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brutally executed by Russia’s intelligence agencies. These signs were noticed. The CIA and FBI knew they had a traitor and searched relentlessly for hisidentity, a search that led eventually to Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, but the CIA and FBI were now forced to consider the ugly possibility that both had been tossed by the Russians to keep the spotlight off Morrison. Ames and Hanssen weren’t exactly minnows—this only accentuated the scale of treason Morrison was suspected of committing.
    Regarding Mary being the Moscow station chief, there was no mention. Eventually it would have to surface. It was too stunningly juicy to ignore. If Morrison was a Russian vacuum cleaner, he had not only inhaled what he discovered in his own increasingly prestigious positions, but also what Mary learned from hers.
    But the tidbit that especially whetted my interest was the mention of his case officer, or, in the lingo of professional spies, his “controller.” Not two controllers, or a team of controllers—the article referred to only one controller. In the lingo of lawyers, a highly relevant fact.
    I got to the office at six, jump-started the coffeemaker, poured a fresh cup, and then ventured into my office to ponder the situation. A few minutes later I heard Imelda rumble in, and shortly behind her, Katrina. After a few more minutes I heard them chatting.
    Probably Imelda was telling her to lose that damned belly-button ring. Probably Katrina was telling Imelda she’d have a special place in the guillotine line when the revolution went down. I heard banging and shuffling and wondered if Imelda was body-slamming her around the office.
    By eight-thirty I had a general idea of what I wanted or, more accurately, needed to do. I began making calls, first to the office of the CIA general counsel for an appointment to see him. Second, to Eddie Golden’s office for an appointment to see him. Third, to Clapper’s office to arrange to have Katrina hired and paid, and for her Top Secret clearance to be restored.
    When I walked out, a second desk had been added for Katrina, and both wall safes had their drawers opened andemptied. Imelda and Katrina had battened down the hatches, preparing for an onslaught of evidence. Smart girls.
    Looking surprisingly chummy, they were seated at a makeshift table, empty Starbucks cups between them, and a crumbcake that had been reduced to its namesake.
    I shrugged and started heading for the door. Imelda asked, “Where you goin’?”
    “To the CIA, then to see Golden. I’ll be gone most of the morning.”
    “You forgettin’ something?”
    “Let me see . . . briefcase . . . pen . . . underwear . . . No, I have everything.”
    “Like your co-counsel?”
    “Oh, I didn’t forget. They’re introductory meetings. She can wait here.”
    “My ass. She an attorney, ain’t she?”
    “I might even surprise you and be useful,” said Katrina, looking amused. “Hard to believe, I know.”
    Did I really need to explain the problem here? Other issues aside, first impressions are important in this business, especially when your first stop is the most tight-assed place on the planet. She was wearing a loose blouse, tight bell-bottoms, clogs, and a spiked collar around her neck. But on second thought, it might be worth bringing her along for the shock value. Maybe her nose bead and belly-button ring would set off the metal detector at the CIA. Wouldn’t that be a thrill?
    Three minutes later we were racing down the GW Parkway. Wanting a better angle on this woman, I said, “So tell me about yourself.”
    She chuckled and replied, “ ‘Tell me about yourself’?” like, What kind of asshole would phrase it like that?
    “It’s just a question. Answer however you choose.”
    “However, huh? Herpes-free single white female with a law degree from a third-rate school. Likes Chanel Premier Rougelipstick, stands in long lines for U2 concerts, and would really appreciate less condescension from