CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 26) CLOSING IN
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
53.
After a solid week of 24/7 overt surveillance, Jose Hernandez noted that the FBI had finally stopped harassing him.
Maybe they just wanted to make a point about their existence? Because if they knew about my plan, it would not have ended. Maybe they were training new officers?
Whatever the case, Hernandez was glad to see them gone; they had tied him up long enough. Headquarters in Caracas had been calling, pressuring him to complete his mission.
What did they know about fieldwork?
Hernandez waited a few days to be certain the watchers were gone—at least the in-your-face kind.
But now, how to get in touch with his spy? Hernandez had missed the rendezvous point. Surveillance had made it impossible. He didn’t even know if CAHUNA had shown up, and if he had, bags packed, ready to go, he’d be feeling well and truly stood up, and terribly annoyed.
Moreover, Hernandez could kick himself for forgetting to establish a back-up plan for commo if things went awry. He now needed a creative way to connect with CAHUNA.
And so he removed CAHUNA’s file from his double-locked and alarmed safe and studied it. Nothing was too insignificant for this file; every scrap of seemingly trivial data went into the file, on the basis that any tiny detail might eventually become important.
Hernandez committed the bits he needed to memory.
The spy lived on N Street in Georgetown. The file contained a photo of a handsome brick colonial house, just down the street from the Georgetown Inn. CAHUNA had once told his previous handler that he frequented Martin’s Tavern, an iconic eating and drinking hole for future presidents and other politicos since 1932. Close to home, it was CAHUNA’s favorite stopping point for a nightcap after attending diplomatic functions or dinner parties.
Utilizing dry-cleaning tradecraft, Hernandez surveyed the intersection of Wisconsin Avenue and N Street, and determined the best positioning would be Paolo’s, a trendy Italian restaurant. Perched at the bar, he could observe through big picture windows everyone entering the venerable tavern across the street. He could catch a movie first, at Lowes cinemas, an eight-minute walk away, and keep vigil from eight until ten.
It took four consecutive nights of extensive dry-cleaning, movies and a variety of Italian dishes, before Hernandez spied his mark enter Martin’s Tavern. The Venezuelan settled his tab, strolled Prospect Street watching reflections on the windows of Morton’s Steakhouse, Café Milano and the Peacock Café, before circling back to N Street. Anyone watching would think he needed a nicotine fix, which, in fact, he did.
Entering the tavern, Hernandez glanced around and quickly focused on CAHUNA, standing at the bar by himself.
The Venezuelan sidled up to CAHUNA. “My friend.”
Jack Woodward turned, surprised—and quickly concealed his shock. He looked all around, alarmed. Was this a set-up? He glared at Hernandez. “You’re taking a chance,” he hissed.
“It’s the business I’m in.” He saw fear in Woodward’s eyes. “It’s okay, I’m professional. And drastic measures are necessary.”
“This is way beyond…”
“Listen to me,” Hernandez growled through clenched teeth. “This is not a drill. Are you ready?”
“What? This second?”
“Are you ready this week?’
Woodward sighed, shaking his head. “Look, I’m sorry, I…”
A flash through Hernandez’s brain: CAHUNA had not shown up either.
“…I need ten days, at least.”
Hernandez considered this, eyes glued deeply into CAHUNA’s. “Ten days, same place, same time.” He slipped a cell phone into Woodward’s suit jacket pocket. “Keep it charged, with you always. I will call. But only if a problem with me. I don’t want to hear any problem from you. If you do not appear, my president does other plan. Comprende?”
Woodward watched Hernandez turn on his heel and glide out. He gulped the remaining half-shot of Macallan scotch and fumed. Goddam movie star, sonofabitch. He pulled out his own cell phone and keyed a number.
Josh Penner’s cell phone rang just as he had agreed to the FBI’s terms. He studied the caller’s number, not planning to answer. “It’s him!” said Penner, amazed by the coincidence.
“Who?” said Special Agent Jenny Jones.
“The State Department blackmailer!”
The SAC jumped to his feet. “Answer it! No…”
But Penner had already flipped the phone open. “Hello?” He looked at Jones.
“Speaker phone,” she mouthed.
Penner hit a button.
“I thought we had a deal!” hissed the State Department official.
Penner looked at the SAC and then at Jones, and realized he had to wing it. “We do.”
“You’re not being serious,” said Woodward. “This should be your top priority. Because, I can tell you, I’m serious. And you’ve run out of time.”
“Cool your jets,” said Penner. “I had to take a trip. But now I’m back, and you’ve got my full attention.”
Jones nodded in appreciation.
“Where are you?” Woodward demanded.
Penner hesitated only a second. “Washington.”
This stumped Woodward. “Again?”
“Location scouting for a new film.”
“Oh.”
The SAC nodded in appreciation of Penner’s ability to think on his feet.
Jones mouthed, “Offer to meet him.”
“Would you like to meet and go over things again?” said Penner.
“Go over what?” Woodward hissed. “It’s a very simple request. Schedule the meeting. For this week—or early next, the very latest. Then we’ll meet.”
“Okay.”
Penner disconnected, looked back and forth between Jones and the SAC. “Now do you believe me?”
“His name,” said the SAC.
“Jack Woodward.”
If the SAC had heard of him, he didn’t betray any recognition. Instead, he excused himself and, from another room, called the name to a small unit ensconced at FBI Headquarters that had just been created to pounce on Penner’s data.
Over the next hour, Penner unloaded every last detail about his strange encounter with Woodward, the threats he made, his demands and telephone conversations since.
From time to time, the SAC excused himself to update the unit at headquarters.
When Penner was spent, SAC had a question. “Why does Woodward want to meet Hugo Chavez?”
Penner shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
“Here’s what we want you to do,” said the SAC. “Go through the motions of trying to set up a meeting with Hugo Chavez. And then meet with Woodward. We will wire you up and provide you with a list of questions for him.”
Penner scratched his head. “I thought this was about blackmail? Why are you spying on the State Department?”
Jones and the SAC exchanged glances.
“We really can’t get into the substance at this juncture,” said Jones. “Just bear with us and understand we know what we’re doing.”
Penner shrugged. “I sure hope you know better than the CIA.”
“Why?” asked Jones, her interest piqued. “What did CIA do?’
“No, no, no, no, no,” said Penner, shaking his head. “Our deal is the State Department scumbag.”