The Director

40

The next morning, Graham Weber arose at his habitual hour of five a.m. He went out for a slow, groggy run along the river. He thought about Ariel Weiss and blamed himself for letting her drink too much. As he was returning to his building, he saw the familiar face of Oscar, his driver, back in his usual parking spot out front on Virginia Avenue, accompanied by the iron-necked Jack Fong, the chief of the security detail. They were sitting in a new car, a black Lincoln Navigator, the same model that the director of National Intelligence used, rather than the old Cadillac Escalade.

Weber waved to them and went upstairs to shower and shave. He had been planning to go back to Langley that morning and take up the reins, recover his sense of how to run the CIA in a government he now perceived as hostile and dangerous, perhaps give another speech in the bubble in a day or two, decide how to expose the wrong that he knew had been committed. But as he stood under the spray of the shower nozzle, an idea fell into his head that required changing his planned itinerary for that morning, and going instead to the White House.

He put on his best gray suit and an Italian silk tie from Ferragamo that he saved for special occasions.

Weber waited until seven a.m., when civilized bureaucrats were up, and then phoned the White House switchboard and asked to be connected to Timothy O’Keefe, the national security adviser. He reached O’Keefe in his car, already on his way to that grand office in the West Wing overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. Weber asked for an appointment that morning and O’Keefe, to Weber’s surprise, immediately assented. He told Weber to come to his office at nine-thirty, just after the president finished his morning intelligence briefing with Director Hoffman.

Weber spent the next two hours catching up on the newspapers he hadn’t read during his involuntary sojourn in West Virginia. Reading the stories was like trying to make out an object through the refracted light of a heavy snowstorm. He could see the snowflakes, immediate and particular, and he could discern the more distant objects that were coated in white: trees, roofs, roads, buildings. But he couldn’t actually see any particular object for itself, only the covered outlines.

Weber’s Lincoln arrived at the West Wing just as the rotund figure of Cyril Hoffman was descending the stairs toward his car. The director of National Intelligence gave him a jaunty wave.

“So you’re back, safe and sound,” said Hoffman grandly, his voice conveying many emotions, but not sincerity. “What a relief.”

“I’ll bet it is. You must have been worried — that your guard corps would let me out.”

“But you should be thanking me, Graham. We saved your life.”

“Right,” muttered Weber.

“And now you’re a hero. Everyone says so. The president was beginning to worry that he had picked the wrong man for CIA. He was thinking of dumping you, but he’s reconsidering. He told me so just now, in the Oval.”

Hoffman gestured to the rear of the West Wing for emphasis. Yes, this president, this White House. He stepped up into his car, with a trademark flip of his coattails so that his jacket wouldn’t get rumpled under him.

“You bastard,” said Weber. “It won’t work.”

“Ciao,” said Hoffman through the open window as the big SUV rumbled off.

Weber mounted the stairs to the West Wing lobby. O’Keefe was waiting for him in his office. The national security adviser looked as bland and impenetrable as ever, his face a milky expanse of jowl and cheek, with thin lips curving into a smile.

“Welcome back,” said the national security adviser, extending his hand. Weber didn’t shake it.

“You won’t get away with this,” said Weber. “I won’t let you.”

“Say what?” O’Keefe cupped his hand to his ear, as if he’d had trouble hearing, but really inviting Weber to reconsider.

“You won’t get away with it,” Weber repeated. “I know James Morris didn’t act alone. He worked for the director of National Intelligence. Cyril Hoffman knew what Morris was doing, and Hoffman wouldn’t have dared do it without a wink from you.”

O’Keefe closed his eyes and smiled genially.

“Prove it!” he said. “But I can tell you now that you won’t be able to. There is no evidence whatsoever that James Morris was acting with the knowledge of the United States government in his effort to sabotage the Bank for International Settlements. It’s outrageous even to make such a suggestion. He was acting on his own, in secret, carrying out this monstrous hacker plot with help from Chinese recruits. And then, my god, he even tried to kill you! How could you, of all people, come to his defense?”

“There’s evidence,” said Weber.

“Yes, I know.” O’Keefe nodded. “And you gathered it, with help from your remarkable friend Dr. Weiss: Amazing work that you did, chasing down Morris’s secret activities. It has all gone to the grand jury. I wondered at your decision to put so much confidence in Morris at first; people might almost have blamed you for what happened. But you were playing a subtler hand. That’s what I told the FBI last week. Graham Weber saw the light about Morris. Weber and I stand side by side. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

O’Keefe smiled again. He was almost serene in his repetition of this account of events. Weber looked at him for a long moment. He’d seen people like O’Keefe since he began dealing with government: They were the gamers and political fixers; they had their thumbs on the scale; they were always weighing the interest of the public against what was to them infinitely more precious, which was the political survival of themselves and their bosses. That was why he had always wanted to remain a businessman, until a few months ago.

Weber shook his head. He rapped the table in front of him for good measure.

“I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t play.”

O’Keefe tilted his big round head.

“You know, Graham, I don’t like to be challenged, especially in my own office, and especially by someone who owes his job to me. So think twice before you jump off this particular cliff.”

Weber looked down at the mahogany table, and then back at O’Keefe. Yes, he was sure.

“Sorry, Tim, but I cannot back up a story that I know is false. I don’t care what the so-called evidence seems to show. I won’t do it. I’ll go to the intelligence committees. I’ll go to the Justice Department. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this big lie from succeeding.”

“You’re a fool,” snapped O’Keefe. “And an arrogant one, which is worse: Do you think I am powerless? I have you by the balls, sir. I just haven’t started squeezing.”

Weber shook his head.

“Stop threatening me, Tim. I know I’m right. I’m ready for whatever bullshit campaign you’re going to run against me.”

“I wonder,” said O’Keefe.

He stood and opened the door.

“Out, please,” he said, with a dismissive motion of his hand. “Try to simmer down. And I suggest that you pay a call on Cyril Hoffman, your superior officer. I believe he would like a word.”

Weber nodded. He removed from his pocket a letter he had typed out that morning on his computer, while waiting for the meeting in the White House. He handed it to O’Keefe.

“What is this?” asked the national security adviser.

“It’s an invitation. I am calling a meeting of the Special Activities Review Committee. Some sensitive information has come to light the committee should know about. It’s tomorrow afternoon. Don’t be late. This is one meeting you won’t want to miss.”

Weber gave the national security adviser a little wink, and for the first time that morning he thought he saw a trace of anxiety on O’Keefe’s round face.

Weber got into his car on Executive Road, the private alley between the White House and the Old Executive Office Building. Oscar asked where he wanted to go, and Weber had to think a minute. He needed to see all the cards. He dialed the private number of his boss, Hoffman, in his office off International Drive near Tysons Corner.

“Ah, Mr. Director, I thought you might be calling,” said Hoffman.

“Apparently I need to come see you,” said Weber. “I just left O’Keefe’s office.”

“Not apparently, but really. And as soon as possible, please. I just got off the phone with the national security adviser. He is not a happy man. You should take time to consider what he told you.”

“I’ll be at your office in thirty minutes. That’s all the time I need to think.”

“Drive slowly,” said Hoffman. “Admire the scenery. You are not an impulsive man. You are a business executive. That is what you know. In other areas, you are accident-prone. Think about what you are doing.”

Weber arrived in twenty-five minutes. The morning rush-hour traffic had already thinned on the Parkway and Route 123. He was cleared through security and pointed toward the DNI’s office building, which was tucked away in a modest speck of green amid the concrete of intersecting highways. Hoffman’s personal aide was downstairs to greet Weber and take him up to see the boss.

Hoffman stood with his arms open as Weber entered the office, as if he were preparing to welcome the return of a long-lost son. There was a look of merriment and also menace in his eye.

“Welcome, my boy. I hope you have been thinking hard and have recovered your wits. History is reaching out to you, Graham, and you must grab the bright ring. If you don’t, well, you will miss your chance in time. It won’t come back. You will fall into the abyss.”

Weber stood, compact and immovable, just inside the portal of Hoffman’s office.

“Why did you let Morris do it?” Weber said. “That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Hoffman. He walked over to Weber, put a hand on his elbow and steered him to a seat at his round conference table. Hoffman took the facing seat.

“You may decide to commit suicide, but you should at least have coffee first,” Hoffman said. “Perhaps the caffeine will stimulate your thinking in a way that heretofore has not been evident.”

He called for his steward, who brought in a large sterling silver tray, emblazoned with the seal of an Asian intelligence service that had made the gift to Hoffman as a token of eternal esteem. On the tray were two small white ceramic cups. The steward went to the shiny façade of the director’s espresso machine and made two coffees, one for Hoffman and one for his guest. The steward laid down the cups and then offered a tray of what Hoffman called viennoiseries. When Weber refused, Hoffman smiled and took two for himself.

“You don’t read history, do you?” asked Hoffman. “I mean, really read it.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” answered Weber. He wanted to keep the conversation on message. “I read what I need to do my job.”

“How simple and utilitarian, but inadequate,” said Hoffman, “particularly when it comes to American history.”

“I read the Constitution. I swore to uphold and defend it. That’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t, actually. That’s what I’m getting at. The Constitution is a document, written on paper, but its meaning was shaped by great men and their decisions. In particular, in my humble opinion, our history was shaped by the decision that our first president, George Washington, made, about what kind of a republic this would be: Would it be Alexander Hamilton’s America, or Thomas Jefferson’s? A republic of predictable order or unpredictable liberty? That was the first question.”

“Very interesting, no doubt, but I want to talk about James Morris. I am going to tell the CIA workforce about him and his friends and enablers tomorrow in the bubble, and I will tell the grand jury the day after.”

Hoffman was frowning and shaking his head.

“You are so eager to commit hari-kari. I am trying to prevent you, but it is not easy. You asked me to explain, why did I let Mr. Morris do it? I am trying to do so, if you will just shut up and drink your coffee and listen to what I have to say.”

“All right,” said Weber. “It’s your nickel.”

Hoffman nodded with gracious disdain.

“George Washington decided that America would be the nation envisioned by Alexander Hamilton, with a central bank, a funded debt, an orderly bureaucracy and a deep and unshakable alliance with its parent nation, its fatherland, you might say, which we know today as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Washington could have opted for the alternative vision of a French-style democratic republic, with its burlesque of liberty, but he did not.”

“Okay, got that,” said Weber. “Now, can we move on?”

“No, not yet. I am now getting to the part of this story that is directly responsive to your question. I believe in loyalty to one’s parents. Do you, Graham?”

“Of course. I revere my parents.”

“Well now, this question of parental loyalty has presented itself in a very particular way for your employer, the Central Intelligence Agency. We were not created ex nihilo, you know. We have a parent. And the name of that parent is the British Secret Intelligence Service.”

Weber laughed.

“The James Bond thing hasn’t worked for me since Sean Connery. Sorry.”

“That is unworthy of you, but never mind: I’m going to give you a tutorial. It will make a lot of other things clearer to you.”

“Say what you like. It’s not going to work. I’m going to take you and your friends down, no matter what you tell me.”

“Be quiet and listen. I am going to tell you a great secret. In 1945, when the war ended, the British compiled a private history of the covert action program begun in 1940 that had led to the creation of the OSS and, by extension, the CIA.”

“That’s ludicrous. Why would the British run a covert action program against us? We were their closest ally.”

Hoffman raised a finger, and then proceeded.

“The immediate aim of this covert action program was to draw the United States into the war to save Britain, but its larger purpose was to create a secret instrument that could protect the Hamiltonian version of America — and, in partnership with British intelligence, let us be frank, rule the postwar world.”

“That’s crap.”

“I have a copy of the secret history in my desk. It is an account of ‘British Security Co-Ordination,’ or ‘BSC,’ which is the name the British gave to their clandestine effort to maintain American steadfastness, despite the isolationist weasels. Would you like me to read you a relevant passage?”

Hoffman put on his reading glasses and peered over the top of them in a way that made his eyebrows and forehead look like those of a large, balding owl.

“No,” said Weber.

Hoffman ignored him. He leafed through the volume to page forty-six and began reading:

“This particular chapter is called ‘Campaign Against Axis Propaganda in the United States.’ It illustrates how well the British understood us, then and now. I quote:

In planning its campaign, it was necessary for BSC to remember (as the Germans remembered) the simple truth that the United States, a Sovereign Entity of comparatively recent birth, is inhabited by people of many conflicting races, interests and creeds. These people, though fully conscious of their wealth and power in the aggregate, are still unsure of themselves individually, still basically on the defensive and still striving, as yet unavailingly but very defiantly, after national unity and indeed after some logical grounds for considering themselves a nation in the racial sense… But protest as they will, they remain essentially a concourse of immigrants and are unable, in the main, to cut the atavistic bonds which bind them to the lands of their origin.

“What nonsense,” said Weber.

“I think not,” said Hoffman. “I think the anonymous authors of this secret history have expressed the nub of the problem, which is that we Americans do not know who we are, and we need help; especially in administering the remains of the global empire that fell to us in 1945.”

“You can’t mean to say you take all this seriously. It’s preposterous.”

Hoffman removed his glasses and sat up straight in his chair.

“I do indeed, sir. I am heir to the Anglo-American promise. You are heir to it. The rest of the world simply doesn’t understand. We must do what is right, whether others comprehend it or not. That is what I embraced when I joined this service. All the Hoffmans have understood it: Frank, Sam, Ed, Jack, every one of them knew when they joined the CIA that they must protect the secret power that is the only guarantee of order on this planet.”

Weber shook his head.

“You’re insane! If you really believe all this nonsense, why did you allow an anarchist hacker who despised Britain to attack the BIS?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Hoffman gently.

“No. It’s the opposite of obvious.”

“Morris was the perfect foil. I was only too happy to allow him to destroy himself and discredit his silly movement. People can see them for what they are: wreckers and manipulators; liars of the worst sort. It will be years before we see another of these hacker princes like James Morris. And as for the special relationship he so despised, well, it’s more special than ever, thanks to poor Morris and his unwitting assistance.”

“You’re out of control. What you have done is illegal.”

Hoffman seemed not to have heard him, for he began to speak again with greater intensity.

“And there were other benefits, obviously, from letting Morris conduct his absurd attack. It strengthened American control over international finance. It let us rewrite the BIS charter. It reanimated our liaison with SIS. And best of all, it provided an opportunity to replace the unfortunate choice the president made for CIA director, which is you.”

Weber shook his head. But there was a calm look on his face. He knew with clarity now what he was confronting.

“You’re a traitor,” said Weber.

“Hah! You sound like Peter Pingray, your unloved deputy. When we had to ‘relocate’ you for a week, for your own protection, he came to see me in great agitation. He also called me a traitor and, worse, a scoundrel. He said he had tried to warn you about me, too. Put a message in your desk drawer, sent another warning note in with some paperwork. But he said you were too thick to understand, thank goodness.”

“Peter Pingray left those messages?” said Weber, with a tone of wonder, and then, to himself: “Of course he did. He had access to all the paper. He was trying to help me.”

“Misguided loyalty. Pingray is gone, by the way, fired for cause, no pension and facing civil litigation unless he behaves himself.”

“You are dangerous, Cyril, but it’s over.”

Hoffman looked weary suddenly, and unhappy.

“You make me very sorry, Graham. Truly. I hoped you would open your mind and listen — really listen—to what the past tells you about your duty. But you are thick! That was always the critique of you: A smart business executive, charismatic manager, wanting to help his country, but inexperienced; a man who doesn’t know what he doesn’t know. And now it has undone you.”

“Not me. You’re the one who’s going down. I am calling a meeting of the Special Activities Review Committee to tell them the truth. Then I am going to Congress, to explain what you and Morris and all your crazy associates did. And then I am going to the Justice Department. I am going to explain this case for what it is: Espionage on behalf of a foreign power. Treason.”

“No, you won’t,” said Hoffman.

“Try me.”

“You won’t do it because you can’t. You’re fired. I am removing you as CIA director, for cause, effective immediately.”

“What do you mean, ‘for cause’?”

Hoffman had a new look in his eye, a hard glint of cruelty combined with the light of mischief.

“I hoped that it would not come to this,” Hoffman said. “But I am firing you as CIA director because of evidence that you have engaged in sexual harassment of one of your employees.”

“What are you talking about?” said Weber, but in that instant he was startled by a recollection from just a dozen hours before.

“It is not pretty,” said Hoffman, flicking a switch that turned on a video monitor on the wall. “Not pretty at all, what some men will do.”

The video image showed Weber with his arm wrapped around a young woman in a black sheath who was walking unsteadily down the hallway. A second image showed Weber kissing the same woman at the doorway to an apartment. From the angle of the image, it must have been taken by a camera hidden high on the opposite wall. The video continued as the two of them entered Weber’s apartment and closed the door.

“There’s audio, too. Would you like to hear it?”

“No.” Weber put his hands over his ears. Hoffman pushed a button, and the feed was audible, a woman’s loud voice.

“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 will make a powerful witness, Dr. Weiss. You were her hero. You helped her to discover the truth about James Morris. And then you callously took advantage of her as a subordinate.”

“How could she do that?” Weber muttered, more to himself than to Hoffman.

“She might well ask the same of you, sir. How could you? But here is the simple fact: I expect that Dr. Weiss will file a formal complaint of sexual harassment against you this morning, and we have corroborating video and audio evidence that supports her charge, as you can see. So as director of National Intelligence, it is my obligation to demand your resignation.”

Weber was bowed. He rose from his chair and headed toward the door, stooped-shouldered, seemingly defeated. He was shaking his head, muttering to himself.

“I think the curtain is coming down, old boy,” said Hoffman grimly. “If you try to attend your little Special Activities Review meeting tomorrow, you will be barred. As a former director, you don’t have access. Sorry.”

Weber turned on him. A spark seemed to come back into his eyes.

“You’re a bad magician,” said Weber.

Hoffman blinked. That was his only show of emotion, but he was stung by the comment.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Remember what you told me about magic, Cyril? It was my second week on the job. You said professional magicians know that a trick always has three parts: what people see; what they remember; and what they tell others. I think maybe you have forgotten your own advice. In this case, the three don’t fit.”

“Bosh! You are an amateur, if I may be frank. I warned you that you had no idea what you were getting involved in here, but you persisted. You were repeatedly warned, even by Dr. Weiss. Review the record, sir. But you were blind. You are the opposite of a magician. You are a vain and arrogant man, I am sorry to say it, but there it is, the truth.”

“How long was she working with you?” asked Weber.

“But Dr. Weiss was always working with me, and with her country. She is a career intelligence officer. There was never a moment in which she was not loyal to the president.”

Weber studied him. “One of us misjudged her.”

“Ipse dixit. You yourself said it. By the way, I did not tell you on my sailboat that I have any unauthorized investments with any Chinese company. And I never said that James Morris was a fall guy, or expendable, or anything of the sort. Any such claim is a lie.”

“She told you that? Or did you install a microphone?”

“She is a patriot,” said Hoffman. “Now get out of here. You are fired. They are already cleaning out your desk at the agency.”

“Have you considered the possibility that I have one more card?” asked Weber.

“Considered, and rejected. You are busted. Good luck with your supposed ‘card,’ whatever that may be.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow.”

Weber tipped his head toward Hoffman and left the office. Fong, his security chief, was waiting in the anteroom. So was Oscar, the driver. They rode to Langley in silence. When Weber got to the seventh floor, the entrance to his office was barred. Marie and Diana were in tears.

Weber embraced his two secretaries, which only made them weep more copiously. When they had calmed down, Weber had told them not to worry, that he had done nothing wrong. He asked them if he could use the conference room to make a few phone calls. He called two people. One was the deputy director of the FBI in charge of the National Security Branch. The other was Ruth Savin. He asked her to contact Ariel Weiss, urgently.

Weber waited for the public announcement that he had been fired, and the gruesome television footage that would accompany it. But through that night and into the next morning, the lid stayed on, and Weber suspected he knew why.