“And you’re just a bureaucrat whose idea of living on the edge is extra-spicy taco sauce. You don’t get what it’s like, having a gun in your hand, killing them before they kill you.” And I do, Exley didn’t say. I’ve only done it once, but once was enough.
“Jennifer—”
“So don’t patronize me, Ellis. Yeah I’m nervous. Until I hear from him, that’s not going to change. Now, can we do some work?”
Without another word, Shafer pulled up a chair. Together they looked at the list Exley had been trying to focus on all morning:
TOP SECRET/SCI/EPSILON
RED—ACCESS WORK GROUP—UPDATE 2B
Abellin, Paul
Balmour, Victoria
Baluchi, Hala
Bright, Jerry
The list consisted of everyone who knew the Drafter’s name or enough details about his identity to compromise him. Already it was fifty-three names long, and despite its length, it still wasn’t finished. Tyson had told Exley and Shafer to expect several more names before the updates stopped.
The length of the list testified to Langley’s screwed-up priorities, Exley thought. The agency jealously guarded the information the Drafter provided, while treating his name with a carelessness bordering on negligence. The data was valuable, the source worthless.
After just a couple of weeks working this case, Exley had gained new respect for Tyson’s job. Even under ideal circumstances, when the agency had been tipped to the exact identity of a spy in its ranks, counterespionage was tough. Just showing that a CIA employee had hidden income or had failed a polygraph wasn’t enough. To build ironclad cases, Tyson’s teams needed to catch moles in the act of turning over classified information to their handlers.
Meanwhile, as they investigated, they had to be sure they weren’t following false leads from foreign spy agencies. During the Cold War, the KGB had more than once sent Langley down dead-end paths. The sad truth was that without a tip, discovering who had betrayed the Drafter would be incredibly difficult, Exley thought. At this point they had no suspects. And the North Koreans had made sure that the Drafter wouldn’t be able to help.
For now, Tyson’s work group had put together basic bureaucratic details for each of the fifty-three people on the list: Date of Hire, Pay, Career History/Evaluations, Marital and Family Status, and—maybe most important—Date of Last Polygraph.
No bank records. They would need subpoenas for those. Tyson’s group had run the names through the FBI’s criminal records database, checked for felony arrests or convictions. No one had any, though Virginia and D.C. police records showed two misdemeanors. Edmund Cerys, a case officer who’d spent time in Hong Kong in the 1990s, had been caught urinating in public after a Redskins game. And Herb Dubroff, deputy director for the East Asia Division, had gotten himself busted for setting off fireworks on the Fourth of July. Neither arrest exactly screamed double agent.
SHAFER EXTRACTED HIS OWN COPY
of the list from his file folder. The names were covered with doodles, evidence of his untidy mind. “Anything jump out?”
“Way too many people had his name. Especially on the DI side.” The DO, or Directorate of Operations, was home to the case officers who managed spies like the Drafter. The DI, or Directorate of Intelligence, had the analysts responsible for thrashing out the reports that the agency sent to the White House. “There’s no excuse for it. Those guys should all get code words only.”
“When you’re an asset that long, your name leaks. It’s inevitable. Both sides of the house, the analysts and the case officers, they all think they deserve to know details about the assets. They say it’s crucial for judging the information.”
“But they’re really just trying to prove what big swinging dicks they have.”
“Now, why would you say something like that?”
“Anyway. There are five on this list who haven’t taken their polys on schedule. Two others showed signs of quote-unquote minor deception on their last test but haven’t been reexamined. All seven now have tests scheduled for next month.”
Any CIA employee with access to sensitive information was supposed to take a polygraph every five years as a routine precaution. In practice the agency was short on polygraph testers. Some mid-level officers went a decade between tests.
“Next month. Glad to see they’re taking this so seriously,” Shafer said. “I’ll call Tyson, ask them to move it up.” He dropped the sheet of names on her desk, stood up, and started to pace. She recognized the signs. He was about to have a “Shafer moment.” In half an hour they’d have a new way of looking for the mole. Maybe it would make sense, maybe not. But at least they’d have some leads to chase.
“Forget the list for a second,” Shafer said. “Who are we looking for? Who is this guy? What kind of man betrays his country?”
“Betrays his country? Isn’t that a little theatrical, Ellis?”
“What would you call it, then?”
“Fine. Betraying his country it is.”
“But in a way you’re right. He’s not betraying his country. He’s betraying
us.
The agency. He’s been passed over for promotions. His career hasn’t gone how he wanted.”
“That fits half of Langley,” Exley said.
“He’s on his second marriage, or his third.”
“Hanssen was on his first marriage.” Robert Hanssen, the FBI double agent.
“That’s the exception, but okay. Strike the second marriage. He’s a loner for sure. Not many friends at the agency. Middle-aged, forty to fifty-five. Scores well on tests but terrible interpersonal skills. Always sure he’s the smartest guy in the room.”
“I didn’t know you were spying for North Korea, Ellis.”
“I’ll remind you I’m on my first wife.”
“Like Hanssen. Why are you so sure it’s a he?”
“It’s a he, Jennifer. Women aren’t double agents.”
“Because we’re such nurturing souls. Like Paris Hilton.”
“Because women don’t have the stomach for this kind of risk.”
“That’s crap and you’re an MCP.”
“A
what
?”
“A male chauvinist pig.”
“Wow. Haven’t heard that since Gloria Steinem stopped burning bras. Anyway, I’m right.”
“What about Mata Hari?”
“An exception.”
Exley didn’t bother to argue. “So does he have kids?”
“Possibly. Ames didn’t, but Hanssen did.”
“Go on. What else?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something. Some sexual tic, maybe.”
“He’s in the closet, cruising Dupont.” Dupont Circle, the center of Washington’s gay population, a few blocks west of Exley’s apartment. “Could you be any more predictable, Ellis?” Exley was enjoying this back-and-forth now. “Maybe he’s just a happy suburban dad, likes it missionary once a week.”
“You don’t do this if you’re happy.”
“Right you are. Does he do drugs?”
“More likely he gets his kicks legally. Gambling. Drinking, maybe.”
“We can track that,” Exley said. “A DUI.”
“With a good lawyer he could get a DUI knocked down to a misdemeanor speeding ticket. And traffic records are a nightmare. Even if we just do Maryland and Virginia, it’ll take weeks. But we can try.”
“And we can send NSLs to Vegas, ask the casinos if anyone on the list is a major player.” NSLs were national security letters. The agency sent them to companies when it was looking for information to aid espionage or terrorism investigations.
“Thought you believed in the Bill of Rights,” Shafer said.
“They’re voluntary. Nobody has to answer.”
“Of course,” Shafer said. With very limited exceptions, the CIA couldn’t operate on American soil, so compliance with the letters was voluntary. They were requests, not warrants. But in the post-9/11 era, big companies didn’t want to get sideways with Langley, so they usually found ways to give the agency the information it asked for.
“Anyway, this is a totally legitimate use,” Exley said. Shafer’s comment stung. She didn’t usually think of herself as the type to trample the Fourth Amendment.
“We’re fishing, Jennifer. We have zero evidence on any of these people. No judge on earth would give us a warrant.” Shafer pointed at the list. “Even if it turns out that Jerry Bright, whoever he is, loses ten grand a week in Vegas, it proves nothing.”
“So you don’t think we should send the letters?”
“I didn’t say that. If Jerry Bright is losing ten grand a week, I want to know where the money’s coming from. When you have no clues, you’ve got to fish.”
“But maybe you’re wrong. Maybe our mole’s not a gambler or drinker or any of it. Maybe he’s a true believer.”
“In the cult of Kim Jong Il? He wants to move North Korea toward its glorious future?”
“Point taken,” Exley said. “He’s not doing it for love. But what if he’s in Seoul? In that case, none of this will get us anywhere.”
“You know what, Jennifer? You’re right. Let’s forget the whole thing, take the afternoon off.”
“That’s not what I mean—”
“Seoul’s been a well-run station for a long time. I think he’s here, not there. And I think that John had it right that night we met Tyson. I think our mole is working for somebody else, not North Korea.”
Exley flinched as Shafer mentioned Wells. For a few minutes, she’d let herself forget the raid. Now she thought of him, wearing the bulletproof vest he insisted on in lieu of the Kevlar plates he said were too heavy.
“So this mole is in it for the money? You think he needs money, Ellis?”
“Not exactly. The money’s how he keeps score.”
“If he’s spending it, it’ll leave a trail.”
“He can hide it. He can put it in his wife’s name, his parents, set up a trust.”
“Whatever name he puts it in, if he’s spending, then we can see it. He’ll have something. A vacation house on the Chesapeake.”
“If you say so.” Shafer sighed, the sound he made when he thought Exley had missed an obvious point. Exley hated that sigh. “Suppose he got a million bucks over the last decade. That would be a big haul, as much as Ames. But over ten years, it’s only a hundred grand a year.”
“Maybe you don’t think so, but a hundred grand a year is a lot of money, Ellis. Especially tax-free.”
“If wifey’s a lobbyist, say, she’s making more than that. A lot more. And he’ll have the nice car and the house on the Chesapeake anyway.”
“What if his wife doesn’t work?”
“Then it would be more obvious, sure.”
“She doesn’t, Ellis. I’m sure of it. He’s divorced or his wife doesn’t work.”
“Or maybe she works eighty hours a week and the marriage is dead and he’s blowing the money on hookers. He feels emasculated, so he’s getting her back.”
“I don’t think so. The marriage is broken, but they’re not divorced.”
“A completely unfounded, wild-ass guess.”
“As opposed to everything you’ve just said?” Exley looked at her list. “Okay. We’re looking for a man forty to fifty-five, maybe divorced, maybe in an unhappy marriage. He may have a DUI or a public intoxication on his record, but that’s not a requirement. Money that he can’t explain is a bonus.”
“Also a high IQ, but at least one spotty personnel evaluation. That’s the pattern. Doesn’t mean it’s right in this case, but it’s worked in the past. And put in the two guys who failed their polys. That’s an automatic red flag.”
“Minor deception doesn’t mean you failed.”
“It does to me.”
Exley checked off names. “I’m going to count peeing in public as intoxication—”
“Good call.”
“Looks like at least ten guys make the cut. Edmund Cerys, Laurence Condon—”
“I know Condon,” Shafer said. “It’s not him.”
“Now we’re not even sticking with our own made-up rules?”
“Fine. Leave Condon on. But it’s not him.”
“Edmund Cerys. Laurence Condon. Tobias Eyen. Robert Ford. Joe Leonhardt. Danny Minaya. Keith Robinson. James Russo. Phil Waterton. Brad Zonick. Besides Condon, anybody ring a bell?”
Shafer shook his head.
“So I guess . . .” Exley fell silent. “Now what? Let me guess. Continuing this highly scientific process, we throw darts to decide which of our suspects did it.”
“Try again.”
“Property records, financial disclosure forms, divorce records. We ask around, try to figure out who has a bad marriage, who’s a closet drinker. We get Tyson to authorize the national security letters for them and everyone else on the list.”
“Correct. Toodle-oo.” Shafer grabbed his file and walked out, looking altogether too pleased with himself for Exley’s taste.