Like I said, it's unconventional. You'd like it, I promise. It's made for a troublemaker like you."
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you unless you're in."
"Then forget it. I want back to Iraq. Like I said, it's that or I'm out."
"Stop it. And grow up. I told you Iraq is impossible. You're making a mistake turning down my proposal, but that's your problem. If you insist on going back in the field, I'm prepared to offer you the next best thing to Baghdad, which is Amman. It's better, actually, because you can do real operations--as opposed to being hunkered down hoping you don't get your ass shot off. I'm willing to send you in as deputy chief of station, which is unheard of at your age. So shut up. Actually, don't shut up. Say, 'Thanks, Ed. Amman is a plum. I really appreciate your confidence in me.'"
Ferris scratched his prickly beard. "When do I leave? If I agree to take Amman, that is."
"As soon as you can walk without falling over, which they tell me will be in about a month."
Ferris looked out the window, across the lawn and down toward the clog of traffic on 16th Street: Pizza Hut delivery boys and FedEx drivers and commuters racing home to catch their favorite shows on television. America was so normal. The bloody mess in Iraq might as well be on another planet. He turned back toward Hoffman, who was obviously waiting for an answer. Despite the Bear Bryant act, Hoffman was like anyone else. He wanted people to tell him good news. Ferris wasn't in the mood. His leg hurt too much.
"We're losing this war, Ed. You realize that, don't you?"
"Of course I do, assuming you mean the little war in Iraq. But we're not losing the big war, at least not yet. The one that could take down everything from Los Angeles to Bangor, Maine, and make ordinary folks so scared they will be crapping in their pants. In that war, we are still holding our own. Barely. That's why I want you in Amman. You came up with the real thing in Iraq, before you got your leg blown apart. The Suleiman network is for real. We've gotten collateral the past few days from other sources. We have to take him down. Have to. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get mended. Do your physical therapy. I'm shipping you out as soon as I can--to Amman. Do we understand each other?"
Ferris offered a wan smile. "Do I have a choice?"
"Nope." Hoffman stood up to go, and then reconsidered and sat back down in his chair. He wanted Ferris to understand. This wasn't a consolation prize. He squinted one eye, as if he were trying to focus on something far away. "Remember the first time you showed up in my office, right after you got out of The Farm?"
"Sure. You terrified me."
"You flatter me. But here's the thing: From that first meeting, I knew I wanted you working for me. You know why? You had done well in training, obviously. They sent me a report. You aced everything."
Ferris nodded. He had met with Hoffman a few days after graduating from the training facility known as The Farm, perhaps the least-secret covert facility in the world. It was a vast, fenced tract of land in the swampy Tidewater area near Williamsburg, full of snakes and vermin and burned-out case officers who were assigned there as instructors when their covers got blown. Ferris had found it a kind of glorified scout camp, with training in map reading, high-speed driving, marksmanship, even parachute jumping--elaborately disguising the fact that most graduates were destined to spend their time going to embassy receptions. Ferris had excelled in his courses. He was a good athlete, which gave him an advantage in the brawny activities like hand-to-hand combat, and his tradecraft instructor said he was a "born recruiter."
"You were a star," continued Hoffman. "But that wasn't it. A lot of people who do well at The Farm are disasters as case officers. It's like high school. There's a sort of inverse relationship between early success and the real thing later on. No, it was something else that caught my eye.
"What is it?"
"I can't tell you unless you're in."
"Then forget it. I want back to Iraq. Like I said, it's that or I'm out."
"Stop it. And grow up. I told you Iraq is impossible. You're making a mistake turning down my proposal, but that's your problem. If you insist on going back in the field, I'm prepared to offer you the next best thing to Baghdad, which is Amman. It's better, actually, because you can do real operations--as opposed to being hunkered down hoping you don't get your ass shot off. I'm willing to send you in as deputy chief of station, which is unheard of at your age. So shut up. Actually, don't shut up. Say, 'Thanks, Ed. Amman is a plum. I really appreciate your confidence in me.'"
Ferris scratched his prickly beard. "When do I leave? If I agree to take Amman, that is."
"As soon as you can walk without falling over, which they tell me will be in about a month."
Ferris looked out the window, across the lawn and down toward the clog of traffic on 16th Street: Pizza Hut delivery boys and FedEx drivers and commuters racing home to catch their favorite shows on television. America was so normal. The bloody mess in Iraq might as well be on another planet. He turned back toward Hoffman, who was obviously waiting for an answer. Despite the Bear Bryant act, Hoffman was like anyone else. He wanted people to tell him good news. Ferris wasn't in the mood. His leg hurt too much.
"We're losing this war, Ed. You realize that, don't you?"
"Of course I do, assuming you mean the little war in Iraq. But we're not losing the big war, at least not yet. The one that could take down everything from Los Angeles to Bangor, Maine, and make ordinary folks so scared they will be crapping in their pants. In that war, we are still holding our own. Barely. That's why I want you in Amman. You came up with the real thing in Iraq, before you got your leg blown apart. The Suleiman network is for real. We've gotten collateral the past few days from other sources. We have to take him down. Have to. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get mended. Do your physical therapy. I'm shipping you out as soon as I can--to Amman. Do we understand each other?"
Ferris offered a wan smile. "Do I have a choice?"
"Nope." Hoffman stood up to go, and then reconsidered and sat back down in his chair. He wanted Ferris to understand. This wasn't a consolation prize. He squinted one eye, as if he were trying to focus on something far away. "Remember the first time you showed up in my office, right after you got out of The Farm?"
"Sure. You terrified me."
"You flatter me. But here's the thing: From that first meeting, I knew I wanted you working for me. You know why? You had done well in training, obviously. They sent me a report. You aced everything."
Ferris nodded. He had met with Hoffman a few days after graduating from the training facility known as The Farm, perhaps the least-secret covert facility in the world. It was a vast, fenced tract of land in the swampy Tidewater area near Williamsburg, full of snakes and vermin and burned-out case officers who were assigned there as instructors when their covers got blown. Ferris had found it a kind of glorified scout camp, with training in map reading, high-speed driving, marksmanship, even parachute jumping--elaborately disguising the fact that most graduates were destined to spend their time going to embassy receptions. Ferris had excelled in his courses. He was a good athlete, which gave him an advantage in the brawny activities like hand-to-hand combat, and his tradecraft instructor said he was a "born recruiter."
"You were a star," continued Hoffman. "But that wasn't it. A lot of people who do well at The Farm are disasters as case officers. It's like high school. There's a sort of inverse relationship between early success and the real thing later on. No, it was something else that caught my eye.
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