WATER WORKS: 1) THE COSMOS CLUB

Sunday Funnies: A Serial Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy and H2O

Starting today, in serial form (every Sunday), is a novel I penned around 25 years ago while, resident in Washington, D.C., fully immersed in the world of intelligence and espionage.

It was my spare time habit to run reality through a meat grinder and turn what I learned into fiction.

In hindsight, it is clear to me that what I lived (and wrote about) a quarter-century ago were issues/challenges known to the U.S. intelligence community way back when… about which… they did… nothing.

USG’s inability to take action has led to much bigger problems all these years later…

1.

"So, what's the problem, Pikestaff?"

Pikestaff is Director of Operations at Central Intelligence.

I am his trouble-shooter, emphasis on trouble.

We are in the bar at the Cosmos Club, the last bastion of civility inside the District of Columbia. Persian rugs, chandeliers and shelves of leather-bound books.

"Water," said Pikestaff, settling back into his deep leather armchair.

"The hell, Pikestaff. I'm having a dry martini."

"No." Pikestaff plucks a hankie from a trouser pocket and blows his nose. "Water is the problem."

"Why is water a problem?"

"There's not enough of it."

"I’m sorry, Pikestaff, doesn't water cover something like 70 percent of the earth's surface?"

"So, you did graduate elementary school." Pikestaff wags a rare joke.

"Barely."

A penguin with no expression looms up with a Beefeater martini for me and a scotch and soda for Pikestaff.

The penguin rigidly waddles off.

"Here's the problem," says Pikestaff, leaning forward to retrieve his libation from the low table between us. "Only about three percent of the world's water is potable." He shakes his mostly bald head. "It's not enough."

"Are we talking apocalypse?"

Pikestaff nods. "Long term, probably. If people—countries— don't start paying attention. Short term," he lowers his voice to a whisper. "We're talking war. You know how the last few Middle East wars were over oil? The next one will be about water."

"That's not funny, Pikestaff."

"Of course, it's not funny."

"So, why are you bringing it to my attention? You know I only take jobs with a high L.Q."

"L.Q.?"

"Laugh Quotient. Anything you give me has to have potential for a lot of yuks. If it's not funny, I don't do it. Water sounds pathetically low on the yuk-o-meter."

Pikestaff harrumphs.

"But go ahead,” say. “Tell me more. Maybe there's a way to make water funny."

Pikestaff closes his eyes. He much prefers presiding over sycophants in his big seventh floor office at Langley to entertaining wiseasses like me. "Israel has almost depleted its aquifers and..."

"Aquifers?"

"An aquifer is an underground stream—a source of freshwater—Israel’s only self-owned freshwater source. So they've been getting their water from Jordan. The Jordan River—more a stream, these days. Suffice to say, the Jordanians aren't too thrilled about this arrangement. They want to be paid. They're already talking about trying to shut down the flow of water and..."

"Shut down the flow of water?"

"It's more of a trickle."

"Keep talking, Pikestaff. This might have yuk potential after all."

"Fresh water should be a high Israeli priority. They should be building desalination plants to purify seawater from the Mediterranean. But they've got so many other problems, water is low on their list. The Middle East is just a microcosm of the global water shortage to come. Further east, the Aral Sea is drying up. And the Caspian isn't far behind."

"Isn't the Caspian where caviar comes from?" I ask.

"Caviar comes from sturgeon."

"I see. You finished eighth grade too, Pikestaff. But now you've got me concerned. Water, I can live without, because I can drink beer like early American colonists, who never dared drink the water. But not caviar, because whenever I need to lose ten pounds I go on a caviar diet. My own invention."

"What's a caviar diet?" Pikestaff closes one eye, trying to comprehend.

"You can eat as much as you can afford," I say. "But you can only eat caviar. Very nutritious. And very effective for losing weight. We've definitely got to save the caviar."

Pikestaff harrumphs. "Water is the essence of life. Why do you think scientists got excited about finding ice on Mars? Because ice is water, and where there's water, there's life. Water is the beginning of everything. The absence of water will be the end of everything."

"I'm impressed, Pikestaff. How do you suddenly know so much about water?"

"I was briefed this afternoon by our science directorate.”

"And instead of managing it yourself," I say, "you'd like to shift it off your desk, onto mine."

"You don't have a desk," says Pikestaff.

"And I don't want one."

"This assignment needs doing, not desking." Pikestaff is starting to talk my lingo—about time after almost 20 years.

"What exactly am I supposed to do? Wait, don't tell me. First, let's agree terms."

"A thousand a day." Pikestaff tries to clench his non-chin.

"We've been through this before." I sip liquid crystal. "I got 1500 hundred last time."

"Money's scarce right now."

"So are covert operators with balls. Two grand."

Pikestaff harrumphs.

"C'mon, Pikestaff. I have a Ralph Lauren Polo addiction to support."

"A what?"

"I wouldn't expect you to know. You're maxed out at Brooks Brothers. I just coughed up two-grand for a suede jacket. Somebody's got to pay for this sartoriality."

"Is that a real word?"

"Who cares? I make them up. Two-grand a day is a bargain."

Pikestaff re-consults his handkerchief and combines a nose-blow with a harrumph. "Nobody gets two grand a day," he snorts.

"Let's set a precedent. I'm tired of getting yanked into your nightmares then having to fight you every inch of the way to let me exorcise your demons. Two grand covers the F.Q."

"The what?"

"Frustration Quotient."

"Okay, okay."

We shake hands.

"It's a double-header," said Pikestaff. "Game one: We're curious about an organization called Dulci Acqua Consortium."

"It's Latin, Pikestaff. It means clean water."

"Yes, I know that. This name keeps popping up on NSA intercepts—traffic from Central Europe, Russia, the Stans, the Middle East. Whatever Dulci Acqua Consortium is, whoever they are, they seem hell-bent on convincing needy governments left and right to let them take over their water problems. In effect, to privatize water. Into their hands."

"Own the water?"

Pikestaff nods. "Obviously, we're concerned. So that's the first thing: Who is Dulci Acqua Consortium and what are they up to. Next..."

"Do we know where they are?"

"I just told you everything we know. Next. A scientist in Russia appears to have invented a new low-cost technique for cleaning wastewater. Generally speaking, the treatment of waste water and desalination is never cost-effective because the expense involved is at least five times higher than any of the revenues that can be produced from it. So, whoever comes up with a new mousetrap—in this case, a way to treat water that turns the formula around—is going to be one popular multi-millionaire. What we're hearing is, this guy is afraid the Russian government will screw him out of his invention. So, he wants to bring it to the USA, patent it here and stakes his fortune."

"Sounds reasonable enough."

"Therein lies the problem," says Pikestaff. "The Russians know what he's got. He won't share it with them. They won't give him a visa to leave, citing some research he did at a government lab more than ten years ago. But the real reason they won't let him out is because they want his invention, whatever it is."

"I suppose you want me to go get him."

"And his invention."

"Okay, Pikestaff, give me some context."

"The scientist's cousin made casual contact with someone on the consular staff in Moscow. It was passed to us."

"How do we know we're not being set up?"

"By the Russians?"

"No, by the scientist. He wants to move here, can't get a visa, so he's trying to use us to expatriate him. Once he's here he demands political asylum."

Pikestaff nods. "I want you to check his bona fides."

"And if I find him credible?"

"Exfiltrate him."

"What am I supposed to do for a legend?"

"I've got you covered," says Pikestaff.

"I've heard that one before..."

"No, really. You're going to like this part of it."

"I'll like it a lot better if it comes with a second martini." I raise my glass to signal a passing server.

"We have a billionaire who wants to work with us," said Pikestaff.

"A billionaire?" I smile.

"That's right. Actually, he's worth two billion."

"I like billionaires, Pikestaff—especially the ones worth two billion. How'd you find him?"

"He's a patriotic guy. Allows us to use his international offices for deep cover. Morton Levi."

"Levi Foods?"

"That's right. But his fortune goes way beyond food these days. Morton is into everything."

"First name terms? I’m impressed. Does this mean a seat on the board one day, Pikestaff?"

He ignores me. "Here's Morton's card."

Morton Levi Investments, Inc.

"He's in New York?"

Pikestaff nods. "He's in New York, Palm Beach, Aspen, London, Paris… and he’s expecting your call."