Payback

empty hallway; they walked down it to a second elevator.

“Mr. Rubens would like your immediate impression on some reports he has. As it happens, it all falls under your old clearance,” said Montblanc as the car began to descend. “You understand the drill, don’t you, Mr. Ambassador?”

“I understand.”

“He hopes to speak to you about it within an hour. Unfortunately, he’s wearing two hats this week and next. He’s filling in for the admiral-our director.”

“I understand.”

“There will be an extensive process involving your clearance. We have to go through it. It’s a little more involved than when you were at the State Department.”

“I see.”

“There will be lie detector tests. It’s rather routine.”

“Oh?”

“Have you ever been under a psychiatrist’s care?” said Montblanc.

“No,” said Jackson, surprised as much by the nonchalant tone as the question itself. “Why do you ask?”

“We tend to be nosy about that sort of thing. A psychologist?”

“No.”

“Marriage counselor?”

“Not at all.”

“Get along with your wife?” said Montblanc lightly, trying to keep the conversation easy. “That’s good.”

“My wife unfortunately passed on.”

“Grief counselor?”

“I’m not a nutcase, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Montblanc chortled, his cartoonish mustache rocking back and forth. “Oh, don’t get offended. We have plenty of nut-cases working here. It’s practically a job requirement in some areas.”

The elevator stopped. Jackson attempted to keep his dislike of Montblanc in check as they passed through yet one more security hurdle, this one confined to a retina scan and ID check. Montblanc brought him down the hall to a small conference room.

“Our facilities are a little primitive here,” Montblanc told him. “We’re not really set up for visiting scholars, not in this department. Down the line, we may be able to do better.”

Jackson did not mind the temporary office, but he was beginning to sour on the entire idea of working with the NSA. Extra money would be welcome, certainly, and he welcomed a chance to do something useful, but the atmosphere here seemed very strange, as if he’d stepped into a science fiction movie.

“I’m to review cables? Briefings?” he asked Montblanc, gesturing at the empty table.

“Someone will bring you the file in a moment. Even though, as I said, it may not be highly classified, as a general rule-well, let me put it to you this way: I shouldn’t even see it. Our friends here won’t see it. Only you. It’s our protocol, you know. The way of life. We wouldn’t share a lunch menu.”

Jackson nodded.

“If you need to use the restroom or get some exercise, one of our friends will escort you. Are you OK?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then I’ll leave you to your work.”

A few minutes later, a man in his thirties wearing a business suit but without a tie appeared at the door. Without introducing himself, he walked over to the table and put down a blue envelope. Jackson rose and started to introduce himself, but the man acted as if he weren’t even there, turning and walking away without speaking.

To Jackson’s surprise, the envelope contained only one item, a CIA briefing paper that was prepared as part of a presentation. It was a background report on the country, discussing the political situation and the upcoming elections, which were due to be held this coming Sunday. It was stamped TOP SECRET, but a decently diligent college undergraduate would have been able to find the same points with a few hours of work. Its conclusions were rather rudimentary: democracy in Peru was precarious; the indigenous peoples-aka Indians, natives, or campesinos, as they were sometimes called — were poor and underrepresented; the military would remain neutral.

“You seem perplexed, Ambassador. I hope you’re well.”

Jackson looked up at Rubens, who for a big man managed to tread very lightly and had entered the room without him hearing.

“I am well, Dr. Rubens. Thank you. I’ve been reading the briefing.”

“And?”

“It’s a rather thin summary. You’re concerned about the elections, obviously.”

“Yes, we are.”

Jackson flipped back to the beginning of the document. It had been printed from a computer slide presentation, which probably accounted for its shallowness. In Jackson’s opinion, no one over the age of thirteen should be allowed to use a program such as PowerPoint.

“Jorge Evans was one of the people who prepared this?” asked Jackson, pointing to one of the authors’ names. “He’s not an analyst.”

“I believe you are correct. The Office of African and Latin American Analysis acted as the lead preparing the brief, but there was input from the Operations side.”

“Yes. He was involved in paramilitary operations in some way, and not simply in South America.”

“I understood his expertise was there.”

“I daresay he knows a great deal. I would expect that he’s rather senior at this point, however.”

“Indeed.”

The CIA could be seen as several large companies operating under the same umbrella. Usually, intelligence reports and backgrounders would be prepared by the analysts, who worked for the CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence. Covert action and actual spying-called humint or human intelligence, never spying-would be handled by an entirely different side of the operation, the Directorate of Operations. In simple terms, the Intelligence people would take information developed from a number of sources, including the Directorate of Operations, and prepare a briefing. Jackson gathered that while the main report had been prepared by the analysts, the Directorate of Operations had been asked to participate. There could be several reasons for this, though he guessed that the most likely one was unstated: the NSA wanted a heads-up if there was an ongoing mission there.

“Did Evans mention any ongoing projects?” asked Jackson. “Assuming I’m at liberty to know about them?”

“No, he did not bring any to our attention,” said Rubens. “That report is in fact a reliable summary of the briefing.”

“And he is still in Operations?”

“Yes. I’m not sure what his exact position is,” added Rubens. “I myself was not at the briefing.”

If there had been an ongoing operation, Evans’ presence might make sense, since he would brief it. But a “nothing’s up” would come from someone lower on the totem pole.

There were exceptions, certainly. Jackson wasn’t sure how deeply to read into this.

“The reason this strikes me as interesting,” he told Rubens, “is that Evans was involved in Iron Heart. The focus there was Brazil, not Peru, however. Iron Heart — a very interesting program.”

“I’m not familiar with it,” said Rubens.

“Yes. Well, that was during the last days of the Clinton administration.” Jackson was only partly successful in masking his disgust for the former president. “Be that as it may, the project was not without merit.”

Rubens listened impassively. It was difficult to tell what he was actually thinking; Jackson realized that Rubens’ face was such a complete mask that it was possible he already knew everything he was saying but wasn’t letting on.

On the other hand, Rubens seemed to be the sort of person who didn’t play those kinds of games.

“Brazil was trying to obtain nuclear weapons from a Russian arms dealer, and came very close to pulling it off,” said Jackson. “Iron Heart managed to upset the sale at the last moment. It was partly because of that, incidentally, that Brazil turned to trying to create a weapon on its own. But; that’s another matter.”

“It didn’t involve Peru.”