when I get back.
I page to the next email as quickly as I can, but it’s too late. Talia’s at my shoulder, and she’s trying a little too hard to look anywhere but my monitor. She’s seen it all.
What am I supposed to say? Shanna’s kidding? We’ll get through this? Right. I pick silence and focus on the other email, from Angela.
I’m sure you’re more up on this than I am, but should they know when we’re holding closed-door negotiations with our neighbors?
How would the Emiratis know that? I turn to Talia. “You think she means a state reception?”
“Yeah, closed door is diplomat-ese for black tie.”
“ Are we having closed-door negotiations?”
Her instant look of skepticism says what we’re both thinking: if we are, it’s not like the embassy would clear it with us first. Kind of the point of the “closed-door” part, right?
I shoot off my reply to Angela: Uh, no. Full transcript?
Working on it , she returns a little too fast. You sure this is off the record?
Honestly, we can’t be sure anything we email is safe from the prying eyes of the bureaucracy that’s infiltrated the CIA. But if we work fast, we might be able to build a case strong enough to satisfy them — or at least CSIS’s curiosity — before we get into anything too sketchy.
Maybe.
I realize I’m tapping one finger on my desk and stop myself. Nerves are weakness, and even if Talia’s the only one who’ll notice, that’s too much weakness for me to show. Especially when Talia’s expression betrays nothing.
But her words do: worry. “She’s good?”
“Yeah. Twice in the field.” Though neither of us can be sure how much access a Western woman might have in an Arabic-speaking country. Still, I think she knows her stuff. I hope.
But hanging over all that is a question bigger than will Congress mind a little friendly spying? or is Angela up to the task? It’s a question I don’t even want to think. And I don’t — until Talia puts a voice to it.
“Worst-case scenario,” she begins. “The Emiratis’ gossip has nothing to do with the Canadians, and everything to do with us.”
“What, the Emiratis are trying to invade America using their diplomatic mission?” Canada, the USA and the UAE are supposed to be friends. Talia’s theory makes no sense. Why would the Emiratis target us? What’s in it for them?
Then again, I don’t know why the Emiratis would go after the Canadians, either. But a healthy dose of paranoia is a staple in a not-dead spy’s daily diet. If Talia is right by some insane stroke, if there’s some reason they’re collecting information about the ambassador’s schedule, if they have someone on the inside — not good.
Talking about meeting schedules might not be that big a deal, as long as nobody tries to firebomb them. Engineering those schedules, influencing meetings, directing American foreign policy with the Emiratis in your back pocket? Big deal.
Big enough we’ll need that congressional oversight. Big enough to cause an international incident to put Canadian airport landing rights to shame. Big enough to warrant a whole lot of help.
“Do we talk?” I ask. Right now, even Will doesn’t know exactly what we’re doing with the Emiratis. Strictly speaking, he doesn’t know we’re doing anything with them. And the only person at Langley who has any idea we’re listening to Arabic in Ottawa still owes me a couple favors.
But if this is a worst-case scenario, the double cloak-and-dagger stuff could come back to bite us, either because we didn’t cover ourselves, or because we kept the wrong people in the dark. When nobody knows what you’re doing, nobody can help if it goes bad. Real bad.
Talia rubs at her mouth, then shrugs. “If I remember correctly, this whole thing was your idea. Which makes this your call.”
“Thank you, O Fount of Wisdom.”
She smirks and heads back to her desk, and I’m left refreshing my email again, hoping an answer will come.
I page to the next email as quickly as I can, but it’s too late. Talia’s at my shoulder, and she’s trying a little too hard to look anywhere but my monitor. She’s seen it all.
What am I supposed to say? Shanna’s kidding? We’ll get through this? Right. I pick silence and focus on the other email, from Angela.
I’m sure you’re more up on this than I am, but should they know when we’re holding closed-door negotiations with our neighbors?
How would the Emiratis know that? I turn to Talia. “You think she means a state reception?”
“Yeah, closed door is diplomat-ese for black tie.”
“ Are we having closed-door negotiations?”
Her instant look of skepticism says what we’re both thinking: if we are, it’s not like the embassy would clear it with us first. Kind of the point of the “closed-door” part, right?
I shoot off my reply to Angela: Uh, no. Full transcript?
Working on it , she returns a little too fast. You sure this is off the record?
Honestly, we can’t be sure anything we email is safe from the prying eyes of the bureaucracy that’s infiltrated the CIA. But if we work fast, we might be able to build a case strong enough to satisfy them — or at least CSIS’s curiosity — before we get into anything too sketchy.
Maybe.
I realize I’m tapping one finger on my desk and stop myself. Nerves are weakness, and even if Talia’s the only one who’ll notice, that’s too much weakness for me to show. Especially when Talia’s expression betrays nothing.
But her words do: worry. “She’s good?”
“Yeah. Twice in the field.” Though neither of us can be sure how much access a Western woman might have in an Arabic-speaking country. Still, I think she knows her stuff. I hope.
But hanging over all that is a question bigger than will Congress mind a little friendly spying? or is Angela up to the task? It’s a question I don’t even want to think. And I don’t — until Talia puts a voice to it.
“Worst-case scenario,” she begins. “The Emiratis’ gossip has nothing to do with the Canadians, and everything to do with us.”
“What, the Emiratis are trying to invade America using their diplomatic mission?” Canada, the USA and the UAE are supposed to be friends. Talia’s theory makes no sense. Why would the Emiratis target us? What’s in it for them?
Then again, I don’t know why the Emiratis would go after the Canadians, either. But a healthy dose of paranoia is a staple in a not-dead spy’s daily diet. If Talia is right by some insane stroke, if there’s some reason they’re collecting information about the ambassador’s schedule, if they have someone on the inside — not good.
Talking about meeting schedules might not be that big a deal, as long as nobody tries to firebomb them. Engineering those schedules, influencing meetings, directing American foreign policy with the Emiratis in your back pocket? Big deal.
Big enough we’ll need that congressional oversight. Big enough to cause an international incident to put Canadian airport landing rights to shame. Big enough to warrant a whole lot of help.
“Do we talk?” I ask. Right now, even Will doesn’t know exactly what we’re doing with the Emiratis. Strictly speaking, he doesn’t know we’re doing anything with them. And the only person at Langley who has any idea we’re listening to Arabic in Ottawa still owes me a couple favors.
But if this is a worst-case scenario, the double cloak-and-dagger stuff could come back to bite us, either because we didn’t cover ourselves, or because we kept the wrong people in the dark. When nobody knows what you’re doing, nobody can help if it goes bad. Real bad.
Talia rubs at her mouth, then shrugs. “If I remember correctly, this whole thing was your idea. Which makes this your call.”
“Thank you, O Fount of Wisdom.”
She smirks and heads back to her desk, and I’m left refreshing my email again, hoping an answer will come.
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