Page 50 of Denied Access
“Something funny?”
“You know what they say,” Zeke said. “If you can’t laugh, you’d cry.”
An hour later, Zeke nosed his BMW 5 Series into his favorite pub’s cramped parking lot. While he’d more than earned an afternooncocktail, this was not why he’d chosen this particular watering hole on this particular day. Turning off the car’s engine, he glanced at the freshly painted row house across the street. Technically, an examiner was not allowed to tell the subject whether they’d passed or failed, as the results would have to be verified, but this rule was often stretched. A simple wink or even a warm handshake was enough to communicate the unspoken sentiment.
Nothing to worry about—you passed.
The bespectacled man had not winked, nodded, or even offered a particularly warm handshake. Instead their final conversation centered on the perfunctory admonishment that Zeke was not to talk about the exam or discuss the questions he’d been asked. This was not a cause for concern in itself. The examiner struck him as a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. His deviation from the unofficial practice was probably the sign of a fanatical adherence to policy, nothing more. After all, the role of polygraph examiner attracted a certain type of candidate.
As did Zeke’s job.
His other job.
The newly painted row house was one of the many that had been refurnished as part of the gentrification craze sweeping the District. Its exterior was a sparkling shade of white that contrasted nicely with the black door frames and shutters.
Zeke’s gaze drifted up to the pair of second-floor windows.
Unlike its companion, the blinds on the right window were drawn.
Zeke looked at the window for a moment longer just to be sure. Then he withdrew a cell phone from his jacket pocket and began to dial.
CHAPTER 25
SOMEWHEREOVERTHEATLANTICOCEAN
ITwas not an exaggeration to say that Irene Kennedy had known her boss her entire life. Long before she’d understood the true nature of her father’s employment or the significance of his tragic death, she’d viewed Thomas Stansfield as a surrogate father. When her mother had gone to pieces and her family seemed to be self-destructing, Stansfield had been her rock. During her reflective years in college, it had been Stansfield who had shepherded her through the turbulent waters of self-doubt and fear.
Stansfield had been the one who’d broken with agency policy to explain to her the family business, and Stansfield, with Hurley, had been in the audience at the Farm for the secretive graduation ceremony held after she’d successfully completed the CIA’s clandestine training course. After he became her boss, the nature of her relationship with Stansfield had changed. She was a good case officer, but she wasn’t perfect. As with any good supervisor, there had been a time or two when Stansfield had expressed his disappointment in her performance. In all this time, Irene had never seen her mentor truly lose his cool.
Until now.
“I think the idiots might actually do it, Irene. The blown CIA operation in Moscow and this nonsense with our case officer’s wife couldn’t have come at a worse time. Rutledge might finally be able to muster enough votes to bring a motion to defund the agency to the floor for a vote.”
Irene let her boss’s words wash over her, uncertain how to respond.
It was a testament to Stansfield’s state of mind that the conversation was being held over the phone rather than in his office. Though she was on an agency Gulfstream jet speeding east and speaking on a secure line, she still hesitated. Rather than an outlier, the Moscow debacle was a culmination of a string of arrested Russian CIA assets and aborted operations. While the principle espoused by Occam’s razor pointed toward a human penetration of agency secrets as the source of these failures, Irene wasn’t willing to place all her chips on that bet.
The CIA had conducted numerous successful technical operations against the Soviets and now Russians. From tapping undersea communications cables to attaching listening devices to secure telephone lines, the agency’s Directorate of Science and Technology had proven to be quite adept at compromising what had previously been considered impenetrable communication methods. Only a fool would assume that the Russians weren’t capable of doing the same.
Irene wasn’t a fool.
“Do you think the resolution will pass?” Irene said.
The answering sigh was both long and pronounced. “I normally have a feel for the difference between partisan outbursts and statements that reflect an elected official’s true feelings.”
“Not this time?”
Another sigh. “Something’s happening, Irene. Something beyond the normal idiocy. I think this madness began in the usual way with the usual suspects spouting off for the cameras, but this nonsense with the Russians, along with the continued fallout over the Cooke France affair, has taken the rhetoric to the next level. It’s as if a drunk blowhard hassuddenly had his bluff called. The situation in Moscow is only adding fuel to the fire. Our agency is leading the news cycle, and the public outcry might just compel Congress to act.”
Irene digested this in silence.
Her nation was historically unique because it had been founded on an idea: the notion that certain truths were self-evident and that humanity had been bestowed by its Creator with certain inalienable rights. These precious ideals had birthed a constitutional republic in which the voice of every citizen carried the same weight, and in which disagreements were settled with ballots rather than bullets.
But this form of government was not perfect.
In an age in which TV coverage had become a campaign’s oxygen, career politicians had begun to devolve into the type of outlandish behavior that generated headlines and invitations to appear on the Sunday morning talk shows. A government of the people, by the people, and for the people was only possible if the leaders those people elected to the nation’s highest offices exhibited the sobriety needed to make the tough decisions that national service required. Unfortunately, sober-minded statesmen who embodied these traits seemed to be dwindling, replaced by Senator Rutledge and his ilk.
“Do you want me to return to DC?” Irene said.
