The Director: A Novel (20 page)

“Be your agent, in other words, inside the IOC? That’s what this would be.”

“Yes, basically, that’s right.”

“Wow. That’s . . . unusual. Is it legal?”

“Of course it is. I run the organization. If I say I want something, pursuant to the powers the president has given me, then it’s legal.”

“What happens if Pownzor finds out? He would destroy me.”

“I’ll take care of you. As you said, I’m the director. I run the place.”

She looked him in the eye, studying his handsome, boyish face, trying to make up her mind.

“I mean it,” she said. “He would destroy me. I don’t just mean move me out of my job. He would wipe me out. Ruin my name and future. He may act like a punk, but he has a lot of friends.”

“You have to trust me, Ariel, or don’t do it. It’s my job to fix what’s wrong at the agency, but I need help. You told me you were a risk-taker, so now’s the time to go all in. Otherwise, I won’t believe all that tough-girl stuff.”

“Unfair,” she said, smiling. But there was a calculating look in her eye, too.

“What’s in it for me?” she asked. “Other than helping you, that is.”

“What do you want?” asked Weber. He hadn’t expected such a transactional response.

“I’d love to run the IOC someday. Maybe move up to the seventh floor when there’s an opening for a deputy or counselor. I’m a good manager.”

“You’re ambitious,” said Weber.

“Of course I am. Princes don’t rescue fair damsels for nothing anymore, and vice versa.”

“No promises. But you’d be the obvious candidate to succeed Morris, unless I need you elsewhere in senior management.”

“Acceptable,” she said.

“I’ll take that as yes, which is the right choice. For a minute there, I was worried you were just another young careerist.”

“I am that, too.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Okay, hotshot, here’s your first tasking: I want you to get inside Morris’s head: Find out what he does when he’s off on operations. There’s nothing inappropriate about that. You’re his deputy, you’re supposed to know what he’s doing. You said you like secrets. Okay, time to find out some new ones. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Sure. Like you said, it’s my job. But I’m a Company girl, just so you know.”

“Good. I’m a Company man now, too. So starting today, I want you to know everything about your boss. Pull his files, rumble his email, anything you can access. If you need help—technical stuff, whatever—just tell me. If you run into walls you can’t get through, tell me that, too.”

“IOC is all walls. Pownzor has compartments inside his compartments. Nobody sees the big picture except him.”

“Well, that’s about to change. Gather up the records of Morris’s operations over the last two years, all the ones you can find. Look at the operational pattern, and then see what’s missing. That will help you know where to look for networks that are off the books.”

“Who should I say is requesting all this information?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

Weber laughed and put his big hand on her shoulder.

“Tell them it’s Jack Florey.”

She laughed, too. He had been listening to her college stories, after all.

“How should we communicate? If Pownzor is as wired as you think, I need to be careful.”

Weber thought a moment. “Back in a minute,” he said.

Weber exited his dining room and went back into his office. Weiss stared out the window, thinking of all the CIA directors who had sat here since the 1960s, and the nightmares they had struggled through. Some had been lucky and solved their problems cleanly; most had not. This was the house of broken dreams and ambitions.

Weber returned thirty seconds later with two Nokia cell phones, manufactured circa 2005, and a package containing a string of SIM cards, numbered one through ten.

“This is a clean phone,” he said, handing her one of the Nokias. “Every time I call you, toss the SIM card and move to the next one. I have a list of the numbers. I’ll have the same rig.” He held up the second phone. “Here’s my number and a list of the SIM cards I’ll be using. Don’t let go of these. Sleep with them under your pillow.”

He handed her two pieces of paper with the various numbers. She was biting her lip. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to block a thought.

“Is this hack going to work?” asked Weber. “You’re the expert.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Sometimes at MIT we would talk about ‘can’t happen’ mistakes, which were conditions that theoretically were impossible but had appeared in the system anyway. Like when a file size comes up as negative.”

“And what’s the outcome, when you get one of these ‘can’t happen’ events?”

“Usually it’s a fatal error and the system crashes.”

Weber nodded, shook her hand and let her out the door. The secretaries, Marie and Diana, exchanged glances as they watched her go.

17

HAMBURG

K. J. Sandoval, the
Hamburg base chief, was still upset about the way her case had been taken away from her by a male superior from another division, and then blown, with no consequences for anyone, near as she could tell. It wasn’t fair. Her father had always counseled her with the bromide that in dealing with the Anglo power structure, don’t get mad, get even. So after a few days’ reflection, she consulted a former Justice Department lawyer in Washington who still had a high-security clearance and specialized in workplace-discrimination cases for people in the intelligence community. The lawyer wasn’t sure that Sandoval had a case, but she agreed to write a letter to the Equal Employment Opportunity office, laying out the basics of the complaint, without the highly classified details. The EEO office had a counseling and investigation staff, she said, that tried to resolve cases quickly and quietly.

The key paragraph of the letter read as follows:

Ms. Sandoval has been informed that a matter involving a developmental asset she initially handled was assigned to the Information Operations Center, working with a special compartmented task force. Because she was not asked to join the task force, despite her experience with the case as a designated officer of the National Clandestine Service, Ms. Sandoval believes that she has suffered from unfair and discriminatory action. Ms. Sandoval speaks Level 3 German, and has good liaison contacts in Hamburg and elsewhere in Germany. As her attorney, I request that she be included immediately in the IOC/NCS joint task force. Otherwise, I will make a formal complaint to the Official of Equal Employment Opportunity and request a full fact-finding investigation and resolution
.

Agency officials, who had become highly skilled at ass-covering and legal self-protection, recognized immediately that the letter had what they called “flap potential.” A copy was sent by the senior EEO compliance officer to the general counsel’s office, where it was bumped up to the boss, Ruth Savin. She knew that Graham Weber had made a personal decision to assign the Hamburg case to James Morris, which meant that he would personally be involved in any investigation and arbitration. So Savin made an appointment to see him that afternoon.

“Pain in the neck,” said Savin as she handed a copy of the attorney’s letter to Graham Weber. A career in the federal government had taught her to regard discrimination claims from civil-service employees in much the same way Supreme Court justices view habeas corpus petitions from condemned prisoners, as a tedious waste of time.

Savin waited opposite Weber while he read the letter. An unlikely smile came over his face. He was looking for new allies, and he saw a chance to recruit another.

“Let’s do what she wants,” he said. “Have her call me. I’ll assign her to work on the case personally, directly for me.”

Savin frowned. Her usual legal advice to senior officials was that they keep their distance from prospective plaintiffs, rather than embrace them.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Cases like this can bite you.”

“I need help. She wants to be useful. Sounds like a match to me. Let’s call her.”

“Now?”

“Why not? Let’s see what she can dig up. If she gets anything, we can bring her back here. Meet her away from Headquarters.”

“Are you going to tell Morris?”

“No. That’s the point. I want someone working this who is
not
Morris.”

“You’re the boss,” she said. Those words were frequently uttered by general counsels, in and out of government, but rarely with equanimity.

Weber had Savin wait with him while Marie dialed Sandoval’s secure cell phone in Germany. He wanted a witness. The phone rang. It was after ten p.m. in Germany. Eventually a half-sleepy voice answered, in English.

“This is Haven J. Pullman,” said Weber, using the agency pseudonym that he used in correspondence.

There was a pause on the other end, while Sandoval ran through her mental Rolodex of names, cryptonyms and pseudonyms. When she realized who it was, a note of surprise and worry came into her voice.

“How can I help you, sir? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. I just read your lawyer’s letter to the EEO office. The general counsel showed it to me. I think you’re right. I want you to be involved more in this case.”

“You do?”

“Yes. We need to do more. But I don’t want to put you on the special task force that was assigned to pursue it.”

“Why not? I’m well qualified.” There was a bite in her response, as she sensed she was getting passed over once again.

“I want you to work directly for me. I’d like a second set of eyes looking at this case. Use your own sources, and follow your own leads. Report to me directly. That’s the deal. Don’t tell COS Berlin and don’t tell EUR Division. This is a private reporting line. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Director,” she said, a slight quaver of awe. “Are you sure this is okay, you know, bureaucratically?”

Weber looked at Savin. He smiled.

“The general counsel is with me, and she says it’s fine. Isn’t that right, Ruth?”

Savin winced, but she didn’t say anything.

“What do you want me to look for?” asked Sandoval.

“The obvious questions: I want to know what happened to your guy. And I want to know whether he was telling the truth when he said we had a problem.”

“That means I have to get inside the hacker underground,” said Sandoval gravely.

“Yes, if possible. Did this Swiss boy give you any leads to work on when you debriefed him?”

“Nothing very good. He talked about the Friends of Cerberus, and the Exchange. I have no idea what they are.”

“Find out. Get me some answers. If you have anything good, then get on a plane and fly to Washington. Come right away, no waiting or hand-wringing. Just do it.”

“Yes, Director.”

“Don’t disappoint me. I want a report in a week, and I want to see you right away if you’ve got something I need to hear.”

“What if I get in trouble?”

“Don’t. But if something happens, I have your back.”

Sandoval was silent for a moment as she considered this profession of loyalty from her supreme leader.

“Hay má
s
tiempo que vida.
That’s something my dad used to tell us.”

“What does it mean?” asked Weber.

“‘Life is short. Seize the moment.’”

“Smart man. Do what he says. Goodbye.”

Weber hung up. Savin looked at him dubiously, but that didn’t matter. Now the director had his second back-channel ally—a Spanish-proverb-quoting, semisuccessful, modestly pissed-off, midcareer Mexican-American case officer with a chip on her shoulder and a name that sounded like a hooker’s. Perfect.

Kitten Sandoval stayed up much of the night worrying about how to perform the assignment the director had given her. It is often a fact that when we obtain the prize we have been seeking, it feels like a burden. But when she awoke after a few hours’ sleep, it was a sunny morning. She pulled the drapes so she could look out over the botanical gardens through the window of her flat. The morning sun was glinting off the artificial lake. Beyond were the pavilions of the Japanese tea gardens, and the orderly grid of plants and pathways of this very German park.

Sandoval made herself a cup of coffee, ate half a sweet bun and threw the rest away so she wouldn’t be tempted. When it was nine, she telephoned her most useful friend in Hamburg. His name was Walter Kreiser, the former head of Germany’s concatenated
Bundesnachrichtendienst
, or BND, the federal intelligence service.

Sandoval was direct. She asked Kreiser if they could meet for a conversation that very day. He suggested lunch at Die Bank, his favorite brasserie in Neustadt, housed behind the grand façade of a nineteenth-century finance house. But Sandoval said no, this was better discussed in a private place; she asked if she might perhaps come visit him at his apartment in Uhlenhorst, across the lake from the consulate. Kreiser suggested she come at eleven for coffee.

Kreiser was waiting in his apartment, an austere modern German structure of blocks and rectangles, all in white. He was a widower, but his housekeeper kept the place tidy and had set out flowers on the table; she brought a coffee service on a silver platter soon after Sandoval arrived, and then disappeared.

He was a gentle-looking, white-haired man in his early sixties who wore wire-rimmed glasses, a white button-down shirt and rep tie; his every aspect was neat and unobtrusive. He was a product of the early Cold War school of German intelligence officers who had been trained by the British and believed, with their mentors, that intelligence officers should to the extent possible be invisible.

“What a nice surprise,” he said, pouring the coffee from the silver pot. “I hope it is nothing bad that brings you to see an old man on a sunny morning.”

“I need your help,” she said.

He took her hand. He was flattered, but he was not an idiot.

“Don’t be silly. The U.S. government wants something. I understand.”

Kreiser had taken an interest in Sandoval when she first arrived in Hamburg, not just because she was young and attractive, but because he was unabashedly pro-American and could see that this new arrival needed a mentor who understood Germany. They took to having coffee, and then an occasional dinner. She dressed up when she went to see him and took his arm when they went for a stroll. He reciprocated in his way, buying her presents and taking her to favorite haunts in the old city, telling things about the German scene that she could not otherwise have learned. He liked calling her by her forename.