Root and Branch

by Preston Fleming

  Krajewski gave Craven a thumbs-up and mouthed the words, “You ‘da man!” before breaking off to scribble something on his notepad.

  Zorn marveled at how deftly Craven had co-opted these three ESM skeptics into compliance. That left the two female lawyers as holdouts. What might Scudder and Craven have up their sleeves to bring them on board? And what might be their price for going along, or at least for looking the other way?

  A moment later, Charles Scudder spoke up again, and Zorn had the feeling he might not like what was coming.

  “Earlier, someone spoke about the inevitability of leaks,” the deputy national security advisor began. “While I don’t consider leaks inevitable, they are foreseeable. So how do we protect the ESM program from being derailed by leakers? In a word, through speed. Not long ago, I re-read René Zorn’s outstanding book, Root and Branch, in which he identifies speed as the key to any successful counterinsurgency campaign. With us today is Roger Zorn, René’s son. Roger, may I put you on the spot to tell us why you think speed is so vital to the ESM program’s success?”

  Zorn sat bolt upright as if jolted by an electric shock. He knew his father’s book nearly verbatim, and in his own op-ed article he had stressed that speed was essential to defeating the intifada. But why had Scudder singled him out? Did he suspect him of not being on board? Was this Scudder’s way of foreclosing objections from him later?

  Zorn acknowledged the deputy NSC advisor with a nod and then shot quick glances at Craven and Lawless. Both smiled back, but what did their smiles mean?

  “Of course, Charlie, I’m always happy to talk about my father’s work,” Zorn began, thinking on his feet. “You see, Father always insisted on seeking a swift victory in any conflict. That’s because the cost of battle always rises as the enemy advances along the learning curve. And the longer the enemy resists, the more he wears us down, so that, late in a hard-fought campaign, we resort to ever-riskier measures. If any lesson can be applied to the ESM campaign from my father’s work, I think it’s this: letting the intifada drag on indefinitely would be a grave mistake.”

  Zorn ended his speech feeling uneasy at having said so little during the conference to challenge Scudder’s plans for the headlong expansion of emergency measures. He felt he was being drawn deeper and deeper into an ESM enterprise that was ripe for abuse. This was wartime, to be sure; excesses could be expected. What’s more, Zorn Security had invested heavily in its ESM contracts, upon which he and Walter Lang depended to put the company back on its feet. But was this the sort of legacy Zorn wanted for the company that bore his name?

  When the emergency measures conference broke up an hour later in Middleburg, Virginia, it was still a warm and cloudless Friday afternoon in suburban Minneapolis. Anita Ibrahim and her sixteen-year-old daughter, Mona, were busy organizing furniture and other household effects in their garage for a yard sale the following morning. They had just hauled Mona’s desk outdoors when Anita’s mobile phone rang.

  “Hello,” Anita answered, not giving her name in case it was another crank caller spewing anti-Muslim hatred.

  “Good morning, Anita. It’s Hank Shapiro.”

  She’d been waiting for her lawyer’s call for days. “What have you found out?” she asked, lowering her voice even though no one but Mona was around to overhear.

  “It’s as if Amjad and Imran were sucked into a black hole,” Shapiro replied with an audible sigh. “I’ve tried everything. I’m sorry, Anita, but I don’t know where else to turn for answers. The congresswoman’s staff won’t return my calls and both senators’ offices referred me to their websites and told me to await further news. Apparently, they’re swamped with hundreds of other Muslim disappearances from the Twin Cities.”

  “So what do we do next? How do we find them? Isn’t there someone we can sue to compel some answers?”

  “Not really, Anita. I urge you to stick to your plan. Sell the house and the car and whatever else you can’t fit into a few suitcases. Then wire the proceeds to your family in Kerala and leave. Start new lives in India and don’t look back. Someday it may be safe to return here, if you still care to, but I have no idea when that might be.”

  “Then what about my wrongful dismissal suit?”

  Anita’s grip tightened on the phone and her voice acquired a sharp edge. It took Shapiro a moment to respond.

  “Your employer is claiming that you falsified your resumé. They say you don’t have the diplomas and professional certifications you’ve claimed. Now don’t get angry with me, Anita, but I have to ask you: could there be any truth to what they’re saying?”

  “Absolutely not!” she burst out. “It’s ridiculous! Any fool can get on the phone with the university and the certification boards to verify my credentials.”

  “But that’s just it. It seems your former boss made some calls to double check your degrees, even though he was certain that the company’s human resources department had thoroughly vetted you before offering you the job. Yet somehow your records have vanished at the source. Your university claims no record of you having studied there.”

  “Then someone must have removed my documents! But who would do such a thing? And why?”

  “I think we both know that. It started when you fought back against your husband’s and son’s arrests. And now the government has turned its attention to you. Listen, Anita, I’ll continue to do whatever I can for you from this end. But whoever took Amjad and Imran wants you and Mona gone. They may not have legal grounds to arrest you, but they can make your life a living hell. Don’t let them do it to you. Go while you still can.”

  Chapter Ten: Temptation

  “Nothing is easier than self-deceit. For what each man wishes, that he also believes to be true.”

  –Demosthenes

  MAY, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  At ten minutes before six, Roger Zorn walked into the Sovereign, a Belgian-inspired gastropub paneled with dark wood that was renowned for its deep selection of European beers. He and Margaret Slattery had set up the meeting the previous afternoon while they awaited their cars after the conference in Middleburg. Zorn still didn’t quite understand why she had chosen to confide in him about her ESM concerns, as she seemed far closer to Audrey Lamb and Nelson Blackburn. She had said that the others hadn’t been available, but perhaps Slattery felt as attracted to him as he did to her. He felt a frisson of excitement imagining her sitting close beside him and hoped that his hunch was right.

  Zorn had no trouble finding a seat at the bar near the front entrance, owing to the early hour and Georgetown’s depressed foot traffic since the recent car bombings. He ordered a very un-Belgian Old Fashioned with high-proof American rye whiskey while awaiting the White House lawyer.

  Slattery arrived five minutes late wearing a simple black cocktail dress with boat neck and half sleeves, topped by a string of dark green jade beads. Her red hair hung loose over her shoulders and bounced with every step, turning the heads even of younger men as she passed by.

  “I hope you didn’t spend your Saturday at the office,” she remarked with a wry smile, holding out her hand in greeting. Zorn held the hand long enough to plant a kiss on both her cheeks, which she returned after a moment’s hesitation. “Sometimes I forget that you’re half French. You have only the hint of an accent.”

  “Actually, I’m one hundred percent French,” Zorn answered, “but I’m also a hundred percent American.”

  He flagged down the bartender and asked Slattery what she wanted to drink.

  “Stoli on the rocks would be lovely,” she replied, and the bartender shuffled off to fetch it.

  “Yes, of course,” she went on. “I hadn’t focused on the fact that you spent a decade in the CIA during the same era as Pat Craven and Larry Lawless. Did you know them?”

  “I worked with Pat for a while, but not with Larry or Max. I signed on a bit before those two did. But they stayed a lot longer.”

  “So what prompted you to get into spying? And what prompted you to le
ave? I’ve heard that most field operators stay in till retirement and then return for contract work. They just can’t seem to let go.”

  “Some are like that,” Zorn agreed. “I wasn’t. I applied to the Agency during the Iranian hostage crisis. I wanted to fight terrorists, like my father. But the Agency nearly rejected my application. The recruiter said that my psychological testing predicted that I wouldn’t make a career of it; that I’d quit within ten years. Now, you have to realize that the Agency has psychological test profiles for its recruits going back decades, all the way to the Office of Strategic Services in World War II. It’s seen thousands of guys like me come and go.”

  “So what happened? Apparently, they let you in.”

  “Yes, I gave them my solemn word that I’d stay. And I did. Ten years, just as they predicted, but not a year more.”

  Zorn let out a gentle laugh and cast a brief look at his image in the mirror behind the bar. Maybe it was the low lighting, but he really didn’t think he appeared much older than Margaret Slattery, though the difference in their ages approached fifteen years. Nor did he look half bad in his bespoke Italian suit and open-neck white shirt.

  As he turned away from the mirror, Zorn caught Slattery casting a nervous glance toward the door.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, twisting her jade beads with one hand. “Two men just came into the bar. I think I saw them hanging around the Eisenhower Building last week. And yesterday, on my way back from Middleburg, I’m certain I was followed. Same thing on my way to the hairdresser this morning.”

  “If they were anywhere near the Executive Office Building, they must be government types. Tell me, did you notice anyone following you on your way here tonight?”

  “No, but if they’re from the government, I assume they could also be monitoring my phone. Along with my GPS data, and God knows what else.”

  Zorn agreed. But for him the more important question was, what had triggered the surveillance? Was it a routine security check on a senior White House employee? Or had she done something to arouse more serious security concern, like her challenges to Charles Scudder during the previous day’s conference? Or, even worse, might the government be aware that he and Slattery had discussed investigating possible ESM abuses?

  Normally, the wisest course to pacify those who ordered the surveillance would be to go on as if she hadn’t noticed it. But Zorn had no intention of discussing the ESM program with Slattery under watchful eyes. They had some important decisions to make and, even at the risk of raising eyebrows, it was essential that they slip away to do it in private. If necessary, they could make excuses later.

  “Do you have your cell phone with you?” Zorn asked.

  “I left it in the car. On purpose.”

  “Good move.”

  He turned to face the door to Wisconsin Avenue and spotted two fortyish-looking men in bargain-rack suits whose muscular physiques made them stand out among the sleeker, more rotund breed of bureaucrats and lobbyists who frequented the bar.

  Slattery followed his glance and watched the men take seats near the door. A moment later she downed the vodka and picked up her purse.

  “Listen, I’m not comfortable with those two guys watching us. Would you mind if we go someplace else?”

  “Okay, but first let’s see if we can lose them. Why don’t you go to the back and meet me by the ladies’ room. There has to be a rear exit. I’ll settle the bill and then let’s see about slipping out. With any luck, they won’t be able to catch up.”

  A few minutes later, Zorn found Slattery in the back and led her past the men’s room and around a corner to the rear emergency exit, which led onto a back alley. She rewarded him with a smile while her green eyes shone with relief.

  “So where shall we go next?” Zorn asked her once they had covered the short distance down the deserted alley to Prospect Street. His pulse quickened with the thrill of having ditched the men in cheap suits.

  “Let’s try further up Wisconsin,” she suggested. “I recall a couple of nice places on the next block.”

  They soon merged with the crowd of pedestrians on the street but the first two bars they passed were boarded up, while the third contained a rough-looking clientele. They had just headed back down the hill toward M Street when Zorn heard the crackle of gunfire. He held Slattery’s arm and stopped to listen. When she picked up the sound, her face went pale and she cast a nervous glance toward the din, which now included automatic rifle fire.

  “Sounds like something’s happening a few blocks east of here,” he said, summoning memories of war-torn Beirut. “Let’s get away. Where are you parked?”

  “The other side of M Street, by the Ritz-Carlton.”

  “My car is closer. Why don’t I drive you there?”

  “On second thought, why don’t you take me back to my place? It’s not far. I’ll return for the car tomorrow.”

  “You don’t mind?” Zorn asked.

  “Not at all. It’ll be a much safer place for us to talk.”

  They drove Zorn’s Volvo away from the gunfire until they hit U Street, where Slattery directed Zorn toward the underground parking entrance of a luxury high-rise apartment block. If anyone had been trailing them, they were too far back to be visible.

  They rode the elevator to the seventh floor. Slattery ushered Zorn into a spacious apartment that was bathed in the pale orange glow of sunset from a curved living room window overlooking U Street. The décor was tasteful, though bordering on the generic, as if the flat’s owner had selected furnishings that would be admired by a certain slice of Washington society but that failed to reflect her own personality. The place was spotless, particularly the kitchen and living room, as if a maid had just swept through. All except the dining room, whose glass-topped table was piled with unopened mail; and a nearby bedroom, where the bed remained unmade and clothes lay strewn across the floor.

  Slattery guided Zorn through the dining room into the kitchen, where she put a hand on the refrigerator.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? You’ve certainly earned it.”

  “Some whiskey would be nice. Bourbon, scotch, whatever you have on hand. I’ll drink it neat.”

  “Oh, rats, that’s the one thing I don’t have,” she answered, knitting her brow. “Vodka, gin and white wine are the staples around here.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  Slattery poured generous portions from a recorked bottle of California chardonnay into a pair of balloon glasses. Then she led him into the living room, where they took seats in matching white settees on opposite sides of a steel-and-glass coffee table.

  “So why do you think those men were following you?” Zorn began.

  “I’m sure it’s connected with the emergency measures,” she answered. “This week I’ve been spending much of my time immersed in the special access files, the material you and I signed away our lives to be allowed to see. Perhaps I exceeded some maximum number of viewing hours in the SCIF. Maybe they’re worried I might spring a leak.”

  “Well, might you?”

  “Are you kidding?” she replied with wide eyes. “The people who run SAP programs don’t put up with any nonsense. That’s why I kept my distance from you at the conference yesterday. To make sure nobody got the idea we were, well, close.”

  Zorn stifled a laugh.

  “Hmmm, I hadn’t realized that was an issue.”

  Slattery blushed and looked down at her shoes, which she had removed and kicked under the coffee table.

  “As I recall, it was you who suggested we keep our distance. Have you changed your mind?”

  But instead of responding with flirtation, as he might have, Zorn grew thoughtful.

  “Not at all. It’s probably more important than ever that we keep our business together private.”

  At this, Zorn put a forefinger to his lips and stepped around the coffee table to sit beside his hostess. He beckoned
for her to come closer so that he could whisper in her ear.

  “Oh? Are we getting friendly?” she asked with a look of surprise. “What am I to make of you, Mr. Zorn?”

  But she did as he bid, bending forward.

  “We need to talk securely,” he whispered. “Where in your flat do you spend the least amount of time?”

  Slattery cast a glance around before answering.

  “The breakfast nook. I hardly ever use it.”

  “All right, let’s go there.”

  The couple rose from their seats and carried their drinks to the kitchen.

  “Do you have an AM-FM radio?” Zorn whispered.

  “I use the Bose unit, over there.”

  Zorn unplugged the high-tech radio and carried it over to the breakfast nook, where he tuned it to a twenty-four hour news station. Then he pulled out his mobile phone, opened a talk radio app and turned its speaker to the max. A moment later, the couple was enveloped in a cloud of unintelligible crosstalk.

  “Okay. Now we can talk a bit more freely,” Zorn went on in a lowered voice. The pair took seats on benches across the breakfast table from one another and set their glasses and the wine bottle between them.

  “So what do you think, Margaret? Did Scudder’s vision for implementing ESM justify your concerns about him?”

  “In every way. I think the man is stark raving mad.”

  “But his program isn’t illegal. You said so yourself.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. What do you think, Roger? Are you fine with Scudder harnessing your Triage technology to carry out the largest-scale ethnic cleansing since the Bosnian War?”

  Zorn drank some wine while considering how to respond in a way that wouldn’t provoke her further.

  “Not when you put it that way,” he answered in a measured tone. “But deporting jihadis with high Triage scores is what ESM has always been about. If revoking the visas of suspect Islamists and deporting them were the only thing Scudder had in mind, I’d probably be okay with it.”