Informant by Kurt Eichenwald Read Free Book Online Page B

it,’’ Mick said. “Tell the Agency we’re ready to give them the money to put into escrow to help get this plant up and running.’’
    Minutes later, Allen had heard enough. “I’ll take care of it,’’ he told his cousin. He hung up.
    Allen checked the time. It was too late to phone his CIA contact; morning would be soon enough. He wanted to meet in person to explain the fantastic story emerging from Decatur. It seemed a simple plan.
    He had no idea of the events he was about to set into motion.

 
    C HAPTER 2
    D ean Paisley, a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI, stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of the Illinois Business Center and walked toward an unmarked wooden door. He punched a five-digit code into a keypad on the wall, taking care not to drop the bag of fast food in his other hand. The door’s electronic lock clicked open on his first try.
    Behind the locked door was a stairwell, but Paisley did not head to another floor. Instead, he walked past the stairs through a second door, into the FBI Field Office in Springfield. Striding down the hallway, Paisley looked like Central Casting’s idea of an FBI supervisor. At forty-nine, he was still handsome and in the physical shape of a far younger man. Only his hair showed signs of age, with specks of gray sprinkling its sandy coloring.
    It was the afternoon of November 3, 1992, Election Day. As always, the election had caused minor disruptions at the Springfield office. A group of agents was on standby to handle claims of voting fraud that might come in, and various staffers had requested time off to go to the polls. With the office humming with activity, Paisley had decided to have a late lunch at his desk. On days like this, he figured, it made sense to be around the office.
    He passed some framed prints hung on the hallway’s odd-looking blue-green wallpaper. The decorations were the most obvious sign of the changes that had been taking place in Springfield. The former office director—the Special Agent in Charge—had insisted on a number of unpopular rules, such as one forbidding decorations in work areas. But he had been replaced a few months back by Donald Stukey, an agent who made his name chasing spies in Washington. Stukey cleaned house, bringing in a new assistant to oversee daily operations and discarding many of his predecessor’s edicts. Office morale had gone up faster than the new wall decor.
    Paisley greeted his secretary, Barbara Howard, before continuing to his office. Taking a seat at his desk, he unwrapped his food, casually scanning papers. He was finishing his lunch when Howard called to him.
    “Hey, Dean. Ed Worthington, the ASAC from Chicago, is on line two for you.’’ Howard had been around the Bureau long enough to know that even though
Special Agent in Charge
was shorthanded by its letters,
S-A-C
, the title of that supervisor’s assistant was always pronounced as a single word,
ay-sack
.
    Paisley punched line two. He knew Worthington well. Both were the contacts in their offices for American intelligence agencies that needed help from the FBI. Because of that responsibility, Paisley had met Worthington at a number of Bureau meetings.
    “Hey, Eddie, how’s it going up there?’’
    “Pretty well,’’ Worthington replied. “Listen, I just got a strange call from the Agency. They gave me some information, and I want to run it by you.’’
    The Agency.
Worthington didn’t need to explain further. The CIA. Paisley cleared a space on his desk for a pad of paper and began taking notes.
    The story Worthington told was bizarre. The CIA had received a telephone call from ADM. Worthington’s CIA contact had told him—incorrectly—that Dwayne Andreas had placed the call himself. Apparently, ADM was the target of industrial espionage and extortion by someone from Japan. For reasons Worthington couldn’t fathom, Andreas had turned to the CIA for help. The agency concluded that the matter fell under the authority