J. Wheeler - The Krone Experiment

Danielson wondered if he had been reading her mind as she had daydreamed in the outer office.

“You have three choices,” Isaacs continued. “You can continue doing what you are doing. You can move up. Or you can do something else. You ought to think about it. The Agency would love to have you right where you are, hard working, productive, underpaid, forever. If you want to get out of that slot you need to set your sights.

“I’ve been watching you. Your work on Tyuratam has been first rate. You didn’t crack QUAKER, but your insight about the trajectory would have escaped a lot of people. That showed a rare gift for breaking out of established channels of thought. You have the talents necessary to get ahead. I’d like to see you do it. But it’s a big challenge.”

“I’m not sure what to say. I appreciate your support. I do have some vague ambitions,” she laughed quietly. “But I haven’t been actively coveting your job.”

Isaacs smiled with her and thought about the special toughness of mind needed to get ahead in the Agency. He wondered whether any woman could make it in this male bastion. Pat Danielson had some of the necessary qualities. A patriotic upbringing and a workaholic nature got her through graduate school, brought her here, and kept her here. Did being an only child of a single parent give her that extra edge, or portend a problem as yet unseen?

This time it was as if Danielson read Isaacs’ mind.

“I know I have a built-in handicap,” she said. “I don’t see a lot of women in charge around here.”

Isaacs nodded thoughtfully.

“No woman has ever risen to the level of a Deputy Director. You couldn’t hope to in less than a decade even if you were the President’s daughter-in-law. But if, as a woman, you have any desire to aim at that level, you’ll have to be particularly resourceful at setting your goals and working toward them.”

He leaned up on his forearms again.

“You wouldn’t be crazy to decide there are better things to do with your life.”

“Better things,” she mused. “I haven’t found anything better.”

Isaacs picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. He looked up at her. “Nor anyone?”

Danielson understood his line of thought and found it irritating, despite her original willingness to get a little personal.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a bit chauvinistic. Are you worried someone will turn my head, and I’ll run off to the suburbs to make babies?”

“I’m sorry. It does sound that way. But even if I denied my culpability there are people in the Agency who will raise that kind of argument. Fact is, they’ll hit you both ways. If you don’t get married, they’ll suggest there’s something wrong there.”

“So I need to snap up a quick husband and continue to labor in the trenches until the powers that be, present company excepted, stamp me with the seal of approval.” Her irritation waned to be replaced by bemusement. “Somehow, even with all the emphasis on security, it never occurred to me that the Agency would have any interest in my love life. They don’t check up, do they?”

“No,” Isaacs laughed. “Not without special cause. They turn up a few tidbits of everybody’s past during the security check. Yours couldn’t have been too sordid; you’re here.”

Danielson wondered if Allan was in the file. Allan with the blond hair, golden tan, easy smile. Peter Pan with surfboard. He was probably still on the beach.

Isaacs detected her pensive look and switched gears.

“I’ve managed to get off the point. I just wanted you to know that I think you have a future with the Agency, if you want to work for it. One thing you’ll have to learn is that hard work alone isn’t all there is. You will always have to do a little getting along by going along. The art is to make the most judicious choice of what to give and what to get. I had to make a hard choice with QUAKER. I hope we’ll find that I chose correctly.”

Danielson looked at him seriously. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me like this. I’ll try to give some thought to exactly where I’m heading.”

“If I can give you any more bad advice,” Isaacs smiled, “give me a call.”

Danielson smiled good-bye and let herself out. Despite other pressing duties, she spent the remainder of the day glumly divesting herself of any involvement with Project QUAKER. She gathered up a number of files and voluminous personal notes. The better part of an hour was required to transfer several analytical computer programs and extensive sets of data onto master storage tapes and to delete all active files from the computer memory. Despite Isaacs’ attempt at explanation, she drove home that evening thinking that she knew what a miscarriage would feel like.

That same evening Isaacs sat in his living room looking at, but not perceiving, the early evening television news. He loosely supported a half-consumed drink on the arm of the sofa where beaded moisture slowly soaked into the velveteen. The coaster on the side table went unused. The cook made final preparations for dinner and from upstairs the bass from his daughter’s stereo carried subliminally. The town-house perched over a two-car garage off a steeply sloping Georgetown street. Inside it was furnished in a refined, tasteful way. In his wry moods Isaacs estimated he could afford between a quarter and a third of it. The person responsible for the lion’s share came bustling in, discarding her purse and jacket. His wife, Muriel, was a dark-haired, slender woman, attractive, although a bit long in the face. She had some money of her own and, more important, a successful, politically-oriented law practice.

She came in alternately damning a recalcitrant senatorial aide with whom she was forced to have dealings and crowing over the successful completion of another case in which an out-of-court settlement had saved their client the embarrassment of a court appearance. She elaborated on these developments in a keyed-up, stream-of-consciousness flow as she mixed herself a drink at the bar and sat alongside her husband. As she chatted, Isaacs half-listened, nodding and responding with appropriate monosyllables on occasion. Muriel realized he was down and covered for him for awhile, but finally inquired.

“You’re quiet tonight. How was your day?”

Isaacs smiled tiredly at his wife, then looked down at his drink. He sat up and tried belatedly to brush some of the collected moisture off the sofa arm.

He smiled again, more genuinely, at his gloomy forgetfulness.

“I shouldn’t let him get under my skin. McMasters outflanked me this afternoon. A petty move on his part, but I had to put aside a potentially significant project that is only in the early stages. One of my young people was pretty disappointed. She’d put a lot of good work into it.”

“Can’t you go over his head?”

“No, it’s not that kind of thing. He put me on the spot before enough evidence was in to make a rigorous case. That’s one thing that bothers me, though. Now we won’t know. If it is serious, it’ll catch us by surprise later.”

“I don’t suppose you can continue surreptitiously?”

Isaacs chuckled.

“You’ve got too many clients who spend their lives going back on campaign promises. No. It would be hard to do and hell to pay if I got caught. He gave me an order as a senior officer. Even if it’s stupid, I’d be putting my job on the line and jeopardizing a lot of programs of proven importance. The Director would rule against me unless I had an overwhelming motivation for my insubordination.”

Muriel grinned and raised her glass in a mock toast. “So you’re going to eat it?”

He returned the gesture.

“I can assure you I’ve already done so in my most humble and cooperative way.”