Severe Clear sb-24

by Stuart Woods

  “Oh, yes, Miami, working on counterfeiting cases. Funny how scents can be so evocative of times and places.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve ordered onion soup and steaks for us. I’m told you like yours rare.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” Rifkin replied. “That’s fine with me.”

  The two men chatted idly for a few minutes, then Mike got down to business. “I hope my people have kept you sufficiently briefed on our end of this.”

  “They’ve done a very good job of that,” Rifkin said.

  “I’m afraid your people haven’t done all that good a job of briefing mine.”

  “You’ll have to forgive us, Mike, we’re unaccustomed to sharing with outsiders, even those from other federal agencies. The more people who know our methods, the more leaks there could be.”

  “I assume you’ve run your own checks on our people.”

  “On your people and on every person who will be employed by this hotel or who will be a guest while the two presidents are here. By the way, I’m impressed with the backgrounds of your people, Mike.”

  “But not sufficiently to be open with them.”

  “The way I see it is you and I are running parallel but separate operations here. Your concern is for the safety of The Arrington’s guests and property, and ours is for the safety of the president of the United States and his guest, the president of Mexico. Where those operations overlap, we’ll be as helpful as we can, but it’s part of our standard operating procedure to see that our duties overlap with others’ as little as possible. It’s true of local police departments when the president travels, and it’s true of your people in this particular situation.”

  “I understand that, believe me, and I’ll do my best to respect that view, as long as my people can do their jobs efficiently.”

  “Of course. Two people have been hired in the past couple of days that I’d like to ask you about. One of them belongs to you.”

  “Let me guess: Rick Indrisie.”

  “Good guess. Can you guess why I’m concerned about him?” Jeff Rifkin asked.

  “Because he’s to be right at the nerve center of our surveillance security, and because he’s so young.”

  “Correct on both counts,” Rifkin conceded.

  “You’ll have to take our word for it that Rick is qualified for his job,” Mike said. “We screen our people just as carefully as you do yours, and he has met or exceeded every qualification we’ve assigned to that task. As for his youth, I think that someone who has risen through a government bureaucracy sometimes has difficulty perceiving how a privately owned company can bring someone up through the ranks so quickly.”

  “I take your point,” Rifkin said.

  “From our point of view, Rick’s education and work experience make him a seasoned professional at twenty-eight, while in your operation, someone of that age might be thought of as green.”

  “There’s truth in what you say, Mike. I myself managed to move up more quickly than is common in the Service.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen our file on Rick.”

  “I have.”

  “Then you’ll have to take our word that he’s the right man for the job-at least until your investigation of him turns up something to contradict that.”

  “Fair enough,” Rifkin said.

  “And I think the other man you’re worried about would be the German national, Hans Hoffman.”

  “Once again, you’re ahead of me. Even though he’s not your employee, I’m sure that you’ve verified his educational and employment history,” Rifkin said, “but I wonder: have you investigated his political history?”

  “One of the items on his employment application questioned that history, and Hoffman denied ever having been a member of any organization, not even a political party. In interviewing the people he’s worked for over the years, none of them has said anything to indicate that he’s not telling the truth. But the Secret Service should have access to various databases that we don’t, including the German intelligence services.”

  “We do to some extent,” Rifkin agreed, “but we don’t always get the answers to our questions as quickly as we would like.”

  “Then you should have a chat with somebody at Langley, to see if there’s anything about him in their databases.”

  Rifkin smiled ruefully. “Of course, though we don’t always get from Langley even as much cooperation as we get from some foreign services.”

  “Ah, yes: interagency rivalry rears its ugly head. Is there anything in particular that troubles you?”

  “If anything, it’s because he is so outstandingly clean. There’s very little meat on that bone.”

  “Well, I think you have to accept that there are outstandingly clean people in the world, Steve. Tell you what, I’ll see what our Berlin office can discover about Herr Hoffman.”

  “That would be very helpful, Mike.”

  The doorbell rang. “That will be our dinner, I think,” Mike said. “Shall we dine outside?”

  “A little chilly for me.”

  “Then let’s do it inside.” Mike led the way.

  When they had finished dinner and Rifkin had left, Mike looked at his wristwatch. It was nine hours later in Germany, so, using his cell phone, he dialed the direct line for the head of his Berlin office.

  “Peter von Enzberg,” a voice said.

  “Peter, it’s Mike Freeman.”

  “Good morning, Mike.”

  “I have something I’d like for you to do, and as quickly as possible.”

  12

  Scott Hipp returned to his office at the National Security Agency after a lunch in Washington and found one of his code section supervisors waiting for him. Hipp hung his jacket in a cupboard and sat down at his desk. “Good afternoon, Fritz. You look puzzled. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m not even sure why I’m here,” Fritz replied, “and I don’t know what you can do for me.”

  “Then get out of my office,” Hipp said jovially. “You’re wasting our time.” Fritz always needed a touch of the cattle prod to get him moving.

  “We picked up an e-mail transmission from a cell phone in California to a website we have a continuous watch on.”

  “What was the text?”

  “It was in English: ‘All is well. I am fine.’ We ran a decode on the phrase and got nothing.”

  “Sounds like a prearranged signal,” Hipp pointed out.

  “That’s what we think, but there is a further wrinkle.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It was signed ‘Nod.’” He spelled the word.

  Hipp leaned back in his chair and recited: “‘And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden.’ Genesis four, verse sixteen.”

  “I figured you’d come up with something a little off the wall,” Fritz said.

  “Such flattery,” Hipp replied.

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Read all of chapter four-hell, read all of Genesis. Run Abel against it, run Enoch.”

  “Who is Enoch?”

  “The son of Cain.”

  “I wasn’t raised religious,” Fritz said.

  “Then you are at a disadvantage in the world,” Hipp said. “Reading assignment for you: the King James Bible.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “Be good for you. It’s the basis of so much of the Christian world, and the translation is very beautiful.”

  “I know about Cain and Abel,” Fritz said. “I read Steinbeck’s novel East of Eden.”

  “Maybe that’s the reference, instead of Genesis. Run names from that, too, Cal’s brother, father, and mother. Cast a wide net.”

  “Okay,” Fritz said, rising to go.

  “Wait a minute,” Hipp said.

  Fritz sat down again.

  “Give me a minute,” Hipp said. He stared dreamily out the window, then he began to recite:

  “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one nig
ht

  Sailed off in a wooden shoe-

  Sailed on a river of crystal light,

  Into a sea of dew.

  ‘Where are you going, and what do you wish,’

  The old moon asked the three.

  ‘We have come to fish for the herring fish

  That live in this beautiful sea;

  Nets of silver and gold have we!’

  Said Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod. ”

  Hipp raised his eyebrows and looked at Fritz questioningly.

  “I haven’t read that, either,” Fritz said.

  “Then read it. It’s by Eugene Field, who wrote children’s poetry in the late nineteenth century. There are four stanzas. I don’t have time to recite the whole thing for you, so Google it, print it, and go through it carefully. Give some thought to the wooden shoe and the nets of silver and gold. There could be other meanings, who knows? Now beat it.”

  Fritz left Hipp’s office, went back to his cubicle, found the poem, and printed it, while two of his colleagues looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “A poem that Hipp said to take a look at,” Fritz replied. He printed two more copies and handed them to the two young men, who read it.

  “Check out the last stanza,” one of them said.

  Fritz read aloud:

  “Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

  And Nod is a little head.

  And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

  Is a wee one’s trundle bed. ”

  The three looked at each other. Fritz was the first to speak. “So what the fuck does that mean?”

  13

  Holly Barker was working at her desk at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, when her boss, Lance Cabot, the Agency’s deputy director for operations, walked into her office and sat down across the desk from her.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  This was odd, Holly thought; she had met with him two hours before, at eight A.M., as was their daily custom. “Good morning again,” she replied.

  Lance looked at her thoughtfully but said nothing.

  “What?” Holly asked.

  “It appears that you will no longer be working for me,” he said finally.

  Holly sat back in her chair. “Are you firing me, Lance?”

  “There are signs you might be moving from under my wing.”

  “Come on, Lance, spit it out.”

  “Are you saying you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “Finally, you understand me. First of all, there’s nowhere to promote me. I’ve gone as far as I can in operations, so unless you are resigning or being promoted, where would I go?”

  “Only the director knows,” he said.

  Holly shook her head. “I’m baffled.” Her phone rang.

  “Answer it,” Lance said.

  Holly picked up the phone. “Holly Barker.”

  “This is Grace, in the director’s office,” a voice said. Grace was the director’s secretary.

  “Good morning, Grace.”

  “Good morning, Holly. The director would like to see you.”

  “Certainly. What time?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll be right up,” Holly said, then hung up.

  “Are things a little clearer for you now?” Lance asked.

  “Not in the least,” Holly replied. “Now please tell me what this is all about.”

  “Do you swear you don’t know?”

  “Bring me a Bible and I’ll take an oath on it.”

  “Holly, if this is some sort of power play…”

  “Lance, something is eating your brain,” she said. “I don’t have any power, except through carrying out your instructions. I’m a worker bee around here.”

  “You know nearly everything I know,” Lance said.

  Holly thought about that. “I know only what you have chosen to tell me, and, Lance, you never tell anybody everything. ”

  “Well, I’ve told you very nearly everything.”

  Holly stood up. “I’ve been asked to come to the director’s office right now. Please tell me whatever you can before I go up there and get my head handed to me.”

  “You know nearly everything I know,” Lance said, then he got up and went back into his office.

  Holly took a compact from her desk drawer, ran her hand through her hair and made sure nothing was stuck to her teeth, then she took the elevator upstairs and presented herself to Grace.

  “Good morning, Holly.”

  “Good morning, Grace.” God, she was getting sick of saying good morning.

  “Have a seat. The director will be free shortly.”

  Holly sat down and picked up a three-month-old copy of Proceedings, the magazine of the U.S. Naval Institute, and flipped through it nervously. She heard a door close, and when she looked up Stewart Graves was standing in front of her. Graves was the assistant deputy director of intelligence, the Agency’s analysis division; it was the same job that Holly held in operations. “Good morning, Stewart,” she said.

  “Did you have anything to do with this?” he asked. His tone was vaguely hostile.

  “To do with what?” Holly asked. Everybody seemed to think she knew more than she did.

  “I’ve been posted to London,” he said. “Deputy for Analysis to the station chief.”

  “Congratulations,” Holly said. “That sounds great.” As great as it sounded, Holly knew, it wasn’t as great as his current job.

  Graves turned and walked toward the elevators.

  Holly looked at Grace. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “The director will see you now,” Grace said. She placed her hand on the button under her desk that unlocked the director’s office door and waited for Holly to move.

  Holly walked to the door, heard the click, then opened the door and walked in. “Good morning, Director,” Holly said.

  Katharine Rule Lee looked up from her desk. It had taken an act of Congress to make her director, because, although she was a career CIA officer, she was also married to the president of the United States. “Good morning, Holly, have a seat.” She pointed at a chair at a seating area by the window, then she got up and walked in that direction.

  She isn’t smiling, Holly thought. She usually smiles a lot. What the hell is going on? She walked over and sat in the chair indicated.

  The director settled into a chair on the other side of the coffee table and opened a thick file in her lap.

  Holly knew it was a personnel file, and she feared it was hers.

  “You’ve been with us for a little over eight years, now,” the director said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The director ran her finger down a page. “You’ve had an unusual career for the Agency-retired from the army as a major after twenty years’ service. You should have made colonel. Why didn’t you?”

  Surely she knew all about this, Holly thought, but she told her story anyway. “I was serving under a colonel as his exec. He blocked my promotion.”

  “For what reason?”

  “He made repeated sexual advances toward me which I rebuffed, so he gave me a less favorable fitness report than I had every reason to expect. After that, he tried to rape me, and I fought him off and turned him in.”

  The director looked at the file. “It says here you struck him.”

  “I broke his nose rather badly,” Holly said. “He was court-martialed for the attack on me. It turned out he had actually raped another female officer, a lieutenant.”

  “And he was acquitted,” the director said.

  “He was, ma’am. He had friends on the court, and two of them were in a position to see that I was never promoted again. I had put in my twenty, so I took retirement.”

  The director consulted the file again. “And you became the chief of police in Orchid Beach, Florida?”

  “The deputy chief, Director. The chief who hired me was murdered the day before my arrival, and the city counc
il shortly voted for me to succeed him.”

  “And you had quite a career there,” the director said.

  Holly didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “And then you impressed someone here and we recruited you.”

  Holly just nodded.

  The director closed the personnel file. “And you have done nothing less than splendid work for us since the day you arrived.”

  Holly blinked. “Thank you, Director.”

  “Holly, as you know, my husband is in the last year of his second term.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The entire planet knew that.

  “And when he leaves the White House, I will leave the Agency and retire with him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “As you might imagine, there has been a great deal of speculation within the Agency about who my successor will be. What you may not know is that there has been a cabal at work here which has been plotting to see that a particular someone from the Agency succeeds me, rather than someone from the outside. Or someone from elsewhere in the Agency.”

  “Really, ma’am?” Holly knew about this, because Lance had told her.

  “From what I can determine, the cabal wishes to see Frank Hellman, the deputy director for intelligence, have this job.”

  Holly nodded.

  “You probably saw his assistant, Stewart Graves, leave my office before you came in.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He said he was being posted to the London station.”

  “That is correct. I thought I would toss a little grenade into the hierarchy here as a way of expressing my displeasure about all this. As a result, Mr. Graves is going to London, and since you hold the same job in operations, you are being moved out of there, as well.”

  “Out of Langley, ma’am?” Holly knew that she was held in some measure of disdain by those higher-ups in the Agency who knew she had never held a foreign station post.

  “No, Holly,” the director said. She pointed at an open door across the room. “You are being moved into that office. I’ve posted my assistant, Greg Barton, to Rome. I’d like you to replace him here.”

  Holly stared blankly at her. All sorts of things had run through her mind on the way up there, but this was the one thing she had not anticipated.