Page 43 of Denied Access
It did not come.
Instead, the senator reclined in his leather chair and folded his arms across his chest. Like far too many contemporary politicians, Rutledge had a TV-ready look. His black hair was stylishly cut and free of any pesky hints of gray despite his sixty-plus decades of life. His blue suit was perfectly tailored to accentuate his still-trim frame, but it was his expressive face that cameras loved. Had he not pursued politics, the senator might have enjoyed a successful career onstage.
At the moment, his malleable features wore the famous look of exasperation that had graced countless newspapers and television screens. Stansfield was a firm believer in both the rule of law and the importance the United States Constitution placed on the three branches of government, but he detested the theatrics that too often accompanied open hearings.
As per the usual setup, Stansfield sat alone at the witness table. Though executive branch cabinet members or department secretaries called to testify often traveled with a phalanx of aides along with the occasional lawyer, Thomas attended hearings by himself. He needed no administrative bodyguards, and his memory had been honed by decades of practicing espionage. More importantly, Stansfield came to these meetings alone because he did not intend to expose anyone else in the agency’s leadership to hostile fire. Though he’d been the acting director since the Cooke debacle, he placed his odds at confirmationat no better than a coin toss. If someone needed to go down with the ship so that his beloved agency survived, it would be him.
Alone.
“My apologies,” Stansfield said, sliding into the building silence. “I thought Senator Rutledge was about to comment. As I was saying, the Central Intelligence Agency’s mission is not, nor has it ever been, solely focused on defeating the Soviet Union. The men and women I have the pleasure of leading gather and analyze intelligence in order to protect our nation from threats, plural. The Soviet Union was perhaps the largest threat to confront our nation since World War Two, but it was far from the only one. Nature abhors a vacuum. Like all of you, I cheered when the Berlin Wall crumbled just as I cheered when we defeated Nazi Germany and accepted Japan’s surrender. But to rejoice in the defeat of one enemy while refusing to acknowledge that this defeat will make room for the emergence of another is the height of naïveté.”
“I’m naïve?” Rutledge said. “Is that your testimony?”
Stansfield shook his head. “Senator, I’m simply making the point that this agency has been defending our nation against foreign threats for almost fifty years. Sometimes those threats were easily recognizable. Oftentimes they were not. But rest assured, despotic dictators and rogue actors the world over see America’s very existence as a danger to their continued rule. As long as the United States represents a shining city upon a hill, there will be no shortage of barbarians who wish to extinguish that light. My job is to provide intelligence that enables our leaders to make informed decisions that will protect America and its citizens from those who mean us harm.”
“Very poetic,” Rutledge said, “but also a little self-serving. You’re here today for more than just baseball and apple pie. You are testifying so that we can decide whether to advance your nomination for director of the Central Intelligence Agency to the full Senate for a vote. Before we do that, I’d like your response to my suggestion that we cut the CIA’s budget by half. Setting aside that the military has already beendownsized by ten percent with no appreciable degradation to our national security—”
“Yet,” Stansfield said.
Rutledge’s face flushed, but he plowed over the interruption without stopping. “As I said, the military’s budget has been appreciably decreased, and we are just as safe. More safe I would argue, since we are now able to reinvest this peace dividend into the types of domestic programs that directly benefit the American people. But that’s a topic for another day. I’d like to circle back to what you said earlier. About the CIA’s purpose. You said that your job was to protect our nation, correct?”
“No,” Stansfield said. “I said that my job was to provide the intelligence that—”
“Yes, yes, we’ve got it,” Rutledge said. “My intent isn’t to trip you up with legalese. My question is much more basic—is your agency causing more harm than good?”
Stansfield let the question hang in the air as he considered where the senator might be trying to lead him. Rutledge might be a self-important bureaucrat who fancied himself the next JFK, but underestimating him would be a mistake. The senator had the intellectual chops of a Chihuahua, but his bellicose style and good looks made him a perfect spokesman for the anti-CIA sentiment that was becoming ever more prominent. More than once, he’d ambushed Stansfield with an argument or set of facts that suggested that he might be getting help from agency insiders.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Stansfield said.
The statement was a gamble, but not a large one. While the killings in Paris had certainly made news, the president had made it clear to his fellow pols that any discussions about the murders had to be done in a sensitive compartmented information facility, or SCIF.
A few well-placed warnings from the executive branch typically did the trick. Congressmen and senators might make a lot of noise, but they were loath to put their security clearances at risk bydiscussing sensitive matters in open forums. Every member of the legislative branch holding a security clearance had signed the required NDAs that specified the draconian penalties for disclosing classified information. Whatever dirt Rutledge might have on the operation, he certainly wouldn’t divulge it during an open hearing and thereby risk a lucrative post-political career spent sitting on the boards of defense contractors, or worse, occasion a visit from federal law enforcement.
“Happy to,” Rutledge said, drawing a piece of paper from the stack in front of him. “CNN broke this story moments before this hearing began. The Russian ambassador claims that their counterintelligence service arrested an American spy earlier today. Would you care to comment?”
“Absolutely not,” Stansfield said, his anger getting the better of him. “We are in an open hearing.”
“Indeed we are,” Rutledge said, nodding gravely, “but these are extraordinary circumstances. The alleged spy is an American diplomat’s wife. The Russians are threatening to expel our entire US mission from Moscow and try the wife in criminal court. This would be a horrible development. Have you nothing to say on the matter?”
Stansfield had plenty to say, but since the hearing was being broadcast live on C-SPAN, he kept his thoughts to himself. Instead he swept away his anger and forced his features into an impassive expression. “Senator, as is standard practice, I will neither confirm nor deny the specifics of an intelligence operation. This entire line of questioning is inappropriate.”
“As I suspected,” Rutledge said with a mournful look. “The cowboys running your organization have once again made our nation, and by extension the entirety of Europe, less safe. I agree that continuing this hearing is pointless, but if you won’t speak to these charges, we’ll let CNN have the last word.”
On cue, the twin television screens flanking the dais changed fromdisplaying an image of the seal of the Senate to a picture of a woman seated behind a desk. Her lip was split and blood dribbled down her chin, but it was the woman’s manacled hands that demanded Stansfield’s attention.
They were covered in sparkling spy dust.
CHAPTER 21
BARCELONA, SPAIN
THEsurveillance team was smooth.
Smooth enough that their presence only registered with Rapp’s subconscious.
A kind of metaphysical itch he couldn’t scratch.
At first, he’d wondered if he was jumping at shadows. His nerves had been on edge since the incident at the art museum and the line between operational instincts and paranoia was much finer than most clandestine operatives cared to admit. Maybe he was seeing something out of the ordinary because his adrenaline-saturated brain was chasing ghosts.
