The Case Officer (15 page)

Bob Little never subscribed to
the case officer’s “go anywhere, do anything, according to the needs of the
service” credo. With few exceptions—Burton B. Berger being one of them—Little
was disliked and distrusted by subordinates, peers, and superiors alike. Bob
Little stood out in a profession where there were very few real bad officers.
But he was bright—very, very bright. And that’s what had kept him afloat during
his thirty-odd years within the case officer corps.

What did I do to deserve this?
Mac thought.
A double dose.
And I’m expected to go over them and through them and around them for Edwin
Rothmann. Why is the worst enemy always us?
He sat back in his chair
heavily, reflecting that the toughest part of his task was likely to be dealing
with these two. His assignment vis-à-vis Huang would seem a piece of cake by
comparison. He wasn’t looking forward to what lay ahead…starting with this
meeting. 

“Have you begun?” squeaked
Little, his eyes darting back and forth between the two men. He sat forward on
the edge of his chair, feet flat on the floor, hands clasped between his knees,
back erect.

“Not really,” said the COS,
slowly turning in his chair. “Mr. MacMurphy was about to tell us what he needs
in the way of support. Please begin, Mr. MacMurphy.” Berger settled back into
the plush leather and directed his attention to his manicured fingernails.

“Is the security system
activated?” asked MacMurphy quietly.

     Berger glared at Mac
briefly, reviled at the realization that MacMurphy had one-upped him by
remembering something crucial that he himself had forgotten. He turned to his
deputy, waved his hand in the direction of the back of the room, and declared:
“Fix it.”

Little slid off his chair and
hurried across the room to a small credenza in the corner. He opened one of the
draws and flipped a switch that illuminated a lamp on the top of the table and
caused a slight, almost inaudible electrical hum to sound in the room.

The hum was caused by an
electrical current charging through thousands of feet of copper wire running
behind the paneled walls, ceiling, and floor of the room. The security system
was designed to interfere with any audio signals entering or leaving the room.
The lamp simply indicated the device was activated and the room was shielded
from intrusive ears. It was routinely used to mask all sensitive conversations
in the room, and the COS had completely forgotten about it. Mac’s reminder
would not help his relationship with Burton B. Berger, but the need for
security trumped all in this case.

MacMurphy began. “I assume the
DDO outlined for you what he wants me to try to accomplish while I’m here.”

“He did,” said Berger, still
intensely interested in his fingernails.

“Yes,” Little added, “he said you
were to attempt to recruit Huang Tsung-yao, and the station was to help you
orchestrate a recruitment scenario.”

“May I see the cable, Mr.
Berger?” asked Mac coolly.

“No need. Mr. Little knows
perfectly well what the cable said. Don’t you Robert?” Little squirmed and
started to speak, but Berger held up a delicate hand, cutting him off. The hand
gracefully turned on its wrist toward MacMurphy.

“Whether you pitch him or not
will depend upon the sort of vulnerability data you are able to obtain on the
man,
n’est-ce pas
? And you need the station’s support to get the
information you need, right?”

“Right,” said MacMurphy.

“Then what do you need?” Berger
did not look up, preferring to continue the examination of his fingernails.

     Little fidgeted quietly,
wanting to speak.

     Mac crossed his legs,
glanced down at his notebook, and began.

     “I’m going to need an
updated assessment of Huang, and I can’t get it first-hand. He’d bolt at the
first sight of me. You know the story about the pitch in Ethiopia. So I’m
thinking about an audio penetrtion of his office.”

     “No way!” blurted Little,
“Can’t be done. It’s too risky. We’ve looked at the Chinese Embassy before, and
it’s impossible. They’ve got....”

“Excuse me, Little Bob,” MacMurphy
interrupted, “I’m not asking you.” His black eyes sliced into Little.

“Didn’t the DDO mention the
possibility of an audio op?” Mac’s question was directed at the COS, and his
eyes remained cold, black and unblinking.

“Yes, he did,” Berger replied reluctantly,
showing the first real signs of discomfort. “Please continue.”

“I’ll need to study everything
you have on the embassy and its occupants – casings, contact reports, anything
on file, including anyone with access to the embassy or any of the Chinese
officials.”

“No problem. You may study
anything you like, just as long as you take no action whatsoever without my
prior approval. Is that understood?” Berger leaned forward and placed his
elbows on his desk, hands clasped under his chin, and waited intently for
MacMurphy’s response.

After a long silence and
unblinking stare between the two men, with Little fidgeting in his chair, Mac
replied. “I will adhere strictly to the orders given to me verbally by the DDO
at headquarters. The same orders that are outlined in his cable to you. And I
would appreciate your full cooperation in fulfilling those very specific
orders. You’ll be kept in the loop.”

The stare-down continued. The COS
leaned back into his chair and, looking away from Mac in the direction of Bob
Little, said, “Ask my secretary to pull together whatever we have on record.
What else do you want?”

Mac didn’t hesitate. “I’ll also
need a couple of support assets. Guys familiar with audio ops. I had in mind
TRAVAIL and GUNSHY. I’ve worked with both of them before when I was posted here
at the station, and they’re both professionals, perfectly suited for what I
have in mind.”

The cryptonyms did not ring any
bells with the COS. He nodded to his deputy, who was itching to speak.
“Impossible,” Little Bob squeaked. “They’ve both been terminated. You can’t use
terminated assets.”

Mac glared at Little and turned
disgustedly to the COS. His eyes asked the question.

“Were they terminated with
prejudice?” asked Berger.

“Um, no.” Little’s phenomenal
memory kicked in, and he recited verbatim excerpts from the 201 files.

“GUNSHY was terminated in late-November
2002 after failing to pass his routine polygraph exam. The issue was
unauthorized disclosure of the nature of his work to a girlfriend. His true
name is François Leverrier, mid-thirties, French citizen, wealthy playboy. He worked
for the station for about five years as a part-time investigative asset and
access agent.”

“And TRAVAIL?” Berger asked.

“TRAVAIL was terminated earlier
the same year, I believe in February 2002. He also failed his routine poly. The
issue was mismanagement of funds—cheating on his expenses. He’s a real con man.
True name is Pol Giroud, nickname ‘Le Belge,’ late forties, early fifties,
Belgian citizen, unemployed. He worked for the station as a full-time
investigative asset and safehouse keeper. He was on board a long time. Ten,
maybe as long as fifteen years.”

It figures,
Mac thought. He and the case
officers before and after him had always protected these two guys from
themselves. GUNSHY liked to brag about his “secret agent” status. It was all he
had—the only real contribution he had ever made to society. Everything else was
handed to him on a silver platter by his aristocratic family. He had done great
things against the North Korean target during the time Mac handled him. One of
these things resulted in the bugging of the North Korean embassy, a signal
achievement for both case officer and agent.

Mac and GUNSHY’S other case
officers realized his need for recognition and would spend time with him,
stroke him, giving him the recognition he craved, so he didn’t feel the need to
seek it elsewhere, like with his many girlfriends.

As for TRAVAIL, Mac and his other
handlers knew he tended to pad his expenses a bit, but by keeping him on a
short leash, which meant not giving him a revolving fund and reimbursing him
for expenses on a weekly basis, his fudging was always kept to a bare minimum.

TRAVAIL’s crafty “people”
instincts resulted in the recruitment of a cleaning woman at the Vietnamese
embassy while he worked under Mac’s direction. Information provided by the
asset, including trash and classified correspondence left lying around,
resulted in reams of excellent intelligence reports. The Berger/Little
management team had obviously dropped the ball on both counts and consequently
lost two excellent assets.

Take away the glue and things
come unstuck,
he
thought.

Mac directed his next question at
Bob Little. “You mean to tell me you terminated two of the best support assets
this station has ever had because one padded his expense account and the other
told his girlfriend about his affiliation with us? What do you guys want,
missionaries?”

“We certainly don’t want
mercenaries,” spat back Little.

“Bob’s right.” Berger lectured
Mac. “Times have changed. Under the new DCI’s policies, we can no longer afford
to do business with cheats and braggarts. I agree with the DCI. We must recruit
patriots, not venal wheeler-dealers who are only out for themselves. But I’m
sure you disagree. You would prefer to deal with low-lifes. People who sleep
with dogs get fleas. But if you want them, if you want those two guys, I will
not sit here and debate morality with you. You can have them, but they’ll be
your responsibility, not mine.”

Berger brushed his fingers
against each other as if washing his hands of the whole messy affair and looked
like he’d just been obliged to suck on a lemon.

“Fine,” said MacMurphy, surprised
at the easy victory. “I’ll put them on short-term contracts, two or three
months, so there won’t be any termination problems for the station when I’ve
finished with them. And since they’re not now working for the station, I won’t
be taking anything away from any ongoing programs.”

“Fine,” said Berger. “Get their
files from Ms. Ryan.” The COS turned to his deputy. “I assume the re-contact
plans are in their 201 files.”

“Oh yes, sir.” Little brightened.
He excelled at the bureaucratic aspects of case officering, and organizing the
station’s files shortly after his arrival had been one of his pet projects.
“Every agent’s 201 file has an up-to-date re-contact plan stapled in plain view
on top of the left-hand side. I have personally reviewed the file of every
terminated and active asset to assure there are no slip-ups in this regard.”

“Good for you, Little Bob,” Mac
said.
God help us,
he thought.

Little shrank back into his
chair, and Berger asked if there was anything else MacMurphy needed. He was
eager to conclude the meeting.

“Not unless you can think of
something else. Are there any assets I’m not aware of who might be able to
help? Chinese access agents or anyone for that matter who has regular access to
the Chinese officials or the embassy building?”

Berger looked over at Little, who
shook his head. Based on his body language, MacMurphy suspected Little might be
lying but decided this was not the time for another confrontation. He had
enough to get started, and there were other ways to get the information he
wanted out of the station.

MacMurphy stood up. “Thanks for
your help so far. I’ll get the files I need and spend the rest of the day
reading-in if that’s all right with you.” He directed his remarks at the COS
and did not offer his hand to either of them.

“It’s fine with me,” Berger said
flatly. “There’s an empty office across the hall you can use. O’Hara’s. He’s
away on home leave. My secretary will show you.” Without another word, the
imperious COS turned his attention back to the stack of cable traffic on his
desk. Little and MacMurphy let themselves out of the office.

Chapter Thirty-Six

M
ac walked down to the embassy
canteen and got himself a cup of coffee. He struggled to contain his rage,
exasperation, and contempt. What neither Berger nor Little understood—because
they were both disasters when it came to handling assets—was that the very
characteristics and weaknesses of both François Leverrier and Pol Giroud that
they disparaged was a key part of why these two agents were so useful.

In Leverrier’s case, the
flamboyant “playboy” image had value as an excellent, natural cover. Leverrier
was the son of parents who were minor members of the aristocracy, and he had
grown up among the wealthy in St. Tropez.

His father had “retired” from the
family textile business in Lyons (he had actually been pushed out by other
members of the family) and moved to the Cote d’Azur, where he spent his time
playing the
bourse
, losing a considerable amount of his inheritance, and
chasing women who were much younger versions of his wife.

Marie Leverrier had been, briefly
and unsuccessfully, a model and a writer for one of the more sensational French
magazines until she married Alain Leverrier. François was an only
child––largely because his mother found the idea of the stretch marks that came
along with additional pregnancies unappealing.