by Barry Eisler
“No? He’s on the Homeland Security Committee, the Finance Committee, and the Intelligence Committee; and the networks love putting him on because they can always count on him to say something incendiary in that Alabama drawl of his.”
“You really think the president is going to respond to that bozo?”
“Not respond. React. If he sees a chance to shore up his national security credentials, he’ll take it. That means the longer this goes on, the more he’ll be tempted to do something dramatic. Can you imagine how it’ll play on the news if the president sends in Delta or DEVGRU and they bring Hamilton safely home?”
“Yes, and I can imagine how it’ll play if the raid is botched and Hamilton gets killed.”
Anders waved a hand as though fanning away some minor flatulence. “They’ll say they had intel that Hamilton was about to be killed anyway. At least they sent some jihadists to hell with him. The president will make the announcement surrounded by brass. He’ll look tough either way. ‘We don’t negotiate with terrorists,’ that kind of thing. I’m telling you, if this goes on for more than another day, two at the most, he’s going in.”
They were both silent for a moment. Remar said, “How do you want to handle it?”
Anders considered for a moment. “That talking-head interview I have later this morning.”
“You want me to cancel?”
“No, I want to exploit it. Use it to give the president a little breathing room. What do we have on McQueen?”
Remar squinted with his good eye. “We don’t have a file. He’s always been on-side, we’ve never needed anything on him before.”
“Well, we do now. Use God’s Eye. You’ll find something.”
“How heavy-handed do you want me to be?”
“No more so than necessary. But make sure the job gets done.”
“Roger that.”
The secure line buzzed. Anders glanced at the monitor. “The White House. Go. Get McQueen on board. We might not have much time.”
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 9
It turned out to be worse than Anders was expecting. The White House chief of staff told him the president was convening the National Security Council to consider “all options,” including a rescue. They needed to know what NSA could deliver based on everything in the video: topography, angle of the sun, quality of light, vegetation. Every electronic communication in the region was to be scoured. If they could identify Hamilton’s location, JSOC wanted to go in. And the president was inclined to let them.
He assured the chief of staff that NSA was collating all available intelligence and would have it ready for the NSC’s consideration later that morning. And then he headed over to his interview.
The original plan was for a general-interest discussion, with the talking head softened up by the sight of Anders in his full fruit-salad army service uniform. The venue would also be seductive: an otherwise useless room called the Information Dominance Center that had been designed to look like the deck of the starship Enterprise, with arrays of giant flat-panel screens, ellipses of LED lighting, and banks of computer monitors. The NSA advance team knew to instruct the camera crew to film only from certain angles, lest the top-secret nature of the room be revealed to America’s enemies, and the crew would naturally comply, grateful for the opportunity to behold one of NSA’s mysteries, with the desired subservience thereby established before even a word of the interview had been conducted.
Anders arrived on schedule, a tablet-toting aide in tow. The aide held the tablet while Anders scanned and signed something on it, and then the aide made a show of scurrying off, as though the fate of the free world rode on the timely delivery of Anders’s signature. Of course the aide could have just transmitted the signature rather than hand-carrying it, but where was the drama, the importance, in that?
“Brian,” Anders said, extending his hand. “Good to see you.”
“A pleasure, General,” the talking head replied, pumping Anders’s hand. “I really appreciate your taking the time. Especially with the new terrorist video this morning. Is it all right if I ask about that? I know the interview parameters have already been agreed upon, but I think the American people would want to hear your thoughts on so important a matter.”
Anders smiled at the man’s attempt at flattery. Was he really so dim he didn’t know Anders would want to discuss that video, that he wouldn’t have to be cajoled into doing it?
“Of course, Brian. I’m happy to discuss what I can. I’m afraid we might have to cut things short, though. Obviously there’s a lot going on just now.”
“Of course, sir, absolutely. If the way we’ve positioned the camera is acceptable, we can get started right away.”
Anders nodded. Sir and General and If that would be acceptable. He would never get over the supposed watchdog press’s instinctive deference to power. Not that he minded, of course.
With the camera rolling, the talking head introduced himself and explained in breathless tones that he was conducting this interview from NSA’s own Information Dominance Center, which they weren’t permitted to film because it was all so secret.
“Good morning, General.”
“Good morning, Brian.”
“Sir, I know your schedule is particularly tight today and I appreciate your taking the time. This morning we all woke to another horrifying video: an American journalist, bound and on his knees, threatened by a masked terrorist.”
They’d be sure to overlay the appropriate image when they aired the interview. That was good.
“Yes,” Anders said in his most sober tone.
“I guess what I and every other member of the civilized world is wondering now, sir, is what response the government is planning.”
“Obviously, Brian, I’m not in a position to discuss what we may or may not be thinking in terms of a response.”
“Fair enough, sir, but what about your capabilities? For better or worse, and many would say worse, we all know a great deal more today about NSA capabilities than we did not so very long ago. And yet here we have another journalist kidnapped. Is there anything the government could have done to prevent this?”
That, Anders knew, would strike viewers as a tough question, which was why the talking head had asked it. Appearances had to be maintained.
“Well, Brian, what I’d say is this: There’s a lot NSA can lawfully do, and within that legal framework, we are as aggressive as we can be. And, of course, there are always additional tools we’d like to have to keep Americans safe. But whether we should have those tools is a question for the legislature, not for NSA.”
“Not even an opinion, sir?”
He badly wanted to float the notion of implanting people with chips, but sensed it would be too much at this point. But wait, what about what the Pakistani government was doing . . . cutting off cell phone service to anyone who hadn’t agreed to have his or her fingerprints matched to a phone SIM card? If Pakistan could do that, why couldn’t America? And in fact, wouldn’t that be a great sound bite? Why is Pakistan doing more to keep its citizens safe than we are?
But he rejected that temptation, too. This wasn’t the occasion. And certainly there would be other opportunities.
“Not one that would be relevant or appropriate, no,” Anders said, after a moment. “As for our response to the latest outrage, that is of course the president’s purview.”
The talking head seized on that, as Anders had hoped he would. “If—hypothetically—the president were to order a rescue, what would be NSA’s role?”
Anders adjusted his glasses thoughtfully. “Our role is to support the president with all available resources. And while those resources are considerable, Brian, I do want to caution any hotheads among us. We know Ryan Hamilton is in a grave position. Exceptionally grave. And as desirous as all of us are to see him return safely to the Homeland, we also want to make sure we don’t do anything that worsens his situation or the possible outcomes. There are many,
many moving parts right now, and they need time to work properly. Anyone demanding immediate action, without a comprehensive understanding of Hamilton’s circumstances, could easily be hastening the worst for the young man. So I would urge everyone to be patient, to give the president space to use all the sources and methods available to us to ensure Hamilton’s ultimate safety.”
The rest of the interview was the usual awestruck network suck job. Not that Anders minded. It was just that this time, burnishing his brand wasn’t a particular priority. He had to clear up this Hamilton situation. It would be very bad if the journalist somehow were to make it home.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 10
Remar sat in the waiting area outside Senator McQueen’s office in the Hart Senate Office Building. He’d been told to arrive at two o’clock and it was now a quarter past. Remar suspected the man was keeping him waiting on purpose. If you wanted to understand the mentality of most Washington insiders, all you had to do was put yourself in the mind of an insecure teenager, at which point it all began to make sense. Even the director liked to play these little power games from time to time. Remar had little patience for it. He considered himself a straight shooter and preferred to deal with people like himself. He smiled, thinking not for the first time that, given his preferences, he was definitely living in the wrong city.
He thought about the audit the director had ordered him to carry out on God’s Eye. He hadn’t found any way Perkins could have had access, which was the main thing. But he’d discovered something else, as well. The most sensitive uses to which the program had been put had been walled off. What remained . . . well, if the worst were to happen, if the program were to be revealed, it would all pose less of a problem for Remar than it would for the director, who had conceived God’s Eye in the first place as part of his “collect it all” mantra.
The thought made him feel guilty, and he half-consciously rubbed the plasticized scar tissue below the eye patch. He’d been the director’s man ever since waking in agony while being tended by a forward surgical team, unable to see through the dressing covering his face, the director himself, then a colonel, holding his hand through his own bandages and telling him he was all right, he was going to be all right.
And he had been all right, eventually, after a half-dozen reconstructive surgeries, extensive rehabilitation, and a yearlong addiction to painkillers that would have led to a formal reprimand had the director not intervened to have the problem expunged from his record. He’d told the director Manus was like a dog, but he hadn’t meant it as an insult. He admired that kind of loyalty, valued it. And, when it came to the director, shared it. He owed his life to the director, his career, his position. He didn’t approve of all the director’s decisions, and if it were up to him, things would be run differently. But it wasn’t up to him, that wasn’t how fate had played out, and what he owed the director, he sometimes just had to borrow against his own conscience.
So it didn’t matter that his audit had revealed a possible . . . divergence in their potential exposure, and therefore in their interests. And besides, any divergence was only theoretical anyway. Because Perkins didn’t have the access. He couldn’t.
At just past two thirty, two frightfully young and bright-eyed staffers emerged from the inner sanctum and closed the door behind them. Yes, I get it, Remar thought. You were keeping me waiting just for a conversation with a couple of interns.
A few minutes later, a secretary ushered him in. McQueen stood from behind his massive desk and hurried around to shake Remar’s hand, his jowls bouncing. “General Remar! So good to see you. Thanks for coming and apologies for keeping you waiting.”
“Senator,” Remar said, wanting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. The man’s hand was moist, and Remar resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers after they shook.
“Please,” McQueen said, circling back behind his desk as though afraid he might shrivel if too long away from it. “Have a seat. What can I do for a genuine war hero?”
Remar didn’t mind the bullshit, but he hated when these idiots felt compelled to attach it to some notion of his heroism. He’d been in a Humvee when a mortar round had struck the area. If there was a hero involved, it had been the director, not him. He wondered sometimes if the McQueens of the world, who had probably never even handled a rifle, much less served, really meant it when they laid it on about the glory of soldiers, or if it was just another DC con job. He supposed it didn’t matter either way.
He set his attaché case on the floor, opened it, and took out a bug detector. He turned it on and quickly swept the office. It was clean.
“I recommend we power down our phones, Senator. And place them in my attaché case, which is soundproofed and jams all electronic signals.”
McQueen eased himself into his enormous leather chair and touched an imaginary imperfection in his gray bouffant. “Are you serious?”
The guy’s ignorance was breathtaking. Did he think that because he was on the Homeland Security Committee and the Intelligence Committee, he was somehow immune to surveillance? Did he not understand that his positions in fact made him a target? But knowing all this would be clarified in just a moment, Remar simply said, “Do I look like I’m joking?”
McQueen chuckled. “Well, you’re the national security expert. Whatever you say.” He turned off his mobile and handed it to Remar. Remar powered off his own, and placed both in the attaché. Then he took out an acoustic noise generator and set it on McQueen’s desk.
McQueen eyed it suspiciously. “And that is . . . ?”
“Speech protection system. Just being extra careful. And Senator, if I could trouble you to disconnect the power cord from your desk phone and from your computer.”
“Come on, Remar, this is ridiculous.”
“Senator, I assure you that when you’ve received my briefing you will thank me copiously for taking precautions.”
McQueen rolled his eyes and smiled. He shut off the surge protector to the desk phone and computer, and ostentatiously checked his watch. Then he pointed to the watch and said, his tone mock-serious, “Oh, do you need me to take this off, too?”
McQueen was peeved that someone was telling him what to do in his own office, and had to show he wasn’t cowed in response. Remar was accustomed to the juvenile bullshit, of course, but still found it vaguely pathetic.
“You know what they say,” Remar said, taking a seat and closing the attaché. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
“Sure, and just because they’re out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not being paranoid. Come on, Remar. I’ve seen more than my share of NSA razzle-dazzle. Bow down to the high priests of info security. You should save it for the youngsters in these corridors. I’ve been to the show too many times to be impressed by it.”
Remar nodded as though in understanding, then shifted into character. “Senator, I won’t deny there’s some theater involved in what we do. How could there not be, in this town? But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because we have evidence the Chinese have put together a sensitive dossier on you, which we believe they intend to use in an attempt to influence your votes.”
McQueen’s eyes widened and he looked genuinely surprised. “What?”
Remar did nothing to reveal his satisfaction with the stimulus/response effect. The director had taught him that with a certain class of national security fetishist, attributing something bad to the Chinese, or Russians, or Iranians was the equivalent of blaming domestic crimes on angry black men. Prepping people to believe something was the hard part. Once the framework was established, they became eager to fill in the details themselves, and could be counted on to do so even if those details made little sense.
Remar leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It seems the Chinese have managed to track your cell phone and correlate its movements with that of a second cell phone—a prepaid model purchased for c
ash in a Walmart two years ago. They have further tracked the movements of both phones to an apartment here on Capitol Hill. The lease on this apartment is being paid by a dummy corporation set up by your personal attorney. And the inhabitant of this apartment is a young woman named Natalia Robart, the movements of whose own cell phone have been correlated to yours on numerous business trips you’ve taken, on none of which has your wife’s cell phone indicated your wife was present.”
McQueen had gradually paled as Remar briefed him, and his mouth was now agape. Remar waited while it all sank in.
“I don’t . . . I don’t see how . . .” McQueen stammered, and then was silent, shaking his head, apparently unable to find words.
“Obviously, this is all just metadata. But also obviously, it’s more than enough to cause a scandal—and that’s assuming the Chinese haven’t penetrated Ms. Robart’s apartment and installed hidden cameras. That is something we could discreetly rule out, if you’d like.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand . . .”
“Let me assure you, Senator, this information is being held in the strictest confidence and in the tightest circle possible at NSA. None of us wants to see you hurt.”
“Yes, but . . . Jesus Christ, how is this even possible?”
Remar permitted himself a sympathetic smile. “Do you still feel I’m being paranoid?”
McQueen looked as though he’d been gut-punched. “Christ, no. Is there anything that can be done?”
“In fact, there is. The system we’ve uncovered seems to be automated. We’ve tracked its uploads to a dedicated server, which we’ve covertly penetrated. We’re in a position now where we should be able to permanently destroy the data on that server.”
“Well, that’s great news!”
“Yes. We’re holding off to first confirm there isn’t a backup server. If there is, we want to trace back to it and destroy it simultaneously. If we act too quickly, we could tip off the Chinese and lose the chance to wipe out the problematic records completely.”
