“Do you think that is what’s happening at the CIA now?” Jake Grafton asked.
Brown grimaced. “Historically the heads of intelligence services have usually stood right by the throne. Often in Europe the spymasters were the second most powerful men in the government. But not in the United States. The cloak-and-dagger boys have always put the fear of God in our elected politicians, and rightfully so. Are they manipulating our government, now, here?”
He leaned across the table toward Jake. “They missed the collapse of communism. The biggest political event on this planet since World War II and they missed it. Apparently not a soul at Langley ever predicted it or suggested it as a possibility. They said the Soviet economy was three times larger than it was. They said the Soviet military was much stronger, more capable, more combat-ready than turned out to be the case. They sat there looking at a society in meltdown and never saw a wisp of smoke. The fact is that for the last five years you could have gotten a better picture of what was happening inside the Soviet Union by reading the New York Times than you could from reading the CIA intelligence analyses. But was that intentional?
“These damned CIA briefings and intelligence reports give me a queasy feeling,” Brown continued after a moment’s pause. “Nothing I can put my finger on — the stuff is too slickly written for that. Maybe that’s the trouble. Maybe it’s too slick, every mousehole carefully papered over. I don’t know. I just get this feeling. I’d really like to see the raw intelligence, all of it.
“What I think…what I think we’re looking at in Russia is merely an interlude between dictatorships, like the 1917 republic after they toppled the czar. The problems are too big, the people are bigots intolerant of dissent and diversity, they are too easily swayed by demagogues spouting bullshit and hate, they readily swallow any hint of a conspiracy, they despise anyone with a ruble more than they’ve got. The average Russian can’t conceive of a loyal opposition: the concept doesn’t compute. That’s the background for the biggest economic experiment ever tried on this planet, the conversion of a centralized socialized economy into a free market one. But the CIA downplays all that. The folks at the CIA aren’t worried. And no one over at the White House seems to be in a sweat. Our politicos have bigger fish to fry, like squabbling over Clinton’s tax increases and waggling their fingers at the Japanese.”
Brown rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. “I’m not sure what the National Security Adviser thinks. At the CIA briefings sometimes he acts like he smells a rat, other times he sits there like he was getting the gospel in Sunday school.
“What’s happening in the former Soviet Union right now may turn out to be the seminal event that determines the course of human life on this planet for the next century. The old union is in the midst of total social and economic collapse. Nothing works. Nothing! No one knows how to make a decision. All look to central authority, which is corrupt, incompetent, self-absorbed. The republics constitute the most highly polluted nation on earth. It’s one giant petrochemical sewer, thousands of square miles of soil so radioactive that humans can’t survive on it, social systems that have completely collapsed. Doctors are poorly trained and incompetent — they routinely misdiagnose ailments, sick people go to unbelievably bad hospitals where they are butchered by quacks, there isn’t enough medicine, equipment, food, clothes, anything…
“I could go on for hours.” He picked up a pepper shaker and tapped in on the table, hard. “I think the pollution is what did in the Communists. Too many people are getting sick. Best guess is at least a million people in the old union are sick with radiation poisoning. Lack of basic sanitation and immunizations causes epidemics of diphtheria, dysentery, polio, influenza — fifty percent of their conscripts are rejected for military service. It’s estimated only one in fourteen of the people in uniform could pass a flight physical.
“You can only run a society for the benefit of the elite at the top for so long before the whole thing implodes.” He shrugged.
Jake Grafton found himself leaning forward and lowering his voice. “So what about those nuclear weapons?”
“CIA hasn’t told us the whole story. You can bet your pension on that. Reality has a feel, a texture, that’s unique. It’s seasoned with insanity and random chance. This stuff the CIA’s selling hasn’t got that feel.”
“You sure?” Jake pressed.
“I wish I was. But no, I ain’t sure. The key is money. If nuclear weapons are leaving Russia, someone is paying big bucks for them. CIA is looking and says they can’t find the trail.”
“Perhaps we should do some looking on our own,” Jake suggested.
“How?”
“Well, we need to draft a computer expert.”
“You say that like you have one in mind.”
Jake did. He just nodded.
“CIA, Treasury, and State won’t like it.”
“If we find the trail their objections won’t matter much.”
“If it’s there to find,” Brown said without enthusiasm.
Jake decided to change the subject. “What are you going to do about the bugs, General?”
Albert Sidney Brown pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m going to write a report to the president and send copies to everybody on the list. The CIA will think I’m a patsy if I don’t. But just the bugs. Nothing about Nigel Keren or Mossad photographs or intimidation efforts. You were right about that. If we run those shitty rags up the flagpole now, you and I’ll be diving headfirst into a foxhole to keep from getting squashed.”
The whole mess was pretty bizarre, Jake Grafton reflected later. It was like climbing a mountain: the higher you got the worse the visibility became, the thicker the cloud. And if it was like this at his level, presumably the president, the man at the top, couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. No wonder the government stumbled from crisis to crisis!
That night Jake and Toad searched the Grafton house from top to bottom for bugs. They didn’t find any, which merely increased Jake’s sense of unease. Then they went over to Tarkington’s house and turned it inside out. Rita helped. And they found nothing.
“So what are we gonna do, Admiral?” Toad asked when they had finished and were drinking beer in the kitchen.
Rita flipped on the radio and cranked up the volume.
“Do?”
“Yessir. About Herb Tenney and going to Russia with him and all of this.”
“I dunno,” Jake said. “Any suggestions?” He glanced at Rita Moravia, who stood with her back against the sink, trying to look deadpan. She wasn’t supposed to know about the Russian trip, which was still highly classified. Her hair was pulled back and held with a clasp tonight. Tall for a woman, she had the sleek look of solid, healthy muscle. She colored slightly when she met the admiral’s eyes. Feeling a touch of amusement, Jake’s gaze returned to Toad Tarkington. “What would you suggest?”
“I’d like to go over to Langley and sweat somebody.”
“Who?”
“I’d start with Herb.”
“He wouldn’t tell you jack, even if he knew anything to tell.” Jake sighed. He drained the last of his beer, then sat the glass out of the way. “Got a phone book?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go calling. There is a fellow who works at Langley that I’d like to talk to.”
There were fourteen Richard Harpers and eleven R. Harpers listed in the Washington metro telephone directory. Rita did the calling while Toad listened on the living room extension. She worked for a pizza company and they had lost a delivery address.