Severe Clear by Stuart Woods

Indrisie.”
    “Good guess. Can you guess why I’m concerned about him?” Jeff Rifkin asked.
    “Because he’s to be right at the nerve center of our surveillance security, and because he’s so young.”
    “Correct on both counts,” Rifkin conceded.
    “You’ll have to take our word for it that Rick is qualified for his job,” Mike said. “We screen our people just as carefully as you do yours, and he has met or exceeded every qualification we’ve assigned to that task. As for his youth, I think that someone who has risen through a government bureaucracy sometimes has difficulty perceiving how a privately owned company can bring someone up through the ranks so quickly.”
    “I take your point,” Rifkin said.
    “From our point of view, Rick’s education and work experience make him a seasoned professional at twenty-eight, while in your operation, someone of that age might be thought of as green.”
    “There’s truth in what you say, Mike. I myself managed to move up more quickly than is common in the Service.”
    “I’m sure you’ve seen our file on Rick.”
    “I have.”
    “Then you’ll have to take our word that he’s the right man for the job—at least until your investigation of him turns up something to contradict that.”
    “Fair enough,” Rifkin said.
    “And I think the other man you’re worried about would be the German national, Hans Hoffman.”
    “Once again, you’re ahead of me. Even though he’s not your employee, I’m sure that you’ve verified his educational and employment history,” Rifkin said, “but I wonder: have you investigated his political history?”
    “One of the items on his employment application questioned that history, and Hoffman denied ever having been a member of any organization, not even a political party. In interviewing the people he’s worked for over the years, none of them has said anything to indicate that he’s not telling the truth. But the Secret Service should have access to various databases that we don’t, including the German intelligence services.”
    “We do to some extent,” Rifkin agreed, “but we don’t always get the answers to our questions as quickly as we would like.”
    “Then you should have a chat with somebody at Langley, to see if there’s anything about him in their databases.”
    Rifkin smiled ruefully. “Of course, though we don’t always get from Langley even as much cooperation as we get from some foreign services.”
    “Ah, yes: interagency rivalry rears its ugly head. Is there anything in particular that troubles you?”
    “If anything, it’s because he is so outstandingly clean. There’s very little meat on that bone.”
    “Well, I think you have to accept that there are outstandingly clean people in the world, Steve. Tell you what, I’ll see what our Berlin office can discover about Herr Hoffman.”
    “That would be very helpful, Mike.”
    The doorbell rang. “That will be our dinner, I think,” Mike said. “Shall we dine outside?”
    “A little chilly for me.”
    “Then let’s do it inside.” Mike led the way.
    —
    W hen they had finished dinner and Rifkin had left, Mike looked at his wristwatch. It was nine hours later in Germany, so, using his cell phone, he dialed the direct line for the head of his Berlin office.
    “Peter von Enzberg,” a voice said.
    “Peter, it’s Mike Freeman.”
    “Good morning, Mike.”
    “I have something I’d like for you to do, and as quickly as possible.”

 12 
    S cott Hipp returned to his office at the National Security Agency after a lunch in Washington and found one of his code section supervisors waiting for him. Hipp hung his jacket in a cupboard and sat down at his desk. “Good afternoon, Fritz. You look puzzled. What can I do for you?”
    “I’m not even sure why I’m here,” Fritz replied, “and I don’t know what you can do for me.”
    “Then get out of my office,” Hipp said jovially. “You’re wasting our time.” Fritz always needed