing I know after sixty years," he said pointing at William's
nose. "It isn't worth it! That's my advice, plain and simple." He nodded his head sharply, punctuating his statement.
William let Art's advice hang in the air for a while, allowing Art to linger in the afterglow of having done a favor for once. William could tell that forty years of intelligence work had taken their toll on Art, and he needed to make up for his sins.
During William's silence, Marge took the opportunity to fill Kenza in on the trials and tribulations of being an intelligence man's wife, an ordeal for which she had many vivid stories.
"Well, I had better shut up," Marge said after several stories, "or I'll bring on my nightmares."
William began again on Art. "I appreciate your advice, Art, and I won't forget it. But now I'm going to have to use every tool at my disposal just to keep from getting killed, and I have a job to do that is important to the US, and the Mid East. Peace is a fragile thing, and almost impossible to find. I can't afford not to have every method at my disposal."
"I suppose," Art said noncommittally.
William decided to use a different tack. Memories would bring back the Art who knew how to handle difficult people. "Do you remember that diamond agent in Algiers? We knew he had to be the one laundering currency for arms shipments. All we wanted to know was, who was paying for them - Nothing that would have hurt him to tell. I turned on the charm and we got nowhere. We got him money, girls, action, everything he wanted and he just took our money and smiled. Not a word of information. Do you remember what you did?"
Art nodded. "I caught him alone in his office, gave him one good punch in the stomach, and he spilled his guts. Told us the entire setup. I was mad. He had it coming."
"Charm doesn't work with everyone. Some people just take unfair advantage
of it, and would still kill me. I can't use friendly persuasion with terrorists, do you know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah, I understand, Art said sullenly. "Just don't let it consume you."
"Then tell me, how do I prevent these terrorists from killing us?"
Kenza and Marge had been sitting back, listening with disapproval. They turned toward Art to hear, this part being important to their lives.
Art studied his lemonade thoughtfully, and then studied William. It's beautifully simple, really. But nearly impossible. You see, the only thing that matters to a terrorist is his cause. He will do anything for it and he will sacrifice anything for it, including his life. So you have to build an impenetrable fortress around yourself that covers every situation. You have to stop every conceivable way of his getting to you."
"But how?" Kenza asked. "There must be a million ways to get to us, and sooner or later we're going to make a mistake and they'll have us."
"As I said, it's beautifully simple. You find the one thing they don't want to lose, and make sure if they hurt you, they will lose it."
"Their cause," William responded. "Hurting us has to hurt their cause."
Art smiled. "Yes, but the tough part is figuring out how to hurt them. How can you hurt someone who loves everything the world hates?"
"We'll find a way," William replied.
* * *
While William and Kenza returned to Morocco to map out a new strategy and wait for Ismail to surface, William learned of Samuel's problems in Washington. There was a storm brewing at high levels between the State Department and the CIA that could put an end to all their plans. Samuel was bracing for the hardest battle of his career. With total dedication to Middle East peace, he was determined to get his program accepted. He had also put himself out on a limb.
Samuel dreaded the coming weekly meeting of the Under Secretaries. He usually looked forward to them, but in this one he was going to reveal his plan to use Special Agents in the Mid East. So far Samuel had William operating without official intelligence community sanction. He knew the CIA had made a thorough investigation, but he had heard nothing from it. Now his revelations could have reverberations at all levels. He might be eaten alive.
Samuel greeted the other men at the meeting with his usual disarming smile, even though he felt anxious and distraught. The other three men at the meeting were all State Department Under Secretaries with responsibilities for areas directly affected by the Middle East.
The Secretary of State, who had hired Samuel for his business background, had given him the special title, Assistant Deputy Secretary. His job was to coordinate Mid East policy. No one was really sure just how much power Samuel had. Some meetings they were in the palm of his hand, and at other times they were wolves. It depended on which way the rumor mill was turning.
The meeting began with the usual moaning and groaning over lack of progress in the peace talks, and quickly moved on to discussion of the usual unsolvable problems. He looked around the table. Tom Padget, who was usually needling everyone about inefficiency and mismanagement, seemed preoccupied. Samuel would have no problem with him.
John Kraemer, insightful, reserved, sharp, usually supported him. Gene Bradley was always outspoken, sarcastic, and belittling.
Someone had apparently ruffled Gene's feathers and he was going to pounce on some other unsuspecting soul to relieve his outrage. "I'll tell you what we need," Gene was saying. "We need Samuel to tell us something else is going wrong over there, more people wrecking our efforts."
"That reminds me," John spoke up. "What ever happened to that group you were following out in the desert there somewhere? Who did they turn out to be?"
"They are led by who we suspected, Ismail Hamouz, the politician in high office in Lebanon. He is also an established businessman with good contacts in Jerusalem. He has grass roots support throughout the area. I'm following him very closely, thinking he may have potential as a spokesman for the Palestinians." Samuel had said all the positive things he could think of.
"That's good," Tom remarked absently.
"Peace negotiations?" Gene fumed. "He sounds like a better candidate for war negotiations. What happened to his army, did they all desert him like a bunch of desert rats?"
The time had come to explain. Cautiously. "He... had a change of heart. We managed to convince him that war wouldn't work."
"Well, that is a major victory. How did you accomplish that?" Gene asked.
"I had a man working with him, trying to persuade him."
Gene frowned. "One of our State Department intelligence people, or did you send the ambassador out in the desert to pow wow with him?" Gene smiled like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. "I know our intelligence people, they only analyze data. Come clean, Samuel, what have you been up to?"
Samuel began to sweat profusely. "I got a specialist, an ex CIA man who is loyal, and gave him a mission to find out who the people were, and to see to it that they didn't interfere in anything important and upset the peace negotiations."
"You did what?" Gene exclaimed vehemently.
John's usual calm demeanor turned to an air of apprehension. "Who knows about this? Did someone higher up instruct you to do this?"
"No. I wanted to try it out and see how it worked, and then with the results in hand, try to initiate a new program."
"That's not good policy," John instructed. "You plan it out, get a lot of views from others and get it approved, and then try it."
"Unless you think mommy will say no, so you get in the cookie jar anyway," Gene remarked, with obvious satisfaction.
"I know it isn't good policy. I went out on a limb. The Mid East goes around in circles, and no one has any answers. I felt it was worth taking a risk for," Samuel said defensively.
Tom had come out of the clouds. "Well, tell us more. What do you have in mind?"
"A couple of things. I want to get the right people into the negotiations, and I want to have enough influence over there to keep a lid on disruptive activities."
"What's wrong with the CIA? They have high level contacts." Tom objected.
"They have contacts for information, not influence. If they want influence, they hire some agent out of the gutter. That isn't good enough. I want people who can talk directly to these independent terrorists and get them to listen."
"I see." John sat back to think about that.
"I see, too," Gene said sarcastically. "You want to build your own intelligence service. The dozen or so we have aren't enough. Ever since the seventies when the CIA was exposed as a can of worms, people have been catching the fever like a contagious disease - start a new intelligence service."
He continued mimicking sarcastically, "Make an elite group who will maintain high level contacts.' Well, it's a bunch of bull. The CIA and the State Department do just fine."
Doves 169 "Watergate!" Tom said. "That's just the way independent operations end up. Another Watergate shenanigan!"
"I'm not talking about an intelligence service!" Samuel said angrily. "I'm talking about an envoy with the skill to work with people."
"If it's covert, it's intelligence work," Gene shot back.
John stepped in. "You may be on the right track, Samuel, but Gene's right. All intelligence activity has to be OK'd by the Intelligence Board, and until you clearly define your initiative as being totally separate from intelligence work, which I doubt will ever happen, you'll still have to go through them."
Samuel just stared at them, stone faced, rejecting their unwelcome views.
John continued, "So, now that you've exposed us all to your plan, you put us all in jeopardy if you continue with it. I think you should take it to the Board and get it approved."
The others nodded in agreement.
"But I don't have any conclusive results!" Samuel argued. "It would be like trying to sell a new product without test market results."
"Why don't we have lunch together and talk about it?" John invited insistently.
John had been around the State Department longer than any of them. He knew how to weather the political storms and the changes in political commanders. He was flexible enough to bend with the breeze, unlike Gene, who was stymied due to the conflicts. It was leaders like John who really ran the State Department. Samuel had great respect for John's advice.
They chose a quiet corner of the office cafeteria for lunch.
"You know I saved your hide in that meeting this morning, don't you?" John asked.
"I was counting on you," Samuel replied. "I may have the Secretary's favor, but that doesn't mean a strong undercurrent won't wash me right out of here."
"I wish you had come to me first; that was a hell of a surprise." He gave Samuel a sharp look, and then sliced his butter into thin pieces and laid them on his bread. "Why does it never occur to them to thaw the butter. It won't spread this way," he muttered.
"The worst is over, no more paramilitary stuff. It's up to Duvall to get Ismail convinced to be a spokesman. After that, I have a great package to lay before the kings."
"Look, the longer this thing goes on, the bigger it will become. If you wait too long, it's going to be like dropping a bombshell on them. What do you think their reaction will be?" He raised an eyebrow. "Anger? They'll tear you apart!"
"But they'll tear apart a plan like this anyway if there is no proof it will work." Samuel said, exasperated.
John sighed impatiently. "I know it sounds good to take in a working plan that has gotten results, point to it with pride and sweep them off their feet. Well, it just won't work. No matter how good it is, their reaction will always be the same. You left them out and they're going to put you back in your place until you learn to play the game their way."
Samuel thought about that for a moment. "I suppose you're right," he said glumly.
"I know I'm right, I speak from experience. I've been shot down and I've seen others shot down."
Samuel sipped his coffee, becoming reconciled to bureaucracy
Samuel's day to face the Intelligence Board came quickly. The board had the power to OK or veto his project and he was on pins and needles. He had prepared well, nailing down every detail of William's mission, and then having William thoroughly check out Ismail and assess his potential. Finally, he had William submit an operating budget covering the costs of cover and activities for a year.
When they called him in, he took his place at the table, with the committee members in a relatively informal session. The meeting was poorly attended by its members that day. Only two Senators from the Foreign Intelligence Board, the CIA Director, and the FBI Director were in attendance. And then the FBI Director dismissed himself claiming higher priorities than Samuel's case.
The CIA Director, who chaired the committee, greeted him and immediately put him on the spot. "It's about time you submitted your request for approval of these stunts you've been pulling. It's cost us too damn much already in man hours and cash, just trying to figure out what you've been hiding. Care to explain?"
Samuel tried to be apologetic. "I'm sorry for some confusion on my part as to the proper timing for getting approval. Actually, the field events dictated that we take immediate action or lose the opportunity, so I made some hasty arrangements and only now have put together a concrete plan to put this in focus. Previously I would not have been able to submit anything definite for approval."
The Director glared at Samuel. "I have to hand it to you, Samuel. For something unplanned and thrown together, you and your people moved forward very skillfully and decisively. It was the best looking unplanned haphazardness I've ever encountered!"
Samuel sat there and burned, which was exactly what the Director wanted. The Senators silently enjoyed the roast behind poker faces with only a hint of a smirk.
"I would like to hear the details of what you've done so far," Senator Danforth stated.
Samuel outlined William's conflict with Ismail in the hills of Syria.
Senator Danforth exploded. "My God man, don't you realize what you could have done? Syria is pro Soviet. Regardless of what Ismail was doing in there, Syria might have taken this and made an international incident out of it. You can't send people on paramilitary missions just anywhere, no matter how innocuous you think the mission is. Foreign relations are delicate, and something like this could really upset the balance."
The others nodded their heads in agreement. Samuel looked down. During the next two hours, Samuel was interrogated closely about every detail he knew, and he laid out his plans in intricate detail. Often the Senators' overbearing questions irritated him and he would find himself issuing a passionate tirade about peace efforts and their continuous failures.
After the questioning, they recessed for lunch. Samuel was certain by that time that he had become a circus for the Senators, and as soon as they were done toying with him, he would be finished with the program and probably out of a job.
When the meeting resumed, the CIA Director addressed Samuel. "I realize you were hired for your business background. Let me inform you of the way the intelligence community works. Suppose, for example, that you created some bad incident over there - and I'm surprised you didn't. Now here's the President, myself, the Secretary of State, and even Congress, standing around with our pants down with no idea what is going on over there.
Since we don't know how to react, the entire world is in confusion and the incident can be blown out of proportion and out of control. See?"
"Besides that, we coordinate activities. You may be undoing everything we're doing over there. Or it may be good, but ill timed. Everyone from the President through the department heads has to know what you are doing and why. So we want reports and advance discussions."
"No more of this paramilitary crap. If you think you can find a peaceful way to control those people over there, go ahead. But anymore armed conflict of any kind, and we pull out."
Samuel was beginning to feel better. "Yes, sir."
"Go ahead with it." The Director finished, speaking slowly, emphasizing each word, "But follow the damned guidelines."
Samuel cleared his throat. "Thank-you." He started to get up.
"Wait, that isn't all," the Director said, stopping him. Samuel sat down again.
"Good luck, I hope you succeed." The Director smiled.
Samuel left the meeting in high spirits and went forward with renewed vigor. He wasn't even perturbed when Gene Bradley pronounced, "The radical terrorists will kill any moderate you produce over there. Leave me out of this, I don't want anything to do with failures."
Samuel called William immediately and told him the good news.
"The President is watching you," Samuel said.
"I have to file some kind of regular intelligence report on our project there. That information gets included in the weekly intelligence review, which
goes to the President and all departments in the intelligence community."
William laughed. He was familiar with the report. "Pardon me for laughing, but that means I'm going to have to start writing daily intelligence reports again. Already we're a bureaucracy.."
Samuel smiled. "No daily reports. Just keep me informed of any real developments."
Next: Chapter 15