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Authors: David Ignatius
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Closet"--as if they were worried that people would stumble into the wrong one by accident. At The Farm, they had told the Clandestine Service trainees they were joining the most elite intelligence organization in the world. But looking at the lumpy, hollow-eyed men and women plying the halls at headquarters, Ferris knew that could not possibly be true. He was wondering if he had made the biggest mistake in his life.
And then he met Ed Hoffman. What struck him in that first encounter was Hoffman's size. He wasn't overweight, just bulky, one of those people who took up a lot of space even when he was sitting at his desk. He kept his hair in a buzz cut, like a Marine recruit, but he was probably in his early fifties. He peered over the top of his reading glasses when Ferris entered the room, in a look that suggested surprise and impatience, as if he had forgotten that he had summoned Ferris. But that wasn't it. He was curious.
Hoffman was still sitting next to his hospital bed at Walter Reed, waiting for an answer. He was a little bigger now, a little softer in the middle. But he hadn't lost that surprising twinkle in his eye, the nimbleness that didn't fit with the heavy body.
"To be honest, Ed, I don't remember anything I said that day, except, 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir.' I was trying to make a good impression. I remember you told me we had something in common. You said we were both related to CIA washouts. I'd never heard my dad described that way, although it was true enough. And you told me about your uncle Frank, who was station chief in Beirut until he got mad at his boss and quit. I liked that. Where is he now, your uncle Frank?"
"Playing golf in Florida with everyone else. You're avoiding my question, Roger. Do you remember what you said at the end of our meeting, after I had quizzed you about the Islamic groups, and we had talked about bin Laden? You were the only person around Headquarters who seemed to know who he was, and you hadn't even gotten your first real paycheck yet. Do you remember what you said at the end of that meeting, when I told you I was sending you to Yemen to work on Al Qaeda? You remember your response?"
"Honestly I don't, Ed. It was a long time ago."
"Well, I remember. You looked me in the eye and said: 'This has to work.' I never forgot that. When 9/11 happened, I thought, Get me that Ferris kid. Get him back from Yemen and make him my executive officer. I jumped you over about thirty people, did you know that? September eleven was a disaster for America, but for you, my friend, it was a good career move."
"Give me a break, Ed. I'm lying in a hospital bed with half my leg shot off."
Hoffman ignored him. "What you said back then is still true--now that we have Suleiman in our sights, now that you're heading out to Amman. These people are killers. They want to bring this war to every shopping mall and supermarket in America. So I'll play it back to you, Roger. This has to work. "
G RETCHEN F ERRIS visited her husband every few days in the hospital. She was a dark-haired beauty, with a voluptuous figure that made the other men in the hospital stare at her and shake their heads. She never stayed very long. She always had to get back to the Justice Department. But she was devoted to Ferris, in her organized way. They had met as undergraduates at Columbia. She was smarter than him, at least by the conventional measures. She had nailed her law boards and sailed through Columbia Law School while Ferris was horsing around at Time . When he joined the CIA, she had come to Washington to clerk with a conservative circuit court judge, and when the Republicans took office, she was offered a job at Justice. She asked Ferris whether that would be a problem, both of them working for the government, and he said no. He was proud of her, just as she was proud of him.
She was a believer. That was the difference between them. For Ferris, most assumptions about life were inductive and open to revision.
And then he met Ed Hoffman. What struck him in that first encounter was Hoffman's size. He wasn't overweight, just bulky, one of those people who took up a lot of space even when he was sitting at his desk. He kept his hair in a buzz cut, like a Marine recruit, but he was probably in his early fifties. He peered over the top of his reading glasses when Ferris entered the room, in a look that suggested surprise and impatience, as if he had forgotten that he had summoned Ferris. But that wasn't it. He was curious.
Hoffman was still sitting next to his hospital bed at Walter Reed, waiting for an answer. He was a little bigger now, a little softer in the middle. But he hadn't lost that surprising twinkle in his eye, the nimbleness that didn't fit with the heavy body.
"To be honest, Ed, I don't remember anything I said that day, except, 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir.' I was trying to make a good impression. I remember you told me we had something in common. You said we were both related to CIA washouts. I'd never heard my dad described that way, although it was true enough. And you told me about your uncle Frank, who was station chief in Beirut until he got mad at his boss and quit. I liked that. Where is he now, your uncle Frank?"
"Playing golf in Florida with everyone else. You're avoiding my question, Roger. Do you remember what you said at the end of our meeting, after I had quizzed you about the Islamic groups, and we had talked about bin Laden? You were the only person around Headquarters who seemed to know who he was, and you hadn't even gotten your first real paycheck yet. Do you remember what you said at the end of that meeting, when I told you I was sending you to Yemen to work on Al Qaeda? You remember your response?"
"Honestly I don't, Ed. It was a long time ago."
"Well, I remember. You looked me in the eye and said: 'This has to work.' I never forgot that. When 9/11 happened, I thought, Get me that Ferris kid. Get him back from Yemen and make him my executive officer. I jumped you over about thirty people, did you know that? September eleven was a disaster for America, but for you, my friend, it was a good career move."
"Give me a break, Ed. I'm lying in a hospital bed with half my leg shot off."
Hoffman ignored him. "What you said back then is still true--now that we have Suleiman in our sights, now that you're heading out to Amman. These people are killers. They want to bring this war to every shopping mall and supermarket in America. So I'll play it back to you, Roger. This has to work. "
G RETCHEN F ERRIS visited her husband every few days in the hospital. She was a dark-haired beauty, with a voluptuous figure that made the other men in the hospital stare at her and shake their heads. She never stayed very long. She always had to get back to the Justice Department. But she was devoted to Ferris, in her organized way. They had met as undergraduates at Columbia. She was smarter than him, at least by the conventional measures. She had nailed her law boards and sailed through Columbia Law School while Ferris was horsing around at Time . When he joined the CIA, she had come to Washington to clerk with a conservative circuit court judge, and when the Republicans took office, she was offered a job at Justice. She asked Ferris whether that would be a problem, both of them working for the government, and he said no. He was proud of her, just as she was proud of him.
She was a believer. That was the difference between them. For Ferris, most assumptions about life were inductive and open to revision.
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