“So what’s the problem?” said Bender.
“Intelligence.” He fell silent when Ewa knocked and entered with a tea cart.
“Your secretary is here,” she said, “and Mr. James has just arrived with your read file.” The two men watched her as she poured them coffee. Then she was gone.
Duncan sighed. “Lovely girl. Some lucky devil.”
“I asked security to run an expanded background check on her,” Bender said. “She came up clean.”
Duncan nodded. “There are times when beauty is suspect in itself.” He took a sip of the strong brew and savored it for a moment. “SPS is ready to go but we’re not providing the intelligence they need.”
“Why?”
“I can’t crack the system. Everyone in the embassy is charming and friendly. They appear helpful and promptly pass the buck. No one’s willing to make a decision.”
Bender’s secretary buzzed. Winslow James was ready with the daily intelligence summary. Bender had him sent in. James marched in and handed him the thick read file and a summation of the local situation. He stood while Bender scanned the two-page document. It was accurate, brief, and well-written. “I’m impressed,” Bender said. “Make sure key members of the staff are on the distribution list.”
James frowned. “The CIA will only participate if the intelligence summary is for your eyes only.”
“You got farther with them than I did,” Duncan groused.
Bender stood up. “I think we need to speak to the gentlemen upstairs.” He led the way into the main corridor and to the elevator. “How do we get it to stop at the third floor?”
James punched the button for the third floor and spoke into the speaker. “The ambassador for Mr. Riley.” The elevator rose slowly and passed the third floor. It stopped at the fourth floor. “They don’t like unannounced visits,” James muttered.
Bender hit the button for the third floor and spoke. “Tell Mr. Riley to meet me in the bubble room. Now.” He hit the button for the basement and the elevator rapidly descended. The doors opened and Bender again hit the button for the third floor. “I expect Mr. Riley in two minutes.” He marched out of the elevator and into the hallway. A Marine guard was sitting behind a desk, guarding a door. He stood and came to attention. “Good morning, Corporal Kincaid. We need to use the bubble room.” The Marine punched a four-digit code into the lock and the heavy door swung open.
The three men walked inside. The room’s walls were bare cement and without decoration. A glass partition in the center of the room encircled a small round table with six chairs. Corporal Kincaid entered with an electrical wand and scanned the walls, the chairs, and table. Then he ran it over the three men. He frowned when the wand activated on Duncan. “Pacemaker,” Duncan said. The Marine thoroughly frisked him and then checked the security dossier at his desk, confirming that Duncan did wear a pacemaker.
A nondescript man wearing a dark suit entered the room. He was the face in the crowd that no one ever noticed and he seemed to be part of the furniture. Officially, Evan Riley was carried on the embassy rolls as an administrative officer. Unofficially, he was the CIA chief of station and a power unto himself. Again, the Marine ran the wand over him. “Thank you, Mr. Riley.” He left and closed the door behind him before activating the jamming circuits. A low hum, almost indiscernible, emanated from the walls and the four men sat down inside the glass enclosure. They were “in the bubble” and no known device could monitor their conversation.
“You wished to speak to me,” Riley said.
“First,” Bender said, “let me thank you for helping Winslow compile a daily intelligence summary on the local situation. It is most helpful.” A little nod from Riley. “However, I would like for key members of my staff to also see it.”
“That’ll take a special clearance from Langley,” Riley said. “They’ll want to clear it before circulation.”
“And we lose immediacy.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Second, I want to open an intelligence channel to the Polish SPS through Mr. Duncan in order to…”
Riley shook his head and interrupted him. “Impossible.”
Bender drilled him with a hard look. “…in order to give the SPS the intelligence they need to effectively target the Russian Mafiya.”
Like most government bureaucracies, the CIA was very protective of its turf. While its main objective was intelligence gathering, it demanded control over who had access to its information to prevent a compromise of the system. In general, it was a good policy. Evan Riley’s face was impassive. Above all else, he had to protect his sources and he knew the danger of working with outsiders. Personally, he trusted no one, especially ambassadors. “I’ll forward your request to my superiors.”
“And I expect an answer tomorrow.”
“Then, sir, your answer will be negative.”
Bender took a deep breath. He had dealt with the CIA before. “I understand your need to protect sources. By the time we pass the information to the SPS, they’ll have no idea where it came from.”
“But you can’t guarantee that.”
Bender drummed the table with his fingers. He had to get Riley’s attention. “You probably know that I am in direct communications with Mazana Hazelton.” Again, a little nod from Riley. But James was incredulous and gaped at Bender. If Bender was reporting to the national security advisor, then he had access to the president and was bypassing the secretary of state. Bender smiled at James. “That’s close-hold information and not to go beyond this room.” He turned his full attention on Riley. “Have you ever seen the president angry? Let me assure you, you never want to be the object of that anger.”
Riley’s face paled. “I’m quite sure something can be worked out.”
Bender stood and left. He had the CIA’s attention.
Shaw sat beside Turner as she thumbed through the folder with the biographies and photos of the Texas oil and cattle barons she would be meeting in less than an hour. “Don’t let the good-old-boy routine fool you, Mizz President. You can cut their Texas accents like butter on a hot griddle and they’ll be all Southern charm and smiles, but they didn’t get where they are by being fools. All but two are self-made billionaires. Don’t be afraid to speak to them in terms they understand.”
Turner raised an eyebrow. She knew the men by reputation but had never met them. “I’m not about to play the Southern belle.”
Shaw shook his big head. “Think more like the widow who has to run the ranch to keep the family together. They care about two things: price supports for beef and depletion allowances for oil. And they’ll want to hear from you on both of ’em.”
“I’m not in favor of either.”
“Then let Congress take the heat, not you. Sidestep the issue. Tell them money is like manure. You got to spread it around to do any good.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“A lot to them. I’ll backdoor a few comments like, ‘The president is more concerned with maintaining low prices than supports or allowances.’ They’ll put the two together and think you can live with the current system as long as they don’t get greedy. They’ll be reaching for the checkbooks before we’re back on Air Force One.”
“It’s so manipulative.”
“They know what we’re doing, Mizz President. Never forget these gentlemen are gamblers and they hedge their bets. They’ll contribute more to whoever Leland backs for president. But they’re willing to invest a couple of million to keep the door open just in case we win.”