The Ghost War jw-2

by Alex Berenson

  “Jennifer—”

  “So don’t patronize me, Ellis. Yeah I’m nervous. Until I hear from him, that’s not going to change. Now, can we do some work?”

  Without another word, Shafer pulled up a chair. Together they looked at the list Exley had been trying to focus on all morning:

  TOP SECRET/SCI/EPSILON

  RED — ACCESS WORK GROUP — UPDATE 2B

  Abellin, Paul

  Balmour, Victoria

  Baluchi, Hala

  Bright, Jerry

  The list consisted of everyone who knew the Drafter’s name or enough details about his identity to compromise him. Already it was fifty-three names long, and despite its length, it still wasn’t finished. Tyson had told Exley and Shafer to expect several more names before the updates stopped.

  The length of the list testified to Langley’s screwed-up priorities, Exley thought. The agency jealously guarded the information the Drafter provided, while treating his name with a carelessness bordering on negligence. The data was valuable, the source worthless.

  After just a couple of weeks working this case, Exley had gained new respect for Tyson’s job. Even under ideal circumstances, when the agency had been tipped to the exact identity of a spy in its ranks, counterespionage was tough. Just showing that a CIA employee had hidden income or had failed a polygraph wasn’t enough. To build ironclad cases, Tyson’s teams needed to catch moles in the act of turning over classified information to their handlers.

  Meanwhile, as they investigated, they had to be sure they weren’t following false leads from foreign spy agencies. During the Cold War, the KGB had more than once sent Langley down dead-end paths. The sad truth was that without a tip, discovering who had betrayed the Drafter would be incredibly difficult, Exley thought. At this point they had no suspects. And the North Koreans had made sure that the Drafter wouldn’t be able to help.

  For now, Tyson’s work group had put together basic bureaucratic details for each of the fifty-three people on the list: Date of Hire, Pay, Career History/Evaluations, Marital and Family Status, and — maybe most important — Date of Last Polygraph.

  No bank records. They would need subpoenas for those. Tyson’s group had run the names through the FBI’s criminal records database, checked for felony arrests or convictions. No one had any, though Virginia and D.C. police records showed two misde meanors. Edmund Cerys, a case officer who’d spent time in Hong Kong in the 1990s, had been caught urinating in public after a Redskins game. And Herb Dubroff, deputy director for the East Asia Division, had gotten himself busted for setting off fireworks on the Fourth of July. Neither arrest exactly screamed double agent.

  SHAFER EXTRACTED HIS OWN COPY of the list from his file folder. The names were covered with doodles, evidence of his untidy mind. “Anything jump out?”

  “Way too many people had his name. Especially on the DI side.” The DO, or Directorate of Operations, was home to the case officers who managed spies like the Drafter. The DI, or Directorate of Intelligence, had the analysts responsible for thrashing out the reports that the agency sent to the White House. “There’s no excuse for it. Those guys should all get code words only.”

  “When you’re an asset that long, your name leaks. It’s inevitable. Both sides of the house, the analysts and the case officers, they all think they deserve to know details about the assets. They say it’s crucial for judging the information.”

  “But they’re really just trying to prove what big swinging dicks they have.”

  “Now, why would you say something like that?”

  “Anyway. There are five on this list who haven’t taken their polys on schedule. Two others showed signs of quote-unquote minor deception on their last test but haven’t been reexamined. All seven now have tests scheduled for next month.”

  Any CIA employee with access to sensitive information was supposed to take a polygraph every five years as a routine precaution. In practice the agency was short on polygraph testers. Some mid-level officers went a decade between tests.

  “Next month. Glad to see they’re taking this so seriously,” Shafer said. “I’ll call Tyson, ask them to move it up.” He dropped the sheet of names on her desk, stood up, and started to pace. She recognized the signs. He was about to have a “Shafer moment.” In half an hour they’d have a new way of looking for the mole. Maybe it would make sense, maybe not. But at least they’d have some leads to chase.

  “Forget the list for a second,” Shafer said. “Who are we looking for? Who is this guy? What kind of man betrays his country?”

  “Betrays his country? Isn’t that a little theatrical, Ellis?”

  “What would you call it, then?”

  “Fine. Betraying his country it is.”

  “But in a way you’re right. He’s not betraying his country. He’s betraying us. The agency. He’s been passed over for promotions. His career hasn’t gone how he wanted.”

  “That fits half of Langley,” Exley said.

  “He’s on his second marriage, or his third.”

  “Hanssen was on his first marriage.” Robert Hanssen, the FBI double agent.

  “That’s the exception, but okay. Strike the second marriage. He’s a loner for sure. Not many friends at the agency. Middle-aged, forty to fifty-five. Scores well on tests but terrible interpersonal skills. Always sure he’s the smartest guy in the room.”

  “I didn’t know you were spying for North Korea, Ellis.”

  “I’ll remind you I’m on my first wife.”

  “Like Hanssen. Why are you so sure it’s a he?”

  “It’s a he, Jennifer. Women aren’t double agents.”

  “Because we’re such nurturing souls. Like Paris Hilton.”

  “Because women don’t have the stomach for this kind of risk.”

  “That’s crap and you’re an MCP.”

  “A what?”

  “A male chauvinist pig.”

  “Wow. Haven’t heard that since Gloria Steinem stopped burning bras. Anyway, I’m right.”

  “What about Mata Hari?”

  “An exception.”

  Exley didn’t bother to argue. “So does he have kids?”

  “Possibly. Ames didn‘t, but Hanssen did.”

  “Go on. What else?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something. Some sexual tic, maybe.”

  “He’s in the closet, cruising Dupont.” Dupont Circle, the center of Washington’s gay population, a few blocks west of Exley’s apartment. “Could you be any more predictable, Ellis?” Exley was enjoying this back-and-forth now. “Maybe he’s just a happy suburban dad, likes it missionary once a week.”

  “You don’t do this if you’re happy.”

  “Right you are. Does he do drugs?”

  “More likely he gets his kicks legally. Gambling. Drinking, maybe.”

  “We can track that,” Exley said. “A DUI.”

  “With a good lawyer he could get a DUI knocked down to a misdemeanor speeding ticket. And traffic records are a nightmare. Even if we just do Maryland and Virginia, it’ll take weeks. But we can try.”

  “And we can send NSLs to Vegas, ask the casinos if anyone on the list is a major player.” NSLs were national security letters. The agency sent them to companies when it was looking for information to aid espionage or terrorism investigations.

  “Thought you believed in the Bill of Rights,” Shafer said.

  “They’re voluntary. Nobody has to answer.”

  “Of course,” Shafer said. With very limited exceptions, the CIA couldn’t operate on American soil, so compliance with the letters was voluntary. They were requests, not warrants. But in the post-9/11 era, big companies didn’t want to get sideways with Langley, so they usually found ways to give the agency the information it asked for.

  “Anyway, this is a totally legitimate use,” Exley said. Shafer’s comment stung. She didn’t usually think of herself as the type to trample the Fourth Amendment.

  “We’re fishing, Jennifer. We have z
ero evidence on any of these people. No judge on earth would give us a warrant.” Shafer pointed at the list. “Even if it turns out that Jerry Bright, whoever he is, loses ten grand a week in Vegas, it proves nothing.”

  “So you don’t think we should send the letters?”

  “I didn’t say that. If Jerry Bright is losing ten grand a week, I want to know where the money’s coming from. When you have no clues, you’ve got to fish.”

  “But maybe you’re wrong. Maybe our mole’s not a gambler or drinker or any of it. Maybe he’s a true believer.”

  “In the cult of Kim Jong Il? He wants to move North Korea toward its glorious future?”

  “Point taken,” Exley said. “He’s not doing it for love. But what if he’s in Seoul? In that case, none of this will get us anywhere.”

  “You know what, Jennifer? You’re right. Let’s forget the whole thing, take the afternoon off.”

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “Seoul’s been a well-run station for a long time. I think he’s here, not there. And I think that John had it right that night we met Tyson. I think our mole is working for somebody else, not North Korea.”

  Exley flinched as Shafer mentioned Wells. For a few minutes, she’d let herself forget the raid. Now she thought of him, wearing the bulletproof vest he insisted on in lieu of the Kevlar plates he said were too heavy.

  “So this mole is in it for the money? You think he needs money, Ellis?”

  “Not exactly. The money’s how he keeps score.”

  “If he’s spending it, it’ll leave a trail.”

  “He can hide it. He can put it in his wife’s name, his parents, set up a trust.”

  “Whatever name he puts it in, if he’s spending, then we can see it. He’ll have something. A vacation house on the Chesapeake.”

  “If you say so.” Shafer sighed, the sound he made when he thought Exley had missed an obvious point. Exley hated that sigh. “Suppose he got a million bucks over the last decade. That would be a big haul, as much as Ames. But over ten years, it’s only a hundred grand a year.”

  “Maybe you don’t think so, but a hundred grand a year is a lot of money, Ellis. Especially tax-free.”

  “If wifey’s a lobbyist, say, she’s making more than that. A lot more. And he’ll have the nice car and the house on the Chesapeake anyway.”

  “What if his wife doesn’t work?”

  “Then it would be more obvious, sure.”

  “She doesn‘t, Ellis. I’m sure of it. He’s divorced or his wife doesn’t work.”

  “Or maybe she works eighty hours a week and the marriage is dead and he’s blowing the money on hookers. He feels emasculated, so he’s getting her back.”

  “I don’t think so. The marriage is broken, but they’re not divorced.”

  “A completely unfounded, wild-ass guess.”

  “As opposed to everything you’ve just said?” Exley looked at her list. “Okay. We’re looking for a man forty to fifty-five, maybe divorced, maybe in an unhappy marriage. He may have a DUI or a public intoxication on his record, but that’s not a requirement. Money that he can’t explain is a bonus.”

  “Also a high IQ, but at least one spotty personnel evaluation. That’s the pattern. Doesn’t mean it’s right in this case, but it’s worked in the past. And put in the two guys who failed their polys. That’s an automatic red flag.”

  “Minor deception doesn’t mean you failed.”

  “It does to me.”

  Exley checked off names. “I’m going to count peeing in public as intoxication—”

  “Good call.”

  “Looks like at least ten guys make the cut. Edmund Cerys, Laurence Condon—”

  “I know Condon,” Shafer said. “It’s not him.”

  “Now we’re not even sticking with our own made-up rules?”

  “Fine. Leave Condon on. But it’s not him.”

  “Edmund Cerys. Laurence Condon. Tobias Eyen. Robert Ford. Joe Leonhardt. Danny Minaya. Keith Robinson. James Russo. Phil Waterton. Brad Zonick. Besides Condon, anybody ring a bell?”

  Shafer shook his head.

  “So I guess…” Exley fell silent. “Now what? Let me guess. Continuing this highly scientific process, we throw darts to decide which of our suspects did it.”

  “Try again.”

  “Property records, financial disclosure forms, divorce records. We ask around, try to figure out who has a bad marriage, who’s a closet drinker. We get Tyson to authorize the national security letters for them and everyone else on the list.”

  “Correct. Toodle-oo.” Shafer grabbed his file and walked out, looking altogether too pleased with himself for Exley’s taste.

  “Toodle-oo yourself, you ass.”

  “And say hi to John for me,” Shafer called from the corridor. “He’s fine, you know.”

  She decided not to rise to the bait. In his own childish way, Shafer was trying to make her feel better. She looked down again at the names. She wasn’t sure Shafer’s theories made sense. Maybe the mole was highly successful, a genius who spied just for the thrill. But at least they were moving. And almost certainly they were coming at the search from a different angle than Tyson’s people.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Tyson’s office.

  “George? It’s Jennifer Exley. I need help with some names…. Yes. Ten in all.”

  15

  THE CAVE ENTRANCE WAS A BLACK MOUTH in the side of the mountain, seven feet wide, nearly as tall. Handmade bricks lined the opening, evidence that guerrillas had turned the space inside into a semipermanent refuge. Wells wondered when the bricks had been laid. The Afghans had been defending these mountains for a long, long time. Some of their underground networks had been built not after the Soviet occupation in 1979 but the British invasion of 1838.

  Until he went in, Wells couldn’t know if the cave was a cul-de-sac used for weapons storage or a deeper link to a tunnel network. Either way he’d be blindly chasing an armed and desperate guerrilla. Prudence dictated that Wells lob in a couple canisters of CS and hope that whoever was inside came out on his own.

  Then Wells thought of Greg Hackett, his life dribbling away through the tourniquet on his leg. The soldier in the cave might be the one who’d taken Hackett down. Prudence was another word for fear.

  Wells set his M4 neatly against a rock. Inside the cave’s narrow passages, the rifle would be a hindrance. He would depend instead on his Makarov and his knives. He grabbed his headlamp from his belt, clicked it to be sure it was working, strapped it to his helmet. He stepped toward the cave — then stopped as he heard someone yelling his name. Gaffan.

  “John! You all right?” Gaffan said. “Looked like you went down hard.”

  As if in answer, Wells’s right shoulder began to ache, a dull pain that Wells knew would worsen. But he could still use the arm, and that was enough.

  “Keep watch here. Clean up anyone who sticks his head out. I’m going in.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “We’ll be in each other’s way. You cover me on the way in. Then stay here.”

  “You’re the boss, sir.”

  Wells didn’t bother to wonder if Gaffan was being sarcastic. He darted across the mouth of the cave and flattened himself against the jagged rocks beside it. As Gaffan positioned himself on the other side of the entrance, Wells peeked inside. He reached for his headlamp, then reconsidered. Not yet. Light would give away his position. Instead he stared into the darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted enough for him to understand what he was seeing.

  The guerrillas had shaped the cave into a tunnel that sloped into the mountain. Rough brick covered parts of its walls, but the ceiling was untouched stone. Wells half-expected to see flint-tipped arrows on the ground, charcoal drawings of men hunting woolly mammoths on the walls.

  But this cave had no drawings, and no arrows. A thousand generations of human cleverness had replaced them with deadlier tools. AK-47 rifles lay beside used RPG launch tubes. Aside from
the weapons, the space was empty as far as Wells could see. The darkness took over about thirty yards in.

  An acrid whiff of the CS gas Wells had fired floated out of the cave, faint but enough to make his nostrils burn. Wells had never thought he’d wish for a faceful of CS. But now he did. The fact that the gas had dispersed so quickly meant that the passage ran deep into the mountain. Not what he wanted.

  Across the entrance, Gaffan stood ready. Wells held up three fingers, two, one—

  And stepped inside. If someone was watching the entrance Wells was most vulnerable at this moment, his silhouette visible against the sky. He took two steps forward, dove behind an empty crate, and waited. But no shots came. He pushed the crate aside and crawled into the mountain.

  * * *

  INCH BY INCH the rock womb darkened. Soon Wells couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. He straightened up slowly. Before he could stand, his helmet bumped the ceiling, sending a jolt down his neck and into his damaged shoulder. The passageway had shrunk. The ceiling here was lower, no more than five feet. Wells wondered how much smaller it would get.

  He leaned back against the wall and tried to orient himself. When he looked back the way he’d come, he could see a pinprick of light — or more accurately, a slightly paler shade of black. The outside world was at most a hundred yards off, but it seemed much farther away. Wells’s pulse quickened. Twice in college he’d gone spelunking. But those had been afternoon trips into the White Mountains with a half-dozen friends and a guide, not excursions into the heart of darkness.

  Don’t be dramatic, Wells told himself. If he needed light, he had his headlamp, and a flashlight too, a tiny Maglite hooked to his belt. He closed his eyes and thought back to his days playing linebacker in college, watching the quarterback’s eyes, knowing where the ball was going even before the receivers did, stepping in front of the errant pass and in a few seconds turning the game inside out, the big men on the other team trying to reverse course, all that momentum heading the wrong way as Wells cruised down the sideline to the end zone. Six times in four years he’d returned interceptions for touchdowns. Wells opened his eyes and found that his heart had slowed to its usual pace, forty-eight beats a minute. His fear was gone and he knew he’d be calm for as long as he needed.