by Adam LeBor
Prometheus claimed to have strong firewalls between its divisions to prevent messy conflicts of interest. But few believed the claims, especially in a town where so many had made fortunes from blurring the lines. Either way, the group’s shares had more than doubled in value over the last two years. Two investigative bloggers had tried to dig deeper into the company’s wealth and its military and intelligence connections, but their stories had not been followed up by the mainstream media. One of the bloggers was quickly outed, apparently, as a pedophile and had closed his site. The other was now working for Prometheus’s corporate liaison department.
Despite the flowers, the newspapers, and the coffee machine, the lobby was less welcoming than it seemed. The ceiling was studded with small black half domes, which concealed wide-angle CCTV cameras. A thick wall of reinforced glass ran across the front of the lobby. The only way in and out was through a circular steel-and-glass cubicle in the middle of the glass wall. For the cubicle doors to open, the doormen had to manually punch a code into a keypad. A heavy wooden door, at the back of the area, controlled access to the suites of offices. The doormen, both of whom had the build and posture of former soldiers, wore blue suits, white shirts, and navy ties emblazoned with “PG.” Two heavily built men, dressed in the same outfit, sat on the leather sofas at each end of the foyer. All had copies of the Washington Post on their laps. The four men seemed to be waiting for someone, but they did not pick up or read their newspapers.
One wall was covered with photographs of board members: two vice presidents, three former secretaries of state—one dating back to the Kissinger era—an equal number of former national security advisers, and at least a dozen former congressmen and senior diplomats, including two former US ambassadors to the United Nations. The latest addition to the board of the Prometheus Group was Eugene Packard, a hugely popular television evangelist.
Yael walked back across the lobby with Samantha. They stood by the wooden door, which was firmly closed. Yael watched with interest as Samantha rested her right palm on a small monitor mounted on the wall. There was a keypad above. The monitor lit up; Samantha covered the pad with her left hand and punched in a six-figure code. The keypad beeped once. Samantha then placed her right thumb in the center of the screen. It beeped again, the main door opened, and they rode the elevator together. It stopped at the twelfth floor but the door did not open. Samantha inserted a special key, embossed with the PG logo, into a narrow slot on the side of the cabin. The door slid aside, and they stepped into an anteroom. A slim Southeast Asian lady in her sixties, elegantly dressed in a green business suit, sat at her desk in front of a computer monitor, wearing a headset and microphone. She smiled at the two women and buzzed Clairborne, informing him that his visitor had arrived. The door to his office swung open.
“Ms. Az-ou-lay,” exclaimed Clairborne, stretching out the syllables of her surname in his Alabama accent as he bounded forward to greet her. “Thank you so much for making the time to visit with us today.”
Everything about Clarence Homer Lincoln Clairborne III was big. His shoulders, a reminder of his time as a linebacker on the University of Alabama football team; his hands, the flesh of which swelled around his wedding and college rings; his hair, a stiff helmet of red and gray, held in place by gel and spray; his face, burned mahogany on the deck of his oceangoing yacht and the golf course; his hand-tailored suit with its roomy, two-button jacket and deep lapels that could not conceal the epic swell of his stomach. Even his voice was big, booming across his office as he greeted Yael.
Clairborne ushered her to a corner, where two leather armchairs stood, identical to those in the reception area. A small side table stood between them, a jug of water and a large cigar box standing on it, its lid embossed with a large “PG.”
Yael sat down, the polished leather squeaking underneath. Her pulse quickened; her senses were on full alert as she scoped her surroundings, totally focused now. The parquet wooden floor was covered with an enormous single Persian rug, the walls wood paneled, while an old-fashioned desk with a rectangle of green leather on the writing surface took up most of one corner. Two photographs in silver frames, of a young woman and a teenage boy who looked like a youthful version of Clairborne, stood on its right-hand corner. The lighting was muted and the air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and fresh coffee. The most important signifier in any Washington office, Yael knew, was the occupant’s power wall. Company foyers showcased an array of formal portraits of the board members, while the CEO’s office usually had more relaxed shots, showing him glad-handing, eating, and drinking with the great and good. There was a hierarchy to decode: a snatched picture at an event with a DC rainmaker was lower on the totem pole than a common table at a charity dinner. Best of all was something à deux: just the two guys, enjoying themselves and shooting the breeze.
Yael had expected to see an array of casual pictures of Clairborne with the numerous VIPs whose official portraits filled the reception area. Instead there were just four photographs, separately displayed and all roughly the size of a sheet of printer paper—small by Washington standards. Three showed Clairborne playing golf with the last three former presidents. In each Clairborne had his arm around the president’s shoulders. The fourth, mounted away from the others, showed Clairborne shaking hands with Eugene Packard, the television evangelist. The chairman of the Prometheus Group, Yael understood, was subtler than he first appeared.
Yael declined his offer of coffee or tea and placed her mobile telephone on the side table between the chairs. She sensed him watching her, like a lion scoping a nearby zebra, and quickly deciding that this young woman from an organization he despised posed no threat. He had marked his territory. Now it was her turn. A blue light at the bottom of her phone blinked repeatedly.
“Please switch off the microphones and cameras, Mr. Clairborne.”
Clairborne looked at the phone, and back at her. “This room is swept twice a day, Ms. Azoulay.”
Yael nodded. “It’s not intruders’ mikes that I’m worried about.”
Clairborne smiled, amused. “You have to watch your back in this town, Ms. Azoulay. You never know what might end up on YouTube.”
Yael sat back and said nothing. The silence stretched out. Clairborne gave her a long look, as though reassessing his initial judgment. He stood up, walked over to the telephone on his desk, and punched a series of numbers into the keypad. The blue light on Yael’s phone went out, replaced by a green one.
“Thank you,” said Yael, as Clairborne returned and sat down.
“You know the rules,” replied Clairborne, gesturing at her phone.
Yael nodded. She slid out her mobile’s battery and SIM card and laid the pieces of the telephone on the table. “So do you.”
Clairborne did the same. He offered Yael a glass of water. She nodded and he poured them both one. He emptied the glass in one draft and looked at her. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice now cool and businesslike.
Yael explained what she wanted, slowly and in detail. Clairborne watched her as she spoke, his wide, doughy face impassive.
She had prepared for this meeting for a week. Her briefing notes were an inch thick. They included a detailed history of the Prometheus Group, biographies of its key personnel and directors, and flowcharts showing Prometheus’s reach into each US government department and the firm’s contact official there. There were multiple lines in and out of the major departments, including Commerce, Treasury, Labor, Justice, Transportation, the Federal Reserve, and the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and fewer connections into smaller departments such as Food Safety. The Pentagon had four separate pages, one each for army, navy, air force, and procurement. Yael had read the notes several times in New York, and again on the train that morning. She had been briefed verbally on Prometheus’s connections to the United States’ intelligence agencies, by her UN colleague Quentin Braithwaite, a former British army officer. Prometheus, Braithwaite had explained, was especially well c
onnected to a new US government covert agency that operated off the books. Braithwaite had forbidden Yael from taking any notes at his briefing. Nor was she to discuss or mention this new agency on the telephone or in any electronic communications, no matter how well encrypted.
Clairborne was silent for several seconds. “Ms. Azoulay, I really have no idea what you are talking about.”
Yael took a sip of her water before she spoke. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. The Iranian regime is under sanctions. It is illegal for American firms to do business with Iran, whether directly or through foreign-based subsidiaries. It is especially illegal for American firms to do business with the Revolutionary Guard, which as you surely know, has been designated a terrorist organization.”
Clairborne shrugged, his eyebrows raised, his hands open and forward in the universal declaration of innocence. “Indeed it has. But I have no idea why you are sitting here telling me that. I am sorry, Ms. Azoulay, that you seem to have had a wasted trip. If there is anything else we can help you with, anything at all…”
“You should know, Mr. Clairborne,” said Yael, holding his gaze, “that President Freshwater is taking a strong personal interest in this matter.”
Renee Freshwater, the first female president of the United States, had been in office for three years. As the most liberal Democrat to ever hold office, her election had provoked fury among Republicans. She had started her career in the State Department, where she had been one of the most outspoken advocates for intervention during the genocide in Rwanda in 1994. She had risen up the ranks to serve as the United States ambassador to the United Nations, from where she had been appointed secretary of state. Once in office, Freshwater had twisted Congress’s arm to force through reforms on labor law, immigration, and banking regulation, enraging Wall Street. But it was her decision to sign up the United States to the International Criminal Court that had sent her conservative opponents into a frenzy. Based in The Hague, the Dutch seat of government, the court had been set up in the wake of the genocides in Rwanda and Bosnia, with the aim of preventing future mass slaughters. Freshwater had now agreed to the theoretical possibility that American citizens could be extradited to The Hague for war crimes or crimes against humanity. This, her opponents had pledged, would never happen. The Republicans declared all-out war on her administration, aided behind the scenes by numerous right-wing Democrats who wanted Freshwater out, to be replaced by one of their own.
President Freshwater’s husband, Eric, had been killed in a skiing accident, the full circumstances of which remained unclear, while on holiday in Aspen last year. The investigation, which was still ongoing, had not come up with a concrete explanation of why his bindings had suddenly failed, or why he had suddenly skied away from his family and gone off-piste. Many had expected Freshwater to resign. Instead she had renewed her onslaught on the corporate world with ever-increasing vigor, targeting military subcontractors and the outsourcing of intelligence to the commercial sector, especially focusing on the Prometheus Group. But Freshwater’s political honeymoon was long over, the sympathy engendered by the death of her husband evaporated. Her most recent bill, which would have brought all outsourced security functions—whether field operations or desk analysis—back under government control, had been thoroughly wrecked by Congress in a rare bipartisan filibuster. Freshwater’s plans for intervention in Syria were also quickly derailed.
Clairborne sat back, completely unfazed by the mention of the president’s name. “So what? Renee Dead-in-the-Water can bring another bill to Congress.” He brushed some imaginary fluff from his trousers. “Under whose authority are you here today, Ms. Azoulay?” he asked, the last trace of Southern bonhomie now gone.
“I represent Fareed Hussein, the secretary-general of the United Nations.”
Clairborne laughed. “How is Fareed? I just read that he’s not doing too well at the moment.”
“He’s fine. What matters to you is that he is mandated by the P5, the permanent five members of the Security Council. Including the United States, whose government has contracts with Prometheus worth one point two billion and which shares his concerns.”
Clairborne’s smile faded. He extracted a cigar from the box on his desk. He examined the tube of tobacco, probing it for firmness, before holding it up in front of him. “Well now, Ms. Azoulay. Why don’t you let me think about this. I will consult my board of directors and get back to you, just as soon as I can.”
“No,” said Yael.
Clairborne looked puzzled, as though he had never heard the word before. “Pardon?” He leaned forward as he spoke, his face set, his shoulders seeming to swell around him as he stared at Yael.
“You heard me, Mr. Clairborne. This ends today. Now. You cut your connection with Tehran.”
She watched Clairborne carefully. Yael read people: She knew the meaning of every eye movement, curl of the mouth, touch of the tongue to the teeth, dilated vein under the skin, subtle intake of breath or exhalation, tiny flicker of emotion across a face—the microsigns that to everyone else were imperceptible. She knew when someone was dissembling, when they were telling the truth, and even when they were perhaps subconsciously trying to tell the truth, albeit buried under a carapace of lies. Behind his belligerent exterior, Clairborne also had his ghosts. She remembered her briefing notes: “Despite his success, Clairborne remains insecure, haunted by the memory of his father, Stockwell, whose business empire collapsed almost overnight after he bounced a check. Stockwell had been running a pyramid scheme. He was arrested and sent to prison for fraud. His son visited him once and was profoundly traumatized by the experience. Stockwell later died in prison and his name is never mentioned.”
“And what if I refuse your… request?” asked Clairborne, turning the cigar over and over between his fingers.
Clairborne was playing for time, a classic ploy. The side of his mouth twitched twice, while a vein on the right side of his temple pulsed fast. She could feel him thinking, his mind racing as he asked himself, How the hell did they find out…?
Yael said, “You should also know that the Department of Justice, the District of Columbia state attorney, and the FBI regard the Prometheus Group as an object of interest.”
“Is that a threat?”
Yael shook her head. “Of course not. Merely a statement of fact.”
“Ms. Azoulay, as I said, I will get back to you when I have considered your request. You have made a number of accusations here, very serious accusations, and I will need to consult my lawyers and other board members….”
“Mr. Clairborne, I am not accusing you of anything. I am merely bringing to you a request for your assistance with a sensitive matter that is of interest to a number of parties.”
Clairborne lumbered to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Azoulay. I will be in touch when I have some news for you.”
Time to strike, Yael thought. Her heart was thumping, but she was pleased to see her hand was steady.
“Please sit down, Mr. Clairborne,” she said.
Clairborne stared at her, his expression a mix of puzzlement and hostility.
Yael gestured at the armchair. He sat back down. Clairborne’s nickname was “the Bull.” Now she would be the matador. She opened her leather folio and slid the sheet of paper across the table.
Clairborne glanced at the paper quickly, then again, more slowly. He placed the paper on his lap and stared into space for several seconds, patting his hair, as if to check each strand was still in place before standing up and walking over to the photograph of Eugene Packard. He looked at the television evangelist for a full minute before returning to his seat. Clairborne sat down, closed his eyes, and gently rocked back and forth, the fingers of each hand resting on his temples as he silently and fluently mouthed the familiar words of prayer.
“Where did you get this?” he eventually asked.
“Keep it,” said Yael. “We have plenty of copies. Give it to your lawyer. You may need one soon. Once it is all over the
Internet.”
Clairborne leaned back and suddenly laughed out loud, a deep rolling sound that came from inside his belly. “Are you shitting me? Do you want a job here, Ms. Azoulay?”
Yael shook her head. “No thanks. Your answer, please.”
The smile vanished from Clairborne’s face as quickly as it had appeared. Underneath the joshing, he was unused to losing—especially in his own office.
Clairborne slapped the arm of the leather chair. The noise sounded like a pistol shot. “This is blackmail. You have no right to come in here, to my office, to blackmail and threaten me.”
Yael stood her ground, now certain of her instincts. “Mr. Clairborne. I am not blackmailing you. I have made a request of you. Now I am merely showing you a piece of evidence that may assist you in making the right decision.”
She paused. Stockwell. “Decisions have consequences, Mr. Clairborne. A single bad move and the whole edifice can come crashing down. Bankruptcy. Prison.”
Clairborne stared at her, his eyes glacial, his body rigid with anger. “I think it’s time you left.”
Yael pushed harder. Angry people made mistakes. “It’s not me that you have to worry about. The president has got you by the balls, Mr. Clairborne. She is going to shut you down. You could be looking at ten to fifteen. I don’t think your VIP friends will be coming to visit you in jail.”
Clairborne’s fingers turned white as he gripped his armchair. He reared up, his nostrils flaring. “The president can go fuck herself. Which nowadays is her only option. We…”he said, suddenly stopping in midsentence.
