by Brian Haig
“Sometimes. But like I said, we’re not supposed to talk about our jobs.”
“Are you supposed to lie?”
“If need be, yes.”
She coyly stirred her drink with her forefinger. “You mean like you went to the prom with somebody, dropped out of school,
and raised four orphaned sisters?”
“Touché.”
She chuckled and twisted her ankles together. Julia Cuthburt was everything his file and research projected her to be—a bored woman in a tedious job she could barely stand, past the age when she had hoped to be married and raising three kids, a living parody of Looking for Mr. Goodbar, prowling through singles bars in search of a jolt of excitement.
A tall, muscular, absurdly handsome CIA agent just in from the trenches was exactly what the doctor ordered.
She licked her lips again and asked, “You’re not joking, are you? You’re really a spy?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Are you working now?”
“I’m back for a debriefing.”
She felt a flip-flop in her stomach. No more Hill clerks, two-bit lawyers, and civil servant jerks for her. A real-life James Bond type had his feet perched on her barstool, his briefcase parked at her feet, and was buying her drinks.
What was in that big briefcase anyway? Plans for the defense of Pyongyang, maybe. A termination order for the greedy, evil prime minister of Botswana who’d been dealing under the table with terrorists.
“I’ve never met anyone who works at the—” She caught the frown forming on his face, and swiftly said, “Well, that place.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh. . . of course.” She nodded, as though this made sense.
After a moment, he said, “But enough about me, I’d rather talk about you. For instance, where are you from?”
“A small town in Kansas. But I left a long time ago.”
He knew this, of course. And that she hadn’t merely left Kansas, but fled at the first chance. He knew she was a math genius, had two little sisters, left Kansas at seventeen, and after majoring in mathematics at the University of Delaware, had picked up a master’s in accounting at Boston College. She’d done well. Offers had poured in from the top firms. Her specialty was corporate taxation, and setting up tricky offshore accounts was her particular talent. She billed out at $350 per hour, high for an associate, but her firm described her to interested customers as a wizard at loopholes. The bookshelves in her apartment were crammed with thick accounting texts, intermixed with romance paperbacks with those corny covers depicting forlorn women being crushed in the arms of bronzed, muscular men. He assumed she had taken the job in Washington because it was filled with powerful men with interesting lives she wanted to marry into.
Over the next hour he walked her back through her history, posing a succession of perfectly timed questions that allowed her to portray herself in the most favorable light, no easy task with an accountant. She liked talking about herself and was thrilled to the core that such a man would be so fascinated with her.
She was merrily chattering away when at 8:30 he absently glanced down at his watch. “Oh . . . my God. . . Julia, look what you’ve done.”
“What?”
“I never lose track of time. Never.”
“It’s only eight-thirty,” she protested.
He looked embarrassed. “I have a 6:00 A.M. debriefing scheduled. My mind has to be sharp. I should walk you to your car. Where are you parked?”
The invitation was a test, she was sure. Say no, thanks, and he would conclude she was still on the prowl. There would be an awkward moment, then sayonara, and she’d never see her CIA man again.
A toothy grin and she grabbed her handbag. “In the underground garage across the street.”
“Me too.” He dropped a fifty on the bar to cover their drinks with a hefty tip, hefted up his briefcase, took her elbow and helped her up.
They chatted amiably until they reached her car in the garage. He opened her door, then shuffled his feet and said, somewhat awkwardly, “Julia, I . . . I’ve really enjoyed this evening. I mean, really.”
“Me too.”
The ball was back in his court, and he appeared suddenly tentative and nervous about what to do or say next. How beguiling. This fearless man who could face the most daunting dangers had melted into a shy puppy. He said, “I’d invite you back to my apartment for a nightcap, but . . . not tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“Two other agents are crashing there. Most guys don’t keep apartments here. When they return for a debrief, I let them use my place.” He gave her a sad smile, and added, “In the field, we all live in a state of constant fear and anxiety. Sometimes . . . well, it’s nice to cook your own meals, be with friends, people you trust.”
Her stomach did another flip-flop. She’d been so obsessed talking about herself, and so selfishly concerned with her own romantic needs, she’d nearly forgotten how hazardous his life was. The man could be killed at the drop of a hat.
She clutched his arm and stared deeply into the contacts that gave his eyes that wonderful sea blue glaze. She said, “My apartment’s not far. I know it’s late for you . . . but a nightcap?”
She felt exuberantly guilty. So selfish of her.
He smiled. “A quick one. I’ll follow you.”
“Maybe you’d feel more comfortable talking about yourself in my apartment. You’re so mysterious. I’m dying to know the real you.”
He grinned. “It’s a promise.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I RETURNED TO MY APARTMENT AND FOUND A MESSAGE ON MY ANSWERING machine from a ceremonies officer of the Army’s Old Guard who wanted to finalize the funeral details; how many guests, the denomination of the chapel ceremony, who’d get her flag, the normal menu items regarding military funerals. The Army was moving with its usual selective efficiency. It’s astonishing how differently the Army treats the living and the dead. Have a problem getting paid correctly and you’ll be retired before it’s fixed; die, and clods of dirt are bouncing off your coffin before the obituary’s dried.
Message two was from Clapper and said, “Cy Berger called about some damned exam you’re supposed to take. Don’t screw with me, Drummond. Fail and I will make you the legal officer on Johnston Island Atoll. The orders are sitting on my—”
Wow! My answering machine suddenly leaped off the side table and crashed into the wall.
I mean, you think you’ve got it all figured out, some smartass reads your mind, and life turns to shit. It was past ten. The manuals in question were gathering dust on my desk at the firm.
Forty minutes later, I was seated behind said desk, studying a thick binder titled “Preparing and Processing Billings,” aka “Keeping the Juices Flowing.” By 4:00 A.M. , knowing more than I ever wanted about the ethical and administrative policies of big law firms, I crawled over to the comfy leather couch.
A very irritating hand was soon shaking my shoulder and I looked up into the gloating face of Sally Westin. She said, “It’s about time that you got into the swing of things.”
“You ratted me out.”
“Yes, I did. For your own good.”
We exchanged brief stares of mutual animosity, then I said, “These two guys, Sam and Bill, end up seated side by side on a plane, and Bill can’t help noticing that Sam has a black eye. So Bill says to Sam, ‘Hey what happened to your eye?’ Sam says, ‘Well, I had a slight verbal accident, ’ and Bill curiously asks, ‘How’s that?’Sam says, ‘I was having breakfast with my wife, and I was trying to say, “Hey honey, could you please pour me a bowl of those delicious-looking Frosties.” Only it came out, “You ruined my life you fatassed, evil, self-centered bitch.” ’”
She stared for a moment, then remarked, “That’s not funny.” She crossed her arms and contemplated me. “You don’t like it here, do you?”
“What gave away my secret?”
“What didn’t?” She asked, “Why?”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“Play your cards right and you could get an offer to join the firm. I hear Morrow got an offer. Most lawyers would love to be in your shoes.”
“You mean, isn’t it the ambition of all public-sector lawyers to join big firms?”
“I didn’t put it like that.” But it was certainly what she meant. The third-year scramble at law schools is all about a certain pecking order, starting with prestigious big firms, then smaller, less prestigious ones, then your mother’s brother with that small real estate titles business.
The lucky few who make it to prestigious big firms assume that we who don’t are envious swine who’d do anything to escape our dreary jobs and Lilliputian paychecks. There is a modicum of truth in that, somewhere; I, however, count myself as an exception. Near-poverty suits me fine. It relieves me of so many burdens, temptations, and difficult choices.
I threw my legs off the couch and the momentum brought me to my feet. But regarding her point, I said, “Law isn’t all about making money or prestigious titles.”
Whoops—I looked around to be sure the walls were still standing. But it appeared the building’s pilings were sunk deep enough in the muck of greed and avarice to keep it upright.
“Why do you practice law?” I asked Sally.
“What does that mean?”
“This firm, twenty-hour days, overbearing partners, the race to bill . . . why?” Note how cleverly I sidestepped her father and grandfather.
“I love law.”
“What do you love about law?”
“I. . . I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Think now, Sally.” She looked away, and I added, “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”
“Really?”
“You look overworked, miserable, and empty.”
Her nostrils flared. “Thank you.” Anytime, Sally.
I stretched and yawned. I had arrived the night before dressed comfortably in jeans and a sweatshirt, so I slipped out of my sweat-shirt and reached for one of my new oxford button-downs. She pointed at three or four round scars on my torso and asked, “How did you get those?”
“Poor timing, bad luck . . . the usual way.”
“Is Army law that dangerous?”
“Before my life turned to crap, I was an infantryman.”
“You sound like you enjoyed that.”
“Yes. . . well.” I rubbed my forehead and confessed, “Infantrymen kill people. You know, people piss you off, and . . . Look, I know this sounds sick . . . you’d be surprised how gratifying . . . not that I think about it all the time . . .”
She edged away from me. “You’re serious?”
“My. . . well, my counselor . . . I mean, surely you’ve heard of post-traumatic stress . . . I’m making swell progress, she says. As long as . . . you know, nothing exacerbates my condition. Please, don’t mention it to anyone. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
She was staring at a blank wall, and I suggested, “Perhaps you can leave, so I can change.”
“Yes . . . of course.” She left and returned a few minutes later, placed the exam on my blotter, and said with newfound courtesy, “Incidentally, we have a flight at nine.”
“Who has a flight?”
“The protest team. You’ll want to shave and clean up. Jason Morris is sending his private jet. I. . . I know this is hard for you, but a good impression is important.”
“Just don’t tell him about . . . well, my condition, okay?”
She gave me a long stare before she left me to ponder this new possibility. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the whole firm learned the Army had sent a homicidal idiot into its midst.
Still, it certainly couldn’t hurt to piss on the shoe of the firm’s biggest rainmaker.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CY, BARRY, SALLY, AND I CONGREGATED AT THE PRIVATE-PLANE TERMINAL AT Dulles International and were promptly ushered aboard a twin-engine Learjet. The plane’s interior was specially outfitted for the rich and pampered, with four plush leather chairs collected around a conference table, and a pert young stewardess named Jenny who sported a fab tan, great legs, a rock-hard fanny, and the perky, upbeat manners of an aerobics instructor. “Come on, everybody, let’s get those seatbelts buckled now.” Big smile, clapped hands, the works. Save me, please.
But the lovely Miss Jenny jibed with something else I had heard and read about her employer. Mr. Jason Morris was reputedly a cocksman of renown, rumored to have balled half the eye candy in Hollywood and assorted other famous ladies. If those tabloids with splashy headlines about who’s been sneaking in and out of whose boudoir were to be believed, Mr. Morris was quite the little sneak.
But exactly how poor Jason managed to scrape together all that moolah, between dashing off to Bimini with this bimbo this week, and the Hamptons with that hottie the next, was, you can bet, a question I’d like to know the answer to. There was even, reportedly, a mile-high club among his formers. I idly wondered how the striking Miss Jenny occupied herself while her boss screwed his lovely guests into the fine leather of my seat. The onboard breakfast: eggs benedict, side orders of kippers and bacon, brioches, and orange juice with a hefty jolt of gin. Was this the life, or what?
And in fact, Cy and Barry were stuffing their greedy faces, knocking back loaded juices, and mumbling joyfully between themselves as Sally and I played ambitious junior associates and perused the same legal packets that had been stacked on her desk the day before. The documents were wordy and composed in that murderous syntax lawyers employ to confuse their clients and justify high fees, but the matter at hand was fairly simple. It boiled down to this:
The DARPA original request for bid was built around three essential requirements. One—the network, or pipeline, in techie lexicon, had to be capable of transmitting streaming video on sixteen channels simultaneously, so the scientists of DARPA could work collaboratively. This is something like cramming sixteen different television stations across one wire and onto one TV screen. Two— the network had to be completely secure, impervious to jamming, eavesdropping, hackage, or leakage. Three—the personnel administering the network had to possess Top Secret clearances.
I browsed swiftly through the technical malarkey regarding gigabits, frequencies, routers, switches, and so forth, then dozens of spreadsheets, business plans, and financial estimates, the sum of which made it clear that Jason’s boys had creamed the contenders. The next best bid was 25 percent above Morris’s. Ticket prices rose steadily from there.
On November 15, the Department of Defense had publicly declared Morris Networks the victor. A day later, an attorney representing AT&T visited the Pentagon Contracts office and posed a number of due diligence queries. He learned that a baffling exception had been granted to Morris Networks. The requirement for employees with Top Secret clearances had been waived.
Thus, the basis for contention number one in both AT&T’s and Sprint’s protests. Why had said waiver been granted?
Contention two was more open-ended, and long-winded, the long and short of it challenging how Morris Networks could conceivably perform the work at the price it had bid.
I closed the last document and looked up. Sally, beside me, was still thumbing through the pages. She had started at least the day before and still hadn’t finished. Good lawyers read fast—it’s a fact. I recalled Cy informing me she had barely made the top half of her law school class, and I found myself wondering how she had made any half.
I looked at Cy and commented, “This is very interesting.”
He laughed. “We deserve six hundred an hour just for reading through that verbose horseshit.”
“Six hundred an hour?”
“That’s my going rate.”
Wow. I mean, wow. Cy made more in a morning than my monthly salary. I asked, “Could I pose a few questions?”
Barry smiled in his unctuous way and replied, “Sure. What part confuses you, Sean?”
“Barry, did
I say I was confused?”
“Uh . . . no. Sorry if I offended you.”
He wasn’t sorry, and I was contemplating the precise manner of his death when Cy shot me a black look.
I wasn’t really in the mood for another lecture about how we should all be big pals, and share jockstraps and so forth, so I asked, “Why did Defense waive the clearance requirement?”
“It was unnecessary,” replied Barry. “Whoever wrote the bid apparently didn’t understand how networks are run. Typical for government and military people, really.”
Perhaps a garrote for Mr. Bosworth. Gradually tightened, exquisitely painful . . . But I asked, “Did Morris approach the Department to have it waived?”
“Did you read the whole requirement?” Cy asked me.
“I did.”
“You saw it’s a twenty-four/seven network that extends to fifteen hundred sites?”
“Yes.”
“And do you recall the manpower requirements?”
“It varied by bid. Between a hundred and fifty and five hundred network managers and administrators.”
“Very good,” Barry commented. Just for the record, I needed neither his approval nor his condescension, and I rejected the garrote. He should hang by his Gucci necktie, I decided. In fact, his feet were kicking and his eyes were bulging as he added, “Top Secret clearances cost approximately two hundred and fifty thousand per head, and take a year or longer to obtain. That adds tens of millions to the cost of the program.”
“So?”
“So Morris simply pointed out that the requirement was unreasonable. An absurd waste of taxpayer dollars.”
“That was it?”
Barry replied, “Procedures are built into the contract that allow the Defense Department to check Morris’s security, so it’s also superfluous. It didn’t hurt that the contracting people wanted the low bid.”
Sally peeked up and said, “That makes sense to me.”
But it still didn’t make sense to me, and I asked, “Then why are AT&T and Sprint protesting?”
The two men exchanged intriguing glances. After a brief pause, Cy informed me, “About a year ago, Jason hired Daniel Nash as a board member.”