Gates motioned for them all to take their seats. “Is Rader here taking care of business?” he asked. “Go ahead and tell me if he’s causing you any undue stress.”
The men in the room chuckled. Laramie offered a tight-lipped smile and a glance at Rader. “No, sir,” she said, “Malcolm is great.”
Laramie’s chair was uncomfortable, an antique with little more than a flat, rubbery pad as a cushion. Sitting there, she got the full impact of the view: Gates behind his burly desk, an American flag on the wall above one shoulder, an acrylic portrait of the president behind the other. There were picture frames on the desk, facing his guests rather than him. Most showed a solemn Gates shaking hands with various important people.
“Sorry we haven’t met before now,” Gates said. “Where do you hail from, Laramie?”
“Hail? California, sir.”
Gates snuck a glance at Rader, giving Laramie the sense that he’d sought a more sophisticated answer-maybe, she thought, he’d been asking about her collegiate alma mater when he’d used the word hail.
“Skip the ‘sir.’ Nor Cal or So Cal? That what they call it?”
“Some do,” she said, “and I’d be So Cal. San Fernando, originally.”
“And you’ve been with us how long now?”
“Three and a half years.”
“Enjoying it?”
Laramie hesitated. “There’ve been some surprises,” she said, “but I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on things.”
“You enjoy it though?”
She looked at him. “Yes,” she said. “I enjoy my work a great deal.”
Gates picked up a photocopy of Laramie’s report from his desk and said, “Regarding your analysis of the satellite photographs and accompanying intel, we appreciate your speculations, but I’m going to go ahead and say that we have a problem with your interpretation of the facts. We also have a problem with your style.”
He looked her in the eye for a few long seconds. Laramie held his gaze.
“Our nation,” he said, “is building a harmonious association-both economic and political-with our neighbors in the Far East. As an analyst assigned to that region, you ought to be able to recognize that the administration isn’t going to jump to any conclusions that might strain this association. Further, as your manager, I must point out that you have jumped to conclusions by writing a report totally contrary to mandatory formatting and semantics guidelines. This is egregious and unacceptable behavior.”
Laramie resisted the impulse to speak and instead merely sat in silence, the brown leather folder she’d brought with her squared off neatly in her lap.
“Tell you what,” Gates said. “Why don’t Rader and Rosen give a listen while you take us through your analysis. Perhaps if you walk us through your suppositions, we’ll be able to assist in identifying your mistakes.”
This, Laramie thought, would be how Peter M. Gates burns your ass.
She handed out a short stack of photocopies from her folder and came around to the side of Gates’s desk, where she could face all three men. Then she pulled in some air and laid it out for them.
“During a routine review of satellite imagery,” she said, “I discovered two full-scale invasion-simulation exercises, carried out jointly by the People’s Liberation Army and Navy. These took place in Shandong province, where there is little to no Western presence. Further, it was clear from the timing vis-à-vis our satellite routes and schedules that the exercises were held in a manner designed to avoid American scrutiny. Because of the scope and method behind each of the operations, the conclusion-or, perhaps, supposition-I reached is that China is planning to militarily annex Taiwan in short order.”
She set a hand on Gates’s desk. Gates looked at her hand, so she removed it, and instead thrust it into one of the pockets of her suit pants.
“My review of additional intel-including HUMINT gathered by a highly reliable deep-cover officer-yielded the supporting evidence of a Shandong-specific secret military draft. Based on the minutes from recent meetings-obtained by a second source-I believe both the draft and the exercise to have been kept secret from the ruling State Council. The exercise appears to have been supervised by a senior PLN admiral, and I think it’s only logical to conclude that PLA General and Vice Premier Deng Jiang had to be aware of the simulations and chose not to disclose them to his fellow State Council members.”
She turned to face Gates.
“I understand, sir, the tone of the discussions between the administration and the PRC are positive. I certainly don’t need to tell you that the current positive diplomatic environment emerged largely as a result of the public stance taken by China’s premier-backed by the full council-that China may consider recognizing Taiwan’s independence if the economic discussions with the United States proceed to the premier’s liking. I took the position I took precisely because there appears to exist some degree of subversion of the premier’s public stance, or at least a potentially incendiary hidden agenda, among what is probably at least three of the eleven members of the council’s Standing Committee. General Deng has at least two staunch allies on the council, and they have a history of operating in tandem on issues he’s pushing, so I’m making the assumption this is the case now as well.”
She hesitated, debating whether it made sense to explain further, then decided quickly that she’d said too much already. She smiled, nodded, and returned to her seat.
Gates watched her sit and waited patiently until she raised her eyes to look at him. When she did, Gates inclined his chin in the direction of Rosen. Rosen turned to face Laramie.
“Kindly revise your report,” he said, “to reflect a less suspicious view of China’s position on Taiwanese independence, including the removal of suppositional passages speculating as to the intent of the simulation exercises. The revised report will also need to be properly formatted.”
Gates paid homage to Rosen’s words with a solemn nod. “Following the revisions Mr. Rosen here has so eloquently spelled out,” he said, “I would like you to draft a memo, which I will forward to all stations. One paragraph, please.” He looked at her, and kept looking at her, and Laramie was beginning to feel self-conscious enough to consider objecting to his stare when she realized what it was he was waiting for.
She pulled a pen from her folder to take notes.
“The memo,” Gates said, “should order an operational emphasis on the reporting of intelligence related to the international or extranational transport of military hardware and/or lethal substances with probable military use.”
Gates stood. The others followed suit. Laramie finished her transcription, noting, as she wrote the text, that while it contained approximately zero substance, the memorandum he was requesting nonetheless redeemed her analysis. Eddie Rothgeb hadn’t scripted that part of today’s scene.
“I’ll need both by noon on Wednesday,” Gates said. “Good day, gentlemen. Laramie.”
Laramie slid past Miss Anders, moral victory in arm. Take that, Eddie, she thought. He may well have burned my ass in front of my superiors, but at least the son of a bitch knows I’m right. She tucked the folder beneath an arm and strode from the Agency’s senior executive suite, merging into the usual foot traffic populating the seventh floor’s main hall.
10
Ronnie bent down along the path, dug for a couple stones, and came up throwing.
“Cooper!” he said.
Cooper came sharply out of a deep sleep. He knew immediately who it was, and his first impulse was to ignore the provocation-pretend you’re still asleep, out-wait the punk, and eventually he’ll give up and leave.