by Tom Clancy
Martha crossed her long legs. "Matt, I appreciate your loyalty. But forward funding is a super-hot topic these days. Stephen Viens got caught taking money from one project and putting it into another."
"Because he knew that project was needed for national security," Stoll said. "It's not like the guy got rich off what he was doing."
"Irrelevant," said Martha. "He broke the rules."
"They were stupid rules."
"Also irrelevant," she said. "Frankly, the best we can hope for is that no one on the committee decides to investigate Op-Center because we've had improper access to NRO assets."
"Preferred access," Hood corrected her.
"Right," said Martha. "Let's see if Larry Rachlin calls it that when his CIA guys testify that we got ten times as much satellite time as they did. And what do you think'll happen if the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee decides to go through our finances? We didn't always rebate the NRO for that time because it wasn't in our budget."
"We've logged all of that debt and put it into next year's budget," Hood said.
"Congress'll still say we're living beyond our means," Martha told him. "They'll come looking to see how and why."
"There!" Stoll said, clapping his hands together. "That threat is all the more reason to line up behind Stephen from the get-go. One bureau is a target. Two is a unified front. It's power. If we go to bat for the NRO, Congress may think again about taking us on. Especially if there's the hint of a threat that national security is going to suffer."
Martha looked at Hood. "Frankly, Paul, some of those representatives would love to roll up their sleeves and overhaul all of national security. You know what I've been hearing from my friends in Congress ever since Mike Rodgers saved Japan from that North Korean nuke? Some have been saying, 'Why should we pay to protect Japan from terrorism?' The rest've been saying, 'Nice job, but how come you didn't know about the plot before it got so far?' Same with the tunnel bombing in New York. We found the perpetrator, but what the bottom-liners on the Hill wanted to know is why didn't our intelligence resources know it was going to happen and stop it. No, Matt. We're too close to sinking ourselves to start rocking the boat."
"I'm not asking you to rock anything," Stoll said. "Just throw the guy a life preserver."
"We may need it ourselves," Martha replied.
Stoll raised his hands as if he were going to protest, then let them drop. "So is this the best we can do for a good and loyal friend? Leave him twisting in the.wind? Hell, Paul, is that what would happen to me or Martha or any from Op-Center who got into trouble?"
"You should know me better than that," Hood said.
"Anyway, that's different," Martha said.
"Why?" Stoll asked. "Because we get a paycheck from this place instead of from another place?"
"No," Martha replied coolly. "Because the people running Op-Center would have to approve whatever you did that got you in trouble. If we okayed it and it was wrong, then we'd take the heat with you. We'd deserve to."
Stoll looked from Martha back to Hood. "Excuse me, Paul, but Martha's here because Lowell's out of town. You wanted a legal opinion and she's given you one. Now I'm asking for a moral judgment."
"Are you saying that obeying the law is immoral?" Martha demanded, her large brown eyes flashing.
"Not at all," Stoll said. "I pick my words pretty carefully. What I said was that you gave a legal opinion."
"My moral opinion would be the same," Martha huffed. "That man did wrong. We didn't. If we go to the mat for him, some headline-grabber's going to take a magnifying glass to our operation next. Why should we risk that?"
Stoll said, "Because it's the right thing to do. I thought we're all supposed to be brothers and sisters here in the intelligence community. And I don't really think it will raise any red flags if Paul or especially you, as a black woman—"
"African-American," she said firmly.
"— were to go to the Congressional investigators and tell them that Viens's good deeds outweigh the bad call he made with the forward funding. Christ, it's not like he pocketed any of the money himself. It all went into the NRO coffers."
"Unfortunately for him," said Martha, "the national debt rose a little because of what he did. And the taxpayer got hit for the interest. I figure Jane Citizen is in the hole for about eighty million dollars because of his creative bookkeeping."
"He used the money to do his job better," Stoll said through his teeth. "He served Jane Citizen."
Hood looked at the empty mug as he gently tapped its side. His wife only allowed matched coffee cups in the house. This mug was his, an old L.A. Rams mug given to him by quarterback Roman Gabriel during an Old-Timers Day tribute at Los Angeles City Hall.
Op-Center was his too. His to look after and protect. His to make work. Stephen Viens had helped make that happen. He'd helped Op-Center save lives and protect nations. Now Viens needed help.
The question was, did Hood have the right to risk the futures of people who reported directly to him, people who might be hurt by backlash and cutbacks, to help someone who didn't?
As though reading his boss's mind, Stoll said mournfully, "I guess Op-Center policy is to look out for people who have to give us their loyalty instead of one who gave it freely."
Hood said, "This issue isn't as absolute as either of you make it, and you both know it."
Martha wiggled her foot. That was an indication that she was pissed off but wasn't going to get into a spitting contest. Martha got pissed off a lot at Hood and others in government who did anything that might jeopardize her own career. Still, ambition didn't necessarily make her wrong.
"Who's our best friend on the committee investigating this?" Hood asked Martha.
"That depends," she said, still irritated. "Do you consider Senator Fox our friend?"
Senator Barbara Fox had led the charge to gut the budget for Op-Center. She'd done an about-face when Hood, on business in Germany, had found the man who had murdered the senator's daughter decades before.
"For the moment Senator Fox is our friend," Hood said. "But like Matt said, one is a target while two is power. If we have to go in there swinging, who else've we got?"
"No one," Martha said. "Five of the other eight committee members are up for re-election, and Chairman Landwehr is on a crusade. They'll do whatever it takes to look good. Meaning protect the taxpayer by punishing the squanderer. The two senators who aren't up for re-election are Boyd and Griffith. And they're tight with Larry Rachlin."
Hood frowned. CIA Director Rachlin was not a friend of Op-Center. He perceived the crisis management group as having stolen a great deal of his overseas thunder — and with only seventy-eight full-time employees. Barbara Fox was the only one they could even hope to count on. And there was no telling which way she'd go if the other members of the SIC and the press leaned on her. It might toughen her or cause her to back-paddle.
"You've both made strong cases," Hood said, "but there's one thing we can't ignore. We're in this whether we want to be or not. It makes sense to me that we take the offensive."
Matt brightened. Martha shook her foot and drummed her fingers on the armrest.
"Martha, how well do you know Senator Landwehr?"
"Not very. We've bumped into one another at a couple of dinners, a few parties. He's quiet, conservative, like it says in the papers. Why?"
"If there are any subpoenas," Hood said, "they'll probably go to me, to Mike Rodgers, and to Matt. But if you get in there first, we can spin this our way."
"Me?" she said. "As in 'They won't dare to attack a black woman?' "
"No," Hood replied. "You're the only one of us who was in the loop but didn't deal directly with the NRO. You don't have friends there. That makes you qualified in the eyes of the committee. Equally as important, it makes you the least-biased high-ranking official in the eyes of the public."
Martha's foot stopped wiggling and her fingers stopped tapping. Hood knew she was interested. She was a wom
an in her late forties who didn't want to stay at Op-Center forever. Voluntary, impassioned testimony would give her valuable national exposure. That would be her motivation for taking the stand. Hood's was that while their cause was just, Congressional hearings were also high drama. If the exits, entrances, and players were carefully selected and stage-managed, defeat could be made into triumph.
"What would I be saying up there?" Martha asked.
"The truth," Hood said, "which is what makes this very sweet. You would tell the committee that yes, we've occasionally and for very short periods monopolized the NRO for national security. You'd tell them that Stephen Viens is a hero who helped us protect human rights and lives. Senator Landwehr won't be able to attack us for telling the truth. If we get him and Senator Fox behind us, and portray Viens as a patriot, that robs the committee of some of its power to grandstand. Then it'll just be a matter of the NRO giving the money back, which is pretty boring stuff. Not even CNN will give it much coverage."
Martha sat still for a moment, then said, "I'll think about it."
Hood wanted to say, "You'll do it." But Martha was a thorny woman who also had to be handled with care. He said, "Can you let me know by this afternoon?"
She nodded, then left.
Stoll regarded Hood. "Thanks, Chief. I really mean that."
Hood drained the last cold drop from his mug. "Your friend screwed up over there, Matt. But if you can't go to bat for a good man who's been a loyal ally, then what the hell good are you?"
Stoll made a zero with his thumb and index finger, thanked Hood again, then left.
Alone again, Hood pressed his palms into his eyes. He had been a big-city mayor and a banker. When his father was his age, forty-three, he was a CPA struggling to keep his own small accounting firm afloat. How did Frank Hood's son come to this place in life where careers could live or die, where people could live or die, based on decisions he made here?
He knew the answer, of course. He loved government and he believed in the system. And he did it because he believed that he could make these decisions compassionately and intelligently.
But Lord, he thought, it's difficult.
With that, the self-pity ended. Rising with his mug, Hood left the office to start on his next cup of coffee.
EIGHT
Monday, 3:53 p.m.,
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Mary Rose Mohalley finished running the last of the local systems checks. The software for the ALQ-157 infrared jammer was on-line and functioning. So was the hardware of the three-foot-by-two-foot-by-two-foot X-poser, which was designed to detect the residue of nitroglycerin, C-4, Semtex, TNT, and other explosives. Then she checked to make sure the ROC's batteries and solar panels were working at full capacity. They were. Two dozen batteries were dedicated to the ROC's internal systems. Another four batteries were devoted to powering the van's engine when, unlike now, gasoline wasn't readily available. The latter four batteries consisted of a pair of low-rate-energy storage batteries and two high-rate-energy flywheel batteries. Together the four batteries provided a total of eight hundred extra miles of travel capacity without recharging. All of the nickel metal-hydride batteries were stored in two fifty-eight-by-fourteen-inch compartments that were built into the raised floor. The solar panels that powered the van's air-conditioning and water were also working perfectly.
The twenty-nine-year-old got up. She had intended to go out and stretch, maybe catch a few minutes of sun, when Mike Rodgers spoke.
"Mary Rose, would you mind getting Matt's OLM program up and running before you do anything else?"
The young woman's shoes squeaked as she stopped suddenly on the smooth, black rubberized floor covering. Rodgers hadn't turned around or he would have seen her shoulders slump.
"No, I wouldn't mind at all," Mary Rose replied lightly. She plopped back down. Back at Op-Center, psychologist Liz Gordon had warned her that the only rays she'd get working with Mike Rodgers were whatever low-level radiation leaked from her computer monitor.
After giving his associate her assignment, Rodgers arched his back and stretched in silence. Then he continued going through his own checklist.
There it was, Mary Rose grumbled to herself. General Rodgers just took his break.
She looked at the screen and began moving the mouse around. The OLM was Matt Stoll's On-Line Mole. Though they had both been eager to try it, the OLM was part of the second wave of software installations. It was scheduled to be up and running by four p.m. However, with General Rodgers, a request was as imperative as a command.
The young woman rubbed her tired eyes, but that didn't make them feel any better. She was still jet-lagged from the flight over, and the fatigue went deep. Thanks to her doctorate in advanced computer applications, she had the luxury of using tireless machines to help her exhausted human brain. But she wondered how many bad deals American statesmen had made in this part of the world because they were just too tired to think clearly.
Then again, General Rodgers doesn't seem to feel it, she told herself. If anything, he appeared invigorated. He sat with his back to her, facing a wall of monitors that displayed satellite views of the region as well as information that ranged from levels of microwave radiation to local smog and allergen levels. Large rises in microwave levels indicated an increase in cellular communications, which was often a forerunner to military activity in a region. A higher smog or pollen count told them what kind of efficiency levels they could expect from soldiers. Mary Rose had been astonished to learn from Op-Center's chief medical officer, Jerry Wheeler, that antihistamines weren't deeply stockpiled by many of the world's armies. However sophisticated a nation's weapons were, they'd be useless in the hands of itchy-eyed warriors.
No, General Rodgers didn't feel the exhaustion. Mary Rose could tell that he was happily immersed in studying his data. That was why they hadn't had a break since their early, fifteen-minute lunch. He was lost in this first glimpse at wars of the near future. Wars that wouldn't be fought between great armies, but by small bands against small bands, and by satellites against computers and communications centers. Enemies of tomorrow would not be battalions, but groups of terrorists who used chemical and biological weapons against civilian targets, killing and vanishing. Then it would be up to teams like the ROC crew to plan a swift and surgical response. Find a way to get as close to the enemy brain as possible and lobotomize it, using an elite unit like Op-Center's Striker or a missile hit or a booby-trapped car or telephone or electric shaver. Hope that with the head gone, the hands and feet would no longer function.
Unlike many "old soldiers" who longed for the old Ways, Mary Rose knew that the forty-something Rodgers relished this new challenge. He enjoyed new ideas and new ways almost as much as he enjoyed his bottomless supply of old aphorisms. As he'd told her with boyish enthusiasm when they'd settled into their seats early this morning, "Samuel Johnson once said, 'The world is not yet exhausted; let me see something tomorrow which I never saw before.' I'm looking forward to this, Mary Rose."
Getting Matt's OLM up and running took just over fifteen minutes. When she'd loaded it and run the diagnostics, Rodgers asked her to break into the Turkish Security Forces computer file. He wanted to learn more about Colonel Nejat Seden, the man who was being sent to work with them. He said that Seden was undoubtedly being sent to watch them as well, though Rodgers had expected that. That was how what he called the "watch out" worked. It was the nitrogen cycle of spying. Rodgers himself was watching the Turks as well as the Syrians; the Israelis were probably watching them both, while the CIA watched the Israelis. Rodgers said it was only fitting that the Turks would watch them.
But Mary Rose suspected that more than politics was behind his request. The general also liked to know the caliber of the individual with whom he'd be spending his time. Sitting beside him on the C-141A that had brought them to Turkey, she'd discovered one quality above all about General Mike Rodgers. He didn't enjoy being surrounded by people, even enemies, who weren't as committe
d to their jobs as he was to his.
Mary Rose wriggled uncomfortably in her seat as she typed commands into the computer. Because chairs with wheels made a familiar and distinctive sound, the seats in the ROC were bolted to the floor. As Op-Center's Yale-educated Chief Engineer Harlan Bellock had said during the design phase, "Casters would be a tip-off to snoops. It would be very odd to hear the sounds of office furniture coming from an archaeologist's van, you know."
Mary Rose understood. But that didn't make the aluminum chairs any more comfortable. She also felt sunlight-deprived in here, just as she did when she worked in her Op-Center cubicle. All of the windows in the back had been deeply darkened, and lead-lined walls separated the front section of the van from the rear, with only a narrow, doorless opening in the center. Stoll had insisted on that precaution because many modern spies were equipped with "detection kits" or "DeteKs." These portable receivers literally read the electromagnetic radiation that was emitted by the computer monitor and permitted the spies to monitor the screens from outside and from a distance.
Maybe I should have been a Striker, she thought. Drill, play sports, shoot, rockclimb, and swim at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Get some rays. Kick some derriere. But she had to admit she got a lot of sun on her days off, and she loved computers and cutting-edge technology. So stop complaining and do your programming, young lady.
The woman's long, fine brown hair was pulled back with a bow to keep it from tumbling onto the keyboard as she worked. Her hazel eyes were alert, her mouth tight as she modemed OLM to TSF headquarters in Ankara. There, like a perfect little spy, the OLM made room for itself by downloading a legitimate program to the ROC computer for storage.
"Attaboy," she said, her shoulders and thin lips relaxing slightly.
Rodgers chuckled. "It sounds as if you're coaxing one of your father's trotters and pacers."
Her father, William R. Mohalley, was a magazine publisher who owned several of the finest race horses on Long Island. He had always hoped that his only child would ride for him. But when Mary Rose reached a height of five feet seven at age sixteen, and kept on growing to five ten, that became unlikely. And she was just as happy. Horses were one of Mary Rose's passions. She had never wanted it to become work.