The Director

8

The senior staff gathered in the conference room across from the director’s office as five o’clock approached. People were trying not to talk about the director’s speech, but the mood was stiff and awkward, and they swiveled in their chairs or poured themselves glasses of water. The room was antiseptic and impersonal as only a government meeting room can be: a big table with a glass top; overstuffed leather chairs; television monitors for the now-inevitable video-teleconferencing hookups. Weber was a few minutes late, and people were looking at their watches when Sandra Bock arrived and said the director wanted everyone to gather instead across the hall.

The director’s office wasn’t big enough for the group, really. People had to sit three on a sofa and perch on the arms of chairs. But Weber liked it better this way, crowded and informal. He pulled up one of the chairs next to his big oak desk and parked himself in the arc of the circle. He still looked too young for the job: lean, fit, still some of his West Coast tan and that blond-haired baby face, peculiar for a middle-aged man.

He panned the group: At the center was Beasley, the chief of the Clandestine Service, resplendent in one of his tailor-made English suits and a Turnbull & Asser shirt with blue stripes and a pure white collar that set off his handsome brown face. Beasley looked at the new director and shook his head.

“Hell of a speech in the bubble just now, Mr. Director. Pow! Knocked me out. It made me want to commit suicide, actually, but that’s my problem, right?”

“Right,” said Weber.

Next to Beasley was Ruth Savin, the general counsel. She was a handsome woman, with jet-black hair and dark Mediterranean features that made her stand out among the Mormons, Catholics and fading WASPs who still, somehow, seemed to think of the agency as their place. She had come to the agency ten years before after a stint as staff director of the Senate Intelligence Committee, and had shaped the legal framework of every piece of secret business since her arrival.

The heads of other directorates filled up the seats: Loomis Braden, the top analyst, who was deputy director for intelligence and known to all as “the DDI”; Marcia Klein, who ran Support; Tom Avery, who headed Science and Technology. These were the people who once upon a time would have been known as barons, but now were more like caretakers.

Standing just outside the inner circle was the tall, ascetic figure of James Morris, the head of Information Operations. His casual dress, T-shirt and linen jacket signaled that he was different in age, temperament and so many other qualities. He had one hand behind his back; hidden from view, he was turning a quarter over his fingers, the way a magician will sometimes do.

As Weber was about to start the meeting, the door opened and in walked a large man, dressed in a three-piece pin-striped suit with a gold watch chain across the vest. He was carrying in his hand a brown fedora, which he had worn outdoors. On his arm was an umbrella. He was round-faced, hair trimmed to a short buzz; he had a habit, even entering a room unannounced, of looking over the tops of his glasses, so that his eyebrows seemed perpetually raised in a quizzical look.

“Hello, Cyril,” said Weber. “Glad you could make it.”

“Howdy do,” said Cyril Hoffman genially, with a flourish of his hat. People made way for him on the large sofa. Hoffman fluffed his ample coat jacket out behind him as he sat down, like a concert pianist in tails taking his seat at the piano.

At the last minute, Weber had decided to invite Hoffman, the director of National Intelligence. It was partly an instinct for self-protection that he wanted Hoffman with him inside the tent as he faced his first real problem. But he also respected Hoffman’s judgment. The DNI had been around the intelligence community for his entire adult life. He was the closest thing the country had to a permanent undersecretary for intelligence. There were very few secrets that he didn’t know, and few messes that he hadn’t helped clean up.

Weber cleared his throat. He was nervous, for just an instant.

“We have a problem,” he began “It just arrived today. Some of you have seen the cable traffic, but for those who haven’t, let me explain what happened. Today in Hamburg, Germany, a young man walked into our consulate and asked to see me personally, the new director. He told the base chief that we have a security breach. He’s a ‘hacker,’ or claims to be, so he didn’t put it that way. He said we have been hacked. He said the names of our personnel have been compromised in Germany and Switzerland, and he had a list to prove it. He wouldn’t stay in one of our safe houses, as the base chief proposed, because he said our information wasn’t secure.”

Weber looked to Bock, who was standing motionless like an iron pillar.

“Is that more or less it, for the basics, Sandra?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“After considering this matter, I have decided to send James Morris, the head of Information Operations, to Hamburg to assist the base chief in the debriefing and exfiltration.”

Every eye in the room turned toward the casually dressed young man standing beyond the couches. He had drawn some resentment over the past several years from colleagues for pushing his authority. Now he was being given what amounted to a battlefield promotion by the new director.

“Big responsibility,” said Weber. “Unconventional decision, I guess. But my instinct is that the person who deals with hacker penetration of the agency needs to be able to swim in that sea, and the person here who fits that description is James Morris. Earl Beasley has generously agreed to help Morris work out the details. Thanks for that, Earl.”

“I just work here,” said Beasley slowly. “I do what the boss says.”

Beasley let the words hang in the air, an implied rebuke, and then softened. “It’s not crazy. The IOC should be more involved in operations. We’ve been saying that for years. Well, shit, now we gonna do it.”

Weber nodded his thanks. Beasley was a good politician, whatever else he might be. On the couch, Cyril Hoffman watched Beasley with what seemed a look of sly amusement. Evidently he doubted that the chief of the Clandestine Service had spoken in complete sincerity.

Weber turned to Morris.

“So, James, why don’t you explain to the group what you plan to do.”

“Nobody calls me James, Mr. Director. Everyone in my office calls me Pownzor. Even people on the seventh floor do, too.”

“I’ll stick with James,” said Weber. “Explain the drill.”

Morris adjusted his glasses and took a step toward the center of the circle. For an awkward man, a “nerd,” in common parlance, he also had a presence and a sense of theater.

“So the good news about hackers is that they can be hacked. Based on what the walk-in told the base chief in Hamburg this morning, we have a pretty good idea of who he is and the circles he runs in. He’s connected to a group of hackers with roots in Russia who started with credit-card scams a decade ago, stealing people’s data and buying expensive stuff they could fence in a hurry. They graduated to much bigger frauds; they extort banks, gambling sites, anything that loses money fast if it goes off-line. But they’re not just scammers anymore. It’s a movement.”

“Meaning what?” asked Beasley. He didn’t believe in movements.

Morris’s eyes were gleaming behind the frames of his glasses. This was the part he understood best.

“They are motivated. They hate authority. To be specific, they hate us, the CIA.”

“Everybody hates the CIA,” said Beasley. “What else is new?”

Morris continued with his narrative, ignoring Beasley and looking at Weber.

“I’m flying to Germany tomorrow. The director is lending me his plane. I’ll be working with the base chief. The walk-in is supposed to be back at the consulate Monday morning, but we’ll try to find him before then. Once we get him, we’ll bring him out. I’d like to make his exfiltration look like he died: in a car accident, that’s the easiest. We don’t want these people to know that one of their kids has flipped and come over to us.”

“You know what I think?” muttered Beasley, his voice dropping an octave to a menacing low bass. “I think we should fuck… them… up.”

Beasley was a Princeton man, out of a prep school before that, but he knew how to sound street-tough.

Morris adjusted his glasses. He was at pains to correct Beasley.

“These hackers may look funny, with their tattoos and spike hair, but they are serious people. They have weapons. They fight back. That’s why we need to download this man as quickly as we can. Then, well, then you can slit their throats if you like. But I suggest it would be wiser to get inside their computer networks.”

People nodded. Nobody in the room had ever heard Morris talk about slitting throats, or imagined that he was a man who thought in those terms, but he was playing the role the director had given him.

“Why would hackers go after the CIA?” asked Ruth Savin. “Isn’t that a reach?” The general counsel hadn’t spoken until now. She was the watcher and note-taker at meetings like this, and she enjoyed asking uncomfortable questions.

Weber looked at Morris, who remained silent. He didn’t respond to questions if he didn’t have an answer.

“Are they working for another government?” pressed Savin.

Weber looked again to his Information Operations chief, but the tall young man was impassive.

“I don’t think we know,” said Weber. “That’s why we’ve got to get this walk-in out of Germany and hear what he has to say.”

“We need to be careful about how we try to penetrate these groups,” said Savin. “Beasley has been ordered to stay away from WikiLeaks and their friends. There is a huge flap potential if anything surfaces.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Morris. “But we need to develop sources.”

Heads nodded in agreement, even Beasley’s.

There was a rustling sound, as Cyril Hoffman moved about on the couch. Hoffman hadn’t said a word until now. He had sat quietly on the couch with his hands clasped together, listening to the discussion. He was a large man, and the folds of his voluminous jacket covered him like a cape.

“May I?” Hoffman asked, looking to Weber.

“Please. I want to know what you think about all this.”

“I feel badly for you, Graham,” Hoffman began. “What a welcoming present. I am reminded of the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: a crescendo right at the beginning, with the whole orchestra racing along behind. Yet all anyone remembers is those first few notes.”

“I’m not much on classical music,” said Weber.

“No one is perfect, Mr. Director. Now, you asked me what I think about this Hamburg business, so I’ll tell you. To quote the indispensable Talleyrand, ‘One can do everything with a bayonet except sit on it.’”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you have to respond, but carefully. This is either a big problem that threatens the agency’s communications, or a small problem created by a young man in Germany with fanciful ideas. But unfortunately, you don’t know which yet. So you have to protect against the worst without damaging yourself in the process.”

“Forgive the mundane. But what would Talleyrand say about operational security?”

“Treat this as a code break. Change encryption keys. Sweep the facilities in Germany and Switzerland. Do a damage assessment on the officers’ names that have been revealed. Who have they recruited? What operations have been compromised? Beasley can do all that for you. Damage control is one of his specialties.”

Hoffman looked at Beasley, with whom he had been doing business for nearly two decades. Beasley nodded.

“Okay,” said Weber. “What else?”

“I am intrigued by your plan to give principal responsibility to our young colleague, Mr. Pownzor. That’s unusual.” Hoffman looked toward Morris indulgently.

“Meaning that you think it’s a mistake?” asked the director.

“Not necessarily. It sends a message: You’re the change agent! So here’s a bit of change, right off the bat: entrusting a sensitive problem to a young man who has the ‘right stuff.’ It tells the workforce that you are the new man; you mean what you say. Bravo to that!”

Hoffman clapped his hands, barely audibly, pat-pat-pat.

“Thank you,” said Weber, knowing that the director of intelligence had just given him the authority and opportunity to destroy himself.

Cyril Hoffman was an unlikely intelligence czar. He was an eccentric, theatrical personality — rumored to be gay, but such a Protean character that any such effort at categorization was misplaced. He was a student of Philip Glass operas and the history of Italian city-states; he was an amateur poet and cellist; he was a man of parts. This improbable figure had survived at the agency, and indeed had eventually been promoted to director of National Intelligence, because he understood the nature of power in a secret bureaucracy. Nearly everyone in the U.S. government owed him a favor. Abroad, he had his own back channels with the heads of a dozen foreign spy services. Above all, Hoffman understood that the eleventh commandment for spies was, in the words of Lord Palmerston: “Do not get caught.”

Weber took up the rope of command that Hoffman had handed him. He asked Beasley to summarize the damage-control measures he would take in EUR Division, and he asked Morris to go over one more time what they knew about the walk-in and the milieu from which he had emerged.

“Any other items of business?” asked Weber when these recitations were finished. “It’s my first Friday afternoon, so let’s clear the decks.”

“I have some operational approvals that need your sign-off,” said Beasley. “The Special Activities Review Committee sent five tasking orders to the general counsel’s office. Ruth has cleared them all. They’re all Internet-related. We can do that now or save it for another time.”

“Go ahead. Empty the in-box. What have you got?”

Beasley took five slim red folders from Savin and handed them to the director. The pure white cuff of his London shirt extended from his blue suit.

“As I said, it’s five items. Two are about facilitating cover, two are about case officer movements, one is a general authority.”

“Do they involve U.S. corporations?” asked Weber. He was used to being on the receiving end of operations like this.

“Yes, sir,” said Beasley. “For the cover integration, we need to massage some social networking sites and search engines to backstop the legends. We’re doing the work overseas, so it’s under existing authorities and approvals.”

Beasley was talking fast. Weber interrupted. This was his meeting, and he wanted to run it.

“Is that right?” Weber asked Savin. “Is this all legal?”

“Yes, sir. It accords with our existing identities-protection program, and with Executive Order 12333, as amended.”

“Are the companies witting?”

“Not in every case,” she answered.

“Which means what?”

“Which means that some of the general counsels’ offices have personnel who have served in government and hold the necessary clearances and are familiar with our procedures.”

“Do they tell their bosses?”

“Where appropriate. In many cases, the CEOs have been briefed extensively, and so they are witting, yes. I know you remember that from your former life.”

“That’s why it makes me nervous,” said Weber. “So you talk to friendly CEOs, and in other cases, not so much.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it’s overseas, so it doesn’t really matter, because under Title Fifty we can do whatever we want,” said the director as if reading a legal primer.

“Pretty much,” chimed in Beasley, a twinkle in his eye.

“Let’s give this one a closer look,” said Weber. “I’ll sit down with Ruth and go over the rules.”

People looked at each other. Directors didn’t question operational approvals that had been okayed by the general counsel.

“Let’s move on,” said Weber. “What about the movements of case officers? What’s that?”

“Two requests,” said Beasley. “Change retinal-scan database in Dubai for a traveling officer who has already transited that point under a different identity, and alter a fingerprint database in Russia, same reason.”

“What if we get busted?”

“We won’t,” said a voice from the back. It was Morris, who was still standing just back from the couch. “Our tradecraft is well developed. Our alteration software erases its tracks as it changes the data. We are invisible, in and out.”

Morris seemed to light up when he talked about technical issues. It was part of his uncanny, almost spooky self-confidence.

Weber held up the last red file marked Information Operations and Global Financial Market Integrity.

“This looks dubious,” said the director. “What is it, Earl?”

“Ask Morris,” said Beasley. “This one will go through his shop.”

Morris looked at the floor awkwardly.

“To be clear: This was not my idea, but it will use IOC resources. Basically, it’s a general authority for collection of economic intelligence via the Internet.”

“Why are we doing that? I thought we left that sort of thing to the French and Chinese.”

“The markets are… nervous,” said Morris. “Everyone is looking over their shoulders. So… inevitably, people are hacking other people’s databases and market platforms. They’re installing beacons; getting ready to change zeroes and ones, if they ever need to.”

“Why is that inevitable?”

Morris peered back at the director from behind those black glasses. He was trying to read his new boss.

“Because, Mr. Director, if people can play games with any system, they will. It’s a sport for younger people. They like to attack systems just to show how stupid other people are. Director Jankowski thought we needed to be prepared.”

“He’s gone now,” said Weber. “What about us? Are we altering other people’s data? Are we penetrating their ‘databases and market platforms’?”

Ruth Savin, the general counsel, answered before anyone else could speak.

“We do not collect intelligence on behalf of American companies,” she said.

“Is that a formal prohibition?” asked Weber.

The room was silent. Most eyes turned to the senior official present, Cyril Hoffman.

“Is this the time for a full review?” sighed Hoffman. He was looking at his watch. “This is a story for another day, surely. Mr. Morris needs to get working so he can catch his plane tomorrow.”

Savin took the cue from the DNI. She reached toward the director to take back the five red folders, but Weber held them close.

“I want to check the small print,” said Weber.

“Of course, sir. We’ll set up a time in the reading room.”

“But suppose I want to read them now.”

“The practice has always been to return operational files at the end of the meeting. These files are subject to the special controls for the Special Activities Review Committee. Would you like to change those procedures, Director?”

Weber looked at Hoffman, whose mouth was turned down at the corners in something approaching a scowl.

“Leave the procedures unchanged,” said the director. “I’ll schedule a time to come read.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“And I’ll want to read into the back files, too, to review information operations that were approved previously and are on the books.”

Savin looked to Hoffman, who was stone-faced. Their silence peeved Weber.

“Hey, folks, let’s be clear. I’m not going to stay in a job if I can’t read the files. Not a chance. I’ll call the president. He can find someone else.”

Hoffman puckered his lips. He didn’t like public displays, and he didn’t like it when officials who had been in their jobs for one week threatened to quit. But little showed on that round, genial face.

“Of course that can be managed,” he said calmly, measuring each word. “Ruth, make whatever arrangements are necessary to read the director in.”

Hoffman gave a little bow toward Graham Weber. There was bland look on his face, a mask of cordiality.

“And again, welcome, Mr. Director,” he said, extending his hand. “You have taken on a very big job. I don’t want to see you fail.”

It was an expression of confidence, if you parsed the words, but Weber sensed that he was perilously close to making an enemy. He clasped Hoffman’s elbow as people were heading toward the door.

“Thank you,” said Weber.

“Perhaps I might stay for a few private words,” said Hoffman as the last of the other visitors left the room. He walked to the door and closed it.

The two men took seats opposite each other. They formed a contrasting portrait: one man large and ceremonious, the other compact and informal. But it was also a juxtaposition of two generations and cultures: an older one rooted in a past that, whatever its recent difficulties, had the weight and momentum of history; the other proposing an uncertain future with both opportunities and dislocations.

Hoffman spoke first. He was more intimate in private, no longer playing a role.

“You really must be careful, you know,” said Hoffman. “We all understand that the world has to change. I supported the president’s decision to bring you in, because I know we need a fresh start. But if you pull too hard on the thread, you will soon find that you don’t have any sweater left.”

Weber nodded. He needed Hoffman’s help but wasn’t sure how to get it without compromising his own goals.

“I don’t want to scare people, Cyril, especially not you. But if you don’t frighten people a little in the beginning, they won’t take you seriously. You have to send things back at first, and tell people they can do better. Otherwise you’re stuck.”

“Yes, yes.” Hoffman smiled. “I know that’s what they teach at the Harvard Business School. But this is different. You are now responsible for the security of your country. The world is a very dangerous place these days, and, thanks to our leaker friends, the NSA and CIA have lost their ability to monitor some of the truly menacing people. That’s not government propaganda, it’s a simple fact. The leakers have taken our most precious secrets and exposed them to the whole world. The programs that have been revealed cost many billions of dollars. People gave their lives to protect those secrets, and now they are being published in the newspapers willy-nilly.”

“You probably blame me for opening the floodgate,” said Weber. “Most of my new colleagues do. But you have to understand: I’m trying to make the country stronger, not weaker.”

“Of course you are. And nobody blames you for anything. But you must consider what it would be like if the country were attacked again, and make sure that you would be comfortable with your actions. That’s all.”

Hoffman stood. He had given his speech, and it was time to go. But Weber had one more question.

“Am I doing the right thing sending Morris to Germany?” he asked.

“Probably. Morris is a useful young man. We gave him some special authority this past year, and he has been quite creative with it. But be careful with Morris. He is not of your generation, let alone mine. We may not entirely understand him.”

Hoffman extended his hand once more. Weber clasped it.

“Thanks for helping,” said Weber.

“I’m not helping! I am merely observing. If you ever truly need my help, it is certainly available. But that would be most unfortunate, because it would mean that you had failed.”

Hoffman turned and let himself out the door. Weber returned to his desk. Night had fallen, in the time since he had begun his senior staff meeting. The parking lots were emptying out, and the lights were twinkling across the river from the civilian world that agency employees liked to describe collectively as “downtown.”

In Hamburg, Sandoval waited at the consulate for an answer until it was nearly midnight in Germany and quitting time at Headquarters. She ate potato chips and drank diet sodas from the vending machine and tried to get ready to handle all the questions from the seventh floor about her first big case. In a nervous binge, she finished three packs of chips. At midnight when there was still no reply, she ordered a pizza from the local Joey’s.

Sandoval received an answer from Washington just before two a.m. Saturday, Hamburg time. The message informed her that the case would be handled by James Morris, the head of the Information Operations Center, who would be arriving in Germany on Sunday morning.

“Those bastards,” Sandoval muttered to herself when she read the message. Headquarters had decided the Latina girl couldn’t handle it, so they were sending in an Anglo male branch chief. A decade’s worth of CIA self-doubt suffused her: She was just window dressing for the promotion boards and diversity reviews, given assignments but not trusted.

Sandoval brooded for a few minutes, and then called the Ops Center on the secure phone and asked to be connected with James Morris in Information Operations. The line was dead for perhaps a minute, and then Morris came on the line, his voice flat.

“This is Morris,” he said.

“You’re taking my case away,” said Sandoval coldly.

“No theatrics, please. This is business.”

“Excuse me? I’m not being theatrical, I’m being angry. This is my walk-in and my case. Why am I being relieved?”

“Sorry about that. No offense meant. But this is an IOC case now, restricted handling. It involves some issues outside your lane.”

“My message was for the director personally,” she said icily. “How did it end up in your hands?”

“Because the director gave it to me.”

“What if I protest? Complain to my division chief. This is obvious sexism. Girl gets case, boy takes over case. That’s bullshit.”

“Take it to whoever you want. You’ll lose. I’m bringing him out of Germany in the director’s G-5. That’s orders. If it seems unfair, you can complain to the inspector general. Be my guest. I arrive Sunday morning. But please: I’m not your enemy.”