Free Bloodmoney by David Ignatius

had he gone in the hours immediately after Egan’s disappearance?
    It took an hour to pry loose the polygraph record from the registry. When the thin file was finally delivered to Marx, it deepened her concern. Akbar hadn’t been polygraphed since his initial recruitment in the United States. When he had been re-recruited, Gertz had waived a new test. It was too difficult to bring a polygraph operator on site, according to the file. The result was a counterintelligence officer’s nightmare—an agent whose reliability was unproven, in witting contact with a deep-cover officer. Howard Egan had trusted him, but now Egan was gone.
    Marx knocked on Gertz’s door. This morning he looked like an over-the-hill Chicago sideman. There were circles of fatigue under his eyes, and his skin had a waxy pallor replacing the buff tan. He was wearing a cashmere blazer that was so loosely constructed it looked almost like a cardigan sweater.
    “I don’t like Akbar,” said Marx.
    “Me neither. What have you got?”
    You couldn’t be sure with Gertz whether he had been thinking that all along, or had just considered the possibility when she mentioned it.
    “It turns out he hasn’t been polygraphed in ten years. Why did you waive a poly on him when you went after him again?”
    “It was too cumbersome getting a technician out in the field. And I needed to get to his uncle. The family came well recommended. So I went ahead.”
    “Who recommended them?”
    Gertz shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t tell you that. Too sensitive.”
    She nodded. She knew there were secrets that didn’t get shared. That was part of the job.
    “Okay, but I have a bad feeling about Akbar. I think he may have set Egan up.”
    “Maybe. But he has an alibi.”
    “I missed that. What alibi?”
    “He delivered his uncle. The man was at the meeting place, just where he was supposed to be. If it was a setup, why would the uncle have gone to the meet? That’s where your theory gets squishy.”
    “Maybe the uncle wasn’t witting. Or maybe the uncle showed up so they would have a cover story when Howard disappeared. I’m not sure, but I need to know more about him.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, for starters, Egan called Akbar before he went to see him. That call was logged on his BlackBerry. So the NSA should have an audio file of the conversation. I need it. And don’t tell me I don’t have the right clearances, because you already promised me I could have anything I wanted.”
    She crossed her arms stubbornly.
    “You’re jamming me,” he said.
    “Yes, I am. That’s part my job, isn’t it?”
    Gertz looked at her with an extra measure of admiration. He liked troublemakers, so long as they were on his team.
    “How long have you worked for The Hit Parade?” he asked.
    “Nearly a year. Ten months, to be exact.”
    “Do you know where we got the name ‘The Hit Parade’?
    “No. I always wondered about that.”
    “It’s from an old-time radio and TV show called Your Hit Parade . It started back in the 1930s, lasted for nearly forty years. They played a weekly list of top records, right, which they said was based on an ‘authentic tabulation.’ But that was all crap. They just made it up. Played what they wanted. Got payola from the record companies, for all I know.”
    “That’s what you liked about it?” asked Marx, raising her eyebrows. “That it was a big con?”
    “Yeah, that. Plus I like the idea of hitting people.”
    She was shaking her head now, but Gertz gave her a playful punch on the shoulder, as if to say, Just kidding.

    Gertz got Sophie Marx what she needed. He called Cyril Hoffman, who called the NSA, who called someone in the cryptographic agency’s South Asia Division. In an hour the requisite audio file was sitting in Marx’s computer queue. She listened to the brief conversation a half dozen times. What struck her was the stress in the Pakistani man’s voice—the coughs and pauses, the apology that the planned meeting