meeting. You’re in operations oversight now. Doing great, by all
accounts.” Word was he was on the fast track for a position in the AG’s
office.
“Thanks to you,” Denneen said. “I was there today as divisional
representative. We take turns. Got to keep an eye on the budget
numbers. And on you.” Gently, he placed a hand on hers. Anna noticed
that the warmth in his eyes was mixed with concern.
“It was good to see you there,” Anna said. “And send my best to Ramon.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. “We’ll have to have you over for paella
again.”
“But there’s something else on your mind, isn’t there?”
Denneen’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Listen, Anna, your new assignment,
whatever it is, isn’t going to be like getting a new call sheet. What
people say around here is true the ways of the Ghost are mysterious to
man.” He repeated the old jest with little humor. The Ghost was an
in-house nickname for the longtime director of the Internal Compliance
Unit, Alan Bartlett. During closed hearings before the Senate
subcommittee on intelligence, back in the seventies, a deputy attorney
general had referred to him, archly, as “the ghost in the machine,” and
the honorific had stuck. If Bartlett wasn’t ghostly, he was a
legendarily elusive figure. Seldom seen, reputedly brilliant, he ruled
over a rarefied dominion of highly classified audits, and his own
reclusive habits made him emblematic of its clandestine ways.
Anna shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him, and I don’t think
I know anyone who has. Rumors thrive on ignorance, Dave. You of all
people know that.”
“Then take a word of advice from an ignoramus who cares about you,” he
said. “I don’t know what this I.C.U thing is about. But be careful,
O.K.?”
“Careful how?”
Denneen just shook his head, uneasily. “It’s a different world over
there,” he said.
Later that morning, Anna found herself in the immense marble lobby of an
office building on M Street, on her way to her appointment at the
Internal Compliance Unit. The unit’s workings were obscure even within
the department, and its operational purview was or so certain senators
had occasionally charged dangerously undefined. It’s a different world
over there, Denneen had said, and so it seemed.
The I.C.U was located on the tenth floor of this modern office complex
in Washington, isolated from a bureaucracy it was sometimes obliged to
scrutinize, and she tried not to gawk at the splashing indoor fountain,
the green marble floors and walls. She thought: What kind of government
agency gets fitted out like this? She got on the elevator. Even that
was trimmed with marble.
The only other passenger on the elevator was a too-handsome guy around
her age in a too-expensive suit. A lawyer, she decided. Like just
about everyone else in this city.
In the mirrored elevator walls she saw him giving her The Look. If she
caught his eye, she knew he’d smile and say good morning and strike up a
banal Elevator Conversation. Even though he was no doubt well
intentioned and probably just wanted to flirt politely, Anna found it
mildly annoying. Nor did she respond well when men asked her why a
woman as beautiful as she was had become a government investigator. As
if what she did for a living were the special province of the homely.
Normally, she pretended not to notice. Now, however, she threw him a
scowl. He looked away hastily.
Whatever it was that the I.C.U wanted from her, it had come at a damn
inconvenient time; Dupree was right about that. Maybe you are the
assignment, he’d said, and though Anna had shrugged off the suggestion,
it nagged at her, absurdly. What the hell was that supposed to mean? No
doubt Arliss Dupree was in his office right now, gleefully sharing his
speculation with some of his drinking buddies on the staff.
The elevator opened onto a lavishly appointed, marble-lined hall that
could have been the executive floor of a high-priced law firm. Off to
the right she spotted the seal of the Department of Justice mounted on
one wall. Visitors were instructed to buzz for admittance. She did so.
It was 11:25 a.m.” five minutes before her scheduled appointment. Anna
prided herself on her punctuality.
A female voice demanded her name, and then she was buzzed in by a
handsome dark-skinned woman with a squared-off haircut almost too chic
for government work, Anna thought to herself.
The receptionist assessed her coolly and directed her to take a seat.
Anna detected a very faint Jamaican accent.
Within the office suite, the trappings of the swanky building gave way
to a setting of utter sterility. The pearl-gray carpet was immaculate,
like no government carpet she’d ever seen. The waiting area was
brightly lighted with an array of halogen bulbs that left virtually no
shadows. Photos of the President and the Attorney General were framed
in lacquered steel. The chairs and the coffee table were of hard blond
wood. Everything looked brand new, as if it had been freshly uncrated,
unsoiled by human habitation.
She noticed the foil hologram stickers on both the fax machine and the
telephone on the receptionist’s desk, government labels indicating that
these were secure lines, employing officially certified telephone
encryption.
At frequent intervals, the phone purred quietly, and the woman spoke in
a low voice using a headset. The first two calls were in English; the
third must have been in French, because the receptionist responded in
that language. Two more in English, gently eliciting contact
information. And then another in which she spoke in a language,
sibilant and clicky, that Anna had a hard time identifying. Anna
glanced at her watch again, fidgeted in the hard-backed chair, and then
looked at the receptionist. “That was Basque, wasn’t it?” she said. It
was something more than a guess, but less than a certainty.
The woman responded with a fractional nod and a demure smile. “It won’t
be much longer, Ms. Navarro,” she said.
Now Anna’s eye was drawn to the tall wooden island behind the
receptionist’s station, which extended all the way to the wall; from the
legally required exit sign, she realized that the wooden structure
concealed the entrance to a staircase. It was artfully done, and it
allowed I.C.U agents or their guests to arrive and depart unnoticed by
anyone in the official waiting room. What kind of outfit was this?
Another five minutes went by.
“Does Mr. Harriett know I’m here?” Anna asked.
The receptionist returned her gaze levelly. “He’s just finishing up
with
Anna returned to her chair, wishing she’d brought something to read. She
didn’t even have the Post, and clearly no reading material would be
allowed to soil the pristine waiting area. She took out an
automatic-teller machine slip and a pen and started making a list of
things to do.
The receptionist placed a finger on her ear and nodded. “Mr. Bartlett
says he’ll see you now.” She emerged from her station and guided Anna
down a series of doors. No names were posted; only numbers. Finally,
at the end of a hallway, she opened a door marked director and took her
into the tidiest office she had ever seen. On a far table, stacks of
paper were perfectly arrayed in equidistant piles.
A small, white-haired man in a crisp navy suit came out from behind a
vast walnut desk and extended a small, delicate hand. Anna noticed the
pale pink moons of his perfectly manicured nails and was surprised by
the strength of his grip. She noticed that the desk was barren, save
for a handful of green file folders, and a sleek, black telephone;
mounted on the wall just behind it was a velvet-lined glass display case
containing two antique-looking pocket watches. It was the one eccentric
touch in the room.
“I’m so terribly sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. His age was
indeterminate, but he was probably in his early sixties, Anna decided.
His eyes were owlish through his glasses, large round lenses in
flesh-colored frames. “I know how busy you are, and you were so very
kind to have come by.” He spoke softly, so softly that Anna found
herself straining to hear him over the white noise of the ventilation
system. “We’re very grateful for your making the time.”
“If I may speak candidly, I didn’t know we had a choice when I.C.U
called,” she said tartly.
He smiled as if she had said something amusing. “Please do sit down.”
Anna settled into the high-backed chair opposite his desk. “To tell you
the truth, Mr. Bartlett, I’m curious about why I’m here.”
“You weren’t inconvenienced, I hope,” Bartlett said, interlacing his
small fingers in a prayerful tent.
“It’s not a matter of inconvenience,” Anna replied. In a strong voice,
she added, “I’m happy to answer whatever questions you may have.”
Bartlett nodded encouragingly. “That’s rather what I’m hoping. But I’m
afraid these answers won’t be easy to come by. In fact, if we could