Nets of silver and gold have we!’
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod. ”
Hipp raised his eyebrows and looked at Fritz questioningly.
“I haven’t read that, either,” Fritz said.
“Then read it. It’s by Eugene Field, who wrote children’s poetry in the late nineteenth century. There are four stanzas. I don’t have time to recite the whole thing for you, so Google it, print it, and go through it carefully. Give some thought to the wooden shoe and the nets of silver and gold. There could be other meanings, who knows? Now beat it.”
Fritz left Hipp’s office, went back to his cubicle, found the poem, and printed it, while two of his colleagues looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“A poem that Hipp said to take a look at,” Fritz replied. He printed two more copies and handed them to the two young men, who read it.
“Check out the last stanza,” one of them said.
Fritz read aloud:
“Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head.
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle bed. ”
The three looked at each other. Fritz was the first to speak. “So what the fuck does that mean?”
13
Holly Barker was working at her desk at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, when her boss, Lance Cabot, the Agency’s deputy director for operations, walked into her office and sat down across the desk from her.
“Good morning,” he said.
This was odd, Holly thought; she had met with him two hours before, at eight A.M., as was their daily custom. “Good morning again,” she replied.
Lance looked at her thoughtfully but said nothing.
“What?” Holly asked.
“It appears that you will no longer be working for me,” he said finally.
Holly sat back in her chair. “Are you firing me, Lance?”
“There are signs you might be moving from under my wing.”
“Come on, Lance, spit it out.”
“Are you saying you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“Finally, you understand me. First of all, there’s nowhere to promote me. I’ve gone as far as I can in operations, so unless you are resigning or being promoted, where would I go?”
“Only the director knows,” he said.
Holly shook her head. “I’m baffled.” Her phone rang.
“Answer it,” Lance said.
Holly picked up the phone. “Holly Barker.”
“This is Grace, in the director’s office,” a voice said. Grace was the director’s secretary.
“Good morning, Grace.”
“Good morning, Holly. The director would like to see you.”
“Certainly. What time?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be right up,” Holly said, then hung up.
“Are things a little clearer for you now?” Lance asked.
“Not in the least,” Holly replied. “Now please tell me what this is all about.”
“Do you swear you don’t know?”
“Bring me a Bible and I’ll take an oath on it.”
“Holly, if this is some sort of power play…”
“Lance, something is eating your brain,” she said. “I don’t have any power, except through carrying out your instructions. I’m a worker bee around here.”
“You know nearly everything I know,” Lance said.
Holly thought about that. “I know only what you have chosen to tell me, and, Lance, you never tell anybody everything. ”
“Well, I’ve told you very nearly everything.”
Holly stood up. “I’ve been asked to come to the director’s office right now. Please tell me whatever you can before I go up there and get my head handed to me.”
“You know nearly everything I know,” Lance said, then he got up and went back into his office.
Holly took a compact from her desk drawer, ran her hand through her hair and made sure nothing was stuck to her teeth, then she took the elevator upstairs and presented herself to Grace.
“Good morning, Holly.”
“Good morning, Grace.” God, she was getting sick of saying good morning.
“Have a seat. The director will be free shortly.”
Holly sat down and picked up a three-month-old copy of Proceedings, the magazine of the U.S. Naval Institute, and flipped through it nervously. She heard a door close, and when she looked up Stewart Graves was standing in front of her. Graves was the assistant deputy director of intelligence, the Agency’s analysis division; it was the same job that Holly held in operations. “Good morning, Stewart,” she said.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” he asked. His tone was vaguely hostile.
“To do with what?” Holly asked. Everybody seemed to think she knew more than she did.
“I’ve been posted to London,” he said. “Deputy for Analysis to the station chief.”
“Congratulations,” Holly said. “That sounds great.” As great as it sounded, Holly knew, it wasn’t as great as his current job.
Graves turned and walked toward the elevators.
Holly looked at Grace. “What was that all about?” she asked.
“The director will see you now,” Grace said. She placed her hand on the button under her desk that unlocked the director’s office door and waited for Holly to move.
Holly walked to the door, heard the click, then opened the door and walked in. “Good morning, Director,” Holly said.
Katharine Rule Lee looked up from her desk. It had taken an act of Congress to make her director, because, although she was a career CIA officer, she was also married to the president of the United States. “Good morning, Holly, have a seat.” She pointed at a chair at a seating area by the window, then she got up and walked in that direction.
She isn’t smiling, Holly thought. She usually smiles a lot. What the hell is going on? She walked over and sat in the chair indicated.
The director settled into a chair on the other side of the coffee table and opened a thick file in her lap.
Holly knew it was a personnel file, and she feared it was hers.
“You’ve been with us for a little over eight years, now,” the director said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
