Zimmerman's Algorithm

1.09 Sat. Mar. 7

P resident John Rayburn sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, his chair half-turned toward the window, away from the other men in the room. He was possibly the most physically imposing man to occupy that seat since L.B.J. He loomed over everyone, even when he was seated and only half paying attention.

The two other men in the office with him were his National Security Adviser, Emmit D'Arcy, a short man with thick glasses that he kept adjusting on his nose; and the director of the CIA, Lawrence Fitzsimmons, a man with sandy brown hair and a dead gray beard.

Outside the windows, dawn was drawing a dull gray light across the rose garden.

"This is where we are right now," Fitzsimmons said. "There's no sign of any connection between Kareem Rashad Williams and Zimmerman, despite what the NSA's computers might have said. There's some chance that it might have been deliberate misinformation.

"We've coordinated efforts with the DISA to follow up every breach and near-breach of computer security in about twelve hundred secure intelligence and defense systems looking for any attacks that might have been engineered by Zimmerman. We have every regional office monitoring Internet activity overseas—"

Rayburn turned the pages on a file in front of him. Eventually he said in a slow Texas drawl, "Hellfire."

"It's only a matter of time before Zimmerman makes a slip—" Fitzsimmons started to say.

Rayburn shook his head. "Goddamn—I'm starting to think that the damage from the search is going to be worse than anything Zimmerman could engineer. This is the second shoot-out across the evening news. Things like this have sunk more popular administrations than this one."

"We are dealing with a severe threat to the National Security—"

"Don't patronize me, Larry. I was Army Intelligence when we self-destructed in Vietnam. I know exactly what kind of threat Zimmerman poses. I also know what kind of threat your own Agency poses."

Rayburn stood up. "You still can't even tell me who Zimmerman defected to."

"As soon as we can trace some computer activity . . ."

"That's what you were saying a week ago." Rayburn shook his head. "Larry, you aren't getting anywhere. The Daedalus theft was as close as you've managed to get, and all that's gotten us is two corpses, a wounded D.C. cop, and a half-dozen Central Americans who only know about some 'Deep Throat' in a Howard Johnson's parking lot. Meanwhile, I'm feeding my Attorney General to the dogs to cover this operation, and Zimmerman's trail is as cold as the chips in that damn computer."

Fitzsimmons seemed to wince slightly.

"It is unfortunate," D'Arcy said.

"Unfortunate?" Rayburn replied. "You have a gift for understatement, Emmit." He turned to Fitzsimmons and said, "At the moment, Emmit is the only thing standing between Congress and your balls-up operation."

Fitzsimmons looked across at D'Arcy.

"I'm giving D'Arcy overall control of the effort to recover Zimmerman."

"But," Fitzsimmons protested, "this was the Agency's—"

Rayburn stared at Fitzsimmons. "If you want to split hairs, this is counterespionage and should be the FBI's bailiwick. Especially since it looks like Zimmerman hasn't left the country."

Rayburn turned to the National Security Advisor. The man was small, but unlike Fitzsimmons, he didn't seem to shrink from under Rayburn's gaze.

D'Arcy took a handkerchief, removed his glasses, and began cleaning them. "We can't let rivalries or past mistakes cloud the issue." D'Arcy replaced his glasses, and his eyes enlarged behind the lenses.

"Zimmerman's a serious threat. We cannot dwell on this one 'cluster-fuck.' We're dealing with a time bomb here. We have to recover her before she irreparably damages the security of every computer system in this country. From what I know of the CIA's investigation, we only have one tenuous assumption—that Zimmerman is still in the country."

D'Arcy shook his head. "And whatever damage has been done, Zimmerman's retrieval needs to be covert. More covert than the Daedalus incident. If it became publicly known that she's.out there, it would be nearly as damaging to our security as her defection."

Rayburn walked back to his desk and picked up the file he'd been leafing through. "Back at square one."

D'Arcy shook his head. "No, we've lost ground. The Daedalus might have lured her in, but this 'accident' will have made her more wary. She's unquestionably a genius, and while she may be naive about covert operations, she won't make the same mistake twice."

Rayburn closed the file. "I hope I can say the same about the CIA." The President glared at the two men. "No more cowboy shit on CNN, understand? You have to take this woman, but goddamn you can be subtle about it. Get out of here."

D'Arcy and pitzsimmons left together, and as they walked down the hall out of earshot of the Oval Office, Fitzsimmons asked, "Emmit?"

"Larry?"

"Think I should start looking for a job in the private sector?"

Morris Kendal sat in a booth in the rear of a diner. The diner was on the fringes of Arlington, toward Largely. The booth was a little too small for him, the table pressed against his three-hundred-pound gut. He whiled away the time wondering if there could be anything to Gideon's paranoia. Even though he was here on Gideon's behalf, he still felt that his friend was engaging in an elaborate self-justification because his brother was the one who got killed in the shoot-out.

Kendal understood. If he was in Gideon's place, he'd want to believe that there was some great conspiracy behind what happened.

However, even if he thought that the thing was a generic Washington law-enforcement screwup, he was still treating his friend's fears seriously. That was why he was here in an anonymous diner with dirty windows and flyspecked lamp shades.

Kendal was on his third cup of coffee when Christoffel walked in. He walked up to Kendal's booth and asked, "Is this seat taken?"

Christoffel knew it wasn't, but he always asked anyway.

"Go ahead," Kendal said. He had cultivated Christoffel for a few years now. Always with these informal chats. What Christoffel got out of it was the information Kendal gathered as a security consultant for a half-dozen embassies and foreign officials. What Kendal got out of it was the opportunity to pump Christoffel for information.

Kendal nodded slightly to the seat next to Christoffel. "You're sitting next to Saudi Arabia."

Christoffel slid down the seat, and though Kendal didn't see him do it, Kendal knew he palmed the CD that'd rested on the seat next to him. On the CD was a catalog of security measures of a Saudi diplomatic attache, including a list of the procedures used against electronic surveillance.

"So how're things at the Agency?" Kendal asked.

"Same old, same old."

Kendal gave his disarming smile and commented, "Not what I hear." It was the usual banter, but Kendal noticed something wrong. Christoffel looked nervous. He never looked nervous. It was as if his offhand comment had struck a nerve. Maybe Gideon was on to something here.

"Do you need anything?" Christoffel asked. "I'm late for an appointment."

Then why aren't you looking at your watch ?

"Yeah," Kendal asked. "I want to talk to you about a certain Secret Service operation." Kendal swore the guy actually paled when he said that. This was a guy who had once told him of covert operations to topple three different third-world governments in a single conversation without showing a twinge of discomfort.

"I can't help you," Christoffel said, and stood up.

"Wait a minute," Kendal said. "You've got to give me something."

Christoffel looked at Kendal, and did something he'd never done before. He took the CD out of his pocket and laid it on the table in front of Kendal. "No, I don't, Morris."

Kendal looked at the CD, then back up at Christoffel.

Christoffel shook his head. "As much as I know, which isn't much, I shouldn't know. Leave it alone."

He walked out of the diner, leaving Kendal with his CD full of Saudi intelligence secrets.

Morris Kendal met Chaviv Tischler in the Georgetown Mall. Tischler was a minor diplomat at the Israeli Embassy,. He was also Kendal's contact with the Mossad. Not that Tischler ever identified himself as anything other than a secretary.

Kendal wasn't in the habit of dealing with governments other than the U.S. However, since he worked for so many Middle Eastern states, it was only natural that he'd develop some sort of relationship with the Israelis.

If anything, his relationship with Tischler was even more informal than the one he had with Christoffel.

Tischler was a white-haired old man with a humorous glint in his eyes that were otherwise as hard as steel. He was as tall as Kendal, but much less massive, so it still seemed as if Kendal loomed over him.

Tischler was leaning on the railing, looking down a level at the people going from shop to shop on the ground floor. Kendal walked up to the railing and put a hand on it.

"You wanted to see me?" Tischler asked.

"I have some data you might find useful." Kendal's hand was on the Saudi disk in his pocket.

Tischler nodded. There never was any question about Kendal's intelligence. If he brought it to Tischler's attention, Tischler knew he could use it. Tischler also knew that there was a quid pro quo involved.

Tischler pushed away from the rail and waved him along. "Come, let's walk."

Kendal followed the old Israeli diplomat as Tischler asked, "Now what is it you want?"

"I'm looking into a certain Secret Service fiasco—"

"Ah. That is a U.S. matter. I don't think you expect us to spy on our allies?"

And tell me about it? No. "I was just hoping that you may have heard something .. ."

"Through the grapevine, so to speak?"

Kendal nodded.

"Keep your data, my friend. This is riot something I wish to be involved in."

Christ, what is it about this that has everyone running scared?

Tischler turned to face Kendal. "Some advice, leave this be. All I could give you would be rumors."

"What's going on, Chaviv? What the hell has got you spooked?"

Tischler chuckled and looked at the ceiling. "What does everyone on the planet fear? What binds me to a Ukrainian, a Slav, a Thai?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The United States." Tischler shook his head and turned to walk away.

Kendal grabbed his shoulder. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean that I can't even appear to be interested in this matter. If you would please let me go."

Kendal released his hand, and Tischler walked away from him, not looking back.

What does everyone on the planet fear?

The United States. . .

What was Tischler talking about? It was obvious that he knew more than he admitted. Kendal doubted the Israelis shied away from any information—but Tischler's comment about "appearing to be interested," that was chilling. The intelligence relationship between the U.S. and Israel was close enough that they often—not a lot, but often—shared intelligence with each other.

But Tischler had just about said that what was going on was sensitive enough that it would cause an incident if the Israelis were involved, or expressed interest in it. The way he'd said it made Kendal think that Tischler believed that that kind of incident might lead to war.

Kendal fingered the Saudi disk in his pocket and wondered what could've scared Tischler that bad.