The Washington Stratagem Read Free Page B

two guys, enjoying themselves and shooting the breeze.
    Yael had expected to see an array of casual pictures of Clairborne with the numerous VIPs whose official portraits filled the reception area. Instead there were just four photographs, separately displayed and all roughly the size of a sheet of printer paper—small by Washington standards. Three showed Clairborne playing golf with the last three former presidents. In each Clairborne had his arm around the president’s shoulders. The fourth, mounted away from the others, showed Clairborne shaking hands with Eugene Packard, the television evangelist. The chairman of the Prometheus Group, Yael understood, was subtler than he first appeared.
    Yael declined his offer of coffee or tea and placed her mobile telephone on the side table between the chairs. She sensed him watching her, like a lion scoping a nearby zebra, and quickly deciding that this young woman from an organization he despised posed no threat. He had marked his territory. Now it was her turn. A blue light at the bottom of her phone blinked repeatedly.
    “Please switch off the microphones and cameras, Mr. Clairborne.”
    Clairborne looked at the phone, and back at her. “This room is swept twice a day, Ms. Azoulay.”
    Yael nodded. “It’s not intruders’ mikes that I’m worried about.”
    Clairborne smiled, amused. “You have to watch your back in this town, Ms. Azoulay. You never know what might end up on YouTube.”
    Yael sat back and said nothing. The silence stretched out. Clairborne gave her a long look, as though reassessing his initial judgment. He stood up, walked over to the telephone on his desk, and punched a series of numbers into the keypad. The blue light on Yael’s phone went out, replaced by a green one.
    “Thank you,” said Yael, as Clairborne returned and sat down.
    “You know the rules,” replied Clairborne, gesturing at her phone.
    Yael nodded. She slid out her mobile’s battery and SIM card and laid the pieces of the telephone on the table. “So do you.”
    Clairborne did the same. He offered Yael a glass of water. She nodded and he poured them both one. He emptied the glass in one draft and looked at her. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his voice now cool and businesslike.
    Yael explained what she wanted, slowly and in detail. Clairborne watched her as she spoke, his wide, doughy face impassive.
    She had prepared for this meeting for a week. Her briefing notes were an inch thick. They included a detailed history of the Prometheus Group, biographies of its key personnel and directors, and flowcharts showing Prometheus’s reach into each US government department and the firm’s contact official there. There were multiple lines in and out of the major departments, including Commerce, Treasury, Labor, Justice, Transportation, the Federal Reserve, and the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and fewer connections into smaller departments such as Food Safety. The Pentagon had four separate pages, one each for army, navy, air force, and procurement. Yael had read the notes several times in New York, and again on the train that morning. She had been briefed verbally on Prometheus’s connections to the United States’ intelligence agencies, by her UN colleague Quentin Braithwaite, a former British army officer. Prometheus, Braithwaite had explained, was especially well connected to a new US government covert agency that operated off the books. Braithwaite had forbidden Yael from taking any notes at his briefing. Nor was she to discuss or mention this new agency on the telephone or in any electronic communications, no matter how well encrypted.
    Clairborne was silent for several seconds. “Ms. Azoulay, I really have no idea what you are talking about.”
    Yael took a sip of her water before she spoke. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. The Iranian regime is under sanctions. It is illegal for American firms to do business with Iran, whether directly or through foreign-based