Joe King was as smart as he was physically unremarkable. Joe had the physical presentation of a blurry photo, even in person. Joe had a tight beard and a tighter haircut. Or did he? Joe was a very good spook from a long career as a Central Intelligence Agency operations officer with many aliases and passports, and had a talent for thinking the unthinkable and then reifying it into existence. Turning the abstract into concrete was his superpower. His chief expertise was Africa, and occasionally he referred to Rhodesia as a temperature check and assessment of whoever was in his presence when spoken.
Joe was sitting across from Henry Wing, IV, who kept a tidy Langley office and a curated desk with well policed dust. Dust represented chaos to Henry, and he could be regularly spied with a small feather duster he kept nearby to battle mite feces, skin cells, and mold spores from getting inside his perimeter. To say, Henry was a man about control, real or imagined. Henry was a legacy hire and a third-generation agency directorate manager.
Facing one another in the dust-free environment in an office deep inside the Agency’s headquarters, Henry and Joe were discussing Angola and the present dilemma of something called rare earth minerals. Usually, the Angolan discussion was about oil fields, Exxon-Mobil oil extraction, and Cuban mercenaries guarding Angolan oil fields for their American corporate paymasters. Not on this particular day, for the reason that China’s semi-retired paramount leader, Deng Xiaoping, had said something that caught most of America’s intelligence agencies off guard. “The Middle East has oil. China has rare earth,” said Deng, and most American observers shrugged and returned their attention to President George H.W. Bush’s use of force in the Middle East over oil.
“We should do what in Angola?” asked Henry as he ran a finger across his desk, checking for microscopic insect parts.
“Put somebody into Nehlo’s camp,” responded Joe while inserting a small pinch of chewing tobacco into his lower left lip.
“You can’t chew tobacco in my office,” Henry said with salty contempt. Joe shrugged it off. Joe had friends in the Agency, and while Henry was somebody most people had to respect, Joe wasn’t most people given his long and danger-fraught service to his country.
“Pip Nehlo, the rebel leader? Why him? The guy lives in the bush with a handful of terrorist devotees smuggling diamonds to buy Toyota trucks and AK-47s,” said Henry, who was good at discerning battles to pick, and Joe’s tobacco usage in his office wasn’t one of them.
“Because that’s where the rare earths are,” responded Joe while standing up and pointing to south-central Angola on a map Henry kept on a wall.
“Who do we have in position?” inquired Henry while squinting at the map.
“Nobody. Yet,” said Joe confidently.
///
Debbie Schwingel was managing her cuticles with a toothpick while sitting at her desk at the International Republican Institute on K Street in Washington, DC when there was a knock at her door, followed by it being opened a crack, and then Joe’s face.
“Joey! Come in. Sit down. Bourbon?” said an excitable Debbie, offering Joe a refresher.
Debbie was a major Joe King fan, having worked with him for many years from her position as the Executive Director of the non-profit enterprise. Debbie was a kick-around political operative who won the prize of managing the IRI after years of service getting Republicans elected to Congress. Debbie looked ridden hard and hung up wet, because she had been. Debbie was a loyal partisan and took her job of soft diplomacy seriously by sending Republicans like herself, but younger, around the globe to lecture on political campaigns in emerging liberal democratic states. IRI’s endeavors were also a terrific proving ground for rising political stars around the world who could be shaped and manicured, like a cuticle, to parrot American foreign policy interests, and advance American corporate greed for cheap everything and anything that could be layered with a fat profit margin. The IRI was the vanguard for America’s colonial aspirations.
Joe nodded and went to the credenza to pour a neat glass of Maker's Mark into an old-fashioned tumbler. “What do you have going on in Angola?” asked Joe as he turned to face Debbie and sip some of Kentucky’s finest liquid.
“Good timing, Joey. But you already knew the answer,” said Debbie, trying to seem clued in.
“I want to talk to them,” responded Joe while Debbie was already writing a phone number and address on a scrap of paper.
Handing Joe the scrap of paper, Debbie said, “His name is Randall Kaine, and he’s going to be at the doctor’s office in Foggy Bottom today at three o’clock getting vaccine shots. His home address is on the paper.”
///
Randall Kaine sat on the doctor’s exam table wearing a hospital gown, his feet swinging slightly in the air. Randall appeared to have every chromosome of his Scottish heritage, though some people mistook him for being Jewish. Randall’s nature was tolerant, but he was intolerant about this matter of his Jewish facial characteristics, largely because he had enough emotional baggage to carry and didn’t want to be compelled to carry baggage not his own.
The door opened, and Doctor Egger walked in, saying, “You’re going to Angola. Why? Need the hazard pay?” Egger was a no-nonsense personality who judged people on their insurance carrier.
Fortunately for Randall, Egger was partial to Blue Cross.
“Bring water,” advised Doctor Egger, “Lots.”
Randall considered this suggestion and couldn’t make sense of it. How much water? A liter? A gallon? For bathing?” “As in a water bottle?” asked Randall.
“A duffle bag worth. Do not drink anything from the tap,” directed Egger, peering over his glasses to emphasize the seriousness of the water situation in Angola. Egger handed Randall a packet of pills. “Take this cipro cycle with you. If you get intense abdominal pains and diarrhea, take one every twelve hours until done.” Looking back to a shiny metal medical tray, Eggers returned to his immediate job and picked up a syringe, saying, “This one will hurt.”
“How much?” replied Randall.
“Not as bad as the dead-leg pain you’ll feel from it over the next two days,” grinned the doctor.
As Randall looked away, Doctor Eggers crept up on his exposed left thigh.
“Dead leg pain?” asked Randall, not realizing this doctor wasn’t about pleasantries and was going for the thigh kill.
Randall jumped slightly and howled, “Fuck! Doc?!”
Doctor Eggers backed up and said, “Walk a lot. Your left leg will feel heavy. Elephant heavy. Walking speeds up your immune system. Now get dressed.”
///
Randall dragged his dead elephant left leg down the street, walking toward the metro to go home ahead of the commuter rush. He was a twenty-seven-year-old who had made a name for himself in politics. Not a good name necessarily, but it was said by others in a reverent tone when they whispered his nickname, ‘Rommel.’ Randall fancied himself a real pipe-hitting politico, and to an extent he was. Randall made his name by going further, doing worse and being more unrestrained than his adversaries, but never entirely crossing the bright line of the law. Allegedly.
Randall descended the escalator toward the metro, eventually falling back onto a bench on the platform awaiting the floor lights to flicker the announcement of the train’s arrival. He withdrew a folded copy of the most recent The Hotline, a political rag with insider political news, such as who ate at The Monocle last night, what lobbyist landed a pork-laden and enviable new government contract, and tidbits from the many campaign trails that lead to Congress. The publication was so popular, the sales team found meeting quotas was easier than selling junk to junkies. Washington, DC is about power, New York is about money, and Hollywood is about fame. All three of these vintage elements of safety are largely dominated by lawyers, as well as a few lesser men and women. Randall had a little of each as he made a good living telling campaign lies for lying lawyers running for office, funded by high-net-worth individuals with agendas, and a few small-donor rubes. Matters such as this were covered in the yellowed rag The Hotline.
Randall sensed eyes upon him, but looking around saw nobody. He was alone on the platform. Nonetheless, a chill of paranoia rippled across his skin. The arrival of the metro dispersed the sensation and he pulled himself upright to board the train.
///
Halfway home after exiting the metro station that was his destination, Randall was getting annoyed by the sheer ridiculous weight of his left leg. Stopping to gather himself, he sensed it again. Eyes on him. ‘Must be the vaccine messing with me,’ Randall thought to himself. Looking over his shoulder, all he saw was an elderly woman walking her dog in the opposite direction, and two high schoolers wearing backpacks going somewhere irrelevant to Randall.
Randall finally arrived at his apartment building that was not far from the Smithsonian Zoo. He was fond of this area of DC because it reminded him of his grandmother who lived in one of the expansive, maze-like buildings with infinite hallways on Connecticut Avenue. By now, Randall was dragging his leg as if he’d been shot and was desperate to reach the medic tent.
As Randall opened his building’s main door, there it was again. Eyes watching him. Again, nobody anywhere. “Just weird,” he muttered to himself before reaching the elevator bank and pushing the UP button. Home and rest were only paces away.
///
Just as he had fallen onto the metro bench, Randall collapsed onto his couch as if he had just completed the Bataan Death March. The instant his backside touched the couch, the doorbell chimed.
From where Randall was sitting, the hallway to his front door presented as at least a mile long. Shaking his head, Randall made the fifteen-foot journey as if he deserved the Medal of Valor and opened his front door. Looking Joe King up and down, Randall said, “Who are you?”
“I’ve been following you since Foggy Bottom. Debbie at IRI gave me your address, and I’m coming inside,” said Joe, who then entered as if he already knew every nook and contour of Randall’s apartment, and before Randall could muster a protest.
///
“Ever been to Angola?” asked Joe.
“No,” said Randall with annoyance. Remembering his manners, Randall offered Joe something to drink as he gratefully fell back onto his couch.
“Yes, thanks. I’ll get it. You rest. That shot is a motherfucker,” replied Joe as he went to the exact cabinet where Randall kept his glasses, removed one, and then opened the refrigerator and, without even looking, took out the water pitcher to pour himself a glass.
“Have you ever been in my apartment?” asked Randall.
“No,” replied Joe as he returned to sit next to Randall on the couch with a silent appreciation for Randall’s observant nature.
Randall fidgeted slightly, feeling at a self-preservation disadvantage from hauling around an elephant, and wondering to himself who this person on his couch might be and how he got all the way from the front door to the couch in less than forty-five seconds. “Who are you?” asked Randall in a firm voice, with genuine curiosity feathered into the tone.
“I’m Joe.” Joe’s casual manner of giving information without giving away information was an impressive display of narrative control.
“Are you a Mormon?” said Randall with matching casualness. “You’re not dressed like a Mormon.”
Joe thought that was hilarious and smiled, getting the sense Randall was a good egg and probably not a bad option for his immediate Angolan agenda. “I am not a Mormon,” said Joe as he set his glass down on the coffee table and shifted his weight to face Randall. “Your country has a favor to ask of you while you’re in Angola. That’s who I am.”
There’s no denying that this got Randall’s attention. This is where, in preparation for a political debate, Randall would direct his candidate to use a corny euphemism along the lines of: I was born at night, but not last night, to slow down the conversation and buy time. So that’s exactly what he said, and this clearly disappointed Joe, whose assessment of Randall dropped a notch.
“This isn’t a choice or a negotiation,” Joe said with a curtness that caused Randall’s intuition to pull the fire alarm. “I’m a straight shooter, Randall Underwood Kaine, born March 19, 1967, in New York City. Mother Nadine Brainard Underwood Kaine of Old Brookville, New York. Father Robert Ochs Kaine of London, England. Educated at Northfield Mount Hermon Preparatory School and, disappointingly, Hobart College. Master’s Degree from Hopkins, which means you can think. And your blood pressure is a perfect one twenty over eighty,” relayed Joe, in an intimidating groove where the words flowed with the arrogance of syrupy authority.
“OK, I get it. You know me. Who are you?” asked Randall again, but without effort to hide his building anger about a conversation that he could not construct a triangulation to shift him out of what was an increasingly submissive position.
Joe wasn’t having it, and took back the offensive advantage, saying, “I’m not done. But I am not going to put you in any danger either. You will do as I direct you to while you’re in Angola.”
“What do I get?” asked Randall.
“Not a Kennedy guy? Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,” said Joe with a vigor only a Kennedy guy could muster. “What you get is your problem in New Hampshire goes away.”
Randall pondered this, knowing exactly what Joe must be referencing but certain there was no way this fuzzy image of a human on his couch could possibly know about the last bit of political work he’d done in the Granite State, then responded. “I don’t have any problems in New Hampshire.”
“Yet,” replied Joe confidently.
“What are we talking about? Parking tickets?” asked Randall, still searching desperately for the triangulation coordinates for this conversation.
Joe stood up. “Okey dokey. No problem,” said Joe as he swiveled on his heel and headed down the hallway to the front door. As Joe opened and stepped through the doorway, without looking back, Joe told Randall, “Mind the doc’s advice and don’t drink the Angolan tap water.”
Randall wondered to himself, ‘What is going on with Angolan tap water?’
///
Debbie sat patiently on a bench in the DuPont Circle park reviewing her Hebrew language lessons in her lap, occasionally muttering words she did not understand. With such concentration, she did not notice Miriam Shmouli standing over her, observing while sipping coffee from a deli paper cup.
“Good morning, Liebling,” interrupted Miriam, who was dressed in K Street chic, from her tasteful brown three-inch heels to her slim-fit Israeli blue pantsuit over a blinding white silk crew neck blouse. Miriam sat at the far end of the bench.
“Boker tov chaveri hasodi, Miriam,” answered Debbie with a smile for her presumed friend from the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, or Mossad, the Israeli state’s answer to the CIA.
“Your Hebrew needs a lot of work, and it insults me,” rejoined Miriam. “Why am I here talking to you, in public?”
“The Invisible Man came to see me about Angola,” said Debbie, referring to Joe, while performing for any observers by keeping her attention on the language lessons in her lap.
Miriam put the brim of her coffee cup to her nostrils, inhaled, and then took a finishing sip before standing up and walking south through the park.
///
Randall sat in his grandmother’s kitchen in her apartment in one of those massive, winding, and complex northwest Washington, DC, upscale apartment compounds. Maggie Kaine looked the part of any random but kindly old woman. And she was kind. But she was also a killer. Not an actual killer, but a killer with her instinct for identifying evasion and avoidance from those with something to conceal. Maggie’s complexity came with a welcoming smile, much like her residence. These were skills Maggie learned over a lifetime working for the U.S. State Department abroad, from London and Paris to Tokyo and Seoul, while married to a foreign correspondent who had left her a widow twenty years earlier.
Maggie had much of the doyenne in her from all of her years entertaining government officials and journalists simultaneously in her many and various homes in many and various foreign post-World War II capitals, when her husband was alive, that made for many good stories. Like so many government veterans in America’s capital city, Maggie still knew some of the right people in D.C., even if a casual observer dismissed her for her age. Among her varied stories were the many times she and Lady Bird Johnson won at bridge, playing against an endless list of DC social climbers, including wives of senators and congressmen and the heads of several three-letter acronym agencies.
“Describe him,” instructed Maggie to her grandson.
“He was tall,” said Randall before pausing. “No, average height. Maybe.”
“How about his eye color,” inquired Maggie as she shuffled in the kitchen. “Do you want some crumb cake?”
“Please. Just a small slice. His eyes were green,” but this too was followed by a pause from Randall. “Maybe brown? Definitely not blue, I think.”
“And a cup of coffee? Describe his hair,” continued Maggie with her simple questions.
“No coffee, thanks. It wasn’t long. But not short either. Just a normal, nondescript haircut. And it was grey, or maybe salt and pepper,” more Randall pausing before he concluded, “Maybe black or dark brown. I’m not sure,” finished Randall. “He was definitely thin. Not fat.”
“Was he white?” inquired Maggie, to an affirmative answer from Randall by way of a head nod.
Maggie withdrew a very long kitchen knife unsuitable for slicing crumb cake and turned to face Randall, holding the knife, pointy end aimed away from her, and using it for punctuation as she spoke, “A completely,” Maggie pointed the knife outward into the air, “Nondescript,” she slashed the knife horizontally, “Thin white man,” the knife swung downward toward the floor. “Those are attributes and something to work with,” said Maggie as she turned back towards the crumb cake and sliced delicately with intention. Maggie laid the crumb cake slice on a dish, set the knife aside, and walked the plate with its cargo to Randall, placing it silently on the kitchen table.
///
Randall’s anxiety had been relieved by his grandmother and the familiarity of her home. This was his mood as he exited her apartment building and walked down the long driveway toward Connecticut Avenue. Just as he realized his leg’s vaccine-induced weight had reduced to that of a baby elephant, he heard two car doors close. Looking toward the sound, he saw a man and a woman wearing blue windbreakers with FBI emblazoned on the left breast of the jackets.
Randall kept walking, silently urging his leg, reduced to the weight of a baby elephant, to move quicker.
“Randall Kaine?” inquired a female voice from behind. Randall stopped, exhaled with the vigor of blowing out a candle, squeezed his eyelids, then snapped them open and turned to face his pursuers.
“Why? What have you heard?” tumbled out of the wise-cracking side of Randall’s mouth.
“We're here to talk to you about New Hampshire,” said the male FBI agent.
“I’ve not been there since the ‘90 Senate primary. Fantastic fall foliage,” said Randall with a grin.
“We want to talk to you about recent work you did for the Republican National Committee in New Hampshire,” said the female FBI agent without a hint of tolerance.
Randall was never good at chess, but he excelled at backgammon. Backgammon is war on felt, with dice. The game has all of the traits of warfare: use of force, supply lines, control of the commons, kinetic action, and luck: good, bad, and dumb. And the ever-present opportunity to double-down. If that comparison is debatable, laugh aloud the next time the doubles you need turn up when you need them and your opponent’s fists tighten, and their lips snarl to reveal teeth, and then double the betting die.
“Do you have a business card?” asked Randall. The female FBI agent was Johnny-on-the-spot with her business card, which she withdrew with finesse from her pocket, handing it to Randall. Randall took the card, saying, “Thanks. You all have a good day,” said Randall, vectoring on escape.
“That’s not how it works,” said the male agent with thinly veiled aggression.
“I have nothing for you,” said Randall, coming to a halt, concluding that to keep walking might be construed as resisting, to his detriment.
“We’re here to interview you. Now,” said the female agent with a little more honey to her words.
“Now doesn’t work. I will talk to my attorney and get back to you. That is how it works?” Randall was not one to lose a game of chicken.
The two FBI agents regarded each other, returned their attention to Randall, and the male agent said, “Two weeks. Then we come back. With cuffs.” With that, FBI Thing One and Thing Two retreated to their unmarked car, and Randall beat it as fast as he could, without looking panicked, to Connecticut Avenue and then anywhere but there.
///
Henry was pushing his golf ball and tee into the grass of the tee box when Joe, wearing aviator sunglasses, rolled the golf cart he was driving to a stop. Henry ignored Joe and proceeded with his calculations for a par five with a deep fairway dip and a punishing dogleg to the right at a massive oak tree. This oak tree was Henry’s nemesis and controlled Henry’s game on that hole. Henry despised this tree just as he despised any immutable force he could not manipulate. Henry managed a slice that put him into a sand trap beneath the shade of the oak.
Joe asked, “Do you have flip-flops in your golf bag?” This won Joe a sarcastic snort from Henry, who made way for his golf partner. Henry sat next to Joe in the golf cart. Joe watched the other golfer, asking, “Who’s that?”
“New charge d’affaires in Tripoli,” responded Henry. “A donor kid who just graduated from Georgetown,” said Henry as the new Tripoli charge d’affaires hit a perfect and long drive down the middle of the fairway, giving Henry’s stroke the quality of a disoriented bird’s flight path after colliding with a window. “Where are things with Operation Rare Dirt?”
Joe rolled his eyeballs behind his sunglasses at such a ridiculously stupid operation name. “I’ve lined up the professional we’ll need to keep our guy safe from spinning off his center of gravity.”
“Is he our guy? It doesn’t sound like he’s our guy,” sneered Henry while waving at the charge d’affaires golfer to sit patiently. “Our guy might need encouragement.”
“He’s been incentivized,” responded Joe calmly.
“Did you give him a toilet swirly? From what you described, he seems not to understand his circumstances,” complained Henry as he dismounted Joe’s golf cart.
“I’m going to use Gerreau to shadow our guy while he’s in Angola. The IRI hired a local to be his driver; he seems on the level.” Joe was trying to keep Henry from spiraling, as desk jockeys want to do in the face of uncertainty, because desk jockeys lack curiosity and inner peace.
“Kenetic?!” Henry said the name with a passable French accent in reference to Gerreau. “That seems severe. Are you expecting a worst-case scenario?”
Joe put the golf cart in reverse and, over the reverse gear warning beep, slowly backed away from Henry, giving him a wave. “I’d lay up out of the bunker if I were you.” Joe did a U-turn and drove away from Henry’s sub-par stare.
///
“Here’s your packet for Angola. Plane tickets, your vaccine card and passport, with the visa stamp, and the per diem travelers’ checks are in here too,” said Debbie, who was holding up a manila envelope that she patted with her hand after placing it in front of Randall on the restaurant table where they were waiting for their entrees.
“I got a visit from a guy. I think he was FBI. Maybe CIA. Do you know anything about that?” Randall wanted answers, but was asking the right question of the wrong person.
“Nada. Zip. Don’t forget your passport. Yay, food! Don’t you just love a good risotto?!” Debbie was gleeful that the waiter arrived with lunch, allowing her to deflect from uncomfortable questions. “When you arrive in Luanda, you’ll be met by a local guide. His name is Chiombo. We’ve never used him, but he comes highly recommended.” Debbie then took a large bite of her lunch.
“Recommended by whom?” Randall was not feeling Debbie’s enthusiasm.
“Chevron. They donate to the IRI and have execs passing through Luanda all the time. Plus, Chevron is a longtime donor, so they’re trustworthy and assured me the driver knows his way around and has a car that works, and that’s what matters. Read the briefing book,” and Debbie was back into a massive bite of mushroom risotto, choosing then to say through her chewing, “You’re staying at Luanda’s best hotel!”
Randall watched a speck of risotto evacuate Debbie’s mouth to land on the tablecloth, and then used his fork to poke at his scallops with a sense that Debbie wasn’t on the level.