Instead he watched baseball until he fell asleep, rooting for close games and miracle finishes, trading one faith for another.
After a week reading files, Wells had grown to sense the station’s different personalities. Arango, the chief of station, wrote in a businesslike, slightly bureaucratic tone. Lautner had an aggressive edge. Gabe Yergin, the number three, was hurried, almost sloppy, as though he were perpetually behind schedule, running between meetings.
By Friday night, Wells had nearly finished the files. His mouth was dry, his eyes scratchy from the closet’s stale air. Office work left him tired, but not in an honest, muscle-sore way. He wanted to put a pack on his back and hike for twenty-four hours straight. He looked up as the magnetic lock clicked open and Shafer stepped in.
“You look dazed.”
“I thought we were trying to reduce the amount of paperwork the stations generate.”
“That’s a work in progress. Plenty of memos going around about it, though.”
Wells laughed.
“You caught up?”
“Pretty much.”
“Duto wants to see you, talk about it.”
“He works this late?”
“You kidding? He’s got some fancy dinner tonight. With Travers and McTeague, I think.” Congressman Raymond Travers and Senator Hank McTeague were the chairmen of the House and Senate committees that oversaw the CIA. “Duto will tell them stories about Sarkozy and Carla Bruni, make them think they heard something that they couldn’t have read on Page Six.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Better him than us. Anyway, he’s coming by your hotel at ten tomorrow. I’ll be there, too. Try not to sleep late.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
WELLS STEPPED OUT of the Courtyard’s freshly mopped lobby at ten the next day, just as a black Chevy Tahoe rolled up the driveway. Inside the Tahoe, Duto and Shafer. Duto wore the weekend uniform of the powerful, gray windbreaker, blue shirt, pressed khakis. He was nearly sixty, and his hair had thinned since Wells had seen him. Otherwise he hadn’t changed. His handshake was firm. His smile was all lips and no eyes.
They rolled out, turned left toward D.C. Two identical black Tahoes followed.
“Subtle pickup,” Wells said. “You should just paint ‘CIA Taxi’ on the doors.”
Wells and Duto didn’t get along. Their mistrust wasn’t playful. It wasn’t a light banter that hid mutual affection. They simply disliked each other. Wells had quit the agency because of Duto. Yet they seemed to need each other. Several months before, the CIA had helped Wells on his mission to Saudi Arabia. Now it was Duto’s turn to ask for a favor.
“How are you, John?” Duto’s voice was quiet. Almost silky. Wells wondered whether Duto was taking vocal training. He had once been famous for his temper. But years as director had taught him restraint.
“Fine.”
“And Anne?”
“She’s fine, too.” Wells wondered whether Duto remembered her name or had been briefed. “Though my son seems to have decided I’m a war criminal. Never wants to see me again.”
“That’s too bad.” Duto didn’t exactly sound torn up.
“I’m sure he thinks even worse of you.”
“They have no idea what we do for them. What it takes to keep them safe.”
“We’re five miles from the Pentagon,” Shafer said. “Around here, most of them are
“You know what I mean. Civilians.”
“They know exactly what we do,” Wells said. “That’s the problem.”
“We killed Osama. And no civilian casualties in the op. Not one. Ten years since nine/eleven and no real attacks on American soil. Not even jerks with AKs lighting up a mall. We’ve kept our people safe. Tell me that doesn’t count for something, John.”
They turned onto the Chain Bridge. Wells watched the Potomac rush by. Knowing he’d have to answer. Knowing Duto was right. “Okay. You win. You sound like you’re planning to run for something—”
A smile curled Duto’s mouth and then was gone, brief and shocking as lightning in a cloudless sky. Suddenly, the good suits and voice lessons and personality transplant made sense.
Duto was more powerful than any senator or congressman. Only one elected office would be worth his effort. But the presidency was off-limits to anyone too deeply involved with the agency. The first George Bush was the only director ever to have won the presidency, and he’d served at Langley barely a year. Duto had spent most of his adult life at the CIA. His fingerprints were on the agency’s most controversial programs. His record couldn’t possibly bear public scrutiny.
But if his smile was any indication, Duto thought it might.
“Anyway,” Wells said. “Unless you want more awkward small talk—”
“You read the cables. What do you think? Operationally speaking.”
“You already know the answer. It’s a mess. Been one since Marburg. Wultse was a drunk, Gordie King was burned out. The new guys, Arango and Lautner, they look good, they’re saying the right things and maybe doing them, too, but they’ve been there awhile and so far they haven’t made progress. If Kabul ran half as well as Islamabad, we’d have won the war by now.”
“Can they? Make progress?”
“I’m not going to pass judgment from seven thousand miles away on guys I’ve never met.”
“So you’ll go see them then?”
“Vinny. What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Right now, Kabul’s our most important station. More than Moscow, Beijing, whatever. If I have to change it up again, I will. But that would be the fourth new chief since Marburg. And it’s not like I have great options. I don’t want to move anyone from Islamabad now that they’re getting traction. I don’t want to bring someone else in from outside the region unless I have to. I want an outside opinion and I know you’ll tell me what you think.”
Wells looked at Shafer. “Okay, I’ll ask you. What is it he’s not telling me?”
“That there might be a leak inside the station.”
“To the
“About a month ago, a source told one of our Pak officers about a rumor that, quote unquote, ‘A CIA officer is helping the Talib.’”
“That could mean anything.”
“I know. We asked him for more. He didn’t have it. He’s a good source, though. A Frontier Corps general.” The Frontier Corps was the Pakistan Army unit that guarded Pakistan’s North-West Frontier province.
“That’s all you have?”
“I know it’s thin—”
“It’s not thin. It’s nothing.”
“It isn’t all,” Duto said quietly. Wells and Shafer both swiveled toward Duto. Duto was smiling again. Shafer wasn’t. His mouth had opened a half inch, like an ATM machine about to spit cash. Apparently Duto hadn’t told Shafer about a second source either. “About ten days ago, I got a call from Mike Yancy.”
“Should I know that name?” Wells said.
“Deputy director of the Drug Enforcement Agency.”
“Their motto: A palace for every kingpin.”
“Thank you for that wit and wisdom, Ellis. So the DEA has offices in Kandahar and Helmand. They try to convince farmers to stop planting poppies, switch to food crops like wheat. It’s tough. You can imagine. Opium’s much more profitable.”
