DeMarco smiled and flicked a thumb over towards Leith's corner. Nevis' eyes narrowed slightly and he nodded. They exchanged a few more words, then Nevis went to his office. DeMarco returned to his seat, glancing once more in Leith's direction.
Leith sighed. This is where it begins, he thought.
He swiftly scanned his personal memo pages. There were a few responses to queries he had made to other sections the day before. He also found a couple of messages targeted on him by other RI staff who had found something they thought might interest him, but most of the stuff was the usual administrative crud that landed up in every electronic pigeon-hole.
His section dealt specifically with the detection and 'tagging' of American nationals living in the US who were suspected of working for Middle Eastern terrorist groups. The work breached the safeguards originally built into the CIA's charter, which had forbidden involvement in domestic intelligence operations. But back in the day Reagan had made sure the company could operate covertly within the US. Every President since had seen no need to rectify the situation, and 9/11 had sealed the deal for good.
Once the suspects had been unknowingly 'tagged', the full panoply of surveillance methods was brought into play. These ranged from communications interceptions by the NSA to eyeball observations by intelligence agents, or 'humint' as it was known.
Immigration would let in the occasional known or suspected terrorist and use him like a bait to catch the otherwise undetectable US cells. If the terrorist had connections with the Middle East all information regarding contacts, telephone calls, and every item of mail the suspect posted was intercepted and analysed and sent to Leith's section. Morgan dealt with the communist-backed terrorists, DeMarco the groups that could be clearly delineated as Muslim-run, Slattery with the Israeli and Christian groups. Leith, the new boy, got the Libyans who nowadays contributed pretty much zero to the overall terrorist actions originating from that part of the world. He also acted as a sweeper, getting the data on subjects operating in the nether regions of the terrorist realm, whose affiliations were not clear and whose motives remained a mystery.
He was listing his suspects for the day when he noticed Morgan sidling up to him. Nearly forty, he was of medium height with a weathered complexion from all his outdoor activities. He had removed his charcoal grey jacket and had rolled up the sleeves of his striped shirt. He placed a hairy forearm over Leith's shoulders and leant down to speak in his Iowa refined New England tones.
'Feel a burning sensation around the rim of your ass?'
'Shafted. I know. What is it with that vicious little prick?'
They both peered through the plants at DeMarco who shifted uneasily in his chair and glanced in their direction. The carefully greased curl which hung over his forehead twitched a couple of times, then DeMarco turned his brooding little face back to his work.
'Haemorrhoids,' diagnosed Morgan. He slapped Leith on the arm. 'Its something that could happen to you too, what with your sedentary lifestyle.'
Leith nodded his head. 'Yeah, yeah. The climbing contest this weekend. I already told you I'm coming.'
'And climbing?'
'I'm there to watch.'
'But you said...'
Leith held up a hand. 'I know what I said, but it’s been so long. Something gentle maybe. And low. Low is important.'
'Fine. I'll pick you up at six.'
'Six?'
'A.M,' Morgan said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Leith groaned, already regretting the moment of bravado when, after a number of beers, he had agreed to go climbing. He turned back to the keyboard and chose a name from the list at random. 'Avril Perlman, This Is Your Life,' he murmured as his fingers flickered across the keys.
The IRS and Social Security databases had been unofficially available to the NSA, and hence the company, since 1968. Criminal records could be got from the FBI computers and from police departments at state, city and county levels. The CIA already had a database on twenty million US nationals, almost all the information culled from these sources, its own investigations adding only marginally to the knowledge store.
But this could provide only a basis for a full search. The IRS and Social Security rarely yielded more than background or corroborative support once a cell member had been identified. Criminal records were only useful for known criminals. Recruiting grounds for terrorist groups were usually in the colleges and universities, in the restaurants and bars, and at the high school dance. It was amongst the unsuspected, those who had no police records and had belonged to no political party, that the terrorists searched most avidly for support.
The NSA had recognised this problem early on in the Electronic Revolution and had started to recruit battalions of graduates skilled in the then-burgeoning art of information technology. Leith knew that people like him had dramatically widened the company's scope for searches. In theory, all information in banks and credit houses, airline travel computers and even hospitals could be obtained under the catchall cry of 'national security', but the process was time consuming and had to be justified at all sorts of judicial levels. So much noise got generated that the suspect was often alerted.
Any form of data storage that used a computer and was connected to a telephone line could be hacked. Security codes were cracked with a wide range of techniques, and trapdoors planted in the operating systems so that access could be facilitated in future. Over the years his job had become easier, as the company infiltrated the larger hardware and software manufacturers, planting secret access identifiers inside their products.
He rarely came across a non-standard computer or operating system that had never been breached. On those few treasured occasions he would bring out his own software toolkit to hack his way in: these tools — small programs that attacked the system directly or eavesdropped on other users accessing the system legitimately — were known affectionately in IT circles as 'dataworms'. Unfortunately, in the early days this piece of information had been verbally hacked from one of the IT staff by some old lag of a field agent. The tag had become forever associated with the hackers themselves.
There was little love lost between the two groups. Hired as scientists, the Information Technologists were better paid and didn't have to undergo the Junior Officer Training Course. They had never had to experience the horrors of Camp Peary out past Williamsburg, the notorious 'farm', tales of which were recounted with relish by company staff who would never have to suffer it again.
The hackers were always encouraged to broaden their perspectives by keeping up to date with news and politics. Internal CIA updates gave succinct summaries of national and international events, all in the hope of jogging memories into correlating apparently unrelated events.
In his few years with the CIA, Leith had seen the organisation shift like some ponderous leviathan, its sights realigning on the problems posed first by the drug cartels and then by Arabic fundamentalist terrorists once the threat from the Soviets had diminished. A fresh series of airplane bombings and wave of assassination attempts against Drug Enforcement agents and their families within the US had recently become a major focus.
A beeping sound told him that the automated sweep on Perlman's public files had borne fruit. She was the fourteenth contact of his present target, a Lebanese diplomat called Hammad. The two had met at a Washington dinner party. All the guests were being tagged.
Just as the first text started to appear, the phone rang.
'I'd be grateful for a minute of your time, Bob,' Nevis said, his voice calm and measured.
Nevis steepled his fingers together and brought them up to his face until his chin rested on his thumbs, his nose against his forefingers.
It was a pose familiar to Leith: something the man invariably adopted when deep in thought. It gave him an odd, almost votive appearance. The man was an active Christian in a solid but thankfully undemonstrative way, and Leith wondered what had happened to his values and perspectives when he came to work. They were main
tainable only so far, after which patriotism mandated a much more earthy pragmatism.
His staff broke laws and abused civil rights, yet Nevis seemed to be able to reconcile this with his Christian tenets. Leith was fond of remarking to the others that Nevis probably spent each night so locked in the horns of multiple moral dilemmas that he must toss and turn, desperately trying to construct a convoluted rationale for his actions, like some hellfire-damned eighteenth century preacher caught abed with the servant. But privately, Leith was sure this grossly underestimated the subtlety and complexity of Nevis' mind. He also wondered how many of his own problems he was projecting onto the man.
Nevis' office was spacious but austere, with the inevitable photographs of his family in studied poses outside their church. The files and papers on his desk were regularly spaced, without any overlap and with all their sides within two degrees of the vertical or horizontal. He was sitting forward in a high-backed black leather swivel chair. Behind him, rimmed by a thin frame of gold-plated metal, hung a black and white photo of McCone, the Director appointed by Kennedy who had first steered the company's emphasis away from the clandestine and towards the analytical.
Nevis waved a hand at the chair in front of the desk. 'Take a seat, Bob. How's things?'
Here we go, thought Leith. Nevis would always start reprimands obliquely, then suddenly change tack and zoom right in.
'Fine. How's Joan and the kids?' Leith heard himself reply and instantly regretted it.
Nevis told him. Leith didn't listen.
'I hear you've been having problems with your car.'
'It's the clutch. Shot to hell.'
'The car's pretty old. Ever thought of getting a new one?'
'I never felt the need. Besides, it still works.'
Nevis pursed his lips. 'Not really.'
'Look, you wanted to see me about something,' said Leith irritably.
Nevis smiled, but only slightly and without humour.
'You're something of a problem to me, Bob.'
Good, thought Leith, who always relished piercing Nevis' aura of rectitude. Despite the man's emotional control a tiny hint of smugness sometimes managed to sneak its way out.
'For your sake, Bob, I'm going to do some straight talking. I want to make it quite clear where I think you stand, so that you'll understand my decisions regarding your future activities.' Leith sat up a little. It seemed a heavy start for what he had assumed would be a mild reprimand.
'You're a smart guy, Bob. Your latest virus is a work of art. You're a good hacker and you've led the way in automating search protocols.' Nevis paused and Leith's heart sank. Nevis had given him the upside first, as any professional man-manager would. He decided to try and preempt the more painful downside.
'Hey look, Stan. If it's about these jeans ...'
Nevis waved a hand dismissively. 'I'm not worried about the jeans, Bob. They mean nothing to me. But they are a symptom of how you feel. Rightly or wrongly, neatness is considered significant in this organisation and a kind of unstated dress code has sprung up. But if you were a real hot shot, frankly, nobody would give a damn how you dressed.' Nevis shook his head sadly.
'Trouble is, I see no ambition in you. You don't dress well and you make no other attempts to impress senior staff. Your actual searches are adequate but uninspired and, let's face it, the project work may be interesting and ultimately useful, but it's the searches that are the main reason for our existence.'
Nevis hesitated. Leith knew from experience that the length of Nevis' hesitation was in direct proportion to the seriousness of what he was about to say. Leith swallowed, waiting.
'I also sense a certain...uneasiness in you. As though you find the work unsettling in some ways.'
Leith shifted in his seat, feeling like a school-kid. He stared at his scuffed loafers and suddenly felt conscious of the hair creeping over his shirt collar, of his unkempt beard and his ancient jacket. Then he rallied.
He stared Nevis directly in the eye. 'Are you telling me I'm canned, Stan?'
Nevis waved his hand. 'Relax, Bob. Like I said—' was there perhaps a gentle reproach in the emphasis on the last verb? '— even at your worst, you're still adequate. But I think you're capable of a lot more, and it behoves me to get the best out of my staff. That's what management is all about.
'I'm going to give you my assessment of your work attitude. You can rebut it if you wish. After that I'm going to detail what'll happen next.'
Nevis picked up a pen and tapped it lightly on the desk a few times. 'What it comes down to, Bob, is that you regard the work you do as a kind of intellectual game, something for which you do occasionally show real passion. But you've led a sheltered life...' again he held up a hand to still Leith. 'Sure you broke a few windows as a kid, smoked dope, dropped the occasional tab of acid, but other than that kind of minor stuff you've spent your whole life in safe institutions. First school, then college and then graduate school. You came straight from there into this rarefied environment. You've come face to face with nothing really bad in your life, and I think that's the problem. Your work here impacts hard on hundreds of people out in the real world. For the sake of national security, it has to.' He gave a little smile. 'I'm sure you appreciate what I'm saying in an intellectual sense, but I don't think you really understand what it means on a deeper level.'
Leith was lost for a reply. He hated arguments that implicitly undermined the validity of any response he made. It would sound like a man blind from birth arguing that sight wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
'You need to broaden your perspective, Bob. What I'm suggesting is simple and not without precedent. I want you to start following through on some of the cases, not from a terminal screen but from out there in the field. Find out what your work really means. I'll authorise your expenses.' Nevis smiled. 'Up to a point, of course. It can come out of the training budget. We'll start the next time one of your cases looks like leading somewhere. I'll even help cover your work while you're away from Langley.'
Leith raised his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe this didn't sound so bad after all. Travel...Fieldwork...it could make a pleasant change. Nevis was not underemployed, so his offer of cover was a generous one. On top of that he'd have to do a lot of wheel greasing with the law enforcement people. Against such a sacrifice, a refusal would appear churlish.
'I appreciate what you're trying to do Stan and, in an intellectual sense,' he smiled, 'I understand why you're trying to do it. I think you're wrong but I'll try anything once.'
'I think you may be in for a surprise, Bob,' said Nevis, smiling and looking a little relieved.
INTERCUT 1
Las Vegas, Nevada
Scipio's hired Lear jet began its descent over the Painted Desert, the Twin-turbofan's reassuring hum changing for the first time in several hours. Bari watched the desert as it sped by below them, its myriad colours washed away by the approaching sunset. The low light made the desert appear tiger-striped as small ridges blocked the garish red rays of the sun, casting deep black shadows.
His eyes darted quickly to the door to the cockpit as it opened. The stewardess carefully manoeuvred herself into the cabin, then began to collect up the glasses and food trays.
She smiled at Scipio who had paid her scant attention despite her obvious charms. He's getting old, thought Bari: too comfortable, too mellow. The Stew leaned down towards Scipio, her pert little ass almost in Rossi's face. Rossi turned and grinned back at Bari.
'The captain says we'll be landing in five minutes time, Mr. Scipio,' she said in a drawling Southern accent. 'You should get a clear view of Boulder Dam out the port side.'
Bari watched Scipio turn his head with some difficulty to the window. Weighing nearly three hundred pounds, multiple chins made his neck seem impossibly thick. The back of Scipio's head always reminded Bari of an albino hedgehog, the way the hair was short and white and spiky.
He smiled to himself and glanced across at Rossi. The big, homely man, his smile as
wide as a knife-slash, was still ogling the Stew as she strapped herself in. Bari wondered how he could manage to be so relaxed with the big Colt Python rucking up under his armpit for the last few hours.
Bari had laughed at him back in Pittsburgh when the Lear had been rolled out of the hangar. The burly man had had trouble bending down to kiss his kids good-bye because of the length of the gun's barrel. Hope, Rossi's amiable broad-beamed wife, had smiled regardless, but Frances had been embarrassed and had punched Bari's arm to try and keep him quiet.
Bari always managed to embarrass her, which was gratifying; it was something he worked hard at. Their mutual irritation was something they both hated but perversely missed when they were separated. After he had laughed at the airport she had tried to annoy him by suppressing her own aggravation, and even managing a reasonable facsimile of a smile as he waved good-bye.
He wondered what kind of monkey business she would try and get up to while he was away. She was an attractive woman, her girlish face, ample breasts and slender hips making an irresistible combination. Even before the plane had started to move she had turned back to the cars, her walk already changed so that her ass was swinging like a pendulum. He had gritted his teeth but had taken some comfort from the difficulties he knew she would face.
Nobody they knew would touch her. They wouldn't dare.
Bari's own Smith and Wesson snub, also a .35 but smaller and lighter and with an awesome muzzle blast, had become uncomfortable enough during the flight. After the first hour he had decided to take it out of its shoulder holster and lay it on the seat beside him, but Scipio had seen him reach under his jacket.
'Hey, what the fuck you think you're doing?' he had asked in his heavy muffled tones.
'The damn thing’s chaffing me. I was just taking it out.'
Scipio was not a seasoned traveller. Both he and his large family seemed to find all they needed out of life within a twenty mile radius of Pittsburgh. 'Just leave it the fuck alone. I ain't gonna be sucked out through no tiny hole if one of the damn things goes off,' he'd pointed at Rossi's armpit, 'especially that fucking thing. What d'ya need a howitzer for anyway? There ain't no elephants in Vegas.'
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