8. Chapter Eight
Chapter eight
By Wednesday afternoon, just after lunch, Samantha Gunn was sitting down with Marilynn Kearns, head of CIA’s Eastern European Office.
Kearns was heavyset with a long braid of luxurious blonde hair.
The thick golden braid was about the only thing remarkable about Marilynn Kearns.
She had narrow-set eyes, a small mouth with thin lips, and a pair of fleshy chins.
Her office was a tropical jungle; a profusion of green exploded from the walls, crowding the space.
Planters decorated every available surface, small potted trees stood sentinel in the corners, and planters hung from hooks installed in the ceiling.
It must take the office of security half a day to sweep this place for bugs, Sam thought.
The office of security was in charge of making sure CIA work spaces had not been compromised, which meant regular sweeps for bugs, trackers, and other electronic devices.
Sam could just imagine some poor slob from the office of security going over each and every one of the potted plants with a sensor, looking for spikes in the readings.
A small light box created a miniature greenhouse for a thick hedge of nodding lilies that sat atop a waist-high bookshelf on one side of the office.
Their delicate petals drew Sam’s attention.
She was a little jealous. She loved plants and greenery but she’d never had much of a green thumb.
She had trouble keeping a cactus alive. She was about to remark on the obvious care and attention Mrs. Kearns had put into caring for the plants when Kearns said, “They take a lot of work.”
Sam pulled her attention from the lilies. She turned to Marilynn. Kearns thrust her double chins at the greenhouse with its artificial sunlight. “They take a tremendous amount of time and understanding to grow right. Definitely not for amateurs.”
She might as well have said you could never hope to grow those so don’t even bother. Kearns turned her attention back to the report and her brows pinched in a small frown. Her thin lips pressed tight.
Sam swallowed the compliment. Kearns had a reputation, and after a few months working the Eastern European desk, she could see why.
It had taken two days just to get an audience, and when Sam finally handed over her carefully written report, Kearns had merely pointed to a chair and started reading in silence. No chit-chat.
“This intelligence isn’t immediate, Ms. Gunn.” Kearns shook her head and put the report down on the desk. “It’s not even priority. It’s routine at best.”
Sam sat back in her chair. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
CIA has five levels of intel with critical being the highest priority.
Critical intel meant immediate action and probably the CIA Director in the Oval Office alerting the President to a national threat.
After critical, there was flash, immediate, priority, and routine.
Sam hadn’t wanted to go so far as to label the intel flash.
That would start alarm bells ringing, and if she was wrong, well, then they’d say the maverick was raising a fuss over nothing.
So she’d labelled the intel immediate instead.
And she’d been confounded when the head of the European Office made her wait an entire day to deliver the report.
Sam started to open her mouth to reply.
Kearns said, “All you have here is a Serbian village that caught the sniffles and disjointed reports of an organized crime outfit, which may or may not exist, trying to build a bioweapon. You know how many of these Eastern European crime syndicates talk about building chemical weapons? Every single one of them. You want to waste time, money, and manpower running this down?” Kearns shook her head. “I think not, Ms. Gunn.”
Sniffles. The death toll in the Serbian village was now up to sixty-three, and Kearns had the nerve to call it sniffles.
Sam said, “With all due respect, Mrs. Kearns, the death count in the village alone is enough to raise red flags. Both CDC and WHO have people en route to investigate. The least we could do it take it seriously. Combine that with reports of a criminal organization with plans to engineer a bioweapon, and I think it’s at least worth looking into. ”
“It is worth looking into.” Kearns gathered up the report, gave it a tap on the desk, squaring the pages, and set it aside.
“But your estimation of the intelligence is all wrong, Ms. Gunn. You can’t label things immediate without proper cause.
Now, you’ve put together a fine report, but I’m going to downgrade the report to priority and file it.
In the future, I’d like you to be more conscious of how you decide to classify intel. ”
Sam sat gripping the arms of the chair. She felt slightly disconnected from her own body.
Nearly an entire village had been wiped out and Kearns was more concerned about her filing system.
Sam closed her eyes for a moment, tried to order her thoughts and asked, “Aren’t we going to at least ask the station chief in Belgrade to look into it? ”
“I’ll forward your report,” Kearns offered.
Sam continued to sit there, her mind swirling, watching Kearns like this might be some kind of bad joke.
Kearns gave her a tight smile. “Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Ms. Gunn. You can go now.”
Sam stood and found her way past a hedge of ferns to the door.
She stalked back across the floor to her cubicle, nearly fuming.
Kearns was a bureaucrat, more interested in making sure things are properly filed, than saving lives.
They existed in every large organization and CIA had more than its fair share. They frosted Sam’s bottom.
She’d dealt with her share of bureaucrats in Mossad, but for the most part, she’d been part of a direct-action unit, running ground operations. Now she was driving a desk and seemingly surrounded by bureaucrats.
She shook her head. She didn’t know how long she sat there, stewing. At some point Trevor appeared at her cubicle holding a cup with steam curling up. “Green tea with a little bit of honey, just the way you like it.”
Sam pulled herself out of the mental fugue with some difficulty and forced a smile. “Thanks, Trevor.”
“Things didn’t go so well?” he asked.
Sam waved a hand at Kearns’s door. “The evil queen of numbers doesn’t think it warrants action.”
“Want me to see if I can talk to her?” Trevor asked.
Sam nearly laughed out loud. Poor kid was ready to walk into the lion’s den for her. She shook her head and set the tea down on her desk. “Who’s chief of station in Serbia?”
“Oscar Jankowitz.” Trevor said. “Want the number?”