Body of Lies

by David Ignatius

  “Hi, Gretchen.”

  “Roger?” She was surprised, but happy.

  “I’m back home,” he said.

  “No, you’re not. You are certainly not home. I am home. You’re somewhere else. Where are you?”

  “In a hotel.”

  “What on earth are you doing there?”

  “I’ll explain. Can we meet for dinner?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Come home, to your apartment and your wife. I have to work today, but I’ll be home at seven. You have a key. I mean, of course you have a key. It’s your apartment. So let yourself in. And get some rest. You’re going to need it tonight.”

  Ferris wanted to caution her that it wasn’t that kind of visit, but she was in a rush to get ready for work and hung up, telling him that she loved him and was so happy he was back. And she meant it. There wouldn’t be any way to make this easy. He just had to tell her and get away.

  The apartment was in a white-glove building in Kalorama, just off Connecticut Avenue. It suited Gretchen’s sense of style. Rich people lived nearby, people with old money and social connections. Gretchen was like another daughter. She got to know the neighbors, visited them when they were sick, brought them little gifts from her trips. She had decorated the apartment lavishly; when they had lived together, she would always be dragging Ferris off to auctions and antique shops to add new bits of finery. When they invited the neighbors in for cocktails, the men always seemed to know what Ferris really did for a living, without asking him.

  Gretchen was a self-taught aristocrat. That was what pleased the older neighbors, that this bright young thing was making an effort to join their world. Her father had sold insurance in Indiana, and he was a good, solid citizen, but not a man who had ever dreamed his daughter would join the Sulgrave Club. She had an older brother who had stayed in Indiana and worked as a regional sales executive for John Deere. That wasn’t for Gretchen. She had put on her rocket pack at the age of eighteen, headed off to Columbia and created a new life. Ferris could admire her act of self-creation, but he no longer enjoyed being around it.

  Ferris said hello to the doorman, who looked surprised to see him. He took the elevator upstairs and warily opened the door. In the entrance hall was a new writing credenza, he noticed, a fussy French thing with curvy legs that wouldn’t be much use for actual writing. The apartment was tidy; traces of any other life she had been living while he was away had been removed. He went into the bedroom. Silver framed photos sat on the two bedside tables. He studied the picture of himself, looking rakish and still vaguely like a journalist, taken before they were married. There was no dust on the frame. Had she been polishing it, or taken it out of storage?

  What he noticed, as he walked the apartment, was that the artifacts of his own real life had disappeared. There was no beer in the refrigerator; his subscription to Sports Illustrated had evidently been canceled; the clothes he had left behind had been removed from the closet to make more room for hers. Maybe this would be easier than he had expected. He was gone already.

  Gretchen called just before six-thirty to say that she had been delayed at work but would be home at seven-thirty, and then once more at seven-thirty to say that she was just leaving. She finally returned home a few minutes before nine. She pushed open the door and said, “Hi, honey, I’m home,” as if he had never been away. She was sorry to be so late, but it couldn’t be helped. The attorney general had a crash project to finish, and she couldn’t escape. Tried to, but it was impossible. It wasn’t an apology so much as an assertion of a higher calling.

  Ferris examined her. She looked the same as before, only more so: The lustrous black hair surrounding her face, in the style of an Italian movie star. The big bust, which was the first thing most people noticed about her, men and women, and which she used to intimidate or seduce, depending on the needs of the moment. The stylish suit, with the silk blouse cut low enough to show some cleavage.

  She was waiting for a hug and a kiss, but when Ferris delayed she moved in and hugged him, pressing herself against him. He hugged back, but without much feeling. She knew something bad was happening, but tried to downplay it, hoping it would go away.

  “What’s wrong, Rog?” she asked. “Jet lag?”

  “We have to talk,” he said.

  “About what?” She had a worried look in her eyes.

  “Let’s sit down.”

  “Do you want a drink? I’ll go fix you something.”

  “No. Not right now. I want to talk.”

  “Here, sweetheart.” She sat down on the couch, plumped a pillow and waited for him to join her. The pillows were new, Ferris noticed. They had a brocade edge that matched the cords on the drapes. Ferris took a seat in the easy chair next to the couch. He needed some distance, or he would never get it out. He tried to think how to begin, and when she started to fill the silence with chatter, he blurted out the words.

  “I want a divorce, Gretchen. We don’t have a marriage anymore.”

  “What did you say?” That was her last protection, to pretend that she hadn’t heard.

  “I said I want to talk about divorce. We are living apart, and that’s because we have grown apart. I think maybe it’s time to end it.”

  Her face looked as if she had been slapped.

  “You bastard,” she said. Her cheeks reddened, and then she began to cry. Somehow, Ferris hadn’t anticipated this. He thought she would scream at him. She got up and went to the bathroom to blow her nose. She stayed there almost ten minutes, and when she returned, she had put on new makeup and regained her composure. She was in charge again.

  “You can’t do this, Roger,” she said. “I won’t let you destroy what we have together. We have the kind of marriage that people dream about. We’re perfect for each other. You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand that. I don’t know what you think is wrong, but we can fix it.”

  “We can’t fix anything if we don’t live together. And I don’t hear you offering to move to Jordan.”

  “I can’t leave the department. You know that. I know how hard it is on you. I wish I could just pick up and come to Amman like those other wives, but I can’t. Don’t make me feel guilty about doing my duty.”

  He shook his head. This wasn’t about guilt. “You aren’t understanding me, Gretchen. I don’t want to be married anymore. Our marriage is broken. I don’t think it can be fixed.”

  “Anything can be fixed if people try. If there’s something wrong, we need to repair it, rather than just throw everything away. You have to believe in yourself.”

  She wasn’t listening to him. She was acting as if his request for a divorce were a sign of weakness that could be overcome by force of will, hers if not his. Ferris realized he would have to try a different approach. He had hoped he would be able to avoid it, but he couldn’t.

  “I’m seeing someone else, Gretchen.” He waited a moment, expecting more tears, but her eyes were dry. “That’s wrong, if we’re still married.”

  “I told you…” She stopped. There was a controlled fury in her voice. “I told you that I don’t care who you’re seeing while we’re apart. You can have as many little fuck mates as you want. I just don’t want to know about it.”

  “This isn’t a…fuck mate. I like this person.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Roger. I don’t care who she is, but she can’t make you happy the way I can. You know that.”

  “I am not happy with you, Gretchen. I haven’t been happy for a long time.”

  She ignored him. She was already off in her own space, plotting how to reel him back. “I was worried before. I was afraid you didn’t love me. But if it’s just another woman, frankly I had assumed that was happening. I would be surprised if it wasn’t. I understand what men are like. Including you, Roger. You aren’t as virtuous as you pretend to be.”

  Ferris began to respond, but she wasn’t listening.

  “Go make us a martini,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

&nbs
p; She walked toward the bedroom before Ferris could protest. He sat in his chair for a while, and then decided he did need a drink, even if she had suggested the idea. He went to the bar and fixed two vodka martinis. As he shook the mixture, he could feel his fingers stick to the bitter cold of the shaker. He added an olive for her, a twist for himself. In a perverse way, he really was back home. He wondered if he would be able to restart the conversation; maybe he would just have to walk away.

  He carried the drinks back to the living room and waited for her to return. What was taking so long? But he knew. And he didn’t move. He took a sip of his martini, and then another. The taste was quicksilver cool on his tongue. Eventually, he heard the bedroom door open.

  She was dressed in a lacy black nightgown. As she walked slowly toward him, her heavy breasts swayed back and forth under the fabric. Roger shook his head no. But he looked at her body.

  “I don’t want to argue anymore.” She sat down beside him, and let the gown slip open a bit, so that the voluptuous curve of her breast was visible, and then relaxed on the couch so that the gown spread open all the way and exposed her nakedness. There was no hair between her legs, Ferris saw. That was new. He didn’t want to be aroused by the sight of her, but he was.

  “I need you,” she said. “I need my husband.” She leaned toward him, her bosom brushing against his shirt, and began to unzip his fly.

  “Don’t,” he said, taking her hand away. “This is the wrong time.”

  “Stop teasing. I want you.” She moved her hand back to his zipper and then pulled at it. He couldn’t stop her now, he realized. It had been too late the moment he had agreed to make drinks and let her leave the room. He made one last effort and pushed her away again. This time it made her angry.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she said, pulling back. “I’ve been waiting for you for five months, and you don’t want to touch me?” She thought a moment, as if recalculating her strategy, and then gave him a pouty look. “I’m so lonely,” she said. Her legs spread slowly apart. She was waxed smooth as pink marble. Ferris tried not to look, but she had him now.

  “Stop it, Gretchen.” He was surrendering. This was how she always won arguments. She undid the buttons of his shirt and then removed his trousers, shoes and socks. He was helpless. She took him in her mouth, and then straddled him, so that his head was buried between her breasts, the nipples grazing his eyes. She rocked on him, up and down, until she came with a wail. Then she led him to the bedroom, and made him do it again, and again.

  Early the next morning, when Gretchen was in the shower, Ferris gathered his clothes and snuck away from the apartment. He felt disgusted with himself. He was too weak to resist the feral power of his wife. Next time, he would have to let a lawyer speak for him. As he closed the door of his apartment, he knew it was for the last time.

  13

  LANGLEY

  FERRIS SPENT TWO DAYS in the flipperless pinball machine that was Headquarters, waiting for a summons from Hoffman. Because of the Frankfurt bombing, the lights were blinking red from every overhead sensor and watch list. There were meetings and briefings and urgent summonses from policymakers. The Frankfurt bomb had been parked across the street from Citibank’s German headquarters and detonated during the afternoon rush hour. A dozen people had died; three times that many were seriously injured. Ferris found a cubicle in the NE Division’s ops center and tried to manage things back in Amman, long distance. Every few hours he stopped by Hoffman’s office down the hall, but the division chief was never there. The deputy chief would ask solicitously if he could help, but Ferris would shake his head. After a while it got embarrassing and Ferris stopped checking. If Hoffman wanted him, he was easy enough to find.

  Hoffman eventually sent a brief e-mail on the secure system. “Meet me at Mincemeat Park at 9:00.” Ferris smiled. Already Hoffman had appropriated his idea. A separate message from Hoffman’s secretary provided directions to a part of the Headquarters complex Ferris had never visited—in the new building, on the other side of the cafeteria, near the north loading dock. Ferris wondered why they weren’t just meeting at the usual NE Division office on the fourth floor.

  When Ferris reached the specified door the next morning, he found Hoffman’s secretary waiting for him. It turned out this location wasn’t his actual destination, but a false address. The secretary led him back along a long corridor to an unmarked door, where she punched in a code, applied her thumb to a biometric scanner and waited until the door clicked open. Inside was a key-operated elevator; they descended for perhaps fifteen seconds. When the door opened, she led Ferris through another set of cipher-locked doors that opened onto a large workspace—a windowless underground cavern decorated in blues and greens and filled with banks of computer screens and big monitors. Dozens of people were working at desks and cubicles in a room the size of a basketball court. Ferris looked up to the cool white fluorescent lights above; he reckoned they must be somewhere under the north parking lot. Hoffman was standing by an open office door halfway down the room. He beckoned for Ferris to join him.

  “Mincemeat Park?” asked Ferris.

  Hoffman beamed. “Cute name, don’t you think? Bletchley Park and all that. I was going to call it Taqiyya Park, but I was worried that nobody could pronounce it.” He gestured to the large room and its busy employees. He looked pleased with himself, given all the bad news. “This office doesn’t exist. If you ever tell anybody you were here, I’ll swear you were lying and then have you fired. Just so we’re clear.”

  “Got it. But what is Mincemeat Park, now that I’m here?”

  “We used to call it the Near East Operations Advisory Group, until yesterday. NE-OAG. That sounded vague and bureaucratic. The short version is we run the division’s black ops here. The serious CT ops.”

  “What’s the long version, if you don’t mind telling someone who has been doing the unserious ops?”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Roger. By ‘serious,’ I mean off the books. The counterterrorism operations we run out of this room are, shall we say, ‘unofficial.’ They are deniable because the president isn’t notified about them in any formal, put-it-in-writing sense. And being officially unaware, how can the president tell Congress? Mincemeat Park is what the CIA would be, if it wasn’t so fucked up. It is a clandestine intelligence organization. As such, it can take risks, break laws, ignore bureaucratic requirements, tell people who aren’t cleared to fuck off. And it’s invisible, tucked away under the Green Parking Lot. We’re like Platform 93/4 in those dumb Harry Potter movies. Just a brick wall, until you punch the invisible cipher lock and see what’s really there. And then, poof, you are inside another world, where the wizards still have some magic. So, what do you think? Come on! Admit it! You’re impressed.”

  “This is where you’ve been when I couldn’t find you?”

  “Yup.” He was beaming.

  Ferris scanned the room. It had the feel of the operations room at Balad, only funkier. There were big screens on the back wall, and the unmistakable flickering images of Pred Porn. But the real action was in the pit, where the operatives worked. They didn’t look like any collection of CIA people he had ever seen. They were young, in their late twenties or thirties, mostly. They were dressed in jeans and T-shirts and tight skirts. There wasn’t a necktie in the room. And the walls of the cubicles had the look of a wacked-out college dorm, with pictures of various bearded adversaries, maps showing the locations of known operatives, the spidery lines of “link analyses” connecting members of the underground network. The analysts were hunkered over their desks like submarine chasers studying their sonar, trying to locate the unseen killers and force them to the surface.

  “You built your own CIA,” said Ferris.

  Hoffman nodded. “Yes, I did. These folks may not exist, officially speaking, but they’re working their invisible asses off. And I’ll tell you why. Because they know they are the last best hope. They know that one of these days, the bomb that goes off in Milan or Frankf
urt or New York is going to be a nuclear bomb. And if they don’t find it, it’s going to take a million people with it. So they’re working every hour, every day, to find that bomb and kill the people who want to plant it. That’s why I love them—every overworked, maladjusted one of them. They may not look like killers, but they are.”

  Ferris surveyed the rows of cubicles. Women occupied at least half of them. They did look wired, you could see that; snapping on their chewing gum, tapping their toes; you could tell a lot of them would be smoking cigarettes if it were still allowed. Some had a tough, worldly look, a bit too much makeup—you could imagine them as blackjack dealers in Vegas. Others had a deceptive sweetness, but in their eyes was the stone-cold look of an adder.

  “Hey, Gwen.” Hoffman turned to a thirtysomething brunette at the closest desk. “Tell him what you’re working on.”

  She looked quizzically at him. Hoffman nodded.

  “I’m tracking a cell in Syria. They were in Damascus last night. Today they’re in Dayr al-Zor, on their way to the Iraqi border. But something tells me they aren’t going to make it over the border to Husbaya. We have ninjas nearby. Something tells me that as soon as I get a lock on them, they’re dead.”

  She smiled the cool thin smile of a professional assassin. Ferris turned to Hoffman. “Who do the ninjas work for?” he asked.

  “Nobody. That’s the point. That’s the only way we’re going to get out of this mess. People like Gwen, here.”

  Hoffman took Ferris’s arm and pulled him toward an open office door. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Inside the office, a thin dark man in wire-rimmed glasses was typing furiously at a computer terminal. He was dressed in a black cashmere sweater and appeared to be in his late thirties, perhaps a few years older than Ferris. As Ferris got closer, he saw that the man was an Arab—a North African, to judge from the honey-brown tint of his complexion. The man looked up at them over the top of his glasses and then back at the screen. His fingers continued dancing over the keyboard for another fifteen seconds and then he stopped, hit “Enter,” and looked up.