THE MISFIT UNIT: 22) NATIONAL SECURITY
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
As Jeff Dalkin finishes his dinner with Oleg Sokolov in London, Ralph Serafina—seconded to his unit from the CIA—is into his third session with two Russian SVR officers.
Banque Paribas had earlier confirmed a numbered bank account in his name for five million dollars and Serefina now possesses a notarized letter from Michael Zudex affirming a stake of 5 percent in Zudex International.
And so the CIA maverick happily answers questions put to him by the SVR.
Being thorough chaps, the Russians start from the beginning: How Serafina had been recruited by CIA while at college, followed by rigorous testing procedures that evolved him into the intelligence officers training program, followed by Serafina’s stint in Langley on the Swiss desk, and after that, his first foreign posting.
The debriefing process is slow and laborious; the Russians filling three large spiral notebooks before Serafina reached Geneva.
*****
Several urgent messages from Bradley Fatwood greet Jeff Dalkin as he sips Singh beer, awaiting the check at Chez Bizarre.
Dalkin taps a series of numbers and connects to his attorney
"Where are you?" hollers the Bacon, Hump attorney.
"Overseas," says Dalkin.
"But... but,” he splutters, “you were supposed to continue your deposition today!"
"Nah, I instructed you to take care of that," says Dalkin. "I got business to tend to."
"It's not in my hands to take care of," says Fatwood. "They called the judge and reported that you called him a jiggering jerk-off. It took me an hour to convince him that you're a Tourette's sufferer..."
"Enjoyer."
"This isn't the time to joke," says Fatwood.
"I'm not."
"Judge Rudolph could find you in contempt."
"For saying jiggering jerk-off after the word judge?"
"Yes. But mostly for not returning to answer questions he has ordered you to answer."
"Does this mean I should stay overseas?"
"No. It means you should get back here as soon as possible and continue the deposition. The Worthogs waited two hours for you to show up. They want to hold us liable for their costs. And the judge will probably side with them on this and fine you as well."
"That's exactly why I need to be overseas," says Dalkin. "To earn the money that's paying for this soap opera."
"Fortunately, today’s Friday," says Fatwood. "The earliest they can reconvene is Monday. So you've got two days to get back here."
"Can't we do it the following week?"
"No."
"Why the hell not?"
"Milton Worthog has a long-standing vacation scheduled and he'd never let his son run a deposition."
"I can understand that," says Dalkin. "What happens if I'm not there Monday?"
"The judge could put you in jail for contempt of court—and keep you there as long as he likes."
*****
Jeff Dalkin boards a 10 a.m. EasyJet that sets down at Nice Cote d'Azur just past one p.m. A Mercedes taxi whirls him along the autoroute to Cap d'Ail, a French town adjacent to Monaco, and he checks into the Marriott Hotel.
Dalkin sits on his balcony of his room, enjoying salt air and a sea view, when his door knocks twice, a pause, and once again. Dalkin opens the door and comes face-to-face with his CIA maverick, whom he ushers inside.
"Clean?"
"Squeaky," says Ralph Serafina.
"Money?"
"In the bank." Serafina grins.
"Good job. How long we got?"
"Thirty minutes. These Russian Intel-pukes are slave-masters. And I had to dry-clean my tracks."
"Okay, let's get to it."
Over the next hour, Dalkin details how he wants Serafina to further play the Russian Intel-pukes with disinformation. And he issues Serafina banking details for where the five million dollars should be transferred forthwith.
*****
Monday morning, nine a.m., Jeff Dalkin returns to Bacon, Hump, the Worthogs, the whole nine yards.
"Lively weekend?" Dalkin winks at the corpse-like Worthog as he rumps his rear. "I'm sorry, it's just that you don't look well."
The videographer swears in the deponent.
"Mister Dalkin," Worthog growls. "I request for the record that you turn off your cell phone."
"That's impossible." Dalkin smirks.
"Why is it impossible?"
"Because I don't have a cell phone with me."
"Mister Dalkin." Worthog straightens his spectacles. "For whom do you currently work?"
Dalkin looks to his lawyer to object, but Fatwood remains silent.
"That has nothing to do with your case," says Dalkin.
"Are you refusing to answer?"
Dalkin considers this. "Yeah."
Worthog focuses his gaze on Fatwood. "I suggest you counsel your client that Judge Rudolph has compelled him to answer questions pertaining to current employment."
Fatwood looks at Dalkin, nods.
"I have to use the bathroom." Dalkin unclips the microphone from his shirt.
"We just started," Worthog erupts. "I don't agree to a recess!"
"No? You want me to pee on your shoes?" Dalkin doesn’t wait for an answer, but skips out, Fatwood at his heels.
"What's going on?" asks Fatwood.
Dalkin turns and points to the hospitality room. "In there." Dalkin closes the door and turns on his lawyer. "National security just cut in. Big time."
"National security?"
"My current client is the U.S. government—golly glomping goo-goo butts. I am running a very sensitive and highly classified intelligence project and I am not permitted to disclose it to anyone who does not have a security clearance. And the only thing USG would clear for those Worthogs to see is used toilet paper."
"Maybe you should tell me about it," says Fatwood.
"How high do your security clearances go?"
"We have attorney-client privilege," add Fatwood.
Dalkin shakes his head. "Doesn't cut it, counselor."
"I'll go explain." Fatwood turns.
"No, you won’t. An explanation itself is secret. They’d leak it to the media just to harass me. Don't you get it? They're looking for ammunition to force a settlement. And Rigglesworth has it in for me because I made a sucker of her. Nobody likes to be made a sucker of. And she, being a reporter, she'll be using everything she gets from litigation to write a book about Ding-a-Ling, including everything she can find out about me."
"So what do you want me to do?" asks Fatwood.
"You're the goddam lawyer—lying labanza-balls. Call the judge—jiggering jerk-off. No, don't call him a jiggering jerk-off. Just call him. Demand a conference. Tell him he's stepping on national security."
"Opposing counsel will want to be present."
Dalkin shakes his head. "In that case, never mind. I'll get a gaggle of government lawyers—goo-goo butting lying labanzas—to go see the judge—jiggering jerk-off."
"Hmmm." Fatwood does not want to be upstaged by other attorneys. "Here's what we're going to do. You should answer the question by saying you currently have no clients. Once they produce a transcript of the deposition for you to read, you'll have 30 days to make corrections before it becomes official. By that time we can hopefully sort this out and you can correct it accordingly.”
“Problems don’t improve with age,” says Dalkin. “But let’s go with that.”