Read Online Covert One 6 - The Moscow Vector by Robert Ludlum - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Ludlum
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Director of National Intelligence, William Wexler, shook his head quickly. “Thank you, but no, Mr. President.” The trim, telegenic former U.S.
senator smiled fulsomely, evidently hoping to take the sting out of his refusal.
“Your wine stewards were very generous at dinner tonight. I rather think that one more glass of anything might tip me right over the edge.”
Castilla nodded coollv. Some members of the White House social staff seemed to harbor the unexpressed conviction that guests at state dinners should always be offered enough rope to hang themselves or, in this case, enough alcohol to put a whole regiment of U.S. Marines under the table.
Guests who were wise resisted temptation and pushed away their wineglasses before it was too late. Guests who were not wise were rarely invited back, no matter how influential or popular or powerful thev might be.
He glanced at the ornate eighteenth-century clock ticking softly on one curved wall. It was well past midnight. Again he waved Wexler into a chair and then sat down across from him. “First, I appreciate your willingness to stay on so late tonight.”
“It’s really no trouble, Mr. President,” Wexler said in a rich, professional politician’s baritone. He smiled again, this time revealing a set of perfect teeth. Although he was in his early sixties, his deeply tanned face showed very few lines or wrinkles. “After all, sir, I serve at your pleasure.”
Castilla wondered about that. Stung by a series of damaging and very public failures, Congress had recently enacted the first major reorganization of America’s intelligence-gathering apparatus in more than fifty years. The legislation had created a new cabinet-level postthe director of national intelligence. In theory, the DNI was supposed to be able to coordinate the U.S.
government’s complex array of competing intelligence agencies, departments, and bureaus. In practice, the CIA, FBI, DIA, NSA, and others were still wag-ing a fierce bureaucratic war behind the scenes to severely limit his powers.
Overcoming so much powerful institutional resistance would take a very shrewd and strong-willed man, and Castilla was beginning to have serious doubts that Wexler had either the will or the mental dexterity. It was no real secret that the former senator would never have been his first choice for the position, but Congress had dug in its collective heels and refused to approve anyone but one of its own. With even nominal control over a total intelligence budget of more than fortv billion dollars, the Senate and House of Representatives were very interested in making sure the DNI post went to someone they knew and trusted.
Wexler had served as a senator from one of the smaller New England states for more than twenty years, compiling an earnest, if relatively undistin-guished, legislative record, and earning a reputation as a decent, hardworking member of the various Congressional committees overseeing the armed forces and intelligence agencies. Over his years of service, he had accumulated a great many friends and very few serious enemies.
A solid majority of the Senate had believed he was the perfect choice to head the U.S. intelligence community. Privately, Castilla was convinced that Bill Wexler was a painfully polite, well-intentioned pushover. Which meant that the reforms intended to streamline and strengthen the management of U.S. intelligence operations had only added yet another layer of red tape to the whole system.
“What exactly can I do for you, Mr. President?” the national intelligence director said at last, breaking the small silence. If he was at all puzzled by Castilla’s decision to pull him aside at the state dinner to arrange this unusual
and highly irregular late-night conference, he hid it well.
“I want you to redirect our intelligence-gathering and analysis efforts,” the president told him flatly. Like it or not, he realized, he had to try working through this manat
senator smiled fulsomely, evidently hoping to take the sting out of his refusal.
“Your wine stewards were very generous at dinner tonight. I rather think that one more glass of anything might tip me right over the edge.”
Castilla nodded coollv. Some members of the White House social staff seemed to harbor the unexpressed conviction that guests at state dinners should always be offered enough rope to hang themselves or, in this case, enough alcohol to put a whole regiment of U.S. Marines under the table.
Guests who were wise resisted temptation and pushed away their wineglasses before it was too late. Guests who were not wise were rarely invited back, no matter how influential or popular or powerful thev might be.
He glanced at the ornate eighteenth-century clock ticking softly on one curved wall. It was well past midnight. Again he waved Wexler into a chair and then sat down across from him. “First, I appreciate your willingness to stay on so late tonight.”
“It’s really no trouble, Mr. President,” Wexler said in a rich, professional politician’s baritone. He smiled again, this time revealing a set of perfect teeth. Although he was in his early sixties, his deeply tanned face showed very few lines or wrinkles. “After all, sir, I serve at your pleasure.”
Castilla wondered about that. Stung by a series of damaging and very public failures, Congress had recently enacted the first major reorganization of America’s intelligence-gathering apparatus in more than fifty years. The legislation had created a new cabinet-level postthe director of national intelligence. In theory, the DNI was supposed to be able to coordinate the U.S.
government’s complex array of competing intelligence agencies, departments, and bureaus. In practice, the CIA, FBI, DIA, NSA, and others were still wag-ing a fierce bureaucratic war behind the scenes to severely limit his powers.
Overcoming so much powerful institutional resistance would take a very shrewd and strong-willed man, and Castilla was beginning to have serious doubts that Wexler had either the will or the mental dexterity. It was no real secret that the former senator would never have been his first choice for the position, but Congress had dug in its collective heels and refused to approve anyone but one of its own. With even nominal control over a total intelligence budget of more than fortv billion dollars, the Senate and House of Representatives were very interested in making sure the DNI post went to someone they knew and trusted.
Wexler had served as a senator from one of the smaller New England states for more than twenty years, compiling an earnest, if relatively undistin-guished, legislative record, and earning a reputation as a decent, hardworking member of the various Congressional committees overseeing the armed forces and intelligence agencies. Over his years of service, he had accumulated a great many friends and very few serious enemies.
A solid majority of the Senate had believed he was the perfect choice to head the U.S. intelligence community. Privately, Castilla was convinced that Bill Wexler was a painfully polite, well-intentioned pushover. Which meant that the reforms intended to streamline and strengthen the management of U.S. intelligence operations had only added yet another layer of red tape to the whole system.
“What exactly can I do for you, Mr. President?” the national intelligence director said at last, breaking the small silence. If he was at all puzzled by Castilla’s decision to pull him aside at the state dinner to arrange this unusual
and highly irregular late-night conference, he hid it well.
“I want you to redirect our intelligence-gathering and analysis efforts,” the president told him flatly. Like it or not, he realized, he had to try working through this manat
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