He also had wanted to work with his best friend and former classmate, Stephen Viens, who headed the government’s National Reconnaissance Office. Viens was the man who had arranged the Op-Center introduction for him. He also gave Stoll and his coworkers first-dibs access to NRO resources to the detriment and annoyance of his colleagues at the CIA, FBI, and Department of Defense. But they could never prove that Op-Center was getting a lion’s share of satellite time. If they could, bureaucratic backlash would be severe.
Viens was on-line with Stoll at Op-Center and Mary Rose Whalley in Turkey to make certain the data coming from the Regional Op-Center was accurate. The visual images being channeled from the spy satellites weren’t as detailed as those at the NRO: The mobile equipment provided just under half of the more than one thousand lines of resolution of the NRO monitors. But they were coming in fast and accurate, and intercepts of cell-phone conversations and faxes were equal to those that were being received by both the NRO and Op-Center.
After running the last of the tests, Stoll thanked Mary Rose and told her she was free to solo. The young woman thanked him, thanked Viens, and got off the secure downlink. Viens remained on his line.
Stoll took a bite of sesame bagel and washed it down with a swallow of herbal tea. “God, I love Monday mornings,” Stoll said. “Back in the harness of discovery.”
“That was pretty,” Viens admitted.
Stoll said through cream cheese, “We build five or six of these things, pack ’em inside planes and boats, and there isn’t a corner of the world we can’t watch.”
“You do that and you’ll put me out of business faster than the Senate Intelligence Committee,” Viens cracked.
Stoll looked at his friend’s face on the monitor. The screen was the center one of three built into the wall beside Stoll’s desk. “That’s just a frosh dingbat’s witchhunt,” Stoll said. “Nobody’s going to put you out of business,”
“You don’t know this Senator Landwehr,” Viens replied. “He’s like a little dog with a very large bone. He’s made it his personal crusade to put an end to forward funding.”
Forward funding, Stoll thought. Of all the government sleights of hand, Stoll had to admit that that was the sneakiest. When money was earmarked for a specific purpose and those projects were back-burnered or altered, the funds were supposed to be given back. Three years before, two billion dollars had been given to the NRO to design, build, and launch a new series of spy satellites. Those projects were later canceled. But instead of being returned, all of the money was slipped into various other NRO accounts and disappeared. Op-Center, the CIA, and other government agencies also lied about their finances. They created small, so-called “black budgets,” which were hidden in false line items of the budget and were thus concealed from public scrutiny. Those monies were used to finance relatively modest secret intelligence and military operations. They were also used to help finance Congressional campaigns, which was why Congress allowed them to exist. But the NRO had gone too far.
When the NRO’s forward funding was discovered by Frederick Landwehr, a freshman senator who used to be an accountant, he immediately brought it to the attention of the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Congress acted swiftly to reclaim what was left of the money—with interest. And the interest included the heads of the responsible parties. Although Viens hadn’t been involved in the parceling out of the money, he’d accepted budget increases for his satellite reconnaissance division knowing exactly where it came from.
“The press has to give space to a new face with a new cause,” Stoll said, “I still think that when the headlines shrink, everything’ll be sorted out quietly.”
“Deputy Secretary of Defense Hawkins doesn’t share your atypical optimism,” Viens said.
“What are you talking about?” Stoll asked. “I saw the Hawk on the news last night. Every coif with a mike who accused him of mismanagement got his or her nose bit off.”
“Meanwhile, the Deputy Secretary is already looking for a job in the private sector.”
“What?” Stoll said.
“And it’s only been two weeks since the forward funding was uncovered. There are going to be a lot more defections.” Viens raised his eyebrows forlornly. “It really sacks, Matt. I finally get my Conrad and I can’t even enjoy it.”
The Conrads were an unofficial award given at a private dinner every year by the foremost figures in American intelligence. The dagger-like trophy was named after Joseph Conrad, whose 1907 novel, The Secret Agent, was one of the first great espionage tales. Viens had coveted the award for years, and had finally won it.
Stoll said, “I think you’re going to weather this thing. There won’t be a real investigation. Too many secrets’ll be made public. There’ll be some wrist-slapping, the money will be found and returned to the treasury, and they’ll watch your budget more closely for the next couple of years. Just like a personal audit.”
“Matt,” Viens said, “there’s something else.”
“There always is. Action followed by an equal and opposite reaction. What else are they planning?”
“I hear they’re going to subpoena our diskettes.”
That got Stoll’s attention. His round, beefy shoulders rose slowly. The diskettes were time- and destination-coded. They would show that Op-Center was getting a disproportionate amount of satellite time.
“How solid’s your info?” Stoll asked.
“Very,” Viens said.
There was a sudden gurgling in Stoll’s belly. “You, uh—didn’t get that yourself, did you?”
Stoll was asking Viens whether he’d ordered surveillance on Landwehr. He prayed that his friend had not.
“Please, Matt,” Viens said.
“Just making sure. Pressure can do funny things to sane people.”
“Not me,” Viens said. “Thing is, I won’t be able to do much for you during the rest of the shakedown. I’ve got to give the other bureaus whatever time they need.”
“I understand,” Stoll said. “Don’t sweat it.”
Viens smiled halfheartedly. “My psych profile says I never sweat anything,” he said. “Worst that happens is I follow the Hawk into the private sector.”
“Bull-do. You’d be as miserable as I was. Look,” Stoll said, “let’s not go counting Mother Carey’s chickens before the storm hits. If the Hawk flies the coop, maybe that’ll take some of the pressure off.”
“That’s a slim maybe.”
“But it’s a possibility,” Stoll said. He glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the screen. “I’m supposed to see the boss at seven-thirty to let him know how the ROC is working. Why don’t we have dinner tonight? On Op-Center.”
“I promised the missus we’d go out.”
“Fine,” Stoll said. “I’ll pick you both up. What time?
“How’s seven?” Viens asked.
“Perfect,” said Stoll.
“My wife was expecting candles and hand-holding. She’ll kill me.”
“It’ll save Landwehr the trouble,” Stoll pointed out. “See you at seven.”
Stoll clicked off feeling miserable. Sure, Viens had given him access to the NRO, but Op-Center had had the crises to justify that access. And what did it matter whether Op-Center or the Secret Service or the NYPD needed assistance? They were all on the same team.
Stoll phoned Hood’s executive assistant, “Bugs” Benet, who said the chief had just arrived. Finishing his tea and engulfing the second half of his bagel, the portly young chief technical officer strode from his office.
FIVE
Monday, 2:30 p.m.,
Qamishli, Syria
Ibrahim was asleep when the car eased to a stop. He awoke suddenly.
“Imshee… imshee—!” he cried as he looked around. Yousef and Ali were still playing cards in the backseat. Ibrahim’s eyes settled on the round, dark face of his brother, which was sleek with sweat. Mahmoud was looking in the rearview mirror.
“Good afternoon,” Mahmaud said dryly.
Ibrahim removed his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “Mahmoud,” he said with obvious relief.
“Yes,” his brother said with a half-smile. “It’s Mahmoud. Who was it that you wished would leave you alone?”
Ibrahim put his sunglasses on the dashboard. “I don’t know. A man. I couldn’t see his face. We were in a market and he wanted me to go somewhere.”
“Probably to see a new automobile or an airplane or some other device,” Mahmoud said. ” ‘Friend Ibrahim, I am the djinn of dreams and I will take you anywhere you want to go. Tell me. Would you like to meet a beautiful young woman who will be your wife?’ ‘Oh, thank you, djinn. You are most generous. But if you have a motorboat or a computer, I would very much enjoy making their acquaintance.’ ”
Ibrahim scowled. “Where is it written that one cannot enjoy speed and power and machines?”
“Nowhere, my brother,” Mahmoud replied. He turned from his brother and looked up at the rearview mirror.
“I like women,” Ibrahim said. “But women like children and I do not. So we are stalemated. Do you understand?”
“I do,” said Mahmoud. “But you miss the point. I have a wife. I see her one night a week for an evening of fire. I kiss the sleeping children before I leave in the morning, then go off to do my work with Walid. I am content.”