Man in the middle sd-6

by Brian Haig

  I gave her a moment to get it out of her system, then asked, "Would you happen to know the names of the women he slept with?"

  "You'll need a thicker notebook." She laughed. "If it couldn't outrun him, he fucked it."

  Neither Bian nor I commented on this sordid revelation. Sexual betrayal is, of course, the most ubiquitous cause for divorce, and Theresa had already confided to us that infidelity provided the legal foundation filed by her attorney. There are many reasons husbands cheat on wives, and wives cheat on husbands, nearly all of which boil down to boredom, weak libidos, revenge, or narcissistic lust. Well, unless you're French; then the whole reason for marriage is to have illicit affairs. But in English-speaking lands, we tend to have a lot more hang-ups about sex.

  This, however, sounded like something more, something deeper, more twisted. Also, Tim, the forensics examiner, had mentioned hair traces from two or possibly three different females. Added to the overall feng shui at the crime scene, it all hinted at some kind of sexual shenanigans.

  I tuned back in, and Theresa was confiding to Bian, "I knew it was happening. I followed him one night to a local motel. I got pictures of him with some woman. You know what really hurt? She wasn't even pretty. In fact, she had a big fat butt."

  "I'm sorry," I told her, and I didn't mean about the fat butt.

  Not to be uncharitable, but as I looked around-at this suffocating house, at Theresa groping her fifth gin, at the unchanging neighborhood-and added to that mixture a stale and frustrated professional life, I thought Cliff Daniels was an accident waiting to happen. I could see a man trapped in this professional and marital quagmire committing suicide. But I could not see a man who had escaped into a new life-who had put this behind him-taking that drastic step.

  To a greater or lesser extent, we all lead lives of quiet desperation; metaphysically and, often in reality, we're all lined up at the convenience store counter, praying for that lucky lottery ticket that will change our lives. Men, of course, will settle for a lovely nymphomaniac who's a football fanatic and owns her own beer company. We're pigs.

  I asked Mrs. Daniels, "Incidentally, was Cliff left- or right-handed?"

  "Right-handed. Why?"

  "Just one of those weird statistics we're required to keep about human proclivities." I smiled. "You know the federal government- building a great society one statistic at a time." I added, "Maybe you can help with another statistic. It's… well… a little uncomfortable. Did Cliff ever exhibit any tendency toward homosexuality?"

  "Haven't you been listening, Mr. Drummond? The man was a raging heterosexual."

  "Of course."

  I glanced at Bian. She quietly nodded, and clearly she understood why I asked. Were this murder, the suspect pool had just been cut in half.

  After a moment, I again asked Theresa, "Why would Cliff kill himself?"

  "You're asking the wrong question." She put her back against the sink and exhaled. "Why wouldn't he kill himself?"

  CHAPTER NINE

  I went out and started the car while Bian stood by the curb and used her cell phone to call and ask her boss, Oberst Waterbury, to persuade either Hirschfield or Tigerman-or better still, both-to clear a little time on their schedules.

  She climbed into the passenger seat and said, "He'll take care of it." She looked at me. "What do you think?"

  "I need fresh air."

  "Her life needs fresh air." She suggested, "So let's start with her."

  "You mean, is she a suspect?"

  "She's not. We both know that, don't we? But she'll have happy dreams tonight, imagining she did it. My sense is she wrote him out of her life." She reconsidered her words and said, "That's not exactly true. He was her boogeyman, the fount of all her miseries and unhappiness. Now she'll miss him. You know?"

  "I know."

  "But is she credible? Bitter people make poor witnesses."

  "She's very credible about what counts, and her bitterness is justified."

  "You believe she deserves sympathy?"

  "I sure do. She built a life and a family around this guy. He turned into an asshole."

  "There's a stylish elegy. Can I borrow it for my write-up?"

  "You should hear my court summations. Come early. Long lines, and the ticket scalpers make a killing."

  "I'll bet you're very… entertaining." She thought for a moment, then observed, "We only heard her side of the tale. Every divorce has two sides."

  "Good point. If you think of a way we can hear his side, be sure to let me know."

  She shook her head. I can be annoying.

  I said, "It's an old story with many titles: the starter wife, the first-wife syndrome, middle-age idiotitis. Cliff wasn't very complicated or hard to understand. He wanted to be something he wasn't-dashing, dangerous, mysterious, sexually alluring. Theresa and the kids were part of the old, lesser, disappointing him."

  "You make him sound very shallow."

  "A lot of men harbor secret dreams of being James Bond, but they wake up and see George Smiley staring back from the mirror." I added, after a moment, "Men have two brains in constant warfare over the body's blood supply. When one wins, the other shuts down."

  "It's that simple?"

  "It's that simple."

  "I see."

  "He thought his ship came in, and she got thrown overboard." I looked at her. "I wouldn't be surprised if Cliff secretly dreamed of dumping her for years."

  "Well, whatever the reason, she needs to pull herself together. Put it behind her."

  "Amnesia is not something you call up at will."

  "An old Vietnamese proverb says, 'When the petals leave the rose, you grow a new rose.' "

  "They grow roses over there?"

  "Well… no." She laughed. "I made that up." Then she said, "My point is, she's wallowing in the past. Destroying the marriage may have been his fault-destroying herself is hers."

  "You're engaged, right?"

  "I told you I am."

  "How do you know-what's this guy's name?"

  "Mark. Mark Kemble."

  "Thank you. How can you be sure Mark Kemble won't turn into an idiot?"

  "He won't."

  "How do you know, Bian? Husbands are unpredictable creatures. Some come with hidden flaws, buried defects. Sometimes a guy wakes up one morning, sees the bald spot, the turkey wattles under the chin, and he turns shallow and stupid. Sometimes a fancy new car cures it, sometimes a fancy new blonde. Do I really need to explain this?"

  She made no reply.

  "In simple soldier talk-shit happens."

  "It won't. Not between us." She looked at me and said, with complete conviction, "There is no past tense to the word love."

  "It's a verb. Slap a 'd' on the end."

  "Look, I've known Mark since we were cadets. This might sound trite, but I was in love the moment I first saw him. I…" She looked away for a moment, then concluded, "He won't change-ever. I'm sure."

  "You've dated this same guy for ten years? What does that tell you?"

  "Well… that's not how it happened. I mooned over him when we were cadets, but he was two years ahead of me. Regulations at West Point forbade dating upperclassmen. He also had a girlfriend he was serious about."

  "What happened to her?"

  "Oh… well, she died. A suspicious fire… arson, actually. Most unfortunate and very mysterious. The arsonist was never found."

  I looked at her, and she smiled. "That was a joke."

  I smiled back.

  Bian said, "She was from a wealthy family in a ritzy community in Connecticut. New Caanan, maybe Westport. After Mark graduated she got a look at Army life, instead of cadet life. The idea of scraping by on a lieutenant's pay in Louisiana or Georgia was a little much for her. So Mark got a Dear John letter and she got a new boyfriend, at Harvard Business School. They ended up married."

  "And you were waiting in the wings?"

  "Not really. We didn't get together until later, about three years ago."

  "Thr
ee years. If you're so confident, why aren't you married to him now?"

  "We… we decided to wait until conditions improved." My question unsettled her and she had to pause and swallow. "Army life- you're single, you understand how it is."

  I did understand. In the old Army they used to say that if they wanted you to have a wife, they'd issue you one. It now is considered both passe and politically incorrect, and nobody says that anymore. Indeed, today's soldiers are mostly married. The underlying philosophy hasn't changed a whit, though. In fact, the Global War on Terror, or whatever buzzword they were calling it these days, was not doing much for military romance, unless your amore happens to be a terrorist.

  After a moment she added, "During these three years, between Bosnia, Kosovo, 9/11, now Afghanistan, and now Iraq-"

  "Whose idea was it to wait?"

  "Why did it have to be either of our ideas?"

  "These things are never mutual." She tried looking away, but I caught her eye and asked, more insistently, "Yours or his?"

  "All right… his. He was in Kosovo, then Afghanistan. I was in Afghanistan, after his tour ended, then Iraq, also at a different time. After he finished a year at the Command and General Staff College at Leavenworth, he was reassigned to the First Armored Division and redeployed to Iraq for another tour. He didn't want me to become a widow or spend my life caring for a cripple. I couldn't argue him out of it. Besides, what did it matter? We were going to be apart anyway."

  No doubt, a number of sober and practical reasons passed through Mark Kemble's head and heart, all of which seemed logical, persuasive, even compelling. But in my view, with a woman like Bian Tran, you observe a different logic. I wouldn't let this woman ten feet out of my sight without the Rock of Gibraltar on her finger, an unpickable chastity belt around her groin, and a note around her neck-"Touch her and I'll feed you your own nuts."

  Well, as I mentioned, she was very attractive, and I found her company quite pleasant: I couldn't imagine a man who wouldn't.

  "Do you have a picture of this guy?"

  Of course she did, and she reached into the side leg pocket of her Army trousers, withdrew her wallet, and fumbled out a small photograph, which she handed to me as I drove. I gave it a brief look, then handed it back.

  The photo was color, taken perhaps at a military ball, and Mark Kemble, attired in his formal dinner mess dress, had a major's rank on his sleeve, yellow cloth on his lapels-a tanker-with enough badges and medals on his chest to shame a Christmas tree. He was looking directly into the camera with a large friendly grin, was slender and broad-shouldered, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a strong jaw and cleft chin. I could see where some women might get a little sweaty over him. Handsome. Dashing.

  I predicted, "You two will produce beautiful little babies together."

  No reply.

  I glanced over and Bian was staring out the window in a sort of sulky trance. I suppose this was all a little overwhelming for her-the love of her life in a war zone, a politically hazardous murder case on her hands, and me. I can be annoying.

  "Are you okay?"

  She continued to stare out the window.

  I don't like talking to myself, and we drove without speaking for a few minutes. It was almost six o'clock, and the sky had already turned dark, the wind was whipping the trees, and a gusty, gloomy squall was moving in-a typical late October day in the moody, blustery city of Washington, D.C.

  Out of the blue, she informed me, "I really want to break this case."

  "Think like a cop, Bian. It's not personal." After a moment, I advised her, "What you should be hoping is to make it through this with your career intact."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Think Oliver North and Bud McFarlane."

  "Who?"

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-one. What's your point?"

  "The Iran-Contra scandal?"

  "Nope-never heard of it."

  "Ronald Reagan?"

  "Was he the guy before Lincoln, or just after?" She nudged me in the ribs. "Okay, tell me about… who were these two again?"

  "Ollie and Bud. Bud was a former lieutenant colonel who became President Reagan's National Security Advisor. Ollie was a serving lieutenant colonel on his staff."

  She noted, "You should always keep a close eye on lieutenant colonels."

  "I just pinned on a few days ago."

  "Oh. Then… congratulations. How's it feel?"

  "Not bad. They say it takes a full year before it sinks in that they're paying you more to act stupider. I'm still getting used to it."

  "Well… you seem to be off to a good start." She laughed. "Back to your story."

  "Not a story. It's a D.C. passion tale. Ollie and Bud-good guys, well-intentioned, patriotic, salt-of-the-earth types. There was a law at the time banning our government from sending money or weapons to the Contra rebels who were battling the communist government in Nicaragua. On the other side of the world, the Iranians and their Hezbollah pals in Lebanon were kidnapping American officials and torturing them to death."

  "That last thing, that sounds ugly."

  I nodded and continued, "Among others, one hostage was CIA, another a Marine officer. Our official diplomatic response was summed up as-problem too hard, tough shit."

  "And how were these two events connected?"

  "They weren't. Not until Ollie talked Bud into a plan to kill two birds with one stone. Under the table, we would sell weapons and ammunition from our military stocks to Iran for their war against Iraq. These munitions would be sold at bargain basement prices, the Great Satan's image in Iran would gain a little luster… with a sub-rosa understanding that the Iranians would release the hostages. To come full circle, the cash from these arms sales would go straight to the Contras, who would use it to buy arms and supplies to kill more commies. Symmetry, right?"

  I looked at her to be sure she understood. Apparently so, because she remarked, "That sounds like a really stupid idea."

  "Why?"

  "Where do I start? Because you can't trust Iranians, for one thing. And if you think about it, you're offering them an incentive to take more hostages so they can blackmail you for more arms. Because it sounds like you're talking many tons of equipment and hundreds of millions of dollars. Because this means complicated logistics, middlemen, and money-laundering."

  "All of the above. Anything else?"

  "Those are difficult, maybe impossible, things to disguise or hide. Lots of loose ends, lots of people involved, lots of moving parts that could spring a leak."

  "But if it worked, nobody would be the wiser. Our hostages would be saved, and the Contras would kill more commies. What's not to like?"

  "It was breaking the law."

  "A slight technicality."

  "I believe it's called theft of government property and criminal conspiracy. That's a ten-to-twenty technicality."

  "Very good." I explained, "And yes, it did leak, and yes, the scandal nearly brought down Reagan's house."

  "I'm sorry, does this have something to do with Daniels, Hirschfield, or Tigerman?"

  "Bear with me."

  "I'm trying." She added, "But you're very trying."

  Indeed, I am. I explained, "Ollie and Bud were both very ambitious types, but in their hearts, and in their minds I think, the ends were noble and the means were justified. When they were caught, they were forced to resign. They're still testifying at congressional investigating committees."

  "Am I now seeing the connection to Daniels?"

  "If you're paying attention…"

  "Well… spell it out for me."

  "Bud and Ollie were two fairly average guys, over their heads in very important jobs, in a very complicated and treacherous world."

  "I see."

  "A lot of other senior officials were implicated, including the Secretaries of Defense and State. Several senior officials were forced to resign. A few were led off in handcuffs."

  She shifted around in her seat. "You're implyin
g that perhaps that scandal is a parable or a parallel for this case?"

  I said nothing.

  "You think this case goes that high? Spreads that wide?"

  "I have no idea-yet."

  "Then what are you saying?"

  "Consider what we just heard from Theresa Daniels about what Cliff has been doing over the past decade, and whom he has been doing it with." I continued, "He may have been operating with permission, or even with orders, from his bosses-and from their bosses-including people in the White House. These things always begin small-like that Watergate security guard performing his nightly rounds and finding a piece of burglar's tape stuck on a door lock. At that moment in time, he had no idea he had the President of the United States by the balls." I looked her in the eye. "We know that Clifford was a subject in an espionage investigation, and we now know that, for many years, he was connected at the hip to two senior Defense officials. My instincts are telling me this is much bigger than just Clifford, and probably much wider."

  She replied, "We don't know that he broke any law."

  "He did."

  "How do you know that?"

  I looked at her. "I want to be sure you know what we're getting into."

  "I do know."

  "Do you? Because, should there be other people with their hands in the same cookie jar, once we walk into Hirschfield's or Tigerman's office, the shit could hit the fan. After that, there's no turning back."

  "Well… how far are you from retirement?"

  "Your problem's bigger than mine. I at least have a boss who might run a little interference for me." Or might not.

  "I'm an Asian-American woman with a military academy degree, and fluency in three languages. Corporate quota hunters have sticky dreams about people like me. You, on the other hand, are an average white male with a law degree." She smiled. "Worry about yourself."

  "I love America."

  We lapsed back into thoughtful silence. I pulled into North Parking at the Pentagon. It was 6:15, well into happy hour, and I had no trouble finding a parking space close to the building. I turned off the ignition, and we got out and began our trek up the long walkway.

  "As a matter of interest," Bian asked as we walked, "Ollie and Bud? What happened to them?"