Dominika’s newest tidbit about MAGNIT’s being looked at by the president for a big job should have made sorting the possibles easier, but he needed a name. Benford already suspected and feared the worst: the senior vacancy that the Kremlin was steering MAGNIT toward was the one the Russians themselves had created by killing his friend Alex Larson—DCIA. He knew he was looking for a senior figure who, sometime in the last decade, had known enough about the US Navy railgun to have reported technical details to the Russians. The scores of witting navy personnel—officers, enlisted, scientists, and civilian contractors—could now in theory be whittled down, as none of them was likely to be tapped by the president. Or was it someone they had not thought of? Of the dozen high-ranking bureaucrats, only the current secretary of the Department of Energy had occasionally been briefed on the railgun, but he had spent years in other departments on other projects. According to Dominika, MAGNIT had been an active reporting source for a decade. An anomaly. Could she have misreported the facts? More ominous, could that slick bastard Anton Gorelikov be parceling variants of the same story to different people—called a barium enema in the Game—as a loyalty test to see which variant later surfaced to finger the traitor?
In London, MI6 called the barium trap a blue-dye test, describing the same mole-catching principle metaphorically as pouring blue dye down a pipe to observe from which downstream outlet the dye would eventually issue. At a counterintelligence liaison conference in London several years earlier, Benford had declared the British terminology idiotic, pointing out that pipes—especially the decrepit plumbing in the United Kingdom and Europe—became clogged, or they broke underground, and that the metaphor of a barium enema was more to his liking. “That, Simon, is because you are an uphill gardener,” said C, the Chief of Six, which slang Benford did not understand, and no one told him it meant sodomite. Thank God for the special relationship, breathed the Brits in the room.
Gable and Forsyth met Benford in the Executive Dining Room at Langley for lunch, where they tossed around ideas and theories. The elegant room—as narrow as the dining car on a train—on the executive seventh floor of Headquarters, overlooking the tree-lined Potomac River, featured tables placed closely together, so that new arrivals were forced to walk between them, nodding to friends or cutting enemies. Everyone saw everyone else, and with whom they were lunching, and the cabals and cliques and gangs among the seniors at Langley were therefore common knowledge. Benford ordered a plate of pasta with anchovies, parsley, pangrattato, and lemon, while Forsyth chose the crab bisque, and Gable, the grilled shrimp.
“This alarms me,” said Benford, slurping pasta. “A Russian mole could wind up in the Cabinet room.”
Gable stabbed a shrimp. “What I don’t get is that Domi says the fucker’s been working for a decade,” he said. “That means his previous job was of interest to the Ruskies.”
“I’m worried it’s a trap, a test before Putin gives her the SVR job,” said Forsyth. “Christ, we vet our directors before putting them forward. So might the Kremlin.”
The chief of the Office of Congressional Affairs, Eric Duchin, a galloping careerist, busybody, and gossip, arrived with a posse of his toadeaters, making their way between tables, stopping to greet fellow division chiefs amid great laughter and guffaws. Duchin stopped at Benford’s table, surrounded by his grinning acolytes, who were known as “the Duchebags” on the ops floors. Duchin had a Gumby-square head, thick snow-white hair, and a narrow face. Students at the Farm had nicknamed him Q-Tip.
“Simon,” he said, nodding.
“Eric,” said Benford. Silence. Gable fingered the skewer that his shrimp had been served on.
“I’m calling a meeting on Friday,” said Duchin, finally. “SSCI, the Senate Select Committee, wants CIA to provide courtesy briefings to the possible nominees for the Director’s job. Just a heads-up to prepare. The committee wants all nominees to be able to discuss current operations during closed hearings, including your Russian antics.”
Benford put down his fork, choosing to ignore the word “antics.” “Am I given to understand that operational briefings are to be provided to multiple individuals, only one of whom will eventually be confirmed as CIA Director? It is customary to provide a limited briefing to the final nominee, and only to the final nominee.”
Duchin shrugged. “Your precious secrets will be safe with them,” he said. “I’ll send you their bio packets. All currently hold SI/TK (Special Intelligence/Talent Keyhole), top-secret clearances, including Special Access Program tickets. Besides, the Director wants it done this way. Greater transparency.” After Alex Larson’s drowning, an acting Director had been appointed, whom the obsequious Duchin was already calling “Director.”
Benford bristled. “Greater transparency? In an intelligence service?” he snapped. “Duchin, you are incapable of sentient thought. You are my natural enemy. Go away.”
Duchin shrugged. “Take it up with the Director,” he said. “He’s committed to a smooth transition. See you Friday.” The three sat silently at the table, thinking of a pair of electric-blue eyes alone in the Kremlin, flitting across the slack, beefy faces around the table, any one of whom would pull the trigger on her without hesitation. These nominees’ briefings necessarily would include, at the least, a mention of a CIA-run penetration of the SVR, and at worst, DIVA’s true name. Heresy.
“How does this work, the possible nominees for Director all being briefed, and all being interviewed by SSCI?” said Gable. “Whatever happened to POTUS picking his man—one person—and nominating him? What the fuck is this, a beauty pageant?”
“The Acting Director suggested it,” said Forsyth. “This way he can push forward different candidates, all of whom will dismantle Alex Larson’s policies, placate Congress, and keep the Agency focused on the environment instead of the kiloton yield of the uranium device the Nokos detonated underground two months ago.”
Benford shook himself, pushed his plate away, and looked at Forsyth. “What did you say before?”
“The Acting Director wanted it this way.”
“No, before that,” said Benford.
“That we vet our own directors before putting them forward.”
“Exactly,” said Benford. “And the Russians had Alex killed, and we’re looking for a mole.”
“Who’s gonna get a big-ass job in the exec branch,” said Gable.
“Which vacancy is the Director of this Agency. It’s clear now. The Kremlin’s candidate is for DCIA,” said Benford, pounding the table.
Forsyth looked at Benford over the top of his glasses. “You better be sure before you pull the fire alarm. Not even Putin could pull this off.”
“Maybe not,” said Benford, “but that Gorelikov mastermind could if what DIVA says about him is true.”
Gable stopped picking his teeth. “You saying one of the three nominees for DCIA is the mole? Could they swing that?” he asked.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” said Benford. “But we can’t sit by and do nothing.”
“We have to brief them all before one’s confirmed.” Forsyth groaned.
“Too obvious,” said Benford. “Let us consider how to pour some blue dye down a pipe.”
Gable started picking his teeth again. “If you’re talking barium enema, I got a turkey baster in my office.”
BENFORD’S LEMON PASTA
Sauté anchovy fillets in olive oil with finely diced leeks until the fillets dissolve and the leeks soften. In a separate pan, toast bread crumbs with a little olive oil, garlic, and dried red chili flakes until the crumbs (pangrattato) are golden brown. Cook bucatini, drain, and toss with the anchovy oil and leeks. Sprinkle with chopped parsley, bread crumbs, and a generous squeeze of lemon juice. Serve immediately.
14
Expedient Amorality