Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  “Is that a crime?” Maria asked.

  “No. I’ve got a feeling he’s hiding something,” March said. “I want to have a look at the computer.”

  “You are permitted to look at his computer files because of a feeling?” Maria asked.

  “No,” March said. “We are permitted access to his computer under Section 217 of the USA Patriot Act. Suspected computer transgression, possible web cam surveillance of federal officers near a national monument is a crime. No court order required to investigate.”

  “He may not have known you people were federal officers,” McCaskey pointed out.

  “Perhaps,” March said. “But we have reasonable cause for suspicion. He handled the parcel from the embassy, and he did not stop when we asked him to, repeatedly. If he’s innocent, it’s a minor inconvenience, and we’ll apologize. If he’s guilty, we may save lives.”

  McCaskey made a face as the security officers from the Memorial arrived. March showed them his badge, then asked them to watch the woman. He said an ambulance would be arriving in just a few minutes.

  “Look, I’ve got to put this baby to bed,” March said. He offered his hand to McCaskey and Maria in turn. “I can’t thank you enough. If you ever need anything, just shout.”

  “I will,” McCaskey said.

  Op-Center’s top cop felt as though he should say something more on the man’s behalf but decided against it. Ed March had a point. He also had the law on his side. McCaskey himself had thought the man might be involved in this. That, too, had been a feeling. Sometimes, lawmen had to act on that.

  McCaskey had parked on C Street. He walked back with Maria. His wife was scowling and complained that this was what Spain was like under Franco.

  “If everyone El Caudillo arrested had actually been guilty of crimes, Spain would have been a nation of felons,” she said.

  “The situations are not the same,” McCaskey said. “Franco was a tyrant. Ed is a good officer trying to protect American lives.”

  “This is how good officers become tyrants,” she replied.

  “Not always,” he said with more hope than conviction.

  The American system was not perfect, but as they drove to Op-Center, McCaskey took comfort in a slogan that had been written on the blackboard of a Community Outreach Theory class he once took at the FBI Academy in Quantico. It was a reassuring quote from Jefferson: “The boisterous sea of liberty is never without a wave.”

  SIX

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 9:02 A.M.

  Mike Rodgers pulled into the Op-Center parking lot moments after Darrell McCaskey arrived. Their reserved parking spots were side by side, and McCaskey waited while Rodgers got out. The spots were numbered rather than named. If security were ever compromised and someone rigged a car to explode, the assassin would have to know which vehicle he wanted. That was why Rodgers had started leasing cars every six months instead of buying them. He had made a number of powerful enemies abroad with his Striker assaults. The general was not paranoid, but Bob Herbert once told him that Washington, D.C., had over five hundred freelance “street potatoes,” as they were called. Individuals who watched the comings and goings of government officials and reported the information to foreign governments. That data could be used for everything from blackmail to murder. Changing cars, like alternating the routes Rodgers took to work, was just good sense. Of course, the general half-expected to open the newspaper one morning and read about some poor joker with his last car getting blown up in a driveway or sniped at in a shopping mall. Then again, Rodgers always checked the provenance of his vehicle. He did not want to end up with a car that had been rented by an embassy employee or drug dealer who was someone else’s target.

  “Did we both sleep in?” Rodgers asked.

  “Nah,” McCaskey said. “Maria and I were on a stakeout for a friend with the postal service.”

  “Some careless spy using the same drop box more than once?” Rodgers asked.

  “Sort of. He was passing material to the carrier to bypass security inspections,” McCaskey said.

  Our own people betraying us, Rodgers thought. Whenever he heard something like that, the general felt every civilized inhibition slide away. He would have no trouble executing someone to whom a payday mattered more than his country. “Did you get them?”

  McCaskey nodded. “Maria had the spook spotted from the start. That lady’s intuition is amazing.”

  “Jealous?” Rodgers joked.

  “No. Proud. I went after a guy who was web camming the Lincoln Memorial. He turned out to be undercover with Homeland Security. I swear, we’ve got more cops here than gangsters.”

  “There are still plenty of bad guys to round up,” Rodgers said as they entered the building.

  “I know,” McCaskey said. “But when counter espionage units start taking friendly fire, it’s time to rethink our overall policy. We should be doing more of what you’re doing, training personnel to operate abroad and targeting ETs.”

  ETs were not just aliens, they were exported terrorists. When Striker had been replaced by a human intelligence unit, the mandate was to infiltrate and undermine foreign operations before they became a real threat.

  Rodgers did not disagree. But the intelligence community had spent decades relying on increasingly sophisticated ELINT—electronic intelligence—such as intercepted phone and E-mail messages, spy satellites, and unmanned drones. Human intelligence was deemed too risky and unreliable. Foreign nationals who could not be hired outright had to be blackmailed into cooperating. That was costly and time consuming and required a sizable support system. Even then, the nationals could not always be trusted. Ramping up HUMINT operations also took time and ingenuity. In the interim, United States intelligence operations had assumed a posture similar to the Soviet approach of defending the homeland during World War II. They threw every available body at the problem in the hope of stopping it.

  The men emerged from the elevator and went in separate directions along the oval corridor. As deputy director, Rodgers’s office was located next to that of Paul Hood in the so-called executive wing. The only other office in that section was that of attorney Lowell Coffey III. McCaskey, intelligence chief Bob Herbert, computer expert Matt Stoll, psychologist Liz Gordon, and political liaison Ron Plummer were in the operations corridor. That was where all the real work was done, according to Herbert.

  When Rodgers passed Hood’s office, Bugs Benet asked the general if he had a minute.

  “Sure,” Rodgers said. “What’s up?”

  “The chief wanted to talk to you,” Bugs replied.

  “All right. When?” Rodgers asked. Hood’s door was rarely closed. It was closed now.

  “He said you should go in when you got here,” Bugs told him.

  “Thanks,” Rodgers said. He walked past Bugs’s cubicle and knocked on Hood’s door.

  “It’s open,” Hood said.

  Rodgers went in.

  “Good morning,” Hood said.

  “Morning,” Rodgers said.

  Hood rose from behind his desk and gestured toward a leather sofa set against the inside wall. Rodgers walked over and sat. Hood shut the door, then joined Rodgers. His expression was curiously neutral. Hood was a diplomat, but he was usually open and empathetic. That helped people trust him, and that made him effective.

  “Mind if I help myself to coffee?” Rodgers asked.

  “No, of course not, Mike,” Hood said. “Sorry I didn’t offer. I’ve been preoccupied.”

  “I can tell,” Rodgers said. He went to the coffeemaker on a small, triangular, teakwood corner table. “Want any?”

  “No thanks. I’ve already had enough to float a horseshoe,” Hood told him.

  “What’s going on?” Rodgers asked as he poured.

  “I spoke with Senator Debenport this morning,” Hood said. “He wants me to make deep cuts.”

  “More than the four percent we just gave him?”

  “Much more,” Hood told him. “Five times more.�
�

  “That’s ridiculous,” Rodgers said. He returned with his mug and took a sip. “You don’t trim that kind of money. You amputate.”

  “I know,” Hood said.

  “How far from that figure can you move him?”

  “He’s not going to yield a dime,” Hood said.

  “Balls. Everything is negotiable.”

  “Not when you’re a politician in the public eye,” Hood said.

  “I guess you would know.”

  “I do,” Hood said. “People want to feel secure, and CIOC wants to give that to them in as showy a way as possible. That is where the money is needed.”

  Rodgers was starting to get a very uneasy feeling about the direction of this conversation. Hood was not asking questions; he was making statements, as though he were building a case.

  “Anything that has a redundancy somewhere else in the intelligence system has to go,” Hood went on.

  “My field unit,” Rodgers said.

  “Yes, Mike.”

  There was something in Hood’s voice that said he was not finished.

  “And me?” Rodgers asked.

  “They want me to merge the political office and deputy director’s post,” Hood told him.

  “I see.” Rodgers took a short swallow of black coffee. Then another. “Ron Plummer is more qualified for my position than I am for his,” he said. “When do you want me to clear out?”

  “Mike, we need to talk about this—”

  “Talk to Liz Gordon. That’s what she’s here for.”

  “No, you and I need to work this out,” Hood said. “I don’t want our friendship to end.”

  The sentiment made Rodgers squirm. He was not sure why. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’m probably overdue for a change. The army will reassign me. Or maybe I’ll do something else.”

  “Maybe we can outsource some of our intel or recon activities, work with you on scenarios for the crisis sims,” Hood said.

  “I’d rather look at other options,” Rodgers replied.

  “All right. But the offer stands.”

  “Was there an offer?” Rodgers asked. “I heard a ‘maybe.’ ”

  “It was an offer to try to find projects—”

  “Busywork, you mean,” Rodgers said.

  “No,” Hood replied. “Assignments for a uniquely skilled intelligence professional.”

  Rodgers took a swallow of coffee and rose. He did not want to talk to Paul Hood right now. He had no doubt Hood fought to keep him. Perhaps he had even threatened to resign. But in the end, Hood chose to stay on and confront his “friend” with hard facts and cold efficiency. “When does the CIOC want me out of here?”

  “Mike, no one wants you out of here,” Hood said. “If they did, we would have done this when Striker was officially disbanded.”

  “Right,” Rodgers said. “It’s the position that’s being eliminated not the man. I’d like to resign rather than being downsized. That has a little more dignity.”

  “Of course,” Hood said.

  “How long will Plummer need to take my post?”

  “Two weeks?” Hood guessed.

  “Fine,” Rodgers said and turned to go.

  “Mike—”

  “I’m okay,” Rodgers said. “Really.”

  “I was going to say that it has been a privilege working with you.”

  Rodgers stopped. Screw this, he thought. He was a soldier, not a diplomat. He turned back. “Would it be a privilege to resign with me?” he asked.

  “If I thought that would have changed Debenport’s mind, I would have done it,” Hood told him.

  “As a maneuver,” Rodgers said. “A tactic. What about standing shoulder-to-shoulder as a point of honor?”

  “To me, falling on my sword would be vanity, not honor,” Hood said. “It would be an act of surrender.”

  “Backing a friend and coworker?”

  “In this case, yes,” Hood said.

  “Jesus,” Rodgers said. “I’m glad I didn’t have guys like you watching my ass in ’Nam. I’d be under a pile of rocks somewhere.”

  “This isn’t combat, Mike. It’s politics. People fight with words and access. They don’t die. They get marginalized, they get recycled, they regroup. It’s the nature of the beast. Some people do it for ego, and some do it for principle. I took this job to serve the people of the United States. That is sacred to me. I won’t give it up to make a dramatic statement. One that won’t change a thing.”

  “Is that how you view loyalty, Paul? As a dramatic statement? Was I just being dramatic when I helped save your daughter in the UN takeover?”

  “That’s not fair,” Hood said. “We’ve been in the line of fire for people we don’t even know. We agreed to do that when we went to work here. We agreed to protect our nation and its interests.”

  “I don’t need the sermon,” Rodgers said. “I’ve served the country for my entire adult life.”

  “I know, which is why you should understand what it means to work for a government agency,” Hood said. “Op-Center has this much in common with the military. We are impacted by political trends and public whim. Whoever sits in this office has to work with whatever he is given. And with whatever is taken from him.”

  Rodgers shook his head. “That’s what the Vichy collaborators did when they capitulated to the German invaders.”

  Hood’s expression was no longer neutral. He winced, as though he had taken an uppercut square in the chin.

  “I’m sorry,” Rodgers said. “I did not mean to imply that you’re a coward.”

  “I know,” Hood said.

  An uncomfortable quiet settled upon the room. Hood stood. He walked toward Rodgers and offered his hand. The general accepted it. There was surprising warmth in Hood’s handshake.

  “If you need anything, let me know,” Hood said. “Or you can talk to Bob, if you prefer.”

  “I’ll talk to you,” Rodgers said.

  “Good.” Hood held on to Rodgers’s hand. “Mike, I need you to believe something. This place cost me my family. If it costs me your friendship, I’m going to have to live with that. If it costs me your respect, I’m going to have to live with that, too. But I want you to know that leaving here would have been easier than what I just did. You talked about loyalty. I did what I believe was right for Op-Center, not what was convenient or comfortable or even best for me.”

  “I believe you, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I just don’t agree with you.”

  “Fair enough,” Hood said. “But you need to know this, too. If there were a resistance movement fighting the CIOC, I would join it.”

  “We can start one,” Rodgers said. “I’ll have some free time.”

  “I doubt that,” Hood said.

  “We’ll see,” Rodgers said and withdrew his hand. He felt much better having taken a swing at Hood’s piety. He saw the man’s point, but he still did not agree with it. Friends stood by friends. Period.

  Rodgers left and went to his own office. Or rather, Ron Plummer’s office. He already felt uncomfortable here, like a noncom cleaning out the locker of a dead soldier. He forced himself to look beyond this, to the meeting with Senator Orr and whatever lay ahead.

  A little anarchy, Rodgers hoped.

  He was in the mood.

  SEVEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 9:27 A.M.

  Hood was about to buzz Ron Plummer when his outside line beeped. He glanced at the Caller ID. It was his former wife. He did not feel like talking to her now. The conversations were usually difficult. Sharon was still bitter because he had not been around very much since they moved to Washington. Hood was angry because she had not supported the work he was doing at Op-Center. But none of that mattered. The call could be about the kids.

  “Good morning, Sharon,” Hood said when he picked up the phone. He tried to sound pleasant.

  “Hi, Paul. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said. Sharon sounded unusually relaxed.

  “I need a favor,�
� she said. “You met my friend Jim Hunt.”

  “The caterer.”

  “The home party restaurateur, yes,” she said.

  Hunt was someone Sharon had known for years, dating back to when she had her own cooking show. They used to have an occasional lunch together. Now the kids told him they were having frequent dinners together.

  “His son Franklin will be studying poli-sci at Georgetown in the fall,” Sharon went on. “The school will give him college credit if he interns in a political institution over the summer. Is there anything he might be able to do at Op-Center? He’s a very sharp young man, Paul.”

  Hood’s former wife, who had always resented the hours he spent at Op-Center, was asking him to help the son of her boyfriend get an internship there. And she happened to make her request on a day when Hood had been ordered to lay people off. Bob Herbert once said that CIA stands for Convergent Incongruities Abound. That certainly applied here.

  “Does he have any particular interests?” Hood asked. He did not really care, but he needed to think for a moment. Did he really want to do this?

  “He is a student of languages and maps,” she said. “He speaks French and is learning Japanese. In fact, he’s been teaching Harleigh basic Japanese grammar. But he would be happy to work anywhere, in any capacity.”

  “I’ll ask around,” Hood told her. He would, he decided, though Op-Center rarely used interns, and only then as favors to influential members of Congress. “I just want you to know we had some major cutbacks today. So it may be difficult to place him.”

  “He wouldn’t require compensation.”

  “I understand,” Hood said. “What I mean is that people are going to be preoccupied.”

  “Okay,” Sharon said. By the way she dragged out the second syllable Hood could tell she was not happy with that answer. “Can I have a time frame? If Frankie can’t intern with you, he’ll have to look into other places.”

  “Give me a day or two to see how the new landscape looks.”

  “A day would be good,” Sharon said. “That will give us time to explore other options. Thanks.”

  She did not ask about the layoffs. To her, Op-Center was The Enemy. It had been the rival for her husband’s affection. Now it was like an organ donor, dead except for whatever his former wife needed from it. Sharon had also said “us” not “Jim.” Hood was a little jealous, not because Sharon had found someone but because she was involved in Jim’s life. She was engaged in a way she had never been with Hood’s work, she was simpatico. Even the kids were hitting it off. He should have been glad for them all, but he was not.