The Director: A Novel (9 page)

“You know what I think?” muttered Beasley, his voice dropping an octave to a menacing low bass. “I think we should fuck . . . them . . . up.”

Beasley was a Princeton man, out of a prep school before that, but he knew how to sound street-tough.

Morris adjusted his glasses. He was at pains to correct Beasley.

“These hackers may look funny, with their tattoos and spike hair, but they are serious people. They have weapons. They fight back. That’s why we need to download this man as quickly as we can. Then, well, then you can slit their throats if you like. But I suggest it would be wiser to get inside their computer networks.”

People nodded. Nobody in the room had ever heard Morris talk about slitting throats, or imagined that he was a man who thought in those terms, but he was playing the role the director had given him.

“Why would hackers go after the CIA?” asked Ruth Savin. “Isn’t that a reach?” The general counsel hadn’t spoken until now. She was the watcher and note-taker at meetings like this, and she enjoyed asking uncomfortable questions.

Weber looked at Morris, who remained silent. He didn’t respond to questions if he didn’t have an answer.

“Are they working for another government?” pressed Savin.

Weber looked again to his Information Operations chief, but the tall young man was impassive.

“I don’t think we know,” said Weber. “That’s why we’ve got to get this walk-in out of Germany and hear what he has to say.”

“We need to be careful about how we try to penetrate these groups,” said Savin. “Beasley has been ordered to stay away from WikiLeaks and their friends. There is a huge flap potential if anything surfaces.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Morris. “But we need to develop sources.”

Heads nodded in agreement, even Beasley’s.

There was a rustling sound, as Cyril Hoffman moved about on the couch. Hoffman hadn’t said a word until now. He had sat quietly on the couch with his hands clasped together, listening to the discussion. He was a large man, and the folds of his voluminous jacket covered him like a cape.

“May I?” Hoffman asked, looking to Weber.

“Please. I want to know what you think about all this.”

“I feel badly for you, Graham,” Hoffman began. “What a welcoming present. I am reminded of the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: a crescendo right at the beginning, with the whole orchestra racing along behind. Yet all anyone remembers is those first few notes.”

“I’m not much on classical music,” said Weber.

“No one is perfect, Mr. Director. Now, you asked me what I think about this Hamburg business, so I’ll tell you. To quote the indispensable Talleyrand, ‘One can do everything with a bayonet except sit on it.’”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you have to respond, but carefully. This is either a big problem that threatens the agency’s communications, or a small problem created by a young man in Germany with fanciful ideas. But unfortunately, you don’t know which yet. So you have to protect against the worst without damaging yourself in the process.”

“Forgive the mundane. But what would Talleyrand say about operational security?”

“Treat this as a code break. Change encryption keys. Sweep the facilities in Germany and Switzerland. Do a damage assessment on the officers’ names that have been revealed. Who have they recruited? What operations have been compromised? Beasley can do all that for you. Damage control is one of his specialties.”

Hoffman looked at Beasley, with whom he had been doing business for nearly two decades. Beasley nodded.

“Okay,” said Weber. “What else?”

“I am intrigued by your plan to give principal responsibility to our young colleague, Mr. Pownzor. That’s unusual.” Hoffman looked toward Morris indulgently.

“Meaning that you think it’s a mistake?” asked the director.

“Not necessarily. It sends a message: You’re the change agent! So here’s a bit of change, right off the bat: entrusting a sensitive problem to a young man who has the ‘right stuff.’ It tells the workforce that you are the new man; you mean what you say. Bravo to that!”

Hoffman clapped his hands, barely audibly, pat-pat-pat.

“Thank you,” said Weber, knowing that the director of intelligence had just given him the authority and opportunity to destroy himself.

Cyril Hoffman was an unlikely intelligence czar. He was an eccentric, theatrical personality—rumored to be gay, but such a Protean character that any such effort at categorization was misplaced. He was a student of Philip Glass operas and the history of Italian city-states; he was an amateur poet and cellist; he was a man of parts. This improbable figure had survived at the agency, and indeed had eventually been promoted to director of National Intelligence, because he understood the nature of power in a secret bureaucracy. Nearly everyone in the U.S. government owed him a favor. Abroad, he had his own back channels with the heads of a dozen foreign spy services. Above all, Hoffman understood that the eleventh commandment for spies was, in the words of Lord Palmerston: “Do not get caught.”

Weber took up the rope of command that Hoffman had handed him. He asked Beasley to summarize the damage-control measures he would take in EUR Division, and he asked Morris to go over one more time what they knew about the walk-in and the milieu from which he had emerged.

“Any other items of business?” asked Weber when these recitations were finished. “It’s my first Friday afternoon, so let’s clear the decks.”

“I have some operational approvals that need your sign-off,” said Beasley. “The Special Activities Review Committee sent five tasking orders to the general counsel’s office. Ruth has cleared them all. They’re all Internet-related. We can do that now or save it for another time.”

“Go ahead. Empty the in-box. What have you got?”

Beasley took five slim red folders from Savin and handed them to the director. The pure white cuff of his London shirt extended from his blue suit.

“As I said, it’s five items. Two are about facilitating cover, two are about case officer movements, one is a general authority.”

“Do they involve U.S. corporations?” asked Weber. He was used to being on the receiving end of operations like this.

“Yes, sir,” said Beasley. “For the cover integration, we need to massage some social networking sites and search engines to backstop the legends. We’re doing the work overseas, so it’s under existing authorities and approvals.”

Beasley was talking fast. Weber interrupted. This was his meeting, and he wanted to run it.

“Is that right?” Weber asked Savin. “Is this all legal?”

“Yes, sir. It accords with our existing identities-protection program, and with Executive Order 12333, as amended.”

“Are the companies witting?”

“Not in every case,” she answered.

“Which means what?”

“Which means that some of the general counsels’ offices have personnel who have served in government and hold the necessary clearances and are familiar with our procedures.”

“Do they tell their bosses?”

“Where appropriate. In many cases, the CEOs have been briefed extensively, and so they are witting, yes. I know you remember that from your former life.”

“That’s why it makes me nervous,” said Weber. “So you talk to friendly CEOs, and in other cases, not so much.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it’s overseas, so it doesn’t really matter, because under Title Fifty we can do whatever we want,” said the director as if reading a legal primer.

“Pretty much,” chimed in Beasley, a twinkle in his eye.

“Let’s give this one a closer look,” said Weber. “I’ll sit down with Ruth and go over the rules.”

People looked at each other. Directors didn’t question operational approvals that had been okayed by the general counsel.

“Let’s move on,” said Weber. “What about the movements of case officers? What’s that?”

“Two requests,” said Beasley. “Change retinal-scan database in Dubai for a traveling officer who has already transited that point under a different identity, and alter a fingerprint database in Russia, same reason.”

“What if we get busted?”

“We won’t,” said a voice from the back. It was Morris, who was still standing just back from the couch. “Our tradecraft is well developed. Our alteration software erases its tracks as it changes the data. We are invisible, in and out.”

Morris seemed to light up when he talked about technical issues. It was part of his uncanny, almost spooky self-confidence.

Weber held up the last red file marked Information Operations and Global Financial Market Integrity.

“This looks dubious,” said the director. “What is it, Earl?”

“Ask Morris,” said Beasley. “This one will go through his shop.”

Morris looked at the floor awkwardly.

“To be clear: This was not my idea, but it will use IOC resources. Basically, it’s a general authority for collection of economic intelligence via the Internet.”

“Why are we doing that? I thought we left that sort of thing to the French and Chinese.”

“The markets are . . . nervous,” said Morris. “Everyone is looking over their shoulders. So . . . inevitably, people are hacking other people’s databases and market platforms. They’re installing beacons; getting ready to change zeroes and ones, if they ever need to.”

“Why is that inevitable?”

Morris peered back at the director from behind those black glasses. He was trying to read his new boss.

“Because, Mr. Director, if people can play games with any system, they will. It’s a sport for younger people. They like to attack systems just to show how stupid other people are. Director Jankowski thought we needed to be prepared.”

“He’s gone now,” said Weber. “What about us? Are we altering other people’s data? Are we penetrating their ‘databases and market platforms’?”

Ruth Savin, the general counsel, answered before anyone else could speak.

“We do not collect intelligence on behalf of American companies,” she said.

“Is that a formal prohibition?” asked Weber.

The room was silent. Most eyes turned to the senior official present, Cyril Hoffman.

“Is this the time for a full review?” sighed Hoffman. He was looking at his watch. “This is a story for another day, surely. Mr. Morris needs to get working so he can catch his plane tomorrow.”

Savin took the cue from the DNI. She reached toward the director to take back the five red folders, but Weber held them close.

“I want to check the small print,” said Weber.

“Of course, sir. We’ll set up a time in the reading room.”

“But suppose I want to read them now.”

“The practice has always been to return operational files at the end of the meeting. These files are subject to the special controls for the Special Activities Review Committee. Would you like to change those procedures, Director?”

Weber looked at Hoffman, whose mouth was turned down at the corners in something approaching a scowl.

“Leave the procedures unchanged,” said the director. “I’ll schedule a time to come read.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“And I’ll want to read into the back files, too, to review information operations that were approved previously and are on the books.”

Savin looked to Hoffman, who was stone-faced. Their silence peeved Weber.

“Hey, folks, let’s be clear. I’m not going to stay in a job if I can’t read the files. Not a chance. I’ll call the president. He can find someone else.”

Hoffman puckered his lips. He didn’t like public displays, and he didn’t like it when officials who had been in their jobs for one week threatened to quit. But little showed on that round, genial face.

“Of course that can be managed,” he said calmly, measuring each word. “Ruth, make whatever arrangements are necessary to read the director in.”

Hoffman gave a little bow toward Graham Weber. There was bland look on his face, a mask of cordiality.

“And again, welcome, Mr. Director,” he said, extending his hand. “You have taken on a very big job. I don’t want to see you fail.”

It was an expression of confidence, if you parsed the words, but Weber sensed that he was perilously close to making an enemy. He clasped Hoffman’s elbow as people were heading toward the door.

“Thank you,” said Weber.

“Perhaps I might stay for a few private words,” said Hoffman as the last of the other visitors left the room. He walked to the door and closed it.

The two men took seats opposite each other. They formed a contrasting portrait: one man large and ceremonious, the other compact and informal. But it was also a juxtaposition of two generations and cultures: an older one rooted in a past that, whatever its recent difficulties, had the weight and momentum of history; the other proposing an uncertain future with both opportunities and dislocations.

Hoffman spoke first. He was more intimate in private, no longer playing a role.

“You really must be careful, you know,” said Hoffman. “We all understand that the world has to change. I supported the president’s decision to bring you in, because I know we need a fresh start. But if you pull too hard on the thread, you will soon find that you don’t have any sweater left.”

Weber nodded. He needed Hoffman’s help but wasn’t sure how to get it without compromising his own goals.

“I don’t want to scare people, Cyril, especially not you. But if you don’t frighten people a little in the beginning, they won’t take you seriously. You have to send things back at first, and tell people they can do better. Otherwise you’re stuck.”

“Yes, yes.” Hoffman smiled. “I know that’s what they teach at the Harvard Business School. But this is different. You are now responsible for the security of your country. The world is a very dangerous place these days, and, thanks to our leaker friends, the NSA and CIA have lost their ability to monitor some of the truly menacing people. That’s not government propaganda, it’s a simple fact. The leakers have taken our most precious secrets and exposed them to the whole world. The programs that have been revealed cost many billions of dollars. People gave their lives to protect those secrets, and now they are being published in the newspapers willy-nilly.”