The Director

39

Graham Weber began plotting his moves from the moment he was bundled into the limousine at Langley and moved involuntarily toward his “secure undisclosed location.” He had seen parts of this catastrophe coming toward him, not all of it, but enough to arrange his own strategy for accomplishing the duty to which he had sworn an oath, to protect the nation from enemies foreign and domestic. What he couldn’t know was how completely Cyril Hoffman had sought to paint the story in colors of his own choosing. Hoffman had composed the crime scene like a still life; the artifacts were arranged; the human elements were assessed and deployed. Hoffman was an artist, in his way. He flattered himself that even a businessman such as Graham Weber could appreciate his eye for detail and nuance. Hoffman, in truth, had thought of almost everything.

The fingerprints were there, waiting to be discovered by competent forensic sleuths. The attackers who hacked the Bank for International Settlements had taken elaborate precautions to hide themselves, but in a digital world where every keystroke lives forever somewhere, they hadn’t been careful enough. That was what the mandarins of the cyberworld advised reporters: Just be patient; the details will emerge.

It took several days for the first account of the investigation to leak. The New York Times carried a story saying that the attackers had used tools that were identical to those used by Unit 61398 of the People’s Liberation Army based in Shanghai, which had figured in previous cyber-reporting by the newspaper. The Chinese strenuously denied the story, issuing an unusual on-the-record statement from the commander of the PLA himself. But people took the denial with a grain of salt. The Times story said that the investigation was being conducted by the NSA’s Cyber Command and the director of National Intelligence, at the special request of the president and the secretary of the Treasury.

The Wall Street Journal countered with an exclusive of its own, saying that some of the malware that had corrupted the arithmetic functions and time clocks of the BIS was similar to malware used by Chinese cyber-warriors when they had crippled foreign search-engine portals and social-networking sites. These tools had surfaced in other Chinese attacks against targets around the world. The Journal leak had more information about the attackers’ methodology, based on what they described as sources familiar with the NSA investigation.

When rogue CIA officer James Morris was identified a few days later as an organizer of the attacks, the story exploded into a meta-scandal. Five days after the Basel incident, the Journal, Times and Washington Post were each briefed separately by the White House on an investigation that had been launched by the CIA inspector general. The investigation was focusing on a criminal plot by Morris, director of the Information Operations Center.

Each newspaper’s account carried the essential fact that Morris had operated out of a Chinese-owned front company in Britain called the Fudan — East Anglia Research Centre. The White House sources said Morris and his agents had been recruited to attack the Bank for International Settlements as part of a Chinese campaign to identify and control key parts of the financial infrastructure in Europe, in what the officials said, not for quotation, was “preparation of the battlefield.”

Morris was a perfect villain. His personality emerged in baroque detail after the Senate and House Intelligence Committees were briefed on the inspector general’s investigation. Somehow, the newspapers were able to obtain photographs of him and publish his true name, despite the Intelligence Identities Protection Act that was supposed to prevent such disclosures. He looked like the image of bad behavior: the pale skin; the feverish eyes; the tall, stick-thin body; the black-frame glasses on the end of his long nose. It was the look of unwholesomeness. Truly, he looked like a man who would inhabit the darker sections of a European city rather than an American official.

The CIA announced that it had made a criminal referral to the Justice Department about Morris’s activities, based on evidence gathered by a whistleblower who had worked as his deputy. She was not further described. The news media waited for Morris’s arrest, but the FBI announced twenty-four hours after the first story naming him that he appeared to have fled the country, using the cyber-skills that allowed him to transcend the normal borders and boundaries.

The FBI alerted Interpol and every intelligence and security service abroad with which it had liaison, and gave them details of Morris’s multiple identities. There were reported sightings in Bucharest, Moscow and Bangkok, but they all proved to be false leads. The hacker king who had taken down the Bank for International Settlements allegedly on behalf of his Chinese patrons (and perhaps others unnamed) appeared to have vanished into the digital mist.

Graham Weber returned from his “secure undisclosed location” after a week, when the FBI and the director of National Intelligence made a formal determination that he was no longer in danger. His hideaway had been in Bunker Hill, West Virginia, near Camp David and the old archipelago of evacuation sites that had been prepared to receive officials in the event of a nuclear attack during the Cold War. Guards had watched him night and day for those seven days, keeping him inside a fenced perimeter that was patrolled by guard dogs and armed security personnel from the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. All of Weber’s communications devices had been confiscated when they put him in the armored limousine at the CIA. His strenuous efforts ever since to contact the world outside the secure undisclosed location had all been rebuffed. But he had time to think, which had always been his most potent weapon.

The afternoon of Weber’s departure, the CIA had issued a statement, first to its employees and then to the public. The announcement disclosed what anyone who had witnessed the early morning scene on Memorial Bridge would have suspected — which was that an attempt had been made to disable the director’s armored vehicle. The statement said that for his own protection, the director had been moved to a remote, well-guarded location.

On a sunny mid-November morning in West Virginia, one of Weber’s guards gave him a copy of the statement to read.

“This is a lie,” said Weber, pointing his finger at the guard. “I’ve been kidnapped.”

Weber said that he wanted to talk to the president or the secretary of defense or the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. When his jailer didn’t respond, he began to shout and put up such a ruckus that the guard had to retreat toward the door, and when Weber came after him, the guard restrained him physically.

The chief of the guard detail came running from the control room after watching the pandemonium on closed-circuit television.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Director,” said the chief guard as he helped Weber to his feet. “This is for your own protection.”

“Fuck you,” said Weber.

Weber tried cooperation after that, thinking that rapport might be more effective than resistance. Weber was an innately charming person; he had built his career on the ability to achieve rapport with business colleagues. But every time he began to make friends with one of his guards, that person was transferred out of the facility. Each of his three escape attempts was quickly foiled, and after the first, Weber was given food that he was convinced was drugged to make him sedated and pliable. Weber tried not to eat, but self-starvation was not within his kit of survival skills. His movements within his “cabin” were monitored by cameras in every room; when Weber knocked out a camera lens, it was quickly replaced.

When Weber concluded that there was no escape, he focused all the more on his plans for revenge. He knew nothing about details of the attack on the Bank for International Settlements, but he had suspected that it was coming — and that an essential part of the plan had been to make sure that he was out of the way. The question was which way the pieces would fall. He knew that he would need help from someone he trusted, and he thought often of Ariel Weiss. Sometimes he dreamed about her.

The agency workforce had been perturbed but not altogether displeased by the sudden disappearance of their new director, a man whom many officers still regarded as a visitor rather than one of their own. There was a view, expressed quietly in the soft-lit halls of Headquarters, that perhaps this was a blessing. Weber had been pounding on too many doors. He thought he could run the place like a business, but of course that was a mistake. The CIA had its own rules.

It was rumored, also, that Weber had given special authority to James Morris, who senior officers now claimed to have mistrusted all along. Thank goodness for Mr. Hoffman, up the road, who was viewed more than ever as the godfather.

Whatever they thought about Weber, CIA employees were frightened by the vulnerability of their workplace. Everyone had heard what had happened in the director’s private elevator, minutes after the incapacitation of his car: If cyber-attackers could compromise these highly protected zones, they could do anything. The CIA was supposed to be protected by an “air gap,” which meant that it wasn’t vulnerable to such attacks, in theory. But the electronic moat obviously had been penetrated.

CIA employees are gossips, especially when they feel that their interests are at risk. The agency had kept a lid on the fiasco with the director’s elevator, but with multiple investigations under way, the details were going to surface. So a story emerged, with enough detail to be credible.

James Morris was the threatening presence “inside the air gap.” Many readers missed, in the first-day accounts of his role in the Basel attack, that as part of the plot Morris had conducted a cyber-attack on his boss, CIA Director Graham Weber, crippling his car and even striking at him within CIA Headquarters. The newspaper reports initially didn’t give details, but the juicy parts leaked, including the disabled elevator stuck between floors.

Graham Weber was escorted back to his apartment at the Watergate seven days after he had left. He was a spark plug ready to fire, after the week of solitude. The doorman had kept the newspapers for him. He quickly scanned the headlines, with mounting astonishment as he saw the events that had taken place since his forced evacuation, and the explanations that had begun to surface.

Weber put the papers aside and called Ariel Weiss, using the last of his Nokia burner phones and SIM cards. He had been waiting a week to talk to her. She didn’t answer the first call, and he didn’t leave a message, but she called back five minutes later.

“Oh, my god, are you safe?” she said. Her voice sounded as if she were choking back tears.

“They kidnapped me, Ariel. They put me in a car and held me incommunicado.”

“I know,” she said, her voice still brimming with emotion. “You’re a hero.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Haven’t you read the papers? They’ve exposed Morris. He was working for the Chinese, just as you thought. He attacked the biggest bank in the world. You were the only one who tried to stop him.”

“That’s the cover story.”

“It’s the truth, Graham. Where are you? You must come see me. We need to talk.”

“Is it safe? Shouldn’t we be careful? Meet at the same place as before.”

“Let’s meet for a victory drink. I told you, you’re a hero. Morris is finished. I’ve spent the last three days with the inspector general. I’m testifying before the grand jury tomorrow.”

“What have you been telling them?”

“How you saved the agency. How you were the only one who understood what a threat Morris was. How I helped track down the information for you. What we found, about the Chinese.”

“That’s great,” said Weber. “But it wasn’t just Morris.”

“I need to see you. Meet me in an hour. I’ll be in the bar downstairs at the Watergate Hotel.”

She caught him by surprise, even though he was waiting for her. He was sitting at the bar when he saw her reflected image in the mirror, and he almost didn’t recognize her. Walking toward him was not the hacker girl, the CIA technical wizard, but a woman who knew how beautiful she was. The tight black sheath revealed the body usually hidden under a white cotton shirt.

Ariel Weiss put her arms around Weber and kissed him on the cheek. She was wearing perfume, for the first time in his memory.

“That’s a nice welcome,” he said. “I should get kidnapped more often.”

“Don’t joke! Morris tried to kill you. Now you’re safe.”

“Somebody tried to get me out of the way, but I doubt it was Morris. And whoever it was, they didn’t want to kill me.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s not that hard to kill someone. If they’d wanted to, I’d be dead.”

She ordered a glass of champagne and took his arm.

“I love heroes who say they’re not heroic.”

“Thanks,” said Weber. He liked to be flattered as much as any man, but the past week had been so frustrating that even compliments sounded off-key.

“I need your help, Ariel. This is a big ball of lies. You’re the only person I can trust. We need to go over Morris’s papers, and your files, too. Everything we can.”

She shook her head, and took a long sip of her champagne.

“The damn lawyers got there first. They came in three days ago and sealed everything in Morris’s office and mine. We’re locked out of everything except current operational accounts.”

Weber was puzzled.

“Why are they doing that now? Now is when we need to go back and see what Morris was doing, and who he was really working for.”

“You’ll have to ask the inspector general, Graham. He has all the files, and from what I hear, he’s sending them over to the Justice Department as fast as he can to put together the legal case against Morris.”

“What’s the rush?” asked Weber. “Morris had plenty of friends before, in the White House, at Liberty Crossing, everywhere. Now he’s the universal scapegoat. People are missing the point.”

She took his hand and looked him in the eye. She wanted to reason with him, to help him understand.

“The whole world is angry about what Morris did at the Bank for International Settlements. They’re scared that the Chinese, and god knows who else, could take down the markets. They need to understand how it happened. The U.S. and British governments are trying to clean up the mess, and we can help them. We know the story: You and I do. We tracked Morris to his front company in Cambridge and we pulled out the details of his operation, the people he was recruiting, the whole thing. We have to tell people what we know. Don’t you see, Graham?”

Weber shook his head. He saw red lights blinking.

“This is a scam. Morris had help. He’s the fall guy, maybe, but he’s not the one who put this in motion. Cyril Hoffman admitted to me on his boat that Morris was expendable. And if we’re talking about working with the Chinese, Hoffman has more investments in Shanghai than Morris could ever dream about. He said so, on that goofy sailing trip. And what about the Russians? How did they just disappear?”

“I want to help you make this go away, Graham,” she said.

He ordered another scotch. The first one had gone to his head; he had eaten so little during his forced relocation that his stomach was empty. He told the bartender to put more ice in his whiskey, as if that would make a difference. She had another glass of champagne, and she lit a cigarette, too, another thing he had never seen her do.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

After they’d finished the second round of drinks and were contemplating having a third, Weiss stood up from her chair, crossed her arms over chest and gave him a wink.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week. What have you got upstairs that a resourceful woman could turn into a meal?”

Weber smiled. “You don’t want to cook. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Come on! I want to show you that I’m not all ones and zeroes. Do you have any pasta?”

“Yes. And some pesto sauce in the freezer.”

He paid the bill. She took his hand and led him out the door of the bar and down a long hall to a block of elevators.

“How did you know where I live?” asked Weber.

“Lucky guess,” she answered. “Plus it’s in the security profile on Marie’s desk.”

She took his arm, and leaned dreamily on his shoulder in the elevator. When they got to Weber’s floor, she put her arm around his waist. That felt awkward, and he didn’t reciprocate at first, but as she walked unsteadily toward his door, he put his arm around her shoulder to support her. At his doorway she turned her face up to him; she waited a moment for a kiss, and when it didn’t come, she gently pulled his head toward her until their lips were touching.

“Welcome home,” she said. “You’re a hero.”

He opened the door sheepishly. The apartment was tidy enough; the cleaning lady had been in with the security detail that week when he had his enforced holiday. But it was such a barren space, the kind of apartment that would be inhabited by a single man who spent all his time at work. There was the big wide-screen television, flanked by a well-used leather easy chair and footstool. The rest of the décor looked like it had been selected by an expensive designer who furnished corporate apartments for CEOs.

She took his arm. She looked confused, just for a moment.

“Would you do something if you thought you had no other choice?” she said quietly.

“Maybe. I hope I never get in that situation. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really. Sometimes people get stuck, that’s all.”

Weber opened a bottle of white Burgundy in the refrigerator while she rummaged in the refrigerator for the makings of a meal. She pulled out a stale onion, some tomatoes that were inedible a month ago, and three unopened blocks of processed cheddar cheese.

“Men don’t really get it about food, do they?”

“I’m sorry. I mostly eat out.” He paused, embarrassed. “The truth is, you’re the first woman I’ve had up to the apartment since I moved in. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“It’s touching.” She brushed her finger against his face. “Where’s the powder room?”

“Down the hall, first door on your left.”

She walked off. There was something tentative in her manner, as if she were uncertain which hall led where.

Weber had another sip of his wine. Maybe it was the booze, or the hunger from having eaten so little the past few days, but he felt light-headed. He wasn’t a man who liked losing control of himself, but in this case it seemed preordained, and he was trying to decide whether it made him comfortable or uncomfortable.

He heard a whoosh of water, and then a few moments later a closing door.

Ariel walked into the room with deliberate steps. This was a controlled, disciplined woman; a doctor of computer science. She didn’t do things on a whim. She pulled herself up so that her bottom rested on the kitchen countertop. Her black sheath covered only halfway to her knees.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked. She said the words haltingly, as if she had never asked the question before.

“Of course you are,” said Weber, “especially tonight.”

“Do you…?” she began.

“Do I what?”

“Do you want to be with me?” She said it shyly, tentatively.

She took his hand and pulled him toward her. She was clutching something lacey in the other hand.

“Are you sure?” asked Weber. “There are a hundred rules against this.” He looked toward her clutched fist. “What’s that?” he asked.

She opened her hand and her panties fell on the countertop. She had removed them in the bathroom. Her legs parted slightly. She looked at him with desire and pulled on his arm again, but as he paused, wondering, she turned away in momentary embarrassment.

“Are you sure?” he asked again.

“Of course I am.”

“But you work for me. I could get fired for this. It’s wrong.”

His sharp words made her blush. She closed her legs, let them dangle over the counter for a moment and then hopped down. She looked embarrassed and angry. But there was another emotion, too, of regret.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” she said. “I can’t do this.”

Weber shook his head. He felt the kind of awful that comes from encouraging someone and then pulling the plug.

“You can do anything you want, Ariel. I’m sorry I’m your boss. Try me another time.”

Her eyes hardened. It might have been the look of a woman who had been aroused and then rejected. But there was something more. She was willing herself to anger.

“Try me another time?” She talked loud enough to be heard through the walls of the apartment building. “Is this a test run?”

“Quiet down. Everything’s okay.”

“You’ve been flirting with me for weeks. And then we get drunk, and we go up to your apartment. I take off my panties, thinking that’s what you want, and then you pretend that it’s all a big nothing.”

“Maybe we should just forget the dinner here. Go out and have a burger somewhere.”

“Fuck the dinner and fuck you, Weber.”

She took the panties off the counter, turned her back on Weber and stepped into them, pulling them up and then lowering the tight dress.

“It won’t work,” she said quietly, walking toward the door. She looked toward the ceiling. Weber was confused.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “What do you mean, ‘it won’t work’?”

But she didn’t answer. She crossed the threshold into the hall, turned and walked down the hall, every step a seeming register of indignation.