“We know the senator hates CIA’s guts,” said Westfall.
“Maybe the Kremlin is paying her to bring down the Agency,” said Benford. “She’d like to do that, her and her butt boy Farbissen.” Forsyth didn’t buy it, but motioned Westfall to continue.
“Next we have Vice Admiral Audrey Rowland. She’s actually been running the railgun project since it started. Now she’s running all the navy labs with science and weapons and stealth stuff the Russians would love to steal.”
“Motivation?” asked Nate.
“She’s the cleanest of the bunch,” said Westfall. “Third star, medals, physics brain, poster girl for the navy. She stays at home too. No time at all with the fleet at sea. Military pension when she retires.”
“Hobbies? Vices? Habits? Addictions? Vulnerabilities?” asked Forsyth, the case officer, looking for a handle.
Westfall shook his head. “Nothing except the china doll heads,” he said.
“What in God’s name is that?” said Forsyth.
“The admiral is a major collector. She’s even mentioned on some websites.”
“Marvelous,” said Benford, “but what are they? Tell me they’re from Russia perhaps?”
“No,” said Westfall. “You know those antique porcelain dolls from Victorian Britain or nineteenth-century Germany with those creepy stares and Cupid’s bow mouths, and rouged fever cheeks? Not the whole dolls, not the antique dresses, the admiral just collects the heads. She’s got hundreds of them, all on some shelf, staring.”
“At this point Marty Gable would make a crack about inflatable love dolls,” said Benford.
They were all quiet for a second. “Frigging dolls. Ask the shrinks what it means,” said Nate. “Maybe the admiral’s got a secret life.”
“With that hair?” said Benford. “She looks like Martha Washington.”
“That comment is mildly unpatriotic,” said Nate. Benford swiped the air as if batting gnats.
“It doesn’t matter how clean the admiral seems. Don’t underestimate military culture,” said Forsyth. “Advancement is everything, especially for women in the services. Bringing military discipline to a civilian agency might appeal to her scientific mind. For flag-rank officers, finding a job with influence after retirement is important. It could be a lot of factors.”
“I still think the admiral comes in as the cleanest of the bunch. I can’t see her meeting with the Russians and hiding blood diamonds under the floorboards.”
“What about the third guy?” snapped Benford.
“The ambassador. Sort of a lightweight, but during his four years in Embassy Rome he was reading plenty of classified cables. Now he’s on the Intelligence Working Group, which gives him moderate access the Russians would want. Lots of business travel overseas for years, including commodities deals in Belarus, so that’s a red flag. He was in Hollywood once, and likes money. He’s worth around one hundred million dollars, so maybe becoming Director is just an ego thing.”
“But no access to the railgun, right? We can cross him off,” said Forsyth. Westfall handed him a sheet of paper.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “But it happens that he worked on a five-year navy railgun contract because his precious-metals company manufactured beryllium oxide ceramic heat diffusers for the magnetic rails—they get hot with all that juice running through them, and Ambassador Tommy Vano knows railgun design intimately. He made another bundle on the contract, donated to the right campaign—he’s moderately liberal but he looks out for himself—and became an ambassador.”
“Who thinks he can run CIA. Christ. So any of the three could be MAGNIT,” said Forsyth. “The admiral is least likely, for reasons of motive and ideology, are we agreed? And there’s another briefing tomorrow. The Acting Director wants Russia cases to be briefed this time.”
“We’re not opening our restricted cases to these fuckers,” Benford said.
“Not smart, Simon,” said Forsyth. “The Director would love to take you down as he walks out the door.”
“I will not brief any of the three on DIVA. She would be dead in a week.” There was silence at the table, until Benford raised his head.
“I need to speak to Nash. May we reconvene in two hours? Thank you.”
The conference room cleared quickly. Benford stared at Nash for a full minute. “Please do not utter a word until I finish speaking.” Benford was always telling people not to speak, but the tone in his voice this time told Nash he was waltzing on the rim of the volcano. Benford handed him a cable from Moscow, a translation of a note Dominika had passed to Ricky Walters during a dangerous personal meeting. She had written that the death of Gable had affected her deeply and that she would curtail personal meetings until such time as she could be resupplied with SRAC. She would, of course, inform colleagues whenever she was in the West to arrange meetings then, but no more inside contact.
