The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,25

his sunglasses as he spoke, revealing the eyes. The surgeon had botched his work around the edges, leaving little lines where the skin had been cut and drawn and the stitches sewed.

“What is that assignment, General? I am sure that I am at your service.” The interrogator didn’t know how to address his guest, so he chose a high military rank.

“I have been asked to look at penetration of the program.” Al-Majnoun did not have to say the nuclear weapons program. That much was understood.

“Why, General? Is there reason to be concerned?”

Al-Majnoun stroked his lower lip. It was tight, like the rest of his face. It was impossible to be sure whether these creased lips had been chapped from the wind and sun, or cut by the surgeon’s knife. He spoke in a voice that was thin and reedy, from high in the throat rather than deep down.

“Information is like the dust in the wind, Brother Inspector. We do not know where it is blowing. What we have is more like a feeling. Sometimes we know that a door is open, even if we do not see it or feel it. We sense a rustle of wind. Or there is a little flutter at a curtain. Or we hear a creak in the floor that should not be sounding. We sense it before we know it. Perhaps this is the same.”

“But is there a leak?”

Mehdi nervously fingered the hairs of his goatee between his thumb and forefinger. He feared that he was going to be blamed for something.

Al-Majnoun laughed. It sounded more like a cough, heavy with phlegm. “Not a leak, my friend. More like an opening through which a leak might pass.”

Mehdi nodded, but he didn’t understand. He wanted to show that he was doing his job, so that he wouldn’t be blamed later if something went wrong.

“We are always vigilant, General. I had a boy in here today, from the research center in Jamaran. Very sensitive work. I took him through his paces. We do that every day, sir. Every day, I assure you. A tight, serious boy, this one was. Studied in Germany.”

“Yes, I know,” said Al-Majnoun, nodding.

Mehdi continued on, thinking that Al-Majnoun was praising his work in general.

“This one gave the right answers. He did not lie. That is the best test. I think. One lie, and there will be others. But this one told me the truth.”

“Yes, I know,” repeated the Lebanese. This time Mehdi realized that he was referring specifically to the young physicist who had visited that afternoon. “I want to make sure that the boy’s case is handled…properly.”

“I keep the file open, General. I wait for the lie. But I am also opening another file, and another. That is the way for us, isn’t it? We must suspect everyone. But we must watch and wait for the case to play itself out, or else we have nothing. Isn’t that right?”

Al-Majnoun didn’t answer Mehdi Esfahani’s question. He put his sunglasses back on the bridge of his man-made nose, rose from his chair, and walked out of the room.

WASHINGTON

Harry Pappas got a call in early August from the chief of the Information Operations Center. He supervised the agency’s public website, and he was cleared for the Dr. Ali special-access program. Pappas was at Bethany Beach with his wife and daughter, taking a few days of vacation and trying to forget how screwed up everything was. When he went walking along the beach at night, he heard his son’s voice in the waves—a hollow imaginary echo like the sound of the sea in a seashell. But he was glad of it. He worried sometimes now that he might forget what Alex had sounded like.

“I think your Iranian friend is back,” said the chief of the Information Operations Center.

“How’s that?” Pappas held his breath for a moment.

“We just got another message over the transom from Iran,” continued the IOC chief. “We ran traces. It’s from a sheet-metal factory in Shiraz, routed via a server in Turkey, but that’s chaff. The size of this message is larger, but the tags look similar. This guy is good.”

“Sweet,” said Pappas. “God is Great.”

He had been worried that Dr. Ali was dead. He hadn’t resumed communication after fifteen days as Pappas had requested, and he remained silent for the next thirty days. Pappas had been like an uptight parent waiting for a child to return home. What had gone wrong? They had spooked him. They had made a mistake without