The President's Dossier

By James A. Scott

Max Geller: Target of the Kremlin, MI6, and the CIA

Fired for bias against the U.S. president, ex-CIA Russia expert Max Geller gets a chance to redeem his reputation and make a fortune when he is hired to investigate the president's incriminating ties to Moscow. Jill Rucker, an undercover CIA agent, is assigned to work with him—and she does—when she's not pursuing her own conflicting goals.

The search takes them to England, Russia, Panama, and Switzerland. Along the way, Max runs afoul of British intelligence by inadvertently compromising two of its operations. He gets help from an anti-Russian underground cell in Moscow, is assisted and threatened by the Russian mafia, exposes a massive Russian-American money laundering scheme in Panama, and uncovers a plot to protect the president from mounting accusations threatening his presidency.

Close behind is Zabluda, a Kremlin assassin, who means to kill them and their sources and destroy evidence incriminating the president. Max discovers that he has been betrayed by his former boss, his current employer, and his girlfriend. Seeking revenge, he takes on a powerful Washington law firm, the CIA, and the Russians.

Max Geller is the spy who went out in the cold—and no one wants him to come in and tell what he knows.

Perfect for fans of Daniel Silva and Nelson DeMille

The Publishing Sequence for this series is:

The President's Dossier
The Blood of Patriots and Traitors (coming 2023)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
• Release date: Jul 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781608094141

Book preview

Half Title of The President’s Dossier

CHAPTER 1

Fall 2017

Lenny’s Place, Washington, D.C.

AT THREE THIRTY in the afternoon on a Wednesday, I sat alone at the bar, nursing a scotch, and wondering how my career, my love life, and my country could have been ruined by just one man—the President of the United States.

Lenny’s was quiet at that time of day. The three-martini lunch crowd had gone and the three-martini-after-work crowd wouldn’t arrive for ninety minutes. I needed the peace and semi-darkness of a familiar refuge to figure out what the hell was happening to my life and how to deal with it.

My immediate problem was getting a job. After ten years at the CIA, in positions of increasing responsibility, potential employers should have been in a bidding war for my services. Yet, after three weeks of interviews, I hadn’t gotten so much as a nibble. Maybe the rumor that the Agency might revoke my top-secret clearance was the reason.

As I mulled over solutions, a guy came in. His expensive suit and cowboy boots told me he didn’t belong. He stopped at the door to let his eyes adjust to Lenny’s tasteful gloom. The sun was behind him, casting his long shadow across the floor. As he scanned the room, I could hear the uh-oh theme from a bad spaghetti western playing in my head. My gaze dropped to the black attaché case in his left hand. I was hoping it didn’t contain an Uzi. Call me paranoid, but I had been working some very sensitive issues at the Agency. I could think of lots of people who would be relieved if I and what I knew died in a pool of blood on Lenny’s floor.

Velma. I called to the barmaid, Lenny’s wife. She tends bar during business lulls to save on personnel costs. Velma is forty-something and a looker. She sauntered down to my spot.

Refill me and leave the bottle on the bar. I may need a weapon. I cut my eyes to the suit, who was coming my way.

Velma followed my gaze. She poured, left the bottle, and moved down the bar.

The suit eased his six-feet-plus, 260 pounds onto a stool one place removed to my left and parked the attaché case on the stool to his left. If he made a fast move for it, his head was going to have a traumatic meeting with the scotch bottle. He pointed to it and told Velma, I’ll have the same, a double.

Velma poured his drink and set the bottle down next to my right hand.

I was in a foul mood and decided to mess with him. Hi, sailor. Come here often?

First time, and he was not amused. I’m more of a Mayflower Hotel bar guy.

You’re here on business, then.

Yes. My business is with you, Max Geller. I’m a lawyer, Bill Bowen. He put his card on the bar next to my left elbow.

What’s in the attaché case?

A lot of money. He said it in a low voice, glancing down the bar at Velma.

Show me … and keep your right hand on the bar.

He was confused momentarily. Then, he got it. I’m not a threat, Mr. Geller.

Every lawyer is a threat. I was thinking of my current live-in.

Bowen leaned toward the stool on his left, popped the locks, and opened the case. I saw four bulging manila envelopes inside.

Can we talk in private? asked Bowen.

About what?

About something private. He was a touch irritated. So was I until he added, I have a job offer for you.

With an okay from Velma, Bowen and I went to the lone table in Lenny’s small, private dining room. Bowen downed his drink in one gulp and placed the attaché case between us on the table. Would you be interested in earning ten million dollars? he asked.

Who do I have to kill?

No one. We want you to find some people and interview them.

They must be pretty important people. Who are they?

"You’re aware of the dossier that’s being circulated concerning the president’s alleged activities in Russia and his collusion with the Russians; we want you to track down the original sources and verify the allegations."

Or refute them?

If those are your findings, yes … but we believe the allegations to be true.

"Who are we?"

"I should’ve said they. I’m just a messenger for they." He gave me a humorless smile.

"Okay, who are they?"

"A group of people who, like you, are not fans of the president. Like you, they think the president is a traitor and a serious threat to this country."

I don’t work for people I don’t know.

I believe you know Ben.

Ben who?

Ben Franklin. Bowen took a large manila envelope from his attaché case and shoved it across the table.

I looked inside. It was stuffed with neatly bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

Part of your retainer, said Bowen. I have three more envelopes in this case … for expenses. I can provide additional funds as your investigation progresses.

There are already four investigations in progress to verify the dossier, I reminded him, one by the special prosecutor at the DOJ, two in Congress, and one at the CIA. Why not let them handle this?

Bowen assumed a professorial tone. As you know, the CIA director is the president’s political ally. The congressional investigations are slow and only one of them is serious. If history is any indicator, the special prosecutor’s investigations could drag on for years. Furthermore, we—there goes that word again—have reason to believe steps are being taken to cover the president’s tracks, steps that will confound those investigations and keep them out of the Oval Office.

"Who believes this, we or they?"

Please don’t be tedious, Mr. Geller. I was told you’re a serious person.

Yeah, well, I seriously don’t want to get trampled by the herd of government investigators already working this case. Why did you come to me anyway? Why not go to a private spy outfit?

Bowen sighed heavily to let me know I was testing his patience. We discussed that option. We settled on you because you are under the private spy outfit radar, and you have the contacts and a skill set best suited for this endeavor.

And those skills and contacts would be … ?

You’re resourceful, you worked for the CIA in Russia, you have Russian contacts, you speak the language. Also, I believe you know Jeffrey Ironside, the MI6 agent who assembled the dossier on the president.

And how am I supposed to earn the ten million dollars, go to Jeffrey Ironside and convince him to name his sources for the dossier dirt?

I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. To date, Mr. Ironside has refused to reveal his sources. I doubt he would simply give them to you. As I said, we—my employers—selected you because you have a reputation for being resourceful. How you identify Mr. Ironside’s sources would be a product of that resourcefulness.

I gave him a skeptical look and let the silence build until Bowen added, There is another reason why we selected you. You have a reputation for … ah … beneficial disregard for legal obstacles to mission accomplishment.

And how did he know that? So, you don’t care if I break laws to verify the dossier?

The humorless smile again. "We don’t want you to break any laws, but …"

That’s asking a lot.

Yes, it is, ten million dollars’ worth.

Bowen took two documents from his attaché case and slid them across the table. We don’t want to rush you. Here’s your contract. Review it and let me know if it’s satisfactory.

When do you want to know?

Bowen checked his Rolex. In five minutes. I’ll wait. Another phony smile.

The contract bound me to a corporation in Panama. I read and signed it, a copy for him and one for me. Bowen reached for his copy, but I pinned it to the table with a forefinger. It says that one million dollars will be deposited in my bank account before I begin work. Don’t you want my account number?

Is your account in the States?

Yes.

I’m afraid that won’t do. We’ve established an account for you, in Switzerland. Here’s the number. Bowen handed me a slip of paper and a printed form. This is the authorization form required by the bank. It’s a joint account that requires your signature and mine to release funds.

"They were very sure of themselves."

"They do their homework. That smile, again. I assume you would prefer to handle your own personnel and logistics. However, now that you’re with us, I’m authorized to tell you that I’m your quartermaster. He handed me a card. Call this number day or night, if you need people, equipment, or money. Someone will answer. Leave a number. I’ll return your call within twelve hours. If you need a faster response, tell the person who answers the phone."

Bowen snapped the attaché case shut and pushed it across the table. He stood to leave and added, I assume you’ll be traveling. If you need passports, I’ll need photographs and some lead time. Good hunting.

When Bowen had gone, I went to the bar. Velma, is your security camera working?

Twenty-four-seven.

Can you print a head-and-shoulders photo of the guy I was just talking to?

No, but I can make you a copy of the disc. Will that do?

It would. She did. I put the disc copy into my new attaché case full of new hundred-dollar bills.

The kitchen staff had arrived. I decided to have a soft drink and do some mission planning for my new job, while I waited for the dining room to open.

By the time I was halfway through my steak dinner, I had received a half dozen cell phone calls from Claudia and ignored them. She was my love life—maybe my former love life—that presidential intervention had ruined. I just didn’t have anything positive to say to her. I was considering the dessert menu when my cell phone rang again. This time, it was Rodney, my former CIA boss, the one who fired me. He wanted to meet me in Georgetown right away. For a guy who had spent weeks as a leper, I was suddenly very popular. Why?

CHAPTER 2

RODNEY WANTED TO meet me at his Georgetown home. Rodney was not his real name; it was his nom de guerre, as he would inform you in fluent French. His real name was Prescott Hamilton. At the Agency, we speculated that he chose Rodney from a classic he read at his New England prep school or his Ivy League alma mater. Rodney was well bred and old money. He loved to show off both. Hence, the meeting in his home for selected colleagues, but I was no longer a colleague. What was going on?

When we were seated in his study, I started the conversation. Did you ask me here to give me my job back?

No. Rodney was usually blunt and sometimes truthful.

What about my appeal to being fired?

Dead in the water. You knew that when you submitted it.

I didn’t write that stuff about Walldrum. My girlfriend wrote it. I’m not Claudia!

The two of you communicated using your official email account and what you wrote characterized the president in a way that reflected bias. Both of you should have known better, given the current political environment.

I didn’t hide my anger and Rodney changed the subject. You had a visitor earlier today at Lenny’s. What did he want?

How did you know I had a visitor?

Rodney gave me a look that asked, Are you serious?

He offered me a contract to find and authenticate the sources for the allegations against the president in the Ironside Dossier. You probably know that, too.

Rodney explained, After you left the Agency, we got word that Bowen was looking for a skilled operator with Russian experience to vet the sources of those allegations. We didn’t know he would pick you, but we made sure he got your name … along with some lesser qualified people.

How did you do that?

That’s above your pay grade.

I’m no longer employed by the Agency. I don’t have a pay grade.

Exactly. Your pay grade is zero.

Is this an Agency operation?

No … and yes.

What the hell does that mean?

You know that certain intelligence activities have become politicized since the election. As a result, some operations don’t make it to the Seventh Floor for approval.

Are you telling me I’m involved in an off-the-books operation?

No. I’m telling you that nobody knows what’s going on between the Seventh Floor and the White House. So, we professionals are not divulging operations that could impact the political processes … or be impacted by it.

Who is Bowen working for?

We don’t know.

So, you got me a job. What do you want in return?

The same thing Bowen wants, the names of the sources who gave Jeffrey Ironside the information in his dossier, if the dossier allegations are facts, and if his sources were in positions to know those facts.

I told Rodney, Bowen is paying me eight figures. What do I get from you?

The thanks of a grateful nation.

I laughed and got up to leave.

What do you want? Rodney asked.

I want my job back.

That’s not going to happen. Besides, if you pull this off, you can start your own intelligence agency. What’s number two on your wish list?

I hadn’t thought past number one, but, at that moment, the next best thing to working for the CIA was having the CIA working for me. I might need Agency help to pull this off.

What did you have in mind?

Bowen gave me an around-the-clock support number.

I’ll match that and throw in a secure satellite phone. One caveat: you deal only with me. You’re to have no contact with other Agency assets anywhere in the world.

If I get the information, who will see it?

Why do you care?

Exposing Russian sources could get them killed.

Rodney uttered a derisive grunt. I don’t give a damn if some Russians get a bullet in the head, Max. Putin is trying to steal our country. President Walldrum is helping him. I want the White House cleaned out and some real patriots in there. So, get on with your part of it.

CHAPTER 3

IT WAS LATE when I got home. I entered the front door and looked into the dining room to my right. Claudia was sitting at the table, eating and reading a legal brief. There was no place setting for me and the Cabernet had taken a serious hit.

Claudia announced, Rodney called. He wanted a meeting. I tried to reach you. Are you still not taking my calls?

Rodney found me.

Where were you?

Interviewing.

What were you interviewing, a scotch bottle? I called Lenny’s. Velma said you were sitting at her bar all afternoon.

Jesus, this is already like being married, I thought, as I headed for the stairs.

Did Rodney give you back your job?

No. I went up to our bedroom, found a suitcase, and started packing. Claudia didn’t come up. I was glad. When I was packed, I called a cab and took my suitcase downstairs. Claudia hadn’t moved. The Cabernet bottle was almost empty.

I’m sorry they fired you. That was her first apology in three weeks.

Me, too.

She added, I shouldn’t have taunted you in that email. I was angry after our fight … and you wouldn’t answer your phone. You shouldn’t have written what you did in your reply. That temper is what got you fired.

Apology rescinded? What got me fired, I told her, "was that you exposed my attitude about the president in your email. My answer didn’t matter. I knew I was in trouble when I opened your message. That’s why I exploded. Don’t you understand? There are people at the Agency who monitor everything I do, say, write. We agreed that politics stays in this house!"

I knew her legal brain agreed with me, but her gut wouldn’t let it go. We’d never have had an argument if you weren’t so bullheaded and illogical. You said you believe a man is innocent until proven guilty. You can’t abandon that standard when it comes to the president, just because you don’t like him or his politics. Everyone should be held to the same standard.

I wasn’t taking the bait. Calmly, I said, "That standard is fine, if the suspect is some dirtbag K Street lobbyist. If he’s threatened by an investigation, he’ll hire a lawyer and go on buying congressmen until the FBI gets the goods on him.

The president should be held to a different standard because he’s unique. If he gets desperate, he could say, ‘To hell with it,’ and start a nuclear war. I took my Burberry coat from the hall closet and pulled it on.

Uh-oh, the dreaded trench coat. Heavy action going down in spytown. She glanced at my bag. What’s with the suitcase?

I got a job today. It requires some travel. Will you be here when I get back?

When are you coming back?

I don’t know.

Well, then, I don’t know if I’ll be here.

There was silence while we digested that exchange.

Claudia took another sip of wine and said, "You’re Mr. Superspy. If you’re so convinced the president is guilty, why don’t you go get the goods on him?"

Will you marry me if I do?

You can’t afford me.

I never could. You knew that when you moved in. Claudia was a six-figure lawyer on a partnership track with her firm.

She wasn’t surprised by my question. Was that your usual proposal?

Number five. How many times do I have to ask?

As many as it takes. That was the Cabernet talking.

My marriage proposal wasn’t sincere. Claudia knew it. In times of stress, it had become my perverse way of reminding her that I understood the terms of our relationship. Her eighteen-hours-a-day-and-weekends work schedule didn’t leave time for a husband and Claudia didn’t want one. What she did want was that partnership at her law firm. I was a rest stop and sexual filling station on her way to a corner office.

Outside, my cab honked. I picked up my suitcase and grabbed the doorknob.

Her voice softened. Did you pack warm socks … and your silencer?

"It’s not a silencer, it’s a sound suppressor. Too bad it doesn’t work in this house." That was my scotch talking.

I took the cab to the Ritz-Carlton at the Pentagon City mall and made a public telephone call to Sherri Layton. She had the chops I needed for this mission: CIA experience, fluent Russian, and connections to a competent talent pool of brains and muscle. Sherri was a single mother when we started out together at the Agency. We dated briefly, until the father of her child reentered her life, crippled her financially, and disappeared, again. Just when Sherri’s career was taking off, her income needs caused her to leave the Agency and enter the lucrative world of security contracting. Over the years since she left, I had steered Agency jobs to her company, and we had worked together in the field on a few. Our romantic relationship was dead, but mutual trust and respect were alive.

Layton Security Services. Can I help you? asked the male voice.

This is Max Geller. I have a job offer for Sherri.

I’ll connect you, sir.

Sherri Layton answered, a smile in her voice. Max! I thought you’d forgotten me.

No chance of that. Is your passport current?

Always.

I need a month of your time in Europe and east, starting Monday. What’ll it cost?

I’m obligated for a few days during that period. I’d have to cancel. Let’s say five thousand a day and expenses.

Deal. Find me two computer hackers, a couple of speed readers, and a four-man heavy metal band. I want everybody in London by Monday evening. The band has to bring its own instruments. No local procurement. Copy? I didn’t want Sherri’s guys running around London trying to buy guns.

That’ll require a chartered aircraft.

"That’s okay for the band. The rest of the team goes commercial. If the band gets jammed up in customs, the show has to go on. Book separate hotels near the Savoy. You take a suite big enough for a team meeting. Text me when everyone is in place.

And Sherri, get people who might not have a file in the U.K.

Is this a company op or … ?

Or. I was fired three weeks ago.

Oh. Sorry.

I had one more piece of vital business with Ms. Layton. Sherri, when I get to the airport, I’m going to mail you a surveillance video disc. About 3:30 p.m., a suit wearing cowboy boots comes into Lenny’s. Claims to be a lawyer named Bill Bowen and he’s connected to a corporation in Panama. I’ll send you the address. I need the book on Mr. Bowen and his employer.

When do you want it?

I need accuracy, not speed. Get it right. See you in London.

My second call was to Tommy Leeds in London. Tommy was an intelligence freelancer and professional colleague. We had worked together when I was in Europe and had our own code. I had used Tommy when we couldn’t have CIA involvement.

When Tommy answered, I said, This is Dolby. That was the name he knew me by. I’d like to arrange baggage service. Baggage service was code for a black bag job, a surreptitious break-in to plant a bug or steal something. In this case, the something was the names of the sources for the allegations against the president in the Ironside Dossier.

Baggage service is possible. What’s the origin and destination for the bag?

The origin is London, destination is Washington. The break-in would be in London. A destination was bogus, to throw off eavesdroppers.

I’d like to have expedited service. I’ll call with details on Thursday. Tommy knew I wouldn’t call. I was telling him to expect a fax with the encrypted address for the break-in. He was to use our Thursday Code to decrypt it.

I added, The bag will be large and heavy. I suggest you send a man around before the pickup to be sure you send adequate staff to manage it on shipping day. Translation: You’ll need detailed surveillance ahead of the break-in. The target may have lots of security devices.

I went to the hotel’s business center, wrote out the coded address, and faxed it to Tommy.

On the way to Dulles Airport, I called Bowen to let him know I was on the clock and told him where I’d be staying. My first mistake.

CHAPTER 4

THE FLIGHT TO London was long, but eleven hours after talking to Sherri and Bowen, I checked into the Savoy. A message was waiting for me at the desk: News from Bowen. Call me when you settle in. No name. The phone number was for a room in the Savoy.

Besides me, there were now three people who knew I was in London, where I was staying, and the purpose of my visit. That was way too many. In two weeks or less, a lot of people would be trying to find me or someone with my profile. At that point, the fewer people who knew me and my address, the better my chances of staying out of prison and collecting that ten million dollars. Rodney had an incentive not to tell anyone about me, but Bowen was another story. I had to verify that the anonymous note came from his rep and stop him from telling anyone else about me. I dialed Bowen’s number from memory. Disconnected. That was a bad sign.

I stood in the hall outside of the room mentioned in my anonymous message and dialed the occupant on my cell. I pressed my ear to the door and heard the phone ring. A faint female voice said, Yes?

I answered, Got your note. Meet me at the bar in five minutes.

I broke the connection and kept my ear to the door, trying to hear if she made a call. She did, but all I heard was her muffled voice. I waited. A minute later, she opened the door. I shoved her back into the room and checked to make sure she was alone.

She was angry. What the hell are you doing! Then, she recognized me.

You wanted to meet me. I’m here. I snatched her purse and found her wallet.

Let’s see who you are. Jillian Rucker, I read from her driver’s license. I rummaged through her purse and compared her passport to the license.

Okay, Jill Rucker, why are you here and why is my direct line to Bowen dead?

Bowen sent me to be your paymaster and quartermaster. I don’t know why your line is dead. Maybe Bowen and his client want to distance themselves from this operation in case it goes wrong. I’m the cutout between them and you. Any problem with that?

I had a big problem with that. One, the moving parts were multiplying. Two, if Bowen wanted deniability, why involve Jill Rucker. She was one more person who could connect him to my operation and corroborate my story, should I ever have to tell it.

I replaced the documents and handed Ms. Rucker her purse. What do you bring to this party besides money and a cell phone?

With sarcasm and innuendo, she said, I’m sure I can be useful. I speak Russian, I can shoot—she looked me up and down—and I can kick your ass in a fair fight.

"Those are the minimum qualifications for my team, I informed her. I’ll start you as an intern and see how you perform. You should know that I speak Russian, too. I don’t plan to shoot anyone and I don’t fight fair in an ass-kicking contest."

Before she could reply, I asked, Do you know why I’m in London?

Conducting research, according to Bowen.

Good answer, but was that what Bowen told her or did she make it up to put me at ease? If she wanted to put me at ease, why tell me about her shooting and hand-to-hand combat skills? CIA work gives you an ear for inconsistencies and a gut full of paranoia.

How can I help you? she asked.

Give me your cell phone.

She tossed it over. I pulled up her number, memorized it, and tossed the phone back.

Keep your phone handy. I’ll call if I need you. Otherwise, don’t contact me and stay out of my way. I left her and went to my room to get some sleep.

The alarm woke me at 2 a.m. I went to the lobby and gave the desk man two one-hundred-pound notes—the Savoy is upscale and requires upscale bribes. In return, he gave me the outside number Jill Rucker called from her room phone while I had been standing at her door the previous day. I dialed it.

Yes? answered the guy on the other end.

I used my tough voice. I want to call Bowen tomorrow. What’s the best time?

Who’s calling?

If you need to know, Bowen will tell you after I talk to him.

Hesitation on his end followed by rustling pages. Call between ten and noon.

I hung up. Mr. Bowen, you have been reacquired. I had no intention of calling him any time soon, but, now, I could contact him directly without going through Jill Rucker.

CHAPTER 5

EXCEPT FOR THE meeting with Jill Rucker, I spent my arrival day in London resting. The next day was my first workday. I called Tommy Leeds and arranged a morning meeting with him at his flat. Tommy had already taken a preliminary look at the target building. He was not happy.

In his South London Cockney accent, he yelled, Do you know who lives in that bloody building, Jeffrey bloody Ironside! Tommy gave me a disgusted look. Sure, you do. Ironside is retired MI6 and everybody wants to know where he got the information for that damned dossier. If he’s on his game, he’ll be expecting something like this.

That’s why I picked you. You’re the best thieving villain I know, and I know a lot of thieving villains.

I added, Look on the bright side, as if there was one. "Since his office, apartment, and garage are in the same building, you

Reviews for The President's Dossier

[Desander Más · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Slow start but got very engaging. Can see the ties to certain current events - which are probably true.