by Brian Haig
“It’s none of your business.” He looked at Phyllis. “Tell Drummond to hand over that briefcase.”
Phyllis ignored this request and Waterbury looked increasingly ill at ease. As I said, the man was not clever, and clearly he lost his sea legs in an environment where the lines of authority were ambiguous and the solution to a dispute cannot be found in the manual.
He needed another little nudge, though. I leaned forward and advised Phyllis, “You don’t want to hear what’s inside the briefcase. Once you know what he knows, it could implicate you in a criminal conspiracy.” I looked at Waterbury. “It’s his problem. Don’t let him make it yours.”
Nobody spoke. I had just uttered the golden phrase—criminal conspiracy—with all it’s nasty echoes of Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra. Nothing strikes greater fear into the heart of a government bureaucrat—and from Waterbury’s change of expression, I had clearly hit a nerve. Phyllis had a hand over her mouth, but I couldn’t tell if she was choking back laughter or biting her lip. As for Waterbury, his lack of cleverness notwithstanding, clearly he had enough feral cunning to understand what he had just heard—the last lifeboat was being lowered over the side.
“Uh . . . okay . . .” He reluctantly said, “It’s possible Daniels was carrying on correspondence with some of his Iraqi friends. Freelancing. Outside of work. It’s also possible that some of that correspondence is classified.”
Phyllis asked, “Do you suspect this, or do you know this?”
“We merely suspect it.”
I said, “It’s possible, or probable, or definitely he was?”
“Don’t push me, Drummond.”
“Waterbury, friends of mine are across the waters right now. I attended two funerals last month, good men who died much too young. If somebody back here is playing games with their lives, I’ll push you into an ocean of shit so deep your feet will never touch bottom. Are we clear?”
“It might surprise you to know, that would piss me off, too.”
“That would surprise me.” Clearly we were both getting on each other’s nerves; the difference was I was enjoying it.
Phyllis interrupted our little pissing contest, and said to Waterbury, somewhat dryly, “Explain what you mean by correspondence.”
“We really don’t know. Daniels was a senior employee. He had leeway to operate independently.”
Phyllis skillfully allowed Waterbury a moment to reconsider his position, then suggested in a sly tone, “Mark, I think it would be in our mutual interests to pool our efforts and get to the bottom of this. Don’t you?”
Still staring at me, Waterbury replied, “Are you giving me a choice?”
“Drummond just explained your choice.”
Of course, he had to get in his last licks, and insisted, “Here’s the terms. Whatever we find goes to the Secretary of Defense for disposition. There is a war on, and if Daniels did something harmful to . . . that effort . . . it must be weighed against the larger needs of national security. Take it or leave it.”
He made a threatening glower at Phyllis, then at me. I’m not overly Pollyannaish about the public’s right to know, but I meant every word I said to Waterbury. My brothers and sisters in arms were getting blown to pieces over there. Depending on what I found, I would make up my own mind about how to deal with it.
I turned to Waterbury and assured him, “Sounds good to me.” Of course my fingers were crossed.
Phyllis, displaying more honesty than I, insisted, “Whatever we find will also go to the Director. I will abide with his decision.”
Waterbury studied her face, and although it went against his obvious grain, he nodded. Phyllis said, “Good. Please allow me a moment to speak with Drummond.”
Waterbury and Bian stood. They left the room, and the door closed with a loud crack.
Phyllis smiled at me and said, “You handled that well.”
“He’s a dimwit.”
“And don’t you underestimate him,” she replied sharply. “He won’t be so easily dealt with if you don’t have him by the balls.” She added, “I’ll do my best to watch your back, but you had better watch your own ass.”
Either my coarse soldier talk was starting to rub off on Phyllis or she was taking it down a notch to make sure the message got through. I have that effect on people. Anyway, I already had figured out that my future dealings with Mr. Waterbury were likely to be stormy, perhaps hazardous.
There was something I did not understand, however. “What’s going on here? What has Waterbury all worked up?”
“You don’t know?”
Obviously not.
She said, “I’ve already told you that Daniels was career DIA. Here’s what I didn’t mention. In the run-up to the war, as you might’ve read in the newspapers, the Office of the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy decided it did not like, or perhaps trust, the intelligence the Agency was providing the White House. They therefore formed their own small intelligence cell to . . . in their words, to vet and decipher the intelligence on Iraq. This cell had a straight pipeline to the Secretary of Defense, and via him, to the White House.”
“And Daniels was part of this cell?”
“Yes. A founding member.” Phyllis continued, “Now the question Congress wants answered is who cooked up the evidence that led our nation to war on phony premises. Specifically, the Iraqi nuclear progress that turned out not to exist. The stockpiles of chemical weapons that have never been found. The terrorist connections that haven’t materialized. The White House and the Pentagon have been madly leaking to the press and pointing their fingers at us. Clifford Daniels knew where the truth is buried. Follow his path and you shall learn that truth.”
“And the truth shall set you free.”
“Not this time.” She stared off into the distance a moment, contemplating how much to tell, or not to tell me. She eventually said, “Bear this in mind also. Lord knows what Daniels has been involved in since the war started. With luck, it’s possible you might uncover that as well.”
“Would that be good luck or bad luck?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”
“Phyllis, this isn’t doing it for me.”
“Well, then ask anything you like.”
“Are we talking espionage? Was Cliff Daniels betraying our country?”
When she made no reply, I said, “I need you to clarify this.”
“I can’t make it any clearer.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She smiled. When you ask a senior officer in the Army an impertinent question, you get a direct rebuke, like, “That’s enough, Drummond,” or the less ambiguous, “Have you ever seen the prison at Leavenworth? It sucks.” Senior CIA officers are shrewder, more austere, polished. They tend to couch their responses nonverbally, like they know there’s a hidden recorder in the room. So you get a frozen stare, or a slight knit of the eyebrows, or an icy smile. You need to listen with your eyes, because somewhere between the polite nod and the slight twitch of the left nostril, you’ve just had your balls cut off.
I moved on and asked, “If I find something, how am I supposed to handle it?”
“You’ll know when you find it.”
“That’s not good enough. Are we talking damage to my career, or damage to my life?”
We looked at each other and I realized I was getting in way over my head. She informed me, “This man Daniels was involved with the Iraqis for nearly twenty years. He knew where a lot of bodies were buried, and I think you’ll find his fingerprints on a lot of things that were hazardous for his health.” She added ominously, “Don’t let those things become hazardous for your health.”
Suddenly, I could see why a lot of people would want Clifford Daniels dead, quietly buried, and long forgotten.
When I walked out of Phyllis’s office, Waterbury was gone, and Bian Tran was standing alone, beside the water cooler, smiling.
CHAPTER SIX
We carried Daniels’s briefcase to a small windowless
side office whose occupant had been told to get lost so a pair of prodigies from the Agency’s Office of Technical Support could perform a little on-the-spot forensics on Clifford’s computer. Bian and I entered the office and made our introductions. They were named Will and John. They looked like Delbert and Elbert.
Will had thicker glasses than John, with wider black rims, and he had more pens and pencils in his pocket protector. Based on the geekiness factor, I handed the computer to Will, who immediately popped it open, flipped it on, and they both erupted in giggles.
Apparently thinking I cared, Will and John tried explaining their intentions—decoding Daniels’s password, breaking through any fire-walls that were erected, then digging through the hard drive, where the really good stuff would be found.
From my experience, too much time on a computer alters your physical appearance, and your outlook. Will, for instance, was almost transparently pale, with a large, flat butt, a scary, myopic stare, and he seemed totally clueless about how to interact with people who aren’t connected to a joystick. John was the type who seems to believe all of life’s problems can be fixed or repaired with a thorough virus scan. I mean, they were probably good guys, and competent, too. A lot of nontechnical people become uncomfortable in the presence of computer geniuses, and I’m one of them. I felt ashamed of my small-mindedness.
Anyway, it was all very interesting. In fact, John was just winding up a comprehensive and, dare I say, spellbinding explanation about the protocols involved with firewalls when I pulled out my gun and plugged them both. Just kidding.
Actually, I wasn’t armed, so I did the next best thing—I fled.
Even Bian, who had showed enough familiarity with the subject to ask them a few probing and intelligent-sounding questions, looked relieved to get out of there.
We stopped off at the coffee machine, filled a cup for me, a cup for her, and proceeded to my cramped office carrel, where we sat.
I mentioned, “Why did you ask questions? It only encourages them.”
She smiled. “The expression on your face when I asked about code-mapping made it all worth it.”
Obviously needing to change the subject, I mentioned, “Incidentally, I was very impressed with your boss. Does he ever pull his head out of his butt?”
“I could see you two hit it off. Is this the start of something beautiful and lasting?”
“Personally, I like the guy. I really do. I’m going to do my best to develop a warm and amicable relationship.”
“Bullshit.”
“Right. Who is he?”
“Former military. A retired MP colonel, in fact. Look, I know he’s a little intense, somewhat rigid . . . but he’s good at his job. Very deliberate, by-the-book.”
“Like Adolf Eichmann.”
“Good analogy. But, well . . .” She searched her mind for something nice to say and came up with, “At least there’s never a mystery about where he’s coming from.”
“Okay. Where is he coming from on Clifford Daniels?”
“Who the hell knows?” She laughed.
“He knows.” After a moment, I asked, “So, how should we approach this thing?”
Bian understood exactly what I was asking, and why. At the start of a murder investigation you usually have a corpse, if you’re lucky, also a murder weapon, and you have to dig for the rest—things like motives, suspects, and, for good measure, sufficient evidence, eyewitnesses, and elements of proof to get the bad guy an appointment on the hot seat. Sometimes—very often, in fact—the killer is an idiot and leaves a mother lode of clues and leads that draw a straight line from victim to killer—such as fingerprints, sperm cells, DNA markers, witnesses, and, increasingly in this cinematic age, the deed might even be captured on videotape. Killers, at least most killers, really aren’t that clever or deceitful.
This wasn’t one of those cases. Here, I suspected, we had that rare criminal who operated on a higher plane—thus, where we began, and how we began, would determine how fast we went and how many dead ends we hit.
She sipped her coffee. She suggested, “Okay, let’s assume it was murder. I think we’re both leaning that way. Procedurally, approach it like a standard homicide case.”
“Good idea.”
“Why don’t we start with suspects?”
“Okay. I think there are lots of people who wanted Daniels’s mouth sealed. People here, perhaps, Americans who are worried about the political fallout and/or the damage to their careers if he spilled the beans to a congressional committee. So that includes the people he worked with, and the people he worked for, up to and including the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States.”
She nodded.
I continued, “Possibly, there were some Iraqis who wanted him dead. And—”
“Can’t you be more specific?”
“Well . . . there are some Iraqis who might carry a grudge because our friend played a heavy role in persuading the President to invade their country. Small-minded, of course—but people can be petty. Or maybe Charabi, or some of his associates, wanted to keep him from exposing some nasty secrets.”
“This is pretty open-ended, isn’t it?”
“Not yet. We’re only at about thirty million suspects. Don’t rule out enemies with more intimate motives—teed-off girlfriends, angry husbands whose wives Cliff may have been popping, a jealous ex-wife, a greedy brother who stands to inherit the full family fortune, or—”
“Okay—thank you. I think that covers the range.”
“No it doesn’t. The range is everything you expect, and everything you don’t.” In fact, I once prosecuted a murder that turned out to be over a pair of running shoes. Premeditated murder, too. The victim’s parents were in the courtroom, and I’ll never forget the shattered looks on their faces when they learned their son took three bullets in the gut over a pair of hundred-dollar athletic shoes that in six months would be vogued-out, worn-out garbage. The reasons people kill other people are almost endless, sometimes picayune, and often ridiculous. I looked at Bian and said, “Killers have limitless imaginations. Don’t narrow yours.”
“I’ve got it,” she said. “Forget the suspect angle. Let’s try reconstruction.”
“Good decision.”
“I’ll raise the facts we know. You suggest the hypotheses.”
“Bad decision. Why don’t I ask? You’re the cop.”
“It was my idea.” She punched my arm. “Besides, lawyers are more creative bullshitters.”
Right.
After a moment, she said, “There was no sign of burglary. What does this suggest?”
“That Daniels let the murderer into his apartment, suggesting further that this was someone he knew. Or the murderer had a key, suggesting someone he knew even better. Or the murderer was an expert lock picker. Or Daniels’s lock malfunctioned.”
“The lock works. After I left you in the bedroom, I checked.”
“Between ratting me out, you found time to inspect the lock?”
“Oh, get over it.”
“I did. You made up for it.”
“How’s that?”
“You could have informed Waterbury that I entered Daniels’s apartment with a false ID. But you didn’t. Or you could have contradicted me and confirmed that I already suspected that Daniels’s briefcase contained evidence. Again, you didn’t.”
She nodded but made no reply.
I looked her in the eye. “Why didn’t you?”
“What would be the point?”
“That’s what I’m asking.” After a moment, I again asked, “Why?”
Instead of replying, she asked me, “Why do you think?”
“I think you don’t like or trust your boss.”
“He is a . . . difficult and . . . an aggravating man to work under.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“That too.” She laughed.
I did not laugh. “Also, I think you’re worried that your own department wants this thing buried. Not
covered up, necessarily—but we both know an internal investigation would move at a snail’s pace, in very oblique directions, and only a small circle of friends would be exposed to the sequel.”
She did not confirm this, but instead asked, “And why would I care about that?”
“You want me to assume it’s because you’re motivated by higher sensibilities. A West Pointer, that duty, honor, country thing.” I looked her in the eye and said truthfully, “In fact, I believe you are motivated by these factors.”
“But you think there are other motives, too. Right?”
Right. I looked at her. “If we’re going to be working together, I’d like to know about them.”
“You don’t trust me?”
I did not, but there was no point in saying that. Instead, I said, “We could find things that will be very embarrassing and possibly very damaging for your bosses. I’d like to know where you stand, how you’re going to react.”
“You’ve read too much into this.” She looked at me and said, “I think you’re very clever, very observant, and you seem to have a firm grasp of investigations. I want to solve this, and you’ll make a good partner. That’s the professional reason.” After another moment, she added, “And maybe I like you. Perhaps this is clichéd . . . you remind me of somebody.”
“You’re right. It’s clichéd.”
“And true. My fiancé. He’s in Iraq, a major with the First Armored Division.” She examined me a moment with those warm eyes. “You don’t look alike, but you share so many quirks and mannerisms. It’s almost uncanny.”
It did not escape my notice that she had changed the subject, but this sounded more interesting and certainly more pleasant than the topic of murder. “Such as?”
“Mark . . . that’s his name . . . Mark has a certain swagger, a way of moving. Sexy. Self-assured. And you both have this unnerving habit of shoving people around when you think you’re right and they’re in your way.”
“And you’re engaged to this guy?”
“He has some rough edges.” She laughed. “I’ll fix him after we’re married.”
That’s what I love about women.