U nlike his predecessor, Howard Wiley always kept his office door closed. O’Connor, ignoring the protestations of Wiley’s secretary, knocked firmly and walked in. The first thing O’Connor noticed was the modern furniture. His previous assignment had involved a Muslim terrorist threat against the Beijing Olympics. Back then the DDO, Tom McNamara, had been an understanding ally, pressing for negotiation with the Iranians and the Syrians, rather than committing the United States to another bloody war they couldn’t win in the Middle East. The cracked and torn brown leather couches McNamara insisted on keeping had been almost welcoming; but they had gone, along with his old boss’s familiar greeting of ‘Come in, buddy. Have a seat.’
‘You took your time getting here, O’Connor. Sit down,’ Wiley ordered without looking up, gesturing to a small straight-backed chair as he continued to read from a crimson dossier that lay open on his polished desk.
O’Connor smiled to himself. Offering someone a small chair and then ignoring their presence was the classic authoritarian bully tactic, designed to make people nervous, and was often employed by individuals who were highly insecure themselves. O’Connor glanced around the refurnished room. The office was lit by a number of tasteful table lamps, and the panelled walls were decorated with oils of the Civil War. Myriad photographs of Wiley with various visiting dignitaries were scattered around the office. Amongst the most prominent was that of Wiley shaking hands with George W. Bush, and one with the Vice President at the School of the Americas, but it was the framed photographs on a side table that caught O’Connor’s eye. The first was a photograph of Wiley and Pope John Paul II, together with an archbishop he couldn’t identify. In time he would come to know Salvatore Felici very well.
Unlike the archbishop, the man with Wiley in the second photograph was instantly recognisable. A very young Wiley was standing outside Washington’s Mayflower Hotel with a smiling J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the FBI. The DDO continued to ignore him, and O’Connor wondered about Wiley’s early relationship with Hoover. Howard Wiley, O’Connor knew, had never married. He’d started his career in the FBI, and his stellar rise had attracted widespread comment in an old-fashioned media not renowned for their criticism of a public hero like Hoover. Within six months, a young, wet-behind-the-ears Wiley, with virtually no field experience, had been appointed to Hoover’s personal staff at FBI headquarters.
‘I’ve got a new assignment for you, O’Connor,’ Wiley said finally.
‘And I was just getting used to Alaska.’
The DDO glared at O’Connor. Howard Wiley was known throughout the intelligence community as ‘the Weasel’. He had a square face, a long thin nose and a high forehead. His reddish, spiky hair was brushed back without a part. Barely five-foot four, Wiley was vertically challenged, and O’Connor wondered whether Wiley’s ruthless arrogance was a product of Napoleon Syndrome, an early close association with J. Edgar Hoover, or just a case of having the DNA of an asshole. Probably a combination of all three, O’Connor thought wryly. ‘Our file on Dr Aleta Weizman,’ Wiley said, pushing the slim file across the desk. ‘She’s an archaeologist working for that tin-pot Guatemalan government we silenced a decade ago. Archaeologists should stick to digging up old bones. This one’s got a very big mouth.’
‘I would have thought that with bin Laden and his Jihadists, not to mention the Taliban, we’ve got more important things on our plate than obscure archaeologists, Howard.’
Wiley’s face turned the colour of his hair. ‘I’ll decide what’s fucking important around here, O’Connor,’ he exploded, clenching his fist and slamming it on the desk. ‘Just find out everything there is to know about this Weizman bitch, then silence her!’
‘That seems excessive. She might be on the front cover, but The Mayan Archaeologist ’s probably got a print run in single figures. Hardly mainstream news.’
The DDO glared at O’Connor again, the veins near his temple clearly visible. ‘You’re skating on fucking thin ice, O’Connor. The Vice President’s pretty pissed over your suggestions about negotiating with terrorists, so I suggest you leave the analysis to me, and do as you’re fucking told!’
Wiley’s words confirmed O’Connor’s suspicions. This was coming right from the top, and the weasel was keeping to the letter of the CIA’s manual of assassination. Never write anything down.
‘Weizman is attending some archaeological circle wank in Vienna next month,’ Wiley continued, his eyes still blazing. ‘And you’re going as someone who has an interest in Mayan archaeology, so I suggest you get busy on the jargon.’ Wiley drew himself up to what he could muster in height, indicating the meeting was at an end. O’Connor suppressed a grin. Wiley looked shorter standing up than he did sitting down.
O’Connor left Wiley’s office deep in thought. A sixth sense, honed by countless hours on assignment in the field, told him there was more to the Weizman case. Wiley was hiding something, but what? O’Connor knew the involvement of the CIA and the White House in Guatemala had been long and bloody. Had Dr Weizman somehow stumbled onto the CIA’s operations in Central America? He headed for the CIA’s archives.
Howard Wiley stared out the window of his office for several minutes, his anger still at boiling point. The Vice President was right: O’Connor had a bad attitude – he could not be trusted. As he opened his usual full inbox of emails, Wiley knew he would need a back-up plan to ensure his orders were carried out. He clicked open an email from Salvatore Felici, now a senior cardinal at the Vatican. Greetings, my friend, and congratulations on your new appointment – very well deserved! The Holy Father asked me to pass on his thanks for last week’s briefing on the Middle East. Most informative, and rest assured the Cardinal Secretary of State will do everything he can to support your president’s efforts in this troubled region. In the meantime, we are increasingly concerned over Central America and the threats this region poses to the Holy Church, and we are dismayed by the groundswell of support for liberation theology. Pope John Paul II was unequivocally opposed to this movement and the policy has not changed under the new pontiff. If anything, our opposition has strengthened. I have also attached an article by a Guatemalan archaeologist, Dr Weizman. You will recall we had to deal with her father when we were in Guatemala City. The daughter presents an even bigger danger. She is not only critical of both the CIA and the Vatican, but I understand from my own sources that she is now investigating deaths in her family. This is a grassfire for the moment, but must be dealt with before it gets out of control and embarrasses both our interests.
Wiley sucked his teeth in annoyance. Emails between Felici’s office and Wiley’s were encrypted for transmission, but they remained unencrypted at the source and Felici had broken a very explicit rule. The operation they were contemplating should never be written down, he thought, scanning the rest of the correspondence. It would be most useful to discuss these issues of mutual concern in person. How soon can you come to Rome? The regular briefing from your station staff here could focus on the Central American region, and if time allows, we will organise a private audience with the Holy Father. I have just received some cases of outstanding wine from friends in Bordeaux, so we can discuss the finer points of these matters over one or two excellent bottles of red. Yours in Christ, Salvatore Felici
Howard Wiley swivelled in his chair and stared unseeingly across the grassland towards the trees and the Potomac River beyond. He drummed his fingers on his desk. The mission he had given O’Connor was totally deniable, and if O’Connor were to meet with an unfortunate accident, no one would question it. He needed to tap Felici for contacts in some of the darker back alleys of Rome. Pope Pius XII’s decoration of General ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan with the Grand Cross of the Order of Sylvester had paid dividends, and since World War Two, the bond between the Vatican and the CIA had strengthened even further. In 1978 President Carter’s wife, Rosalynn, had a private audience with Pope John Paul II, during which she delivered a letter from Washington that formalised what had been going on since Donovan’s time. The Carter letter approved regular CIA briefings for the pontiff and his senior cardinals. Now, if they needed to, both the director of the CIA and Wiley could reach His Holiness on his private line, Vatican extension 3101, but Wiley routinely dealt with Cardinal Felici.
Cardinal Felici’s email was timely. The CIA’s station in Rome was only a short distance from the Vatican, and it would be no trouble to organise a special briefing on the growing threat to the Catholic Church in Central America.