Israeli Embassy, Washington DC

Walking out of Martin's (bellies full of bar food, brains swimming in alcohol), a Yellow Cab spotted us, pulling over to the curb. I'd called dibs on the first cab, so Bob stepped to one side allowing me to be the one to open the door and climb in.

"G'night, Bob."
"G'night, Frank."

But as the taxi pulled away, and I started to tell the driver my home address, the schmuck cut me off.

"That won’t be necessary, Professor Myers — I'll be taking you directly to the Israeli embassy. Sorry, sir, but I have my orders."

Minutes later, the highly-secured gate on Embassy Row was sliding open for us to enter Israeli territory. As soon as it had slid shut behind us, the half moon garage door on the west side of the main building quickly opened, and the taxi disappeared inside. To our left was a team of mechanics who, for some reason, appeared to be totally disassembling a UPS truck. To our right was the familiar face of the station chief for the Mossad, who was there to greet me, as was his equally familiar second-in-command. They immediately advised me not to share anything I was about to witness with anyone but my immediate superior at the George Bush Building (i.e. Langley). "Obviously," I replied.

At the west side of the garage was an elevator that took the three of us into the basement. But no sooner had the elevator door opened onto the bottom floor than I heard a muffled gunshot followed by the sounds of two men screaming.

"What the fuck was that?" I blurted out, unaccustomed to such aural stimuli.

"That was the sound of the brain of one SVR agent hanging by his wrists from the ceiling being splattered across the faces of two other SVR agents also hanging by their wrists from the ceiling. We don’t fuck around here, Mr. Myers. You should know that about us.”

The two men then proceeded to lead me down a long hallway. At about the midway point, the station chief opened the door to our left where a group of technicians was gathered around some sort of device sitting on a Formica table in the middle of the room.

"That's what the device looks like, Mr. Myers — the purpose for your visit here tonight."

As we continued on down the hallway, we passed by a thick metal door on our right just in time to hear a muffled bloodcurdling scream from inside. This time it was a woman's voice. I cringed.

"Again, Mr. Myers — we don't fuck around."

At the far end of the hallway was an ornate, French provincial sitting room. Once inside, door closed, the station chief looked me straight in the eye, speaking in a hushed, measured tone:

"We only have about 5 minutes, Mr. Myers, 10 tops, before your colleagues begin to cordon off the area, opening a channel to that red phone over there, demanding to know why we have abducted you, before making it crystal clear as only they can that we had better goddamned turn you over to them immediately —or else. So let’s cut to the chase, shall we?

"Earlier this evening, our security team detected 'pulsed and directed microwaves' entering our compound from a UPS truck parked across the street. The same type of 'Havana Syndrome' shit that has been targeting your embassies and consulates for the past two years. Apparently, those same assholes that have been targeting you thought they could pull the same shit with us. They were, of course, fatally mistaken. In less than 90 seconds, we had them surrounded; took everyone inside prisoner; and commandeered their vehicle.  As you've probably already guessed, the sounds you've been overhearing are those of our Russian-speaking interrogators doing what they do best."

Just then a second gunshot rang out, along with another bloodcurdling scream. I narrowed the corner of one eye to signal to the two gentlemen that I did not appreciate being so close to their 'sources' and 'methods.' The station chief shrugged, "Sorry about that" and continued in the same steady, measured tone:

"Again, let's cut to the chase: My team should be walking through that door, any minute now, with the schemata for the device. Along with any preliminary findings from our interrogators. It's our goal to pass that off to an American operative who can be trusted not to let it slip into Trump's hands — and from Trump's, into Putin's."

(Just then, a knock came to the door: it was the schemata and the preliminary findings... and three of the scariest looking motherfuckers I ever laid eyes on.)

"Fortunately for us, it's a Sunday evening. And we always have a pretty good idea where we can find 'Professor Myers' on a Sunday evening."

"That reminds me, Frank: How did you of all people become our 'Deep Throat'?"

I paused for a moment –– unsure what to make of my inquisitor's quip comparing me to some "cocksucking toadie" from the Nixon era (even if it WAS the same code-named whistle-"blower" personally responsible for "blowing" the lid off Watergate! haha).

Choking back an off-color joke about Linda Lovelace and Tricky Dick (which I'm relatively sure would've left my interlocutor in stitches), I did my best, instead, to keep it serious:

"Normally, I would have delegated a task like that to one of my staffers. But my own days as an op-ed writer for The Post and The Journal made me the logical choice. The only member of our team with the inside track to locate, single out, and win the trust of my very own Woodwards and Bernsteins."

He nodded in agreement. "I assumed as much."

"Within moments of that first 'leak,' however, the first shoe dropped. Trump received an unscheduled call from Moscow warning him that someone in the IC had the Oval bugged. Our golfer-in-chief immediately set into motion a plan for an August vacation to his Bedminster property to coincide  with a 'renovation' – which, of course, was nothing more than a cover for his team to tear the place apart, from-top-to-bottom, searching for bugging devices. Most notably, the wall paper in the Oval."

"Yeahhh... I think I remember that..."

     "Fortunately, my team had had the foresight during the transition to plant fake bugs behind the wallpaper in the Oval to make them think they had succeeded in finding what they were looking for. But, in the meantime, just 'to be safe,' Moscow told Trump he had to start taking his briefings in the family residence upstairs. So, naturally, our nanobots simply followed him up there, and into his private quarters.”

"Seriously?"

    "Seriously. Our bots don't just circle the president in the Oval Office, Brick. They follow him  everywhere... Air Force One... Camp David... His MAGA rallies... All of his properties... Even the family residence: Everywhere from the gold toilets that feature Perrier in the bidets, to the Lincoln Bedroom, where he secretly plans to reenact the 'pee-pee video' with Kayleigh McEnany and Marjorie Taylor Greene. (Melania was a 'hard no.')

     "And considering those 280 pounds of butt ass ugly are usually up and 'hate-tweeting' by 5am –– but don't actually show up for work before 11 or 12 –– what do you really think the sex addict trolling porn stars and Playboy bunnies with the pick-up line 'you remind me of my daughter' is 'doing' during his so-called 'executive time' locked away in his bedroom?"

    An involuntary "grossed-out" expression swept across Troutwine's face, as if he already knew what I was about to say. But I said it anyway –

    "Every morning, right on cue, like a meth addict smoking his first pipe of the day, that orange blob of bloviating blubber has one eye watching Fox & Friends and one hand clicking out hate tweets, while the other eye's superglued to father/daughter Internet porn and the other hand's putting the grip of death to that congenitally-deformed trouser snake Stormy Daniels once compared to the  'Toad from Super Mario Brothers' – Just imagine the poor sap on our team who has to review that footage every morning waiting to overhear the daily briefing from Moscow!"