MY TAKE ON HENRY KISSINGER (3)
Excerpt # 3 From Crinkum Crankum (Enigma Books, Bartleby Press, 1998)
Henry Kissinger was not in a buoyant mood when he arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was accompanied by his lawyer, James Boggles the Third, who was immaculately suited in Savile Row pinstripe and anchored by bespoke John Lobb brogues.
Inside the director’s suite, FBI Director Bryant Westgate and Jim Thompson, his Assistant Director for National Security, rose to greet their VIP guest. Kissinger shook hands coldly with the two men and said nothing.
“Please sit down, gentlemen.” Westgate gestured to his sofa and three easy chairs around a coffee table.
They sat. Kissinger glared wordlessly at the Bureau chieftains; Boggles sat expressionless, his thin lips glued together.
“Henry,” began Westgate. “When you served on the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board, you sat in on monthly intelligence briefings, all classified at the highest level, dealing with this nation’s most sensitive secrets.” It was a statement, not a question.
Kissinger grunted. “Yes, of course.”
“And then you habitually used tidbits gleaned from those meetings to solicit new business for Kissinger Associates among foreign leaders and the CEOs of multi-national corporations.”
Kissinger said nothing, but shifted uneasily in his chair. It was obvious to Westgate that the statesman had been instructed by his lawyer to keep his mouth shut, whatever the temptation to speak.
“Henry,” continued Westgate, in a soft tone. “That’s treason.”
Boggles erupted staccato-style, like a machine gun. “You’d better be able to prove that!”
“I can,” said Westgate, tapping a file sitting atop a side table. “And I will if necessary. But I hope it won’t be. I would prefer that your client cooperate with the Bureau on another matter.”
“My client has a reduced fee schedule for U.S. government consulting,” shot Boggles. “Ten thousand dollars per day.”
“And I’m sure he earns every penny.” Westgate smiled. “But I ask that your client waive his fee on this occasion. A trade-off.”
Kissinger leaned over and whispered into his lawyer’s ear.
“My client is prepared to waive his fee,” announced Boggles. “On condition that the matter on which you desire his cooperation be resolved before lunchtime today and his passport be returned.”
“Agreed,” said Westgate. “Henry, do you have a bank account in Switzerland—a numbered account?”
Kissinger cleared his throat, twisted, and again beckoned his lawyer’s ear.
“My client’s financial affairs are his own business,” said Boggles. “I fail to see…”
Westgate raised his hand. “Okay. Let me rephrase my question.” He turned to Kissinger and held out a piece of paper. “Henry, is this your bank account number?”
Kissinger didn’t look. “You are harassing me,” he droned.
“Look, Henry, I’m not the IRS—I’m not interested in whether or not you are hiding money in numbered accounts to evade taxes”—Westgate filed a mental note to tip off the IRS Commissioner next time they met at the Cosmos Club—“it’s just that this account number has surfaced relative to the terrorist attack across the street two weeks ago, and it is also links to the terrorist attack at the Hard Rock Café in London last week.”
Kissinger sat poker-faced.
“Here,” Westgate prodded, “look at these.” The FBI director plucked copies of his two faxes signed “Skorpion” from a leather portfolio and handed them to Kissinger.
Kissinger read. He paled visibly. Then he spoke slowly, deliberately. “I helped open this account.”
“Don’t say anything!” Boggles interjected.
Kissinger waved him down. “I had no idea… you don’t think…?”
Westgate was silent.
Kissinger shook his head vigorously. “Our only involvement at Kissinger Associates with this account was to open it for one of our clients. They were prepared to pay for this service. And I saw no reason…” Kissinger looked at the faxes. “This is inconceivable.”
“Who, Henry?” said Westgate. “Who is the client?”
Kissinger hesitated. But he realized it would be ridiculous to claim client confidentiality under such circumstances. “Faud Hadi Hamade.”
“Who is that?”
“A Kurdish leader. He retained our consulting services a year ago to advise him on building a foundation for the establishment of Kurdistan.”
“I thought lost causes were St. Jude’s domain, Henry?”
“It is unlikely that Turkey and Iraq would ever agree to an independent Kurdish nation,” intoned Kissinger, as if he were speaking before the Council on Foreign Relations in New York City. “But it is a worthy cause nonetheless. In my opinion, the Kurds deserve support.”
“What did you do for them?”
“Our activities centered on lobbying and gentle education in Washington. Congress, the State Department. And our European friends. We know how to bring attention to their plight, and highlight the reasons they deserve aid. And we opened this account for receiving such aid.” Kissinger shook his head. “Clearly, it was a mistake.”
“Like Cambodia, Henry?” Westgate couldn’t resist.
Kissinger said nothing.
“Did you ever register as a lobbyist for the Kurds?” asked Westgate.
“They aren’t a nation.”
“A loophole, eh, Henry?”
“Our relationship with them has already been terminated,” Kissinger thrummed. “We’re still waiting for our bill to be paid. They’re now three months overdue and they don’t respond to our requests for payment.”
Westgate pointed at the faxes Kissinger still held numbly. “That’s because they’re waiting for a windfall. And they intend to pay you with blood money they think USG will give them to avoid another terrorist attack, which they’ve threatened if we don’t pay up.”
“My God,” said Kissinger. The full impact of what had transpired—of what he was in the middle of—finally hit him. “None of this should get out.”
“None of it should,” said Westgate. “But it will. You’re an old pro at failing to plug leaks. I could book you this minute as an accessory to murder. And call a press conference. And I reserve my right to do that. But I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Henry.”
“Thank you.” It was tough to detect from Kissinger’s drone whether he was speaking sincerely or with sarcasm.
Westgate picked up his intercom phone. “Cheryl? Send Jeff Dalkin in.”
Kissinger flinched. Already the circle privy to his secret was widening.
Dalkin swaggered into the director’s office. Westgate greeted Dalkin. Kissinger did a double-take. What the hell was Bruce Willis doing here? (Dalkin looked exactly like the action-hero movie star.)
“Jeff, this is Henry Kissinger, and his attorney, James Boggles.”
Dalkin shook Kissinger’s hand. “Kiss ass, kiss ass,” said Dalkin, struggling to maintain, but not succeeding. “Speck and sauerkraut!”
Kissinger recoiled.
“Jeff suffers from Tourette’s,” Jim Thompson whispered.
“Enjoys,” said Dalkin.“Speck and sauerkraut comes from a menu I saw while in Zurich,” Dalkin explains. “Some dishes set me off.”
Kissinger nodded, an uncertain nod.
Westgate spoke directly to Dalkin “This is the situation, Jeff. Dr. Kissinger has now admitted that he opened the UBS account of interest to us—for a Kurdish leader named… Henry?”
“Faud Hadi Hamade.”
Dalkin crouched forward on the edge of his chair taking mental notes as Westgate re-explained the situation.
“It’s very simple,” said Dalkin, when Westgate finished. “I should establish a legend as a kiss ass, kiss ass, kiss-kiss-Kissinger—whew!—I’ll be a Kissinger associate and attempt to renew contact with this Kurd. Butt-buggering bastards!”
“Ridiculous.” Kissinger dismissed Dalkin’s idea with the backhand wave of his hand. “I cannot allow my office to be used for this purpose.”
“The way I see it, Henry,” said Westgate, “allowing us to use your office is the very least you can do to help us resolve this little problem—your little problem.”
“But if it ever came out that I permitted Kissinger Associates to be a front for the FBI,” said Kissinger, “my business would suffer!”
“Worse than if I book you right now as an accessory in the murder of over 20 people?”
Kissinger said nothing.
Boggles looked constipated.
The trade-off was clear.
Westgate turned to Dalkin. “There may be a problem to the approach you suggest. This Kurd owes Kissinger Associates money and has been hiding out.” He turned back to Kissinger. “How much does he owe you, Henry?”
“I don’t involve myself in invoicing,” huffed Kissinger.
“C’mon, Henry—how much, approximately?”
“I believe it is in excess of half-a-million dollars.”
Westgate turned to Dalkin. “The Kurd hasn’t paid-up and he’s several months overdue. So he may want to avoid any contact with Kissinger Associates.”
“Easy,” said Dalkin. “My first order of business will to be to quash the fee.”
“You can’t do that!” Kissinger protested.
“Sure I can,” said Dalkin. “If I quash the fee from Kiss-ass! Kiss-ass!—shit, you know what I mean—it gives me the opening I need. When you’re dealing with a rug merchant, you need something to trade. Butt-buggering bastards! In return, I’ll ask a favor—and that’s what’ll get me through his door. Crinkum crankum, pop-a-nut.”
“But, but,” Kissinger spluttered. “I can’t just wipe their debt clean! There were expenses involved!”
Westgate eyed Dr. K suspiciously. “You want his money after what he did?”
Boggles threw a clam-up glance at his client.
“I think, Henry,” said Westgate, “you’re going to have to tighten your belt and go along with whatever plan we come up with. I must say, Mr. Dalkin’s plan sounds damn good. And it’s all we have.”
Boggles whispered into his client’s ear; Kissinger nodded in approval.
“We need,” Boggles enunciated, “a formal deal in writing that will grant my client total immunity from this unfortunate set of circumstances, though we make no admission as to any guilt.”
Westgate’s intercom phone rang. He picked up. “Yes?”
“I have The CIA director on the phone.”
“Tell him I’m busy, in a meeting…”
“He wants to know if Henry Kissinger is with you.”
“What?”
“That’s what he asked.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said he would need to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Cheryl. Put him through.” A few moments later. “Carlton? Yes, Carlton, I have Dr. Kissinger with me. Uh, no, he’s busy—he’ll have to call you back.” Westgate listened. “Excuse me? Yes, as a matter of fact, that’s the issue we’re talking about. No, no, don’t even think about it—we found him first. Remember, Carlton? We have a bet one who will catch the culprit. May the best man win!”
Westgate gleefully returned the phone to its cradle. “You’re right, Henry—about secrets getting out. The CIA already knows about your Swiss account. Carlton Price is shitting his pants because I got to you first and he wants to beat us at solving this.”
Boggles turned to Kissinger. “Maybe the CIA will offer us a better deal?”
“Oh, no. It’s our deal or no deal,” said Westgate. “You start playing me off against Price and I’ll haul your ass before a judge, I don’t care how well-connected you are.”
“What if Carlton phones me,” said Kissinger. “We’ve known each other for years—and he wouldn’t push me into a corner as you have. He values our relationship.”
“You’re assisting us on a classified matter,” replied Westgate. “You’re not to talk about it with anyone outside this office. Tell him to phone me if he’s not satisfied.”
“We need to have something concrete in writing,” repeated Boggles.
“You’re a lawyer,” said Westgate. “Draft something and fax it to me this afternoon. I want Dalkin in New York at Kissinger Associates first thing tomorrow morning to study your Faud file—and it had better be untouched when he gets to it. If anything gets shredded, deal’s off.”
“Boggles, bugles, bagels,” added Jeff Dalkin. “Bugger all the fucking lawyers. Speck and sauerkraut!”
Westgate’s intercom buzzed. “Yes, Cheryl?”
“I have the author on the phone.”
“Who?”
“All he will say is, the author. He said you’ll know who.”
“Okay, put him through.”
“It’s me,” I said.
“Why are you calling me?”
“Oh, it’s okay for you to phone me,” I said, “spoil my rhythm. But it’s not okay for me to phone you? You just don’t get it, do you, Westgate? This is my book, my imagination. And anyway, it’s not you I want to talk to. I want a word with Henry.”
“What? Why?”
“What are you, his secretary? Just put Kissinger on the phone and don’t be so goddam nosy.”
“Why don’t you call him at…” Westgate farted a big raspy cheezer that blew a hole in his underwear. “Goddamit! Quit doing that to me!”
“Kissinger,” I said. “I want to talk to him. Now.”
“Okay, okay.” Blushing purple, Westgate turned to Kissinger. “That wasn’t me who farted. It was the author making me fart. And now he wants to speak to you.”
Holding his nose and eyeing Westgate with shock, Kissinger ambled over and reluctantly picked up the phone.
“Henry?” I said.
“Yes?” Kissinger droned. “Who is this?”
“This is the author.”
Kissinger covered the mouthpiece and looked sternly at Westgate. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“No. And I’d be careful if I were you. He’s got a lot of control over us—and he plays dirty.”
“He has no control over me,” said Kissinger.
“No? You tell him that—see what happens.”
“Now see here,” Kissinger said into the mouthpiece. “I don’t know you. We have nothing to talk about.”
Excited by an oil painting of a sheep on Westgate’s wall, Henry Kissinger popped a woody. He unzipped his fly and…
“Stop! Stop!” yelled Kissinger.
“See?” Westgate smirked.
“What do you want from me!” hollered Kissinger. “You have no right to include me in this, this fiction, in the first place. It is an invasion of my privacy!”
“Calm down, Henry,” I said. “And zip your fly before everybody sees what a small dick you have. You’re a public person and therefore I have license to involve you in my fictional plot. I could have written a nonfiction book about you and Kissinger Associates, but fiction is much more liberating. I think it is extremely interesting how an ex-secretary-of-state can rake in millions of dollars using contacts he made while in government service. Do you think that’s ethical, Henry?”
“I did not invent the revolving door. Everybody in Washington does it.”
“Not everyone. The little guy gets clobbered if he tries. Only the top echelon gets away with cashing in.”
“Is that what you called to say?”
“No, I threw that in spur the moment. The reason I called is to ask about Watergate.” I paused. “It was you who sabotaged Nixon, right?”
“No.”
“The truth, Henry.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“But it was someone working on your behalf, right?”
“I can’t say.” Kissinger let fly a stutter fart: pt, pt, pt-pt, pt-pt-pt, pop, pop-pop—KAPOW. “Okay, okay! He came from John J. McCloy’s office to implement our agenda. First he worked for me, then Ehrlichman. He was head of the plumbers. Howard and Gordon Hunt reported to him, were directed by him. Yes, we sabotaged Nixon. Now are you satisfied?”
“Thank you, Henry. Put Westgate back on.”
Kissinger handed the phone to Westgate and zipped his fly. “This,” said Dr. K, “is a very strange place.”