29. The CIA Mailbox
The morning after Rippa’s Q&A stream with Buttons, Director Jacob Baczewski of the CIA was summoned by the DNI. ‘Drop everything and come right now,’ was the message. He had no idea what it was about.
“Morning, Jacob,” Gabby Talbot, the Director of National Intelligence, gestured for Baczewski to sit down. She didn’t look too pleased.
“Good morning, Ma’am.” the CIA chief sat down and waited.
“Did you see the interview?” Talbot went straight to business.
Baczewski immediately knew something serious was up. Talbot generally started things with small talk first, but she was skipping it altogether this morning.
“What interview?”
“The kid interview,” Talbot quickly checked a note on her desk, “Buttons, and her butler named Goggles.”
“Ah, the AI Jedi video stuff? No, but I watched a news summary—”
“Well, then you are as fucked as I am.”
“Pardon?”
The DNI leaned on her desk. “The President wanted to know if we knew anything about it. I said, no, and he skinned me alive.”
“Oh, come on,” Baczewski scoffed. “Why is the President even concerned with an obvious hoax to begin with?”
“Jacob,” Talbot shot daggers from her eyes, “a large group of ethnic minorities stomped on a disabled white child in broad daylight—”
“Which was staged—”
“Staged or not, AI or not, the incident is a political powder keg, so, yeah, he watched the interview.”
Baczewski shut up. She had a point.
“Well, now nobody is talking about it in racial terms, which is good, but…” Director Talbot sighed. “You heard about the Capri Sun?”
Baczewski nodded slowly. “Yes, I saw it in the news, but it’s clearly—”
Talbot pulled out a pouch of Capri Sun from her handbag and tossed it onto the desk.
Baczewski picked it up and examined it. There was nothing particularly—
“This appeared in the Oval Office,” said Talbot. “Guess who gave it to me.”
‘Shit.’ Baczewski took a sharp breath in. “Ma’am, are you telling me—”
“Yes, Jacob, he said this spawned right in his face when he was watching the interview.” Talbot then fished out one more pouch and tossed it onto the desk. “And this one was for the Chief of Staff. They were watching together.”
“OK, where do I come in?”
“Fuck me, you are the CIA. You gotta have something, right?”
***
It was early afternoon, and Baczewski sat at the head of the conference table in his office. He was glaring at the Deputy Directors seated around the table. They were passing around and examining the two pouches of Capri Sun. One man, however, coughed rather guiltily and then produced his own pouch from his jacket pocket. He put it on the table.
“I thought guys at Science and Technology would be interested,” he explained. “This thing really just popped up, you know.”
“So am I the only one who didn’t watch the interview?” Baczewski asked the room.
Everyone just cleared their throats. “Ahem, ahem.” “Hmm hmm.”
“Where is Curtis anyway?” asked Baczewski, annoyed. “If anyone has any clue, it should be the Directorate of Science and Technology, and he’s conveniently out of office?”
“He’s gone to meet someone from the FSB,” one of the Deputy Directors informed the chief. “Said it was super urgent.”
“Russians? Why?”
***
Deputy Director Curtis, of the Directorate of Science and Technology, sat in a small cafe, looking quite nervous. Across the table was Dmitriev from the FSB, Russia’s security agency, more widely known as the former KGB.
Dmitriev was, for all intents and purposes, Curtis’ counterpart in terms of roles and responsibilities. For that reason, the two had kept in contact, but this was the first time the meeting was ‘urgent.’ After all, when the CIA and the FSB had something urgent to discuss, it usually wasn’t something related to Curtis’ Directorate.
“What is this about? What is so super-duper urgent you had to fly all the way in?” Curtis demanded.
Dmitriev got to the point right away. “Curtis, I’m coming straight from Beijing. From a meeting with Wang.”
“The State Security? Why? What did Mr. Wang want from you?”
“Well, he told me a very interesting story. Did you—”
“Wait, wait, hold up.” Curtis held his hand up. “This place isn’t secure. We should talk in a more—”
“No, it’s fine, Curtis,” Dmitriev brushed it off, “the whole point of me coming was to let you know you have it. The more people know of it, the better.”
“I have what? What are we even talking about?”
Dmitriev paused and drummed his fingers on the coffee table, thinking. He finally opened his mouth. “Ah, let me put it this way. Mr. Wang is at the table. Mr. Curtis is at the table. Mr. Dmitriev is at the table.”
“What are you—”
Dmitriev motioned for Curtis to shut up and listen. “Mr. Wang and Mr. Dmitriev both have it, and they both know all three of them have it. But what if, hypothetically speaking, Mr. Curtis was under the impression that he was the only one who had it? What do you think would happen?”
Curtis scowled. This was cryptic as fuck. “I guess it depends on what it is.”
“Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, a weapon. Some super weapon that can kill the other two in one go.”
Curtis remained quiet and thought about the riddle for some minutes. After a while, he gave his answer. “Everyone would die.”
Dmitriev flashed a smile. “Exactly.”
“So, you came all the way to tell me… that both you and Wang also have it?”
“Bravo.”
Curtis looked around to make sure nobody was listening in. He leaned in. “What the fuck do I have?”
Dmitriev didn’t seem to mind if anyone was listening. “Talk to your people. If anyone flinches at the mention of a mailbox, that’s your man. Talk to him, and you will learn everything.”
Curtis sat back and thought some more. “Is that what Mr. Wang told you?”
“Yes, and he asked me super nicely to also tell you.”
“Why doesn’t he tell me directly?”
“Because for over thirty years, you guys have never listened to what the Chinese had to say.”
“Fair enough.” Then it occurred to Curtis. “Wait, are we really talking about some super weapon?”
“Curtis, did you watch the interview?”
“The taco kid?”
Dmitriev just looked at Curtis, then shook his head. “I, too, didn’t know until Mr. Wang told me.”
Curtis was trying to put two and two together, but there was one pressing question. “Whatever the hell it is, if you didn’t know, and I didn’t know, then why is it then Wang was the only one who knew it?”
Dmitriev smiled once again. “You see, Curtis, the FSB and the CIA, we all serve the administration that wins the votes. The MSS serves a single party. That’s the difference.” Dmitriev stood up, getting ready to leave. “Talk to your mailbox man. You will learn why.”
***
It was late afternoon, and people were shuffling out of Curtis’ office. One silver-haired man, however, stayed behind.
“Deputy Director?”
“Yes, Jim?”
“Can we have a word?” the man addressed as Jim whispered.
“What’s it about?” Curtis looked at Jim. ‘You are the mailman, eh?’
“You mentioned a mailbox?”
“So, you are my mailman?”
“Right. Give me five minutes. I need to bring some stuff. I will be right back.”
***
It was evening, and Baczewski was watching a video clip on a tablet that Curtis and Jim brought.
In the video, a ginger-haired kid was reading something from a note. “You write to your gods when nothing is left but to pray.”
Jim slipped a black-and-white photograph across the table. Baczewski stopped the video and looked at it.
The photo was that of a sheet of paper. On it, three lines. The top line was in English, which read, “When nothing is left but to pray, write me.”
Baczewski looked at the kid again.
Jim leaned over and tapped on Goggles’ face next to Buttons’. “This is the guy. He’s the one who planted the mailbox sixty years ago.”
Baczewski took off his glasses and sat back in his chair. “And nobody ever wrote him?”
Jim shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t like we needed some divine intervention. Things never got that bad.”
“Alright. But why am I being informed of this mailbox only now?”
Jim and Curtis exchanged glances. Curtis, being the boss of the two, took it upon himself. “With all due respect, sir, Directors come and go with the elected government. This has been kept secret only among the most trusted of the permanent staff.”
Baczewski chewed on the arm of his glasses. “But what about the Chinese? Why—”
“They serve a single party,” answered Curtis matter-of-factly. “So, there’s a faith in place that this won’t be used for political gains.”
“Well, shit…” Baczewski cursed democracy. "What if you up and died?”
“No worries, Director,” Jim brushed it off. “There are four more who know about this. They just happen to be out of office today. Maternity leave, vacation, and all that, you know.”
Baczewski exhaled. “So what now?”
Curtis took a deep breath. “Now that everyone knows that everyone has it, we all can sleep soundly and carry on with our lives—”
“No, I mean, what do I tell the DNI?”
Jim, the custodian, took over from Curtis. “We deny and deny until we have nothing left but to pray. Then we let the elected officials know.”
“But you let me know!” Baczewski almost shouted.
This time, Curtis answered, “Well, Director, Jim and I aren’t exactly in a position to judge when it is that we need divine intervention.”
“Fuck me.” Baczewski buried his face in his hands. “What if something happened last week that you guys didn’t know about?”
This time, Jim answered with a shrug. “Well, either the Chinese or the Russians would have written the letter.”
“What if we were the only ones who knew?” Baczewski challenged again.
“In that case, Director, chances are we are the threat to mankind,” said Jim flatly.
Baczewski took a deep breath. “So. Up until today, you guys withheld this information, fully knowing the decision to use it was above your pay grade. Why?”
“Yeah, why, Jim?” Curtis joined in as well.
Jim shrugged again. “Iraq.”
“Fuck me!” Baczewski threw his glasses across the room.
Curtis waited for the Director to calm down. “If you really, really trust the DNI, then maybe you can tell her. After all, she has more authority to make the call. Otherwise, this stops at you.”
***
Talbot looked up from the photo.
“This is in Russian and Chinese, too? Does it mean…”
“Yes. Same letter to all three,” Baczewski nodded. “On one page so that everyone knows the other two also have it.”
“Sixty years! Why has nobody written him?”
Baczewski loosened his collar. It was close to midnight, but spies never slept. “According to Jim, people at the time decided it was meant to be used for real big shit. End-of-mankind level events, such as meteor impacts or alien invasions… that kind of stuff.”
“He’s been in the CIA for that long?”
“Ah, that’s what his predecessor had told him, but officially, though, we have no record of such an agreement.”
The Director of National Intelligence studied the photo once more. “So, you decided to kick the ball up the hill, because?”
Baczewski cleared his throat. “The entire intelligence community reports to you, so naturally, you are in a better position than I am to know when the right circumstance is to use this.”
Talbot glared at him.
“But you mustn’t let him know,” Baczewski added uncomfortably.
“But Beijing is already aware…”
“We assume so.”
The DNI sank deep into her chair. “Ooh, boss is not gonna like this.”
“Beijing knowing before him doesn’t mean the end of the world.” Baczewski tapped on the first line of the letter.