by Barry Eisler
“Jumpy’s not my style.”
He nodded, and for a moment felt unaccountably sad. “Yeah? Well, it probably wasn’t Carlos or Juan Cole’s, either.”
19
I Will Burn You
Ulrich paced in his office, tugging on his beard, continually fighting the urge to pick up the secure line and call Clements one more time. He’d heard from his contact and there was a lot of news, but he couldn’t make full sense of it without Clements’s input. He’d sent two emails and left three messages and the son of a bitch still hadn’t gotten back to him. It was maddening. Back in the day Ulrich could have had an admin raise Clements on the phone inside a minute anytime, day or night, and Ulrich wouldn’t even bother picking up the phone until he’d been told Clements was already on the line, waiting for him.
He didn’t like it, and the disrespect, the not-so-subtle suggestion that somewhere along the line, someone had cut Ulrich’s balls off, was the least of it. They weren’t isolating him for payback, and they weren’t doing it for sport. They were doing it for a reason. And he was beginning to sense what the reason was.
He considered the facts. First, that muckraker Seymour Hersh had reported about an assassination ring operating out of the Office of the Vice President. Hersh claimed the program had been run through JSOC, which meant the leak had come from one of the other participants—CIA or NSA. And then there were the leaks about the illegal surveillance program, all pointing again to the OVP. And then the leaks about the OVP’s plan to override the Fourth Amendment and use active-duty military to arrest U.S. citizens on American soil.
Then, on top of all this, the new DCI suddenly decides to brief Congress on a CIA assassination program that he claimed never went operational anyway, telling them, in effect, that there was an assassination ring, but it was someone else’s. That last stunt suggested to Ulrich the other leaks were coming from the Agency, too. It all felt coordinated to him. The question was, coordinated to what end?
God, he could actually feel their machinations, could practically see them scuttling into crevices like cockroaches from a light. They were creating a framework for something, he could tell that much, and the Office of the Vice President was at the center of it. Who was the head of the illegal surveillance program? The OVP. Who was in charge of assassinations? The OVP. Who wanted to send the military into American suburbs? The OVP. Associate the OVP with enough scary things, and when the next scary thing was revealed, it would only be natural for everyone to assume, to want to believe, that it was all the OVP’s doing, too. At this point, the new revelation could be anything: child molestation, malnourishment in Africa, global fucking warming … it wouldn’t matter because the people had been primed to believe the bad stuff always came from the OVP.
Yeah, the hard part was creating the receptivity, getting the public to want to believe something without them actually realizing they wanted to believe it. After that, it was easy to just realize it for them.
So he recognized the setup—recognized it because he’d created ones like it himself so many times before. The question was, what was the punch line? And was the joke going to be on him?
It had to be the tapes. But how?
He continued his pacing. For any kind of executive action, the public understood the beast had both a head and a tail—that there was management, but also labor. So what the Agency was saying, the narrative they were creating, was … management was the Office of the Vice President; and whoever the labor was, it wasn’t us, it was someone else.
The tapes, the tapes … if the tapes got out, the news would be all Caspers, all the time. At which point, someone would feed the media a big, juicy chunk to connect the Caspers to the OVP. That was it, the Caspers would be the punch line, and the OVP, which was responsible for everything else, must have been responsible for the Caspers, too. But what was the evidence, the dot that would connect the other dots, the information they would slot into the expectations they’d already created? What did they have on him that wouldn’t also lead back to them? There must have been something with his return address on it. What would it—
He stopped, the blood suddenly draining from his face, his chest constricting. The return address. Jesus Christ, no.
His hands were shaking and it took him three tries to open his wall safe. He took out the encrypted thumb drive and fired it up on his computer.
They’d told him they needed to set something up to take care of the Caspers. At the time, he thought it was brilliant, he’d never heard of anything like it. It sounded so good, in fact, that he’d actually conceived of it as a kind of pilot program. If it worked with the Caspers, there was no reason not to expand it to resolve other difficult situations, as well. So he’d signed off on the creation of a dummy corporation … Jesus, what had he been thinking? At the time, it hadn’t even occurred to him. The corporate fronts were routine for a dozen different purposes—safe houses, air transport of rendered detainees … Hell, half the program was conducted through corporate false fronts. He was signing off on them every day—but now, now …
What was the name of the company? Eco, Ecology, something like that? He scrolled through memos and correspondence and findings … and there it was. Ecologia. A European company that had pioneered the concept of “ecological burials.” And Ulrich had signed off on the creation of the dummy corporation that had purchased two of their units. Christ, he might as well have just filled out the purchase orders himself.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could see it clearly now, not just what they were doing, but the way it would all play out. They’d fingered him. They’d created the narrative, exposing one by one all the different elements of the program, each time demonstrating how that element emanated from the OVP. He knew from experience that once a narrative had achieved this much momentum, this much weight in the mainstream media and the mind of the public, it was impossible to squelch it. From here, it was only going to get worse. The other players would recognize Ulrich was vulnerable, that he’d been positioned to serve as the personification of the entire thing, the poster child for the program, and they’d realize then that it was in their interest to pile on. There would be more finger-pointing, more anonymous leaks. It would be a perfect storm: the public wanting a villain; the mainstream media wanting a fall guy to protect the powerful; the potentially culpable firmament doing everything in its collective power to deliver the villain the public was clamoring for. It would be a kind of mass cleansing, cathartic for everyone involved, a ritual stoning of a symbolic individual to bury the broader sin.
And what could he argue in response? That he was only following orders? Laughable in its own right, and worse considering how motivated people would be to not hear it. Everyone but the lunatic left understood that presidents and vice presidents, sitting or former, were above the law, that the notion of trying them was simply absurd. Lieutenants, though, aides-de-camp, were a more vulnerable class. Sure, he’d have some colorable legal arguments, but those would be useless in a trial by media. He hated to admit it, but he’d really underestimated the spooks. In the end, they’d outmaneuvered him.
Or maybe not. He still had one thing that could turn this around. His final insurance policy. His suicide bomb. All he had to do was—
The secure line buzzed. He snatched up the receiver. “Ulrich.”
“Clements. Okay to talk?”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“There’s a lot going on. Okay to talk?”
“Yes, for Christ’s sake, go.”
“We know who the blackmailer is. A former JSOC ISA operator, Daniel Larison.”
Ulrich had gotten that much from his contact an hour earlier. But he didn’t see any advantage in acknowledging that to this self-important moron who wouldn’t even return his calls.
“JSOC?” he said, pretending he was grappling with new information on the fly. “Horton must have known. That’s how he got ahead of us. But wait a minute. Larison? Wasn’t he one of
the people who had access, but we ruled him out because—”
“Because we thought he died in Pakistan. That’s what he wanted us to think, to divert our attention elsewhere while the trail to him went cold.”
“He’s alive?”
“Very much so. Also very gay, and with a civilian lover in San Jose, Costa Rica.”
“A lover … this must be why that guy Treven was on his way to San Jose.”
“He’s the one who developed the intel.”
The pretense part was done. Now he had real questions to ask. “How the hell did JSOC get involved in this? Horton sent Treven? How did he explain his man’s presence to the national security adviser?”
Clements sighed. “He was filing UNODIR reports along the way. The national security adviser never even saw them, just like Horton knew he wouldn’t. They were complete CYA. And what’s he going to do now, reprimand Horton after the results this guy Treven got?”
UNODIR meant “unless otherwise directed.” You filed a report at the last possible minute, knowing that, by the time it was seen, whatever you were up to would be a fait accompli. Essentially, a ballsy way for gaining retroactive permission. Or, if whatever you were up to failed, for getting court-martialed. Horton had played it well.
“I told you,” Ulrich said, “we don’t want JSOC getting those tapes.”
“Understood.”
“Well, what’s the plan?”
“Don’t know yet. We’ve got an interagency meeting in three hours. I’m going to recommend we threaten the lover’s family, use them as leverage. With luck, that’ll bring Larison out in the open.”
Leverage. Yeah, that made sense. Sometimes it was all people understood.
“You there?” Clements said.
“Yeah, I’m here. Now listen. I know what you’re up to.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You think I’m your Plan B, I’m going to be your fall guy if something goes wrong, if those tapes get out. And you’ve been taking steps to make it happen. But there’s something I want you to hear. Listen carefully.”
He clicked the play button on his recorder and gave Clements a few key moments from that long-ago Arlington National Cemetery meeting. When he felt Clements had heard enough, he hit stop.
“Now you understand,” he said, his voice supremely calm. “If the tapes come out, we all go down. Not just me. All of us.”
There was a long pause. Clements said, “You’re crazy.”
“And that’s only one of many. So back off.”
“Back off … I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Listen to yourself. Look at what you’re doing. You’ve created … tapes about the tapes? This problem wasn’t convoluted enough?”
“Another thing. There are copies. If something happens to me, someone I trust has instructions to release those copies.”
“Someone … someone else knows about all this? You’ve lost your mind.”
“Don’t push me, Clements. I will burn you. I will fucking burn you.”
Silence on the line. It felt good. It felt … subservient.
“So just do your job and recover those tapes. And you better keep me in the loop while you’re at it.”
He clicked off, feeling good, feeling in control again. Leverage. In the end, it was all you really needed. That, and the balls to put it to use.
20
An Interesting Day in San Jose
Ben was only half asleep when he heard his phone buzz. He picked it up in the dark by feel and saw that it was Hort. “Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing Paula. Though he was pretty sure she’d be awake and listening regardless.
“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep,” Hort said.
Ben glanced at the screen. It was just past six in the morning local time. “That’s okay. It wasn’t that beautiful.”
“Well, we’ve got an interesting situation here.”
“Interesting good, or interesting bad?”
“Bad. I’m being overruled by a bunch of goddamn amoebas.”
It was unusual in the extreme for Hort to comment on how decisions were made or how he received his orders. All of that had always been a black box to Ben, and now Hort was opening it, at least a crack, and letting him see inside it. It was both enticing and discomfiting.
And then he thought of Marcy and her son, and felt suddenly sick.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, first, we got everything on this Nico you uncovered. Nico Velez. He’s an architect. Lives, works, and was born in San Jose. His parents still live in the city, and so do his two sisters and his three nieces and nephews. He’s openly gay and he’s a complete civilian.”
Paula’s phone buzzed. She picked up instantly, confirming for Ben that she had indeed been awake and listening. “Lanier,” she said, simultaneously swinging her legs off the bed and heading toward the bathroom. In the semidarkness, Ben caught a glimpse of white panties and a matching camisole. She clicked on the bathroom light and closed the door behind her.
“Hey, the FBI woman just got a call, too,” Ben said. “Are they in on this now?”
“A lot of different players have been offering their input, yeah. Makes sense she’d be getting a call about now.”
“Anyway, so we know who Nico is.”
“That’s right. And it gets better. We isolated the alias Larison traveled under when he flew to San Jose on April 17, 2007. He’s used it six times since then. So we can put him in San Jose at least eight times.”
“But probably more than that, because he’d be traveling under other aliases, too.”
“Exactly. So whatever’s going on between Larison and Nico, it’s long-term, and it’s serious. This is not some casual hookup we’re talking about.”
“Does this mean no one’s talking about Marcy Wheeler and her son anymore?”
“It means that, yeah.”
Well, that was good. “So what’s the problem?”
“The same problem it always is, again and again and again. Stupidity and arrogance.”
“I’m not following you.”
Hort sighed. “I know. I’m not making myself clear. It’s been a long, frustrating night.”
“You’ve been up all night?”
“Yeah, arguing with the Neanderthals.”
Again, Ben was intrigued by Hort’s openness. He didn’t even know who the Neanderthals were. JSOC? NSC? Justice?
“Well, what’s the plan?”
There was a pause. “The plan is for you to stand down.”
“Stand down? But we’re so close.”
“You know it and I know it. But the powers that be think they know better.”
“What are they going to do?”
“They’re flying in a Ground Branch team right now.”
“Ground Branch? Why?”
“They want Larison to think they’re going to snatch Nico.”
“To bring Larison into the open?”
“That’s the idea. Snatch Larison, get him to spill his guts, recover the tapes, and call it a day.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“That’s right it’s not going to work. You tell me why.”
Ben thought for a moment, imagining Larison, putting himself in the man’s position, assessing the same threats, gaming out the same countermeasures. “Because … Larison would have planned for this. He said he’s got the tapes on some kind of electronic dead-man trigger. He’s not going to give that up, even under duress, because he knows that wouldn’t stop the duress.”
“I agree. They’re going to torture him to prove a negative—that there are no more copies of the tapes. No matter what he gives up, they can’t know he’s given up everything, so they get their doctors to keep him alive, and the torture never ends, ever. Larison knows what he’s in for if he’s caught. So what does he do?”
“He sets the dead man to a short fuse.”
“That’s right. He knows the only thing that co
uld deliver him from his agony is having the tapes published. So by snatching him—”
“They might as well just publish the tapes themselves.”
“Good. Now, tell me this. How would you handle the situation if you were in charge?”
Ben had worked with Hort long enough to know when Hort was grooming him for some new skill set. But this was different. These were management-style questions, not tactical. Again, he was both confused and intrigued.
“I’d … leave Nico and his family alone. And when Larison called in, I’d tell him everything we’d found out. I’d tell him the bad news is, we know who he is, we know about Nico, we know everything. And if those tapes ever get released, we take it out on Nico and his family.”
“Good again. And what would be the good news?”
Ben thought. “I’d give him a bonus, I guess. Not a hundred million, that’s crazy, and maybe Larison would try to use it to resettle the family and eliminate our leverage. But something. A million, five million, something to show goodwill and no hard feelings. You know, enjoy the money, enjoy your life and your good health, and as long as those tapes never get revealed, it’s all live and let live. It’s not foolproof, but I think it’s the best we could do under the circumstances.”
There was a pause. Hort said, “Remember how I told you in, say, ten years, you could be as good as Larison?”
“Yeah.”
“I was wrong. I think you’re going to be better, and it’s not going to take that long. You’re already smarter, more in control of yourself, than the people who are jerking our chains.”
Ben was as intrigued by the reference to “our” chains as he was by Hort’s hints regarding the people who were jerking them. And as much as he wanted to believe Hort’s praise was deserved, he wondered whether there was something behind it, something he couldn’t yet see.
“I told them,” Hort said. “I told them we could not control this thing one hundred percent. That we need to work the odds. As long as there’s even a five percent chance the tapes could be released, we can’t move against Larison. And as long as there’s even a five percent chance of retribution against Nico and his family, Larison can’t release the tapes. Both sides indulge in a little strategic ambiguity while in fact standing down. That’s the best way for us to get what we say we really want, which is for those tapes not to be released.”
