CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 13) ENTER SOPHIE GUNDERSON

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

30.

U.S. State Department official Jack Woodward had not been sleeping well. 

He had but two options, and neither suited him: 

One, be exposed as a spy, a traitor, and perhaps as an adulterer and statutory rapist, get arrested and spend the rest of his life in prison, or worse, the death penalty, treason being a capital offense. 

Or, two, move permanently to Venezuela, where he would be proclaimed a heroic spy, and perceived by his former colleagues and countrymen as a traitor.

On the basis that Option Two provided a larger prison cell (Venezuela), Woodward had answered yes when the cell phone Venezuelan intelligence officer Jose Hernandez had given him rang the day after their meeting.  Woodward really meant maybe, but a yes would buy him time.  Not much, as he had only three weeks before he was supposed to present himself at a certain location for exfiltration to Caracas. 

If only there were a way to reach Hugo Chavez to tell him how ridiculous it was to waste his talents this way, to convey that no one would ever be able to provide the kind of sensitive intelligence to which he had access on a regular basis.  The opportunity to speak to Hugo frankly, and bluntly, as the sycophants in his intelligence service would not.  Surely, Hugo would come to his senses.

And so Woodward set to work surfing the internet, researching everything he could about Hugo Chavez.  He could have requested psychological profiles from the CIA, and almost did, but refrained for fear of raising a red flag.  Who knew how reckless the Venezuelans may have handled anything he had passed, or if suspicions had already been aroused about a possible mole.

Specifically, Woodward searched for a link to Chavez. 

After four hours’ surfing, he found what he needed, a potential third option for his precarious situation:  Josh Penner.

Hugo Chavez, according to news reports, had become buddy-buddy with the American movie star.  Surely, Penner could get in touch with the Venezuelan leader without having to jump a dozen hurdles.  Why, Penner probably had Chavez’s personal cell phone number.

The question: How to make an approach to Penner, and after that, how to get Penner to assist him.

Woodward brooded at the bar of Martin’s Tavern, corner of Wisconsin Avenue and N Street, a few minutes’ stroll from his townhouse, until the answer came to him over a second dry martini.

Next morning, after arriving at his desk in Foggy Bottom, Woodward made his way to the ultra-secure Bureau of Intelligence and Research (INR), who’s chief, an Assistant Secretary of State, had overlapped for two years with Woodward at Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service.  They had not known each other then, aside from attending the same course on occasion, but became friends when both were posted in Mexico City and delighted in their alumnus connection.

Jerome Goldberg had wanted to join CIA, but was been turned down because he had spent half his young life growing up in London, and this posed a problem for security background-checkers.  Their general policy was to blackball candidates that could not be easily checked. So Goldberg had joined the State Department instead and eventually found his niche at INR.

It was Woodward’s good fortune that Goldberg was in the office that day, as he traveled a good deal on high-level diplomatic missions.

Noticing his former drinking buddy from Mexico City, Goldberg waved Woodward in before his secretary could object.

Woodward explained that Venezuela might be his next port-of-call (he wasn’t lying), and that he wanted, unofficially, to come up to scratch on Hugo Chavez.  Also, he added slyly, as if it were a second thought, didn’t Chavez recently have a visit from an American movie star?

“Yes.”  Goldberg rolled his eyes.  “Josh Penner.  Misguided fool.”

“Did anyone attempt to contact him on his return?”

Goldberg arched his eyebrow.  “Why would anyone?”

“For insight about Chavez.”

“From what I’ve read about Penner, he’d just as soon spit at us than talk to us.”

“Would you,” said Woodward, “have any objection to me having a try, on your behalf?”

“As long as he doesn’t call a press conference about it, Woodward replied with sarcasm.”  He paused.  “You know he’s in town, don’t you?”

“Who, Penner?”

Goldberg nodded.  “Today’s Washington Post, the gossip column.  A sighting in Café Milano last night—with some hot chick.”

“Is he filming a movie here?”

“It didn’t say.”

“Any chance you can find out where he’s staying?”

Goldberg picked up the phone, hit an extension number, made this simple request.

As the two officials sat chatting Snake Department gossip, Goldberg’s phone rang.  He listened, put the phone back in its cradle.  “Four Seasons Georgetown.”

31.

At that very moment, the CIA was rolling out a very red carpet for Josh Penner, who had just arrived at its headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Earlier, Charles Mulberry collected the movie star from the Four Seasons Hotel on M Street in a silver Lincoln Town Car and now Penner was shaking hands with the chief of Foreign Research, Tyler Dixon, who had a modest request of the movie star: Would he sign an autograph for his 15 year-old daughter?

Even better, Penner promised, he would sign a photo inscribed to her as soon as he returned to LA, and send it by Fedex.

The trio ascended in the Director’s private elevator to the seventh floor, met by Mike Murray, deputy chief of the clandestine service, and Sophie Gunderson.

With regard to the latter, Penner fell in love at first glance.

Sophie had landed in Washington the day before after five months in Kabul, Afghanistan, one of CIA’s largest outposts.  There, she had directed operations aimed against Al-Qaida and the Taliban, hunting terrorists with a license to kill.

Ironically, she considered Washington, D.C. much more threatening than Kandahar City.  There, she was surrounded by insurgents and assassins, but she knew who they were.  In Washington, persons who you considered your best friends could become your worst enemies, especially within headquarters.  And that didn’t include U.S. Congressmen gunning for agency scalps.

Lethal Langley, is how Sophie thought of it.

And so she was not overjoyed about being yanked from a warm and cozy war zone into the Beltway bog where character assassination had become an art and a science.

Sophie Gunderson joined CIA right out of American University in Washington, D.C,, to which she had moved from Minneapolis.  Born of Scandinavian stock, she was tall, about five-foot-ten, blonde and beautiful.  Add curvaceous and cunning. Gunderson could have been a modern-day Mata Hari.  There wasn’t a man, however deeply betrothed, who wouldn’t turn an eye as Sophie passed by—or give up their secrets to her.

And while this wasn’t an ideal attribute for a spy wishing to blend in, Sophie had learned to put her looks to full advantage, often playing the roll of decoy while a bland-looking associate carried out the dirty work in a magician’s sleight of hand.

Upon joining the agency, Sophie was immediately routed to Junior Officers Training Program where she shot to number one in her class and got inducted into clandestine service.  She was one of the first CIA officers to enter Baghdad after it fell to American troops, and she tirelessly operated in Iraq for three years, without leave, until transferred to headquarters.  She took exceptional dislike to administrative duties, even in a supervisory role, and cut plans to quit and go to work in the arena of private-sector intelligence.  A week before she was due to hand in her ID badge, Chuck Livingstone, Director of the Clandestine Service, summoned her to his office and all but begged for her to remain.  The compromise:  Kabul.

On this day, Sophie wore her hair tucked back in a ponytail and sported spectacles, which accentuated her light blue eyes.

Eyes that mesmerized Penner.  He could not stop looking at them, as if they held the secret to some puzzle that required discovery before he could continue onward in life.

Sophie, in turn, studied the movie star with amusement.  He was three inches shorter than she, dressed in Cali-casual:  a black sport-coat over a black crew neck tee and black jeans. 

And only now did he take off his RayBan Wayfarers, to get a better fix on Sophie’s azure eyes.

“This way,” said Tyler Dixon, leading the foursome into the anteroom of the CIA director’s office.

And then the director appeared.  He marched right up to Josh Penner and shook the movie star’s hand.  “You’re a great American and your country is proud of you,” he said.

A photographer appeared, and suddenly Mr. Director and movie star stood side-by-side for a photo op.

Penner smiled broadly; flattered by the lavish attention Mulberry and Dixon had mobilized to fend off aggression from the FBI.

With that, Mr. Director went back to work, and the others shifted to the Director’s conference room nearby.

Sophie Gunderson had already been briefed, thoroughly, on the matter at hand.  Jet-lagged, she had arrived at six a.m. for Mulberry to brief her on CIA’s relationship with Penner.  Arriving an hour later, Dixon briefed her on Tom Richardson, and made available to Sophie—for her eyes only—an assessment of what damage control would be needed if Richardson revealed what he knew to anyone, be it the French, the Russians, or the reading public.

Earlier, the chiefs had determined that Richardson and Gunderson had never crossed paths within the agency and would have no reason to know of the other’s existence.

Gunderson possessed a solid frame of reference since a good part of Richardson’s focus on French espionage dealt with France’s relationships with Middle Eastern countries, especially Iran and Iraq.

Penner’s need to know would be limited to his role in the operation, not the secrets that Richardson possessed.  For that reason, agency officials did not want Penner to read Richardson’s manuscript.  And that was precisely why, Dixon explained to Penner, Sophie had become involved in the Richardson operation. He did not mention competition with the FBI’s Jennifer Jones.

“We want you to insert Sophie into Tom Richardson’s existence,” Dixon explained to Penner.  “Give her a title that makes sense in your line of work, the film industry, and explain that she reads material on your behalf—because you’re too busy—and is authorized by you to make decisions and approve payment.”

Penner nodded.  “Easy-peasy.”  He winked at Gunderson,  “Senior Vice President, Development.”

“Good,” said Dixon.  “You will fly to Geneva with Sophie, make the introduction to Richardson, then say you have to depart elsewhere, and leave it to Sophie to work with Richardson.”

“That’s it?” Penner shrugged.  “May I stick around in Geneva?”  Penner tried to catch Gunderson’s eye with his own, but she avoided it.

“You’re free to do whatever you want.  But I suggest you ensure that Richardson does not see you again after the introduction.”  Dixon paused.  “We want this introduction to take place as soon as possible.  I don’t know what other commitments you have, but I am hoping you and Sophie can be on a jet this evening and meet Richardson tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Penner.  “First-class of course.”

Dixon hesitated only a second.  “Of course.”

“Sophie, too?” Penner pressed.

Dixon sighed.  “Sophie, too.  Where would you normally stay in Geneva?”

“Last time, the studio put me at the Beau Rivage.  A suite.”

“Do you mind booking everything yourself, and also Sophie’s arrangements?  If anyone checks, it has to look like you are paying.  Give all the receipts to Mulberry and he will reimburse you in cash.”

“No problem.”  Penner turned to Gunderson.  “Seeing as we’ll be flying to Geneva together, may I buy you lunch today?”

“Thank you but no,” replied Sophie, speaking for the first time, a breathy, sultry voice that made Penner think of Marilyn Monroe. “I’ll be spending the whole afternoon briefing for this mission.”