She closed that document, pulled up her soybean report, and printed all forty pages of it on the laser printer. She carried it to the other end of the hall and had fifteen copies printed up. While the machine was running, she went to the rest room to straighten herself up. Through the frosted-glass window she heard a helicopter descending on the nearby helipad. Millikan had arrived.
She went to the supplies closet and got twelve binders for her report, then back to the photocopy room to collate them, humming to herself as she stacked the pages and snapped them into the binders. Then she sensed a hostile presence, smelled the same kind of perfume that her least-favorite third-grade teacher had always worn. It was the DCI’s executive secretary, Margaret Hume. Betsy turned and said, “Hi!” as chirpily as she could.
Hume merely glowered and blocked the door. Behind her she could see Millikan walk by with his entourage, followed shortly by the director of the Iraqi task force out of Operations—she didn’t know his name. The director of the Office of Program Analysis and Coordination. The director of Economic Analysis. The director of Science and Technology. The deputy DCI, liaisons from DIA and NSC, the deputy director of Operations. All of them men in dark suits, moving quietly and purposefully, all waiting for her performance. She should have been too intimidated to stand up.
“Time for me to go,” Betsy cooed sweetly.
“When it’s time,” the steely Mrs. Hume replied.
“Maggie,” Betsy asked, taking great pleasure in watching the anger flare in the thirty-year veteran’s face, “do you think the Agency is guilty of treating its female employees unfairly?”
“Absolutely not. The Agency loves its people.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” said Betsy, getting up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Not till it’s time.”
“Maggie,” Betsy said, “I grew up moving irrigation pipe and digging potatoes. I weigh two hundred pounds. It’s time for my meeting. In about five seconds all two hundred pounds of me is going to come through that doorway as fast as I can walk, which is pretty fast. Now, please don’t tell me that I have to resort to physical intimidation to get out of this room.”
Betsy turned her back on Margaret Hume, gathered up her binders into a stack, and cradled them in her arms. She turned to the door to find the executive secretary still doggedly planted there in her path. Betsy fixed her gaze on a point somewhere behind Margaret Hume’s head and strode forward, building quickly up to the full head of steam that she used when stomping down the hill from work. At the last minute Mrs. Hume lost the game of chicken; realizing that Betsy wasn’t kidding, she backed awkwardly out of the way. Betsy heard the satisfying snap of a heel coming loose from Mrs. Hume’s shoe. She slumped against the corridor wall and Betsy pushed by. “Have a lovely day, Maggie.”
She arrived at the door of the conference room just as a lackey came out for her. “You’re here?” he said with some surprise.
“It’s time for the meeting, isn’t it?”
She walked into the room with its splendid kidney-shaped Florentine-marble table. Every chair was taken. She turned to the lackey and said, “Where am I to go?”
“Over there,” he whispered, gesturing to the spotlighted podium.
“Gentlemen,” the DCI began, for there were surely no women there except for Betsy and, bringing up the rear, the limping Margaret Hume, “our stated agenda today is what to do with Iraq’s export-import credits. As you know, there is severe pressure from certain circles on the Hill to cut these sources of support for Mr. Hussein. The President has already received our reports on Mr. Hussein’s use of funds both foreign and domestic, both internally generated and externally donated.” He paused, as if to consider the rhetorical elegance of what he had just said. “As most of you know, we reached no stated consensus on what to do and recommended further study on the Hill of this issue.”
Polite, barely perceptible smiles spread around the room. The DCI had just stated that the intelligence community had cobwebbed the anti-Iraqi forces. There were enough pro-Iraqi factions on the Hill to schedule hearings that would last until Saddam died of old age.
“Consequently, the actual agenda for today is to consider Ms. Vandeventer’s reports on possible misuse of agricultural funds by Iraq. If you’ll open the envelope in front of you, you will see the history of this particular question. In February, Ms. Vandeventer was on a briefing team for our agricultural attaché to Baghdad. After finishing her report she added her concerns about the distribution and application of the Food for Peace grants. Word made its way up the chain to the ambassador, who communicated her concern to the secretary of state.” He looked around and saw that there was nobody there yet from State. “Mr. Baker considered it important that that concern in turn be communicated to the President. Dr. Millikan, will you continue the story?”