Island Warriors

SEVEN

Shortly after the last secretary had straggled back from lunch, Captain Hemingway appeared at Wexler’s office, accompanied by four enlisted technicians carrying black plastic cases. Hemingway did not give their names, and Wexler did not ask.

Most of the staff was still at lunch, although a few were eating at their desks. They looked up, puzzled, as the technicians immediately began spreading around the room, rapping on the walls, examining cracks and ceilings, checking telephones and computer lines, and generally taking possession of the entire office.

Hemingway turned to Wexler. “This takes about an hour. I also have people down at the central switch boxes tracing out the circuitry. You’d be amazed how often that is overlooked. And yes, I know you’re on fiber optic communications, but there are ways…” She didn’t finish her sentence, but merely looked at Wexler significantly.

Just then, Brad returned from lunch, his face flushed. Another quick round at the racquetball court, Wexler surmised. But his color rose even higher as he saw the people swarming over their office complex. He turned to Wexler, a question on his face.

“Just a redundancy check,” Wexler said calmly. “Captain Hemingway was kind enough to offer the services of her office. She provides the same service for JCS, and I felt we would welcome a second set of eyes.”

Brad’s face looked anything but welcoming. He went into his own office without speaking to Hemingway, dropped his gym bag, then came back out, all traces of emotion gone from his face. “Madam Ambassador, could I see you in private for a moment?”

“Of course.” Wexler led the way back into her office, and Brad shut the door firmly behind them.

“You didn’t discuss this with me,” he stated.

Wexler nodded. “That’s right. I didn’t.”

“I’ll resign immediately, if you like,” he said steadily. “That’s really the only course left open if you don’t trust my judgment in these matters.”

Wexler waved him off. “Oh, do sit down and stop being such a dick, Brad. It’s just what I said — a double check. I thought you’d welcome a second opinion telling me how wonderfully capable you are at your job.”

Brad leaned forward and planted his hands on her desk. “Have they been in your office yet?”

“No.”

Brad pointed at the telephone. Then he motioned her to follow him into her small personal room behind her office. He shut the door again behind them. “I can’t believe you don’t see the danger in this,” he said. “Did it occur to you that they might be planting a bug rather than looking for one?”

Wexler regarded him levelly. “Yes, of course it did. I need to sort out who the players are, Brad. One way of doing that is to give people a chance to make their intentions clear. As soon as they leave, I want you to run a complete check on our spaces. See if anything has changed.”

“That’s what this is?” Brad asked incredulously. “You’re giving the Joint Chiefs of Staff the opportunity to bug your office to see if they take advantage of it?”

Wexler nodded. “And if you can think of a way to run the same scam on the State Department and the CIA, I’d like to do that as well.”

Brad laughed. “You’re betting a lot on my competence, Ambassador. What if they’ve got some new system that we don’t know how to detect?”

“Then we’re in a lot more trouble than I thought.” She stared at him, challenge in her eyes. “You keep telling me that there’s nothing to worry about — well, then prove it.”

Just then, she heard a cry from the other room.

“This conversation is over,” Wexler said. “I am counting on your cooperation.”

Brad nodded, although he was clearly still not in favor of the idea. They walked out together into the outer office to find Captain Hemingway in deep conversation with one of her technicians. She turned to face them, a mixture of triumph and concern on her face. “Look at this.”

The technician held out a pair of tweezers and what looked like a grain of rice between the prongs. Hemingway held out a magnifying glass to let them get a closer look.

“That’s it?” Wexler asked, surprised at the size of it.

Brad looked grim. “Where?”

“In the ambassador’s door jamb,” Hemingway answered.

“Any idea how long it’s been there?” he asked.

She shook her head. “As you can see, it’s colored to match your wall paint here. I don’t know if that means it was designed that way, or whether it was painted over the last time the office was redone.” She shot a speculative look at the walls. “Do you know when it was last painted?”

“Eighteen months ago,” Brad said immediately. His face was pale now, his jaw pulsing with anger.

“You mean,” Wexler said carefully, “there is a chance that that… that… device has been listening in on conversations in my office for the last eighteen months?” Her horror was evident in her voice. She cast her mind back over that time, reviewing the conflicts the United States had been involved in, the delicate negotiations and outright confrontations that had taken place in her office. Was it all compromised? Did someone else know everything that she did as soon as she did it?

Oh, dear God. This is a disaster. Please, tell me this can’t be happening.

“Tell me everything you know about it,” she said firmly, focusing on the current issue at hand. What was important was that they figure out who had planted it, whether there might be any more, and then deal with the damage already done. “They will know we detected it, I suppose?”

Hemingway looked faintly amused. “I have certain… ways… of dealing with that very issue. At the moment, there is a dummy load in series with it, transmitting nothing but static. Whoever is listening may think they’re getting some short-term interference. Sun spots, that sort of thing. They’ll wait for it to clear up on its own before they decide the device is compromised.”

“So they don’t know?”

Hemingway nodded. “If you want, we can replace it. In the long run, sooner or later, you’ll slip up. But in the short run, you may be able to plant some disinformation that may help undo any damage. What precisely that might be, I don’t know. That’s for you to decide.” She glanced around the room. The support staff was staring at them, shock on their faces. “And it will be quite a lot to orchestrate. Remember, you’ll all have to behave precisely as you were before, with the exception of being very careful about what you say. At the same time, you’ll have to act naturally enough that they won’t know there’s a problem.” She shook her head discouragingly. “It’s very difficult to pull off. We’ve had instances where people have tried, and failed miserably.”

“Could you move it?” Wexler asked. “Reposition it so it only hears inside my office alone?”

Hemingway looked startled, then quickly understood what Wexler was suggesting. “Yes, of course. And it’s much easier for one person to manage to carry on the charade than an entire office. That might work.”

“Next question, then. Who’s responsible?” She resisted the temptation to growl when she saw Hemingway and Brad exchange a significant glance. “Well? Who? The CIA, perhaps?”

She could see by their body language that Hemingway was tossing the ball into Brad’s court. He sighed, then looked away from her. “This is, I believe, a device known as ‘Little Insect.’ It is normally not intended as a long-term surveillance device. Somewhere behind a wallboard, we’ll find a small battery to power the transmitter. But because of its size, it’s normally for short-term use only. Unless you can make arrangements to have someone come in and change the battery.”

More horror. “But at least there’s a chance it’s short-term, yes? How long is short-term?”

“Depending on a number of factors, it is effective for up to three weeks.”

Finally, some good news, if it could be called that. “Let’s assume the battery hasn’t been replaced, for the moment. I imagine you’ll be able to tell more when you locate it, yes?” She saw two heads nodding in unison. “Very well, then. For now, we’ll operate on the assumption that it has been in place only three weeks. Now, answer my original question — who?”

There was a long silence, and Brad said, “The ‘Little Insect’ is manufactured in China. As far as we know, it is not available on the export market.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “As far as we know. Every time we have seen it so far, the circumstances have indicated China.”

China. T’ing. Oh dear Lord, not this, too.

In the last year, Ambassador Wexler’s relationship with the ambassador from China had gone from mutual respect to warm friendship. He had been responsible for saving her life in the last Middle East crisis, and she’d come to depend more and more on his advice and friendship.

“China.” She looked away, her face carefully composed. “That would answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?” She glanced at Brad. He simply nodded.

“Replace it,” Wexler said firmly. “Fix it so it will only hear what’s inside my office. And you two,” she pointed at Brad and Hemingway, “and I need to have a long conversation. Somewhere else. I have a plan, and I’m going to need your help.”