Backstabbing for Beginners: Page 2

  The pride I felt for my job at that moment made me want to put a bullet through my head. I had joined the Washington, D.C., law firm Preston Gates as an international research analyst in order to prepare myself for law school. My ambition, shaped by the words of Vartan Gregorian, president of Brown University, had been to “go out there and make a difference.” Well, I was making a difference, all right—one I was so ashamed of I didn’t share it with my closest friends. I’d couch the work I did in general terms, as PR work for corporate clients. But I knew I had to put in at least a year at this firm if I wanted my résumé to look halfway credible to a law school or my next employer. And I had to impress the head of our client group, Jack Abramoff.

  The law firm’s partners tended to be old-school Democrats, but after the Republicans took control of Congress in the mid-1990s, the firm hired Jack, a conservative lobbyist extraordinaire, who would guarantee the firm access to top Republican lawmakers. Jack would rise to become the number-one rainmaker on Capitol Hill, before his dealings became the center of a scandal that took Washington by storm. The debacle would bring down House majority leader Tom DeLay and threaten President Bush, who denied knowing Jack even though they had been caught on camera together at the White House. Frank Rich of the New York Times would refer to him as the “new Monica”; Time magazine plastered his face on its cover as “The Man Who Bought Washington.”

  I had told Jack early on that I held liberal political views.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “You’ll grow out of it.”

  In any case, Democrats were just as happy to go on his junkets as Republicans were, so he didn’t mind having a young liberal around. The moment these Congressional staffers got on the plane and washed down their first bloody marys, they were “Republicrats” and “Demoblicans,” out for a good time.

  “Just make sure people like you,” Jack had advised me. In retrospect, it was an ironic piece of advice to receive from him.

  Yet back when he was a senior rainmaker at Preston Gates (the firm started by Bill Gates’s father), Jack was a very popular guy in Washington, including among many Democrats, who took about a third of his political contributions.

  Jack’s one-liner advice was all I got by way of a job description. Whether it meant staying late at the office or working the D.C. cocktail circuit, picking up golf so I could lose to clients or taking Congressional staffers to strip clubs during a “fact-finding mission” in Puerto Rico, I usually found ways to follow his advice.

  After six months at the law firm, I received a big raise. I went out with my girlfriend to celebrate. We got a table at Sequoia, a trendy seafood restaurant overlooking the Potomac River and the Watergate Hotel. As I held her hand after dessert, she told me how proud she was of me.

  I believe that is when I realized how fully I had come to hate myself. Not knowing how to share this discovery with the woman I longed to impress, I simply hailed the waiter for another glass of wine. We moved on to a party, where a friend of mine insisted on toasting with whiskey shots to celebrate my promotion. A colleague from work was there. He offered me a cigar and congratulated me for being “right on track for six figures.”

  Much later—after a one-way conversation with a toilet bowl—I reached a drunken epiphany. Out of disgust, I abandoned my plan to study law. And in the following weeks, I began sending out résumés to humanitarian organizations.

  Weeks went by without an answer. I turned twenty-four. I broke up with my girlfriend. And I continued to help my bosses pervert the democratic process in Washington with increasing skill, even as I was sinking deeper and deeper into depression. All I could do to compensate for my chronic self-loathing was purchase flashy yellow ties. One morning, as I was tying one on, I pulled on the fabric to check how sturdy it was. Would it hold my weight if I tied it around the fan and stepped off a stool?

  Then, one afternoon, my phone rang. It was Daniel, a friend from Brown University. Together, we had founded a publication called The Brown Journal of World Affairs, which, we felt certain at the time, would prepare the ground for illustrious careers in international affairs. Instead, Daniel had landed in banking, and I in lobbying. But the tide was about to turn.

  Daniel had heard of an immediate opening at the United Nations. In fact, he had been offered the job but had decided to turn it down in favor of a post in the Clinton administration.

  “Ever heard of Oil-for-Food?”

  “Oil for what?”

  “It’s this new UN program. Just got started. But you might have to travel to Iraq.”

  “I’ll go anywhere. I need to get out of here.”

  “Children are dying over there, you know, because of the sanctions. It’s a pretty bad situation. The UN is starting this huge humanitarian operation. They need a coordinator type. . . . I gave them your name. They’re waiting for your call.”

  I tried to remain calm, but my cubicle shook as I frantically looked around for my résumé. I got on the phone with the recruitment woman, Mira, who had a sensual Eastern European accent. She confirmed that they needed someone right away.

  “Would you like to have a look at my résumé?”

  “Sure. Send it over. And feel free to add any details. You know, like your height, the color of your eyes.”

  “Um . . . sure.”

  “Just kidding, darling.”

  Daniel had told me the woman was flirtatious. So I decided to push my luck. I improvised and said that I would be visiting New York for work that Friday and would be happy to drop in for a chat. The interview date was set.

  Three years. That’s how long I had tried to get an interview at the UN. Finally, a door had creaked open.

  A few days later, I was flying through the streets of New York in a yellow cab piloted by a man who seemed as worried about crashing as a kid playing Grand Theft Auto. The car came to a screeching halt in front of One UN Plaza. I stood there for a moment, looking up at the tall blue skyscraper. I readjusted my suit, checked my watch, and took a deep breath.

  I had learned from experience not to appear too eager. The worst thing I could do was try to promote myself. Boast and you’re toast. Just listen to these guys. Figure out what they want before you say anything.

  So I did some active listening as Yohannes Mengesha, a jovial Ethiopian man I assumed was the head of the budding UN operation, explained to me that “Oil-for-Food” was a misleading nickname for what they did. There was no barter of oil in exchange for food. Iraq sold oil, and the UN took the money to pay for a range of “humanitarian” goods, including food, medicine, and industrial equipment. The UN then observed how these goods were used inside the country to ensure that they were helping Iraq’s civilians rather than the regime. It was an unprecedented experiment that could be halted at any time if Saddam was seen to be cheating, he added, so there would be no guarantee of job security. He waited for a reaction to this, but all he got was a nod.

  “What are your needs?” I asked.

  He explained that he needed a person who could write speeches and official correspondence, coordinate trips and briefings, deal with the press—in short, someone who could hit the ground running in a highly political environment.

  I treated him like one of Jack’s clients, seeking to make sure I understood his concerns, occasionally jotting down notes on a pad, and adjusting my glasses—a move I hoped made me look older than my twenty-four years. When the time came for him to ask me if I had any questions, I said, “Yes. Is there a strategy in place for dealing with the media?”

  “Erm . . . we have a public information officer, but we’re still a new operation. That aspect definitely needs to be developed further as the program expands.”

  “Right.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Well, I did some research before coming here. There seems to be some opposition to this operation in Congress. Quite vehement, in fact. I believe this is an issue to handle with great care.”

  The man nodded, and soon, the question I had be
en waiting for came: “When would you be able to start?”

  I had pulled a Jack Abramoff on him. If potential clients walked into Jack’s office thinking they had a small problem, he’d make sure they walked out thinking they had a huge one—and that Jack was the only person who could fix it for them.

  A few days later, I was back at the firm waiting by the fax machine for my letter of employment. It was a beautiful thing: “On behalf of the Secretary-General, I am pleased to inform you. . . .”

  As I read on, I had a shock. I’d be making $5,200 a month! More than double my current salary! Plus rent subsidy, full medical insurance, and daily allowances when I went “on mission.” Sweet Lord, I would have paid to go “on mission” for the UN!

  But still, I had to call up and ask, “Um . . . the $5,200 . . . is that tax free?”

  “Oui, absolument! ”

  I would not only be making a positive difference in the world; I’d get paid enough to party my ass off in New York!

  My skin was tingling from my scalp to my feet. No amount of dancing around could possibly release the overflow of energy that was unleashed by this sudden turn of events. As I sought to regain my composure, the words “tax free” stopped bouncing around in my head and a sense of great responsibility seeped in. I was deeply grateful for this chance to become an official do-gooder. But I would be a civil servant now. And I had just seen how easily such people could be bought with trips and concert tickets, manipulated and finessed into inaction, even when serious moral issues were at stake. The line between serving the public interest and serving one’s personal interest was an easy one to cross. I would be on the other side of the fence now.

  Standing before the bathroom mirror, I made a solemn promise to myself: “No matter what happens, you will never, ever deviate from your mandate!” I looked into my eyes until my reflection appeared to understand how serious I was about this.

  A few minutes later, I walked into Jack’s office. I waited for him to get off the Dictaphone and then broke the news.

  “Good for you!” he said. And as I explained the nature of the Oil-for-Food deal to him, a devilish smile appeared on his face. “Let’s definitely keep in touch! You never know what might come up.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Welcome to the Game

  IRISH PUB , NEW YORK CITY, NOVEMBER 11, 1997

  “They’ve been to your apartment,” said Trevor Philips after the foam on his Guinness had settled.

  “Who’s been to my apartment?” I asked as I stared, wild-eyed, at the UN’s senior Iraq analyst.

  A quaint smile formed on Trevor’s lips, even as his eyes remained dead serious.

  “The Iraqis,” he said, as if it were obvious.

  “The Iraqis! When? How did they . . . why?”

  Trevor made big eyes and raised his chin, quelling my eruption. He took a slow sip of beer and lay down his pint, rebooting our conversation. We had just sat down at an Irish pub located a stone’s throw away from the United Nations. It was happy hour, and I had wanted to sit up front, next to a group of tipsy girls, but Trevor had insisted on a darkly lit booth in the back.

  I took an amateurish peek over my shoulder, checking for unwanted ears, then leaned in toward Trevor. I asked my questions slowly this time.

  “You’re telling me that the Iraqis have broken into my apartment?”

  Trevor nodded.

  “When?”

  Silence.

  “And how do you know this?”

  “They’re very thorough,” said Trevor. “Very thorough. They like to know who they’re dealing with, especially someone in your position, Michael.”

  “My position? I don’t even have a job description yet!”

  “They know you’re drafting the director’s communications, assigning work in the office. . . . Naturally, they want to know if you’re a plant.”

  “A plant?” I was thinking green leaves.

  “A plant,” said Trevor, dropping an imaginary parachutist onto the table.

  “Like a spy?”

  Trevor barely nodded, closing his eyelids in quiet frustration, the way my sixth-grade math teacher used to do.

  “And . . . who would I be spying for?”

  “That’s the question,” said Trevor. “They probably suspect it’s either the French—”

  “Trevor, I told you already, I’m not French!”

  “Or the Americans.”

  “But I’m not American, either! I’m Danish!”

  Trevor sat back and crossed his arms.

  “Don’t give me Danish. You’ve lived most of your life in France and the United States. You earned a bachelor’s at Brown and a master’s in Paris. Your last job was in Washington, working for a quote-unquote law firm. You’re hardly old enough to be in this job, yet you’ve been recruited in less than two weeks. Next thing we know, the new big boss picks you to go to Iraq with him. . . . Who are you, Michael? Some people are wondering.”

  “Who’s wondering? You don’t think I’m a spy, do you?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time the U.S. or France recruited a foreign national to collect information for them. But that’s not the point. I’ll have you figured out soon enough. Now, if I’m trying to figure out who you are, you can bet the Iraqis are, too.”

  Trevor took his time sipping his beer, then looked at me deadpan, studying my face and waiting for me to say something. I pondered my next move. Anything I said, any question I asked, might give away my real identity, that of a complete amateur, which was the last impression I wanted to leave on my new colleague.

  “OK,” I said, “let’s just backtrack here for a second. How do the Iraqis even know where I live? Are you saying they broke into the United Nations and stole my file or something?”

  “Our security is lax enough,” said Trevor. “I know they have visited us on occasion. But I suspect they didn’t need to steal your file. Someone could simply have followed you home from work.”

  “But my building has a doorman. They can’t just walk in there!”

  “Oh, yes they can,” said Trevor, enjoying the sight of my panicked expression. “They’ll do what it takes. They’ve got a lot of money invested in this operation of ours. They’ll want to know about everyone they have to deal with . . . as would I.”

  Trevor’s suspicion was beginning to get on my nerves. But in all fairness, I was equally interested in his background as he was in mine. Trevor had attended Oxford University. He was the son of a small shop owner, had grown up in the modest outskirts of London, and had risen through the ranks on the force of his stunning ability to digest huge amounts of information in record time and then dispense it selectively, as required. Every one of his words was consciously chosen and properly pronounced for intended effect. Each sentence was weighed. Between the need to communicate and the need to say as little as possible, Trevor had found a balance that always left one convinced he knew more than he was letting on.

  “You better go on home,” said Trevor after a long silence. “Get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  I washed down my beer and looked into my empty glass, trying to collect my thoughts. The vision of an Iraqi operative going through my things sent a shiver down my spine. My apartment was in such a mess that I might not have noticed. I had moved to New York only weeks ago to take up my new job and had yet to unpack my boxes.

  “I need another drink,” I said. “You can’t just drop this bombshell on me without offering some kind of evidence.”

  Trevor declined to get into specifics, other than to share the fact that “they”—the Iraqis—had visited his own apartment several times when he was away and purposely left behind “signs” that they had been there.

  “Signs? Like what?” I asked.

  Trevor told me that one visitor had left behind some poo in his toilet and put out a cigarette in his teacup, which he interpreted as a willful effort to insult his British identity and, by extension, Her Majesty’s Government.

  Was
this guy out of his mind? Or was he playing some kind of hazing joke on me? I was the youngest guy in the office and the “new guy.” An ideal target for a prank. Especially on the eve of my first mission to Baghdad. I was sufficiently nervous as it was. Trevor’s innuendoes were more than I could bear.

  “All right, Trevor. Time out,” I said. “An Iraqi agent went into your apartment and took a dump? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, of course I don’t believe you! Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?”

  Trevor’s smile disappeared. He was now fixing me with small eyes and a truly bitter, almost dangerous expression.

  “You’re the one who asked for this briefing,” he said. He took out his wallet and sought the waitress’s attention. In an instant his face had flushed bright red. His ears were beaming.

  If he was playing me for a fool, he was a damned fine actor. Not even Dustin Hoffman can get his ears to turn scarlet on command. Adding to my sudden doubts was the fact that Trevor was too important a player in the office to alienate.

  “Why would they leave, um, ‘signs’ on purpose like that?” I backtracked.

  Trevor hesitated but decided to answer anyway.

  “Intimidation,” he said. “They also send me a card each year on my birthday, just to let me know they have an eye on me.”

  “Why don’t you alert the authorities?” I asked.

  “What authorities?”

  “I don’t know. . . . The FBI?”

  “The U.K. mission doesn’t expect me to be speaking to the FBI. Nor does the UN itself. Our loyalty is to the UN Secretariat. And they have no means to do anything about these sorts of incidents, so we’re basically on our own.”

  “There’s got to be some authority to report this to.”