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 technical 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: three of the scariest looking motherfuckers I'd ever laid eyes on: it was the schemata, and the preliminary findings.)

"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."

...there came a knock at the door: It was Father Dillon.

The only priest on the payroll with the code-word/top-secret security clearance required to hear my final confession.

And, as always, Jack was right on time.

By this point, I think it's safe to say, we knew most of each other's secrets. But what haunted me now in my last 24 hours was that one secret I had never shared with anyone. That fateful day back in '96 when temptation knocked at the door, forcing me to make a snap decision that would define who I would be from that moment forward.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

For the next twenty minutes, I described how I had allowed myself to be sucked into one of the biggest criminal conspiracies in American political history. 

Forget White Water... forget Paula Jones, and Monica Lewinsky, and all the rest... because what I witnessed behind those glass doors was the real "smoking gun."

It was the Thursday following Clinton’s reelection, and I was still nursing a hangover from the big election night party at the Capitol Hilton. After three months of long hours volunteering at campaign headquarters – enjoying the thrill of a lifetime, which included rubbing elbows with Bill and Hillary at their anniversary party – it was now time for HQ to begin the process of "breaking camp." Only a few of us had bothered to show up for work that day, so it was up to me to "man the shredder."

Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, there I sat, on the floor in the middle of an otherwise empty room, feeding ream after ream into its sharp teeth. Midway through this mindless task, a junior staffer from the campaign treasurer’s office bursts through the door, an anxious look on his face, carrying a large stack of papers under one arm. He tells me to stop whatever I’m doing, he has something he needs me to shred right away. 

Handing me his tall stack of paper, he tells me it’s the master spreadsheet detailing all the illegal foreign campaign contributions. His office had kept it locked up in a file cabinet in case they ever had to do "damage control" at a moment’s notice, and needed to know what exactly it was they were trying to cover up.

I guess he assumed that someone like me — someone who had worked with the "Rapid Response Team," a "team member" responsible for "taking incoming" and "returning fire" — that I wouldn’t bat an eye at hearing someone say something like that. But truth be known, I couldn’t believe my ears, nor my eyes. 

The first thing I noticed, glancing down at the top page, was how the spreadsheet had been broken down alphabetically by country, with "Algeria" topping the list. Each line included the dollar amount of the contribution, and the U.S. corporation or political action committee through which they had laundered the money. Which meant, of course, there had to be at least one American accomplice at each of those entities. Potentially dozens, if not hundreds, of co-conspirators. 

As I flipped through, page after page after page after page, it became clear that what I was holding in my hands was a paper trail adding up to millions of dollars. And that what I was now being asked (so casually) to do — (what I was now EXPECTED to do) — was to destroy the evidence. In other words, join the criminal conspiracy as an "accessory after the fact." Me... Someone who had never even got a speeding ticket before. Inexplicably, the junior staffer left the room, trusting that I would follow his instructions. Me... Someone who he barely knew.

I sat there for a long minute... Reeling from the realization of what I was now holding in my hands... Eyeing the door... Considering my options... Never once did the thought cross my mind, though, to "do the right thing" — Report the crime I had just witnessed to the appropriate authorities. And turn over the smoking gun. — Instead, I considered slipping it into my backpack, and disappearing out the front door. Not to turn it over to the FBI, mind you, but for blackmail purposes to advance my career. 

There I sat... History hanging in the balance... My mortal soul hanging there, too... Should I do the "right thing"? — I'd already ruled that out. Should I look out for "number one"? — I thought long and hard... Or should I prove I'm a good "team player"?

In the end, though, I chickened out. Feeding everything into the shredder, page-by-page, until nothing was left but confetti.

After I had finished bearing my soul to Father Dillon — my friend Jack — I settled back into my chair, and let out a long sigh. Relieved that, after all those years, I’d finally gotten that off my chest. My confessor just sat there for a minute, shaking his head. And then, the hint of a smile.

“That’s all you got for me, Frank?”

I shrugged. 

“Seriously, Frank. I was expecting to hear something more like where all the bodies were buried... Seriously, Frank — THAT’s the best ya got?”

“Well...” I continued. “There is ‘one other little thing’ I could use your help on, Father.”