“No. On the 405. Just south of LAX. Car ahead and to my left ran out of gas. The guy behind him saw it too late. Swerved into my vehicle, and that was that.”
“God, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too, at first,” Jack said. “Considered early retirement. But I just love this shit too much. A lot of rehabs, and two years later, I was back on the job. Now I’m 90%. The other 10%, I forget about.”
“Knowing you, that’s what I’d expect. But look, you called this meeting. How can I help?”
“Eric, we go way back. That’s why I’m here. I need your promise, no more WebBird tracking.”
Half shocked, half embarrassed, Ridge put his hands up. “Whoa. OK. No more. I’d already figured I’d pushed my hand. How did you find out? Did Dave Lake mention it?”
“No. Dave’s your buddy. But Eric, here’s the deal, and this goes no further than this room, right?”
Ridge nodded. “Right.”
“WebBird, Christ—WingX—all Company-sponsored.”
“CIA assets?” asked Ridge. “To be frank, I thought there might be a connection from the moment I saw you at Dryden. But since when aren’t Company assets available for use by agents?”
“Dave Lake is not an agent. He doesn’t even know WingX is CIA-backed. He doesn’t even know I’m CIA. Bottom line, no need to know. He’s a test pilot—a damn good one—just doin’ his job.”
“Got it,” said Ridge. “Sorry. Had the wrong picture. Won’t happen again. My word on it.”
“I figured that. It’s why I’m here. But listen, there is another problem.”
Ridge raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“You had Lake monitor a Richard Chesterfield. We know that because, unknown to Lake, Langley has coded feedback lines revealing anything picked up by WebBird—visuals, audio, anything.”
“OK, again, I’m sorry. Not going to happen again, ever.”
“I get that. I’m not bringing it up for that reason. Look, I don’t know why you’re interested in Chesterfield, but you need to know he’s our agent.”
Ridge almost choked. “Your agent? He’s an insurance guy—actually an insurance mogul. What’s that got to do with the CIA?”
“He’s really only part-time. What he does in his off hours is anyone’s guess. But he and his businesses have been CIA-backed for over eight years.”
“That’s a bunch of backing.”
“Yeah, and it’s one big reason the feds bailed him out when he almost went bust in 2000. He sank almost all his insurance companies’ money into dot-com businesses, both on the investment and re-insurance ends. The fact is: He’s an asshole, a lousy manager, and a worse corporate executive. He’s wealthy today because of only two things: Millions in government bail-out money and the CIA still needs him.”
“You may not want to tell me, but I’ve got to ask. Why?”
Miles nodded. “In for a penny, in for the rest. You might as well know.”
“Know what?”
“With our backing, Chesterfield has infiltrated the Mideast high-end insurance market. His companies, mainly out of Nevis in the Dutch West Indies, insure the rulers of almost every Mideast country—and their family members, friends, and opposition. Right now, he’s working on insuring all the rivals for rule of Yemen. Eric, as you know, it’s all about oil and natural gas and controlling both, as best we can.”
“Through insurance?” asked Ridge.
“Through information. Did you ever stop to think: Who acquires and controls more personal information about the middle-class, upper classes, and the filthy rich than even governments? People spill their guts on insurance forms—to get life insurance, health coverage, asset protection, whatever. Feed that information into the right computers, and you know almost everything about their personal life, health conditions, family assets, and—the list goes on and on.”
Ridge raised both hands, palms out, fingers extended toward Jack. “But why do the rulers of Yemen, for example, need health insurance and why would they buy it from an American-owned company?”
“Because in any of these countries, rulers today may not be rulers tomorrow. And they hedge their bets—through insurance coverages, off-shore investment portfolios, you name it. And Chesterfield’s companies best provide those services. In addition, think about it, healthcare in many Middle Eastern countries doesn’t measure up. The ruling classes all want access to American and European health facilities for family illnesses or emergencies, and—as Chesterfield’s people sell it: There’s no better way to do that, than through them, if you care for your loved ones.”
“So, all of the application information funnels through Langley’s computers and analysts, and soon—who’s who, who’s got what, where and when, who has medical or other personal problems, and so forth—are all in your database. I get it.”
“And that gives us otherwise unattainable, verified information about who controls what and how—from oil rights to gas leases, to terrorist-cell activities. The bottom-line Eric: Chesterfield is off-limits. Yeah, it’s a little gangsta what he does, but we need him.”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“OK then,” said Jack, nodding his head again with thumbs up. “Any questions?”
“Well, since you ask. Is the CIA involved in any way with what’s going on in Montecito or Santa Barbara—the stuff on the WebBird tapes?”
Jack stared at Ridge. “Look, I checked just that with Sharon Nelson. You remember her, right?”
“Absolutely. Some amazing missions together in Laos.”
“Well, she’s now Western Regional Director of the National Resources Division. As you probably know, that’s the domestic wing of the CIA. And she tells me there’s no involvement, none at all, other than using Chesterfield as our funnel for Mideast information. And by the way, Sharon says hello, she hopes to see you soon, and it’s been too long.”
“Tell her, next time I’m in DC, expect a call, a thank you, and lunch.”
As if on cue, Jack glanced at his watch and frowned. “Damn. Got to get back to LAX. Catching United to D.C. With the goddamn federal cutbacks, getting a private jet is harder and harder these days.”
“Sorry to hear that,” faked Ridge.
