"Even if they are right?" said Kilmara.
" Especially if they are right," said Martin. "And frequently they are. But the end result of showing up the Agency is that we get out credibility damaged and maybe our budget cut, and that does not help the security of the United States of America. And it certainly does not help the work that people like myself are trying to do on the inside. You have got to look at the bigger picture."
Kilmara eyed his cigar, which had chosen to die when he was not paying attention. Cuban cigars did that. He applied a match to the tip and blew smoke while he thought.
Counterterrorism was very necessary, but the effectiveness of the designated agencies was not in proportion to the resources spent. An underlying problem was the counterterrorism had become an industry in its own right, and that meant jobs, money, power and influence, and not a few thriving little empires that had little to do with the ultimate objective.
The Congressional Task Force's problem was that with minimal resources they were showing what could be done. They were succeeding because they were dedicated and focused and the few people they had were of the highest caliber. And their very success was in danger of giving Congress as a whole some radical ideas about what could be done with less money and more of a sense of purpose.
No wonder the CIA, rocked with scandal recently and therefore particularly vulnerable, was upset.
Fitzduane, on a routine getting-to-know-you trip, had stepped right into a turf fight. And Martin had a point. There was a bigger picture. And almost certainly there was a trigger issue lurking around. He thought back over his recent discussions with Hugo. It was fairly clear what it must be.
Mexico.
"Let me float a thought," said Kilmara. "Tecuno. Governor Diego Quintana is your man."
The Deputy Director of Operations, CIA, was refilling both of their glasses when Shane Kilmara spoke. Mentally he screamed a loud "Holy shit!" but was pleased that otherwise he had not reacted. His hand was still rock steady.
He looked at Kilmara with his best WASP career CIA man's look. In control; urbane; confident; all-knowing. We talk to satellites. The NSA can break all codes. We know things that you don't.
"You are pouring our brandy on the floor," said Kilmara kindly.
Martin looked down at his faithless hand. It was still rock steady. And it was.
The DDO looked at his cigar, but there was not enough left to use as a smoke screen. Besides, he had to share this can of worms with someone, and Kilmara was nothing if not trustworthy. And he just might have an idea. And the DDO had drunk just enough to be indiscreet.
"The Agency has been bankrolling the PRI, Mexico's ruling party, for years to keep them strong against communism. To repay the favor, we turn a blind eye at drugs and similar scams, and if some Mexican mover and shaker like Quintana wants to set himself up as a local warlord, that is fine by us. Just as long as he is against communism."
"So Governor Quintana is your man," said Kilmara.
"Well, he was," said Martin. "Now he is so fucking rich he does not need us anymore. But he remains on the books as an asset. He is a psychopath. He makes Saddam Hussein look like a choirboy – but he is our psychopath. And experience shows that the Agency needs psychopaths. There are things that need to be done that only people like that will do."
"William, how do you sleep at night?" said Kilmara.
"I look at the bigger picture and count the pixels," said Martin, "until the whiskey cuts in."
He stood up and stretched, then walked to the window and looked down at the street below. "So what about Fitzduane, then?" he said. "Is he getting involved or reverting to tourist?"
Kilmara chuckled. "He's becoming a father in six months, so he isn't planning anything foolish. He was asked, but he turned them down. So relax. And that's hot news from the horse's mouth."
Martin left the window and stood with his hands in his pockets looking down at Kilmara, who was still sitting back comfortably. "You know, Shane, just between us, this whole damn thing makes me very uneasy. I'm following policy, but I think those congressional troublemakers are right. Maurice Isser is the smartest damn analyst I have ever come across, and Cochrane, Maury, and Warner make one hell of a team. If they smell something rotten, then they're right."
"But you're not going to do anything," said Kilmara.
"Not a damn thing," said Martin. "And by the way, when is your boy leaving town?"
"You sound like the sheriff," said Kilmara, amused. "Tomorrow all three of us are off to Fayetteville to do a little homework. I am somewhat surprised that Kathleen is coming, but I guess she will tour the area while we go to the exhibition."
"Which Fayetteville?" said Martin. "There is a whole raft of them in this country, all called after Lafayette, I guess. We used to like the French in those days."
"Fayetteville, North Carolina," said Kilmara.
"Uh-huh!" said Martin. "Fayetteville is right next to FortBragg, home of the 82 ^ nd Airborne, Delta Force, and other peaceful people."
"The very place," said Kilmara. "Not a high-crime environment like Washington. Peaceful. Lots of young men and women doing healthy things like jumping out of airplanes and learning how to survive on snakes and weevils. And we might do a little touring."
"What's this exhibition?" said Martin.
"A sort of Ideal Homes exhibition, except the booths don't show microwaves and Japanese bread cookers. This one is focused more on my kind of work."
"Which is what these days?" said Martin. He smiled. "Given your advancing years and all." He knew perfectly well what Kilmara did, but was not quite clear what he was leading up to.
"Special operations," said General Kilmara guilelessly.
"Maury, I have never seen anything like it in my life," said Fitzduane quite truthfully. "That isn't a mobile home. It's a whole way of life. If it was any bigger, it could apply for statehood."
Maury beamed. He loved to travel, and no more so that around the United States. But meeting strangers day after day was a strain. He had designed his own solution and built it himself.
"Power steering; air conditioning; quad sound; satellite dish; multichannel TV; microwave; dishwasher; three bedrooms; two showers; and four networked computers. All the comforts of a luxury condo, and it travels," said Maury proudly.
"And you can train for the Boston Marathon while running up and down the aisle," said Fitzduane dryly. "Maury, this thing is HUGE! Is it legal? What does it eat? Aah!"
Kathleen retrieved her elbow from her husband's ribs. True, it was the weirdest mobile home she had ever seen, but she and Romeo y Julietta were not averse to some modest adventuring. And if two-thirds of the present family felt like that, well – Hugo could come too. It was democracy. He was outvoted.
Fitzduane had planned to fly to Fayetteville via Raleigh. Maury had pointed out that by the time they had changed planes and hung around the airport for the connection, they might as well drive. Further, he would drive them. He had met Kathleen and it had been devotion at first sight. He was, he had announced, instantly enslaved.
Neither Fitzduane nor Kathleen found any reason to disbelieve him. Maury, once he had broken through the initial contact barrier, was proving to be no fan of moderation. On the other hand, he was a marvelous companion and had snippets of information about practically everywhere and everything.
General Shane Kilmara was more dubious. He had reached the stage in life where he had a sense of order. But he was prevailed upon. America, he had found, had that kind of effect on him. The impossible suddenly seemed possible.