The Merchants’ War

“Shit. Excuse me.” Eric took a few moments to gather his scattered thoughts. Too many things were going on at once. His head was still spinning from the stuff in the buried laboratory under Building Forty-seven. He’d just about gotten used to the idea that Mike had made it home alive—and that was really good news—but this latest tidbit was a little hard to take. “Okay. So someone sent him back to us? Any sign of Sergeant Hastert and his team?”

“Mike was awake when I saw him, sir.” He stiffened at her tone of voice, anticipating the bad news to come: “He wasn’t very lucid, but he said Hastert and O’Neil were killed. They walked in on some kind of war and they got caught in the crossfire. I’m sorry, sir: he wasn’t very clear, but he wanted you to know they died trying to get him out.”

“Shit.” Eric rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Any good news? Or was that the good news?”

“He says he made contact with the target briefly, but there were problems. And something about her mother.”

“What’s her mother got to do with things?”

“We didn’t get that far, sir. Like I said, he’s been chewed up badly. I mean, it looks like someone took a whack at his left leg with a chain saw then left it to fester for a couple of days. That’s on top of the bruising and a cracked rib. The medics shoved me out of the room just as he was getting to the good stuff—he’s out of the operating theater now but he won’t be talking for a while. But I’m pretty sure he was trying to say something about the target’s mother saving him. I don’t know what he meant by that, he was medicated and being prepped for surgery at the time, but I figure you’ll want to follow it up.”

“Dead right I will.” Eric took a deep breath. “Alright. So he’s out of the operating theater now. As soon as he’s safe to move, I want him in a military hospital with an armed guard in the room with him at all times—for his own protection. If they can find an underground room to put him in, so much the better. If possible, move him tonight—I want him safe, right now his brains are our crown jewels. Tell Deirdre to get John from OPFAC Four to coordinate with Milton and Sarah on setting it up. Page them if they’ve gone home, this is important. Got that?”

“I’m on it. Anything else? Will you be coming in tonight?”

Eric shook his head tiredly. “I’m touching down around half past midnight. If you get any pushback between now and then, call me and I’ll come in. If it goes smoothly, I might as well get some sleep before I debrief him.” A thought struck him. “Another thing. I want a guard with him at all times, with a voice recorder in case he says anything. And I don’t want random doctors or nurses eavesdropping.”

“Already taken care of.” Herz’s laconic response made him want to kick himself. Of course it was taken care of: Herz was terrifyingly efficient when it came to police work like handling witnesses.

“Good. Good work, I mean, really good.” I’m babbling. Stop it. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. If you need backup, call me. Bye.”

The seatbelt light was off, the plane boring a hole in the sky towards the darkening eastern horizon. Eric unfastened his belt and stood up, then went forward to the desk where Dr. James was poring over a pile of printouts.

“What is it?” No polite small-talk from James: he was almost robotic in his focus.

“It’s CLEANSWEEP. I just got confirmation that we’ve had a positive outcome.”

It was Dr. James’s turn to do a double take—or punch the air, if so inclined—and Eric was curious to see how he’d jump. Dr. James was not, it seemed, one for demonstrative gestures: he simply put his papers down, removed his spectacles, and said, mildly, “Explain.”

“Agent Fleming is back. He’s alive, but has injuries. His condition is stable and I’ve ordered him transferred to a secure facility pending debriefing. The preliminary report is that the specops team walked into a red-on-red crossfire of some sort, but Fleming was returned to us by someone who presumably wants to talk. There appears to be a factional split in fairyland. I’ll know more tomorrow, when I’ve begun his debriefing: for now, I gather his injuries required operating theater time so we won’t get much more out of him just yet.”

James began to polish his bifocals with a scrap of tissue. “Good.” His fingertips moved in tiny circles, pinching the lens like a crab worrying at a fragment of decaying flesh. “You’ll debrief him without witnesses. Record onto a sealed medium and type up the report yourself. Use a typewriter, not a word processor.” He looked up at Eric with dead-fish eyes: “the fewer witnesses the better.”

Eric cleared his throat. “You know that’s in direct contravention of our operational doctrine?”

James nodded. “Sit down.” Eric sat opposite him. James glanced round, to make sure there were no open ears nearby, then carefully balanced the bifocals on the bridge of his nose. “Off the record.”

“Yes?” Eric did his best to conceal the sinking feeling those words gave him.

“You’re a professional, and you’re used to playing by the rules. That’s all very well. The reason that rule book exists is to prevent loose cannons from rolling around the deck, knocking things over and making a mess. We designed the policy on debriefing to ensure that no asshole can piss in the coffeepot and embarrass the owners. However, right now, you’re working directly for the owners. Standard policy wasn’t designed for this type of war and therefore we have to make a new rule book up as we go along—where it’s necessary. Your job is to build up a HUMINT resource, taking us back into a kind of operational model we haven’t ever been really good at, and last tried in the sixties and seventies. But the flip side of HUMINT is COINTEL, and if we can spy on them, they can spy on us. So the zeroth rule of this operation is, minimize the eyeballs—minimize the risk of leaks. Clear?”

Eric nodded, involuntarily. Then a late-acting bureaucratic reflex prompted him to protest: “That’s all very well, and I agree with your reasoning, but it doesn’t help me out if they come after me with an audit.”

James stared at him coldly. “Where’s your loyalty, boy?”

“You’re asking me to commit a federal felony, on your word. If you want to run HUMINT assets on the ground, their rule number one is that they’ve got to be able to trust their controllers. You’re my controller.” He crossed his arms, hoping his anger wasn’t immediately obvious to the other man.

James stared at him a moment longer, then nodded minutely. “So that’s the way it is.”

“It’s the way it’s got to be,” Eric shot back. “It’s not just me who’s got to trust you, it’s the whole goddamn chain of command, all the way down.” Which right now consists of one guy in a hospital bed, but let’s not remind him of that. “—History says that the smart money is on this coming out, if not now, then in twenty years’ time. This administration will be fodder for the history books by then—hell, with his heart condition, Daddy Warbucks will probably be sleeping with the fishes—but I’m a career officer, and so are the folks in my outfit. If you don’t give us a fig leaf, you’re asking us to suck up time in Leavenworth. And we don’t get to go on to a juicy research contract with the Heritage Institute, or a part-time boardroom post with some defense contractor when this is over.”

“What do you want?” James’s intonation was precise and his voice even, but Eric didn’t let it fool him.

“Something vague, but in writing. The vaguer the better. Something like, ‘In the interests of operational security and in view of the threat of enemy intelligence-gathering attempts aimed at compromising our integrity, all investigations are to be restricted to those with a need to know, and normal committee oversight will be suspended until such time as the immediate threat recedes.’ Just keep it vague. Then if I have to take the stand, I’ve simply misunderstood your intent. I’m obeying an order by a superior, you didn’t intend your orders to breach the law. Nobody needs to get burned.”

James snorted abruptly, startling Eric. “Is that all?”

Eric shrugged. “That’s how it’s done. That’s what kept the shit in check during Iran-Contra. Or did you expect me to fall on my sword when all I need is a note signed by teacher to say I’m an overachiever?”

“Bah.” James glanced away, but not before Eric noticed a twinkle of crocodilian amusement in his eye. “I thought you were an Air Force officer, not a politician.”

“You don’t get above captain if you’re politically challenged, sir. With all due respect, it makes life easier for me if I can advise you—where appropriate—of steps I can take to do my job better. That’s one of them. Off the record, of course.”

“I’ll get you your fig leaf, then. Signed on the Oval Office blotter, if that makes you feel better. Now, talk to me.” James leaned back, making a steeple of his fingertips.

Eric relaxed infinitesimally. “Someone sent Mike back to us. He didn’t come by himself; his leg’s busted up. That tells us something about what sort of operation we’re fighting.”