message, Hope to catch you on your next visit a double entendre to which Fidel Castro had appended his spiky signature.
Here and there among the books, visitors could find signed photos of Charlie with every president since Richard Nixon, some few of whom were smiling sincerely.
Pride of place went to a treasured Exacta lib camera Charlie had used his entire career; technologically obsolete by the 1970s, it nonetheless produced the best close-up photographs of Iraq’s antiaircraft targeting systems, circa 1990, that anyone had ever seen. Right next to the antique single lens reflex sat another outdated camera a vintage 1994 analog Sony camcorder that Charlie had used to obtain footage that made even so worldly a man as the director of Central Intelligence blush.
Sam barely gave Charlie’s bric-a-brac a glance as he lowered himself into the shabby horsehair armchair to which his host pointed him.
Charlie sat facing him. “Can I ask a favor, Sam?”
“Certainly.” Sam was covertly trying to kick Esmeralda, one of Charlie’s countless cats, away from his leg.
“Let me click on the TV. Now that I have some investments, for which I thankee kindly, I want to keep my eye on the stock ticker.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed with suspicion; Charlie could almost hear him think: What’s he up to now? “Go ahead, needle me all you want. Whatever makes you happy.”
“You know,” Charlie smiled, “those eighteen months I spent in the pen weren’t a total waste of time.” He picked up a remote control and twiddled with its buttons. Sam glanced over his shoulder at the television: CNBC, with stock prices crawling across the bottom of the screen. “I met lots of CEOs, learned how to play the market like a pro. I suppose I should thank you for that. But then again, probably not.”
Sam pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Charlie smirked. Sam was hellishly allergic to the feline kind.
Shooting a healthy dose of decongestant into both nostrils, Sam began to tell his story. At no time did he observe that Charlie’s remote control was one of those ever-so-handy “universal remotes,” a clever and useful device that could activate not only a television set but also a VCR, an audio system, a DVD player, and, if you happened to have one, an outdated low-tech Sony camcorder conveniently pointed at the chair in which you’d just seated your guest.
Charlie was still feeling smug when Carly came into the room and ruined his good spirits. After offering Sam a cup of coffee, she shooed Esmeralda from the room. The poor cat hadn’t managed to reach a single one of the tuna-flavored treats Charlie had sprinkled beneath Sam’s seat.
Three cups later, Sam had finished telling an embarrassing tale. Charlie, however, was not satisfied with mere embarrassment.
A videotape of the watery-eyed national security advisor confessing to a series of security blunders was fine as far as it went. However, it did not go far enough. Charlie would need juicier material when as was inevitable Sam tried to double-cross him.
An admission that the chairman of the Armed Services Committee muscled the military into buying shoddy goods from his political bank rollers was more along the lines of what Charlie was looking for. However, in Washington such kickbacks were barely considered criminal; most politicians thought of them as a patriotic tradition, rather like Columbus Day and the Fourth of July, really.
Charlie eyed Sam; Sam studied his manicure. What the hell, Charlie thought, I’ve still got an hour and thirteen minutes of videotape left. The little worm is bound to make another mistake.
Bait on the hook, Charlie cast his line. “So you call this thing Whirlwind, eh?”
“That’s the project designation. But don’t ask what it is, or who’s sponsoring it, or “
“Air Force code name.”
Sam’s jaw tightened.
“Sam, Sam, don’t look at me like that. The flyboys have been using Whirlwind as a code name off and on for fifty
Here and there among the books, visitors could find signed photos of Charlie with every president since Richard Nixon, some few of whom were smiling sincerely.
Pride of place went to a treasured Exacta lib camera Charlie had used his entire career; technologically obsolete by the 1970s, it nonetheless produced the best close-up photographs of Iraq’s antiaircraft targeting systems, circa 1990, that anyone had ever seen. Right next to the antique single lens reflex sat another outdated camera a vintage 1994 analog Sony camcorder that Charlie had used to obtain footage that made even so worldly a man as the director of Central Intelligence blush.
Sam barely gave Charlie’s bric-a-brac a glance as he lowered himself into the shabby horsehair armchair to which his host pointed him.
Charlie sat facing him. “Can I ask a favor, Sam?”
“Certainly.” Sam was covertly trying to kick Esmeralda, one of Charlie’s countless cats, away from his leg.
“Let me click on the TV. Now that I have some investments, for which I thankee kindly, I want to keep my eye on the stock ticker.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed with suspicion; Charlie could almost hear him think: What’s he up to now? “Go ahead, needle me all you want. Whatever makes you happy.”
“You know,” Charlie smiled, “those eighteen months I spent in the pen weren’t a total waste of time.” He picked up a remote control and twiddled with its buttons. Sam glanced over his shoulder at the television: CNBC, with stock prices crawling across the bottom of the screen. “I met lots of CEOs, learned how to play the market like a pro. I suppose I should thank you for that. But then again, probably not.”
Sam pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Charlie smirked. Sam was hellishly allergic to the feline kind.
Shooting a healthy dose of decongestant into both nostrils, Sam began to tell his story. At no time did he observe that Charlie’s remote control was one of those ever-so-handy “universal remotes,” a clever and useful device that could activate not only a television set but also a VCR, an audio system, a DVD player, and, if you happened to have one, an outdated low-tech Sony camcorder conveniently pointed at the chair in which you’d just seated your guest.
Charlie was still feeling smug when Carly came into the room and ruined his good spirits. After offering Sam a cup of coffee, she shooed Esmeralda from the room. The poor cat hadn’t managed to reach a single one of the tuna-flavored treats Charlie had sprinkled beneath Sam’s seat.
Three cups later, Sam had finished telling an embarrassing tale. Charlie, however, was not satisfied with mere embarrassment.
A videotape of the watery-eyed national security advisor confessing to a series of security blunders was fine as far as it went. However, it did not go far enough. Charlie would need juicier material when as was inevitable Sam tried to double-cross him.
An admission that the chairman of the Armed Services Committee muscled the military into buying shoddy goods from his political bank rollers was more along the lines of what Charlie was looking for. However, in Washington such kickbacks were barely considered criminal; most politicians thought of them as a patriotic tradition, rather like Columbus Day and the Fourth of July, really.
Charlie eyed Sam; Sam studied his manicure. What the hell, Charlie thought, I’ve still got an hour and thirteen minutes of videotape left. The little worm is bound to make another mistake.
Bait on the hook, Charlie cast his line. “So you call this thing Whirlwind, eh?”
“That’s the project designation. But don’t ask what it is, or who’s sponsoring it, or “
“Air Force code name.”
Sam’s jaw tightened.
“Sam, Sam, don’t look at me like that. The flyboys have been using Whirlwind as a code name off and on for fifty
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