Time magazine (1974) on Henry Kissinger: “The world’s indispensable man”
Charles de Gaulle: “The graveyards are full of indispensable people.”
Jeff Dalkin huddled with Jim Thompson (FBI Assistant Director for National Security) and FBI Director Bryant Westgate inside the director’s office.
“You’re not going to believe who that Swiss bank account belongs to,” said Dalkin, shaking his head. It was late afternoon and he had just returned to Washington, D.C. from Switzerland.
“Saddam Hussein?” said Thompson.
“Muammar Gaddafy?” said Westgate.
“No,” said Dalkin. “Henry Kissinger of Kissinger Associates.” He slapped the notepaper from the Swiss banker he had just visited in Zurich on to Westgate’s desk. “Speck and sauerkraut.” (Dalkin suffered—no, enjoyed—Tourette’s syndrome.)
“I don’t believe it,” said Westgate. “Are you sure you have the right account?”
They double-checked the account number on both faxes Westgate had received from the the Middle-Eastern extortionist. It was correct.
“That Swiss banker must be playing a joke on you,” said Westgate.
“I don’t think so,” said Dalkin. “Speck and sauerkraut.”
“Then the real account holder must be playing a joke on the bank,” said Westgate.
“Maybe,” said Dalkin. “Kiss ass! kiss ass! Goddam-heinie-fart-face! Speck and sauerkraut!”
Westgate ignored Dalkin’s Tourettic outburst and picked up his phone. “Cheryl, get me Henry Kissinger of Kissinger Associates in New York.”
“Yes, Mr. Westgate.”
Westgate put the phone down and turned to Thompson. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
The phone rang.
“Thank you, Cheryl—put him through.”
“Henry? How are you?”
Westgate listened impassively as Kissinger droned in a deep gravelly voice about his recent, annual visit to Bohemian Grove in the American redwoods. “Sounds great, Henry. Yes, I’d love to be your guest out there sometime, thank you. Uh, I have a small matter I need to discuss with you. Could you come down to Washington?” Westgate listened. “Yes, I know how busy you are, Henry. But it really is quite important that we talk as soon as possible.” Westgate listened. “A month from Wednesday? No, that really is too far away.” Westgate listened. “No, this isn’t a consulting arrangement. We can’t pay you. Henry? Henry?” Westgate put down the phone. “That sonofabitch hung up on me!”
“Arrest him,” said Dalkin.
“Arrest Henry Kissinger?”
“Yeah, arrest Henry kiss ass, kiss ass—you know who I mean. We’ve linked his name to an account that’s being used to massacre people and extort 500 million dollars from the U.S. Government.”
“I did give him the opportunity to come down and talk about this,” said Westgate. “Hmmm.” Westgate dialed my number.
I, the author of this book, answered.
“Are you playing tricks on me?” asked Westgate.
“How do you mean?”
“Linking Henry Kissinger to Ahmed Matsalah. Are you setting me up? Is CIA Director Carlton Price in on this?”
“You’re seeing bogeymen under your bed,” I said. “You can’t keep calling me every time there’s a new twist or turn in this book that puzzles you.”
“What should I do?”
“Don’t ask me. You’re the FBI director. You decide.”
“You’re not being serious with this book—you’re just indulging your…”
I hung up.
Westgate farted loudly—a big raspy fart.
“You see! You see!” Westgate hollered to Thompson and Dalkin. “That’s not me! That’s him doing this to me!”
“Who?” said Dalkin, looking around the room. “Henry kiss ass, kiss ass, speck and sauerkraut! Oh fuck it!”
Westgate picked up his phone. “Cheryl, I was disconnected. Try Dr. Kissinger again.”
Cheryl buzzed two minutes later. “He’s in a meeting.”
“I don’t give a damn! Tell them to interrupt his goddam meeting!” Westgate slammed down the phone. “Can you believe that guy? Westgate addressed Thompson. “He even puts God on hold.”
Westgate sat fuming. He was the FBI director, goddamit, and he wasn’t going to be dicked around by some ex-secretary-of-state who traveled the world consorting with presidents and kings and dictators like he owned them.
Westgate’s phone rang. “Dr. Kissinger’s office,” said Cheryl.
“Please hold for Dr. Kissinger,” said Kissinger’s secretary, teaching the FBI director a lesson in Who’s Who.
Five minutes later, Kissinger picked up.
“I’m going to make this short and simple, Henry. Do you have a bank account in Switzerland?”
“None of your business,” snapped Kissinger.
“I’m inviting you to Washington tomorrow for a chat with me. If you don’t come on your own volition, I’ll have you arrested and brought here.”
“You cannot arrest me.” Kissinger could not hide the contempt in his voice. “For what?”
“Extortion.”
“Tut, tut.”
“I’m serious, Henry.”
Kissinger raised his voice. “Do you know who you are talking to? Phone my lawyer. James Boggles the Third. He’s at Boggles, Boggles and Boggles.”
“Henry? Henry? That bastard hung up on me again, goddamit! Do we have a file on him?”
Thompson shrugged.
“Dig up whatever we have on Kissinger. If we’re going to arrest him, I’m going to need some leverage.”
Thompson picked up a phone and issued instructions to his deputy.
Westgate’s phone rang. “It’s the President,” said Cheryl.
“Oh, shit,” Westgate muttered. “Huh? No, I’m sorry, Mr. President! That oh, shit was not directed at you. It’s always a pleasure…” Westgate listened. “Yes, I know, but…” Westgate listened some more. “I have a good reason for…”
“It better be the best fucking reason you’ve ever had for anything in your life!” President Rafferty’s bellow could be heard by Thompson and Dalkin. Then he was gone.
Westgate’s mood turned foul. And it remained foul… until the Bureau’s file on Henry Kissinger arrived on his desk two hours later.
Excerpt # 2 upcoming.