“We want it so that a guy can stand outside an embassy and read the mail inside.” “It amounts to a technology swap,” Hood continued.
“You get what we have in that box… we get your chip.” Lang said, “It’s amazing. Is there anything the T-Bird cannot see through?” “Metal’s the big thing,” said Stoll, “but we’re working on the problem.” “Amazing,” Lang repeated as he continued to stare at the photograph.
“And the best thing?” Stoll said. “Until we iron out our problems, think of the money we can make selling foil-lined wallets.”
CHAPTER TWENTY Thursday, 8:47 A.M., Washington, D.C.
“You’re a seriously flawed piece of work.” Martha Mackall’s bitter pronouncement hung in the air for several seconds before Mike Rodgers responded. He stopped a few steps from the doorway. When he spoke, he was temperate. Much as he hated the fact, people couldn’t respond to each other simply as people. Martha was more than his equal in an in-your-face confrontation. But a white male who went toe-to-toe with a black woman was begging for legal woes. That pendulum swing was the inevitable, even necessary, but infuriating legacy of creatures like WHOA.
“I’m very sorry you feel that way,” Rodgers said. “And for what it’s worth, I’m also sorry I upset the Senator.” “Frankly,” Martha said, “it’s not worth a whole hell of a lot. You used the death of her daughter to mess her up, and then you called her an enemy. Now you’ve got the chutzpah to say you’re very sorry?” “That’s right,” he said. “Only it’s not chutzpah, Martha, it’s regret. I’m sorry this had to be.” “Are you really?” she asked.
Rodgers started to go, but Martha jumped up. She stepped between him and the door, drew herself up, and came toward him until her face was less than a foot from his.
“Tell me, Mike,” she said, “would you have pulled the same kind of stunt with Jack Chan or Jed Lee or any of the male senators we deal with? Would you have been that cold with them?” The woman’s tone made Rodgers feel as if he were on trial. He wanted to tell her where to go, but he settled for, “Probably not.” “You’re damn right ‘probably not,’ ” Martha said. “The old boys’ club looks after its members.” “It isn’t that,” Rodgers said. “I would have treated Senators Chan and Lee differently because they wouldn’t have tried to cut me off at the knees.” “Oh, then you think this was against you? The Senator’s after our fat because she has it in for Mike Rodgers?” “Partly,” said Rodgers. “Not because of my gender or me personally, but because I believe that as the only remaining superpower the U.S. has a responsibility to intervene where and whenever necessary. And Op-Center is a crucial, quick-strike part of that. Martha, do you really think I was standing here promoting me?” “Yeah,” she said, “I do. That’s sure what it sounded like.” “I wasn’t,” he said. “I was promoting us. You, me, Paul, Ann, Liz, the spirit of Charlie Squires. I was defending Op- Center and Striker. How much money, how many lives, would a new Korean war have cost? Or an arms race with a new Soviet Union? What we’ve done here has saved the nation billions of dollars.” While he spoke, he noticed Martha ease off slightly.
Very slightly.
“So why didn’t you talk to her like you’re talking to me?” she asked.
“Because I was presented with a fait accompli,” Rodgers said. “She’d’ve used my arguments for batting practice.” “I’ve seen you take worse from Paul,” she said.
“I’m his subordinate.” “And isn’t Op-Center subordinate to Senators Fox, Chan, Lee, and the other members of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee?” “To a degree,” Rodgers admitted. “But the operative word there is comminee. Senators Chan and Lee aren’t uncompromising isolationists. They would’ve talked to Paul or me about the cuts, given us a chance to discuss them.” Martha raised a fist cheek-high and shook it. “Let’s hear it for the smoke-filled rooms.” “Things got done in there.” “By men,” Martha said: “God forbid a woman should make a decision and ask a man to implement it. If she does, you turn around and slug her.” “As hard as she slugged me,” Rodgers said. “You think I’m a piece of work? Who’s the one asking for equality some of the time?” Martha said nothing.
Rodgers looked down. “I think this has gotten way out of hand. We have other problems. Some jerks are about to go on-line with video games about whites lynching blacks.
I’m meeting with Darrell and Liz later to see if we can derail them. I’d like your input.” Martha nodded.
Rodgers looked at her. He felt like hell. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t like when anyone gets a bunker mentality.
Especially me. I guess it comes with the territory. Army looks after Army, Marines after Marines—” “Women after women,” Martha said softly.
Rodgers smiled. “Touch‚. I guess, at heart, we’re all still territorial carnivores.” “That’s one way to spin-doctor it,” she replied.
“Then here’s another,” Rodgers said, ” ‘I shall be an autocrat: that’s my trade. And the good Lord will forgive me: that’s his.’ A woman said that. Catherine the Great.
Well, Martha, sometimes I can be an autocrat. And when I am, I can only hope that you’ll forgive me.” Martha’s eyes narrowed. She looked as if she wanted to stay angry, but couldn’t.
“Touch‚ right back.” She grinned.
Rodgers smiled again, then looked at his watch. “I’ve got to make a call. Why don’t you check with Liz and Darrell to get up to speed, and I’ll see you later.” Martha relaxed at the shoulders and stepped aside.
“Mike?” she said as he passed.
He stopped. “Yes?” “That was still a pretty hard blow you gave the Senator,” she said. “Do me a favor and call her later, just to make sure she’s okay.” “I plan to,” Rodgers said as he opened the door. “I too, can be forgiving.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Thursday, 2:55 P.M., Hamburg, Germany
Bob Herbert spent a frustrating hour-plus on the phone.
Sitting in his wheelchair and using his private line, Herbert spent part of the time talking with his assistant at Op-Center, Alberto Grimotes. Alberto was fresh out of Johns Hopkins, a clever Ph.D. psychologist with good ideas. He was still very young and without a great deal of life experience, but he was a hard worker whom Herbert regarded as a kid brother.
Question one, Herbert said, was trying to figure out which of their intelligence allies they could tap for up-to-theminute information about German terrorists. The men suspected that the Israelis, the British, and the Poles would be the only ones who followed those groups closely. No other nations had quite the same visceral, enduring fear of the Germans.
Herbert held on while Alberto checked their HUMINT, Human Intelligence, database. This information from agents in the field was contained in what Herbert referred to as Op- Center’s “pelt,” the FUR file— Foreign Undercover Resources.
Herbert was always ashamed to go begging for intelligence scraps, but his own resources in Germany were slim. Before West and East Germany reunited, the U.S. was heavily involved with helping West Germany ferret out terrorist groups coming from the East. Since reunification, U.S. intelligence had virtually withdrawn from the country.
The German groups were Europe’s problem, not America’s.
With bone-deep budget cuts, the CIA, the National Reconnaissance Office, and other information-gatherers had their hands full trying to stay on top of China, Russia, and the Western Hemisphere.
So much for our crystal balls about the next big trouble spot, Herbert thought bitterly.
Of course, assuming that other governments did have German HUMINT, there was no guarantee that they would even be willing to share their information. Since the wellpublicized U.S. intelligence security leaks in the 1980s, other nations were reluctant to tell too much of what they knew.
They didn’t want their own resources compromised.
“Hub and Shlomo have four and ten people in the field, respectively,” Alberto said. He was referring to Commander Hubbard of British intelligence and Uri Shlomo Zohar of the Mossad.
Since this was an unsecured line, Herbert didn’t ask for specifics. But he knew that most of Hubbard’s agents in Germany were involved with stopping the flow of contraband arms from Russia, while the Israelis were watching the flow of arms to the Arabs.
“It looks like Bog’s boys are still cleaning up the Russian mess,” Alberto said. That was a reference to General Bogdan Lothe of Polish intelligence and the nearwar with Russia. “You want a laugh?” Alberto asked.
“I could use one,” Herbert said.
“Looking over this list, the only help I see us getting is from Bernard.” If the situation weren’t so serious, Herbert would indeed have laughed. “Help from them?” he said. “It’ll never happen. Never.” “It might,” Alberto said. “Let me just read this report from Darrell.” Herbert tapped out “Alabamy Bound” on the armrest as he waited.