Susan Hasler - Intelligence: A Tale of Terror and Uncivil Service

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Copyright 2010 by Susan Hasler.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Bear Page Press, Asheville.

Bear Page Press and the Bear Page Press logo are trademarks of Zreil Global Marketing, Inc., or its affiliates.

Cover design by Gavin Pledger

ISBN-13: 987-0-9840584-2-6

ISBN-10: 0-9840584-2-7

Praise for Intelligence

"Hilarious, heartbreaking, and, above all, terrifying. A stellar debut!"

Eric Van Lustbader , bestselling author of The Bourne Deception and Last Snow

"Susan Hasler's Intelligence is a riveting bookfunny and frightening to the same degreeand also a lot of it is probably true."

Madison Smartt Bell, author of Devil's Dream

"Susan Hasler cuts too close to the bone of real-life 'politicization' of intelligence and how it occurs to ignore this [story of the] constant struggle between the career professionals and politicos who have an ax to grind. And she does it with style and humor."

Frederick Porter Hitz, author of Why Spy? and Inspector General of the CIA from 1990 to 1998

" Intelligence is a remarkable novelfull of suspense, moral complexity, and memorable characters. Furthermore, it is a book that should be read and deeply pondered by anyone in this country who wants America to remain a true democracy."

Ron Rash , author of Serena

"A firecracker of a read. Startling in its depth of information. Susan Hasler has written the missing novel in the dark world of counterterrorism. Only an insider could have written so compellingly about intrigue. No doubt the CIA will be angrya sure sign that Intelligence is a page turner"

Gordon Thomas , author of Secret Wars and Gideon's Spies

Table of Contents

For my former colleagues

Maddie

I cant decide which is worse: the lucid dreams or the muddled reality. I have no one to blame but myself. I paid sixty-five dollars an hour for a sleep consciousness therapist to teach me how to be aware while dreaming. The idea was to learn to alter the outcome of my nightmares. So, for example, if I dreamed of an explosion and I was aware that I was dreaming, I could confront that negative image, engage it in constructive dialogue, and turn it into something helpful and pleasant. I could say, Hey, you nasty old explosion, wouldnt you be happier and more fulfilled as a bouquet of flowers? Then it would turn into a dozen peonies. I would sniff them and say, Ah, how lovely. Now isnt that better than ripping people to bits? The therapist told me it would be great fun, that I could even learn to fly freely about the dreamscape.

As it turns out, I was a natural at the lucid part, but I never quite mastered the altering the outcome part. So I fall asleep and I know Im dreaming. I know shit is about to happen and I can do absolutely nothing to stop it. I confront the explosion, and the explosion says, Fuck you! and blows my brains out. Im fully conscious that Im dreaming and fully conscious that my brain bits are flying freely about the dreamscape and, frankly, its no fun at all.

So now I hate, hate, hate going to sleep at night.

The Mines wouldnt even pay for the sleep consciousness therapist. They did pay for the psychiatrista security-cleared psychiatristwho told me I had post-traumatic stress disorder and prescribed a series of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, or SSRIs. Nice little druggies when they were working, but the effect never lasted for long. The woman at Special Employee Services who doled out the checks for the psychiatrist balked at the sleep therapist. She said it was a little too new age-y for the Mines taste. So I had to shell out my own hard-earned bucks, even though the debilitating nightmares were and are legitimately work related.

Im a bomb dissector, which is Mines jargon for counterterrorism alchemist. Alchemist is Mines jargon for analyst. Intelligence analyst is just another way of saying intelligence failure. And I most certainly am an intelligence failure. I was one of the people who failed to stop the Strikes five years ago.

Im terrified of failing again. Everythingmy nightmares, my instincts, and the deadly lull in the chatteris telling me that something is about to happen. I can stop it or I can screw it up. If I fall off this wall, I dont think all the Mines drugs and all the Mines shrinks will be able to put Madeleine James back together again.

Im back home after an excruciatingly long and utterly useless day in which I tried and failed to warn. No one would listen, so now I address myself to the one being in my world who will listen.

What do these people have for brains? I ask. Intelligence community? What intelligence? I tell them somethings going to blow up and they look at me like Im hallucinating. I ask you, what do these astounding, arrogant, arbitrary assholes have for brains?

What do I have for brains? Im talking to a rabbit as if I fully expect him to answer. Ive had Abu Bunny for five years, and hes a great little pet, but leaves something to be desired as a conversationalist. He only blinks. He stares at me, then goes back to foraging for crumbs among the pillows on my bed.

I finish undressing, but I dont bother to hang anything up. Hangers are for anal-retentive assholes and administrative personnel. Fuck em. I toss my skirt and jacket over a chair, lob my shoes in the direction of the closet, and collapse face-forward on the bed without the will to do battle with my pantyhose.

Damn the FEMWIP. FEMWIP stands for Fucking Evil Misogynist Who Invented Pantyhose. Ive been with the government for my entire adult working life, so creating acronyms is as natural as seething.

What does the FEMWIP have for brains? The pillow muffles my voice so I make a supreme effort and turn over, which sends Abu Bunny hopping across the pink-flowered meadow of the comforter. I hate this comforter. Mom bought it for me even though Ive told her a hundred thousand times I hate pink. And I hate flower prints. And I most emphatically hate ruffled bedding.

But here it is and here I am. What do I have for brains, Bunny? Its all mush inside my skull. Tired disgusting mush. Yep, thats whats inside my head instead of gray matter. Another seventeen-hour day that yielded nothing but frustration. Would anybody listen to me? No. And Im talking to a rabbit. No offense, Bunny-Poo, but you are a freaking rabbit.

Bunny pauses in his foraging, blinks at me, then turns his fluffy ass in my direction.

Im too tired to be logical or fair or to care that Im lecturing a rabbit. I want to kill someone at work, but I dont have the energy. I need to sleep, but the monsters under the bed are bigger, nastier, more serious than the ones who lived there when I was a child. I look at the clock and see that its already Tuesday. What time of the year is it? Spring sometime I think. Last time I checked on Mother Nature, the Bradford pear in my townhouse yard was blooming. Spring sometime and past midnight. The alarm will ring in too few hours to get a decent rest even if I fall asleep instantly. Ill be a zombie tomorrow at work.