Painkiller

17

Laramie stood in the doorway to Malcolm Rader’s office.

“There’s a caramel macchiato with your name on it in the commissary,” she said. “You’ve got to take a walk to get it, though.”

Laramie knew Rader was a sucker for the sissy drinks at the Starbucks kiosk. A career analyst somewhere near the peak of his tenure, Rader had two kids in college and one ready to hit the road, and it was evident he hadn’t made it to the gym since the first kid arrived. Disorganized, absentminded, and overweight, he compensated for these issues with a frenzied, spastic work ethic-Laramie thinking you never quite understood what Rader was saying or doing, but she couldn’t remember his taking a vacation since she’d been working here, and he seemed to be aware of everything. She wasn’t even sure whether he took meetings out of the office-another floor, or room, maybe, but she’d never seen him anywhere outside the building.

“What are we meeting about,” Rader said, “or talking. And walking.”

“Korea,” Laramie said. “North Korea, to be precise.”

There were three mounds of papers on Rader’s desk. He shifted his weight in his chair and nearly vanished behind a particularly massive stack.

“What about it,” he said. “Them. Whatever.”

“It’s about North Korea and China, and how they’re related.” She let her statement hang out there.

“This is more on your Taiwan theory,” Rader said.

“The same.”

He frowned, eyes slipping to his monitor-the twin temptations of Laramie’s intel and the caramel macchiato competing with his inclination to answer e-mails and remain productive.

Finally he stood. “You’re buying, correct?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine.”

Rader had hired her. He wasn’t exactly a mentor, but occasionally she asked his advice, and when she did, he always accommodated her. The man was a decent boss.

But he wasn’t listening.

She’d thought about what she’d found through a second sleepless night, and once she developed a theory-involving speculation, but reasonable, fact-based speculation, with sound conclusions-she’d thought carefully about what to do, and say. She decided to start with him.

“Look,” she said, leaning over her coffee, “it’s too much of a mismatch. The timing. The politics. All of it. What does the State Council of the People’s Republic of China care anymore about North Korea? These nations are not allies-not politically, not militarily. Think about it, Malcolm: there’s no reason the majority rule of the State Council would intend to be identified internationally with Korea. North Korea’s foreign policy essentially consists of an annual rotating nuclear-proliferation extortion scheme, while China’s embracing capitalism-the council is expanding China’s business relationship with the West. Opening its borders. Getting gung ho about free trade. Meanwhile North Korea puts its policy-making energy into threatening the U.S. whenever its people run low on rice.”

Rader sipped his sissy drink. “Your point?”

“Bear with me. The other side of this? It’s almost not possible that these two exercises are not connected. I considered the possibility of coincidence when I made the discovery, but you know as well as I do-better than I do-that the facts I presented to you on the way down here point, odds on, to collusion: I practice to invade my neighbor in June during a cloudy day in a place and time that known paths of spy satellites would not cover-and you practice to invade yours in April-on a cloudy day, et cetera.”

“Laramie, I will grant you that there is a chance-”

“Malcolm, you’re the one who taught me how to find these things in the first place!” She stopped-you had to keep a lid on the volume, sitting in a corner of a commissary known to have been snooped on as a matter of routine. “Listen. I have a theory. You and I both understand the political climate in China, and specifically the political leanings of the members of the council. We could present each member’s full dossier to prove the point, but by now the ideology of each of these men is virtually common knowledge. You know as well as I do that it’s unlikely-impossible, in fact-that the council has approved any invasion plans. General Deng Jiang is doubtless aware of the exercise, probably overseeing it, and that means he’s planning for an invasion, whether with the approval of the council, or not. If he needs to win them over, he can do it through extortion and other old-school techniques-he’s used these tricks before. He’s an extremist who doesn’t fit in, but he’s in deep with the intelligence chair and has the goods on everybody from his days overseeing military intel. Okay?”

“With you so far. It’s my territory.”

“I’ve learned from the best. But with a second nation’s military involved in a virtually identical operation, conducted on the same timetable-Malcolm, the facts suggest, and I have prepared a report, for your eyes only, hypothesizing what I’m about to tell you. My opinion is that we’ve stumbled across what I’ll call a ‘rogue faction’-an unofficial alliance between certain extremists on the State Council and the government of North Korea. A new al-Qaeda, if we feel like using a sensationalist label.”

“That is sensationalist, since your hypothesized group has, well, yet to do anything.”

“Let’s follow my theory all the way through. The rogue faction, presuming it exists, enjoys ties-or, greater than that, influence over more than one nation. There are joint preparations under way for potential simultaneous invasions of American allies, or, to be more accurate, nations whose independence is critical to our foreign policy and therefore our national security. What do you think will happen if I look elsewhere? We should establish a task force, Malcolm-it will take time if there are other participating nations, or other connected extremists within nonextremist regimes, but if further documentation exists-I realize that I am again being sensationalistic, but these could be the first signs of, well, you could call it a new form of world war, Malcolm.”

“That’s just not likely.”

“When the plans to use hijacked passenger jets to destroy commercial buildings turned up in an apartment in the Philippines, it seemed unlikely then that anything-”

“Enough!”

Laramie quieted down at his tone. Rader leaned back, lifted his macchiato, and sipped. He swirled the coffee in the cup. She liked that he was mulling it over, or at least giving the outward impression that he was mulling it over. She suspected she should enjoy the moral victory. She could sense defeat looming.

Rader coughed. “You and I,” he said, “are far from privy to the policy-making issues faced by our administration.”

Laramie couldn’t decide whether she wanted to strangle him, or yawn.

“Nor,” he said, “do we have any exposure to the administration’s intel docket. It could be, for instance, that Peter Gates had prior knowledge of your discovery, and evidence in favor of, or possibly against your theory, perhaps presented to him by another analyst, or agency. You’ve done some good work here, but the key to assessment lies in the chain of command. Your initial findings and the style of your original report were a bit inflammatory, no?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I believe that your ideal strategy, that which will allow your findings to be most effectively considered, is to offer this additional intel as a private gesture.”

“A private gesture? Malcolm, I’m coming to you so you can take this in the right direction, but considering what I’m coming to you with-”

“A peace offering,” Rader said, continuing. “‘Memo to Peter Gates: Here’s something more. I leave it in your hands. I conclude nothing. I leave policy decisions to you. Thank you for your guidance.’”

Laramie was favoring strangulation.

“Better yet,” he said, “I’ll take a look at the document you mentioned. Why don’t you slug it as a confidential brief, addressed solely to me. Do not duplicate the document. Do not forward to file. I’ll suggest any formatting changes you’ll need; you tidy it up; then we feed it to Rosen. Perhaps only verbally. This allows him, in turn, to present your findings to Gates, who will, based on history and experience, know what to do and when, guided by his judgment of the most appropriate timing.” Rader was nodding at the good sense his plan made. “We work it this way, and Gates is pleased. Rosen comes off as handling his staff like a champ, and you and I get some credit. You, specifically, show that you’ve learned from your earlier brush with-well, disaster.”

Laramie looked at him. She thought about how many people she was discovering were concerned not only about their own careers, but also those of others, including even her own, when, oh, by the way, there appeared to be a couple more important issues at stake. She thought about taking her frustrations out by giving Rader some kind of harsh, sarcastic reply, decided against it, and thought instead of the punch line delivered by Eddie Rothgeb in his Saturday morning lecture, and the fax that followed.

Politics: give them what they want to hear.

“That,” she said, “is a pretty good idea, Malcolm.”

“Hey, it’s how we work around here. I don’t need to tell you that.” He smiled, the patronly boss, and Laramie offered a smile in return. Two happy, career-minded professionals, she thought, sharing coffee in the commissary.

“No,” she said, “you don’t, Malcolm. Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Anytime,” he said. “Anytime you’re buying, that is.” He chuckled.

Laramie yawned.

She knew a place in Annapolis. It took her ninety minutes from Langley; leaving early didn’t spare her the usual rush-hour traffic, but she didn’t mind the drive. It helped to clear her head, and she wanted to do this far from home, and certainly nowhere near the office. She parked in the public lot tucked behind the town’s main drag, walked two blocks to the waterfront, and turned into a narrow shop with the word MORPHEUS painted on its green awning. It was six-fifteen when she arrived, toting the same bag she’d brought with her to O’Hare on the Rothgeb trip. She took the bag everywhere-used it like a purse, but it was big enough to throw just about anything inside. Today it held her wallet, keys, makeup, and the one-page fax from Eddie Rothgeb.

Morpheus looked like a narrow, single-store version of Starbucks, only lit like a nightclub; its small waitstaff offered coffee, a few pricey pastries, and, on a rental basis, T3 Internet time. Use your own or take a spin on one of the house computers.

Laramie had endured a tedious dinner date about three months ago; they’d eaten around the corner at an Italian place with white tablecloths. The dinner conversation had stunk, but she’d wandered in here to split a slab of cheesecake with the guy afterward. Not her usual menu choice, but Laramie usually ate big if she was having a terrible time with men. If you aren’t interested and the date is already under way, there’s nothing much to do or talk about, and you aren’t worried about how you look anymore, you know you won’t even consider swapping bodily fluids-why not blow out the diet for the day and give yourself something to be annoyed at later? A reason to run a couple extra miles in the morning.

It turned out that her busted-date dessert spot had been a cyber café, and she’d remembered that walking out of the commissary following the sissy-drink session with Rader.

She talked to the coffee jock behind the counter and paid for an hour on one of the computers in cash. She picked out a Mac, clicked onto the Yahoo! portal, and created a new account under a fictitious name. Trying a few clever code names, she discovered all of them to be taken. In the end she settled on EastWest7.

Then she confronted the blank screen.

There was, she supposed, only one question that remained once all the secret-agent, leave-the-office-early-and-drive-to-Annapolis excitement was over, and she was forced to figure out what to say to Senator Alan Kircher: had she really found something that warranted the clandestine whistle-blower routine? Rothgeb and his theories aside, the minute she engaged in a dialogue with somebody outside the Agency on the topic of classified intel, her future with CIA would probably prove instantly and drastically shortened. Somebody, somewhere, would eventually find out what she was up to; they always did. Laramie thinking she could last two weeks or two years, but sooner or later, send this correspondence and she’d be pink-slipped.

She composed a note on the screen before her:

Dear Senator Kircher.

Our friends in the East may not be as friendly as your friends are telling you.

An intelligent source

And there it was. The whistle-blower’s first correspondence-Deep Throat’s opening salvo. Eddie Rothgeb’s screenplay, she thought, proceeding as outlined.

Her right hand depressed the mouse and the cursor sent the e-mail, Laramie thinking her fingers possessed the courage that she did not. No matter.

Whichever part of her had done it, she thought, that was all it took.