Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  We followed Herr Waterbury into the office, and three feet inside the doorway Albert Tigerman was standing waiting, like a perched bird. His hand shot out to Waterbury.

  I took a moment to study our host and was a little surprised to observe that he was not even remotely impressive-looking—short, slightly pudgy, silver-haired, with thick horn-rimmed glasses, sort of a fleshy, characterless face, and a small, pinched mouth. I’m embarrassed to admit, he looked like a lawyer.

  He finished shaking Waterbury’s hand, saying, “Mark . . . damned good to see you again. I hear you’re doing damn fine work up there.”

  I watched their faces and I knew. What a load of crap. This was not the first time these two were together that day.

  There was a long, telling hesitation before Waterbury, unaccustomed as he was to slyness, replied, “Well . . . it’s always a pleasure to see you, too, Al. I’m . . . sorry the occasion is such grim business.”

  “Can’t be helped, can it?” Turning to Bian and me, Tigerman announced, “And you must be Drummond and Tran.”

  Who else would we be?

  Bian said to him, “Sir, let me start by thanking you for taking this time out of your busy schedule to see us.”

  Not wanting him to get the misimpression that I regarded this as a big favor, I immediately said, “If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like to start.” I added, “I’m sure you are very busy. In fact, Waterbury told us our time is limited to five minutes.”

  I was sort of hoping he would say, “That ass Waterbury said what? . . . Why, a good man, a man who worked for me, a lifelong public servant, is dead under mysterious circumstances—of course you can take all the time you want or need.” But he did not say that. He pointed at a short conference table near the window. “Is over there okay?”

  Over there was fine, and we moved to the table. Tigerman sat at the head, Waterbury took the seat to his right, and Bian and I sat across from him.

  Tigerman squirmed around in his seat for a moment, then leaned across the table and said, “Mark tells me one of our people died. How damned unfortunate.”

  Bian replied, “The employee’s name was Clifford Daniels. He was a GS-12, and for the past three years he worked here, in your organization. We assumed you knew him.”

  “Yes . . . yes, maybe I recall the name. I’m sure I would recognize his face if I saw him.” He removed his glasses from his nose and a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lens. “It’s damned unfortunate, really . . .”

  After a moment, Bian asked, “What’s unfortunate, sir?”

  “This organization—the Office of the Under Secretary . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “We have a total of some nine hundred people. As much as you would like to know all of these fine people . . .” He raised his glasses in a pedantic gesture of helplessness. “Well . . . how did he . . . this, uh, Mr. Daniels . . . how did he . . . you know?”

  “That’s still under investigation,” I informed him.

  Waterbury said, “Suicide. Blew his brains out.”

  “I see.” Tigerman tapped his fingers on the table. “Again, Mr. Drummond, how can I . . . What?”

  “We just have a few questions. Background stuff.” I smiled. “Major Tran won’t be reading you your rights or anything.”

  He smiled back. “So it’s perfectly harmless?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  We stared at each other.

  I said, “Two weeks ago, Daniels received a notice to appear next week before the House Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee. Were you . . . aware of this?”

  “Well . . . let me think . . .” He then spent a brief moment pretending to think. “Yes . . . I believe I was. Several of our people have gotten these summons. It’s damned unfortunate . . .”

  “Unfortunate?”

  “You know . . .” He looked at me, trying to calibrate how much bullshit to throw in my direction. “Washington is a rough-andtumble town, always has been . . . but with this war, with the political polarization on the Hill, with the election heat, and of course the loud carping from the liberal media . . .”

  I was beginning to suspect Albert Tigerman had some weird mental affliction that prevented him from completing a sentence.

  I asked, “Can you tell us why the Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee wanted to speak with Daniels?”

  “I wish I could.”

  “You have no idea?”

  “They don’t share these things with me. No.”

  “But, well . . . you must at least know the type of work Daniels was doing here?” How’s that for smooth?

  He turned to Waterbury. “Refresh my memory, Mark. What office was he assigned to?”

  “Near East and South Asia. A division chief.”

  “Ah . . . yes. Then . . . well, I suppose he was working on something to do with our war in Iraq.”

  “But you can’t tell me what, specifically, Daniels was working on?”

  “Let me . . . uh, a lot of actions flow through my in-box . . .” He looked thoughtful, then pained, and concluded, “I can’t really say, exactly.”

  I lost it a little bit and said, “How about inexactly?”

  He shrugged. I was really striking out here.

  I looked at Bian, who was staring tightly at Tigerman’s face. She said, “Daniels previously worked in DIA. Did you know him during those years?”

  “What years would those be, Major?”

  “Late eighties, throughout the nineties.”

  “Well . . . I wouldn’t say . . . after all, I’ve met a lot of DIA types. That was a long time ago.”

  “Of course, sir. But it’s atypical for career DIA people—intelligence specialists—to end up working in policy jobs, is it not?”

  “It’s not unheard of. Perhaps he had regional expertise.”

  “In fact, he was for many years the DIA desk officer for Iraq.”

  “Was he? Well, there you have it. The past few years, Iraq has become . . . if I might borrow a business euphemism . . . a growth industry in this building.” He smiled. “I may even have approved his transfer myself.”

  “But you don’t remember approving it?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe one of our assistant secretaries or division chiefs knew him and requested him.” Again he pointed at his in-box, which overflowed with memoranda and folders. “I don’t . . . well, to be blunt, I can’t remember everything I sign, can I?”

  My turn. “We met with his ex-wife this afternoon.”

  “Ah. The poor woman. She must be devastated.”

  “She high-fived me.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “In fact, I’m a little surprised by your reaction to this tragic news.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Mrs. Daniels informed us that you and Cliff spent a great deal of time together during the first Gulf War. She claimed that, afterward, you and he stayed in almost continuous contact. In her words, you were close friends.”

  He looked surprised. “Friends?”

  I forgot. This was Washington. So to help him with this foreign concept, I explained, “People you hang out with and remember afterward. People whose death causes you to grieve.”

  This annoyed him, as it was intended to do, but he kept his composure. “Does she recall me ever visiting their house? Maybe she came to my house, met my wife . . . ?”

  I did not reply.

  He said, “In this town, it’s not uncommon for lower-level officials to, you know, embellish their careers with their spouses. Or for wives to exaggerate their husband’s importance.” He winked at me. “My own wife thinks I’m the Secretary of Defense. Promise you won’t disabuse her.”

  He smiled, and I smiled back. Boy, were we having fun.

  After a moment, he blurted, “You’ve made me curious, Mr. Drummond. What exactly is it you think this man was working on, and how might that be connected to his death? Or to me?”

  Bingo. Clichéd as it might sound, t
he guilty ones always fish. He needed to know what we knew; specifically, whether or how we could implicate him. De facto, the man was worried about something, and I spent a moment thinking about what that something might be. Well, for one thing, we could access the phone records for the Daniels household and see how often they spoke, and how far back their relationship extended. Also we could do a little background digging into how exactly Clifford Daniels got transferred from DIA to this office.

  But so what? We could possibly prove that Tigerman misled us and, possibly, plumb the depths of his evasions. But evading the truth in Washington is hardly a crime; it’s the ticket to higher office.

  I looked at Mr. Tigerman and informed him, “I’m afraid our five minutes are up.” I stood. “Thank you for your time, sir. We’ll be sure to get back to you when it becomes necessary.”

  This did not sound like a threat, but it was fair warning, and Tigerman heard what I was saying. He stood, as did Waterbury and Bian. Tigerman studied my face a moment, then said, “I believe you need a little free advice, Mr. Drummond.”

  It was irresistible, and I said, “Okay, why don’t you tell me who murdered Clifford Daniels?”

  Tigerman suddenly looked very unhappy.

  And Waterbury finally had the opportunity to flex his prosecution complex, and barked, “That’s enough out of you, Drummond.” He looked at Tigerman, to be sure this display of bootlicking was noted, and added, “The police are convinced Daniels killed himself. But Drummond has some wild and incredible fantasy that he might have been murdered. I ordered him not to raise this issue inside this office.”

  Tigerman produced a forced smile. “It’s all right, Mark.” He said to me, “You believe he was murdered? Why?”

  “Just say I believe in the old saying.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What saying would that be?”

  “There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession.”

  Again he tapped his fingers on the table. “That’s a very amusing insight. But, Mr. Drummond, it refers to suicide, not murder.”

  “So it does. But if we find what Daniels had to confess, I think we’ll also find his murderer.”

  This did not appear to amuse him. He said, “You might find that Daniels was involved in very sensitive work in support of our war effort. I have no idea why he . . . why he killed himself. But I hope you do find out, and I hope you treat whatever you discover with the discretion it might deserve.”

  I looked at him, then at Waterbury. “Since we’re giving free advice . . . by tomorrow morning Clifford Daniels’s death will be in the public domain. He is a figure of considerable media interest, the press will become nosy about his death, and they can— and I’m sure they will—dig. There is no shortage of people inside this government with issues and agendas who will leak their own theories and suspicions. Are you prepared for that?”

  I allowed Tigerman a moment to mull that reality.

  I said, “Now, is there any other ‘advice’ you’d like to offer us?” He turned his back and walked back to his desk. We walked out, and as the door closed behind us, I heard him say, “Be careful.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Waterbury went back to his office, and Bian and I walked through the long corridors, back toward the exit and North Parking.

  After a few moments of silence, she remarked, “I don’t think that went well.”

  “Were you expecting a confession?”

  “No. A crack in his veneer would’ve been helpful, though.”

  “He’s a career lawyer and a government bureaucrat. If he tells the truth, his lips fall off.” I asked, “But as a man, what did you think of him?”

  “I guess he was slicker than I anticipated. Basically, a very arrogant person, overconfident, high IQ . . . not the type who scares easily. He exposed nothing . . . until the very end.” She saw that I was surprised she had picked up on that, and asked, “Why do the guilty ones always fish?”

  “Be careful. He could just be curious, concerned for a dead member of his staff, or wondering how this is going to play with the press.”

  “You really believe that?”

  I smiled.

  She asked, “Did we accomplish anything?”

  “Personally, I found his glibness reassuring.”

  “You’ll have to explain why that’s a good thing.”

  “For the hunter, the complacent prey is always best.”

  She nodded and thought about that. “That’s a good one. Chinese proverb?”

  “My Irish grandmother.” She smiled, and I noted, “Here’s what’s important. Mr. Tigerman confirmed that he has something to hide. We should assume that people higher in the chain of command also share that secret.” I looked at her. “For instance, he and your boss are in this together.”

  “Do you think?” She scratched her head and scrunched up her face. “Boy . . . I never picked up on that.”

  “I’m just saying, be careful how much you disclose to Waterbury. His loyalty is to the people who gave him his job.”

  “I know that. What’s next?”

  “I don’t know what’s next for you. I’m hungry.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I’m famished.” She asked, “What do you usually eat? Raw meat?” She thought this was funny and laughed.

  I smiled back.

  She said, “Let me guess. A meat, potatoes, and beer guy?”

  “Right food groups, wrong order.”

  “Great. I know the perfect place. Give me a lift to my car, then follow. It’s less than two miles from Daniels’s apartment building.”

  As we drove, I used my cell to call Phyllis and exchange updates. She informed me that a team of NSA technicians was working furiously on decoding the suspicious file drawers. I advised her to call them every thirty minutes, be a complete pain in the ass. She warmly thanked me for telling her how to do her job, and asked how our meeting went with Tigerman. So I told her, she laughed, reminded me to watch my backside, and signed off. Phyllis is not a micromanager—which I like—but it occurred to me that she knew this case might piss off a lot of powerful people. And further, it occurred to me that “watch your backside” might mean, if you step on the wrong toe, you’re on your own. You have to pay attention with these people.

  Anyway, we found Bian’s car, she started it up, and I followed her for about two miles and into the narrow parking lot of a small, worse-for-wear strip mall on Columbia Pike. She parked, and I parked next to her. As I got out of my car, she approached me, saying, “I hope you like Vietnamese cuisine.”

  I started to climb back into my car. But she reached over and grabbed the door before I could close it. She laughed and said, “Come on. You’ll like it, I promise.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the car. Wow. She was strong.

  “I hate fish.”

  “So do I. Fish are disgusting. Trust me.”

  I was really hungry, and out of the corner of my eye, about two blocks from where we stood, was the golden arch of salvation. I started to make a dash before Bian grabbed my arm. “Come on. I know the lady who owns this place. She needs the business.” She added, “I’ll get you a fortune cookie.”

  “I thought that was Chinese food.”

  “All right. I’ll read your palm.”

  The illogical red-lettered sign over the entrance read, “Happy Vietnamese Cuisine.” Regarding that, I asked her, “How can the food be happy?”

  “What?”

  “Happy . . . it says happy cuisine.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Anyway, we crossed the parking lot and entered through a glass door with Asian letters on it, into a small, cramped restaurant; all in all, it resembled a low-scale pizzeria: plastic tables, plastic chairs, checkered tablecloths, but for those seeking a genuine Asian ambiance, on the walls were a few cheesy paintings of sampans and short people plucking rice in misty bogs. The smell was overpowering. I said to Bian, “Call the cops. There’s a corpse in here.”

 
She laughed. “It’s fish sauce. A delicacy, actually, like a Vietnamese gravy. You squeeze the oils from the fish, store it in a closed vat, and let it simmer for a few weeks. The taste is very tart.”

  “The smell is very awful.”

  “Is this really the same tough guy who was too manly to use disinfectant at an indoor murder scene?”

  “That was only a rotting corpse.”

  She stared at me. “Be nice or there’ll be another corpse.” Anyway, the lady who ran the place spotted Bian and trotted with bouncy, mincing steps across the floor toward us. They embraced, exchanged cheek pecks, and Bian and she began conversing together in Vietnamese. Mentally, it took a moment for me to adjust to Bian’s bantering in this strange tongue, with all its gymnastic consonants and antic musical quality—like listening to a record suddenly skip from 33 to 78 rpm. I wonder how we sound to them.

  After a moment, the woman led us to a table at the back, directly beneath a large painting of a thatch-roofed village on stilts populated by little people with thatched saucers on their heads. I mean, if you let your imagination roam, you could almost feel the sweat form on the back of your neck.

  The woman apparently spoke little English. “You sit . . . you sit . . . you sit . . .” she said, looking at me.

  I sat, I sat, I sat.

  Bian mentioned to me, “She’s the owner,” then said something to her and the woman laughed. The owner was basically mid- to late sixties, wore a scarlet silk ao dai—the traditional female garb—and had at one time been what Grandpa Erasmus would call a real looker. She was still slender and very attractive, but she had hard years on her, evidenced by her tired eyes, her deeply creased face, and a pronounced stoop in her shoulders. Bian informed me, “I told her you don’t like fish.”

  “Whatever. I hate fish.”

  “She called you a typical American. No taste buds.”

  I smiled at the older woman and informed her, “My ancestors are Irish.” This, of course, excuses a wide range of human flaws and abnormalities.

  Bian translated this, the woman nodded knowingly and mentioned something in reply. Bian laughed and said something back.