Masquerade by Gayle Lynds

to operate independently, with no one looking over their shoulders. It was a prescription for personal profit and Bremner and his four deputies were no fools. The notorious case of KGB mole Aldrich Ames had simply made them more careful. Every problem had a solution; every rule had a loophole.
    â€œWe won’t die behind a desk,” Lucas Maynard said.
    â€œI sure as hell hope not.” Bremner gazed past Maynard and out of his windows. Now was the time to set his trap. “We do go back a long way, Lucas. Tell me, do you miss the cold war?”
    Maynard seemed to feel the question deep in his gut. “God, yes. We knew the good guys from the bad then. All this fuss now about intelligence not being reported accurately to the top makes me laugh. They think it’s a new thing. Remember in ’57 and ’58 when we were running that covert operation to toppleSukarno? We reported only what Langley wanted Washington to hear. We lied to the ambassadors who tried to stop us, and then we got them reassigned when they wouldn’t butt out. We didn’t think a thing of it. And that was just one incident. Do I miss the cold war? Hell, yes. It was so much simpler. So exciting. We could do something. We were united for freedom. Democracy.”
    â€œThe cold war gave the United States purpose.” Bremner lifted his patrician face and smiled. “We were everything the other side wasn’t. Remember when Ike had to drum up support to build the interstate highway system? He said it was to evacuate cities in case of nuclear war. And when Kennedy decided we needed better science and physical education classes, he said it was to whip the Soviets. Now we accomplish so little.”
    Lucas Maynard’s gaze grew misty. Bremner saw he’d established the rapport he was seeking. Maynard had stepped into his trap.
    Now Bremner would wait. This was the trick: Make the other fellow comfortable and beholden, find a common ground, and say nothing. Soon the silence would demand to be filled, and more often than not the guest spoke into it what was on his troubled . . . guilty . . . mind.
    At last Maynard said, “Did you ever stop to think, Hughes, for fifty years Langley’s been ordered to work with humanity’s underbelly? The mafia. The drug lords from Miami to Hong Kong. The generals who raped their countries for money and power. We were expected to mingle with the scum, ally ourselves when we had to, but we weren’t supposed to get into bed with them.”
    â€œA different world, Lucas. Not a pretty one.”
    Maynard’s heavy face was tense. What was bothering him? Bremner was tempted to encourage him to be candid, but that wouldn’t work. Maynard had seen too many interrogations, conducted too many himself. He’d be suspicious.
    Bremner breathed evenly, slowly. Would Maynard go on?
    Maynard set down his coffee cup as if he were setting down a burden. He looked straight into Bremner’s eyes, and for amoment Bremner sensed he was about to spill his most profound secrets.
    Instead, Maynard glanced down at his watch.
    â€œA meeting?” Bremner experienced a rare emotion: Surprise.
    â€œSorry, Hughes. You called late, and I couldn’t cancel it.”
    â€œIt must be important.” He spoke mildly, but he wanted to squash Maynard’s fat, diabetic face between his hands.
    Maynard seemed to know an unimpeachable excuse was expected. He gave it without missing a beat. “My ex-Stasi snitch. You know how frightened he is. If I ditch him, we could lose one of our most reliable sources inside the German government.”
    â€œOf course,” Bremner said coolly. “Very important.”
    â€œIs there anything else you wanted to tell me, Hughes?” Maynard stood. “I’m not quite clear why you asked me here.”
    Bremner stood, too. He smiled inwardly. The bastard had just tried to turn the tables on him. “I like to keep up with my friends.