by Tom Hron
“Tomorrow you’ll be forced to take a polygraph test when you go back to work. Chambers told us that you were the only one who knew which files he had read, so it’s critical that you pass the test and convince everyone you’re as innocent as you claim to be.
“It would only make matters worse if we told you who we are and then you rolled over on us later. Imagine what would happen if you said that you had been contacted by some foreign country, then gave them our name. At least this way you can say whatever you want with a clear conscience, and for all you know we’re from Mars, get my point? It’s for your own good that we keep you in the dark about who we really are.”
Alexis’s mouth fell open. Was there something about her looks that made people think she was stupid and could be talked into anything? The Agency must be running some kind of test on her, but one put together by, what was the right word, a dilettante, a novice, or a tyro? … She would play a little offense and see what would happen. Overcoming the urge to look in the back seat, she glared at the policewoman beside her. “Show me who’s watching us. I don’t believe a word you’re saying, and you’re both crazy.”
The policewoman stayed plain-faced, despite the challenge. “All right, if you will do it casually. Look out your side window and you’ll see a gray van parked a little ways off. How many shoppers do you know drive a van and park alongside the street when there are plenty of spots alongside the mall? Pretend you’re checking your car.”
Alexis looked to her right, straining her eyes so she wouldn’t give herself away. In fact, there was a gray van a short distance away, one so nondescript it screamed for attention with the liquid-black windows that she’d always wondered why people ever bought. Could spying be so amateurish? She faced the policewoman once more.
“That van could have been there all day.”
“Did you see it when you drove in?”
“No, but I wasn’t looking for it either.” Alexis narrowed her eyes to make herself look more malevolent, pushing all the hot buttons she could. She had to make something happen, even if it was wrong.
The Frenchman spoke once more. “Chambers gave us a word that he said you’d recognize, but one we don’t understand, so maybe you can help us. What does SiddhArtha mean?”
No matter how hard she tried not to, she swallowed nevertheless. Sometimes you just couldn’t help giving yourself away. Now what? she wondered. Her façade of innocence had been cracked wide open, and all she could do was keep her mouth shut and wait until they showed the rest of their hand.
“You must realize,” continued the Frenchman, “that unless you’re prepared to tell the CIA all you know, they’ll see right through you, and you need to get your act together. Why don’t you let us help you? Chambers trusted us.”
Alexis made her face look as nasty as possible. “Yeah, and where did that get him, presuming that’s even true? I was told this morning that he’s dead. Right now, I don’t trust anyone, least of all you two. I want out of this car, either that or I’ll make a big scene. If there’s really someone watching us that will totally mess up your plans.”
For the first time she saw the policewoman start to pale, and at last she’d struck a nerve.
“Please don’t do that,” said the policewoman hurriedly. “Listen, we’ll give you a chance to think things over. Tighten you abdominal muscles and control your breathing when they give you the polygraph test tomorrow, use the same technique that fighter pilots use to keep from blacking out when they’re pulling high-G’s. Tighten a little when you answer the control questions and relax when you hear the relevant questions. You took psych courses in college, so you know what I mean. It’s that simple. You’ll probably fool them you know so little.”
Incredulous over what she’d just heard, she turned around and studied the Frenchman. Gray van be damned, she thought, not many people knew how to fool a polygraph, and usually only those in the spy trade. She had clearly fallen among the thieves, as the old saying went. But whose thieves were they? Then she saw the policewoman writing out a citation for her. Apparently, the road show wasn’t over yet. “You’re not really giving me a citation, are you?” she said with much sarcasm as she could.
“Yes, I am. I told you that I’m a real cop and this is a summons you’ll have to answer, giving everybody perfect cover so we can talk later. An attorney will contact you as well, asking questions about your insurance coverage, and that will give you an additional resource for getting in touch without raising suspicion. We’ve thought this through carefully, even though we haven’t had much time.”
“Forget about me getting in touch because it won’t happen.” Alexis looked angrily at the policewoman again, and this time she truly meant it.
“Alexis, never say never for your own good,” answered the Frenchman, “and wait until tomorrow before you decide about us. You will start to see what they’re doing to you, and then, hopefully, you’ll realize that you need our help. We can get you out of this, I promise.
“By the way, you lose your Wellesley delicacies quite fast when you’re pressed hard. You can get right down to business, and I’m impressed.”
She threw him a dirty look, grabbed the citation from the policewoman, and got out of the car. If it had been some kind of test, she’d passed, and if it had been for real, she’d passed as well. She hadn’t given them a thing. But why had they backed off so quickly when she had threatened to throw a conniption fit? Something wasn’t quite right. Keeping her head low, she eyeballed the van as she walked to her car. Could any of it be true? There was only one way to find out, she thought to herself.
The Frenchman got out behind her and drove away in his Buick, followed by the policewoman in her cruiser. Alexis watched them disappear in opposite directions, both slipping into the traffic as if they were in no great hurry. Getting into her car, she found herself staring into the rearview mirror. She smoothed her hair and checked her makeup, covering her mistake. God, she wished that she could rip it off and look inside.
She pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward the dealership where she’d bought her Honda, meanwhile running the day’s events through her mind. It all seemed so surreal, as if she were sleepwalking through a holographic circus where all the characters were off script. Nothing made any sense. She knew she was a dead duck if the FBI was, in fact, watching her. They, along with the CIA, were masters at making the innocent look guilty, and partly because of the investigation itself. Someone had seen her relationship with Chambers as a threat, or maybe an opportunity. But who? She worked with about a jillion people.
When she drove into the dealership, she saw the same salesman who had sold her the Civic rush toward her. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and a necktie looking as if it had been cut from a Hawaiian dress. Too long, he’d sat behind a desk and his features showed it. However, he was affable and chatty in just the right way. His pudgy bartender’s face reddened with an expression of horror the moment he spotted her. She opened her door but stayed inside. Better to have the big bad wolf listen to their conversation.
“Alexis, what happened?” the salesman puffed when he reached her. “My God, you wrecked your car.”
“I rear-ended someone when I wasn’t looking.” She flipped her blond hair and batted her eyes. “How bad is it, and can you fix it right away?”
“Oh, we’re really busy in the shop, busy as hell, but hey, let me talk to the shop foreman and I’m sure we can work something out. Really doesn’t look that bad and nobody fixes anything anyway, they just screw on new parts. It makes everything go lots faster.”
“Can I drop it off first thing in the morning and get a loaner until my car is done, otherwise I can’t get to work?” She smiled as big as she could. “I promise I’ll buy all my new cars from you for the rest of my life.”
“Well, in that case—” The salesman laughed all the way to his belly. “Listen, don’t you worry, I’ll talk to the manager and we’ll fix you up. Is everything else okay?”
God
bless good salesmanship, she thought, and she couldn’t have scripted a better opening if she’d tried. She smiled wide once more. “The mirror and a couple of the controls seem a bit stiff to me. Could you have your mechanics check them? Otherwise, I love the car.”
“You bet. Why don’t you come and have a cup of coffee with me and I’ll write everything up. I still want to sell you a new one, you know. You’d look so great all the men in the world would fall in love with you.” He mimicked an adoring face.
She laughed, forgetting herself for a second. “No, I need to pay for this one first.” Then she remembered her hidden purpose. “Look, I can’t stop right now because I must get home. Write everything up and I’ll buy you lunch when my car is done. Can you do that for me?”
They chatted a minute longer and then she set off for her apartment, leaving the friendly salesman waving good-bye to her. The first part of her plan had worked perfectly and now all she had to do was park in the right place when she got home, some place where the FBI would feel safe in the middle of the night. If they were really following her, they would be going crazy right now figuring out how to retrieve their high-tech equipment before someone discovered it the next day. She had read enough to know the stuff was expensive, not including the embarrassment if it were ever found. If they came she’d have a piece to the puzzle, and if they didn’t she’d still have a piece to the puzzle. It would just mean something else.
She took Tungsten outside before she went to bed that night as she always did, but this time she surreptitiously locked him in her car. She knew him well enough to know he would hide on the floor, and if anyone made the mistake of opening a door he’d take off like a rocket. No one would ever catch him and he’d be waiting for her in the morning, proud of himself for staying out all night. Alternatively, if he were still in the car when she got up … well, they’d just have to kiss and make up.
CHAPTER 9
THE WHITE HOUSE
“He will see you in the Map Room,” said the president’s personal secretary, trying hard not to look at David Skeleter’s swollen face. It felt as bad as it looked and the pancake makeup he’d used wasn’t the right shade either, leaving him multicolored. He was overtired as well, having flown back from Las Vegas on two different military transports, hopscotching across the country half the night.
The president and the first lady had redecorated the Map Room when they’d first taken office and now used it for private meetings, particularly when they were upset about something. Losing a White House Gulfstream was almost as bad as it could get, and Skeleter knew he was on the hot seat. First, the president would let him know how angry he was by not inviting him into the Oval Office, then he would make him sit and wait. He had seen the tactic used before.
Walking to the Map Room, he studied the Chippendale style, which had become popular during the last half of the eighteenth century. The room was full of priceless antiques, items that would bring millions at a Sotheby’s auction, if one could figure out how to steal them. A rococo carved chest of drawers stood on cabriole along one wall, built in 1770 from the finest walnut. Near the high chest were four side chairs and a mahogany armchair with a red upholstered back, all made in Philadelphia just before the Revolutionary War. A 1755 French Map, first drawn by the colonial surveyors Joshua Fry and Peter Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson’s father, hung on the east wall. Another chest of drawers with a serpentine front stood beside a fireplace rebuilt with a sandstone mantel during the major renovation of the White House during the Truman administration. Red, white, and blue, the room exuded power, the power to control the world, which he loved as much as life.
In prior administrations, his defense studies program at Harvard and his reputation as a political scientist had led to his appointment as special assistant for national security affairs, then ambassador to NATO. He had loved Brussels and its secret worlds. Finally, President James Meritt Connolly, now in his first term, had named him the national security advisor. Nevertheless, now the president would be sharpening his knives.
Hearing the president’s footsteps, he watched him walk in. James Connolly was six-foot-six and broad-shouldered, suntanned and dark-haired, and had just the right amount of gray above his ears, accenting a Michelangelo face seemingly sculptured from Carrara marble. Charismatic and cultured, he had a bourbon voice that mesmerized everyone. Brioni suits and red ties were made for him, and his movements were always poised, epitomizing his presidential ways. Inarguably, he was a resonance man.
“David, it’s good to see you,” said the president, letting a gap fill the time before his next sentence, all for effect, Skeleter knew. “I hadn’t realized you were hurt so badly. The guy gave you quite a wallop, didn’t he? Sit down, please.” The president smiled his inscrutable smile, the one he often used with his cabinet and staff.
“Thank you, I’m really tired.” Skeleter sat in a side chair, letting the president sit in the red-backed armchair.
Connolly drew a breath, as if categorizing his thoughts. “I don’t know how to say this without simply saying it. The loss of the Aurora was an unmitigated disaster … what, over five billion dollars lost on that project alone? Then to be told that you lost one of our executive jets. I’m stunned, outraged as well. How in hell could this have happened?”
“I’m sorry I let you down, sir, but I had no idea the test pilot would do what he did.” Now for the curve ball, Skeleter thought to himself. “I should have suspected him much earlier.”
Blink! Connolly looked up but sat as still as a lion. “Suspected … ah, you should have suspected the test pilot?—”
“Why, yes, Mr. President. Why else would he run?” That will teach you not to play games with me, you bastard, and do you really think I don’t know you’re spying on me? He held a straight face.
Connolly gave him a long look. “Has Air Force intelligence, the CIA, or the national intelligence director told you something that I should know about? I … it never occurred to me to distrust the test pilot. I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, no, they haven’t. I’m just convinced he had something to hide,” he answered softly, leaving Connolly with an innocent silence to wonder about. The idea was to plant a seed and let it grow.
After a moment, the president drew a sharp breath. “All right, where do we go from here?” he asked. “I’m being forced into a cover-up for the first time in my life. A dozen people telephoned the Yuma Airport, wondering what in hell was going on, and you can bet the press has gotten wind of it by now.
“Anyhow, tell me what I should do. I can’t let anyone say a word, or at least I pray to God no one does. The news media would be busy with this one for years. Area fifty-one, the loss of a top-secret aircraft, a White House jet is stolen. The NID, FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, they all would be implicated. Then probably stuff I haven’t even thought of yet. It would be an incredible disaster for my presidency, the whole country, for that matter.” The bone-lines on Connolly’s face hardened. “I’m screwed no matter which way I turn.”
Holding back a smirk, Skeleter put on a sad face. “I should resign, and I’m sorry.”
For another moment the Map Room fell silent. “David, I can’t let you do that, not right now,” said Connolly at last. “That would only make matters worse, and we must maintain as much normalcy as possible right now. I’ll need all the help I can get in achieving some goddamn control over our intelligence community. Congress, in all its convoluted wisdom, did no one any favors when it added an intelligence czar to the mix of everything. Now every time I turn around, something is going completely to hell.
“We’re spending over fifty billion dollars a year on fifteen different agencies, all doing more or less the same thing, and what do we get? It looks like we might be stuck in Afghanistan forever, if not having to get involved in Iraq a third time. There’s missing nuclear secrets the Chinese stole. The last director of the CIA was caught loading classified material into his home computer, which was hacked into by Lord k
nows who. Then he and the next DCI tried covering it up as if no one would ever rat on them. Now I’m left with, what’s his name, Magruder, the DDI running the place. Meanwhile, laptops from the State Department are getting stolen and I’m left with no idea where the next terrorist attack might come from. Lastly, I sign Opendoor, no big deal in my mind, and then things really start spinning out of control. For God’s sake, I’ve got to get control of this nightmare.”
Sometimes it’s best to just keep your mouth shut, thought Skeleter. Simply let your opponent keep talking.
If Connolly had noticed the hiatus, he wasn’t paying any attention. He shook his head, smiled, and added, “Sorry for the rant but I deserve it, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this whole mess if it’s the last thing I do.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” breathed Skeleter. “You know my feelings.” However, it wasn’t at all what he’d wanted to hear.
“David, let’s be honest. I know how much you want to be the next director of Central Intelligence, but I’m reluctant to appoint you. The Senate has never let a national security advisor become the DCI and I doubt they’ll start now, at least not without a big fight. Besides, I’d always be wondering how you were assessing the incoming information, especially if it was something you didn’t like. For example, our views on France, Germany, and Russia are quite different. All three are becoming more adversarial and you are more sanguine about them than I am. In the case of Russia, you know my feelings about the old mantra of mutual assured destruction, which I view as the most immoral scheme ever foisted on this country. Hey, everybody, your government has agreed to let you fry in case of a nuclear war. Thank God, prior administrations had the guts and foresight to end that insane policy long ago. Jesus, having to choose between surrender and slaughter if there was ever a nuclear strike. I’ve never understood why the American people ever went along with MAD in the first place, and I’m convinced it was only because they were never told what it meant.”
