But casual observers weren’t there at four A.M. when she checked in. She had a standing order with her Bangladeshi cabbie now, who was faithfully at the entrance to the Bellevue Apartments every morning at three fifty-five. He was always cheerful and had taken to bringing her a fresh pastry every day.
On this, her private graveyard shift, she continued asking the “right question”—trying to find where those millions of dollars of unaccounted-for taxpayers’ money had gone, searching through the noise for patterns. She continued to access the mainframes of the other agencies involved with Iraq and to make as much use of the HUMINT folks in the Middle East as she could get away with. She was especially interested in who was being proposed to come to the United States for study.
She had clearly established one trend that no one else had noticed: faculty and staff from other Muslim countries were being brought into Iraq on adjunct status to teach courses in biological sciences. The names on the visa applications usually did not match those of the absent academicians, but the physical descriptions did.
She also gained access to the names of prominent Iraqis in the arms business. These were compiled by making a run of all registrants at arms fairs worldwide for the past ten years and then doing a match on brochures advertising their products. By pulling up IATA passenger lists she could see who was going where.
She tried to task other directorates and branches within the Agency, but she made the mistake of putting her name on the requests. She was turned down forthwith.
Despite these and other frustrations, she became increasingly certain that her hypothesis was right. The Iraqis were putting a lot of money—and, perhaps more important, a lot of brainpower—into biological warfare. She asked Spector to get infrared satellite imagery inside Iraq. He was turned down because he didn’t have a sufficient need to know. She went to the Defense Intelligence liaison at Langley and asked for clearance to contact people at DIA and was turned down. She asked for clearance to contact people at the National Science Foundation. She was turned down. She back-channeled to the DCI. He did not respond.
She had one of her subordinates apply for clearance to contact the USIA, without using the poisonous name of Betsy Vandeventer. Clearance was granted. Over the weeks she had compiled a Dirty Dozen list—the twelve Iraqis who, based on her intuition, looked most suspicious. She used her USIA access to pull up their J-9 forms, which they had had to fill out in order to apply for their student visas. These had been scanned, digitized, and filed away in the USIA’s archives.
Each J-9 contained a description of the applicant’s plan of study, including the names of the institution where he would be working and of his faculty adviser.
Of the Dirty Dozen three were in Elton State University in New Mexico. Two were at Oklahoma State in Stillwater. Three were at Auburn.
The remaining four were at Eastern Iowa University. All four were studying under Dr. Arthur Larsen. Two were microbiologists. One was in veterinary medicine. One was a chemist. Pulling up one form after another, Betsy saw, on each, the signature of Ken Knightly, EIU’s dean of international programs, and beneath that the distinctive scrawl of Dr. Arthur Larsen, which also graced her brother’s newly minted Ph.D. diploma.
And that was where she had to stop, because the CIA’s activities were restricted to outside the borders of the United States. It was a rule that was bent from time to time; but given the number of mortal enemies Betsy had in the Agency, some of whom had the power to monitor her activities at the workstation, she knew she couldn’t go any further without ending up in prison. Her research had brought her to the edge of FBI turf, and all she could do now was stand at the border and peer in through the fence.
She got home late after an obligatory dinner with some Agency people, reached for her FacsCard, and then remembered that she’d given it and her key to Kevin. She went to the phone and dialed. Kevin answered the phone. His voice was slurred but happy. In the background she could hear the theme music of Late Show with David Letterman. “Hi, sis. Which number do I push?”
Kevin, still in his suit, welcomed her in with great dignity. “How was your day? Besides a very long one, right?”
“Ah, you know, Kevin, same old same old.”
“Nah, I know that you spent the day destroying what was left of the USSR’s economic and moral infrastructure.”
“Guilty as charged. How was your day?”
“Neat. Scored pretty well over at NSF, lunched and schmoozed”—a word he’d picked up recently—“with some of Larsen’s buddies over at Ag. And then, for something completely different, cocktails over at the Jordanian Embassy.”
“Really,” Betsy gushed, “you had a wonderful day. What was the most fun?”
“It was all fun, to be part of this place. I know that I got a good reception only because I represent Larsen in this process. But the embassy reception was special. They really know how to make a person feel important.”
Betsy began to interrupt him, but Kevin continued.