Jack in the Box

by John Weisman

  Howard’s round, pasty face turned toward Sam. “The White House knew about al-Qa’ida’s plans to fly passenger jets into targets in New York and Washington seven weeks before the attacks occurred. But the president did nothing. The vice president and a cabal of hard-liners in the Pentagon had convinced him that he needed a ‘trigger’ that would allow the United States to initiate a string of military campaigns under the rubric of counterterrorism; actions that would guarantee American hegemony over the rest of the world. The president concurred with them, and personally suppressed the intelligence that would have thwarted the 9/11 operation. That is why, despite CIA’s publicly perceived massive pre-9/11 intelligence failure, Nick Becker and the rest of Langley’s top leadership were not fired. I have proof.”

  “You have proof.” Sam was incredulous.

  “Yes. I obtained a series of SVR communications intercepts of conversations both CLA and the White House believed to be secure. They are in the form of digital recordings, and can be positively verified by voiceprinting and other technical means available to you. They are Moscow’s trump card over this administration. They are in a safe place. I also have information that will allow you to identify a Russian intelligence network operating within the highest levels of the American government. That network is why President Putin can sell nuclear materials to Iran, conventional weapons to Syria, and clandestinely assist the North Koreans upgrade their long-range missiles with impunity. He can do so because he knows in advance what the U.S.'s reaction will be. His agents have told him. That information is in a safe place, too.” Howard looked at Sam with some derision. “Of course I have proof, Sam. If not, why would I risk my life to come back?”

  Why indeed. Not two hours before, Michael O’Neill had told Sam that Howard was washed up. A drunk. O’Neill’s theory was certainly a possibility. But it was far more likely that the rumors of Howard’s unhappy decline had been created by Moscow Center as a way of easing his redefection.

  As a case officer, Sam had developed over the years a series of informal rules under which he operated. The first of what had come to be known as Waterman’s Rules of Engagement was that, when something seemed too good to be true, it was, in fact, too good to be true. Edward Lee Howard and his protector, Rand Arthur, were living embodiments of Waterman’s Rule Number One.

  But Sam put not a single word to his thoughts. Instead, he said, “Miss Vacario, may I sit down to take some notes, please?”

  The lawyer’s eyes shifted toward the senator, then back to Sam. “Of course, Mr. Waterman.” She opened a drawer, retrieved a fresh pad and a pen, laid them on the desktop, eased her chair away, and stood up, taking her pad and pen with her. “All yours.”

  Sam crossed the room and dropped onto the padded seat.

  But he didn’t say anything. He waited until Howard turned to face him. And then he stared into the defector’s face, his own expression as neutral as he could manage.

  The silence endured for some half minute. But Sam knew Howard would speak. That was his role. He’d set his hook. Now he was going to play his fish.

  And the defector didn’t disappoint. “I worked for Moscow,” Howard finally said. “No more. I came back because I want to help.”

  Sam’s eyes intently examined every minute detail of Howard’s appearance and behavior, conveniently illuminated by a pair of spotlights hidden somewhere up in the rafters. He watched as the defector centered himself in the chair, using his right hand to smooth down the sparse gray hair atop his scalp.

  “ ‘You want to help,’ “ Sam mimicked Howard’s nasal tone.

  “Yes, help.” Nervously, Howard ran a finger around his shirt collar. “I am truly sorry for what I did and I want to make amends.”

  Except it was an act, and Sam knew it. He knew it because he hadn’t followed Howard’s hand as it played with his collar but kept his gaze on Howard’s eyes. And he hadn’t been disappointed. There’d been a quick, micromomentary flickering in both of the defector’s eyes as he spoke. It was a subconscious signal, something Agency psychologists had discovered by watching thousands of hours of film and videotape run frame by frame in extra slo-mo. Sam had been trained to watch for these involuntary micromomentary eye movements in his agents, because they indicated deceit. Ed Howard knew all about micromomentary expressions, too. So, moving his hand had been a diversion—similar to the way a three-card monte dealer uses a flourish to draw the mark’s eyes away from the position of the ace.

  But Sam had ignored the distraction. His focus never moved from Howard’s eyes. And their movements told Sam loud and clear the defector was lying. Which was when Sam confirmed his own longtime beliefs: Ed Howard was no drunk, no has-been, no mediocre hack. Edward Lee Howard was a pro—and a dangerous opponent.

  The defector shifted his position again, his face now open and receptive. Which is precisely when Sam struck. “Yeah, right. You just left. Walked away. Snuck out of Moscow unnoticed and came straight to Washington. And what did you say to your pals at Lubyanka as you were walking out the door? ‘Do svidániya? Poká? See you later, alligator. À bientôt? Sayonara? You can call me at Senator Arthur’s place in Virginia?’ Mudozvon, Ed. Bullshit. Like all fabricators, you’re feeding me garbage.”

  Howard licked his lips but didn’t answer. It was, Sam knew, a delaying tactic. Finally, his thoughts composed, Howard spoke. “I traveled on an Irish passport. The senator has it for safekeeping, It was something I kept in reserve, hidden under the floorboards of my dacha. I slipped out of Moscow. I picked up the passport. Then I took a train to St. Petersburg. From there, I crossed into Finland. It wasn’t difficult. I flew from Helsinki to Hamburg. I caught a train to Frankfurt and bought a ticket for Washington, flying through Toronto. Open return.”

  He’s still playing games, Sam thought. Deflect. Redirect. Sidetrack. It was an old agent’s trick: inundate the case officer with a flurry of meaningless details in order to obfuscate and confuse the issue at hand.

  “You’ve told me nothing. I asked a question and you blew smoke in my face.” Sam turned toward Rand Arthur. “Senator, you want my opinion? He’s worthless.”

  Howard swiveled toward the senator. “I risked my life—” he began.

  Sam cut him off. “Ed, you may be able to fool these people. But this is me. Sam. I know you. I know how you operate. To me, you’re cellophane—I see right through you. So, let me translate for the senator and our learned counsel here what you said—and what you were really doing. You claim you came here out of some long-buried sense of civic duty and remorse. ‘The president knew all about 9/11. There are Russian spies in the American government.’ That’s what you said, Ed. But your objective was creating confusion and chaos. You’re a double agent, Ed—you work for Moscow Center. And you might have succeeded, except—thank God—the senator got hold of me instead of calling a press conference and putting you on CNN.”

  He waited for a response, and when he got none, he slapped the desk. “You said you had confirmation. But I don’t see any, Ed. You know the game as well as I do: an agent’s claims have to be backed up by hard evidence. Paper. That’s what we call it, right? You know the rules. No paper, no proof. And without proof, agents’ claims are treated as fabrications.”

  Sam looked at the defector. “So, where’s the paper?”

  Silence.

  “Where’s the paper, Ed?”

  Silence.

  Sam slammed his palm onto the desk. “Show me the paper, goddammit. Show me the paper. Show me the paper. Show me the paper. Show me the paper.”

  Howard’s silence was eloquent. Sam let the senator and his legal counsel absorb its significance. “But you can’t show me the paper, can you, Ed? That’s because there is no paper. No evidence. You’re a provocateur, a fabricator. But you still want something don’t you?”

  Sam swiveled toward Virginia Vacario. She’d moved to the sofa, pad on her lap, scribbling away. “If you understood double agents you’d know that people like him always try to get something
for nothing, counselor.”

  Then he looked at Howard. “So, what is it, Ed? Money? Protection? A new identity?”

  Sam turned back to Vacario. Her face was a mask. It was like talking to a Romanoff. He continued anyway. “I know what he wants, counselor. He wants everything.”

  Vacario said nothing. Neither did Ed Howard. So Sam picked up. “Everything. And what quid pro quo did you bring in return, Ed? You brought nothing.”

  Howard pushed himself out of the chair. He stared past Sam through the wide Palladian window. “I shouldn’t have come.” He massaged his eyes. Then he dropped his hands to his sides. “You know, Sam, by now Klimov will have discovered I’m gone. And when he learns what I took, he’ll be extremely upset. He’ll try to find me and retrieve his … materials. My life is worth nothing right now. My whole life has been thrown away because you refuse to see what I’ve just done for you, Sam.”

  Klimov was Major General Valentin Klimov, the brutal, relentless, ambitious current head of Russia’s counterintelligence service. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ed. You’ve been worthless for years.” Sam wasn’t about to give Howard an inch. “Materials again? Show me the paper.”

  Howard stuck out his lower lip. “ ‘The paper,’ as you call it, is in a safe place,” he said.

  “And what’s in the paper, Ed?”

  Howard’s eyes shifted toward the ceiling. He bit his lips. “Nineteen ninety-three,” he finally said. “DO wanted to carry out a clandestine site survey of a chemical weapons facility in Ukraine.” He looked at Sam. “Remember?”

  The operation had been a top priority. Sam nodded but said nothing.

  “You were deputy chief in Paris. Long before the end of the first year of your tour you were miserable. You despised the bureaucratic scut work deputy chiefs have to do. You were bored by all the managerial aspects of the job. And so you hit the streets with one of your young officers, a deep cover pseudonymed SAMGRASS, using the excuse that you wanted to mentor him to get you out of the office.”

  Sam’s face betrayed no emotion. But Howard had it right. Sam had chaffed under the administrative aspects of the deputy’s job.

  The defector’s eyes flashed. “Before long SAMGRASS spots a possible target. An émigré—a defector actually—a former KGB officer from the Second Chief Directorate. His name is—well, you know his name, Sam. His surname begins with S. You and SAMGRASS tag-team the émigré, but since it’s you who had all the street smarts, it’s you who develops him. SAMGRASS is content to watch from the side. It’s a fight, but you finally receive POA11 to recruit Mr. S under alias. The initials you used were RJ, and the Agency cryptonym given to Mr. S was GTREQUIRE.” He squinted at Sam. “Am I getting warm, Sam? Am I cutting close to the bone?”

  Sam was trying hard not to show anything outwardly. But his heart was pounding. The son of a bitch knew.

  “So, let’s fast-forward. Blah-blah-blah, it’s spring of 1993, Langley wants to run the op in Ukraine in the late fall or early winter and needs someone who knows the turf. Your agent, GTREQUIRE, had served a three-year tour in Kiev. And so on April ninth, you slip out of Paris to drop below DST’s12 radar. You drive southeast, to Auxerre. There, you take back roads, heading toward the Côte de Nuits. You go black successfully, and at a clandestine meeting at the Agency safe house in the village of Corgoloin, four miles north of Beaune, you ask REQUIRE to accompany the team.” Howard paused. “Correct, Sam?”

  Sam wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything. But Howard had it all. Every piece.

  “REQUIRE agrees,” the defector continued. “Langley makes plans all through the summer. Then you receive a request from Langley to flutter GTREQUIRE. You comply—actually, you don’t box him yourself, because you’re in Washington, setting up the Ukraine op. You get back to Paris. Everything’s ready to go. But at the last minute the mission is scrubbed. You assumed the bosses back at Langley were averse to taking risks—at least that’s what you complained loudly to your colleagues. But in fact, the plan was scuttled by SCARAB, one of our longtime American agents at the National Security Council. And immediately after it fell apart, Langley orders you—despite your strong protests—to cut REQUIRE loose and write off all the information he gave you as tainted. You’re furious, right, Sam?”

  Sam said nothing.

  “Furious.” Howard cocked his head. “You’ll be angrier when you hear the real story. SCARAB slipped the word to Aldrich Ames to make sure GTREQUIRE was tagged as a double.”

  “Slipped Ames the word. How?”

  “SCARAB operates a safe house. Had it for years under true name. SCARAB will only meet with his control under certain conditions.” Howard paused. “He’s leery about dead drops and mailboxes. Said the FBI had them covered. I always thought he was slightly paranoid.”

  “He?”

  “I’m not sure whether it’s a he or a she,” Howard said quickly.

  Yes, he was. But Sam wasn’t about to pursue the matter right now. “So SCARAB met with Ames in the safe house.”

  The defector nodded in the affirmative. “Frankly, it made me nervous. If Ames was being followed, it would have compromised SCARAB.”

  “Ames wasn’t followed?”

  “Apparently not.” Howard shifted his legs. “We took a big chance, Sam, using Ames so late in the game. But we had to. REQUIRE had stories to tell. He worked in counterintelligence. He’d heard all the rumors floating around Moscow Center about the KGB’s American moles—and we knew that sooner or later he’d tell you about them.” Howard’s tongue flicked across his lips.

  “Now, there were some who wanted REQUIRE silenced permanently. I argued against that, Sam.” The defector’s tongue repeated the reptilian gesture. “But if he’d been killed, then his information would have been taken seriously. No—I wanted Mr. S to be a discredited source, not a dead martyr. Besides, I convinced Primakov in March of 1993 that Langley’s CI capabilities were so pitiful we’d get away with it, even though Ames was under suspicion and was being monitored.” Howard’s tongue flicked over his lips once again. “Monitored. Just like the FBI monitored me in September 1985.” His lips drew back in a nasty smile. “And we know what happened then, don’t we, Sam?”

  When Sam didn’t respond, the defector continued, his tone growing more confident. “Y’know what, Sam? Primakov called when he got back from Washington in July to tell me I’d been right on the money. He even met with SCARAB.”

  “Actually met with him?”

  “In plain sight. During a diplomatic reception on the eighth floor at State. Shook his hand. Shared a glass of champagne.” Howard saw the skeptical look on Sam’s face and made a fist. “You don’t believe me? Well, Primakov told me he watched SCARAB’s control brush-pass a tasking right under the secretary of state’s nose”13

  Sam gave the turncoat a dirty look. “You just told me SCARAB would only deal with his control officer at the safe house, Ed.”

  “Then I misspoke.”

  “You’re lying, Ed.”

  “No, Sam.” The defector’s head wagged. “I simply misspoke. I confused SCARAB with another agent.” Howard’s tongue slicked across his lips. “We do have more than one agent, Sam. After all, we’ve totally penetrated you. But CIA’s porosity isn’t the point I was making. The point I was making is that we convinced Langley GTREQUIRE was a double.”

  He paused to see how Sam would react. When Sam didn’t react—outwardly, at least—Howard said, “Of course REQUIRE wasn’t a double, Sam. He was twenty-four-karat gold. And the information he gave you was genuine. But you knew that all along, didn’t you, Sam? You always had good instincts in those matters. Better than Langley’s.” He paused to scratch a red blotch on his pale cheek. “Much better, actually. What you don’t know is SCARAB’s identity. I do.”

  Howard pursed his lips. “Let’s proceed to 1997. Moscow Center was informed about another DO op, this one on the Tajik-Chinese border, by another of our agents—I knew him—I’m assuming he’s a man—only by his cryptonym SCEPTRE
. The corridor gossip at Moscow Center was that SCEPTRE had access to the highest circles of the American government. Because of his information we were able to roll up your network before the operation ever got off the ground—we even made it look as if the whole thing had been done by the Chinese.”

  “And you know who SCEPTRE is.”

  Howard frowned. “I can point you in the right direction. I—”

  “Wait a minute,” Rand Arthur broke in. “You never told me anything about any SCARAB or SCEPTRE. You said you had information about the president—and a Russian spy network.”

  “SCARAB and SCEPTRE were for Sam’s ears, Senator. That’s why I asked you to send for him. He understands the significance of what I have to say.”

  Rand Arthur bristled. “I receive the very highest-level briefings, Mr. Howard, and I have never heard word one about any SCEPTRE or SCARAB.”

  “Senator, please.” Sam interrupted. “I have a lot of ground to cover.” He watched as Rand crossed his arms. Then he focused on Howard. “We? Who is we, Ed? And where’s the paper to back up your claims?”

  “Uh-huh. Not so fast, Sam.” The defector’s right index finger waved, windshield wiper-like in Sam’s direction. Then he put his finger upright against his lips. “Shhhh—quiet.” The defector smiled in Rand Arthur’s direction. His voice took on new authority. “I’m no fool. I’m not about to hand anything over until we come to a formal understanding.”

  Sam focused on the defector. “A formal understanding.”

  “An agreement. You are correct, Sam: I want everything. A new identity. Enough money to be able to start a new life. A safe place to live. And then, I want to be left alone.”

  “You and Greta Garbo.” Sam glanced toward Rand Arthur. “He doesn’t want much, does he?”

  “Look, Sam.” Howard’s voice took on an assertive tone. “I didn’t have to turn myself in. You said the senator could have called a press conference. Well, I could have just as easily gone to the New York Times, or the Washington Post. Hell, I could have met with the Times of London in Switzerland and sold my story for half a million pounds—maybe more. But I wasn’t interested in making headlines or piles of money. I’m interested in making amends. I want to come home. I want to set things straight. I made mistakes, I admit it. I can’t erase what’s already happened. But I can attempt to help fix the problem. Because CI has a problem, Sam, a huge problem—and you know it as well as I do. America has no counterintelligence capability right now. Everything’s counterterrorism these days. Putin’s our friend, right? So: thousands of FBI CI personnel shifted. The Oracles?14 They’re all retired. Head-hunters at Langley? Decimated. All reassigned to CTC.15 The doors are wide open, Sam. The United States is porous. Porous. I can point you in the right direction.”