Foreign Agent

CHAPTER 60

President Porter tapped his pen on the briefing binder in front of him. “Do you have any confirmation that Senator Wells was behind the Washington Post story?”

“Not yet,” McGee replied. “But we’re going to get it.”

“In the meantime, though, could the information have come from somebody else? Another member you briefed? Maybe the minority leader?”

“I know it was Wells.”

“That wasn’t my question,” Porter said.

“Sir, you know what kind of a man Wells is. He’s an absolute opportunist. He’ll do anything.”

“Could it have been one of the other members?”

Exasperated, McGee conceded, “Sure, it could have been one of them, but it wasn’t. It was him.”

The President didn’t necessarily disagree, but every question needed to be asked. The case being built against him was incredibly serious. “Let’s talk about what was said on Meet the Press.”

“About there being advance knowledge of the attack on Secretary Devon in Turkey.”

Porter nodded. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“That’s how you trap a mole. You plant irresistible pieces of disinformation, watch where they pop out, and then work them backward.”

“Regardless of the cost?”

McGee felt terrible. “If I had known it was Wells and that he might make it public, I would have done it differently. It was a mistake, and I’m—”

The President wasn’t happy about it, but he waved the apology away and said, “How sure are you that Senator Wells is communicating with the mole?”

“He may be an opportunist, but he’s not stupid,” McGee replied. “Not by a long shot.”

“So what’s the connection between them?”

“We think it’s his Chief of Staff.”

President Porter removed a photo from the binder and looked at it. “What do we know about her? Other than the fact that she’s extremely attractive.”

“Rebecca Ritter,” the CIA Director began. “Twenty-six years old. Born and raised in Davenport, Iowa. Attended St. Ambrose University and went on to earn a master’s in public policy from the Kennedy School. The youngest of three children, her father owns an industrial recycling company, and her mother is in banking.”

“How do you know that Ritter didn’t get the information from your assistant?”

“Because Brendan Cavanagh is a good man,” said McGee. “A very good man. He was an Eagle Scout as a boy, and not a single person who knew him was surprised when he joined the Marine Corps and was recognized repeatedly for valor in Iraq and Afghanistan. He’s got three silver stars.

“In fact, if he’d achieved a degree in law or accounting, he probably would have ended up over at the FBI. But he didn’t. We got him and the CIA is better for it. He’s a man of impeccable integrity. That’s why I chose him to be my assistant.”

“But he did,” Porter said for clarity, “have access to the information.”

“Yes. He had access to all of it.”

“And Ritter is his girlfriend.”

McGee shook his head. “I think it’s a lot more casual than that.”

“They’re sleeping together.”

“Correct.”

The President looked at his CIA Director, raised his eyebrows, and said, “So?”

“So I don’t think that makes Brendan the leak. That’s not his style.”

Porter held up the picture of Rebecca so McGee could see it. “Come on, Bob. Look at her. What man wouldn’t tell her whatever she wanted to know?”

“Brendan Cavanagh, Mr. President. That’s who.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know who he is. I know which direction his moral compass points. I know his country means more to him than anything else and I know he can be trusted.”

“Did you know he was sleeping with her?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, a chuckle escaped McGee.

“So that’s a no?” Porter prompted.

McGee shook his head. “Just the opposite. I not only knew about it, I encouraged him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Brendan is a sharp guy. Would make a hell of a spook.”

“How so?” the President asked.

“Until about six months ago, the only time Brendan had ever seen Rebecca Ritter was in conjunction with Senate Intelligence Committee business. Then she just happened to bump into him at a couple of spots he frequented.

“Like I said, Brendan is a sharp guy. He knew it wasn’t an accident. Nor was it an accident that she was dressed a little more provocatively each time.”

“As if she was trying to get his attention?”

“She wanted his attention, all right,” McGee replied. “And then some. But when it happened the third time, he knew something strange was going on, and he brought it to my attention.”

“What was strange about it?” Porter asked. “I’ve met him. He’s a big, strong, handsome Marine.”

“He’s big and strong, but he isn’t that handsome. At least he doesn’t think so. Which was why he figured Ritter had a secondary agenda. After all, her boss, Senator Wells, chairs the Senate Intel Committee.”

“And is not a fan of yours.”

McGee shook his head again. “Not by a long shot.”

“So you told your assistant to…?”

“Play along.”

“Meaning sleep with her,” the President said.

“Meaning whatever Cavanagh thought was appropriate,” the CIA Director replied. “If there was something nefarious in the works, you’re damn right I wanted to know about it. I’m a spy. It’s what we do.”

The President smiled. “It’s also why I recommended you for the job.”

“Then you need to believe me. Brendan isn’t the leak. It’s somebody else.”

Once more, Porter asked. “And you’re sure about that?”

McGee nodded. “I hate doing the Sunday shows. You know that. But considering all that had happened, and more importantly because you asked me to, I went.

“On my way out of CBS, Brendan called to tell me we needed to speak ASAP. He had just seen Wells on NBC. Gottlieb had asked him what he knew about a rumor that the White House had advance warning of the attack on Secretary Devon.”

“And where’d Gottlieb get that?”

“Rebecca Ritter fed it to NBC.

“How do you know that?”

“We have someone inside at NBC.”

“A spy?” the President asked, not pleased with the idea of the CIA infiltrating television networks.

McGee shook his head. “A friend. Someone who wants to make sure things are kept fair. When we reached out, this person tracked down where Alan Gottlieb had gotten the question.

“Ritter had fed it to a new producer. Some guy who had just moved down from New York.”

“But if it didn’t come from your man Cavanagh, where’d she get the information?”

“Do you want my professional or my personal opinion?”

“Both,” the President replied.

“Professionally, we have a leak somewhere within the clandestine service. It’s either an employee or someone with direct access to our communications. We’re looking at handful of potentials, but I hope to have an update for you soon.”

“Good,” Porter said. “Now, what’s your personal opinion?”

The CIA Director picked up the picture of Rebecca Ritter and held it out so that the President could see it. “Whoever it is, she’s sleeping with the leaker. Look at her,” he said. “Who wouldn’t tell her whatever she wanted to know?”