“Holy shit...”
Burns threw him a glance, conveying to McBurney the
distinct impression he was being kept in the dark. “You still believe Ahmadi
was burned?”
“Had to be.” McBurney grimaced. “But I want that FBI file. If
he was burned and tortured, how could his masters ransack the place and
overlook the satellite data? I think the Bureau took the low-hanging fruit
approach. I guess they’re under a lot of pressure.”
“What’s the latest on our botched defection?”
McBurney knew that the physicist debacle was bound to come
up. “Beijing reports that Zhongnanhai is still furious about it, that they’re
using it to pre-empt every other issue previously on the table.”
“Shit.”
McBurney took several minutes to remind Director Burns how
the defection attempt had depended upon their primary agent inside Beijing,
whose illness and subsequent death could have significantly impacted the
outcome.
Burns looked at McBurney. “You’re certain SIREN is dead?”
“Unfortunately yes. I’ll have my staff construct a
full-blown analysis on what that’s going to mean.” Director Burns clearly understood
that SIREN had been the last of their deep Beijing assets.
“Do we know where they’re keeping Zhao, the physicist, and
his wife?”
“Rotger claims to know for a fact that they aren’t being
held in Qincheng, or for that matter anywhere else in the gulag. He thinks they
may actually be somewhere inside Zhongnanhai.” Zhongnanhai was the government
compound inside which few Chinese citizens and even fewer foreigners were
allowed. The implication was that McBurney’s high-stakes attempt to defect them
had been justified.
“Huh. What’s Rotger’s latest thinking on the regime
transition?”
“Rotger’s afraid that Rong Peng, remember he’s their
Military Affairs second-in-command—”
“I know who he is.”
“I guess Rong is gaining political ground. We think he and
his cronies are the driving force behind proliferation and other weapons
technology violations.”
Burns mulled on that bit of news for several moments. “The
President’s not going to like hearing any more blame pinned to his buddy Rong. We
know that the general secretary is fond of the man. Do we have any idea how a
guy coming in from almost nowhere is expected to consolidate power?”
“Not yet, and no one’s thrilled with the prospect of Rong
taking over the reins, except for maybe, well, President Denis.” McBurney was
growing short of breath and his knee was hurting more with every lap. “The
issue for Rong or whoever winds up in power is how strong his support is among
the PLA. Rong likes to speak openly about liberalizing trade agreements and
religious freedom, but behind the scenes he must be doing something to curry
favor with the hard-liners.”
“China’s been through enough transitions to know better
than to push a weak leader onto the scene. What do we think Rong’s doing to
schmooze the conservatives?”
“Maybe Rotger’s revelation of Rong’s weapon’s trafficking...?”
Burns frowned. “It would need to be more substantial. Hell,
we’re talking about the next core leader of China. I could certainly see nuke
proliferation as part of a larger strategy. By the way, how do your friends in
Japan feel about the latest cloud on our national missile defense horizon?”
“Cloud?”
“Here at home. The final appropriations phase for NMD is
scheduled for congressional review next week. Word is that support on the Hill
is evaporating. I guess final appropriations is under attack.”
“This late in the game? What’s driving it this time?”
“If you believe what you hear, more hand-wringing over
Korea and China and God knows who else responding with another arms race, ratcheting
India and Pakistan further into the fray and blah, blah, blah. Think about it. Appeasement
has never worked in history, not once, and yet people seem to think...” Burns’s
face became blank. To McBurney’s great relief, the DCI reigned in the pace from
slow jog to casual walk. “I guess I don’t know what people think.”
McBurney repeated what Director Burns already knew, the
near total absence of any significant arms escalation in direct response to
American missile defense. “We’ve given that pitch to the staffers so many times
that they don’t want to hear it any more. They can’t be serious about pulling
the plug now.”
“Sure they are. And if the senate filibusters, they could
delay or cancel the launch at Vandenberg carrying the final SBIRS deployments
in, what, six weeks? You know what that means?”
“It means policymakers vacillate and eventually the world
will
respond to the prospect of our missile defenses—meanwhile we
don’t
deploy them.” It meant the worst of both worlds. McBurney caught himself about
to remind Burns there existed one credible escalation theory, admittedly
unproven, whereby China was in the process of fielding some sort of
countermeasure—their disappearing satellite. Besides, the conventional fears
moved the conventional wisdom in Washington. “There’s no indication that
Beijing has actually followed through on their threat to MIRV mobile warheads,
to cite just one example. None of the other players on the radar screen can
afford to do much. For that matter, money’s been tight in Beijing.”
“That’s what I mean—hand-wringing. And the President is
pissed
.”
“He is?” That had to be among the biggest political shifts
he had ever heard of. He wondered which of the many special interests arrayed
against NMD was responsible for this latest congressional waffling. “I thought
President Denis detested missile defense.”
“Just forget I said that. One other thing, Sam.”
“What’s that, sir?”
Burns studied his face for a moment, giving him the feeling
that there was something out of place. McBurney brushed his hand over his
mouth.
“Do you like your job, Sam?” Burns bent over to tie the
laces of his running shoe. “You’ve expressed misgivings in the past.”
McBurney was stunned into silence. Upon his return from an
abbreviated retirement, he had chosen to be clear about his disagreements with
the way the Agency was run, and not simply his widely held view that
clandestiny had taken a back seat to technical intelligence gathering. He
believed that hyper-political correctness was stifling morale and risk-taking
and ultimately turning away the most talented individuals. He specifically
recalled discussing these things in Burns’s office following the Director’s
swearing in. McBurney regretted that particularly frank discussion as he
pondered the Director’s question.
“I like my job just fine, Lester, I...look, who can deny
feeling a little wander-lust at some point in their career?”
Burns straightened up and ran his arm across his forehead. “Things
around town are getting a little...
tense
.” He looked McBurney in the
eye. “If I were you, I’d start taking the Task Force a little more seriously.”
McBurney grappled with what could only be an unveiled
threat of being sacked from his job. “I think they’re convening this morning.”
“Be there.”
ON THE 5TH FLOOR
of
the J. Edgar Hoover Building, steering committee membership of the Joint
Counter-Terrorism Task Force had grown from eight to fourteen. CIA intelligence
officer Samuel McBurney was notably unaccounted for, and so thirteen tense law
enforcement and intelligence professionals had arranged themselves around the
table, their hands resting in their laps or clutching mugs of coffee. Included now
were six senior representatives of the Drug Enforcement Agency, the theory
being that nothing less than an inexhaustible supply of illicit drug money was
being laundered into terrorist organizations in order to fund their seemingly
unstoppable
jihad
.
Special Agent Peter Kosmalski finished reading the summary
minutes of Friday’s meeting. The latest of their forty-three ongoing
independent investigations was underway in response to the Trans Alaska
Pipeline attack, which already had debunked the corrosion failure theory of
early press reports.
“Before I get to the pipeline investigation, our deputy
director of counter-terrorism received a phone call over the weekend from
President Denis.” Kosmalski paused to see that he had their attention. “The
President was accompanied on the line by Rabbi Goldberg of the Holocaust
Memorial Council. They called to convey their ongoing support, and to express
their concern that they had not heard of any developments in our investigation.
You can imagine the box where the deputy assistant director found himself. You
can also imagine his subsequent conversation with me.”
Kosmalski positioned his oval brass wire rims down below
the bridge of his nose. “On a more positive note, Fairbanks dispatched agents
to investigate this pipeline mess and they’re reporting a couple of early home
runs.” He explained that, with the help of Mossad, they’d already established a
link between recovered demolition fragments and the site of a deteriorated
Ankara hospital, ransacked prior to being demolished early the previous year,
as well as those found after a pipeline attack in Netanya, Israel. Apparently,
such pipeline incidents did not typically achieve a great deal of damage, more
nuisance and political statement than hazard. They were a regular fact of life
in places like Nigeria, and it was being reported TAP will be repaired and back
on-line in 36 hours. None around the conference table were surprised to hear
that Free Palestine was claiming responsibility, the eighth such claim.
“Alaskan SkyTours is one of these biking package tour
outfits. One of their guides became suspicious and describes two bicycle
tourists, whom he claims to have thought were Greek or possibly Turkish,
peeling off from their group a day or so before the bombing. They were supposed
to rendezvous later but didn’t. Fairbanks followed up with a check at the last
hotel where they were seen. The night clerk reported a parcel delivery to their
room. FedEx trace goes back to Detroit, a cellular call, and a stolen credit
card.
“From what we know of their descriptions the two may have
split up, but on the evening before the blast at least one of them boarded a
Korean Air Lines flight in Anchorage, direct to Seoul. Turkish passport checks
out counterfeit. Remnants of a timer were found at the blast site. The
scenario’s plausible.”
From Seoul the trail disappeared. “We’re working with our
legal attaché to try and screen airline manifests for any unaccounted outbound...well,
well. Today is our lucky day.”
Sam McBurney stormed into the room and marched directly to
where Kosmalski was sitting. There were splotches of red on his face as if he’d
just taken a hot shower.
McBurney thrust today’s
Washington Post
in front of Kosmalski’s
face. “You and I need to talk.”
McBurney followed Special Agent Kosmalski into an empty
office up the hall from the Task Force meeting and shut the door behind them. The
expression on Kosmalski’s face made him all the angrier; he slapped the
newspaper down on whoever’s desk separated them, sending loose sheets of paper
fluttering to the floor. “What the hell kind of dirty deal is this? After weeks
of stonewalling me, half the Milner blackmail conversation shows up in the
goddamn
Washington Post!
”
Kosmalski took the accusation as an affront. “We’re as
upset about it as you are. I have no idea who leaked that story.”
“You don’t look very upset. Now that the cat’s out of the
bag, you can pony up a copy of the surveillance tape you made of
our
foreign
espionage spy. I know damn well you wired either Milner or his office or both.”
For many seconds, Kosmalski said nothing. “What makes you
so sure the
Post
article is about Milner? It never directly mentioned
him.”
McBurney felt his anger flaring again. For all he knew, the
last remaining key to recouping his counterespionage investigation—and his
credibility—was buried somewhere within the details of that surveillance. He
stabbed his finger onto the newspaper. “You know what’s going on here?”
“I know what’s going on here.”
“Somebody’s been sitting on this until just the right
moment.”
“Bullshit.”
“You read the article! The message is loud and clear: ‘Better
not support missile defense, senators! We have dirt on you and we will use it!’
Ahmadi might as well have blackmailed the whole fucking congress.”
Kosmalski’s skin looked as though it was about to ignite. The
moment passed. “I can see where you might think that.”
“You still insist on sitting on that surveillance tape?”
“I already explained. It’s not my decision to make.”
McBurney placed his hands on the desk and leaned toward the
FBI man. “But the argument that its contents could be used to compromise an
elected policymaker just went down the rat hole.”
Kosmalski folded his arms. “There’s more to it than that.”
McBurney studied his colleague. The article made specific
mention of the FBI surveillance—not the existence of a digital record of that
surveillance, only that a ‘leading committee chair’ had been threatened into
withdrawing support from missile defense. “I wonder if either the
Post
or the
Times
would be interested in the story behind the story, you know
the one. There just might be a senator left who hasn’t got something to hide,
one who’d also be interested to learn that the senator we’re talking about here
is the Appropriations Chairman.”
“Maybe they already know and they agreed to sit on it.”
“Then they know that the FBI leaked it?”
“You don’t have any evidence that it was the Bureau who...are
you threatening me?”