Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(20)
It shouldn’t have surprised Gibson how good that felt to hear. Through his letters, the judge had filled the void left by his father. And as if the judge had read his mind, he continued.
“He’d be proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Gibson. Nice to know I did a few things right in my time. Now I need to ask you a favor.”
“What do you need?”
“For you to go.”
“Did I say something? I didn’t—”
“No. It’s been grand. But I’m on borrowed time here. And I want to say good-bye while I’m all here. Understand me? Like two men.”
They stood and shook hands in the dirt.
“Try and remember me this way.”
“I will.”
“And take this with you.” The judge handed him the magazine. “Throw it away. Burn it. I don’t want to see his face again.”
“Take care of yourself, sir.”
“I’ll do my best. Thanks for the RC.” The judge winked. “And thanks for the company. Hit the spot.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Room SH-219 in the Hart Office Building was the most secure room in the US Senate. The walls were steel cased and RF shielded to prevent electromagnetic observation, and access to SH-219 was strictly controlled—nothing and no one came in or out that wasn’t rigorously screened, right down to the room’s dedicated HVAC system and electricity, which were double-filtered for electromagnetic radiation that might carry a signal. Despite the room’s bug-proof design, those responsible for its security assumed the worst and swept it for listening devices constantly. It was an object lesson in pragmatic paranoia. It had to be.
Within SH-219’s vaultlike doors, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence heard closed testimony on America’s intelligence activities. When called, emissaries from the seventeen elements of the intelligence community—a feudal patchwork of acronyms ranging from the CIA and the NSA to the INR and the TFI—briefed the committee and answered the senators’ questions.
CIA deputy director René Ambrose found the entire process farcical. Explaining complex strategic operations to elected officials, most of whom he wasn’t altogether convinced knew the difference between Indonesia and Malaysia, cast democracy in a dubious light. It irritated him, and he woke most mornings irritable to begin with. He didn’t care for politics, and as a rule, he didn’t appreciate being drawn away from Langley for this dog-and-pony show. But he was the deputy director of East Asia and Pacific Analysis, and his testimony on China and North Korea had become staples of the committee’s diet.
To add insult to injury, briefings were scheduled for mid to late afternoon, which meant a commute in the thick of the DC rush hour. Traffic irritated him. He’d been screwing a congressional press secretary named Lily for a little over a year, often meeting her at the Hotel George after his testimony. It was a tired affair, the sex tame and predictable, but he kept it up because she was discreet, showed no interest in his work, and was flexible to his calendar. And because traffic irritated him that much.
There were thirteen members of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, nine in attendance to hear Ambrose’s testimony today. Eight and a half, if one were honest about Bill Russert of Tennessee, who was losing his battle with consciousness across the table. Good, Ambrose thought. He had worked long and hard to cultivate a droning monotone when he testified—the one he used with his wife when she got onto the subject of redecorating the bedroom. Ambrose paused for a sip of water, and Russert’s eyes fluttered opened momentarily. Ambrose fixed him with a courtesy smile until they drifted shut again. By legend, former director William J. Casey’s mutterings were so purposefully inaudible that the committee had headsets installed in the hope of catching the cagey CIA director’s testimony. Ambrose wasn’t so blatant about it, but then he was but a humble deputy director and you could only push it so far.
“If you’ll turn to page sixty-seven, table 8J projects China’s Air Force capacity over the next ten years. As you see, the Chendu J-20 is projected to give them long-range stealth bomber capacity by 2020. However, we believe this project is significantly ahead of schedule, and our estimates place the operational date no later than 2018. We further believe that its combat capabilities have been significantly underestimated by—”
“Mr. Ambrose, if I may? A question,” said Krista Washburn.
Senator Krista Washburn of Iowa was an insightful, principled lawmaker gifted with a brilliant mind. She had a reputation in the intelligence community as a policy wonk and a hard sell. She asked the right questions and recognized when the snow started to fall. She did not take kindly to the kid-glove treatment, and Ambrose admired her for it. Not that he trusted her; in fact, quite the opposite. Her competence made all their jobs more difficult. Ambrose paused his testimony and ceded the floor to her.
“Would you expand on how you’ve arrived at these estimates? This is not at all what we’re hearing from other agencies. In fact, we’ve heard testimony that the Chendu J-20 is behind schedule and that 2023 is more realistic.”
“We have solid intelligence that Chinese claims of setbacks are diversionary.”
“And what is the source of your intelligence?” she pressed.