"I was on an FBI assignment. My task was to gather intelligence on Julian."
"So, you are FBI."
"No. They are too smart for that. They sent me in so that you would reach a dead end when you tried to track me. I'm a forensic accountant who used to be a cop but then you already know that."
It was not a good idea to volunteer but Clarissa was at risk. I had to do my part or we would both be subject to unknown dangers.
"You are caught in the middle."
"Not really. The corrupt system left me an out."
"I sent prints in on every one taken off the glasses at dinner. Julian Fairfax's came back as so and so the first time. The next morning after our flight to Flagstaff, I snaffled his iced-tea glass and sent in another set of prints. Identification was negative. The Bureau did not seem to have a file that matched the submitted prints."
"Shit!"
Things were getting hairy. Was I really getting anywhere or had I opened a can of worms.
"What do you want to do now?" I asked.
"I don't know. Suddenly, I feel scared."
Clarissa allowed herself to cry. "Are you sure?"
"Sure that Julian is an undercover agent?" I asked gently.
"Yes."
"Don't jump to conclusions," I said. "There is more than one possible explanation for what went awry."
"Name one!"
"This is typical, this screw up over Julian's prints. The operator punches in an incorrect file number and there you have it – James Bond."
"The whole system is flawed," Clarissa said stretching. She was beginning to recover her composure. "Nothing the CIA, DEA or FBI takes on ever seems to work the way that it is supposed to. They have too many people with secret agendas."
"None of the parties would subscribe," I said. "I'm afraid that the situation is far worse than that. They don't just step on one another's toes. They spy on one another, get into turf wars and unwittingly harbor defectors who have been seduced by easy money. In addition they get each other killed on occasion."
"I can't believe that."
"Look up the file of Barry Seal, the personal pilot for the Medellin cartel. He was caught in a drug sting and he rolled over big time. On a joint operation with the CIA, photos that Seal secured at considerable personal risk were taken to the oval office, or to use the modern vernacular, the oval orifice."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. A week later, the Washington Post ran a story on the Iran-contra affair. They blew Seal's cover. Three months later, he was blown away by three Colombian thugs. He was the only drug trafficker that I ever felt the least bit of compassion for. After having served his country badly, he saw the error of his ways and was served badly in return."
"All I know," Clarissa replied, "is that cultivation of coca continues to increase. There are now more than 55,000 hectares of it in Colombia alone and I've read that the acreage is increasing by ten percent per annum. Not one aspect of the American drug policy can be said to be working."
"Did you know that the Economist termed the American drug wars – Mission Impossible?"
"I believe it."
"This is kind of cute, you know."
"What's that?"
"You'll go down in history as the person who brought the new designer drug – harmless cocaine – the Barbie doll of recreational drugs – to market. Things go better with woo coca," I said.