“We have reason to believe classified information was stolen or mishandled within the Senate, uh, intelligence committee offices, about a week ago,” John said in a reasonable baritone. “Within the SCIF.” He sounded like an accountant explaining some complexity of tax law to an inattentive client.
Will felt acid wash up into his throat. He wanted to ask what made them say this and he thought, My God, there are cameras in the SCIF! There have to be concealed closed-circuit TV cameras. What if what I did was recorded on video?
But instead of giving in to the panic, he tipped his head to one side and cocked a brow inquisitively and said, “My God, really?”
Nicole said, “As I’m sure you know, according to the Rules of Procedure of the Select Committee on Intelligence, copying, duplicating, or removing from the committee offices classified materials is prohibited—”
“—‘except as is necessary for the conduct of committee business,’” Will said. “Yes, I’m familiar with the rules. What is your question: Did I break any rules? The answer is no.”
Nicole flushed and said, looking down at a sheet of paper on the table in front of her, “Did you at any point last week bring in a portable electronic device?”
“You mean, like a phone?”
“Right.”
“No, I did not.”
“Um, writing to removable media such as USB or DVD/CD drives is prohibited without express authorization—”
“I said, I didn’t break any rules. Is that not clear enough?”
John Hathaway spoke up now, loudly and firmly: “Did you copy any files to a USB drive, a flash drive, a thumb drive, a memory stick, a disk or any other form of removable media?”
“No.”
“Well, someone did last Wednesday. That limits the pool of suspects to SSCI staff members, any of the senators on the committee, and any members of any senator’s staff who might have access.”
Will felt as if one of the lobes of his brain had just lit up. He realized then: They don’t know who did it!
They probably knew that somebody plugged in a thumb drive. There was probably some sort of intrusion detector in the computer network. He should have thought of that. He would never have taken the risk. But that meant that there was no hidden video recording activity inside the room.
They knew someone had copied top secret documents. How many suspects were there, then? Thirteen senators plus their staffers who had security clearance plus the professional staff. He did the math in his head. That meant a pool of seventy-six people who could have done it.
But they didn’t know it was him.
“Hold on a second,” Will said, holding up his hand. “You’re telling me there’s been another NSA leak?”
John looked sidelong at Nicole.
“How many does this even make since Snowden?”
“Um,” John said.
But Will didn’t wait for his answer. “What the hell is going on with you people? Another NSA screwup? My God, you guys leak like a, a salad spinner.” He considered saying something about Huggies diapers and how they didn’t leak, but he decided that not everybody had baby on the brain. “You sure as hell are better at collecting secrets than keeping them. And let’s not even talk about 9/11.” Will knew that the NSA shouldered the primary blame for not catching the September 11 terrorists, and that this was more than a sore point for the agency. “As you well know, my boss pretty much controls the purse strings for you guys. Every intel budget, every program — she decides thumbs-up or thumbs-down. She can yank those purse strings or she can just snip them off. So what I want to know is: This new leak — do we have something to worry about?”
“Not at all, sir. Nothing at all to worry about. We don’t need to take any more of your time.”
41
Tanner drove to the office, making a few extra turns, taking a circuitous route. Just in case he was being followed. Though in truth he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t.
In the afternoon, when it had been five hours since his meeting with Brent Stover, he gave in to his anxiety and called the guy, on his work number. Calling his mobile phone seemed a little too aggressive. He reached a woman named Linda who seemed to be his assistant, or maybe an assistant for a group of FBI officers. She said he was out of the office and that she’d take a message for him. A couple of hours later he tried Stover’s mobile. He got a recording of Stover saying, “Please leave a message.” He did.
At seven he left another message on Stover’s cell phone.
The next morning, Tanner was up early. He checked his e-mail and wondered for the first time whether anyone — “they” — might have tapped his Internet connection. He didn’t even know if that was possible.
He decided to go into work early. Sal the roaster might be at work — he kept long hours, by his own choice — or he might have to open the place, which he rarely had to do.
At seven thirty, before getting into his car, he called Brent Stover’s mobile phone. This was the third time. He got voice mail again. And he wondered: Was it possible Stover was just too busy to get back to him? If that was the case, leaving another message would be obnoxious. He ended the call before the beep. Then he called Stover’s office number and got a voice mail message. It was too early for the office there to open. He didn’t leave a message.
He wondered whether Stover was avoiding him for some reason. Maybe he was too busy with FBI casework and meetings and paperwork to have checked into the classified documents Tanner had told him about.
Sure... but Stover had sounded alarmed at what Tanner had told him. He had sounded intensely interested, and it wasn’t an act. It didn’t seem plausible that he’d drop it when he got into work.
There must be a good reason he was avoiding Tanner’s call.
At eight thirty he called Stover’s work number from his office landline. Linda answered.
“Yes, Mr. Tanner, good morning. He’s in a meeting, but I can take a message.”
Tanner left Stover a second message and told her it was important. “How long does that meeting go on for?” he asked.
“Usually no more than an hour. Half an hour to forty-five minutes, max.”
“Okay. Well, he’ll know what this is about, but please tell him I need to talk with him soon.”
“I will,” she said, pleasantly.
At ten thirty, he called Stover’s FBI line and got Linda again. “Is there a good time to reach him? I don’t want to keep bothering you.”
“I’m giving him the messages, sir,” she said testily.
“I appreciate that. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“I understand,” she said. “He’s a very busy man.”
“Is there a good time to reach him, do you think?”
“I’m sorry, sir, all I can do is give him your message.”
“So he knows I’ve been calling.”
“I don’t know whether he’s seen the messages, sir. I’ll tell him you called again.”
Tanner had his own meeting to get through, with Karen. At the end of it he asked if he could borrow her cell phone. She looked surprised — she could see his on his desk — but said sure.
She unlocked her home screen and handed it to him. As soon as she’d left the office, he called Brent Stover’s cell phone.
Stover answered right away. “Yeah?”
“Brent, it’s Michael Tanner, and I want to apologize for hounding you.”
“Yeah, uh, Michael, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m really awfully busy, I’m sorry, best of luck.”
There was a click. He had hung up.
Tanner was stunned. The FBI guy was avoiding him, that was clear, but why?
I’m afraid I can’t help you.