The chief of the Office of Congressional Affairs, Eric Duchin, a galloping careerist, busybody, and gossip, arrived with a posse of his toadeaters, making their way between tables, stopping to greet fellow division chiefs amid great laughter and guffaws. Duchin stopped at Benford’s table, surrounded by his grinning acolytes, who were known as “the Duchebags” on the ops floors. Duchin had a Gumby-square head, thick snow-white hair, and a narrow face. Students at the Farm had nicknamed him Q-Tip.
“Simon,” he said, nodding.
“Eric,” said Benford. Silence. Gable fingered the skewer that his shrimp had been served on.
“I’m calling a meeting on Friday,” said Duchin, finally. “SSCI, the Senate Select Committee, wants CIA to provide courtesy briefings to the possible nominees for the Director’s job. Just a heads-up to prepare. The committee wants all nominees to be able to discuss current operations during closed hearings, including your Russian antics.”
Benford put down his fork, choosing to ignore the word “antics.” “Am I given to understand that operational briefings are to be provided to multiple individuals, only one of whom will eventually be confirmed as CIA Director? It is customary to provide a limited briefing to the final nominee, and only to the final nominee.”
Duchin shrugged. “Your precious secrets will be safe with them,” he said. “I’ll send you their bio packets. All currently hold SI/TK (Special Intelligence/Talent Keyhole), top-secret clearances, including Special Access Program tickets. Besides, the Director wants it done this way. Greater transparency.” After Alex Larson’s drowning, an acting Director had been appointed, whom the obsequious Duchin was already calling “Director.”
Benford bristled. “Greater transparency? In an intelligence service?” he snapped. “Duchin, you are incapable of sentient thought. You are my natural enemy. Go away.”
Duchin shrugged. “Take it up with the Director,” he said. “He’s committed to a smooth transition. See you Friday.” The three sat silently at the table, thinking of a pair of electric-blue eyes alone in the Kremlin, flitting across the slack, beefy faces around the table, any one of whom would pull the trigger on her without hesitation. These nominees’ briefings necessarily would include, at the least, a mention of a CIA-run penetration of the SVR, and at worst, DIVA’s true name. Heresy.
“How does this work, the possible nominees for Director all being briefed, and all being interviewed by SSCI?” said Gable. “Whatever happened to POTUS picking his man—one person—and nominating him? What the fuck is this, a beauty pageant?”
“The Acting Director suggested it,” said Forsyth. “This way he can push forward different candidates, all of whom will dismantle Alex Larson’s policies, placate Congress, and keep the Agency focused on the environment instead of the kiloton yield of the uranium device the Nokos detonated underground two months ago.”
Benford shook himself, pushed his plate away, and looked at Forsyth. “What did you say before?”
“The Acting Director wanted it this way.”
“No, before that,” said Benford.
“That we vet our own directors before putting them forward.”
“Exactly,” said Benford. “And the Russians had Alex killed, and we’re looking for a mole.”
“Who’s gonna get a big-ass job in the exec branch,” said Gable.
“Which vacancy is the Director of this Agency. It’s clear now. The Kremlin’s candidate is for DCIA,” said Benford, pounding the table.
Forsyth looked at Benford over the top of his glasses. “You better be sure before you pull the fire alarm. Not even Putin could pull this off.”
“Maybe not,” said Benford, “but that Gorelikov mastermind could if what DIVA says about him is true.”
Gable stopped picking his teeth. “You saying one of the three nominees for DCIA is the mole? Could they swing that?” he asked.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” said Benford. “But we can’t sit by and do nothing.”
“We have to brief them all before one’s confirmed.” Forsyth groaned.
“Too obvious,” said Benford. “Let us consider how to pour some blue dye down a pipe.”
Gable started picking his teeth again. “If you’re talking barium enema, I got a turkey baster in my office.”
BENFORD’S LEMON PASTA
Sauté anchovy fillets in olive oil with finely diced leeks until the fillets dissolve and the leeks soften. In a separate pan, toast bread crumbs with a little olive oil, garlic, and dried red chili flakes until the crumbs (pangrattato) are golden brown. Cook bucatini, drain, and toss with the anchovy oil and leeks. Sprinkle with chopped parsley, bread crumbs, and a generous squeeze of lemon juice. Serve immediately.
14
Expedient Amorality
DIVA’s handwritten report meticulously documented the Security Council debate in the Kremlin regarding the GRU military covert action in Turkey encrypted OBVAL, put forth by Major Shlykov, who argued that Turkey was in chaotic transition: Fundamentalist Islamic political parties were eroding the secular military Atatürk traditions. The country had, since 1984, been struggling with a prolonged, low-intensity armed urban insurrection by the socialist Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK) in their bid for political rights and self-determination. Current US military aid to the Kurdish Peshmerga in Iraq had discommoded the Turkish government (even though the Iraqi Peshmerga had no political connection to PKK terrorists). Ankara moodily conflated this military support in Iraq with American endorsement of Kurdish desires to secede from the country and to claim a substantial swath of sovereign Turkish territory as their hereditary homeland. Recognizing a developing bilateral schism and subsequent opportunity to drive a wedge between Washington and Ankara—something Putin and his coterie of valets knew how to do best—GRU planners had developed a plan for Turkey.
DIVA’s narrative—printed in Russian in space-saving letters so small that translators had to use magnifying glasses to read the text—reported that the aggressive Shlykov had laid out his plan by which Moscow would supply PKK cells in Istanbul with RPG-18 “Mukha” antiarmor rockets, MON-200 antipersonnel mines, and larger PMN-4 pressure-fired blast mines, for use in urban terror attacks in Istanbul, designed to create a crisis in the government, exacerbate tense relations with Washington, and ultimately to destabilize Turkey, the traditional southern bulwark of NATO.
Russian Naval Special Forces would support the operation. The matériel would be delivered in a series of nighttime forays by small boats disguised as fishing vessels to PKK members waiting at a deserted out-of-season picnic grounds on the banks of Riva Creek, four navigable miles inland from the Black Sea coast of Turkey. PKK would then truck the weapons into Istanbul, stage them in a number of warehouses, and distribute them among cells. Despite objections to the covert-action plan from the civilian intelligence services, President Putin had approved the operation. He was willing to undertake this foreign adventure and run the risks—which the GRU assessed as minimal—to weaken NATO, and especially to destabilize the only Muslim member state of the coalition. After that, no one objected any longer. DIVA concluded her report by writing of Shlykov: “This Golden Youth intends to provide enough explosives to PKK to set Istanbul ablaze on both sides of the Bosphorus, from Europe to Asia.”