movement into Iraq. Given his surname and his penchant for classic rock music, he had labeled their group “The Rolling Stones,” choosing for himself the nom de guerre of Mick Jagger.
His assistant secretary of defense for international security, Bart Rathburn, had latched onto the name of guitar ace Keith Richards. Japanese businessman and former Naicho operative, Taiku Takishi, had been summoned and handed the cover of drummer Charlie Watts.
Stone looked across at Ronnie Wood, whose participation in the scheme was the ultimate high-risk gamble, given his exalted government position. The men had made a pact to use only their rocker aliases when communicating, but all realized the importance of keeping Wood’s name a secret forever, like buried pirate treasure never intended to be found.
What the four men had in common was a desire to keep America focused on the root causes of 9-11 and its associated enemies. This was in distinct oppostion to the sleight of hand of the likes of Fox and Diamond, who were using the attacks on America as a causus belli in Iraq.
With Rathburn in Palau and Takishi already on the ground in the Philippines, Stone was confident that the plan was off to a good start. He puffed on his cigar, looking at Ronnie Wood sitting across from him as the floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of rolling terrain that somewhere on the horizon gave way to James Madison’s Montpelier.
Ronnie Wood returned Stone’s gaze as if he was awaiting a status report. The tune “Wild Horses” played in the background, the real Mick Jagger belting out “… couldn’t drag me away”
They each took a sip of a local Merlot from Donna Kendall Farms, the best winery in Virginia. A bowl of venison jerkey sat on the mahogany Queen Elizabeth table between their two burgundy leather chairs that were canted inward at 45 degree angles. They faced a stone hearth fireplace, handcrafted with rocks from the Rappahannock River. A musket hung on brass hooks above the mantel. A bugle and powderhorn adorned either side of the cavernous firepit, hanging like Christmas stockings. Stone broke the silence.
“Charlie seemed to take the news of Garrett’s presence in stride, no?”
“A little too cool for school,” Wood said.
“Takishi’s good. Bart vouches for him,” Jagger said.
Wood stared at Jagger.
“Hope you don’t slip up when talking about me,” Wood said, always concerned about his role in the conspiracy.
Jagger paused.
“Sorry. It’s the wine.”
Wood nodded. He was a born skeptic. He had to be, given his business.
“Was always skeptical about bnringing in Charlie Watts,” Wood said.
“Needed him. No doubt about it. Where would we be without him.” Jagger had recovered from his faux pas.
“Keith has a handle on it, I’m sure,” Wood said, unconvincingly.
Jagger paused, considered the comment and then decided upon a new line of discussion.
“So the first few riffs have been pretty good, so far, no?” he said to Wood.
“Well, it’s really your tune now, isn’t it, Mick? I’ve played my chords, and we’ve got Matt Garrett right where we want him,” Wood said.
“True, true,” Jagger noted. He swirled the merlot as he stared through the windows of his Orange County estate. Two bay windows framed the fireplace, giving him a view of the distant Blue Ridge Mountains. Dozens of ash, oak, and birch trees dominated his prominent grounds, their branches crisscrossing like the fingers of a child watching a horror flick.
“Just a brief conversation with Keith and, I mean, wow, this guy is perfect. He’s all pissed off about being pulled out of Pakistan …”
“He was close, you know,” Jagger said. “And I would know.”
“That you would,” Wood agreed.
“And just to be clear, we pulled him out why?”
“You know damned well why we did it. We needed the flexibility. Plus, I had to do it. Fox has me by the balls. There was no option for me.”
“But perhaps for the nation?”
His assistant secretary of defense for international security, Bart Rathburn, had latched onto the name of guitar ace Keith Richards. Japanese businessman and former Naicho operative, Taiku Takishi, had been summoned and handed the cover of drummer Charlie Watts.
Stone looked across at Ronnie Wood, whose participation in the scheme was the ultimate high-risk gamble, given his exalted government position. The men had made a pact to use only their rocker aliases when communicating, but all realized the importance of keeping Wood’s name a secret forever, like buried pirate treasure never intended to be found.
What the four men had in common was a desire to keep America focused on the root causes of 9-11 and its associated enemies. This was in distinct oppostion to the sleight of hand of the likes of Fox and Diamond, who were using the attacks on America as a causus belli in Iraq.
With Rathburn in Palau and Takishi already on the ground in the Philippines, Stone was confident that the plan was off to a good start. He puffed on his cigar, looking at Ronnie Wood sitting across from him as the floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of rolling terrain that somewhere on the horizon gave way to James Madison’s Montpelier.
Ronnie Wood returned Stone’s gaze as if he was awaiting a status report. The tune “Wild Horses” played in the background, the real Mick Jagger belting out “… couldn’t drag me away”
They each took a sip of a local Merlot from Donna Kendall Farms, the best winery in Virginia. A bowl of venison jerkey sat on the mahogany Queen Elizabeth table between their two burgundy leather chairs that were canted inward at 45 degree angles. They faced a stone hearth fireplace, handcrafted with rocks from the Rappahannock River. A musket hung on brass hooks above the mantel. A bugle and powderhorn adorned either side of the cavernous firepit, hanging like Christmas stockings. Stone broke the silence.
“Charlie seemed to take the news of Garrett’s presence in stride, no?”
“A little too cool for school,” Wood said.
“Takishi’s good. Bart vouches for him,” Jagger said.
Wood stared at Jagger.
“Hope you don’t slip up when talking about me,” Wood said, always concerned about his role in the conspiracy.
Jagger paused.
“Sorry. It’s the wine.”
Wood nodded. He was a born skeptic. He had to be, given his business.
“Was always skeptical about bnringing in Charlie Watts,” Wood said.
“Needed him. No doubt about it. Where would we be without him.” Jagger had recovered from his faux pas.
“Keith has a handle on it, I’m sure,” Wood said, unconvincingly.
Jagger paused, considered the comment and then decided upon a new line of discussion.
“So the first few riffs have been pretty good, so far, no?” he said to Wood.
“Well, it’s really your tune now, isn’t it, Mick? I’ve played my chords, and we’ve got Matt Garrett right where we want him,” Wood said.
“True, true,” Jagger noted. He swirled the merlot as he stared through the windows of his Orange County estate. Two bay windows framed the fireplace, giving him a view of the distant Blue Ridge Mountains. Dozens of ash, oak, and birch trees dominated his prominent grounds, their branches crisscrossing like the fingers of a child watching a horror flick.
“Just a brief conversation with Keith and, I mean, wow, this guy is perfect. He’s all pissed off about being pulled out of Pakistan …”
“He was close, you know,” Jagger said. “And I would know.”
“That you would,” Wood agreed.
“And just to be clear, we pulled him out why?”
“You know damned well why we did it. We needed the flexibility. Plus, I had to do it. Fox has me by the balls. There was no option for me.”
“But perhaps for the nation?”
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