The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,98

encrypted back-channel message, but in a call on Harry’s office phone.

“It’s time, old boy,” said the SIS chief of staff. And that was it. He rung off.

Harry Pappas went looking for his deputy, Marcia Hill. He walked through the Persia House reception area, past the garish poster of the martyred Imam, to Marcia’s cubicle. She was buffing her nails with an emery board, the thin nicotine-stained fingers incongruously capped with perfect lacquered tips. Another woman would have stopped when the boss arrived, but she continued.

“I’m off for a few days,” Harry said. “Maybe a week. Hard to be sure. Don’t fuck everything up while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” She looked at her nails and blew away the dust. “And where are you going? If I may ask.”

“London, first, but after that, I’m not sure.”

“And what am I supposed to tell your…how should I put this…your ‘colleagues’?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Tell them I’m on an operational assignment. Tell them I’m meeting an agent who will only talk to me. Tell them whatever will work.”

“Should I say it’s Dr. Ali?”

“No. If they think they know, fine, who cares. But I don’t want any chatter in the system, anywhere. This could get complicated.”

“How?”

“Just take my word, Marcia. This one has more creases and folds in it than a paper airplane.”

Marcia touched his arm with one of her brown, buffed fingers. It was something she almost never did.

“Are you sure this is the right time to be leaving town, Harry? I mean, there are some people across the river who are ready to start a war with Iran in a week. You’re supposed to stop that kind of nonsense. You are the head of the Iran Operations Division, or at least you were, last time I checked. So we, sort of, need you.”

Harry took her hand.

“Don’t go soft on me, woman. The admiral knows I’m not abandoning ship. So do you. The fact that these crazy bastards are beating the war drums is why I have to go. I can’t explain it to you, but I probably don’t have to.”

“No.” Marcia shook her head. She knew what he was doing, and she knew why he couldn’t talk about it. She loved Harry, and she worried about him. He was carrying too much baggage. At some point, he was going to stumble and hurt himself.

“Call for help if you need it,” she said. “Promise me that, Harry. Don’t let yourself get turned upside down. You’re good, but you’re not Superman.”

On his way out of the building, Harry went up to the seventh floor to say goodbye to the director. He wanted to keep faith with his boss, without making him complicit in what he was doing. The admiral was in his office, reading cables from a red-striped binder. He was wearing the dress blues today, rather than the summer whites of a few months ago. These admirals sure liked their uniforms. In another life, Harry would get a job running a dry cleaning shop near a naval base.

“I’m off again for a few days,” said Harry, sticking his head in the door. “Marcia will run the division while I’m gone.”

“Is this it?” asked the director, looking up from his cables. “Have you found your man?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Can I tell the White House?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. It’s off the books. It could blow up. I don’t want anyone to get caught in the fallout, including you.”

The admiral extended his hand. He wasn’t an emotional man, but he felt something in this encounter that wasn’t official, but personal.

“Bless you, Harry. Travel safe. Good luck.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry gave a little salute. He saw that the director’s eyes were moist. Even in this building, where the bureaucrats always seemed to be gaining the upper hand, you couldn’t entirely suppress the reality that this business was about life and death.

Adrian Winkler met Harry at Heathrow the next morning. He looked even more than usual like a rascal—a man who has his hand in the cookie jar and is so sure of himself that he doesn’t care if you catch him at it. He was wearing a fine cashmere blazer, double-breasted with brass buttons bearing the crest of his London club, and gray flannel slacks that fell over his shoes, just so. Harry, tired from a mostly sleepless night on the plane, could only smile at his friend’s dandy appearance.

“Hello, old son,” said Adrian. “How are they hanging?”

“Stop sounding so cheerful. It hurts my head.” Harry took another look