The Nearest Exit (46 page)

Maximilian Grzybowski and Derek Abbott were roommates, sharing a loft in Georgetown. Klein and Jones waited for them to head out for their Sunday night thrills and spent a couple of hours perusing an extensive DVD collection of pornography and action thrillers, then worked their way through the laptops. Neither kept any sensitive information, though Grzybowski did have a hidden folder that, once Klein figured out the password, turned out to be full of more pornography—gay pornography. A decade or two ago, the threat of this becoming public might have been reason enough to spill classified secrets, but no longer.

After one on Monday morning, they made it to Jane Chan’s apartment—curiously empty—and discovered what they were half-expecting to find, extensive mementos of Hong Kong. Family pictures, letters and e-mails, and packages of gifts she’d received from her uncles, aunts, and cousins. Besides Susan Jackson’s love affair, it
was the most damning material they had come across. Both women, so far, seemed the most open to coercion.

They also discovered that Jane Chan was carrying on an affair with the last person on their list, David Pearson, the legislative director Milo had met in Drummond’s office with Max Grzybowski. She had photographs of the two of them together, sometimes in various stages of undress, dated as far back as December. Jones offered her assessment. “If I was a mole, I’d certainly start screwing someone senior to me. Best way to get what you’re not supposed to have.”

It was a good point, and when they went over to Pearson’s apartment in Alexandria they found that Chan was sharing his bed. Jones left to collect Starbucks coffees for herself and Klein, and when, at seven, Pearson and Chan left looking like a perfect couple and climbed into Pearson’s Mazda to head to work, they moved in.

Pearson’s apartment, besides the smell of sex in the bedroom, was as clean as Raymond Salamon’s had been, so they could focus almost entirely on his laptop, which used two-factor authentication and 128-character pass phrases. Klein, though, had spent part of his youth as a hacker and needed about an hour and a half before shouting, “Eureka!”

His excitement was short-lived. The security was there only to protect Pearson’s personal life, his photos and family e-mails and his . . . poems. There were more than two hundred poems, ranging from haiku to terza rima, in a folder named, unimaginatively enough,
VERSE
. Most focused on history and love. There was nothing damning here, and the best they could manage was to notice what was missing—among the photographs of friends and family and even the Chinese ex-girlfriend with whom he’d twice visited Shanghai, Pearson had no photographs of himself with Jane Chan, though Chan’s photos went back three months. “The man’s obviously got yellow fever,” Jones told Milo during her call, “but Chan’s got no future with him.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t want any evidence of their relationship on his computer,” Milo suggested. “Irwin probably frowns on his aides dating.”

Jones wasn’t convinced. “No, honey. He’s just not that into her.”

It was peculiar, but in the end not peculiar enough to matter, nor to give Milo any insight. While the two women—Chan and Jackson—were their primary suspects, the truth was that it could be any of them.

Oskar had spent Monday morning filing background checks; it was the one dependably steady job since Erika had committed her transatlantic career suicide two years before. He sometimes recalled Franz’s advice—
Schwartz has had her time, Oskar. There’s no need to be on hand to witness the collapse
—and reexamined his reasons for sticking with a boss whose end was always nigh. Other times, though, he discounted it entirely, seeing Franz for what he really was: Theodor Wartmüller’s lapdog, terrified of losing scraps from his master’s table. Today, while visiting the office Franz shared with the now absent Brigit, he saw Franz as something in between the extremes.

“Here’s last week’s vetting reports.”

Without looking up from his laptop, Franz said, “It’s Monday, Oskar. That makes you a weekend late.”

“I was otherwise occupied.”

“Were you?”

Franz sometimes sustained entire conversations without looking up, so Oskar wasn’t dissuaded by the sight of the man’s thinning scalp. “Is Theodor in?”

Franz raised his head. It was that, the attention, that set Oskar’s nerves on edge. “He’s in a meeting. In S.”

“Right. The Americans.”

“Yes.”

Franz returned to his screen, but Oskar didn’t move. Finally, he looked at Oskar again. “Was there something else?”

“Could you call him out of the meeting?”

Franz laughed in a way that suggested laughter was unfamiliar, and not entirely comfortable. “You must be kidding!”

“It has to do with the Americans.”

“Then you can tell him after they’ve left.”

Oskar shook his head. “It might be useless by then.”

“You really are a riddle, Herr Leintz.”

“Well?”

“Well, do it yourself. I’m not taking responsibility for interrupting him.”

Oskar withdrew and in the corridor passed the young, pretty secretaries that, despite his devotion to Rebecka, the Swede, he always chatted up in the break room. Now, he gave each a smile that few returned. They knew he didn’t belong up here on the second floor. Ahead, he saw old Jan stepping into Conference Room S with a tray of cups. He jogged to catch up and caught the door before it closed.

Inside, men were laughing. He took in their faces, a broad spectrum of American types. The spectacled academic, two big football players, one business elite, even two black faces and an Asian—Japanese, he guessed—face. Seven. Plus Theodor Wartmüller at the head of the table, shaking his flushed face at some joke, and Brigit Deutsch in a knee-length skirt and high heels, leaning against the end of the table, basking in the attention all these men were giving her.

As Jan silently replaced empty coffee cups with full ones, Oskar peered through the slit in the door, finally catching Brigit’s eye. Her joy seemed to dissipate, replaced by . . . could it be embarrassment? Then she got hold of herself and gave Oskar a short, sharp shake of the head. He didn’t withdraw. Instead he motioned at Wartmüller, and waited.

Finally, she bowed to Wartmüller’s ear and whispered. Wartmüller found Oskar in the doorway. His smile remained as he said, “Just a moment, gentlemen,” and got up.

There was no anger when he came out into the corridor, just
condescension. “Oskar! I can’t say you’ve chosen the best time for a chat.”

“Sorry, sir, but it couldn’t wait.”

“It couldn’t wait another half hour?”

“It couldn’t wait until the Americans had left.”

A pair of secretaries passed, and Oskar moved closer to the room’s window, covered by venetian blinds. Wartmüller followed him. “Well?”

“Listen, I . . . I don’t feel entirely comfortable coming to you with this, but I don’t have a choice. Loyalty only goes so far, and then you have to start answering to your conscience.”

Wartmüller eyed him. “What are you getting at, Oskar?”

“It’s Erika. She’s been taking things into her own hands. Things that you should be aware of, particularly if you’re speaking openly with the Americans.”

“Please, Oskar. Time is precious.”

He took a long, exaggerated breath. “Last week—Friday—she met with Milo Weaver.”

“Milo—why?”

“They’ve formed an alliance. I can’t say what Erika’s getting out of it—she won’t tell me—but I do know that she’s helping Weaver investigate a mole in the CIA.”

Wartmüller considered that for a moment, though in the end he simply repeated the word. “Mole?”

“A Chinese mole. When I asked her what this had to do with us, she said that until the mole was tracked down, everything we said to the Americans would end up in Beijing. So I told her—I said that we had to bring you in. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know what to hold back.”

“And what did she say to that?” Wartmüller said distantly, a finger brushing his chin.

“She said that you would get in her way. Just to spite her. She said that you would stop her from talking to them.”

“To whom?”

“To the men in the room right now. She’s waiting for them in the parking lot.”

Wartmüller rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand. “You’re telling me that Erika’s standing outside, waiting to tell the Americans that they’ve got a mole?”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he said exactly what Erika had said he would say. “Listen, Oskar. I want you to tell me everything you know about this mole theory. What department? How long has he been around?”

Oskar shook his head. “She’s only told me what I’ve told you. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“She wanted me to pull up everything we have on an American senator. Nathan Irwin. Republican.”

“Okay,” said Wartmüller, thinking through all of this.

“It’s hard,” said Oskar.

“Certainly is.”

“No, I mean this. Going behind her back. I don’t want you to think this is how I treat my superiors.”

Wartmüller got a distant look again; then he focused and smiled grimly, placing a heavy hand on Oskar’s shoulder. “Oskar, listen to me. You have no reason to feel guilty. Understand? You’ve done the right thing.”

“Thank you, sir. That helps.”

An hour later, when he was back at his desk, Erika came in slowly, moving her immense body from support to support—the doorway, the back of a chair, the corner of his desk. She said, “It’s freezing outside.”

“It is,” said Oskar.

“Any idea if Wartmüller’s visitors have gone yet?”

“I believe they left about twenty minutes ago.”

“Hmm.” She moved back to her chair, both hands gripping it. “I suppose someone showed them the rear exit. You think that’s possible, Oskar?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “Anything’s possible.”

The call came through at 1:23
P.M
. on Tuesday, while Drummond was in the conference room, discussing with the fraud section the movement of funds between three banks—Cayman, Swiss, and Pakistani—and its connection (recently discovered by Malik Tareen, a Tourist who’d been in Lahore for nearly six months) to an Afghan tribe known to be hosting Taliban fighters. Unlike his predecessors, Drummond brought in two advisers from the director’s office to listen and offer advice on the next step, and it was generally agreed that while Tourism could squelch the money trail, the army should be brought in to deal with the tribe. Since the army didn’t know of Tourism’s existence, the information would have to flow through the deputy director of the National Clandestine service, who was one of the few people below the director’s office cleared to have knowledge of Tourism.

With Irwin back in Washington, this was Drummond’s second day as absolute sovereign, and it had been a beautiful day so far—no bad news had come through, no signs of impending disaster—and then his secretary told him of the call on line twelve. His mind was still on banking when he answered, and his “Drummond here” had none of the force it usually carried.

“It’s me,” said Milo.

Drummond blinked at Ascot’s men, who pretended not to be listening in. “Yes. How’s the job search coming?”

“I’m heading to an interview in D.C. right now. You’re on.”

“Okay,” he said, but Weaver had already hung up.

He wrapped up the meeting and returned to the floor to find Harry Lynch hunched over his keyboard, the remnants of a tuna sandwich all over his desk. “Harry, can you come to my office?”

“Uh, sir. Yes.”

He got up and followed Drummond to the far end of the floor, and once they were inside Drummond said, “Shut it, please.”

Lynch closed the door.

“Sit down. Please.”

Cordial behavior always seemed to trouble Lynch, and he lowered himself into a chair slowly, as if anything faster would lead to a reprimand.

“Thanks for taking care of those recalls for me, Harry. Are we still under the radar?”

Lynch nodded. “I’ve moved them around occasionally so no one will think they’re comatose.”

“Good idea. I’ve got one more thing to ask—can you flag seven passports so that no one else in the building knows about it?”

“Virtual keyboard,” said Lynch, shrugging.

“Excuse me?”

“I open a virtual keyboard on the screen and use the mouse to type my instructions. That way, the in-house keystroke recorder doesn’t pick it up.”

“Sounds simple,” Drummond said.

Lynch didn’t answer either way.

Drummond unfolded his wallet, took out a slip of paper, and handed it over. “Here are the passport numbers. I’ll need you to put my personal cell phone down as the initial contact, and the order is to hold the person until I’ve arrived.”

“No problem.”

“Or,” Drummond began, thinking through everything. “Me, or Milo Weaver.”

Lynch blinked a few times. “Milo’s still around?”

“Advising. And that, too, stays between you and me. Got it?”