by Eric O'neill
“The chapel fills up every day,” Hanssen said. “Masses begin at 12:05 p.m. daily after an intention service to let us pray the rosary or offer our intentions to God.”
I looked at my watch. We had arrived fifteen minutes early for the Mass. I was observant to the point of paranoia as I followed Hanssen to a seat three rows back from the altar against the left-hand wall. Now that I’d been fully read into the case, I was suspicious of everyone. Most people in the chapel wore the sort of professional clothing that suggested they had stopped in from high-end K Street offices on their lunch break. More men than women sat in the pews, and most had reached middle age. The only person who stood out piqued my interest solely because he wore a leather jacket instead of an overcoat.
Hanssen knelt and crossed himself before sliding into the pew. I followed suit. After a few minutes I missed the soft padded kneelers at St. Matthew’s Cathedral.
“For whom are you praying?” Hanssen asked.
“My mom,” I said.
“Is she ill?”
“She has Parkinson’s.” I hadn’t told even my best friends about my mother’s illness. And my family rarely acknowledged its existence. My brothers and I would ignore our mother’s slow decline, secretly pray for a miracle cure for an incurable disease, and practice willful blindness until finally, on a quiet evening, the disease would win. Why the hell did I tell Hanssen?
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “I’ll pray for her.”
Hanssen’s devotion surprised me. He bowed his head and prayed silently for the majority of the Mass, hands folded around a rosary in front of him. He watched me recite Christianity’s oldest prayer. His scrutiny felt like a pincer on my larynx as I spoke the familiar words, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.” I’d told many lies to Hanssen, each one added to a snowball of deception growing so large I could barely lift it. For once I did not have to lie. I passed his test of my Catholicism, and felt dirtier for it. Using that sanctuary to help me win a case for the FBI robbed a small part of God’s light.
The second time Hanssen looked up, he glanced at the guy in the leather jacket. The two waved to each other. A second later, the man bowed his head and hurried from the chapel.
When a primary target contacts someone we don’t recognize or know, we call that person an UNSUB—an unknown subject. UNSUBs are of particular interest to investigators because identifying them can sometimes break a case. I knew a team of ghosts haunted the Information Center, waiting for Hanssen to depart. I had no way of warning the team that someone they’d want to check out had just left. Of course, the UNSUB could have been anyone—a neighbor, a passing acquaintance. But without investigating, it was impossible to know.
When the Mass concluded, Hanssen brought me back to the Living the Faith section of the bookstore. He selected a palm-sized book and handed it to me. The Way, by Josemaría Escrivá. The tiny book outlines 999 points for meditation and prayer, each as practical as they are instructive. Hanssen insisted on buying it for me, which struck me as oddly sentimental. How could I make sense of a man who presented himself in a devout and spiritual manner, said all the right things about his faith, and prayed the rosary every day, but who simultaneously betrayed everything he claimed to stand for?
“My brother-in-law, Bonnie’s brother, is a priest in Rome,” Hanssen said as we headed back into the frostbitten day. “Bonnie and I attended John’s initiation into the priesthood. The event was glorious.” We paused at an intersection to let cars go by. “Rome is a majestic and beautiful place. Bonnie and I loved our time there.”
Hanssen rarely spoke in such an effusive manner and scarcely mentioned his wife. He would drone on for hours about spies and computers, but those discussions were professorial and clinical. Standing within his lunchtime church had triggered a change in his demeanor that both concerned and excited me. I couldn’t decide whether our shared faith had sparked Hanssen’s sudden collegiality, or if he had finally come to trust me. Or maybe, just maybe, a drop might happen soon. Was this a sign?
I needed to encourage his sudden vulnerability. I swallowed my prior vow to separate my personal life from the case and took a leap—I spoke about Juliana.
I told Hanssen that she was studying international business at American University, and she hoped to eventually work with American companies that wanted to do business with Russia.
“Maybe we should be worried about you, Eric,” Hanssen said. We cut through a short alley, brick walls all around us. “Your wife is from Communist Germany. Maybe she was sent here to recruit you. You’ve heard of a honey trap?”
An old joke calls espionage the second oldest profession. You can guess the first. A honey trap combines the two. Spies have used women to seduce secrets out of men since civilization began. The Red Sparrows were some of the most famous honey traps. Beautiful women, each trained in sexual exploitation and entrapment at their school in Kazan, Russia. A Sparrow would seduce a man with access to information into providing a small government secret. After the first breach hooked the target, a Russian intelligence officer—call him Boris—would use the indiscretion to blackmail more secrets from the newly entrapped spy.
Modern honey traps can use both women and men, but they’re always attractive and seductive and prey on the most basic of human needs. Just like the Sparrows of old, once a honey trap hooks the target over a one-night stand or sometimes a lengthy relationship, Boris shows up to blackmail additional secrets.
I grabbed Hanssen by the shoulder before he could step off the curb and into the path of a bike messenger. The grungy bicyclist hollered and shot us the finger before speeding away.
“I’m teasing about the honey trap, Eric.” Hanssen waited for the white Walk sign to flash before venturing out into the street again. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“Death by bike messenger would be a terrible way to go,” I said.
He smiled. “That it would.”
The Gray Suit team needed Hanssen hale and hearty. If a tangle of bicycle, messenger, and the hard, cold street sent him to the hospital, he couldn’t make a drop for the Russians. And if he didn’t steal secrets and attempt to hand them over to a foreign intelligence service, we’d never be able to definitively link Hanssen to his alter egos.
I’d like to think that these clinical thoughts ran through my head before my hand shot out and pulled Hanssen back onto the curb. But consideration for the case came after. I’d joined the FBI to protect people. Even master spies.
We walked another few blocks in silence. Occasionally Hanssen’s crooked gait would send his shoulder into mine. I would curse under my breath and push back. I found it hard to think about anything other than whether he bumped me on purpose or because of the way he limped when he walked.
“Do you and Juliana plan to have children?” Hanssen asked.
With the smallest insinuation, he knew how to get under my skin. Juliana and I did plan to have children, but not until I graduated from law school and she had her business degree. Eventually, I would lobby Juliana to have children earlier than we had planned so that we could fulfill my mother’s wish to hold a grandchild. But now, newly married and full of my youth, I couldn’t imagine adding another person, even a tiny one, into the cramped space of our lives.
For the first time, Hanssen didn’t let the silence hold. He told me it was God’s plan for all of us to have children—that it was my duty as a Catholic to bring children into the world. I tried to demur, to blame the delay on Juliana’s schoolwork, but Hanssen dug in like a dog playing tug-of-war with its favorite slipper.
“Juliana should stay home and raise the children,” Hanssen said.
I laughed, not without malice. “I’m an FBI analyst in a new section that still hasn’t defined itself,” I said. “Juliana is an international business student. She’ll probably make more money than I will.” I reined myself in. We only ha
d one more block until we’d arrive at headquarters.
Hanssen grabbed my arm. Danger skidded across his face. “You’ll ruin your marriage,” he said. “Men are not meant to be supported by women. Your genetic code demands that you make money and provide for the family. Juliana’s demands she stay home and nurture the children. Anything different goes against biology.”
He didn’t seem to care that my genetic code had just saved him from a gruesome bike-messenger-related death. “Sometimes we have to do what we need to make ends meet,” I said. “Biology has nothing to do with it.”
“You can’t argue against biology,” Hanssen said. “Besides, there are ways to make ends meet.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Traditionally, spies have used one of three motivating factors to convince a person to betray their country: greed, blackmail, and ideology. We all understand greed. You have two mortgages on your house and are struggling to pay the tuition for your children’s expensive private school. I offer you $50,000 to plug a thumb drive into a computer and execute the program I’ve placed on it. A simple double-click of your mouse, and your financial problems evaporate. Your company will be fine; they have plenty of money to spare.
We also understand blackmail. Now that you have committed a crime, I own you. Your supposed one-time breach of trust just became a long-term recruitment. I haven’t told you who I am, but a whisper in the wrong ear and you lose your job. At worst, your children grow up while you serve a lengthy prison term. To sweeten the deal, here is another $25,000. Once you’re hooked, you are worth less.
Though repugnant, greed and blackmail work. But ideology—belief in a system of common ideas and ideals—is the most complicated and powerful tool of espionage. If I can convince you to betray your duty or allegiance to your country because you think more like me, or look more like me, or we have the same religion and politics, blackmail becomes irrelevant and greed the cherry on top. The heroes and villains of espionage depend on what color flag you salute.
Hanssen put a solemn hand on my shoulder. “God will help you find a way.”
“Then God better come up with an extra thousand dollars a month so Juliana and I can afford a bigger place with a spare room for a nursery.” The spite in my voice surprised me. For once I didn’t have to invent my feelings. “I mean, they give us access to all of these secrets, ask us to protect the nation, but pay us less than an administrative assistant at a law firm. Then they wonder why people become spies.”
Hanssen’s somber voice agreed with me. “That’s why you always find the spy—”
“In the worst possible place.”
Hanssen smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”
* * *
Hanssen had made Room 9930 a place of somber reflection. The few pieces of art I’d stolen at his behest scarcely broke the monotony of the stark white walls and industrial furniture. When Hanssen wasn’t lecturing me, it was silent except for the coughing and wheezing of the computer workstations and the occasional belching of the HVAC unit. The austere environment fit Robert Hanssen’s personality like the black suit he wore each and every day. I recognized Hanssen’s good qualities. He cared for his family and preached the importance of marriage. He had a sharp mind and an almost preternatural understanding of the flaws in the FBI’s information-security protocols. But he was also Dr. Death, who had led some of our most important intelligence assets to sham trials and cold graves.
I sat behind my desk at ten p.m. and watched agents turn Hanssen’s quiet kingdom into a festival of camera flashes, white gloves, and hushed conversations. Kate had picked me up from law school and brought me back to headquarters for a thorough search of the office. The specialized forensic team needed me present to officially let them into the SCIF and to testify to any evidence we found. I knew they would leave no stone unturned, from pulling up carpet to hunting in the ceiling with flashlights; Earl Pitts used to hide his money in the drop ceiling of his office. Hanssen would scoff at such carelessness.
“Are you gonna call her?” Kate sat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. Where Hanssen might have slumped, Kate sat forward, elbows rested on her knees, ready to spring forward into action.
My hand brushed the white handset next to me. “How about you call her.”
Kate scoffed. “Trouble in paradise?”
I watched agents arrange pictures of Hanssen’s office on our whiteboard. A large instant camera flashed and whined and belched large puzzle squares that together formed a whole picture. I had warned them that Hanssen was meticulous to the point of obsession. Thank God they listened. I’d have to clean up any mistake made by the forensic team with my temperamental boss.
“Call Juliana,” Kate said. She picked up the copy of The Way Hanssen had bought me. “He really bought you this?”
I had read through the small book and found myself agreeing with many of Escrivá’s thoughts. The inspirational devotions are a mixture of simple lessons, like Number 14, “Don’t put off your work until tomorrow,” and more dogmatic ones, like Number 286, “There is nothing better in the world than to be in the grace of God.” After skimming through all 999, I kept coming back to Escrivá’s first:
Don’t let your life be barren. Be useful. Make yourself felt.
Shine forth with the torch of your faith and your love.
Hanssen had placed his mark on the world. In indelible ink. I wanted to do the same—but for the right reasons.
I dialed my home number reluctantly and answered Kate’s question while the line rang. “Yes. It was like a different person gave it to me.”
“How do you mean?”
“More…vulnerable,” I said.
Juliana picked up the phone. I spent the next few minutes lying to her about yet another manufactured server crash. I kept my voice calm and my words short, very aware that Kate was listening even as she politely looked away from my train wreck of a personal life.
“Wait,” Juliana said. “Are there people there with you?”
“Of course. This is an all-hands-on-deck moment. My whole team is here.”
“Okay,” she relented. The tension drained out of me. “I’ll be asleep when you come home.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
I hung up and hid behind my closed eyes for a few heartbeats. When I opened them, Kate’s sympathetic expression didn’t help.
“She probably thinks I’m cheating on her,” I said. “Server crash. Lame. I wouldn’t even know what to do if a server crashed.”
“Relax,” Kate said. Ever the optimist. “You’re doing fine.”
“Make me a promise,” I said. “When this is over, assuming Hanssen doesn’t shoot me and hide my body in a dumpster…”
She grinned. “Assuming.”
“Assuming that I live, and we win, you’re coming to dinner with me and Juliana so you can explain all of this to her.”
“When we win,” Kate said. “You’re on.” She sighed. “As for tomorrow, you’re supposed to drive Hanssen to the CIA.”
“Bingo,” I said. “He’s been looking forward to it.”
“Like a kid the night before Christmas?”
“I couldn’t have put it better.”
“Expect a no go.”
My shoulders slumped. “What?”
“The director is having second thoughts about sending public enemy number one over to the CIA. Freeh’s calling Tenet first thing tomorrow a.m.”
“Why would he do that?”
Kate flashed her trademark grin. “It’s complicated.”
“Understatement of the decade.” I stopped myself from putting my face in my hands. Hanssen would go ballistic when he heard the CIA had canceled his trip. “Let me guess, the FBI spends years tailing the CIA when everyone knew that Kelley wasn’t the guy, and now the CIA gets to say ‘I told you so.’ ”
&nb
sp; “No comment.”
“We’re nearly wrapped here.” An agent I didn’t know strode out of Hanssen’s office and took a seat on the empty desk beside mine. He was an older man, and he wore his blue sport coat over a work shirt. His gun and badge rode a thick leather belt and pointy-toed cowboy boots peeked out from his worn jeans. He looked like a middle-aged Chuck Norris.
Kate suddenly became very interested in The Way. She kept her face neutral and stared at the book.
The agent we’ll call Chuck took in the chairs guarding the entrance to my workstation sanctuary and laughed. “I hear we might need to change your code name, Werewolf.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“GD seems to have taken a liking to you.” He chuckled. “Maybe we should call you Boy Toy.”
Kate stayed mum.
“I’ll stick with Werewolf.” I tried not to growl.
Chuck laughed and slapped his knee. “Just joshing you, Wolfie.” His face got serious all of a sudden the way a sunny day will yield to a gathering storm. “Not everyone wanted you for this.”
I stayed silent.
“Oh, there were arguments both for and against.” He ticked them off on one hand. “Not an agent. Not trained. Not a veteran going up against a veteran. Too much of a maverick. That one from one of your supervisors.” He held up the other hand. “Then the good stuff. Knows computers. Understands espionage. Not afraid to break a rule or two to win a case. That was from Gene McClelland.” He shrugged and let his hands fall. “At the end of the day, the pros beat the cons.”
Still nothing from Kate.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“A lot is riding on this case, Wolf. You don’t want to be the guy that makes all the naysayers right about you.”
Great pep talk, Chuck.
“He’s got this,” Kate said.
A touch little and a lot late, but thanks, Kate.
Chuck nodded. “I hope so.” He stood to follow the rest of the search team out and turned to Kate. “I’ll let you know what we found tomorrow. Doesn’t look like much.” Then he focused on me again. “We think GD might be recruiting you. Let him.”