The God's Eye View

EPILOGUE

Remar and two aides strode down the corridor of the Hart Senate Office Building, flanked by a four-man security detail, their footfalls along the long carpeted floor the muffled drumbeat of a large and purposeful group of visitors. Remar had never needed, or wanted, an entourage before, but apparently being appointed by the president to the office of director of the National Security Agency had its rewards. Or its burdens. Regardless of his personal feelings, today he knew it was important to look the part. He would be testifying before the Senate Intelligence Committee, which in turn would recommend to the full Senate that his appointment either be confirmed or shot down. He was reasonably confident things would go smoothly, but saw no reason to leave anything to chance, either.

From beyond the railing to their left, one floor down on the ground level of the eight-story atrium, came the muted cacophony of platoons of cynical lobbyists, exhausted staffers, high school field trippers craning their necks to better take in the wonder of finding themselves surrounded by the marble-clad walls of the World’s Greatest Deliberative Body. They passed the flag-draped entrance to the Senate Committee on Ethics and a long line of ceiling security cameras, then stopped outside 219, the secure room where the committee met to discuss classified matters. Remar checked his watch. Perfect. There was another hearing in 219 that morning, scheduled to finish just before Remar’s began, and Remar wanted to be there when it ended.

After a few minutes, the doors opened with a slight hiss of escaping, pressurized air. Ryan Hamilton walked out beside Betsy Leed, the editor of the Intercept. A second woman, older than either, was in tow. Remar recognized the second woman as the paper’s lawyer. He was struck by the irony that the reporters felt they needed a lawyer while he didn’t. And by how the committee was willing to hear Hamilton’s testimony only in secret.

They saw Remar and pulled up short. The two women looked at him with cold implacability; Hamilton, with hatred.

For a moment, they all stood and eyed each other, like a scene from the OK Corral. Hamilton was wearing a cheap-looking gray suit that hung loosely from his shoulders. Under it, a white shirt too large for his neck and swallowing the knot of a blue tie. He’d lost weight following his abduction, and hadn’t yet managed to gain it back. Well, according to the transcripts Remar had seen of Hamilton’s sessions with his therapist, loss of appetite was common after an ordeal like his. So were Hamilton’s vivid nightmares — nightmares involving details of his abduction he preferred not be made public. Understandably so.

“Ryan,” Remar said. “You’re looking well. I’m glad.”

“Fuck you,” Hamilton shot back. The lawyer touched his arm, but he shook it off.

“I’m sorry there hasn’t been more progress in locating the deaf man you say abducted you. I can assure you, NSA has been offering all its resources to the FBI and Interpol.”

Hamilton drew back his lips as though to spit. “You people make me sick.”

Remar nodded gravely. “I understand how you feel. For what it’s worth, I want to personally thank you for helping to expose the abuses former director Anders was committing. As well as I thought I knew him, in the end I was as shocked as you must have been.”

“Really?” Hamilton said. “You think we’re shocked to learn the government is lying? And worse?”

“No, you’re right. Of course not. But speaking as a citizen, I’m glad the press has been doing its part in maintaining the vital balance between our nation’s liberty and its security. In fact, I think your coverage of this God’s Eye program former director Anders was running has been superb, and I’m grateful for it.”

“Ah, the former director,” Leed said. “I’m guessing you haven’t been any more successful in finding his killers than you have been in finding Mr. Hamilton’s kidnapper?”

Remar dipped his head and touched the eye patch. He’d sensed how Manus would handle the knowledge of the director’s betrayal. And while he hadn’t told Manus what to do, he hadn’t told him not to, either. The outcome was good, he knew. Cleaner. Simpler. But still.

“I wish I had better news in that regard,” he said, after a moment. “But no. The working theory is that it was a revenge operation, carried out by elements of the terror cell responsible for the DC bombing.”

“That was an inside job,” Hamilton said. “And you know it.”

“I know there are people who believe that. There are also people who say the same about 9/11. Of course, if you have proof — an unimpeachable source, that kind of thing — I’m sure you’ll be covering it.”

He waited for a moment, watching them closely.

“You’re right about that,” Leed said. “There’s lots more to come.”

She said it with confidence, but Remar knew it was a bluff. If they’d had anything, Hamilton, who was running hotter than the other two, would have blurted it out then and there.

Besides, Gallagher had taken the severance Remar had offered. He wasn’t even bothering to have her watched. He knew she would do nothing to put her son at risk. And even if she did, so what? The word of a disgruntled former employee against a decorated war hero and soon-to-be four-star general? And Manus would never say anything, either. He was even more implicated than Gallagher. And, it was plain, was as intent on protecting her as she was on protecting her son. He hadn’t checked in since the C&O Canal, but that was okay. Remar had no desire to press him. Live and let live.

“I’ll look forward to your continued reporting,” he said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, it seems I have a confirmation hearing to attend.”

Hamilton frowned as though getting ready to say something, but Leed touched his arm. “Ryan. Why don’t we write another of those articles the general seems to enjoy so much?”

Hamilton nodded and allowed himself to be led off, his eyes still glowing with fury.

Remar’s men looked at him for guidance. He nodded sympathetically and said, “He’s been through a lot.”

He patted the fruit salad on the breast of his army service uniform, gave the jacket tails a brisk tug, and strode into the hearing.

The nineteen members of the committee were waiting for him, arrayed around a red, velvet-draped, U-shaped platform raised several feet above the long wooden table where he and his aides took their seats.

“General,” Senator McQueen said, after the room had been secured. His amplified voice echoed off the high ceiling, giving it a disembodied feel, and not for the first time in a setting like this one, Remar imagined the Wizard of Oz. “Welcome. I’m sure the rest of the committee is looking forward to this hearing as much as I am. Despite all the conspiracy theories we’ve been hearing about lately, I’m confident the entire process of your confirmation will be a smooth one.”

Remar dipped his head modestly. “Thank you, Senator. I’m looking forward to answering all your questions and dispelling what myths I can.”

The remainder of the hearing was as scripted as its opening. A lot of talk about more oversight, a beefed-up FISA court, maybe a “privacy advocate,” whatever the hell that would be. Though as a marketing concept, Remar had to admit, the idea had its merits. The president himself would appoint whomever he wanted in the role, but people would hear the nomenclature, believe their privacy was being advocated, and tune out all the troubling details.

“And we’ll need proof that this ‘God’s Eye’ has been dismantled,” one of the more liberal members of the committee opined.

“Of course, Senator. As you know, that’s already under way.”

“Now just one minute,” Senator McQueen interjected. “We all know former director Anders was abusing God’s Eye. But we also know the program prevented numerous terror attacks. Saved countless lives. Were there excesses? Of course there were. But those were Anders’s excesses. We’ll fix the program. Ensure there’s better oversight. But let’s not throw out the baby with the bathwater.”

There were murmurs of disagreement and assent. The liberal senator spoke up again. “This kind of program is too dangerous to exist. I want it dismantled, not cleaned up.”

Remar thought about the “privacy advocate” and was struck by sudden inspiration.

“Well, Senator,” he said, “there is a successor program. Much less intrusive, much greater oversight. I expect it to be equally effective against the terrorist threat.”

“Yes?” the senator said. “And what is this program called?”

Remar smiled. “We’re calling it Guardian Angel.”

The senators collectively leaned back in their plush chairs, nodding sagely, and a low purr of contentment echoed in the room.

That was the way it worked in the modern world. Remar hadn’t designed the machine; his job now was simply to run it, and he intended to do his job sensibly and well. Because, in the end, God’s Eye was more than just a name. It was a way of life, and people had gotten used to it.

“Guardian Angel, then?” Remar said.

Senator McQueen nodded. “And I can’t think of a better man to run it than you, General. You know you will have my full support. Thank you for your service, and for your lifelong dedication to keeping the American people safe.”

Remar offered a single, crisp nod. “Thank you, Senator. I’ll continue to do what I can. In fact, I know we all will.”