The Director

16

Graham Weber paid an unannounced visit the next morning to the Information Operations Center. He suspected that James Morris had already left town, but he wanted to see the place and meet Morris’s deputy, Ariel Weiss, whom Sandra Bock had recommended as a talent worth cultivating. The IOC was located a few miles from Headquarters, in one of those featureless modern office buildings that populate Northern Virginia. It was hidden away from the main highway, in a low-rise shorn of any corporate or other identification. Leafy shrubbery masked the thick electric fencing; a curved driveway hid the guard station that blocked the entrance to the building.

Weber hadn’t told anyone he was coming, so the guard was flummoxed when he saw Weber’s Escalade and chase car. Jack Fong spoke with the site security chief, and then the two-car motorcade rolled past the lowered steel barrier and into the complex. A few senior officers of the division were gathered in the downstairs lobby when Weber entered the building. They had tumbled out of their offices when the guard announced that the director was on the premises.

It was an odd group, thought Weber as he scanned the bodies that were assembling. They looked barely out of college, most of them, wearing T-shirts and jeans, running shoes or sandals. The best and brightest in the Internet age were not also the best-kempt. They looked unhealthy, to a man or woman: too fat, or too thin; faces puffy or sallow, and not a one of them seemed to have had any exercise in the last month.

“Is James Morris around?” Weber asked the first person who approached him, who identified himself as the IOC’s deputy chief for administration.

The administrative officer was a beady-eyed young man in his early thirties, one shirttail exposed. He said he wasn’t sure whether Mr. Morris was in or out. He explained that for security reasons Morris never told people where he was.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Weber. “Call his office.”

Morris’s personal secretary advised that he was out of the city, on an extended operational trip that he had logged with the deputy director for Science and Technology, to whom he reported.

“I’d like to see Dr. Weiss, then,” said Weber. “She’s in, right?”

“For sure,” said the admin officer, tucking in his shirt as he led the director down the hall to the deputy chief’s office. On one wall were posters for Kiss and Megadeth. On another was a banner promoting Star Wars: Episode VII. The corridor opened up on a main operations room with several dozen cubicles, each framed with multiple computer screens.

“Green badge?” asked a startled little man with a long beard who nearly bumped into Weber just as he turned the corner into the main work area. He assumed a contractor had entered the building.

“It’s the director,” said the admin officer. “Mr. Weber.”

“Oops,” said the gnomish little man. He bowed as if to a royal visitor, and then scurried on.

Weber surveyed the place. It was a strange lair; the room was windowless, to prevent any possibility of remote monitoring. People were dressed informally: there wasn’t a necktie or skirt in sight; many wore T-shirts, more than a few in hacker black. Dominating the far wall was the center’s crest, with its bald eagle atop the globe of zeroes and ones, its bolt of red digital lightning and its mission statement: STEALTH, KNOWLEDGE, INNOVATION, and its mysterious key, surmounting the emblem.

Was this the new face of the agency? Weber wanted it to be so: No more martinis; better to encourage beer pong after work, for in the twenty-first century, the important targets weren’t the heads of intelligence services but their systems administrators — geeky kids like these, who had access to real secrets. This collection of oddballs might be the only way to go after them.

Weber strolled among the cubicles. People were writing code, near as he could tell, bouncing threads of symbols back and forth between the screens on their desks. As he neared the middle of the room, he saw the open door of a glass-walled room. This must be Ariel Weiss’s office.

A woman in skinny black jeans and a crisp white shirt walked toward Weber. She was wearing black boots with noticeable heels; her long black hair was tied in a ponytail. She was the only healthy-looking person Weber had seen in the place so far.

She had something more complicated than just pretty in her face; there were layers of beauty, qualities that in another woman might be discordant, but that she held together in a deceptively casual package. Weber wondered at first if she was really the deputy commander of the hacker squad. She didn’t look weird or damaged enough.

“Dr. Weiss?” asked Weber, extending his hand as he approached her glass-walled space.

“I’m Ariel,” she said. She gestured to the group arrayed around her in their cubicles.

“This is the war room. I can show you around. If we’d known you were coming, we could have put on something special.”

Weber shook his head. He was tieless; his jacket was draped over his shoulder and his blue eyes were sparkling. Others might have called him a youthful director, but in this setting, he felt old.

“Another time for the demo,” he said. “Right now I want to talk to you.”

She motioned him toward her office but he shook his head.

“Let’s go back to Headquarters. It’s quieter there.”

Weiss retrieved her purse from her office and a white cashmere scarf that set off her dark hair. They drove away in his black SUV; she waved goodbye to the administrator, who looked worried that Weiss was leaving the office on an unplanned and unexplained outing.

When Weber got out at the seventh floor, accompanied by the sleek visitor, the security officers milling around the kiosk by the elevator suddenly came to attention. Weber shook his head; he still didn’t understand why so many people were necessary for security in a controlled environment. He led Weiss through the anteroom, with its multiple secretaries, into his inner office. The room seemed too big and formal for the kind of conversation he wanted to have.

“Let’s go to my dining room,” said Weber. “It’s much prettier, and just as private.” He led her through the sitting room, past the lordly portrait of Helms and into his sunny hideaway in the northeast corner of the building. He told a steward to bring coffee and then leave them alone.

“You really should be talking to Mr. Morris,” protested Weiss as she sat down. “He’s the one who knows what’s going on in IOC. I just keep the wires from getting tangled.”

“Nonsense,” said Weber. “You know everything. That’s what I hear. And I talk to Morris plenty. What I need now are some answers.”

“Look, Mr. Director, I’m Pownzor’s deputy, but there’s a big residual that he keeps in his head. Some questions I can’t answer.”

Weber poured her some coffee and offered her a chocolate chip cookie.

“Tell me about yourself,” said Weber. “We’ll get to IOC operations later. You’re a woman hacker, right? I thought they mainly came in the male variety.”

“We’re as rare as rocking horse shit, sir. But we exist.”

Weber laughed at the vulgarity.

“That’s a new one. So how did you learn the trade, if that’s the right way to put it?”

“Simple. I was smarter than the boys. I grew up in Providence, where my mom ran a neighborhood grocery store. I liked to raise hell. So… that became hacking.”

“I’m a Pittsburgh boy, myself. But I liked to raise hell, too. So do my children, unfortunately.”

Weber was relaxing. He didn’t often talk about himself.

“Providence is a tough town,” he continued. “Mobbed up, people always say. How did a tech genius come out of there?”

“I was the smart kind and also the tough kid. I was good at math, which everyone thought was freaky for a girl, but I also ran track. My senior year, I made money as a waitress in a bar. When I got into MIT, I found out that the way to be a popular kid, if you weren’t a preppy, was to be a prankster. At MIT in the 1990s, the best pranks were computer hacks. Still true, I guess.”

“What did you do, steal stuff, or what?”

“Have you ever heard of Jack Florey?”

“No. Who’s he?”

“Jack Florey was the imaginary name MIT kids used for our pranks. It started freshman year, with this sort of hacker orientation tour, they called it the Orange Tour, organized by people who all said their names were Jack Florey. They took me along, even though I was a girl. We snuck into steam tunnels in the basement and secret passageways under the dome. We went spelunking inside the building walls, silly things like that. My year, ‘Jack Florey’ hijacked a campus police car, took it apart and reassembled it on top of one of the buildings.”

“It sounds like perfect training for being a CIA officer.”

Weiss beamed her radiant smile.

“It was, actually! It was like the ops course. Freshman year we turned the MIT dome into R2-D2. A few years later they put a Red Sox logo up there, and then a pirate flag. The idea was that it was good to challenge authority. Computer hacking was just part of that culture. We would break into systems just to show that we could do it. A good hack became known as a ‘Jack.’ It was a way of being cool, if you were a geek.”

“So how did you get from there to working for the, uh, man?”

“You really want to know?”

“Most definitely.”

“When I was finishing my doctorate, I decided to become a ‘white hat’ because I was so scared of what the ‘black hats’ could do, including me. I got so good at hacking that it frightened me, to be honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first time I got ‘root’ on a major airline system, it freaked me out. I found my credit card number on the system. I found all the flights I had taken. I found the routings, and the schedule changes, and the maintenance records. And I realized, if I can do this, any smart geek can. And pretty soon they’re going to crack the air-traffic control network and be able to make airplanes fall out of the sky. It was like looking in the mirror and seeing a devil face.”

“How did you find your way to the agency?”

“They found me. They’re good at that. They go trawling where they know hackers are going to be, at IEEE conventions and hacker meetings. They anonymously sponsor hacking contests and then hire the winners. They find the chat rooms where we hang out online. Pownzor is a genius at that. You should ask him. He was part of the group that pitched me.”

“What was the pitch?”

“It was, like, if you want to do cool stuff, and break into whatever system you want, anywhere, and use the best hardware ever made, and get paid for it — oh, yeah, and go after bad guys, too — then come see us. He made it sound like the coolest, most badass job on the planet. I had my doctorate. I didn’t want to teach. So here I am.”

Weber looked at her skeptically, as if this couldn’t be the entire story.

“And that was it?” he asked. “Girl meets agency. Girl likes agency. And they all lived happily ever after?”

She cocked her head. Her boss was asking her to be honest, so she complied.

“I like secrets,” she said. “I’m good at finding them out, and I’m good at keeping them. The older I get, the less interested I am in people. They’re unreliable. I like things. That’s why I’m an engineer and not a humanities major, I guess. The happy ending doesn’t do much for me.”

She was talking fast, the way smart people do, and she was rocking forward as she spoke. When she came to the end of her little story, she looked up at him curiously.

“You’re not going to fire me, are you? Because there’s a rumor going around that heads are going to roll in the IOC because of some screwup overseas. I thought that was why you wanted to see me.”

“Not at all. But I’m curious. Where did you hear about this supposed purge?”

“Pownzor told me there was trouble after he got back from Europe. He wouldn’t tell me what he was doing there. He just said that something bad happened and he was getting blamed.”

“He didn’t tell you where he’d been?”

“No. That’s our deal. I make the Information Ops Center work — keep the war room stocked with Doritos and Diet Coke — while he runs off and does his operations. Sometimes he tells me what he’s doing, sometimes not. When he left on this Europe trip he didn’t say anything, except that he had to go. A week later he was back, looking like shit, talking about how he was going to get fired. Then he took off again yesterday. He runs the world out of the pockets of his cargo pants, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I don’t really know Morris, but yes, I’m getting that impression.”

Weber studied her. She was at once entirely casual and perfectly poised. He thought of himself at her age, fifteen years ago, when he had begun to realize he was really good at running companies and making money. Even on his best days, he hadn’t been as focused as Ariel Weiss. He wanted to take her into his confidence; in truth, as isolated as he was, he needed an ally.

“I’m worried about Morris,” he said. “He looked exhausted the last time I saw him.”

“He is exhausted, Mr. Director. Too much has come down on his head recently. I’m worried that he’s drowning.”

“I’ve given him a lot responsibility. I hope he can handle it.”

“Pownzor is tough. He gets it done. Maybe it’s good for him to get away. He relaxes when he’s out of the office. He likes being on his own.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“A case went bad. He took control of it, and then it blew up. He offered his resignation, but I told him no, he’s still my guy. But he seemed rattled after that, spun up about something. I’m wondering if you noticed anything.”

“Pownzor is always a little strange, Mr. Director. That comes with the territory. When you’re as smart as he is, you sometimes don’t fit.”

“But he’s okay? Nothing that I should worry about?”

Weiss shrugged.

“I can’t answer that, Mr. Director. You have to worry about everything. The one thing I’ve learned at the agency is that we’re all just people, with a lot of issues sometimes.”

“Does Morris have issues?”

Weiss opened her hands, palms up. “You’re asking me questions I can’t answer — probably shouldn’t answer. I work for Pownzor. He’s my boss. It’s not my job to spy on him. Was it his fault, that the case went bad?”

“I don’t know yet. But it was on his watch. That’s why he offered his resignation. If something goes bad and you’re in charge, then you take the fall. People don’t get fired enough at the agency. That’s why it’s mediocre.”

“I’m not mediocre.”

“I didn’t mean you. I meant the organization.”

“But, Mr. Director, I am the organization, at least the younger part of it. Who do you think is out there? It’s people like me. Do you want us to take risks?”

“Of course I do. I want you to take more risks, all of you, a lot more. I want this place to be more aggressive and kick ass.”

“Do you want an honest answer, Mr. Director?”

“Yes, damn it. And stop calling me Mr. Director. I keep looking over my shoulder for someone else. Just tell me the truth, and don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. Then don’t hassle Pownzor anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a risk-taker, and everybody knows it. And if people start second-guessing him, then all the people my age are going to say, Uh-oh. Button up. Slow-roll it or you may get in trouble. The director doesn’t like mistakes. People will go back to the formula for making supergrade.”

“What’s the formula?”

“If you run lots of operations, you’re taking a big career risk; if you run a few operations, it’s low-risk; if you run no operations at all, then there’s no risk whatsoever of a CEI.”

“Career-ending incident?”

“Correct. People are going to say that Pownzor was too aggressive, and that’s why he got dinged.”

“The slow-roll is the opposite of what I want.”

“Then let Pownzor do his thing. He’s probably harmless.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. But we’ll be watching now.”

Weber stood up from the lacquered table and walked to the window. All the spaces in the neat rows in the parking areas were filled, as far as he could see. It was a tidy bureaucracy that he ran, but not a very good one. He turned back to Weiss.

“I’m worried about Morris,” the director repeated. “I can’t shake it. I put a lot of trust in him, but I just wonder…”

Weber came back to the table and sat down across from her. She stared at him, not sure what to say. He thought it through one more time, nodded to himself and then spoke to her.

“Will you work for me?”

“I already do. You’re the director. Everyone works for you.”

“I mean something different. Will you stay in your job, as deputy chief of Information Ops, but also report to me, and sometimes take assignments from me? And not tell Morris, no matter what.”

“Be your agent, in other words, inside the IOC? That’s what this would be.”

“Yes, basically, that’s right.”

“Wow. That’s… unusual. Is it legal?”

“Of course it is. I run the organization. If I say I want something, pursuant to the powers the president has given me, then it’s legal.”

“What happens if Pownzor finds out? He would destroy me.”

“I’ll take care of you. As you said, I’m the director. I run the place.”

She looked him in the eye, studying his handsome, boyish face, trying to make up her mind.

“I mean it,” she said. “He would destroy me. I don’t just mean move me out of my job. He would wipe me out. Ruin my name and future. He may act like a punk, but he has a lot of friends.”

“You have to trust me, Ariel, or don’t do it. It’s my job to fix what’s wrong at the agency, but I need help. You told me you were a risk-taker, so now’s the time to go all in. Otherwise, I won’t believe all that tough-girl stuff.”

“Unfair,” she said, smiling. But there was a calculating look in her eye, too.

“What’s in it for me?” she asked. “Other than helping you, that is.”

“What do you want?” asked Weber. He hadn’t expected such a transactional response.

“I’d love to run the IOC someday. Maybe move up to the seventh floor when there’s an opening for a deputy or counselor. I’m a good manager.”

“You’re ambitious,” said Weber.

“Of course I am. Princes don’t rescue fair damsels for nothing anymore, and vice versa.”

“No promises. But you’d be the obvious candidate to succeed Morris, unless I need you elsewhere in senior management.”

“Acceptable,” she said.

“I’ll take that as yes, which is the right choice. For a minute there, I was worried you were just another young careerist.”

“I am that, too.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Okay, hotshot, here’s your first tasking: I want you to get inside Morris’s head: Find out what he does when he’s off on operations. There’s nothing inappropriate about that. You’re his deputy, you’re supposed to know what he’s doing. You said you like secrets. Okay, time to find out some new ones. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Sure. Like you said, it’s my job. But I’m a Company girl, just so you know.”

“Good. I’m a Company man now, too. So starting today, I want you to know everything about your boss. Pull his files, rumble his email, anything you can access. If you need help — technical stuff, whatever — just tell me. If you run into walls you can’t get through, tell me that, too.”

“IOC is all walls. Pownzor has compartments inside his compartments. Nobody sees the big picture except him.”

“Well, that’s about to change. Gather up the records of Morris’s operations over the last two years, all the ones you can find. Look at the operational pattern, and then see what’s missing. That will help you know where to look for networks that are off the books.”

“Who should I say is requesting all this information?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

Weber laughed and put his big hand on her shoulder.

“Tell them it’s Jack Florey.”

She laughed, too. He had been listening to her college stories, after all.

“How should we communicate? If Pownzor is as wired as you think, I need to be careful.”

Weber thought a moment. “Back in a minute,” he said.

Weber exited his dining room and went back into his office. Weiss stared out the window, thinking of all the CIA directors who had sat here since the 1960s, and the nightmares they had struggled through. Some had been lucky and solved their problems cleanly; most had not. This was the house of broken dreams and ambitions.

Weber returned thirty seconds later with two Nokia cell phones, manufactured circa 2005, and a package containing a string of SIM cards, numbered one through ten.

“This is a clean phone,” he said, handing her one of the Nokias. “Every time I call you, toss the SIM card and move to the next one. I have a list of the numbers. I’ll have the same rig.” He held up the second phone. “Here’s my number and a list of the SIM cards I’ll be using. Don’t let go of these. Sleep with them under your pillow.”

He handed her two pieces of paper with the various numbers. She was biting her lip. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to block a thought.

“Is this hack going to work?” asked Weber. “You’re the expert.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Sometimes at MIT we would talk about ‘can’t happen’ mistakes, which were conditions that theoretically were impossible but had appeared in the system anyway. Like when a file size comes up as negative.”

“And what’s the outcome, when you get one of these ‘can’t happen’ events?”

“Usually it’s a fatal error and the system crashes.”

Weber nodded, shook her hand and let her out the door. The secretaries, Marie and Diana, exchanged glances as they watched her go.