Washington, D.C. – May 27th, 1983 – 7:02 PM
Before the phone rang, Deputy Director Gordon Swan thought he was going home.
After it rang, he realized he was not. It was FBI Director, William Webster, who told him that he had a priority project, and that there would be two gentleman from the NSA over in an hour to discuss it with him. End of conversation. If you wanted any future career in the Bureau—or if, as in Gordon’s case, you just wanted to make it until retirement—you did not say no to the Director.
Gordon Swan sighed as he put the phone back in its cradle, and then picked it up again and called his wife to let her know that he wouldn’t be home until everybody else was in bed asleep. If then. Unsurprisingly, the news did not go over well.
Next, he punched the handsfree button on the phone. “Jack, I think it’s going to be a long night for me. You think you could run go get me a turkey sandwich—plenty of mustard—before you pack it up for the night?”
“Will do,” said Jack loudly, making the tiny speaker in the phone buzz with static. “Want I should get you some coffee?”
“That would probably be a good idea.”
Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. Another long night. What was it going to be this time? Getting his marching orders from the NSA or the DOD was generally guaranteed to be unpleasant. There would be long nights, travel, paperwork—oh, the paperwork. His agents couldn’t swat a fly without a warrant and it would take them a month to get one if Gordon didn’t walk it through every step of the way. Any investigation where anything was going to get done, there’d be dozens of warrants, and there was plenty of paperwork for every warrant and he’d end up keeping track of it. Others in the Bureau would dump all the grunt work on the agents who were supposed to be working the case. Which was why, in his opinion, it took forever for their cases to get resolved, if ever.
The problem with getting results over avoiding grunt work was that tough cases often got shunted to him. He closed his eyes and moved to rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got to start pushing all the damn paperwork on my agents,” he muttered to himself.
“Director Swan?” It was Jack, with a deli sandwich neatly wrapped in white paper and a cup of coffee—black with two sugars. Gordon found himself sorry Jack would be moving on at the end of the summer; he was a hell of a lot better than his previous full-time assistant. But, of course, Jack was young and ambitious and planning to move up in the Bureau. It was good to win the favor of the Deputy Directors if you were planning on being a career man.
“Thanks, Jack. Good man.”
“No problem, sir. You need anything else?”
“Nah. You go home. You’ll miss all the rest you're getting now when they make you a Deputy Director one day.” Gordon felt a tinge of jealousy as he said it, but smiled all the same.
“I can only hope, sir.” Jack turned and walked out the door, his footsteps vanishing quickly down the hallway. He was good. Did what he was asked to do, and didn’t overstay his welcome. He would move up, Gordon thought. Sort of reminded him of himself, when he was younger.
Gordon sighed, and thumbed through his in box. There was nothing that couldn’t wait—but, it wasn’t like he had something else to do, and there was normally no way of being sure when personnel was going to arrive to meet for “emergency” sessions. And people in the NSA, DOD and CIA were known to keep the FBI waiting.
He pulled out a marked and coded folder—a report on a recently resolved case that needed his stamp of approval. It was a thick, thick report. His agents had been working with both the IRS and the DEA in prosecuting a New Jersey drug kingpin. They had nailed the guy good, and the evidence for the case was plentiful. The DEA was going to handle the prosecution on drug trafficking and the IRS was going to handle the prosecution on income tax evasion so the Bureau, except for the agents being called as material witnesses, was done.
The report, however, was 250 pages of ass covering. And he had to read it all, to cover his ass. To be Jack, he thought. Young and ambitious and with something in life to look forward to. Because he hasn’t been around long enough to know better.
Seventy-five pages into the report, his phone rang. He pushed the handsfree button. “Yeah?”
“Howard Voss and Theresa McNaney here to see you, sir.”
Theresa? Swan thought. Director Webster had said to expect two gentlemen.
“Could you show them to conference room three and let them know I’ll be there in two minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gordon hit the release button. He sighed, grabbed a legal pad, and made his way down the corridor to the conference room.
After it rang, he realized he was not. It was FBI Director, William Webster, who told him that he had a priority project, and that there would be two gentleman from the NSA over in an hour to discuss it with him. End of conversation. If you wanted any future career in the Bureau—or if, as in Gordon’s case, you just wanted to make it until retirement—you did not say no to the Director.
Gordon Swan sighed as he put the phone back in its cradle, and then picked it up again and called his wife to let her know that he wouldn’t be home until everybody else was in bed asleep. If then. Unsurprisingly, the news did not go over well.
Next, he punched the handsfree button on the phone. “Jack, I think it’s going to be a long night for me. You think you could run go get me a turkey sandwich—plenty of mustard—before you pack it up for the night?”
“Will do,” said Jack loudly, making the tiny speaker in the phone buzz with static. “Want I should get you some coffee?”
“That would probably be a good idea.”
Gordon took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. Another long night. What was it going to be this time? Getting his marching orders from the NSA or the DOD was generally guaranteed to be unpleasant. There would be long nights, travel, paperwork—oh, the paperwork. His agents couldn’t swat a fly without a warrant and it would take them a month to get one if Gordon didn’t walk it through every step of the way. Any investigation where anything was going to get done, there’d be dozens of warrants, and there was plenty of paperwork for every warrant and he’d end up keeping track of it. Others in the Bureau would dump all the grunt work on the agents who were supposed to be working the case. Which was why, in his opinion, it took forever for their cases to get resolved, if ever.
The problem with getting results over avoiding grunt work was that tough cases often got shunted to him. He closed his eyes and moved to rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got to start pushing all the damn paperwork on my agents,” he muttered to himself.
“Director Swan?” It was Jack, with a deli sandwich neatly wrapped in white paper and a cup of coffee—black with two sugars. Gordon found himself sorry Jack would be moving on at the end of the summer; he was a hell of a lot better than his previous full-time assistant. But, of course, Jack was young and ambitious and planning to move up in the Bureau. It was good to win the favor of the Deputy Directors if you were planning on being a career man.
“Thanks, Jack. Good man.”
“No problem, sir. You need anything else?”
“Nah. You go home. You’ll miss all the rest you're getting now when they make you a Deputy Director one day.” Gordon felt a tinge of jealousy as he said it, but smiled all the same.
“I can only hope, sir.” Jack turned and walked out the door, his footsteps vanishing quickly down the hallway. He was good. Did what he was asked to do, and didn’t overstay his welcome. He would move up, Gordon thought. Sort of reminded him of himself, when he was younger.
Gordon sighed, and thumbed through his in box. There was nothing that couldn’t wait—but, it wasn’t like he had something else to do, and there was normally no way of being sure when personnel was going to arrive to meet for “emergency” sessions. And people in the NSA, DOD and CIA were known to keep the FBI waiting.
He pulled out a marked and coded folder—a report on a recently resolved case that needed his stamp of approval. It was a thick, thick report. His agents had been working with both the IRS and the DEA in prosecuting a New Jersey drug kingpin. They had nailed the guy good, and the evidence for the case was plentiful. The DEA was going to handle the prosecution on drug trafficking and the IRS was going to handle the prosecution on income tax evasion so the Bureau, except for the agents being called as material witnesses, was done.
The report, however, was 250 pages of ass covering. And he had to read it all, to cover his ass. To be Jack, he thought. Young and ambitious and with something in life to look forward to. Because he hasn’t been around long enough to know better.
Seventy-five pages into the report, his phone rang. He pushed the handsfree button. “Yeah?”
“Howard Voss and Theresa McNaney here to see you, sir.”
Theresa? Swan thought. Director Webster had said to expect two gentlemen.
“Could you show them to conference room three and let them know I’ll be there in two minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Gordon hit the release button. He sighed, grabbed a legal pad, and made his way down the corridor to the conference room.
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