MALE VOICE: Yes.
LARAMIE: Do you know who the others are?
MALE VOICE: Just about every one of them.
LARAMIE: I spent eight hours in the lab tonight examining the home countries of the leaders in your pictures. How did you do this? Find them?
MALE VOICE: Wild luck. You’re saying your theory remains intact?
LARAMIE: I haven’t had the time to check them all, but at this point-
MALE VOICE: At four a.m.-
LARAMIE: Every nation I’ve checked has some form of military buildup, an exercise, plus significant and unusual troop movement. These countries are preparing for simultaneous military action. It’s as simple as that.
MALE VOICE: Sounds like you were right. And your bosses weren’t.
LARAMIE: My God.
MALE VOICE: Quick question. You find anything related to twice-dead slave-labor zombies in those satellite photographs?
LARAMIE: What?
MALE VOICE: Thought I’d give it a shot.
LARAMIE: You’re joking about this? Do you understand what this could amount to? For all intents and purposes-
MALE VOICE: Actually it’s pretty serious, this thing I’m stuck with, and I don’t particularly feel like going back to the Island of Dr. Marx to find the answers I think I need to find.
LARAMIE: The Island of Dr.-oh, I get it now.
Gates, fuming behind the desk in his office, reread every document on Julie Laramie he’d received over the course of the surveillance he’d ordered. Then he read them again. Finally he buzzed Miss Anders and told her to usher in Sperling Rhone, his security man, whom he ordered to sit in the chair with the thin rubber cushion then promptly fired. He told Rhone he was an ignorant shit for delivering his report too late for Gates to find any use in it, then had him forcibly escorted from the building by a pair of marines.
Lou Ebbers finished reading the executive summary and raised his eyebrows without saying a word. Gates didn’t like the feeling the DCI’s expression gave him.
“Be nice,” Ebbers said, “if we could have been out ahead of this one.”
“No question, Lou,” Gates said.
Gates, Rosen, Rader, and Ebbers sat at the conference table meant for twenty adjoining Ebbers’s office. Gates had provided his boss with what amounted to a cut-and-pasted version of Laramie’s two reports, the wording essentially unchanged. The memo’s header, proclaiming its classified status, stated that it came directly from Gates-the DDCI’s personal stamp, meant to reassure Ebbers that Gates had personally seen to the compilation and verification of the report.
Gates knew this would do him no good now.
Ebbers was reviewing the report. “A new al-Qaeda,” he said, “with, in the very least, circumstantial evidence documenting the sponsorship by, or collusion of a minimum of three nations, likely more.” He looked up from the document and straight into the eyes of Gates. “Not the best scenario, considering the president’s intelligence chief will be delivering him this rather groundbreaking information only as the result of a prompt from the president’s leading ideological combatant. In fact, when I present this to the national security advisor in about fifteen minutes, I expect it will be transparent to him, and thus the president, that our friend from North Carolina had his hands on the intel well before the senior leaders of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Were I the president,” Ebbers said, “this would give me pause as to why the people currently holding the senior leadership positions at CIA in fact have these jobs. Frankly, gentlemen, this is an embarrassment.”
He leaned back from the report and took his time passing his eyes over each of them.
“We sitting on anything else, say, might help keep my ass out of the sling it’ll occupy beginning some thirteen minutes from now?”
Gates felt an ulcerous boil at the base of his gut. Even as the spymaster he’d become, Gates could not conceive of any strategy that could offer Ebbers salvation from appearing foolhardy, late, and ineffective in the upcoming meeting. And considering that shit, in the nation’s capital, flowed downhill with frictionless efficiency, the current circumstances meant to Gates that his job was pretty much shot to hell.
He could-and would, of course-take measures to shore things up. He would dig up and provide another white-hot chunk of intel he’d been sitting on and lay it out for Ebbers and the NSC somewhere out ahead of the curve instead of woefully behind. But even if Ebbers didn’t drop him like a sack of wet sand immediately following the pending NSC wrist-slap, Gates knew that any measures he took at this point would only amount to a four-corner stall. The fact was, unless he was prepared to bind and gag and leave Julie Laramie to rot in the corner of some overgrown park-which he’d given some thought to doing-Kircher would ultimately track the bitch down, the remainder of the truth would be exposed, and that would be all she wrote.
When neither Rosen nor Rader piped up with any helpful suggestions that might aid their boss, Gates performed a combination nod and shrug-meant to indicate he was being a man here, taking personal responsibility for Ebbers’s predicament.
“Sorry to say, Lou,” he said, “I think you’ve got just about all we know on this one.”
After a long while, Ebbers closed the file, rose, and left.
35
They sent a woman. That, she knew, was how they did it: match you up with your physical equal to avoid the intimidation factor, giving the impression you were being summoned for nothing more than a conversation.
Laramie had been through this before, at least a routine variation of it. Anyone working above the intern level in the Directorate of Intelligence was subjected to the “Scuds,” CIA’s routine psychological profile-refresher and lie detector exams. Laramie was long since in on the meaning behind the nickname: they hit you with annoying, hastily launched, generally ineffective missiles, hoping to put you on the defensive and force a mistake in case you might have something to hide. If you didn’t, the semiannual, four-hour sessions were a joke.
Since she’d endured her most recent bout with the Scuds only six weeks back, it was fairly evident to Laramie that the thirtysomething woman whose reflection appeared on a darkened portion of the monitor in her viewing cubicle had not come for another routine inquisition. The purpose of the visit was clear as day: they’d discovered her e-mails to Senator Kircher.
She wondered what it meant that they knew what she’d done. What they had in store for her. Then she wondered what they were doing with the intel they must have known she’d discovered-were they acting on it? Or just punishing her for leaking it? If history were any indication-
The woman asked Laramie to accompany her and led the way up the elevator to the fourth floor, home of the Internal Investigations Unit. The woman took her into an enclosed room equipped with a mirror, encouraged Laramie to take a seat in one of the room’s two chairs, and left, closing the door behind her and locking Laramie in.
Considering that Scud sessions typically began with a lie detector exam, that an investigative officer accompanied you through the entire process, and that the officer, until now, had never failed to offer up a cup of coffee to kick things off, it occurred to Laramie there was a pretty good chance she had one hell of a long day ahead of her.
Cooper found there wasn’t much in the Langley database on the topic of who controlled the real estate on the island called Mango Cay. Abandoning the ostensibly far-superior CIA search engine for plain old Google, he verified from the chair on his porch that real estate falling under the jurisdiction of Martinique could not be owned by foreigners, and, as in the British Virgins, a lease-hold system had been established to circumvent such revenue-killing nationalism. Property secured by foreign interests in both Martinique and the BVIs involved the transfer of what was usually a ninety-nine-year lease, ultimately rented from the federal government of France or the United Kingdom, respectively; it was the lease rights that were purchased or transferred by private property “owners” in the case of a local sale.