Jeremy's Secrets

By J. J. MacLeod

'Jeremy's Secrets' is the first book in the Harry & Company Mystery series featuring ex-CIA retirees. When deputy director Jeremy Foster is killed before he can expose illegal operations inside the Agency, Harry Wilson is tapped to lead an outside effort to find where his best friend had hidden the incriminating evidence. Together with Foster’s ex-wife Brenda and other Company associates, Harry pieces together the facts that lead them to totally unexpected conclusions. As it turns out, Jeremy had more secrets than anyone ever imagined. There are plenty of twists and turns to delight the reader, along with just enough suggestive PG language and non-graphic sex and violence to prove that life is still worth living after retirement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. J. MacLeod
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311115560

J. J. MacLeod

J. J. MacLeod is retired from the computer industry and lives with his wife of 50 years in Washington state. They enjoy classical music, grandchildren, travel and volunteering in the community. Proceeds from the sales of 'Harry & Company Mystery' ebooks are donated to local charities.

Book preview

Prologue

What if I told you that Osama bin Laden was secretly imprisoned in the summer of 2004? Capturing our nation’s most wanted terrorist should have dominated the news in every media outlet on the planet. Yet not a single word of this incredible tale was ever written or uttered by the press. A rational person could only conclude that it probably never happened. Some people believe that the Air Force deliberately downplayed legitimate UFO sightings and concealed the evidence of visitors from outer space. Others claim that the Mafia missed their shot from the grassy knoll while Oswald was taking aim from the Texas School Book Depository. My best friend, Jeremy Foster, knew that the CIA had imprisoned, tortured and eventually murdered Osama bin Laden in order to cover up their crimes.

Before writing him off as just another conspiracy wacko, you should know that Jeremy was a senior Agency official intent on blowing the whistle when he too was killed in a suspicious accident. Less than a dozen people know what actually happened. Three are now dead, two are still in prison and the rest of us have been warned to keep our mouths shut. It’s an unbelievable story that could have made sensational headlines had it not been buried in the archives. The Administration said, in so many words, that it was in the best interests of the country to protect the reputation of America’s first line of defense. Justice was served and there was nothing to be gained by further disclosures. What a load of crap. The Company was running out of control and the politicians were just too embarrassed to tell the public the truth.

When I joined the Agency we were taught that the eagle on the CIA seal was the symbol of strength and courage, standing proudly atop the shield of defense and not cowering behind it. Somehow it’s telling that that same emblem is embedded in the floor of the main entrance where anyone can trample on it. The image is supposed to be inspirational, but it means nothing if the institution isn’t held accountable for its actions. Some people may feel that this book is nothing more than sour grapes on my part. How could a guy who worked in the trenches for twenty-five years have any real knowledge of the inner-workings of an organization with more than 20,000 employees? Well, you be the judge. I’ll tell you what I know and you can decide for yourself. I believe that the public is better served by knowing the facts.

The last official sighting of Osama occurred in December of 2001 when American troops dominated the ground war in Afghanistan. Ragtag Taliban and Al Qaeda combatants were overrun and driven deep into the Tora Bora Mountains. Yet despite vigorous searches backed up with dead-or-alive rewards totaling upwards of $50 million, bin Laden remained at large. He moved around incessantly, traveling under the cover of darkness and never spending more than one night in the same location. Then after almost two years of failed attempts, a radical plan was advanced by a newly-conceived unit deep within the CIA. Had this proposal gone through the normal channels it probably wouldn’t have left the Agency, much less been considered by the White House. Bypassing the chain of command was deemed to be expedient and essential under the circumstances. How the Agency handled this affair is the real heart of this story.

When my friend Jeremy discovered the conspiracy, he confronted the leaders and told them he had no choice but to report it to the authorities. To do anything less was a violation of the public trust and made him an accessory to their criminal acts. Unfortunately, he was killed before he could fulfill his duty, but not before amassing and hiding evidence of their crimes. That left it up to me and a cadre of Company retirees to recover the missing proof and complete Jeremy’s last mission. As it turned out, he had more secrets than anyone ever imagined.

****

I hate flying. My palms sweat just thinking about it. If it weren’t for white-knuckling the arm rests, my hands would slip right off. Claustrophobia threatens to overwhelm me every time I set foot on a jet way. I’d rather be entombed in a sealed coffin than be cooped up in an airliner for even an hour. Yet here I am, sitting in the departure lounge, repeating the relaxation mantra that the psychologist gave me to cope with the anxiety and irrational fears. He was wrong.

Jeremy said that it was all in my head. Shake it off, Harry. You had a near miss, that’s all. Happens all the time. Plenty of airplanes get tossed around in bad weather and come out fine. Think about it as an adventure. People pay good money for roller coaster rides that aren’t nearly as much fun. He was wrong too. Besides, it’s his fault that I’m about to do it again.

Last Saturday night he was still an hour away from home on a lonely stretch of I-95 when his car suddenly veered off the southbound passing lane. Skid marks showed that his brakes locked up as he fought to get the fishtailing vehicle back on the highway. When the car somersaulted into the median, pitching over and over in clouds of dust and debris, his seatbelt floor anchor failed and Jeremy bounced around the interior like a tennis shoe in a clothes dryer. The coroner said later that he was probably dead before the car came to rest on its mangled roof.

Six hours after the crash my bedside phone awoke me from a sound sleep.

Harry…., she said, catching her breath.

Brenda? What’s wrong, I could tell she’d been crying.

He’s dead. Jeremy’s dead, she sobbed. The watch commander just left. He said Jeremy’s car went off the highway last night…and he…died in the wreck.

My bedside clock said 5:28 a.m. Her apartment was twenty minutes away. I’m coming over Brenda. Just take it easy. I’ll be right there.

For the next four hours we sat in her kitchen drinking coffee and talking about arrangements that had to be made for burial. She wanted to compose a brief obituary, but didn’t know what to say. They were married and then divorced and had no children together. Jeremy had no other living relatives. After Brenda, I was his best friend.

We were married for nine years. Why can’t I find the right words?

Because you haven’t slept more than two hours and you’re still in shock.

Somebody has to do it, Harry. I can’t pass the buck.

Didn’t say you should. Just take a break and the words will come to you.

Maybe I should back away for a while. I think I’ll take a shower and get dressed. Make yourself at home. There’s cereal in the cupboard and other stuff in the fridge. Or I can fix you something after I clean up. Whatever you want.

Three days later Jeremy’s friends and colleagues gathered at his funeral for one more sad reunion of the intelligence community. As most of us were around retirement age, funerals were the main reason that we socialized anymore. I always enjoy seeing these guys, but it was hardly worth it if one of them had to check out in order to bring us together. After the minister prayed and the Agency expressed official condolences, we all took turns saying a few words.

I was the training officer on Jeremy’s first field assignment, I said. He was right out of college but anyone could see that he was going to go far. It wasn’t that long before he became my boss and did a damn fine job. Say what you want, but he worked his way to the top floor without leaving a single footprint on the backs of his fellow officers. Jeremy remembered everyone’s name and always had time to offer a word or two of encouragement.

That’s about all I could get out before choking up. I left out the part about Jeremy having the gift of Blarney that would one day earn him a key to the executive washroom. He could sell ice cubes to Eskimos while lying his butt off. Not just casual lies, but intricately-woven, highly plausible fabrications that invariably made everything sound much better than it really was.

After excelling in the field and being promoted to the staff in Langley, he quickly rose through the ranks. Anyone old enough to remember those days knows that the CIA wasn’t always a model citizen. The Agency engaged in a long series of misadventures which came to light around the time of the Watergate hearings. Presidents Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon had dragged us into operations we shouldn’t have been involved in. Never again, the politicians said, will the CIA be allowed to roam free without systematic Congressional oversight.

Intelligence Committees in the House and Senate scrutinized the billions of dollars being funneled into secret operations. This forced the Agency to distill reams of data into digestible reports which were crafted to inform rather than antagonize the Congress. By the time Jeremy’s work was really getting noticed this had become a very time-consuming and expensive process. He had the innate ability to quickly grasp the significance of raw data and net out the conclusions in the best possible light.

Congressmen who once demanded that the CIA Director personally testify at every meeting soon discovered that Jeremy gave them more complete and forthright answers to their questions. What he didn’t know he simply fabricated on the spot, using his quick wit and keen memory to weave it all together. Everyone was happy to finally have answers instead of the tiresome evasions they had been getting from the Old Man.

Those of us who knew him were certain that Associate Director Jeremy Foster had been destined for greatness within the Agency. He got along well with everyone and the relationship between Congress and the CIA had never been better. So when he died so unexpectedly, it left his old friends all asking the same question.

Why would anyone kill the Golden Goose?

The boarding pass in my pocket says Harold Wilson. I was born J. Harold Wilson, Jr. in Maumee, Ohio in 1943. My dad, J. Harold, ran the local drug store, where he spent long hours on his feet to fill prescriptions and patiently answer questions from anxious and confused customers who were afraid to talk to their own doctors. My job was to keep the store clean, check and restock inventory and assist anyone who needed help. It was a good time and place to grow up, a Norman Rockwell existence comprised of strong role models, wholesome family values, a Puritan work ethic, belief in public service and unquestioning patriotism. My mother still calls me Harold, but it’s much too pretentious for a retired spook who drives a diesel pickup and lives in a used RV.

I always assumed that Jeremy would be saying something nice about me at my funeral instead of the other way around. I broke him in when I had been with the Company for nearly a decade. We worked together several times over the years, but by then he was the Chief and I was the Indian. Then I left in the late 90’s when downsizing was all the rage and the Agency made me an early retirement offer I couldn’t refuse. Lots of my friends left the same way, so I really can’t say that I was singled out. It was just the way things worked out. At any rate, Jeremy was just shy of 55 when he died.

The state police report said that his car had gone off the road on the north side of Baltimore. Apparently there were no witnesses to the single vehicle accident. Traffic thins out considerably after rush hour and the wreck wasn’t reported until after midnight. Nothing was said about drugs or alcohol, but I was pretty sure that Jeremy wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel if he’d been impaired. He might have had a blowout or a seizure or even dozed off behind the wheel. The news reports called it ‘an unfortunate accident.’

My gut told me it was deliberate. Jeremy could easily have been killed by someone who knew how to make it appear accidental. I know because I was taught how to sabotage enemy vehicles. It only took a few minutes and some simple tools. Only a real expert would be able to tell whether it was rigged to fail or not. Most of my buddies at the funeral had the same reaction. Not surprising since we all went through the same training.

Plus, we all had similar post-partum experiences with the Agency. Once you retire they start screwing with your pension and benefits. A nickel here, a dime there, then a nice long letter of explanation, but you still get smaller checks at the end of the month. After a few years mistrust grows into animosity and ultimately blossoms into paranoia. Then when retirees get together we reinforce one another’s prejudices. Hence, our collective assessment that Jeremy’s death wasn’t accidental. There was nothing you could put your finger on -- just the sense that we were being lied to once again.

Jeremy was getting way too popular said one guy. I saw him on TV all the time.

Yeah, said another, and they were always quoting him in the paper. People could easily forget who the Director is, am I right?

Even though he had been careful to give all the credit to the Director, reporters soon learned where to go for substantive quotes. Other spokesmen talked over their heads using intelligence buzzwords, but Jeremy thoughtfully replied to each question in plain English. His responses may not have been any more informative, but he was considerate enough to show his respect for the questioner. He genuinely cared about people, regardless of their circumstances or positions in life.

However, jealousy wasn’t much of a motive for murder. We could find no rational reason for the CIA to have gotten rid of Jeremy. Funding had increased every year since he began briefing the Intelligence Committee and he did an outstanding job of keeping the wolves away from the Agency’s door. I guess you could chalk our suspicions up to a bunch of dyspeptic old men who loved to complain.

Brenda was having an especially tough time getting though the funeral. They had not lived together as husband and wife for years, but their divorce had been amicable and they remained the best of friends. What a waste, Harry, she said as a tear rolled down her cheek. I should have insisted on going with him. I knew he’d never stay overnight in Manhattan. Maybe he’d still be alive if I had.

You don’t know that, Brenda. You could’ve dozed off in the passenger seat before he went off the road. It was a monumentally dumb thing for me to say, but it was all I could think of at the time. Anyway, she knew I was trying to be helpful. She managed to smile a little while squeezing my hand.

We stood around for a long time afterward talking to old friends. Those of us who had been touched by Jeremy’s life needed to express it to someone who cared. A seemingly endless procession waited to tell Brenda how sorry they were for her loss, how much they were going to miss seeing her and Jeremy together. She was ever gracious, taking time with each of them, nodding at their condolences while dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex wadded up in her hand.

But she wasn’t getting the same opportunity to express her feelings. The longer I waited around the more agitated I became. Finally I couldn’t take it any longer. Stepping in front of whoever was next in line, I strongly suggested that we go somewhere for a quiet cup of coffee. She hugged me for my attempt at gallantry and then returned to the makeshift receiving line. Only after the last person had left did she agree to go.

Ours were the last two cars in the parking lot and we were beginning to lose the daylight. I knew that she hadn’t slept very well in the past three days and had to be running on fumes. Even so she wasn’t ready to go home. Neither of us had much of an appetite, but she still needed someone who would just sit and listen to her. So I told her to follow me to a place I knew where we could just talk. It was the least I could do for a man I loved, someone who had saved my ass too many times to count.

When the time came to board the flight I was still thinking about how sad Brenda looked as we were leaving the funeral. She had followed me in her car to a parking lot around the corner from ‘The Muggery’, a cozy, quiet coffee house in a rambling storefront on the edge of Georgetown. It teemed with college kids when classes were in session and was often deserted between terms. Except for the two singles hunched over their laptops, we practically had the place to ourselves.

Since my legs are too long to fit comfortably in a booth, we selected a small table with two padded captain’s chairs in a back corner. The waitress brought us plastic laminated menus with a mouth-watering selection of soups, sandwich wraps and muffins, but we both settled for steaming mugs of coffee. Small-talking our way through the first cup of brew, Brenda commented about the eclectic selection of coffee mugs arrayed across the back of the serving counter. Then we eased slowly into the subject of the funeral, who was there, what was said and what a fitting tribute it had been to Jeremy’s memory.

Eventually she began to reminisce about the good times they had shared together. I had played a small part in their wedding, witnessing their civil nuptials at an old county courthouse in Maryland. For some reason it was cheaper for them than getting married on the Virginia side. The bride and groom were dressed in business attire adorned with fresh-picked flowers in their lapels. I paid for their reception, an impromptu affair at the local park with buckets of fried chicken, paper plates, cups, napkins, plastic utensils, tablecloth and a screw-top gallon of wine. I captured it all on film with my 35mm Canon SLR. Most of the exposures turned out well.

You’re right, Harry. I had nearly forgotten about that. The wine was lukewarm, the chicken was cold and my cup leaked. All omens for how things were going to work out, or not as it turned out. I guess we just rushed things a bit.

You guys had some good years together.

They were all good. That wasn’t the problem. It was our jobs. Jeremy was so good at what he did and genuinely felt like it was is calling in life. There was always a crisis erupting somewhere that needed his attention, so he’d be gone on weekends or even weeks at a time. I was doing research for an agricultural lobbying firm, working my own strange hours in various archives and we never got to spend enough quality time together. I guess he loved the excitement of working for the Agency more than he loved being married to me. I mean, I know that he loved me, right down to the second he died. He just didn’t love being married. If that makes any sense.

I guess so. But I’m no expert on marriage. Mine was over before the ink dried on the marriage certificate. At least you guys stayed close. He told me often that you were still his best friend.

She smiled sweetly. It was a great smile that could light up the whole room when she turned it on. Something about the way her freckles accented the dimples in her cheeks. Maybe that says more about him not having much of a life outside of work. Lord knows he didn’t have much regard for those Bozos he worked with.

I’m surprised to hear that, I said. Jeremy had lots of friends in the Agency. He had great respect and affection for the people we worked with.

Maybe when you were there, but things changed after you retired.

What do you mean? I said, signaling the waitress for a refill.

Brenda waved off any more coffee for herself. When Jeremy was promoted to a big office on the top floor, he sat in on all the important meetings and had access to the key documents. It really opened his eyes to what was going on.

At that point the waitress brought me another steaming cup of something opaque with a bitter aroma, so I waited for Brenda to continue while I cautiously sipped the strong brew. Coffee used to be more drinkable without all the additives, but now everything is a Starbucks clone, crying out for a shot of heavy cream and three sugars before you can consume it without gagging.

She looked around cautiously to ensure that we weren’t being overheard. In the days before 9/11 nobody in Langley worried about domestic terrorism. It was unthinkable that anybody would ever attack us here. Besides, that was the FBI’s turf and the Agency was more concerned about threats from hostile countries. Then the new President took office and began appointing his own people into the Agency.

I remembered Jeremy saying that the new administration was paranoid about loyalty and media relations. They wanted to have one and only one voice articulating their new policies. At the time I didn’t think it was such a bad idea for the new guns in town. I just didn’t realize that it had been taken to such extremes.

Brenda went on. They just forced top people out of the Agency. Anyone who wouldn’t toe the line and embrace the President’s policies was history. I couldn’t believe it when he told me what had happened. Why get rid of competent experienced people?

The same thing happened in the Justice Department. Remember when the former Attorney General lost his job for firing a group of so-called Liberal-Democrat attorneys?

No, Harry, this was much worse. At least the Justice positions were filled with bona fide attorneys. The new Agency executives knew nothing about gathering and interpreting foreign intelligence. Some of them had never even been outside of the USA. They were put there strictly to influence CIA operations, taking their orders directly from the White House.

Bummer. I had no idea. I never paid any attention to comings and goings on the top floor. It was another world to me. At least Jeremy was a regular guy who would eat with us in the employee cafeteria. The rest of them all huddled in the executive dining room.

Jeremy was one of the few who learned how to get along in both worlds, she said. Only he wound up spending at least half his time training the new executives on CIA policy. They had no appreciation for the historical role of the Agency or the reasons behind certain restrictions and limitations. He was constantly worried that they would do something stupid. It was chaotic, but Jeremy felt an obligation to keep telling Congress that everything was just fine.

I can still see him there lying his ass off.

Oh come on, Harry. He said those things because he believed that the Agency would ultimately do the right thing. Even though competent career people were replaced with ignorant political hacks, Jeremy still hoped that they would come to their senses before doing irreparable harm. But, as I said, that was only until 9/11.

On September 11, 2001, nineteen terrorists hijacked commercial airliners in a coordinated daylight assault on Manhattan and Washington D. C. Another attack was thwarted by heroic passengers on a United Airlines flight that crashed in the Pennsylvania countryside. For days afterward a disbelieving nation watched endless replays of the twin towers of the World Trade Center collapsing into billowing clouds of ashes. Every image I saw that day came flooding back into my memory.

The Director was practically living at the White House while everyone else frantically searched for answers, she said in hushed tones. Who could have done this? Where will they hit next? At least the replacement executives had enough sense to sit back and listen to the pros.

Jeremy must have been relieved, I said.

I guess. We didn’t talk much for weeks. We said things like ‘how are you holding up’, ‘I miss you’, stuff like that. He practically lived at the office. Anyway, all he would say afterward was that it was going be a much different world.

So what was his concern about the Bozos?

All they could talk about was getting revenge, she