The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,141

along with all the members of the British team. But as near as Harry could tell, Molavi had succeeded in his mission. Iran’s only clean hardware had now been contaminated, too. They wouldn’t know what, if anything, to trust.

Whatever the Iranians did now in their nuclear program, they would make mistakes. Their most senior intelligence officials had been humiliated. It would take them years to recover. The chatter in Tehran showed that they were trying desperately to explain and cover up what had happened. All the United States government needed to do now was put a few more details on the record, and the disaster would be complete.

The admiral was wide-eyed as he listened to Harry’s account. He didn’t appreciate all the nuances. He was a boat driver, not a spy. But he liked what he heard, and by the time Harry was finished, he was actually smiling. And then he was frowning again.

“This won’t convince the White House to stop,” said the director. “They will just say that it’s more proof the Iranians are a threat. They had a secret weapons program, and a backup, too.”

“But it’s ruined now. It’s shot. We don’t have to bomb anything.”

“Harry, my friend, some people like to bomb. It makes them feel like they have a strategy, when they send the military in.”

Harry paused. He picked up one of the models on the director’s desk. It was a Navy F/A-18 bomber, one of the planes that would be used to attack targets in Iran, if it came to that.

“Well, sir, I’m not playing.”

“What do you mean, Harry? You have to play. You’re an American. You work for an agency that is an arm of the president.”

“Nope. I’m off the team. I want to retire. As soon as possible. That’s the other thing I came to tell you.”

“What about the FBI?”

“They’ll go away eventually. The FBI likes to make trouble for the agency, but even they will realize that this case is a loser. Someone is pulling their chain, so they’re pulling mine. But that will stop.”

The director squinted at him. “Who’s pulling the chain?”

“I think it’s a certain Arab gentleman. You don’t want to know the details, sir. Believe me. Let me worry about it. It’s safer that way.”

The director nodded, but he was still unconvinced. “So what do you get, Harry? Do you just crawl in a hole when this is done?”

“I want to retire,” Harry repeated. “I’ve had it. I’m busted. I lost my son, and then I lost this boy. I still have time for my daughter, if I’m not stupid. I don’t want to do this work anymore. That’s my only condition, actually. I want to retire, as soon as the paperwork clears. I don’t want to keep my clearances. I don’t want any of it. It’s over.”

The director shook his head. “You Greeks are weird. You know that? All the drama, and then, poof, there it goes. Good seamen though. That counts for something.”

Harry Pappas left the director’s office and went back to the dingy first floor and Persia House. The Imam Hussein had never looked so lachrymose; his eyes were weeping blood. Harry summoned Marcia Hill and explained what he had told the director. And he told her that he would be leaving again.

“And where will you be, Harry darling, if I may ask?”

“I’ll be away. I have to take another little trip. After that, I’ll really be away.”

“How really is really?”

“Live at the summer house all year round. That kind of really.”

Marcia wagged a nicotine-stained finger at him.

“You’re quitting, aren’t you? You miserable bastard. How dare you quit before me. That is unforgivable. After all we’ve been through, I at least deserve to be the one to say ‘fuck you’ first. And now I have to stay around and clean up after you. Typical.”

She walked back to her cubicle muttering to herself, leaving Harry alone with the dewy-eyed martyr.

After he left the office at midday to head once more for the airport, Harry placed a call to London, to Sir David Plumb, direct. He reached him at his club. Harry said that the British had another twenty-four hours to do whatever they were planning. After that it would be too late.

LONDON

The next day at noon, the British prime minister delivered an unscheduled address from his office at No. 10 Downing Street. The British television networks were given only thirty minutes’ warning to get their cameras in place. The U.S. Embassy in Grosvenor Square was informed of