The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,42

lines just right. How did she know so much about adult angst?

“How did you like it?” she asked when Harry met her backstage after the show. He had forgotten to buy her flowers, but Andrea had remembered.

“You were great,” said Harry, giving her a big hug.

“But how did you like the play?” She wanted a review.

“It was funny,” said Harry. “A lot of funny lines. But the people were so screwed up. Real people aren’t like that.”

“Yes they are. That’s the point, Daddy. Life is empty. That’s what the play is about.” He gave her a pat on the back but she turned away. She was peeved, wanting to pick a fight with her jet-lagged father.

Harry looked to Andrea. “Come on, sweetie. Mommy and I aren’t like that.” But that was the wrong thing to say.

“You don’t understand,” groaned Lulu. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She was slipping away from him. In another few years—hell, in another few minutes—she would be gone.

Harry drove her home. Andrea went separately in her own car, so they were alone. He tried to talk about London, her acting, and how it was almost September and time for the start of a new school year. She answered as little as she could. She leaned away from him, toward the passenger door, as if just being in the same car was painful.

“Why don’t you polish the door handle while you’re over there,” Harry said.

Lulu didn’t laugh. There was a little sound of air being exhaled, like a sigh but without even that energy.

“Why are you so angry with me?” Harry asked finally, as they were nearing the house in Reston.

“I’m not! I just don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry felt an empty chill, as if a cold wind were blowing through his body. This was what despair felt like. He was near tears, suddenly. He tried to fight it off.

“It’s not my fault, darling.”

“What are you talking about, Daddy?” She said it furiously, her voice brimming with hurt. She knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Alex.”

“No!” It came out as a wail, puncturing the membrane of her grief.

“It’s not my fault. I didn’t want him to go. If you knew…”

She was sobbing now. Not little sniffles, but convulsive sobs as if she had just discovered her brother’s body. When they reached the house, she ran to the door. Harry stayed in the car. He couldn’t move. After a few minutes, Andrea came out and brought him inside.

Harry saw his boss alone the next morning. The director was wearing his navy uniform again. It made him seem like a visitor, a liaison officer from another department. Harry told him about the meeting in London, most of it, at least. He explained that SIS had someone in Tehran, an Iranian agent in place, who might be able to flush out their mystery correspondent, Dr. Ali. The director listened to the operational plan, but he seemed distracted. What Harry was explaining wasn’t on point, it seemed. The train had moved on.

“The White House is all fired up,” the director explained when Harry had finished. “You need to understand that. They met yesterday. They don’t regard this as a fishing expedition. More like a turkey shoot.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’ve got to push your man. Get as much as you can, as fast as you can. They want to move. Rattle the cage. Your finesse play with SIS is nice, but it’s going to take too long.”

“Sorry, but the SIS contact is all I’ve got. Do you have a better idea?”

“No. But Arthur does.”

Harry shook his head. This was what happened when the merry-go-round started up. Things started to spin, and everyone got dizzy. He wanted to tell the director, “Get another guy. I quit,” but that would be unprofessional, and also stupid. So he just said, “I’ll talk to Arthur.”

Harry had a lunch meeting that day with the head of French intelligence, who was visiting Washington. He proposed a French restaurant, of course, a little place called Chez Girard near the White House. He was a neat, well-spoken man who had tried to rescue his service from some of the swashbucklers and fixers who had given it such a bad reputation. He was Cartesian; he talked about big strategic ideas in a way that Harry, the operator who had come up through the paramilitary branch, could only admire.

Harry had gotten to know him during his brief stint in Beirut, after the CIA station chief had been