Support and Defend (5 page)

E
THAN
R
OSS
ran late for work almost every Monday, and today was no exception. He would never admit it, but arriving fashionably late was by design; he found punctuality to be beneath his station, and chronic tardiness nothing more than a harmless passive-aggressive way to protest the inflexible rules of his organization.

He’d slept in a little this morning, not at home in Georgetown, but at his girlfriend’s place in Bethesda. Last night he and Eve had gone out to a bar to watch a Lakers game that didn’t end till after eleven here on the East Coast, and then they’d stayed for one more round that had somehow turned into three.

They’d finally made it to bed at one, and to sleep at two after Ethan’s amorous mood overpowered the five greyhounds he’d consumed. He’d planned on going home to spend the night at his own place, but after sex, all he wanted to do was roll over to the edge of the bed and crash until morning.

At eight-fifteen Ethan awoke suddenly, roused by a panicked and shrill rendering of his name.

“Ethan!” The voice was Eve’s, and his eyes opened and fixed on her alarm clock, because she was holding it in front of his face.

“Calm down,” he said, but she was up and running for the bathroom, because punctuality was more her thing than it was his.

He made it downstairs to his red Mercedes coupe a few minutes later, cranked up some music and drove south to his town house on 34th Street, where he indulged in a long, leisurely shower and then took all the time he needed styling his blond hair with molding clay. He dressed, then stepped in front of his full-length mirror so he could check the fit, cut, and sheen of his gray Ralph Lauren sharkskin suit. Satisfied that his purple polka-dot tie wasn’t too much with the sharkskin, he slipped on a pair of cherry loafers and gave himself one more long appraisal in the mirror, assessing and then approving his style and looks.

At nine he sauntered down the front steps of his row house, still unhurried and unstressed, and he climbed back into his warm Mercedes and headed off to work, music blaring again.

Traffic on Wisconsin Avenue wasn’t too bad, but he hit his first snag of the day when he found Pennsylvania to be mired in gridlock. While he crept forward he sang along with his Blaupunkt stereo. Neil Young’s
On the Beach
was a 1974 release that would have been a unique listening choice for most thirty-two-year-olds, but Ross had grown up with it. Revolution music, his mother used to call it, although Ethan realized there was a certain dissonance to the concept of singing along with anti-establishment songs while driving his luxury car on his way to his government job.

No matter. Ethan still considered himself something of a rebel, albeit one with a more realistic worldview.

He’d been listening to his old albums since he got off work on Friday, both alone and then with Eve. She didn’t much care for them, but she didn’t complain, and he didn’t really give a damn. Eve was a brilliant but hopelessly submissive Korean girl who would walk on glass for him if he told her to do so, and sometimes Ethan liked to unplug on the weekends, to go from five p.m. Friday to nine a.m. Monday without checking his phone, his iPad, or watching any TV. He didn’t do it often, but there were times when his job was too stifling: endless boring meetings and conference calls and lunches with people he didn’t want to eat with or trips with people he didn’t want to travel with. He’d had a few months like this, his work was frustrating him and interfering with his well-cultivated self-image as a D.C. power player, and only detoxifying himself from work and inoculating himself with the music of his childhood could refresh him and get him ready to face work again on Monday.

Eve didn’t complain; Ethan was certain she was just happy to have him to herself for two full days.

He checked his hair in the rearview, turned up Neil Young even louder, and sang along, pitching his voice in and out of key and fighting the power the only prudent way to do so at present.

E
THAN
R
OSS LIKED TO
tell people he worked at t he White House, and it was true, with a caveat. His office was in the Dwight D. Eisenhower Executive Office Building, next to the West Wing, and while the Eisenhower EOB housed many offices for White House personnel, it wasn’t, strictly speaking, the White House. West Wing employees distinguished themselves from Eisenhower Building employees by saying they worked “inside the gates,” while the EOB staff worked “outside the gates.” Ross didn’t see any distinction himself. He was a White House staffer to anyone who asked, or anyone who would listen, for that matter.

He had spent the last three years here, spanning two administrations, serving as deputy assistant director for Near East and North African affairs in the National Security Council. He prepared policy papers for the President of the United States, or at least he coordinated the preparation of policy papers for the national security adviser, who then determined if the president should see a summary of them. The papers came from the work of the Department of State and the U.S. intelligence community, as well as a series of domestic and international think tanks and academic institutions.

His job, as he described it, was to give POTUS the best information available for him to conduct policy.

But his job, as he
actually
saw it, was to push paper while others made key decisions.

Ethan worked closely with the U.S. intelligence community, getting data from most all of the sixteen agencies related to his region. Not just the CIA, but also the National Reconnaissance Office, the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, the Department of State’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, sometimes even the military intelligence agencies. Coordination was his role, he wasn’t a decision-maker himself, but he did have his finger on the pulse of happenings in his region.

It was a moderately high position for someone his age, although, as far as Ross was concerned, it was far beneath him. He had considered the work just barely impressive at twenty nine when he was put in the post, but now, two weeks before his thirty-third birthday, each and every day he lamented what he saw as his slow rise to the ranks of the power players.

His work no longer pushed him. Ethan thought he was smart enough to phone it in, and so that’s exactly what he had been doing for some time.

He hoped to advance out of this job soon—not into something higher at NSC, this had just been a placeholder for him— rather, he wanted to make his way into the U.S. delegation to the United Nations. He had been bred for a life of high-level work in an international organization. His father had worked as a staffer in the UN for twenty-five years before becoming an international-studies professor, both at universities abroad and then back home in Georgetown. His mother had served in the Carter administration as an undersecretary in the United States Mission to the United Nations, then as ambassador to Jordan during the Clinton years, before herself becoming a professor at Georgetown and a best-selling author of political biographies.

Ross was a government employee, a federal worker, but he was also something of a contrarian. He got it from his academic upbringing. He felt most people he worked with in government were unintelligent and boring. He didn’t talk about his personal political beliefs around his coworkers—he didn’t have that sort of a White House job—but he quietly considered himself ideologically opposed to the administration in power.

Just like every workday, Ethan parked his red E-Class coupe in a parking facility a block away from the Eisenhower Building and, just like every workday, it pissed him off when he walked to the EOB and saw open parking spaces in the lot. His position did not merit a reserved parking space; only the highest-ranking two dozen or so execs had such privileges.

He stepped through the gate at the 17th Street entrance, then pulled his badge out of his coat. He was late enough that the security line was short, so in under a minute he left the drab gray outbuilding and headed up the steps into the main building.

The Eisenhower EOB used to be known as the State, War, and Navy Building, and it had been the nexus of American foreign power at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century—the era when America emerged as a world leader. It had been constructed over a seventeen-year period in the late 1800s, and crafted in the ornate architectural style known as French Second Empire. The elaborate symmetrical iron cresting, balustrades, and cornices were meant to portray permanence and character, and many felt the huge structure, in many ways, overshadowed its next-door neighbor, the White House.

Ethan wasn’t as impressed with the architecture as others were, because Ethan knew the Eisenhower Building wasn’t the power center it used to be, and certainly nothing like the building next door at 1600 Penn.

He made it into the third-floor NSC wing at 9:39, entered his small office, put his coat on the rack, and frowned. His secretary, Angela, always had his coffee ready for him, a Venti mocha from Starbucks that she picked up on her way in to work and placed next to his telephone to the right of his desk.

Angela was here, he had seen her sweater hanging over the back of her chair in his outer office when he entered, but his coffee was nowhere to be found.

Ross sighed.
You had one job, Angie, and you dropped the ball first thing on Monday morning.

A moment later he heard movement outside his office, and he called out as he sat down. “Angie?”

His fifty-four-year-old secretary appeared in the doorway a moment later. “Good. You’re here.”

With both a look and a tone crafted to convey just a hint of displeasure, he said, “Did you forget my coffee?”

“No, sir. I put it at your place in the conference room. Everyone else is waiting.”

Ethan jerked his head to his morning agenda lying on his blotter, worried he’d forgotten a meeting. Rarely did he have any planned events so early on a Monday. But his agenda confirmed he was free. “I don’t have anything till ten-thirty, and that’s off-site.”

“They said they were calling everyone on their way in. I thought you’d gotten the message.”

Ethan had heard his phone ring through the sound system in his Mercedes, but he’d muted the call without looking at it. The speakers had been pouring out Neil Young, after all, and by the time the last smoky notes of Ambulance Blues drifted away, he’d been pulling into the parking lot and he’d forgotten about the call.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but it must be a big deal. Everyone was supposed to be in the conference room at nine-thirty.”

Ethan looked at his watch. It was 9:41.

He sighed again, and headed off for the conference room.

E
THAN ENTERED
the open double doors of the NSC conference room and saw a full house looking back at him. The U-shaped table was completely occupied, and it was standing room only against the walls. He knew the table could accommodate sixteen, so he estimated there were at least twenty-five in attendance.

His Venti mocha was right there on the table, but sitting in front of it was Walter Pak from the South and Central Asia desk, and Ross couldn’t muster the gall to push his way through the crowd and grab his drink when all eyes were on him.

As he headed for an open spot by the wall, he scanned faces quickly in an attempt to discern the reason for this morning’s emergency meeting.

He saw the deputy directors and assistant deputies for all the other regions: Europe, Russia and Eurasia, Asia, South Asia, Central Africa—even the Western Hemisphere. Whatever new problem had popped up seemed to be impossibly wide in scope. Ross half smiled to himself, wondering if NASA had gotten word that aliens were poised to attack.

He also noticed several men and women from the IT department. This he considered odd, but not especially so, as they were higher-level system administrators and they found their way into many staff meetings when questions about access and networks came into play.

He located a spot on the wall and then turned to face the front, and now he noticed someone who didn’t belong. A fit looking male in his late thirties wearing a dark blue suit stood at the front of the room behind Madeline Crossman and Henry Delvecchio, who were positioned side by side at the lectern and had obviously been addressing the group.

Ethan didn’t know blue-suit guy, but he did know Delvecchio and Crossman.

Delvecchio was the deputy for regional affairs, the head of all the regions. He worked directly for the national security adviser, and that made him one of the top men in the NSC.

Crossman, on the other hand, was not a big deal as far as Ethan was concerned. Any worries Ethan had that this was something of major import vanished the instant he saw Maddy Crossman standing at the lectern. She was a compliance and security director, an administrator in charge of making sure everyone filled out requisition forms correctly and didn’t leave their key cards at their desks when they went to the john.

Ethan gave a contrite half-wave at Crossman and Delvecchio and said, “Sorry, folks. Car trouble.”

Henry Delvecchio gave an understanding nod and returned his attention to the room. “Again, I apologize for rushing everyone in first thing, but we have an issue that needs your attention. I trust you all have heard about the events in India last night.”

Ethan looked around to other faces. There were nods, clear indications of understanding.

Ethan Ross, on the other hand, didn’t have a clue what had happened in India. Suddenly he felt like he was back in his undergrad days, walking in late to class with a hangover only to find out there would be a pop quiz, and he didn’t have any idea of the topic of the test.

The good news, as far as Ross was concerned, was that this wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with him, as India wasn’t his turf.

Instinctively, his head swiveled to Joy Bennett, assistant deputy director for India. That was her neck of the woods. He felt a little schadenfreude. He couldn’t help it. He’d never thought much of Bennett.

Let’s see how she deals with whatever dustup is going down over there.

He found it strange, though, that Joy Bennett was looking back at him.

Delvecchio continued, “The attack on the Jewish citizens on the Malabar Coast was the first border incursion over water by terrorists since the massacres in India two years ago by Pakistani terrorists. And while the loss of life this time was just a small fraction of the earlier attacks, there are reasons to suspect this was not an attempt at a mass-casualty event that failed, but rather, this was a targeted killing of an Israeli national with key ties to the special-operations community.”

There were a few gasps of surprise around the room. “The perpetrators, and this has not made the news yet, were a mixture of Palestinian
fedayeen
and Yemeni jihadists, working together, which is as unusual as it is troubling.”

In Ross’s mind, buzzes, flares, and alarm bells began going off. Israel, Palestinian, jihadi, attack.
Christ
. The fact he had spent the weekend away from his phone and computer had suddenly gone from smart to stupid in his mind, and Ross considered himself anything but stupid.

Fuck!

Delvecchio looked at Ethan’s boss, the deputy director of Near East, who in turn looked to Ethan.

He cleared his throat, nodded slowly and thoughtfully, and then bullshitted. “It is something we are looking at closely.”

“Anything you want to add right off the bat?”

Ross affected a distant look that was intended to portray thoughtfulness. Then he shook his head slowly.

Delvecchio threw Ross a lifeline. He said, “You probably haven’t had a chance to read the report from CIA. Just came over from Langley about thirty minutes ago.”

“I was just about to pull it up when I heard we were meeting.”

Delvecchio filled in the pieces. “A dozen dead on Indian soil. Seven attackers. Three attackers wore suicide vests. One vest detonated. It would be interesting even if the victims were nothing more than Israeli expats. But one of the victims was Colonel Arik Yacoby, a former Israeli Defense Forces officer.”

The assistant deputy director of combating terrorism strategy spoke up. “Henry, there are tens of thousands of ex–IDF officers. Presumably thousands are outside Israel at any one time. All respect to the dead, but what’s so damn interesting about this retired colonel?”

Delvecchio answered, “Colonel Yacoby was the former leader of a group of Israeli naval commandos.” He looked down to a sheet of paper on the lectern in front of him. “Shayetet Thirteen.”

The ADD of CTS nodded thoughtfully. “Got it.”

Delvecchio said, “Most of you remember the attack on the Turkish aid flotilla off the coast of Gaza four years ago. Shayetet Thirteen was the unit that boarded the Turkish freighter, the SS
Ardahan
. According to the CIA, Colonel Yacoby led the boarding party. If you remember, nine Palestinians were killed in the raid, including three combatant commanders of the AlQassam Brigades.” Delvecchio paused for effect, then added, “Which is the same unit the CIA believes orchestrated the attack in India over the weekend.”

He paused to shuffle some papers on the lectern and, while he did so, the ADD of combating terrorism strategy asked, “How does CIA know Yacoby was part of the IDF raid on the Turkish ship?”

“Our friends at Langley had a paid informant on the SS
Ardahan
. This agent passed crucial intelligence about the security of the ship to his handler and then, after conferring here with the NSC, POTUS ordered the CIA to feed the intelligence on to the Israelis. In the back-and-forth of this communication, a meeting occurred in Tel Aviv between CIA officers and Shayetet Thirteen commandos, including Colonel Yacoby. His name made it into the CIA database after the meeting. After the flotilla raid by Shayetet Thirteen, the CIA wrote up an after-action review for internal dissemination.” Delvecchio paused. “Colonel Yacoby’s name was put in the AAR.” He added, “In error.”

Someone—Ross thought it was Pak from South and Central Asia—said, “That is a significant error.”

“Agreed,” Delvecchio said, “It should have been redacted and code worded. It wasn’t our file, we didn’t do it.” He hastened to add. “Not that it matters to Colonel Yacoby and his family.”

Madeline Crossman, the compliance and security director, said, “We have serious concerns the Palestinian terrorists learned Mr. Yacoby’s name from the CIA report.”

Beth Morris spoke up. She was assistant deputy director for Western Hemisphere. “I’m sorry, Henry. Madeline. Is there some linkage here with NSC that I don’t understand?”

Henry Delvecchio nodded. “Beth, we have reason to believe there has been an insider compromise.”

There were soft gasps throughout the room.

When they subsided he said, “The complete CIA file on the SS
Ardahan
, including the name of the Shayetet Thirteen team leader, was accessed on the network here in the NSC office four months ago. The files were copied and moved into a file-sharing section of the server. From there, we can only assume they were printed out or downloaded.”

Morris asked, “They were accessed by
who
?”

Crossman said, “We do not know. There was a breach of forty-five documents classified at the secret level or above. Whoever moved the files disguised the electronic fingerprint of the breach.”

Morris’s voice rose in indignation. “And you think one of us stole the files and gave them to the Al-Qassam Brigades?”

Crossman replied, “Beth, there was, without question, anomalous behavior. That’s all we know at this point for sure. We need to rule out any nefarious actions.”

Morris looked over to the IT staffers in the room, who were all more or less sitting together. “It had to have been someone who knew how to disguise the electronic fingerprint, whatever the hell that is.”

The entire IT department bristled at the comment, but they were generally quieter than the regional staffers. One of them said, “These files were taken off JWICS?” JWICS was the Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System, an Internet of sorts for America’s intelligence agencies.

“Yes, that’s correct,” confirmed Crossman. “Specifically, the files were accessed on Intelink-TS.” This was a top-secret network that ran on JWICS.

“How many people had access to the TS files?”

“Including staffers and IT administrators, and adding in those outside contractors with access to both the TS files and the NSC terminals . . . thirty-four.”

Ethan Ross looked around the room, but while he was counting heads Beth Morris spoke up again.

“Is everyone who could have accessed it here?”

“Thirty-one are here, actually. One sysadmin called in sick today, and two are on vacation. One is traveling abroad. I don’t have to tell anyone here that we take this breach incredibly seriously. More so now that it is quite possible lives have been lost due to the compromise.”

The room came alive with crosstalk.

Pak, the ADD from Asia, asked, “Do we know it was our leak that caused it? How do we know the Israelis don’t have a compromise of their own, or that the information about Yacoby could have been obtained some other way?”

Delvecchio said, “No, we do not know our leak led to the deaths in India. But it doesn’t look good. Another file in the cache taken was a follow-up review of the CIA’s involvement in the raid, done just last year. This file did not mention Yacoby by name, but it stated the Shayetet colonel who led the raid had retired and moved to Paravur, India.”

One of the staffers shook her head in disbelief. “Why the hell would they put that in the file?”

“Apparently, CIA’s National Clandestine Service contracted the retired colonel for training purposes. He was some sort of a martial artist. The file said he could be reached to contribute to the review, although in the end he was never contacted.” Delvecchio cleared his throat. “The two pieces of the puzzle the Palestinians would need for yesterday’s assassination . . . those being the man’s name and his location, were both in the digital breach from the NSC. Again, we don’t know that’s how the Palestinians got the intel, but the President has been notified, and he has already made the decision to tell the Israeli prime minister about the compromise, so we need answers immediately.”

Ethan Ross spoke up now. “Henry, you can be certain my department will conduct a full security review. I’m sure the other desks will conduct their own reviews.”

Crossman spoke up before Delvecchio could answer. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’s protocol,” said Ethan.

“It
is
protocol, but for a matter this delicate, where there is a possibility of a high-level leak of classified information, the security review will be conducted by DOJ. This flies way above desk level, Ethan.”

There was some shock, a fresh din of indignant comments around the room.

One of the IT guys mumbled something about the computer system’s antiquated architecture and weak safeguards against an inside attack. Another systems administrator tried to ask technical questions about the breach, but Crossman shut him down, saying the ongoing investigation precluded her from answering specifics.

After several moments the murmurs in the conference room rose, and neither Henry Delvecchio nor Madeline Crossman seemed able to take back control. The fit man in the dark blue suit who had been standing silently behind them stepped to the lectern. Ethan thought he had a Clark Kent hairstyle and a build like an amateur bodybuilder.

Under his breath, Ethan muttered. “Oh, shit. It’s a G.”

Beth Morris’s tone was almost derisive as she asked, “And who are you?”

“Supervisory Special Agent Darren Albright. FBI Counterintelligence Division.”

“CID? Oh my God,” mumbled Morris. “We are being treated like criminals.”

Albright shook his head calmly. His voice was soft but powerful, like a man indulgent of others, but barely so. “No, ma’am. You are not being treated like criminals. Trust me.” He eyed the room. “This isn’t how we treat criminals. I am working with Director Delvecchio to organize the polygraphs we’ve ordered in a manner that is least intrusive to the important work everyone here is doing.”

Morris snorted. “If you aren’t treating us like criminals, what do you call dragging us into FBI polygraphs?”

Albright spoke politely, but he didn’t smile. To Ross he didn’t seem the smiling type. “I call it treating you like suspects. Criminals are cuffed and frog-walked to jail.”

The room flew into a barely controlled and sustained rage at the comment. Beth Morris was the most vocal of the group. Albright conferred with Madeline Crossman softly, but Ethan could hear him ask her Beth Morris’s name. Unsurprisingly to Ethan, Crossman gave it with a little sneer. She was the office hall monitor, after all.