by Tom Hron
“I hit something, high-frequency radio waves a few hundred meters thick, the same thing you would experience from solar flares, although much more focused. The airplane went out of control afterward.”
Shawki lost his venerable look. “Are you saying someone shot you down?”
“I haven’t let myself believe it, and there must be another explanation, something I’ve missed, as you said before.”
“Does anybody have that kind of technology?”
“I don’t think so. There’s been some conceptual work on something called an ionosphere heater, or in simpler terms, something that cooks the upper atmosphere, but that’s it, as far as I know.”
Shawki gazed up at him with his head tilted to one side, like a schoolboy studying a lunar eclipse. “In Allah’s name, whatever for?”
“Communications that would replace the frequencies the Navy uses for its submarines, geophysical surveying, missile detection and destruction, jamming the communications of entire countries in wartime, all sorts of things like that.” Harry’s voice then softened almost to a whisper. “Not the least of which is electromagnetic pulse energies like thermonuclear blasts.”
Standing, Shawki mixed himself another drink and took a big gulp. Finally he sighed, “May Allah save us all from the crazies who dream up these things, and why in mankind’s sacred time on earth do they feel they must possess the means to destroy everything in the world? It makes no sense to me at all.” He lowered himself back into his chair as though he were suddenly arthritic.
“I guess I agree,” Harry answered sadly. “Not long ago I would have argued with you, but now I see myself changing. Things look very different when you’re running for your life.”
Leaning back in his chair, Shawki crossed his hands over his chest almost in a spiritual way. “Do you realize that you weren’t supposed to live, that someone thought the radio waves would kill you.”
“Why on earth would someone want to destroy the ultimate weapon?”
Shawki laughed disconsolately. “Well, it wasn’t for sex, so it must have been for money and power.”
Sometimes revelations came to you during sleep, thought Harry, and at other times the simplest thing, like a friend’s offhand remark, opened your eyes. Not for a moment had he ever wondered what the Aurora would have meant for the world. Not for a moment had he ever asked himself if its technology was good or bad. All at once, he had an idea why he’d been told to reorbit. The problem was it only opened another Pandora’s Box, a much, much larger one than the one he already faced.
“Shawki, do you remember anything about my country’s Civil War when a lot of the revolutionary military innovations were made, like the ironclad warships, for example?”
Blinking, Shawki stared at him. “No, and why on earth would you ask such a question?”
“The Monitor and Merrimac made every other warship in the world obsolete in a single day. Every country suddenly realized that their wooden ships were utterly useless.” Harry swung his hand to emphasize his point. “My test aircraft would have done that same thing. Nothing could have touched it.
“Now imagine the decisions my country would have had to make after its introduction. Would we need our aircraft carriers any longer, and what about our foreign air bases? What would it mean for the war on terrorism? Somebody didn’t want that kind of world supremacy in our hands. See what I mean?”
“Then why would that person have cared whether you lived or died?”
“I can’t answer that.” Nearly drained, Harry rubbed his eyes. “I’m starting to talk nonsense. It must have to do with something much larger than I can imagine, and I won’t know the answers until I get back home.”
He fell silent and let the night close around him with its fitful shadows. The angst for Apache Joe and all the dangers ahead weighed on him. Sleep, he told himself, sleep until his heartache and worry subsided and everything became clearer. The next day would be much brighter and dwelling on the past only made matters worse, besides. Yawning, he glanced at Shawki. “I’m going back to bed. In the morning, I’ll write Catherine and get our letter on its way. Afterward, we can start planning for Abu Muhammad.”
“Sleep well, Harry.” Shawki rose from his chair and smiled. “I’m going to bed also. Yes, tomorrow will be soon enough for him. He feels very safe in Iran right now.”
A thump against the hull woke Harry, but he had always been a light sleeper, he thought to himself. Was it a false alarm or was Shawki up at the blackest hour for some reason? No, someone had come aboard. He rolled to his feet and stood beside the bed. Another footstep creaked along the deckhead. Reaching for the door, he crept into the passageway.
Suddenly, someone grabbed him and clamped a hand over his mouth!
CHAPTER 12
THE CIA LIBRARY
The cat was out of the bag, thought Alexis, or better said the cat was out of the car. She picked up Tungsten, left her balcony, and walked back inside her apartment. “Sorry I forgot you,” she said evenly, but for the benefit of the FBI surveillance rather than her cat. She could tell that he’d had a good time by his interminable purring, just as she had predicted he would. He had probably hooked up, the incorrigible rat that he was, and perhaps even left claw marks on the agent who had opened the car door. Clearly, something had happened by the way he was behaving, and now all she had to do was figure out what it meant. The Frenchman and the lady cop must have been real after all … except for whom were they working?
She showered and dressed, keeping plain-faced but gritting her teeth because now there was no question they were watching her every move, meaning she had almost no privacy at all. Leaving her apartment, she drove to the dealership that had promised to repair her car, took the loaner they had waiting for her, and continued on to Langley, wracking her brain. Fact: espionage was 90 percent cerebral. Fact: the whole Washington area was loaded with spies working for Russia, China, France, and Israel, just to name the biggies. Fact: someone had bugged the State Department and stolen several laptop computers loaded with top-secret files on terrorist nations and weapons of mass destruction. Fact: key people in the intelligence community had shown only cursory alarm over those security losses, let alone China’s nonstop hacking. Fact: Dewey had had one of the highest security clearances available. Fact: he had gotten schizo over a couple of old World War II files and given her a code name. Fact: the CIA and FBI were hot on her trail. Sum total—none of it made any sense and when she connected the dots all she got was spaghetti. She would have to keep going.
Flashing her identification at the gatehouse, she drove into the CIA, found a place to park, and went inside with the Frenchman’s warning haunting her mind … ‘you’ll be forced to take a polygraph test’… She found herself obsessing over how to beat it. Was it true and could she pull it off? Then she saw Reechi waiting beside her desk.
“Alexis, security wants you to come to their offices for an examination.” He neither smiled nor blinked, just simply looked at her with his reptile eyes. “They should be here any moment to take you up.”
“Okay.” She shrugged and gave him a perky look.
“They will want you to take a polygraph test.”
“That’s fine.” She gave him a cheerful smile.
He waited a split second. “Ah … come back when you’re finished and we’ll review the work that Chambers and you did. It will take me a little while to acclimate myself to what you were doing, and, of course, I’d like to look at all of it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” She smiled again. They had her file and knew her IQ, and the airhead act would be the last thing they would expect right now. Of course, they would see through it but wouldn’t know quite what to think about it, not at this late date. The moment she turned her back Reechi would be calling upstairs to change some of the test questions, and, knowing the CIA the way she did, somebody would screw something up.
Two officers led her through what she thought must be the inner sanctum of security for th
e whole world—she glimpsed scores of uniformed personnel sitting at long curving consoles with blue hanging monitors overhead. Then she was led along a labyrinthine hallway and into a small white room that reminded her of a dentist’s office, reclining chair, bright downlight, and all. There was a mirror on one wall and cabinets with black knobs and more blue monitors, though this time with electrical cords running over to a computer screen and then the chair. It didn’t take a Mensa to figure out the room was equipped with a look-through mirror and secret audio and video recorders. Relax, she told herself, she could beat these people.
Baggy-faced and affable-looking, the examiner who would be giving her the test was already seated in the room. He looked like the mayor of a small town with his pudgy fingers spread across his belly and slouching in his chair as if he were waiting for his next constituent, rather than a suspect. Smiling, he announced, “Good morning,” when she walked in.
All right, she could play the game, besides it might help her relax, something she needed to do. The trick was to identify the control questions and tighten her abdominal muscles as if she were afraid. “Will this hurt?” she asked, smiling back.
“Only if you don’t tell the truth.” He smiled again, but quizzically this time. She had gotten to him a little.
A telephone rang beside him, and, looking surprised, he answered it. For a moment he mumbled yes, no, and uh-huh. So far, so good, she thought to herself. Plunking down in the reclining chair, she started pulling on its wires, watching the examiner’s face turn pale while she played with them. He hung up and told her not to do that anymore.
“It’s really important that you work with me,” he said irritably as he walked over and took the wires away from her. “These aren’t playthings. Now I want you to listen to me while I prepare everything.”
“Sorry, it’s just because I’m nervous.”
“Well, you should relax.”
“Wow, now I’m more scared than ever.”
He gave her an exasperated look and started describing how he would conduct the test. First, he would interview her before administering the actual TES, the Test for Espionage and Sabotage, which would give her the opportunity to clear her conscious and eliminate anything that might activate the polygraph. In a way, he would work as an ally, he explained, giving her the chance to share things with him confidentially.
Yeah, right, she thought to herself, and then you will set my soul free forever. I don’t think so!
He showed her the three different parts of the polygraph—the arm cuff for measuring blood pressure and heartbeat, the finger tables for sensing galvanic skin response through the perspiration on her fingertips, and the coiled pneumograph tubes that would trace her breathing. Are you menstruating or have any diseases like diabetes or high blood pressure? he asked, peering at her with friendly eyes, because then the polygraph wouldn’t work properly. She answered no, wondering afterward what happened to the poor slobs who were given polygraph tests not knowing they had those diseases. Down the drain they’d go without a prayer of saving themselves. She had taken enough psyche courses in college to understand that polygraphs were no better than using witchcraft when it came to finding out the truth. There were way too many ways for either party to manipulate the test.
“Are you ready for the initial interview?” asked the examiner while smiling kindly at her.
“Yes, I am,” she said. It was time to let the battle begin. She stopped blinking and fixed her eyes on him.
“Have you taken a polygraph test before?” he asked.
“Yes, I have.” She held her gaze.
“Was that polygraph test given to you as a pre-employment condition of this agency?”
“Yes.”
“Did you withhold any information about yourself that you would now like to add to your pre-employment record?”
“No.” Still holding her gaze, she let herself blink.
His mouth suddenly curled like an animal’s and his eyes glowed like hot glass. “Since your employment with this agency, how many times have you broken the law?”
“None.” She glanced away for a second.
“Have you ever acted in a pornographic film?” He still looked angry and accusatory.
“Never.” She looked at him again and let her eyes grow humid.
Almost as suddenly he leaned back and smiled. “Have you ever stolen anything from your parents?”
“Yes, I have.” She touched her lips with her fingertips in an expression of sorrow … If her guess were right, he’d now stop the pretest interview and play the father confessor, trying to get her to discuss any wrongdoing that she might be worried about. The old con job that might give him something he’d use against her later. Still looking long-faced, she waited.
“Alexis … may I call you Alexis?” he asked next.
“Yes, of course.”
He put on his affable face again. “This would be a good time for you to talk to me about anything that might be troubling you, or that you’ve been wondering about. You know, something embarrassing but no longer important, like past drug use, shoplifting, and things like that that nobody cares about anymore. Now would be the best time to discuss them so they don’t become an issue during the test.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Are you sure? This is your last chance.” Once more, he made a sour face.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Falling silent, he stepped over and fastened the blood pressure cuff around her arm, the finger tabs to her hand, and then pulled the pneumograph tubes around her chest and stomach. Afterward, he told her to sit back and relax while he calibrated the polygraph, which would only take a moment, then they would try an acquaintance test that would let him recalibrate everything to her individual responses when she lied to him. Deadpanning, she nodded and stared straight ahead. Time to be a good little girl, she thought.
“Alexis, now I want you to pick a number between one and ten.”
“Five.” She almost couldn’t help laughing because she knew what was coming.
The examiner walked over to the mirror and wrote the number five on it with a red marker pen. The better for Magruder, Scirpo, and Reechi to watch me, she thought to herself.
Returning to his polygraph, the examiner then said, “Now I want you to answer no when I ask you about the number you chose. Remember, please say no to each of my questions. Okay, did you pick the number three?” He peered at the polygraph’s screen.
She let every muscle in her body fall dead. “No.”
“Did you pick the number six?”
“No.”
“Did you pick the number five?”
She squeezed her abdominal muscles as if she had a cramp, pushing the blood toward her heart. “No,” she said evenly.
“Did you pick the number ten?”
She played dead again. “No,” she answered.
“All right, I’ve adjusted the polygraph for your response when you lied,” he explained with the slightest smile, “so are you ready to start the formal interview?”
“Yes, I am.” She nodded for effect.
“Is your name Alexis Mundy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who killed Dewey Chambers?”
“No.” The first relevant question about the crime, she thought to herself.
“Have you ever read any classified files without the authorization of your supervisor?”
“No.” The second relevant question—get ready.
“Have you ever stolen anything other than what you stole from your parents?”
The first control question. She tightened her stomach muscles. “No,” she answered. Breathe faster and look frightened, she thought, because now he would compare her tracings to what he’d seen for the two preceding questions.
“At any time were there classified files that Chambers
refused to let you see?”
“Yes.”
“What specific files had he refused to let you see the day before his death?”
Relax and think of sweet things. “I don’t remember the specific numbers because there were so many,” she said.
Now she knew why they were following her, watching her every step. Dewey must have told someone inside the Agency about NR 771 and NR 828 but hadn’t handed over the files, themselves. He must have hidden them, but where?
He went on. “Do you drive a car?”
The second control question. Once again, she pushed her blood up toward her heart. “Yes.”
“Are you engaged in espionage for another country?”
“No.”
“Have you ever leaked classified information?”
“No.”
“Have you lied during this interview?”
“No.” The next question would be a control question and probably the last one he’d ask. Get ready, she thought again, because he would try some kind of trick.
“Now, I’ll ask you a very, very personal and embarrassing question, have you ever?—” All at once he stopped and watched the polygraph. She squeezed and then relaxed.
Frowning, the examiner stepped over and removed the cuff, the tabs, and the tubes from her, then turned away as if he were upset about something. He walked in a tight little circle and brushed his hair back, sighing noisily as he spun around. “Alexis, there’s something troubling you … a couple of the questions.” He quickly faced her.
She almost couldn’t help laughing. It was all part of the act, the game he’d play in hope of getting her to run at the mouth now that the test was over. If the polygraph was so reliable, why bother? Nonetheless, it was important that she throw him a bone and make him feel as if he’d gotten everything there was to get. His bosses were watching through the mirror.
