When Sam returned to his desk a neatly typed page was waiting for him. It was a reprint of his list from earlier, this time with a third column – information available. He skimmed the list. "None available" was marked in the third column in every case except three: Sarin/banana slug testing, junior high school outreach, and the Office of Categorical Denial. Sam hoped the last was a joke. Ginger had written on an attached post-it note.
"Sam –
"This was all the information I could get. I called seven or eight offices and everyone shunted me somewhere else. When I finally got the office of the press secretary he told me that he had no comment except where otherwise noted."
Sam frowned at the paper. He had meant to do some work, but the Ambassador speech could wait. He wandered out through the communications bullpen, looking for the one person he knew who was an expert on denial of information.
"CJ," he called.
"What can I do for you, Spanky?"
"The CIA is denying me information on a group of programs."
"Yeah?"
"So when you don't know anything, or don't know what they want to ask, what do you tell a reporter?"
"That I don't have any information for them."
"And when you want to shut them down, stop their story, what do you say?"
"'No comment,' but that's because it's always possible they can prove I knew."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Sure. 'How Do You Solve a Problem Like Scalia?'"
"What?"
"I went to see a comedy show yesterday, the Capital Steps, and one of the songs they sang was 'How Do You Solve a Problem Like Scalia?'"
"From The Sound of Music?"
"Well, yes, except in The Sound of Music it was about a whimsically unique nun, whereas here it's about an ornery and disliked Supreme Court Justice."
"So they changed the words."
"Here they had some rather unpleasant things to say about the honorable justice."
"As do we all."
"They had a song about you."
"That's probably bad, right?"
"'What Do You Do With a Lovelorn Speechwriter?' To the tune of 'What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?'"
"That doesn't even fit syllabically."
"Yeah." A long pause ensued. "Are you sure it's a good idea for you to be looking to closely at the CIA?"
"If I'm looking at things I shouldn't be looking at, I'm sure someone will get Leo or the President to stop me."
She nodded and smiled at him. "Good luck."
Sam thanked her and went to the Mess for lunch, thinking that "good luck" was an odd reaction for her to have. He was halfway through his turkey sandwich and Fresca (Ainsley finally convinced the Mess to carry it, and Sam wanted to see if it was as bad as he remembered – it was) when Ginger hurried over.
"There's a guy from the Pentagon in your office," she told him.
"From the Pentagon? I don't know anything about a meeting –"
"It isn't scheduled. He sort of bullied his way in. He said he had very important information for you."
Sam's eyebrows lifted almost all the way to his hairline. The reason Ginger had been assigned as his secretary was because it was common knowledge that he was willing to meet with almost anyone, so the crackpots lined up regardless of whether he had an opening in his schedule or not. Ginger was very hard to intimidate, and not likely to be bullied by anyone into letting anyone in her boss's office who was not supposed to be there.
"He said he can only stay here for half an hour," Ginger hurried him.
Sam grabbed his apple and sandwich, leaving the remainder of the Fresca, and put his tray on top of the trashcan. "Did he say what he needs to talk to me about?"
Ginger shook her head. "Only that it was very important."
"Okay. Thanks," Sam said as he began walking to his office.
"Sure thing. I'm going to take lunch now?"
"Go ahead."
Sam's visitor was a crisp, clean-shaven, military man in his late thirties. Sam had a vague recollection that he had met the man somewhere before, but couldn't quite place him. Although his posture was immaculate and his face impassive, he stood with a vague anxiety; his shoulders held a tension that inexplicably made Sam nervous.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Seaborn," the man addressed Sam as he entered.
"Good afternoon," he replied.
"You probably don't remember me; you and the President had dinner with my wife and I in Langley two years ago."
"Of course I do, Mr. Douglass," Sam answered, remembering the mildly unpleasant dinner with the mildly pleasant CIA intelligence official.
"That's gratifying, Mr. Seaborn, we still talk about the night we met with the President of the United States and his brilliant speechwriter."
"Thank you, sir. Ginger, my assistant, told me that you have some important news?"
"Yes. I told her I was from the military so she couldn't guess why I was here. The press secretary told me today that you were making inquiries about certain CIA programs."
"Yes. There were some inaccuracies in the budget, so I wanted to learn where some of the money was going," Sam carefully hedged his statements.
The officer smiled ruefully. "Some inaccuracies. Mr. Seaborn, the money in question is going to pay for a secret intelligence gathering association that has no accountability to any elected official."
"I beg your pardon?"
Douglass smiled without humor, having expected this reaction from the impeccably polite Sam. "This organization has been in place since the late Sullivan administration. They have funding that comes in through the CIA; only the director and a few accountants know about it."
"What do they do?"
"They track enemies to the United States and eliminate them if they become a threat."
Oh God, thought Sam. "Eliminate them how," he asked, afraid he knew the answer.
"There's a flood right now, in China." Sam's eyes widened.
"Five hundred people have died in that flood!"
"The head of an anti-capitalist organization the CIA believed was a threat to global stability lived in the area."
"Lived in the area? Did they even get him?"
"No, Mr. Seaborn, he's still living."
Sam gaped like a fish. "Will you, please, will you wait for a few hours while I clear this with the Senior Staff and get CJ Craigg and a press conference together?"
"I'm sorry, I can only stay another ten minutes. My life is in danger right now, just talking to you. If my name goes in the paper, if I'm on television, they'll kill me."
Sam made an executive decision. It was against his democratic sensibilities to let the Senior Staff debate about whether it was in their best interests to release the information, and cooler heads be damned. "Wait right here, I'll get CJ and a reporter."
Sam sprinted through the halls, dodging staffer and intern alike. He crashed into a young woman he didn't know, knocking her folders to the ground. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, hurriedly helping her pick them up. "I'll help you later!" he yelled, running off again.
"CJ!" He burst into her office without knocking, ignoring the deputy. "Get a reporter who's discreet, who you want to do a favor, a Woodward and Bernstein style favor, and meet me in my office. As quickly as you can."
CJ didn't react before Sam was out the door again, running for his office.