Severe Clear (11 page)

“And what did he have to say?”

“He said that, from what he was told by his sources, there are three al Qaeda operatives on the West Coast. Their code names are Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. He couldn’t find out where they are or how long they’ve been there or what they were there for.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Although he wouldn’t reveal his sources, I asked him where he got the information, and he said in Lebanon.”

“He said he went to Lebanon?”

“He said over dinner that he wanted to speak to his sources face-to-face, so I took him to mean that he was or had been in Lebanon. The reception on the call was not great.”

“Did he say he was still in Lebanon?”

“No, but he said he would keep at it for another day or two, and that if he got anything more, he’d be in touch.”

“Was the call from Hamish encrypted?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Well, I heard not half an hour ago that an NSA computer had picked up two more messages from California, one signed ‘Wynken,’ the other, ‘Blynken.’”

“So I might as well have stayed at home.”

“Your trip wasn’t for nothing. You got to know Hamish, and he got us confirmation on the three operatives. That’s worth a lot. It will make Scott Hipp at NSA very happy to know that his people’s work was confirmed.”

“Who is Scott Hipp?”

“A deputy director, in charge of electronic surveillance and cryptology. Very political. I expect to hear from the White House tonight that he has told them about Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.”

“I expect the Secret Service will be interested in that information.”

“Yes, they will,” Kate replied. “One thing troubles me, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Remember when Grace issued you your credentials and the two phones?”

“Yes?”

“Remember that we have constant GPS tracking on some of our phones?”

“Yes.”

“Hamish has one of those phones, one of those with the facility of encrypting, and the tracking on that phone indicates that he never left London.”

Holly stared at her boss blankly.

“Also, that Citation Mustang that he occasionally borrows from his friend, a London entrepreneur, has not been out of its hangar at Blackbushe Airport for the past ten days.”

“So Hamish lied to me?”

“Exactly,” Kate replied. “Now I want to see if he claims reimbursement for the airplane’s fuel usage. He can always say that he found another way to contact his sources and changed his mind about flying, but if he claims for the fuel, I’ll have his head.”

“But what about the information he said he got from his sources? Can we trust that?”

“Yes, because it has already been confirmed by the NSA—also, because Hamish has always been very careful not to overstate the quality of the information he passes to us, and he has never been wrong.”

“Somehow, I feel had,” Holly said.

“You haven’t been had, Hamish has just blown in your ear, that’s all. Now, don’t you have secretaries to interview?”

Holly stood up. “Yes, ma’am.” She went to her office, where the first candidate awaited her.

 20 

M
ike Freeman answered his suite door at The Arrington to find a messenger standing there with a package. He signed for it, tipped the man, and took it inside. He unwrapped a large cardboard tube and found a note attached to it.

“Call me when you receive this,” it said, and it was signed by Scott Hipp.

Mike opened the tube and shook out an enlarged photograph, a satellite view of the Los Angeles area. He flattened the photo and weighted the corners, then he called Hipp on his direct line.

“Scott Hipp.”

“It’s Mike Freeman, Scott. What have you sent me?”

“First, a little preamble,” Hipp said. “Yesterday one of my people was going through data collected on an automated computer, and he found two more messages with the text ‘All is well. I am fine.’ One was signed ‘Wynken,’ the other, ‘Blynken.’”

“Uh-oh.”

“Exactly.”

“What does the satshot you sent me have to do with them?”

“Are you looking at the photo?”

“I am.”

“Then you’ll see three straight lines emanating from a point on the high ground, just above the Stone Canyon Reservoir, which is the cell tower that received and transmitted the e-mails.”

“I see the lines.”

“They’re fairly close together, you will observe. Through some technology I’m not allowed to tell you about, we’ve gone back to the computer record of the three e-mails, which were all sent from cell phones, and determined the radials from the tower on which each caller was located when the e-mails were sent. This is not definitive, of course, because we can’t determine the distance of the sender from the tower. In theory, they could be standing anywhere on those lines, out to infinity. In practice, they were probably all within five miles of the tower.”

“I understand.”

“As you will no doubt note, one of the lines—the message signed ‘Nod’—passes through the grounds of The Arrington, so Nod could have been on the property when it was sent. Of course, he could have been north or south of The Arrington, too, or it could simply be a coincidence, but you get my drift.”

“I do.”

“That’s all I’ve got for you,” Hipp said. “I thought you’d find it interesting.”

“I find it fascinating, Scott. One more thing: do you have the dates on which the e-mails were sent?”

“Nod transmitted a week ago yesterday, the twelfth, Wynken, the fourteenth, and Blynken, the fifteenth.”

“Thank you again, Scott. Very much.”

“Take care.” Hipp hung up.

Mike stared at the map a little longer, then he got up and walked down the hill to the old Calder House, now the site of The Arrington’s executive offices. The building was nearly finished, now, and all the offices were occupied. He stopped at the reception desk.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Michael Freeman, of Strategic Services. We’re supplying all the security personnel for the hotel.”

“Yes, Mr. Freeman, I’ve seen you before.”

“Who is in charge of hiring for the hotel?”

“Well, each department head hires his own people: Food and Beverages hires the kitchen and restaurant staff, Domestic hires the maids, Landscaping, the outdoor workers, and so on.”

“Is there a director of personnel, who presides over the entire hotel?”

“No, sir. Each department has a budget and hiring conforms to that.”

“Who’s in charge of the overall budget?”

“Why, Carol, I suppose.”

“And who is he?”

“She. It’s Carol Pressler. Her office is just down the hall.” She pointed.

“Thank you.” Mike continued down the hallway and found a door labeled “Comptroller.” He knocked, and a woman’s voice yelled, “Come in.” He opened the door to find an attractive woman in her forties seated at a computer, her desk stacked with printouts. “Mrs. Pressler?”

“It’s Ms., and I’m Carol,” she said, holding out her hand. “You’re our security guy, aren’t you?”

“Mike Freeman, of Strategic Services.”

“Have a seat, Mike. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve just been told that there is no personnel director, as such, and that each department head is in charge of his own budget. Is that correct?”

“It is. The philosophy is that each department head will be much better acquainted with the qualifications of hirees in his department than an overall director of personnel.”

“But your department pays everybody?”

“Correct.”

“So you have a computer record of all employees?”

“Correct.”

“Can you tell from your records the date on which each was hired?”

“I can, otherwise I wouldn’t know when to start paying them.”

“I would be very grateful if you could give me a list of all the people hired on the twelfth, fourteenth, and fifteenth of this month.”

“Overall, or by department?”

“By department would be helpful.”

“Can you give me a few minutes?” she asked.

“Of course.” Mike rose to go.

“Oh, not that many minutes. Just wait.”

Mike sat down again.

Carol Pressler turned to her computer and began typing. As she typed, her printer began to disgorge paper. A few minutes later, she got up, retrieved the paper from the printer, and handed it to Mike. “A total of a hundred and thirty-five workers were hired during those three days.”

Mike took the stack of paper from her. “So many?”

“We’ll have a little over one employee for every guest,” she said.

“I mean, so many in just three days?”

“Peak hiring time,” she said. “The hotel wants to hire people only shortly before they are to begin working. Interviewing has been going on for weeks, of course, but we want to hire personnel just in time to train them and put them to work, so the actual hiring is compressed into just a few days.”

“I see,” Mike said. “And did the Secret Service review the records of each hiree?”

“Yep. First time I’ve ever dealt with them, but given the importance of the guests, it’s understandable.”

“And did the Secret Service decline to clear any of them?”

“Only two, and they were Mexican-Americans who had counterfeit green cards. Very good counterfeits, too. Fooled me.”

“And they were not hired?”

“Nope. It’s the policy of the board to hire only legal workers. You should know that, since you’re on the board.”

“Quite right.” Mike stood up. “Thank you, Carol,” he said.

“You’re entirely welcome. I expect we’ll meet again.”

“I hope so,” Mike said. He shook her hand and left the office.

Walking back to his suite, he reflected that if Wynken, Blynken, and Nod were hired on those days—and that was only an assumption—and each had undergone the extensive background check by the Secret Service, then he was going to have a hell of a time figuring out who they were.

 21 

H
olly Barker looked across her desk at the young woman. Her name was Heather Scott, she was thirty-five, single, and had been at the Agency since her graduation from college. Holly liked her. She particularly liked that she had held responsible assistant’s jobs in both analysis and operations, so she had an understanding of how both directorates worked.

“Heather?”

“Everybody has called me Scotty, since childhood.”

“You were born and raised in a place called . . .” Holly checked her application. “Delano, Georgia?”

“That’s right. Public schools, followed by the University of Georgia.”

“And you were recruited where?”

“On campus at Georgia. A recruiter spent a few days there.”

“What do you hate most about the Agency?”

Scotty erupted in laughter. “That’s a tough one, since I like so many things about it. I like coming to work every day.”

“Come on, what do you hate?”

“I hate it when I can see a piece of information as relevant, even critical, and it takes the Agency too long to come to the same conclusion.”

Holly laughed. “I think we’ve all had that experience. No matter how exotic our work, we’re still a bureaucracy.”

“I’ve had to get used to that.”

The two women talked on for another half hour, then Holly said, “I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

“Right,” Scotty said. She stood up and shook hands with Holly. “If it’s offered to me, I’ll take it.”

“Good to know.” Holly watched her leave, then she got up and walked across the reception room to Grace’s desk. “Okay, I’ve found my assistant. What next?”

“I’ll send her name to our internal security people, and they’ll do a fresh background check, from the ground up.”

“How long will that take?”

“Yours took a week,” Grace said, “but Heather Scott’s is likely to take a lot less, since she’s never been employed anywhere but here.”

“Then go,” Holly said, handing her Heather’s personnel file. “The sooner she’s cleared, the sooner you can wash your hands of me.”

Grace smiled. “Oh, you’re not so bad. You’re a piece of cake, compared to the director.”

Holly laughed and went back to her office, past the outer room where her assistant’s desk was. Her phone buzzed: the director.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Come in for a minute, Holly.”

Holly opened the adjoining door and walked in. Kate Lee was sitting on a sofa by the window and waved her to a seat.

“How’s the search for an assistant going?”

“I’ve found her, I think.”

“Did you talk only to women?”

“I’ve seen half a dozen people. Two of them were women. The one I didn’t choose was probably a good secretary, but I thought she would never be more than that. All the men were too nakedly ambitious, I thought.”

“And the other woman was just right.”

“I believe so. Grace is ordering the requisite recheck of her background, and if she passes, I’ll offer her the job.”

“Good. Now there’s something else I want to ask you about. I’m reviewing a number of people who might be suitable to replace me, and one of them, of course, is Lance Cabot.”

Holly nodded.

“I want to ask you some questions about Lance, and I want you to put aside personal loyalty for a moment and give me straight answers, the unvarnished truth. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Forgive me if I cover territory you’re already familiar with, but it’s necessary.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Lance had a stellar career as an agent in Europe, but nobody he worked with liked him very much, including his boss in the London station, Dick Stone, whose untimely death allowed Lance to leapfrog into his position as DDO—at least, that’s the way some people saw it at the time. Why do you think he’s not very well liked?”

Holly thought about that for a moment. “A minute ago, you said you wanted the unvarnished truth.”

“And I do.”

“The unvarnished truth is what Lance offers, and he doesn’t much care who the recipient is. He states his opinions flatly and backs up his hunches with facts, then he defends his positions very strongly.”

“I think that’s fair to say,” Kate replied.

“It may be fair, but a lot of people don’t find it attractive. Lance can be charming, when it suits him, or when it’s required to get what he wants, but he doesn’t employ charm a lot in intra-Agency relations. As a result, people always approach Lance with some trepidation.”