Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  In the parking lot, Tran and I decided that as she had arrived in her own car and I in a government sedan, we would depart together in mine. The subtext here: Neither of us trusted the other alone with the briefcase. Also my car, a big blue Crown Victoria, used taxpayers’ gas. This is called interagency cooperation.

  As soon as we were seated and buckled in, she said, “Don’t take this the wrong way . . . but your place or mine?”

  “I’m driving. Mine.”

  “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

  “What did you expect? I’m CIA.”

  I put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space, and headed east in the general direction of Crystal City, specifically toward the large brick warehouse where my office is located.

  I should mention that the Office of Special Projects is located not, as you might expect, at the sprawling headquarters at Langley but in the aforementioned warehouse. The warehouse is a front, or in the lingo of the trade, an offsite, with a sign out front that reads “Ferguson Home Security Electronics.” A double entendre is supposed to be located in there somewhere. Don’t ask.

  I was still new to all this, but as I understand it, OSP handles important projects for the Director that are highly sensitive and confidential in nature. And CIA people are, by training and instinct, nosy, cunning, and intrusive—at least the better ones are. So the purported intent of this geographic separation is to reduce the chances of leaks, thefts, or competitive sabotage. I guess it’s no secret that the CIA distrusts other governments or even its own government. But it is somewhat surprising how little it trusts even itself.

  After a moment of companionable silence, Bian said, “I have a confession.”

  “If this concerns your steamy sex life, keep it to yourself, Major.”

  She looked at me. “Is this going to be a long day?”

  “You’ll earn your paycheck.”

  “Well . . . okay, here goes. About Cliff Daniels . . . I may have— actually I wasn’t entirely forthcoming.”

  When I failed to reply to this bold revelation, she said, “I was sent because Daniels was the controller for a man named Charabi. Are you familiar with that name?”

  “Sure. Simon Charabi. Delivers my laundry.”

  She was obviously getting to know me and said, “I’ll assume that means yes.” She paused, then said, “Because of Daniels’s relationship with Charabi, a House investigating subcommittee ordered him to testify. He was scheduled to appear next week.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

  “Probably not. Anyway, his death is going to require an explanation to the panel members.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “As long as we’re working together, I . . .” She paused for a moment and reconsidered her words. “Cooperation is a sharing experience.” She touched my arm and said, “I expect you to reciprocate. We’re partners, right?”

  She stuck out a hand. We shook.

  She was a good liar, but not that good. What she really meant to say was that she thought Phyllis might have already let me in on this secret, or soon would. But rather than harm our plastic mood of amity, I asked, “Where’d you get that combat patch?”

  “Iraq. During the invasion, and a year afterward.”

  “You should fire your travel agent.”

  She smiled and said, “We have the same travel agent.” She added, “I was the operations officer of an MP battalion during the invasion. Afterward, during the first year of the occupation phase, I was with the corps intelligence staff. My alternate specialty is military intelligence and I’m a fluent Arabic speaker. A lot of my time was spent interrogating prisoners, or performing liaison with local Iraqi police in our sector.”

  “I’ll bet the Iraqis got a kick out of that.”

  “Out of what?”

  “An attractive Asian-American woman speaking their lingo. Was it a problem?”

  She shrugged. “It was awkward. Not the language part, the female part. They have fairly medieval views toward women. It’s not a fundamentalist society, but in Arab countries the notion of male supremacy is more cultural than religious.”

  “No kidding? Hey, I might even like it there.”

  She wisely ignored my chauvinism and added, “You have to learn the tricks.”

  “Like what?”

  “Show them your gun and speak with blunt authority. If they’re still leering, knee them in the nuts.” She added, “They grew accustomed to that under Saddam. It helps them get over it.”

  “Does it? I don’t recall that technique from the textbook.”

  “I’m speaking metaphorically. But Iraq is different. The textbook doesn’t work there. You have to make certain . . . adjustments.”

  “Every war is different.”

  “I’m talking about something else. One minute the people are smiling and waving at you, and then . . . the moment you’re out of sight, those same people are planting artillery shells and bombs in the road to blow you to pieces.”

  “Maybe you misinterpreted their waves. Maybe they meant ‘au revoir, asshole.’ ”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “That wasn’t meant to be funny.”

  She took a deep breath, and then we made eye contact and she said, “One day, I watched a car pull up to a checkpoint. A woman in a black veil was driving and yelling out the window for help. A little kid was in the passenger seat, for Godsakes. Two of my MPs let down their guard, they approached her and— It was really awful. Body parts flew all over the place.” She held my eyes for a moment, then added, “They don’t play by any rules—that leaves you no choice. What kind of people blow up their own children? You have to throw away the rule books over there.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oh . . . I forgot. You’re a lawyer.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “I really don’t. Explain it.”

  “Nothing. Drop it.” I glanced at her and she said, “I wasn’t trying . . . I wasn’t implying—”

  “Did it ever strike you that maybe the people there are pissed off because we invaded their country, and now they view us as unwelcome occupiers? Unreasonable, I know, but maybe it’s why they’re trying to kill us.”

  Apparently I struck a raw nerve because she said, “Spare me the armchair moralizing. Here you see these news reports of people having their heads lopped off, or being blown to bits by roadside bombs, and you think, oh goodness, how awful. Over there, you lay awake at night wondering if you’re next.”

  She started to say something else, but apparently changed her mind.

  “When you throw away the rule book, Bian, you get Abu Ghraibs. Play by those rules, they lose and you lose.”

  She decided to change the topic, because she asked, “How did you wind up at the Agency?”

  “One day I came into work and everybody was gone. All the furniture was gone, too, except a desk with my nametag on it.”

  She laughed.

  “Countries, governments, office buildings . . . that’s how they do things.” After a moment, I added, “They’re not completely bad people, though. I got to keep my parking space.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously . . . I don’t have a clue.”

  She changed subjects again, and asked, “So what do you think? About Daniels? Did he kill himself or was he murdered?”

  “What do you think?”

  “To be frank, a few elements appeared out of sync for a suicide. You must have noticed the silencer. Also, his nudeness—that makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Nothing to feel bad about. He was pretty big.”

  She elbowed my arm. “You know what I’m saying. There’s a contradiction here.”

  “Explain it.”

  “All right. He uses a silencer, presumably not to disturb the neighbors. The inference here is that even as he’s contemplating suicide, he’s concerned about how those neighbors will remember hi
m. Yet he’s willing to expose himself as a vulgar idiot as a corpse. Does that make sense to you?”

  I hadn’t even considered that angle. I mean, anyone contemplating suicide, by definition, needs to get his or her head screwed on straight. She said, “Incompatibilities are clues in themselves.”

  “Right. And did you notice his dying expression?”

  “I know what you mean. Scared, frightened . . . actually, surprised. Also out of character for the situation.”

  “Was he married?”

  “Was. I was told he was divorced.”

  “What else were you told?”

  “I was in a rush. There wasn’t time to run a full background check.”

  “Okay. Well, we’ll soon learn more about this guy and what made him tick.”

  After a long moment, she replied, “Perhaps we’ll learn more than we want to know.”

  In retrospect, that turned out to be the ugly truth.

  We turned in to the parking lot of Ferguson Home Security Electronics.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ferguson Home Security Electronics: There actually is a store directly inside the front entrance that would appeal to the most paranoid citizens, including shelves bristling with high-tech bric-a-brac to keep burglars out of your home or unwanted husbands out of your life, whichever ails you.

  If that doesn’t fool you, there is also a helpful female receptionist, Mrs. Lila Moore, who does actually possess expert knowledge of home security devices; in her spare time she also happens to be an officer in the Agency’s security service, with a gun inside her desk and a license to kill, which is one of the reasons I’m nice to her. The other is she’s really pretty.

  Lila looked up as we entered, awarded us a vacuous smile, and asked me, “What can I do to assist you, sir? We’re having a big sale on a spectacular line of window alarms. Would that interest you?”

  Bian looked around, obviously wondering if we had wandered into the wrong place.

  “I’m interested in you,” I informed Lila.

  She stared back, wide-eyed.

  “Hands where I can see them. Your money or your life.”

  Lila raised her hands in pretended alarm. “Please, sir . . . I’m a mere employee. Don’t hurt me.” She frowned and added, “There is no money. Basically, business really sucks here.”

  “Well . . . I already knew that. What do you have?”

  “Let’s see . . .” She smiled. “How about a pissed-off senior citizen waiting for some guy named Drummond?”

  “Oh . . .”

  Lila laughed and shoved the sign-in sheet across her desk. “You know the drill.” I scrawled Bian’s name on the page, while Lila handed her a white guest pass. This is a controlled facility, with obviously questionable standards, because they let me in. She informed us, “Some Pentagon bigwig arrived a few minutes ago. Phyllis logged him in.”

  I saw a name on the log and pointed it out to Bian.

  “Mark Waterbury,” she informed me. “My boss. An SES 1. A man you don’t want to tangle with.” She gave me a pointed look. “You might want to exercise a little . . . rhetorical restraint.”

  “How do you spell that?” I knew, of course, that SES 1 stands for Senior Executive Service, Level One—a politically appointed rank roughly equivalent to a brigadier general. I told Bian, “Right this way,” and led her to the door at the rear of the store, which I opened, and through which we entered into a large cavernous space, essentially a converted warehouse.

  The government does not believe in spoiling its employees, and the home of OSP sets a shining exemplar; clearly the lowest bidder furnished it, and it is poorly lit enough to provoke suicidal fits. There actually are a few genuine offices for the more senior people, none of which read Drummond on the nameplate; mostly, however, it’s a congested, sprawling cube farm. The lack of walls and privacy are designed to engender teamwork and a sense of community, and the communal sparseness to encourage a feeling of proletarian solidarity. Anyway, that’s the theory; reality is a roomful of people who whisper a lot and act sneaky.

  A few people said hi as Bian and I made our way to the rear where Phyllis had her office. I knocked twice, and she called for us to enter.

  Phyllis was behind her desk, and to her front was seated a gentleman of late middle age, bald head, intense brown eyes, who at that moment appeared to be experiencing unhappy thoughts. Phyllis stood and said, “Mr. Waterbury, obviously this is Sean Drummond.” Phyllis walked from around her desk and extended her hand to Bian, saying, “And you’re obviously Major Tran.”

  Mr. Waterbury did not rise to shake my hand, which was interesting, and revealing. But now that we knew who we all obviously were, Bian and I took the chairs against the far wall. I placed Clifford Daniels’s briefcase prominently on my lap, and like the good subordinate I sometimes pretend to be, allowed my boss to make the opening move.

  Phyllis had returned to the seat behind her desk, which I knew to be her standard practice whenever she needs a physical barrier from an asshole. She looked at me. “Mr. Waterbury is the director of the Office of Special Investigations.”

  I nodded at Mr. Waterbury, who was studying me.

  Phyllis continued, “He’s not completely convinced that a joint investigation is the best way to proceed.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “He believes this matter falls squarely under his jurisdiction. As he pointed out to me—rightly—the CIA has no business investigating a domestic death, be it suicide or homicide.”

  “A very persuasive point,” I noted diplomatically as I stifled a yawn.

  I took a moment and studied Mr. Mark Waterbury even as he continued to study me. From his upright, wooden posture, trim figure, neat attire, and severe expression, I was sure he was former military.

  But of a certain type. Some are drawn to military service as a patriotic calling, others by a yearning for glory, others in an effort to reform a life going wrong, and others to put a dent in their college tuition. I do it because I happen to look really good in a uniform. A select few, however, are enthralled by the lifestyle—the rarefied military sense of order, discipline, and a rigidly hierarchical universe where everything has its place, and everybody has their place. Hollywood caricatures are often based upon these stereotypes, and while by no means are they a majority of people in uniform, they are out there, and they do stand out. They tend not to be clever or resourceful, but they do keep you on your toes.

  This, of course, was a lot to read from a brief glance. It was in his eyes, though—a pair of compressed little anal slits with tiny ball bearings for irises.

  In fact, Waterbury’s first words to me were, “You had no business being at Daniels’s apartment.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Is it? This agency is barred by law from involvement in domestic matters.”

  “A man was reported dead and I went to look. Simple prurient curiosity. Where in the federal statutes does it say CIA employees can’t look?” I smiled at Mr. Waterbury.

  We exchanged looks that were fairly uncomplicated, essentially telling each other to fuck off. This was not one of my better Dale Carnegie moments, but why waste time acting civil and friendly when you already know where it’s going to end up?

  He pointed at the briefcase on my lap and, with a nasty smile, said, “Yes . . . well, you walked out of a possible homicide investigation with material evidence, Drummond. That, in fact, is a serious violation of the federal statutes.”

  I love it when idiots try to play lawyer with me. I live for moments like this. I held up Daniels’s briefcase. “Evidence? Did you say this case contains evidence?”

  “I . . . what?”

  “Evidence, Mr. Waterbury. You claimed this case contains evidence.”

  “I did not say—”

  “I’m sure you did.” I looked at Phyllis, who appeared amused, and asked her, “Isn’t that what he said?”

  “It’s definitely what he implied.”

  I turned back to Water
bury, whose face was reddening. “By inference, you have relevant, prior knowledge about what’s inside this case.” He stared back without comment, and I continued, “By implication, something inside this case is pertinent to Cliff Daniels’s death. That’s news to me. Wow! I need to turn this case over to the proper authority.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Drummond. You’ll hand that case over to me.”

  “Not likely.”

  Mark Waterbury apparently was not accustomed to having his orders questioned and was experiencing some trouble maintaining his equanimity. In fact, his face reddened, he clenched his fingers, and a snort erupted through his nostrils.

  I continued, “You’re a political appointee, not a law enforcement official. And since you raised the issue of jurisdiction, surely you must be aware that your office lacks authority to investigate matters outside of military property.” I smiled. “If I give you this briefcase, that would be a felony.”

  Waterbury was giving me a stone face, as if he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I knew how to fix that.

  I looked again at Phyllis. “This briefcase has to go to the FBI. And I will of course inform our federal friends that Mr. Waterbury has foreknowledge about whatever they’ll find.” I looked at Waterbury and noted, “They love it when the evidence comes with somebody to explain what it means. Saves time.”

  I stood but did not walk out.

  As though it needed to be said, Phyllis mentioned to Waterbury, “Did I fail to mention that Drummond is an attorney?”

  Waterbury mumbled under his breath, something fairly short, about two syllables, I’m sure about what a good lawyer I am.

  To Phyllis I said, “So . . . if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Waterbury had gone from red in the face to worried. He said to me, “Sit down.”

  “I don’t take orders from you, pal.”

  Phyllis said, “You do from me. Please sit until we get this matter resolved.”

  I sat.

  Phyllis took my cue and turned to Waterbury. She asked him, “What’s on that laptop?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You might not know the particulars, or you might, but you have some idea or you wouldn’t be here.”