The Director: A Novel (39 page)

The next morning Weber
walked down the hall to Earl Beasley’s office and stuck his head in the door. It wasn’t exactly a cold call. He’d had Marie phone ahead to make sure the esteemed head of the National Clandestine Service was in residence. Beasley popped up from his desk when the director arrived, feigning surprise. They had done reciprocal reconnaissance: Beasley had been alerted by his secretary, an African-American woman in her fifties who had been his personal assistant for nearly a decade.

Beasley was dressed immaculately, as always, in one of his Turnbull & Asser shirts, blue stripes against a white collar and cuffs that set off the cocoa brown of his skin. His cuff links were ribbed strands of gold, from Tiffany’s. The belt was the subtly patterned skin of an alligator, as were the shoes. His suit fit every line of his body, made to measure by his tailor in Hong Kong, who he always claimed had been Richard Nixon’s tailor, too.

Weber looked trim, but more weathered than a month before; he was still affecting the casual, tieless look, but it was less convincing now, and the workforce had stopped emulating him.

“How’s the living legend?” asked Weber.

“Pretty fucking good, actually. How ’bout you, Mr. Director? You staying out of trouble?”

“The opposite. I’m stepping in it, with both feet.”

“That’s what people say, but I tell them: Do not bet against a billionaire. Bad mistake.”

“I’m touched.”

Weber approached Beasley and lowered his voice. “I need to talk to you. Outside the glue factory. What are you doing tonight?”

“Besides banging my new girlfriend? Nothing.”

“Well, come out with me. We’ll take my ride.”

“Are you sure? You know what folks think when they see a good-looking black man in an Escalade.”

Weber laughed. “Someday you’re going to have to stop this race-baiting shit.”

“But not yet. I’ll see you at seven-thirty. I know you never leave the office before then, because my soul sister Diana reports to me. Actually, that’s a lie. Marie tells me. But I want you to be paranoid that the brothers and sisters are watching every move.”

“I’m doing fine in the paranoia department, thanks. See you at seven-thirty.”

Beasley arrived at the appointed hour. He had just spent ninety minutes in the gym. Weber, in contrast, had been in meetings almost constantly. That was the surprise about running a big agency: It was entirely pyramidal, like a big American corporation in the 1950s. The director was required to make decisions all day long, every day, to take all the strands of this enormous secret bureaucracy and hold them tight in his hands as if he held the reins of a team of thousands of horses.

They took the elevator down together to the basement. Weber said something to the impassive Fong, the head of his security detail, out of Beasley’s hearing, and the chief relayed it to the driver of the big Cadillac SUV.

Beasley got in the backseat next to Weber.

“I hate these fucking cars,” said Beasley. “They’re for pimps and hos. Why don’t you get something dignified, like a Lexus or a Range Rover? Even a Ford Expedition would be better than this thing, which says:
I’m your bitch, Mr. President. I’m coming right over
.”

“Shut up, Black Jack,” Weber said, trying not to laugh. He looked at the driver, who was also suppressing a smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

They motored out of the garage and turned left onto the circumferential road, which took them to the George Washington Parkway and then over the Roosevelt Bridge. Both men were silent most of the way: Weber had his eyes closed, resting after the unbroken attentiveness of his day. Beasley checked personal messages on his BlackBerry. He was divorced again, for the second time, and it was said around the office that he was with a different beautiful woman every night.

The Escalade crossed the bridge and made its way up Eighteenth Street. Just past M Street it made a left into a side street, and then left again into a service alley.

“Where we going, Mr. Director?”

“You’ll see. My surprise.”

The car pulled to a stop in an alleyway behind M Street, facing the back doors of the bars and restaurants that lined the 1800 block. The sign next to where the Escalade had stopped read
LUCKY LADIES
. Weber got out and headed toward the door of the establishment. Beasley stepped down from the SUV and turned to his boss.

“Are you taking me to a titty bar?” he asked.

“Looks like it,” said Weber. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of white girls?”

“Shit,” said Beasley, shaking his head and following behind.

They went up a narrow staircase into a dark room that was illuminated only by the spotlight on the dancer, who had already stripped down to her G-string. Weber eased his body into a booth in the back, almost invisible to the other customers. Beasley sat down next to him, adjusting his jacket and trousers so as not to get them wrinkled.

“You are a crazy nigger,” said Beasley.

“Thanks. What are you drinking?” A waitress had appeared as soon as they were seated. Weber ordered a Macallan, neat, and Beasley asked for the same, with ice and a finger of soda. The dancer jiggled and jived under the lights. She was impossibly top-heavy, with a payload suited for a sixteen-wheeler on top of a Volkswagen body. Drunken men close to her were applauding and putting money in her garter. The drinks arrived. Weber clinked his glass against Beasley’s and took a long swallow.

“I’m told case officers used to bring agents here,” said Weber. “That was back before the world had gone hard core. Now I guess it’s tough to impress people with a pair of tits.”

“Isn’t that the truth? I would have brought agents here, too, back in the day, but people would have thought I was a coke dealer.”

“Good cover for an Exeter man, I would have thought.”

“I went to Andover, asshole.” Beasley was sensitive about his prep school background, which contrasted with his superfly image. Weber had that advantage over Beasley. He was a middle-class boy from Pittsburgh. The closest he had gotten to a prep school was working as a bouncer at a junior prom at Shady Side Academy.

The dancer wiggled toward their booth. She bent low over Beasley, nearly brushing her snow-white breasts against his black face. People in the bar couldn’t see very well, but some of them were hooting. Weber put twenty dollars in her garter and nodded for her to move on.

“That was exciting,” said Beasley. “Were those big things for real?”

“Of course not,” said Weber. “God doesn’t make them that size. Drink up. We’re leaving.”

“You mean I don’t get to stay for a lap dance? I was just getting to like it here.”

“Sorry, this stop was to confuse my bodyguards. They’re out front scanning the customers. Meanwhile, we’re going around the corner to an apartment where we can talk.”

“Wow. You must work for the CIA.”

“I’m learning.”

Weber left forty dollars on the table. He levered his frame out of the booth and descended the back stairs, Beasley following behind. The big Escalade had disappeared. Weber led them down the alleyway a few dozen paces and then right, to the back entrance of a red brick apartment building.

Weber rapped on the service door; evidently he was expected, for it was opened quickly by a man in janitor’s overalls, who led them up a set of stairs to an apartment on the second floor. It was provisioned like a proper safe house, with an array of food and liquor spread out on the countertop bar that separated the living room from the kitchen.

They started again with two more scotches and took seats across from each other at the dinner table. Weber was beginning to look relaxed, finally. Beasley, however, still unsure of the reason for this unlikely night out on the town, seemed to be getting more anxious. Beasley leaned toward his host.

“Okay, Graham, I call. Why did you bring a hardworking man like me out on a school night, when you know I should be at home calling my momma?”

“Like I told you this morning, I need to talk to you. There’s trouble in River City and you and I need to get straight about it in a hurry.”

Beasley threw up his hands in mock protest. “What did I do? Always blame the black man.”

Weber brought his fist down on the table with a clunk that rattled the glasses.

“Cut the crap. Tonight you and I are going to be serious, for once. I need some answers.”

“Okay, got the serious part. I’ll put on my Princeton face, if that will make you feel better.”

“Don’t put on any face, just level with me. Otherwise you are going to be in a world of pain. I mean it.”

Beasley sat back, surprised by the bluntness of Weber’s words and demeanor. Weber could be a hard man when he needed to get someone’s attention. Beasley eyed him, less playful now. He was off his game, not sure where Weber was heading.

“What’s this about? Is it that Morris thing? Because I don’t know anything about where he is or what he does. The little prick hides everything from me.”

“Listen to me,” said Weber. “The worst thing that could happen to an intelligence agency is happening to us. Someone has gotten inside the house and monkeyed with the wiring. I thought at first that it was just Morris, but now I’m not so sure. What I’m seeing could only have been done by another intelligence service.”

“Who you looking at?” asked Beasley. He had emptied his glass quickly and was staring at it, wishing there were more.

“The Russians,” said Weber. He paused and studied his companion’s face. Beasley was too good a player to show any obvious reaction. He was staring back at Weber. That was a peculiarity, perhaps. It was a statement that should elicit a reaction.

“You think?” said Beasley after a few seconds.

“The Russians have the tradecraft in cyber, for sure. They have the motive, which is that they still live and breathe for the chance to run a penetration against us. They have all of Snowden’s goodies in their kit now. And maybe they have an old friend in the agency, to whom they could turn for help.”

Weber said the last few words slowly and quietly, so that the implicit message would be clear.

“What the
fuck
is that supposed to mean?” responded Beasley.

“Tell me about Boris Sokolov. And keep your voice down, or we can go down to Pennsylvania Avenue and do this at FBI headquarters.”

“Who’s Boris Sokolov? What the hell is this? I should be calling my lawyer, instead of playing twenty questions with you.”

“I would definitely advise you not to call your lawyer, unless you want to turn this into an espionage case. In that event, I’ll have you arrested tonight, and we’ll do this the way lawyers do. So let me ask you again, politely, what do you know about Boris Sokolov?”

Beasley studied him, guessing at the cards in Weber’s hand and calculating the odds.

“He used to work for me, as you obviously already know. I developed him in London when I was working the Russian account. There isn’t a 201 on him because he wasn’t that kind of asset. This was a matter of ‘rapport,’ shall we say.”

“Meaning you stole money together?”

“Boris stole a shitload of money. He is a world-class thief, in addition to being a very good source of information. Me, I was a public servant. I’ve already been through all this shit with the Justice Department, as you doubtless also know. If they had a case, they would bring it. But they don’t, and they admitted as much to my lawyer. So in my universe, that makes it official: I didn’t steal a goddamn thing. Next question.”

“Same one: Tell me about Boris Sokolov. Is he still working for the Russian service?”

“Fuck, yeah, part-time. Sure he is. That’s why he’s so valuable. He’s inside their shit. But he knows that if he doesn’t do what we tell him, we’ll rat him out to the Brits and he can move to Murmansk.”

“And you’re still talking to him?”

“Occasionally. When I need something. He knows every dirty Russian on the planet. He’s like a who’s who of assholes. I get information from him that I can feed to my field officers. They do the rest. That’s what the chief of the Clandestine Service does, by the way. I know you’re new around here.”

Weber ignored the shot. He wanted to unwind what was in Beasley’s head, not fight with him.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this right: You have maintained contact for years with an SVR asset, but you never recorded him as a CIA asset. Now, someone looking at that would probably say:
If Sokolov wasn’t working for the agency, then Earl Beasley must have been working for the Russians
. Or am I missing something?”

Beasley shook his head. “You’re scaring me, Graham. You must be in a heap of trouble, to be throwing a shitball like this at me. But since you made the charge, I’ll answer it. No, I wasn’t an SVR agent. Not now or ever. Pull it back, or I am calling my lawyer. And you can arrest my ass whenever you want. I’m not scared of you. You’re fucking desperate.”

“Why did you put Ted Jankowski in touch with Sokolov?”

“Say what?”

Beasley got up and walked to the bar, where he poured himself another whiskey.

“Let me rephrase the question,” said Weber. “Why did you help Jankowski hide his money, using Sokolov and your fixer in Cyprus?”

“This is that same Justice Department bullshit. I told you they dropped it.”

“But this is me asking. Why did you put them in touch?”

Beasley thought a moment. He could try to brazen it out, but it seemed possible that Weber wasn’t bluffing about having him arrested, which would set in motion a process that would be very hard to control, and almost certainly ruinous to his career. Beasley answered with a practiced calm.

“Jankowski wanted to know people who were good at hiding money. I didn’t ask why, but I could guess. So I gave him the two best names I had. I didn’t ask what he did with the information and he didn’t tell me.”

“Is that the truth?” pressed Weber. He had always thought that human beings were better at detecting lies than machines.

“Yes, it is,” answered Beasley. He didn’t say,
Fuck, yes
, or
You’re goddamned right
, or offer any other embellishment. He just affirmed that it was a truthful statement. Weber decided to believe him.