10.
The first thing Venezuelan intelligence officer Jose Hernandez spotted as he drove past The Ivy on South Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood was a cluster of paparazzi standing in front of this trendy restaurant.
“No, no, no, no, no.” He pounded his steering wheel, already imagining himself in Luanda, Angola, which is where he’d end up, he believed, if he screwed this up.
One thing Hernandez did not like was anyone taking his photograph. Not just because he was particularly ugly—he possessed a face full of pock mocks from smallpox as a child—but because photos and intelligence operation did not blend like rum and Coke.
So Hernandez did not leave his rented Saturn with The Ivy’s valet but instead opted for a public car park further south on Robertson and walked back to The Ivy.
“Alex, two of us,” he told the host.
“Your party hasn’t arrived yet. Would you like to be seated?” He started to lead Hernandez to an open-air table on the front deck.
“No, no, no, no, no,” said the Venezuelan.
“I’m sorry, it’s all we have,” the maitre ‘d snooted.
Disgruntled, Hernandez slunk into his chair and covered his face with the menu given him. He was still sipping water long past 1:30 when a flashy red Ferrari pulled up.
The paparazzi stirred, then went nuts, jostling for position, cursing at one another to get out of their shot, until Josh Penner joined the cursing himself, struggling to break their gauntlet. When he reached the door he turned and raised his middle finger.
Gleefully, the paparazzi snapped away.
“Hi Josh,” said the host. “Welcome back.”
“I’m meeting someone,” said Penner. “Alex. Is he…?”
“Him?” the host pointed, expressing surprise.
“I’m not sitting out there,” said Penner.
“Of course not,” said the host. “I didn’t know. Give me a moment, I’ll organize your regular table.”
The host went off to displace a family of tourists in the middle of their celebrity-spotting lunch, a corner table for four, while Penner approached his host. “Hey, man.”
The Venezuelan shriveled in his seat as a new round of flashes ensued.
“We’re going inside,” added Penner, flipping the photographers another bird.
“Ay-yi-yi-yi,” Hernandez muttered under his breath. Luanda.
They sat, backs to the wall, a cozy nook. “So how’s my friend Hugo?” asked Penner.
“The President is well and send to you his regards,” replied Hernandez, glancing around, discombobulated by the attention Penner was attracting from other diners. “He has discreet message for you.”
“So you said.” Penner shrugged. “What is it?”
Hernandez nodded. From his back pocket he pulled a wad of paper, then shielded it from view when a waiter arrived with iced water.
“Wine today?” asked the waiter.
“I wish.” Penner shook his head. “Those bastards out there are just waiting to see me drink so they can call in a DUI.”
“Why do you come here?” Hernandez could not help himself to ask, motioning at the fuss left in his wake.
The true answer was this: To feed my ego. But Penner had his own pat response. “Can’t let those paparazzi pukes disrupt my life.”
Hernandez speculated they already had. And his too. But he let it pass and focused on the paperwork in front of him. “My president,” he whispered. “He say he enjoy your visit. He wish you to return soon.’
Penner smiled smugly. Everybody wants a piece of me, even foreign presidents.
“He asks about your friends.” Hernandez’s eyes remained focused on the typescript.
“What friends?” said Penner with alarm, wondering if Hernandez was referring to CIA.
“Movie friends,” replied Hernandez. “My president would like more movie stars visit him in Caracas.”
Penner squinted my eye. I’m not good enough for him. “Why?”
Hernandez smiled for the first time, displaying two teeth plated in gold, the others yellow from nicotine, courtesy of a two-pack daily habit. “It is good for my president’s image, no?”
Penner smirked. “Yeah, I can do that. There are a few others in this town who feel the same as me about your president—and about our own dildo of a president. That’s who he’s trying to stick it to, right, Alex?”
Hernandez stiffened. He did not wish to concede anything or speculate on his president’s motives.
“I like it,” pronounced Penner. “I thought your message had to do with trying to steer movie-making business to your country, seeing as you’re in the cultural section. But this is a lot more doable.”
At a table nearby, two special agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation feigned conversation while surreptitiously watching the movie star and Venezuelan—and straining their ears to eavesdrop as best they could.
Jennifer Jones was perhaps the most ambitious agent in the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. A natural beauty, this 32 year-old woman of color had been recognized by Bureau bigwigs as fast-track material after a stint in the Washington, D.C. field office, followed by a couple of years at FBI headquarters in the National Security Division.
The other special agent had followed Hernandez from DC.
Jones tried to catch Penner’s eye, and eventually succeeded. This was a woman who knew how to use her stunning good looks in any situation. Her light brown skin, lustrous, straightened hair, easy laugh and sparkly eyes often won the day, especially combined with her slender if ample figure.
It wasn’t long before Penner was distracted enough to lose interest in the Venezuelan’s frightful face and pigeon babble and instead fixate on the Caribbean-American beauty nearby.
Once Jones had him, she put on a pretense of ignoring him, and sipped water, very pleased with herself. Mission accomplished. She had confirmed his rendezvous with a known Venezuelan intelligence officer. And left her mark in his mind.
One day earlier, Special Agent Jones had been assigned this task after receiving word from Headquarters that CIA notified the Bureau that an operation had meandered onto their turf.
After Penner finished his meal and got up to leave, he slowed while passing Jennifer Jones, winked at her, and handed her a card on which was printed his name and cell phone number. “Call me,” he mouthed.
The FBI special agent smiled coyly.
11.
A feeling of trepidation consumed Charles Mulberry as he ascended the Wilshire Federal Building in Westwood. He furtively attempted to execute his OCD ritual of counting his teeth with his fingers, but the elevator kept stopping, doors opening and closing, interrupting him as brain-lock intensified.
As soon as he got out on an upper floor inhabited by the FBI, Mulberry scuttled to the men’s room, locked himself in a toilet cubicle and ran through his tooth counting ritual from beginning to end.
He could face people now. But he could not vanquish a foreboding about walking into an ambush. Maybe it is instinct, not OCD? Whatever the case, I’m going to lose my job any minute.
Mulberry rushed back for another round of tooth counting.
Late, now, a security officer escorted the CIA officer from reception to a small conference room, whose windows were curtained. The moment he walked through the door, Mulberry realized he was right. An ambush.
Three agents awaited Mulberry for this hastily called meeting. A young female of color, and two older males that looked like bigwigs: Mid-40s, stern expressions. Bigwigs only came out to rumble.
One bigwig sat. The one standing strode over. “Bill Bolcar, Special Agent in Charge of Intelligence. This is Keith Hern, Special Agent in Charge, Counterintelligence, and Special Agent Jennifer Jones.”
Mulberry shook hands and seated himself.
The SAC for CI fired the first volley. “We have confirmed that the individual your asset lunched with yesterday is a diplomat at the Embassy of Venezuela in Washington.”
“We told you that,” said Mulberry.
“Yes, you did, but we confirmed it. His name is not really Alex,” continued Hern. “We positively identified him as Jose Hernandez, an officer of the DISIP. He’s pretty new in the United States, arrived to replace his predecessor only five months ago. We don’t know much about him.” Hern paused, glancing at Bolcar. “But we’d like to.”
Mulberry remained expressionless. He could see it coming. Make them spell it out. “So how can we help?” he said, crossing his arms.
Bolcar folded his own arms. “We want to co-opt your asset.”
Mulberry shook his head. “Our asset is not co-optable.”
“This is now a counterintelligence matter,” said Hern. “We can insist on jurisdiction.”
“Insist all you want,” said Mulberry. “My bosses won’t go for it. This is our asset and it took us a long time to cultivate and train him. Furthermore, he is now involved in two very sensitive, high-priority operations.”
“We’re not asking that we take him over, only that you let us work him too.”
Mulberry shook his head. “It would get too muddled. And raise his profile.”
“Would you prefer that we approach him ourselves?” asked Jennifer Jones.
Mulberry glared at her. “I would not.”
“We’re prepared to run this up the ladder as high as we need to,” said Bill Bolcar. glancing at his two associates. “We have a serious need for information on Jose Hernandez that is essential to the security of the United States.”
“What is so essential about Hernandez?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Unless, that is, we come to an arrangement.”
Mulberry sighed. “You’re saying you want direct access to our asset?”
“If you allow us to work with him directly, we’ll keep you briefed on why Hernandez is of such special interest and how it develops,” said Bolcar.
Mulberry shook his head. “I’m not moved.”
“You want us to go over your head?” asked Bolcar.
“Do as you do, that’s your business. Mine is to do my job. And it would be derelict of me to share this asset. Best I can do is let him continue contact with Hernandez and share with you anything we learn about him.”
Hern shook his head. “We need to be more proactive than that.”
Mulberry raised an eyebrow. “And risk screwing up our operations?”
Bolcar assumed a smug expression. “We have no interest in whatever he’s doing for you. But this is our turf. And it is perfectly normal for the Bureau to attempt to interview anyone who is in contact with a foreign intelligence operative. So we don’t even need your introduction to Penner.”
Mulberry looked at the feebs, astonished. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” He rose. “If that’s your stance, this is way above my pay grade.”
The CIA officer turned and departed without another word.