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Authors: Sam Powers
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in the next election. An admission that it was official would give the senators grounds to move to open hearings, which was doubtless Morris’ other angle, and provide fodder for months of bad press. Lang didn’t really care about the politics; but in bureaucracy, he knew, you didn’t publicly bite whichever hand was currently feeding you.
A few chairs down, the committee chairman leaned in. “Senator Morris, while I understand your zeal with respect to this line of questioning, Mr. Lang has indicated the same version of events on at least four occasions now. Perhaps we can move on to a line of questions that is more likely to be lucrative.”
Lang saw the intervention through the filter of two cynical decades in the business. The chairman, Addison March, was also Republican and from the south, and even more ambitious than his rapidly aging peer. Doubtless, March had angles to pursue to hold the government to task.
“Hmmph,” the senator from Alabama replied. “The chair may wish to remind Mr. Lang that even though this is a closed session, he is testifying under oath.”
“No,” March said, “no, I don’t think that’s necessary right now, senator. If you’re finished with your questions perhaps we can move…”
“No, I still have several,” the elderly politician said. “Mr. Lang has yet to indicate who this agent was, which agency employed him or how the individual might have been disciplined beyond his initial suspension.”
That , Walter thought, is because it’s classified, you vulture . “As I’ve indicated before, Senator, revealing that information could put other members of the security establishment at risk.”
“And yet you claim the agent is inactive. How can people be at risk if the individual in question is not on active duty?”
“I’m sorry Senator,” Lang said, leaning close to the microphone and not remotely sorry, “but that information is classified for reasons of national security.”
March interjected. “If I might suggest, senator, it seems clear Mr. Lang will not disclose the agent’s identity and I’m sure he feels he has good reason. Perhaps he could share with the committee the identity of the agency responsible for the mission?”
It was a clever, political question, Lang thought. If he claimed it was a classified matter, it would be tantamount to an admission that the operation had been covert. If he said that no agency was responsible, he’d be lying under oath. But he’d been around for far too long to walk into an obvious trap.
“As I indicated to the senator previously, I was not sanctioned in any manner when I attempted to infiltrate the Villanueva Cartel,” he said.
The balding, bony March smiled thinly, his undersized teeth barely showing, the sneer a mixture of contempt for the answer and appreciation for its political correctness. “Yes, I believe you have mentioned that several times. My colleague seems to find it amazing that you got out alive. I, on the other hand, find it somewhat unbelievable that a man of your pedigree in the intelligence community would go out into the field for something as banal as intel on a drug trafficker in the first place, let alone do so without sanction.”
Maybe the fact that March was trying to force the line of questioning away from his doddering associate was a sign that they were running out of inane requests, Lang thought. “If it will make the chairman feel better, I’ll apologize for the fact that he finds drug trafficking banal,” he said.
A murmur went around the committee table, which March ignored. “Perhaps,” the chairman said, “we’ll go back to Senator Morris, then, and see if he has any more questions in his lengthy, lengthy list.” He smiled at Lang again, only this time with his mouth open a little, like an alligator trying to lull a bird into a false sense of security. “I’m sure he does.”
It took another two hours before the senators finally decided they’d had enough for
A few chairs down, the committee chairman leaned in. “Senator Morris, while I understand your zeal with respect to this line of questioning, Mr. Lang has indicated the same version of events on at least four occasions now. Perhaps we can move on to a line of questions that is more likely to be lucrative.”
Lang saw the intervention through the filter of two cynical decades in the business. The chairman, Addison March, was also Republican and from the south, and even more ambitious than his rapidly aging peer. Doubtless, March had angles to pursue to hold the government to task.
“Hmmph,” the senator from Alabama replied. “The chair may wish to remind Mr. Lang that even though this is a closed session, he is testifying under oath.”
“No,” March said, “no, I don’t think that’s necessary right now, senator. If you’re finished with your questions perhaps we can move…”
“No, I still have several,” the elderly politician said. “Mr. Lang has yet to indicate who this agent was, which agency employed him or how the individual might have been disciplined beyond his initial suspension.”
That , Walter thought, is because it’s classified, you vulture . “As I’ve indicated before, Senator, revealing that information could put other members of the security establishment at risk.”
“And yet you claim the agent is inactive. How can people be at risk if the individual in question is not on active duty?”
“I’m sorry Senator,” Lang said, leaning close to the microphone and not remotely sorry, “but that information is classified for reasons of national security.”
March interjected. “If I might suggest, senator, it seems clear Mr. Lang will not disclose the agent’s identity and I’m sure he feels he has good reason. Perhaps he could share with the committee the identity of the agency responsible for the mission?”
It was a clever, political question, Lang thought. If he claimed it was a classified matter, it would be tantamount to an admission that the operation had been covert. If he said that no agency was responsible, he’d be lying under oath. But he’d been around for far too long to walk into an obvious trap.
“As I indicated to the senator previously, I was not sanctioned in any manner when I attempted to infiltrate the Villanueva Cartel,” he said.
The balding, bony March smiled thinly, his undersized teeth barely showing, the sneer a mixture of contempt for the answer and appreciation for its political correctness. “Yes, I believe you have mentioned that several times. My colleague seems to find it amazing that you got out alive. I, on the other hand, find it somewhat unbelievable that a man of your pedigree in the intelligence community would go out into the field for something as banal as intel on a drug trafficker in the first place, let alone do so without sanction.”
Maybe the fact that March was trying to force the line of questioning away from his doddering associate was a sign that they were running out of inane requests, Lang thought. “If it will make the chairman feel better, I’ll apologize for the fact that he finds drug trafficking banal,” he said.
A murmur went around the committee table, which March ignored. “Perhaps,” the chairman said, “we’ll go back to Senator Morris, then, and see if he has any more questions in his lengthy, lengthy list.” He smiled at Lang again, only this time with his mouth open a little, like an alligator trying to lull a bird into a false sense of security. “I’m sure he does.”
It took another two hours before the senators finally decided they’d had enough for
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