Free The Scorpion's Gate by Richard A. Clarke Page B

intelligence finding to authorize covert U.S. action to topple the Islamyah regime and reinstall the Sauds.”
    Rusty whistled in amazement. “Shit, Senator...You could have him arrested for that.”
    “I know, but I would have had no proof,” Robinson said, leaning back into his chair.
    “So what’d you do?” Rusty asked. He had known Paul Robinson for sixteen years, since the now-Senator had hired him as a junior staffer for his House office right after Rusty had graduated from Brown. The Senator was as honest as any man he had ever met and hated dishonesty of any kind, intellectual, financial, political. Corruption just really pissed him off. Robinson had first risen to national attention on a subcommittee that investigated financial fraud in U.S. thrift savings banks.
    Senator Paul Robinson had pushed through the creation of the Intelligence Analysis Center because, he said, he and the executive branch were not getting intellectually honest reporting. When the center came into existence and the Director of National Intelligence selected Ambassador Sol Rubenstein to run it, the Senator had told Rubenstein that his confirmation hearing would go a lot faster if he picked Rusty as the first Deputy Director of the IAC.
    When Rusty learned that had happened, he’d called the Senator and thanked him, but joked, “You know I was doing well with this Beltway Bandit firm. You just cut my salary by two-thirds.”
    “Don’t try that on me, Rusty,” Robinson had replied. “It’s not about the money. Not for you. Not for me. Never was. It’s about honest government, and I’ve been feeling like Diogenes down here trying to find someone who will do some quality, honest intelligence analysis. You’re it.” There was no way that the Senator would let a bribery attempt go by, like the one the Saudi had tried to pull.
    “Well, Russell, I did not call the FBI and report the son of a bitch. But I did slip an amendment into the Omnibus Appropriation that requires the Treasury Department to keep all royal Saudi assets in the U.S. frozen until Treasury files a detailed report with us on whether the funds are really personal or should be considered national assets of the people of their country. We then have a hundred and eighty days to review the report, and that period can be extended upon request of any chair of any committee of relevant jurisdiction in either house,” the Senator replied as a Cheshire cat grin spread across his face. He really was a legislative master. “So that’s how I helped them. How can I help you, Rusty, as you go gallivanting around Europe and the Middle East?”
    “Not like that, Senator,” Russell said, still laughing at the legislative maneuver. “I haven’t been out to the Gulf region for a while. What can you do, sir? Just keep your eyes and ears open, especially with your friends on Armed Services.” MacIntyre rose and went for his overcoat, which was lying on the leather couch. “And watch my back.”
    “Always do, Rusty, always do.” The two shook hands and then embraced. “And give my best to that lovely, lefty wife of yours,” the Senator said, smiling.
    “I’ll need to give her something. Right now she’s probably sitting outside in her car waiting to take me to Dulles, and freezing,” MacIntyre said, walking toward the door.
    “Then get your ass in gear, boy.” The chairman laughed, flicking his wrist. “Go, go. Never leave a pretty lady waiting in the cold.”
    Sarah Goldman was feeling cold at the moment, in more ways than one. Their drive out the Dulles Airport Access Road together was more taxing on MacIntyre than negotiating with the Brazilian intelligence service (which he had done three months before, hoping to learn what one of South America’s leading spy agencies really knew about the Hezbollah presence in the “triangle area” near Uruguay).
    “I don’t mind that your job means you can’t go to our friends’ dinners or that you won’t be here when my