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Author:\376\377\000s\000s\000i\000n\000e\000w
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
CHAPTER
SEVER TEEn
The president's national security adviser sat across the burnished
mahogany conference table from Bryson, tension creasing his high
forehead.
For over twenty minutes Richard Lanchester had listened in rapt
absorption to Bryson's account, nodding, taking notes, interrupting
only for occasional clarifications. Every question he asked was not
only pertinent but incisive, piercing through layers of ambiguity and
confusion right to the crux of the issue. Bryson was impressed by the man, by his brilliance, his quick intelligence. He listened closely,
concentrating deeply. Bryson spoke as he would debrief a handler or a case officer, just as he used to brief Waller after a field operation: calmly, objectively, coolly assessing probabilities while not injecting conjecture without basis. He tried to provide a context in which the
revelations could be meaningfully placed.
It was difficult.
The two men sat in a special secure facility located within the NATO
secretary general's command-and-control center, an acoustically
insulated room-within-a-room known informally as the "bubble." Its walls and floor were actually one module separated from the surrounding concrete walls by foot-thick rubber blocks that kept all sound
vibrations from emanating
2G1
ROBERT LUDLU111
outward. Technical surveillance countermeasures were employed daily to ensure that the bubble remained secure, free of any taps or listening
devices. Security officers swept the room and its immediate environs
daily. There were no windows, and thus no risk of laser or microwave
bounces that could read the vibrations from human voices. Then there
was an elaborate system of fall backs a spectral correlator was used at all times to detect surveillance using a spectrum analyzer, and an
acoustic correlator used passive sound-pattern matching to
automatically detect and classify any listening device. Finally, an
acoustic noise generator was constantly on, generating an audio blanket of pink noise designed to defeat wired microphones inside walls,
contact microphones, and any audio transmitters located in electrical
outlets. Lanchester's insistence that they meet within the
extraordinarily secure walls of the bubble was testimony to the
seriousness with which he regarded Bryson's urgently imparted
information.
Lanchester looked up, visibly shaken.
"What you're telling me is preposterous, the sheerest madness, yet somehow it has the ring of truth. I say that because bits and pieces
Page 207
The Prometheus Deception
of what you say precisely confirm what little I know."
"But you must know about the existence of the Directorate. You're chairman of PFIAB; I'd have thought you'd know all about it."
Lanchester removed his rimless spectacles, polished them thoughtfully
with a handkerchief.
"The existence of the Directorate is one of the most closely held secrets in the government. Shortly after I was named to PFIAB I was
briefed about it, and I must say at first I thought my briefer -one of those nameless, anonymous, behind-the-scenes intelligence officers who are part of the permanent establishment around Washington-had taken
leave of his senses. It was one of the most fantastic, most
implausible things I'd ever heard. A covert intel agency that operated entirely out of sight, without controls, without accountability or
oversight--outlandish!
If I'd dared to suggest the idea to the president, he'd have had me
committed to St. Elizabeth's immediately, and quite justifiably so."
"Then what is it you find so implausible? You're referring to the true nature of the Directorate, the deception within the deception?"
"Actually, no.
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