The Traitor of Oda

By David Hancock, Sr

In this exciting and unique mystery novel, action moves between ancient Asia, Washington DC, Moscow, London, Bahamas, and modern Central Asia. CIA field analyst, Simon Pettit, stationed in Osaka, surprisingly learns to converse with a spirit named Soji who was a Ninjutsu Master in thirteenth century Japan. With Soji’s guidance, Simon blossoms into a top CIA field operative and, after returning to Washington, he and Frank Grant, an ex-marine banker, battle crooked politicians, some New Jersey mafia, and Central Asian gangsters to save the lives of people close to them and the Clinton administration’s reputation. Lastly, the identity of the Traitor of Oda is uncovered and we learn how that treachery led Simon to a final confrontation in Kyrgyzstan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Hancock, Sr
• Release date: Jun 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311742926

David Hancock, Sr

Beginning in New London, Connecticut, "traveler" soon became my middle name. Good fortune has allowed me to visit all fifty states and live in seven. On the foreign side, I've been to over sixty countries and lived in four. From London to Barcelona to Bishkek, my life has been exciting and varied. Sometimes my family came along but, unfortunately, on too many occasions, they could not. But every thrill ride has to end. My first novel, The Traitor of Oda, sprang from the result of having to say goodbye to adventure; if I could no longer do it, I'd write about it. Today, in Oceanside, California and my life is relatively serene, devoted to teaching and consulting with small businesses, with time for my still-growing family of four children, five grandchildren, and two step grandchildren. Ain't kids great! They're the best thrill ever!

Book preview

PROLOGUE

PRACTICING

June, 1995 - Detroit, Michigan

The five-story tenement building loomed stark and brooding on a forgotten street, lined with the bones of its dead brothers; a lone memorial to lost dreams and faded lives.

A summer sun blazed white hot, its brilliance ricocheting off sidewalks and street pavements as if alive, only to die the instant it encountered the building’s ancient and powdery paint. Two small windows in the lobby door, layered with years of accumulated grime, denied entry to even a sliver of light. No, this was not a monument. It was a tomb for the living.

A tall blond man in a gleaming gray silk suit, skipped spryly up the entrance steps as if he had not a care in the world. Pausing in the foyer, Simon Pettit allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. He could hear two men arguing, their slurred and muted voices drifting down from an upper floor. Ignoring the faint sounds, he headed up the well-worn granite stairs. Only one bare bulb hung on frayed wires at the first landing, casting more shadows than light. But the dark did not deter Simon. Since childhood, the dark had always been where he escaped, where he could become invisible. Reaching the first landing, he walked the fingertips of his left hand lightly on the wall as a guide, continued to the second floor, and took the hallway to his right. The argument from the upper floor faded entirely and the sound of his leather-soled loafers on the bare hallway floor snapped sharply.

Damn, he thought, hard soles. Forgot the soft-soled mocs. Soji was right as usual. It’s been way too long – almost a year. Stepping toe-first, he moved his weight forward and glided silently, flowing like a dancer across a stage.

Simon stopped at a gray door with the number 27 hand-painted in white where an eyehole had been plugged. He knocked softly. No answer. He knocked a second time, slightly louder, and heard the sound of a dead bolt being withdrawn. The door opened slightly and a puff of warm, stale air escaped, pushed outward by a squeaky window fan. A short, overweight woman with straight brown hair peered from within, behind the cracked door, now held by a chain lock. Her pasty white face, eyes rimmed in dark pouches, and graying hair betold an age well beyond her thirty-four years. Layers of fat blurred a once sharp jaw line. Her dark green terrycloth robe hung open, revealing a greasy blue and white sweat-stained cotton housedress. With a rock-steady hand, she pointed a snub-nosed Colt 38 Police Special directly at Simon’s nose.

Who're you? she demanded.

I understand you have a problem, Simon replied coolly, keeping his eyes on the gun barrel.

Problem? Whadayamean, problem? she retorted, squinting at the man standing in the unlit hall. She could make out that he was well dressed. New suit, she thought. Even has a handkerchief in the pocket and damn, he’s tall. She squinted harder and decided he was kinda handsome too. She gripped the gun ever tighter.

Are you Miss Becky Hammond?

So?

I’ve read your letters to the President, Miss Hammond.

"You from the fuckin gov'ment? Huh? The F.B. - fuckin - I?"

Yes, but different agency, Simon replied softly. It’s important that I speak to you in confidence, Miss Hammond. May I come in, please?

"Bout time somebody answered my letters to that sum-bitch fuckin’ White House liar. What you gonna do, ask more questions about them letters?" she asked, unlatching the door and moving a little to the side.

Simon moved to step through the half open door and hesitated as his nose caught the stench of excrement. He wasn’t disgusted, just watching where he stepped. Papers were strewn everywhere. Bits of bread, chicken bones, and other unidentifiable food scraps lay on the sink, table, and kitchen floor in various stages of decay. About a dozen pictures of the current American President, cut from magazines and newspapers, covered the opposite wall behind a battered sofa. Human feces had been meticulously smeared on every likeness, giving each a dark brown mustache and goatee.

The woman noticed Simon as his gaze swept the wall collage and she waved her Colt at the pictures, giggling, "See that? Hah! Ain’t he a real piece a shit? I wrote him ‘bout every week for two years. Finally…I git you. Yeah, well anybody besides the F.B. - fuckin- I. Can’t wait to see that sum-bitch in person when he gits here next month. You bet he’ll notice me then. You damn betcha"

She stuffed her left hand, the one with the Colt, into the left pocket of her robe and then slowly released her grip on the weapon. With her right hand, she pulled out a well-used handkerchief from another pocket, put it to her nose, and blew noisily. Becky shuffled closer to Simon and he leaned toward to her, ignoring an overwhelming halitosis suitable for Godzilla, and smiled amiably.

Miss Hammond, please, may I call you Becky?

She nodded in resignation. No one called her Miss Hammond anymore, not even those tight-ass F.B.- fuckin -I guys.

"Good. Well, Becky", Simon enunciated carefully, several people in Washington have read your letters. You’re very outspoken to admit you want to shoot the President. Most people only just think about it. You mentioned the FBI. When was the last time they talked to you?

Them guys? They ain’t been here fer a long time, four-five months prob'ly.

Lowering his voice, Simon brought his lips near her ear and whispered, Where I work, the FBI forwards us letters from folks like you, Becky. In certain cases, such as yours, I decide to help.

"Waddayamean, help?' Her face pinched and she cocked her head, waiting for an answer, then jerked back as his laser blue eyes locked with hers, piercing into her brain, searching out her madness. His eyes could probe places she didn’t want seen. Becky quickly shifted her gaze downward and again wiped her handkerchief over her nose.

First, I have a gift for you from the White House, Simon announced as he reached into his suit jacket pocket to withdraw a ball-point pen bearing the Presidential Seal of the United States of America. He offered her the pen.

What's this? she grunted. Grabbing the pen in a grimy paw, she slowly lip-read the inscription. This supposed to fix things? This supposed to make up fer years of be'in sick and all?

Oh, no, Becky, Simon protested, with palms outstretched. It’s just a small present. I have something else, something that portends the solution to your problems. May I, he asked as he motioned with his head a desire to see her kitchen. She shrugged.

Simon took three quick strides to the kitchen area of the tiny flat. Becky Hammond’s nervous fingers twiddled with her gift pen as she warily watched him edge past her.

Simon peered into the sink.

Ah, yes, intoned Simon. From a pile of scum-covered dishes, he plucked a damp, sour wash rag. Squeezing the last bit of water from the rag, then using the rag as a pad in his right hand, he selected an encrusted dining fork from the dry sink bottom.

Please, Becky. You need to see this close up. Simon beckoned slowly with his left arm for her to join him at the sink.

Wha? Becky Hammond muttered, tightening the fingers of her left hand around the handle of the Colt in her pocket, and shuffled toward where Simon stood waiting.

The people to whom you have written those hate-filled and threatening letters will be happy when your problem is solved, Becky.

Suddenly his left hand stopped its slow waving movement and darted like a cobra’s strike, snagging Becky Hammond by the nape of her neck, pulling her to him. Then, against her forward momentum, with the weight of his body behind it, Simon plunged the fork through her thin dress, into her solar plexus, just below the sternum. The upward curve of the fork guided four dull tines directly into her heart. Eyes wide, she dropped her handkerchief and released the revolver to grab at the fork with both hands. Her mouth opened for a scream, only to produce a loud belch. Becky spun and toppled to the floor, upsetting a kitchen chair in the process. Simon danced to the side as she dropped, watching her eyes bulge and then roll back in her head. Becky Hammond kicked, shuddered twice, and then lay motionless on her left side, head askew, right hand still grasping the fork. A small pool of blood had formed under Becky, a dark stain of urine coated her robe and the sharp, pungent odor of ammonia began to permeate the small apartment.

Simon righted the overturned chair, placed it near the small kitchen table, and tangled Becky’s toes in one of her slippers. Anyone looking at the scene would see either a tragic accident or a horribly successful suicide. Either way, not a soul would care.

Simon bent down, retrieved the White House pen from Becky’s pocket, and wiped it with the wash rag. He replaced the pen in his coat pocket and tossed the rag into the sink. Moving to a clothes rack near the door, he plucked off a wire hanger, unraveled the hanger, and fashioned one end into a small, closed V. Opening the door slowly, he first checked to see if the hall was deserted, and then stepped into the hall, holding the door ajar. He hooked the V end of the hanger onto the end of the door chain and slowly closed the door, aiming the hanger so that the he could latch the chain just before the door closed. One the third try, the chain held. Loosening the hanger end from the chain latch, he retrieved it, wrapped the hanger twice around the door handle, and pulled sharply, locking the door. Unwinding the hanger wire from the door handle, Simon twisted it into a ball and stuffed the ball into his jacket pocket. He went quickly down the stairs, out of the building, and stepped away at a leisurely pace. He tossed the wire into an overflowing trash bin and continued on for three blocks until reaching a city bus stop.

Three young black men, wearing identical sleeveless leather vests in gang colors, lounged at the corner opposite the bus stop. All three watched Simon through narrowed eyes. This was not a neighborhood where blondes took casual walks. Apparently, this dude didn’t give a fuck. Before they could initiate any action, a blue and white city bus puffed to a stop and, with a nod toward the three bangers, Simon boarded. He rode until reaching the Bonaventure Hotel.

Simon entered the Bonaventure beneath a huge green entrance canopy, crossed the marbled lobby, and exited through a large revolving rear door. He walked two blocks south to the main entrance of the hulking, gray Convention Center and took a place in line at one of the taxi stands. When his turn came, he told the driver that he wanted Wayne County Airport. As he relaxed in the cab seat, Simon reviewed the bus ride, the hotel cross-through, and now this cab. Gotta practice more, he thought, never know when I’ll need it.

The taxi pulled away from the Wayne County Airport terminal, leaving Simon on the sidewalk, just outside the departure lobby. He went in and punched a number on the lobby pay phone.

Extension 6731.

Debbie, it’s me. I’m at the Detroit airport. There's a plane leaving here for Washington National in about an hour. Switch my reservation for that flight and then book me back here next Friday. Also call Congressman Hastings and set up a meeting for tomorrow, any time.

Yes, Mr. Pettit, I’ll do that. By the way, what happened? Didn’t you have your meeting about the satellite programs?

Yeah, but it wound up by ten, just in time to solve a small problem regarding the President’s coming visit. Now, get me out of this place!

CHAPTER ONE

"The Birth of a Spy Station."

June, 1995 - Washington, DC

Swaying on burning, gout-stricken feet, Willard Windy Whitzer felt like a failed hot coal-walker at a Tony Robbins seminar. Sweat oozed its way around his ears, trickled down his cheeks and gathered to drip off his chin. He’d swear his right heel had a two-inch nail stuck in it. Breaths came only in short, rasping wheezes. Through glazed eyes he could see his audience of fellow congressmen and women gathered in the third floor conference room. The halls of Congress on this Friday were almost vacant of tourists and, when he paused for breath, he could hear the echoed footsteps of junior pages. In offices and meeting rooms, whether empty or in use, ceiling fans created the only visible movement. The thermostat in the House Intelligence Committee conference room was set on 70° and, unlike its occupants, the state-of-the-art A/C worked effectively. Unfortunately, the low temperature didn’t help Windy. His hips ached as he moved his massive weight from foot to foot in an effort to ease the fire in his feet. Windy’s 400-pound body swayed with hypnotic rhythm as he talked and sweated and wheezed. The talking part had always come easy to Windy, hence his nickname. During thirty-two years in politics, Windy had trained his mouth to work on cruise control, free of brain intervention. That little trick now freed his mind for a minute, escaping his gout-inflicted pain by imagining tonight's liaison with Charlene Thomas. She was after one of those high-paying non-jobs controlled by senior congressmen. Yes sirrrr, he thought, that Charlene is one foxy little gal. I wonder how badly she wants a job? Reeel bad, I hope!

Some people might label this good ole Texas boy a sexual predator but he wasn’t, at least not by Washington standards. Members of congress from both parties and both genders rapidly learned how to bargain jobs for sex. And so did their employees. Insiders swear that’s where the term civil service originated.

On this particular June day, the House Intelligence Committee had stayed in session later than usual to consider NATO’s proposed cooperation with Russia’s military. While Windy pontificated inside a cool conference room, the city of Washington was like the inside of a Finnish sauna, absent only the sizzle of cold water hitting hot pavement. The streets surrounding the Capitol Building were unusually free of pedestrians. A sparse scattering of first-time tourists stood on the Capitol steps, fanning themselves with city maps, wondering why they had come here instead of the beach and why their tour brochures pictured D.C. as elegant and serene, cloaked in cool white marble when it was, in actuality, acres of hot concrete sitting where a swamp had existed for eons.

The entire committee was gathered around a twenty-by-eight foot table. Aides sat in study chairs behind their members. If they couldn't go home, they could at least hide here from the heat. Most of the day had been spent on the tedious details of American military interests in NATO and potential border problems with Russia and former Eastern Bloc countries. The committee had reached the last item of the day's agenda; a draft bill offered by Owen Hastings, committee chairman. Windy Whitzer was the fourth and last thirty-minute position speaker scheduled to debate the merits of Hastings’ draft but he knew he wouldn’t use his entire allotted time. Windy had been standing for only twenty minutes and was about to throw in the towel.

God damn, I hurt, he thought, to hell with my promise. The America First people will have to take what I can give and today that ain’t but few minutes more. I’ve got to sit.

Windy summarized quickly. I just can't see why these piss-ant, third world Asian countries are so damn important to the security of our great nation. He paused, inhaled with a deep wheeze and, briefly energized by the rush of oxygen, went on. For too long we waited for the Ruskies to crumble. Now they have and their miserable factories are such a damn mess you can't see the dirt for the grease. I, for one, fail to see how that shambles of a disgraced regime can prove dangerous to anyone. Certainly not us.

Windy stopped swaying and smiled, awaiting a reaction, only to be greeted by stony silence. The ceiling fan was now especially noticeable, its soft whoosh, whoosh further hypnotizing an already benumbed committee. Long seconds passed before the spell that had been cast by Windy’s graceful, metronomic balancing act dissipated and it was finally apparent to all that Windy had actually finished a speech in less than his allotted time. Whitzer sighed and plopped his tired bulk into his chair, swiping his forehead with a well-soaked handkerchief.

Well, er…well, thank you, Willard, intoned Committee Chairman Owen Hastings.

Hastings needed to stall. He hadn’t really paid much attention to what Windy had said and he wasn’t sure if he should compliment fellow democrat Whitzer on a fine presentation or move on without comment. Hastings pressed his memory to recall at least one point that Windy had made. In microseconds, he snatched a word, a sentence, from the back of his memory and his political instincts took over.

Your view is most correct, Willard, Hastings continued. The Russian economy is – as you aptly put it – in a shambles. The intelligence community tells us, however, that the Soviet military machine is mostly intact. They caution that the impact of a deteriorating economy on the morale and living standard of each soldier, up, through, and including the General Staff, is going to affect everyone in the former Soviet Union. Eventually, perhaps the rest of the world as well. Sergeants are getting something like fifteen dollars a week, if they get paid at all. Common soldiers have been seen begging for food in the streets of Irkuts and Sevastipol. If the central government does not solve these and other problems soon, there may well be another attempted coup, this time backed in full by the military.

Owen Hastings’ gaze swept the room, his soft brown eyes belying the arrogance that lay beneath. Hastings stood an inch under six feet but his stiff bearing, leonine white hair, and aquiline nose caused most people to remember him as much taller. Effective with the current administration, Hastings had, at long last, achieved a committee chairmanship. He’d paid his dues. His BA and LL.B. from Stanford and two terms as mayor of Chino had culminated into twenty-three mildly flamboyant years in the House representing an upper-middle class district in Riverside County, just east of Los Angeles. Hastings could finally enjoy the spoils of a committee chairmanship. The timing was also such that he was one of the many congressmen who had recognized the time had come to cash in.

Recent campaign financing laws had played a large factor in these personal decisions. Hastings had determined that he could take the $1.8 million remaining in his campaign fund with him, if he left soon. So, he’d made the not-so-difficult option to retire to his golf, Washington business interests, and local female companions. Leaving congress at this point was a no-brainer.

Except for a small white growth in his left eye, his health was superb. He’d inherited good genes and maintained a steady regime of sixty-minute workouts, four times a week at the University Club. He was confident that he could join the world of private business and still be based in Washington. That way he could avoid spending additional time in California with Steffie, his shrewish wife of some thirty-five years. Plump Steffie looked every day of her sixty-one years, whereas Owen could pass for ten years younger than his current sixty-two. Hastings intended to enjoy his contacts, good health, and impending wealth as a still-married but fully independent man.

Hastings’ gaze rested on Sydney Harvey, a republican from Minnesota, who offered, Mr. Chairman, I would like to add some additional input to this discussion.

You have the floor, Syd, responded Hastings and Harvey rose to give his usual little lecture.

"I’m in total agreement with Congressman Whitzer. I was in Moscow this past March and got briefed by the CIA Station Chief there. He was extremely concerned about the inactive and deteriorating nuclear weapons remaining in the thirteen non-Russian Soviet Republics. Including Russia, the former Soviet Union contained fifteen republics. Other than Russia itself, only Belarus is considered purely Russian. That means thirteen out of fifteen are rediscovering their non-Russian identities. The Station Chief believes – and the Pentagon later concurred – that we can be somewhat more comfortable now in dealings with Russia. Of course, as Windy said, that’s true only if the Russian central government stays in control of things within their country. It appears to me that those thirteen other, non-Russian republics are of serious concern. Some, such as Ukraine and Kazakhstan, have huge arsenals or even the rudiments of nuclear weapons that could be sources of instability and terrorism. They might well sell or barter weapons to terrorist states, plaguing all of our houses. Regardless of what happens in Moscow and between us and Moscow, fourteen other new and individual nations have emerged, requiring both our notice and attention."

After pausing for emphasis, Harvey continued, Mr. Chairman, the draft bill under discussion should also adopt the CIA’s quadripartite view of the former Soviet Union. It’s one we’ve discussed but have not formalized in the bill. Therefore, I move that this committee include in the bill a statement that a quadripartite concept for the fifteen ex-soviet republics will be official US policy. Harvey shuffled his notes, selected a page, and read aloud, The four groupings of Soviet republics will be: First: Russia and little Belarus. Second: the three Baltic nations of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Third: the five Euro/Caspian countries of Moldova, Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia. Fourth: the five Central Asian republics of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. Under this approach, United States intelligence agencies and this committee can be more specific and effective, in a geopolitical sense.

As Harvey was resuming his seat and before Owen Hastings could react to Harvey’s motion for amendment, a small, dark complexioned congressman interrupted, by standing and asking, If I may, Mr. Chairman?

This diminutive politician normally took a rigorous part in discussions such as these. However, today he had listened quietly as one member after another exhibited his or her concern, either for American security or reluctance to release any more money to bureaucratic intelligence agencies such as the CIA.

Chairman Hastings has drafted a plan that will make a most unique beginning to this committee’s issue of intelligence gathering from the ex-soviet republics.

The speaker was New Yorker Anthony Robert Cannelli, the second ranking democrat on the committee. He stood, thumbs tucked into his trademark red velvet vest, and his eyes swept the room, touching on the face of each member present. Every person in the room knew that Canelli was not only a shrewd and experienced politician, he was also the only child of Gino ‘Pockets’ Cannelli, a made man in Brooklyn's La Costa Nostra. And, from his earliest memory, Tony Cannelli had seldom failed to get whatever attention he desired. Cannelli’s talents had not been lost on the silvered fox, Owen Hastings. At their very first meeting, almost twenty years ago, Hastings had recognized Cannelli as someone to be measured, stroked, and, whenever possible, utilized.

Cannelli faced Chairman Hastings as he continued. "Owen, today is the first time we’ve grappled with a geopolitical grouping approach to these fifteen republics. I can readily see that only by dividing them, can we make any efficient headway with any one of them. In our last meeting we approved additional funding for security at our embassy in Moscow and for improved surveillance of Russian submarines in the Baltic. That sort of stuff is routine to this committee. The bill that we debate today is historic. Along with Syd’s amendment, this bill will allow funding for the first western-owned commercial bank in Central Asia. That bank will establish our presence in that fourth group of republics in a new and unconventional way. Our bank will be, in all outward appearances, a regular commercial bank operating at western standards in the ex-soviet republics of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan and Tajikistan. These five newly independent countries have a total population of almost seventy million. Central Asia has more territory than the continental U.S., west of the Mississippi. Lastly, and most important to U.S. security interests, Central Asia borders the trouble spots of Afghanistan, China, and Iran. The bank we’re talking about will be capitalized with one hundred fifty million dollars from our budget, under the bill we consider today. However, while our bank will be helping to furnish US intelligence agencies with what they need to know, this committee cannot be seen as the ultimate controlling body. The House committee on Banking and Finance, a committee that has virtually no contact with the CIA or intelligence-gathering, will be the publicly announced sponsor of a new entity called the Central Asian Bank corporation. I want every member present today to know that, although Banking and Finance will get the credit for establishing this bank, we will be empowered to name the bank’s directors, thus holding ultimate control.

Cannelli waited, assuring himself that all twenty-four committee members were not only awake but also attentive. Be proud, he said with a slight smile, except for Iran/Contra, this may be the first time the US makes money from an intelligence operation. Mr. Chairman, I move for a vote on your proposed bill, with Representative Harvey’s amendment attached, to bring it to the full House to consider.

Cannelli smoothed his vest and Hastings asked with a smug smile, Is there a second?

Less than ten minutes later, the ayes and nays were counted and the CIA's Central Asian Bank was conceived. Its actual birth would take less than three months.

CHAPTER TWO

Selecting a President

January, 1996 - Washington, DC

Tony Cannelli had chaffed under Hastings’ bumbling, preening chairmanship for far too long and was glad to be rid of the Californian snob. If Cannelli hated one thing more than losing, it was losing to tall WASPs. But today he had business with this WASP. A lot had changed since last August when, via an amendment to a large defense bill, Congress had created the Central Asian Bank. Only two months later, Hastings resigned from the House and supported Tony Cannelli to replace him as Chairman. Cannelli then saw to it that Hastings was selected as CEO of the new bank, now commonly referred to as the CAB. Quid pro quo.

In his suite at Washington's Madison Hotel, Owen Hastings rose from the tufted silk sofa to greet Tony Cannelli as he stepped through the doorway. Cannelli might be only 5' 5" in street shoes but, with his chest puffed up under his famous bright red vest, an aggressive thrusting of his chin, he exuded power and arrogance. Slightly balding, Cannelli compensated with heavy black dye on his graying sideburns and, thanks to modern dentistry, he flash an engaging, toothy-white smile.

How's your golf game coming along, Owen? Cannelli asked while pumping Hastings' hand like the old pol he was. Internally, Cannelli yearned to draw his hand back quickly but instead squeezed tightly. He’d never given a hint of his personal distaste for the taller man and now was not the time to start. Hastings’ Stanford education, thick head of hair, and old-family lineage had always been anathema to the son of a Wise Guy. However, Cannelli was a realist. He knew he could never escape the WASPS of the world, so he either charmed them or squeezed them. Regardless of which method he chose, he almost always won.

Just fine, Anthony. Broke 90 twice last week.

Returning to his seat on the sofa, Hastings motioned with his hand for Cannelli to take a chair and asked, What’re you drinking?

Scotch on the rocks.

While pouring, Hastings asked, Have you managed to get out on the links?

No, not yet he replied, waving a hand dismissively and plopping into a low, softly upholstered armchair where his short legs wouldn’t dangle. I still can’t see much point to that game. It’s about as dull as having lunch alone with Al Gore. Poker is still about as physical as I care to get."

I see, murmured Hastings and changed the subject, Have you learned who will replace Mike Felchuck on the committee?

Nope. Maybe next week. You know, sometimes I regret being Chairman. Cannelli paused and sipped his scotch. Okay, not often but sometimes. That stupid son-of-a-bitch Andrews can never stop asking questions even when he has no hope of understanding the answers. The real truth is, maybe I’ve been on The Hill too long. Every two years a new group of freshmen knocks down the House IQ by a few points. They come with more advanced degrees and yet the debates get dumber. Owen, the Intelligence committee’s name has become an oxymoron.

Regardless of the many years he had served in Congress, Hastings was now a civilian, an outsider, and Cannelli hesitated; unsure whether he had said too much. On quick reflection, he decided he hadn’t given anything away that wasn’t known to most of Washington. Then, focusing on Hastings’ inquiry of the committee members, he replied, Oh, yeah, speaking of Texans, we both know one who died yesterday. Windy Whitzer.

What? Hastings cried incredulously, Windy died?

Yep. His family’s trying to keep the details out of the papers. Janitor found him yesterday at one in the morning.

"My god, Anthony, I didn’t know. What happened?’

"The weirdest thing. He was in his office screwing that little secretary, Charlene, and had a massive coronary. When he collapsed, he damn near squashed Charlene like a bug. Cracked two of her ribs. EMTs couldn’t get to her until they rolled him over onto a stretcher. Cannelli pictured Whitzer’s 400-pound corpse atop tiny Charlene Thomas and he grinned slyly. Say, he asked with an innocent look. Maybe Charlene can get workers’ comp!"

Hastings guffawed. Seriously, Cannelli continued, I’ll miss hearing that good ole Texas boy’s oratory. Some of these newbies make presentations like they're a valedictorian at a middle school graduation. What about you. Ever regret leaving the Hill?

Hastings brightened. "Not for a minute! This Asian bank has me going faster than ever. We’ve built a very experienced local staff. And soon will be ready to open all five banking offices, one in each capital city. There’s only one last piece to put in place. I need a real banker for president.

Cannelli’s eyes widened. You need a president NOW? he sputtered. "For Christ’s sakes, Owen, why'd you leave that until last?"

Well, Hastings answered carefully, since you asked …. your son Daniel, our chief counsel and director, recommended a New Yorker named Dominic Fratello for president. Based solely on Daniel's recommendation, I authorized his hiring. Unfortunately, after the standard background investigation, the FBI reported that Fratello was currently under investigation by the SEC for securities fraud. That little detour set me back almost four months.

Yeah, I heard about that, responded Cannelli. Daniel told me he didn't know anything about Fratello's problems and I believe him. Cannelli's eyes narrowed and turned jet-black, recent humor forgotten. Is Danny a problem?" Cannelli asked, in a hoarse whisper.

Hastings recoiled slightly. He well knew that it could be unwise, if not downright unhealthy, to get on the wrong side of the Cannelli family.

Oh, my no. Daniel is doing a fine job. Anyone could have made that mistake. I appreciate his advice and counsel. Perhaps we should get to the real purpose of this meeting. I’d like you to review the file of another man the CIA has offered for the position of president.

Hastings' dealings with Cannelli went back to the bill that had created the bank, a result of the CIA’s proposition to Hastings that a commercial bank could serve as part of its intelligence-gathering plan for the entire Soviet Union. Unsure as to what course to take on that unusual proposition, Hastings had tried to consult with Cannelli, whose initial reaction was no reaction at all. Cannelli couldn’t have been less interested. Then, unexpectedly, a few weeks later, Cannelli came back to Hastings saying that he had reconsidered and could now see the benefits of such a bank. He encouraged Hastings to proceed and pledged his full support. Armed with Cannelli's backing and CIA assistance, Hastings’ staff had drafted a bill, HR 2247, that received congressional approval. Concurrently, Hastings and Cannelli came to an understanding of a more personal nature. These two politicians were as different as Hillary and Monica but they shared the same love of money and quickly agreed that, at some convenient point soon after the signing of the bill to fund the CAB, Hastings would resign and, then Cannelli, on behalf of the bank’s sole shareholder – the U.S. Congress – would nominate Hastings to be Chairman of the CAB with a five-year, two and a half million-dollar contract. As Chairman and CEO, Hastings would then see that Tony's son, Daniel, got a similar contract as director and in-house counsel. Hastings and the Cannellis, pere et fils, would split five million of the public's money, regardless of the bank's profits.

Hastings placed a folder on the coffee table in front of Cannelli. The label read:

CONFIDENTIAL - GRANT, SHERMAN FRANKLIN

As he reached for the folder, Cannelli asked, Why do I get the feeling that this guy is now your choice as much as the CIA's?

Very perceptive as usual, Anthony. What we – you and I – need in this project is someone who actually knows how to run a bank but who will also follow my orders. I didn’t leave Congress to become Chairman of the CAB to then have someone take it away from me. I will not put my face on this publicly visible business and then let it be run by someone who marches to his own drum. Further, Daniel and I both have custom designed compensation packages that are much too valuable to endanger. Believe me, after much deliberation, I’ve come to the conclusion that this fellow, Grant, is probably our man. Please take a few minutes, Anthony. Read his file and I think you’ll agree.

Cannelli scanned the documentation inside the folder. A few minutes later, he put down the file, and cocked his head, peering at Hastings out of the corner of his eye. Okay, just who, exactly, at CIA put this guy up for the job?

Hastings nervously cleared his throat. I believe you know him. Simon Pettit.

Cannelli’s eyes widened. Pettit? he croaked. The Agency’s weirdest loner? Look, if Simon Fucking Pettit were selling dollar bills for fifty cents, I’d take a pass. He’s like a lion at an antelope convention. I’ve met lots of guys serving time for murder and not one of them is as cold-blooded as him. Cannelli shook his head in disgust. Didn’t you know his background?"

Hastings’ neck reddened and his lower lip twitched slightly. He replied, carefully choosing his words, "The Director of Operations at CIA was the first to suggest the Central Asian bank project. Effective last month, the agency formally assigned Simon Pettit as the CIA liaison to the CAB, under cover as being a financial advisor from Goldman Sachs. I’ve already nominated him to join the board of directors. You might find him a bit eccentric, but the CIA Director of Operations told me personally that Simon has produced things of immense value for the Agency. When I asked Simon to assist in the search for a president, in less than forty-eight hours he came up with Grant’s bio. To be totally honest, Simon hasn’t yet met Grant but says he has a good feel about him, based on the records."

Hold on, replied Cannelli, rising from the armchair to address Hastings from a standing position, left thumb hooked in his signature red velvet vest. "Let me tell you a little about this eccentric guy you say has produced things of value, Cannelli hissed as he began pacing round the coffee table. I first met Pettit when he was working on a special project to assess Japan’s modern military capabilities. Initially, I thought he was a pretty good rep for the Agency, well dressed, handsome, articulate, and he knew his subject. One afternoon I ran into him in the Capitol cafeteria and we got to talking. All of a sudden, he says casually, Our next problem will be bailing out Japan.

That caught me by surprise, so I asked how he had come to that conclusion, in the face of the Soviet Cold War and the shit the Chinese and Koreans were pulling. In response, he starts spouting lots of technical data. Some of it sounded like pretty heavy stuff. When I asked where he got his information, he assured me nothing he was telling me was classified. When I asked him if this was an official Agency position, he said, Oh, no. Not yet. Right now, the theory is only mine.

When I asked him why he held such a contrary position in opposition to conventional wisdom, he leaned toward me and, in a conspiratorial tone, whispered, I speak and write Japanese and I’ve spent a few years there.

So what? I replied, The Agency’s got lots of spooks that speak and write Japanese, some of their parents or grandparents were born in Japan.

That’s true, Congressman, he answered, "but how many of them really know the Japanese culture and can speak ancient Japanese?"

All of-a-sudden, his voice seemed to get deeper and his eyes went dark and squinty. It was real creepy. Can you picture ice blue eyes, suddenly turning into dark, slanted Asian eyes?"

Pettit then stared at me and announced, in a deepened voice, I studied at Osaka and Edo.

I didn’t quite understand, so I asked, Where’s Edo? He continued to stare at me with a blank expression. Then suddenly shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked at me kinda funny, like he was embarrassed at what he had just said but he didn’t blush. Instead, his face brightened, his eyes stopped squinting, and his voice went back to normal.

Congressman, he said slowly, I’m sorry I piqued your curiosity but I can’t tell you anything more. I’m not comfortable discussing my personal background"

I was a little pissed at that condescending tone, so I snapped at him, "Listen, Pettit, you opened the issue of Japan and your studies at someplace called Edo. Sit down, damn it, and explain yourself!"

He glared at me with those piercing eyes of his and god knows I’ve been stared at by some pretty tough characters, so I stared right back and didn’t blink. After a minute or two, he answered me in a flat, stone-cold voice. Okay, but briefly.

I nodded, motioned for him to sit,