by Brian Haig
you?”
“Self-help books and practice. Who trained you?”
“My little sister. That’s all I need to take your ass down.”
We both chuckled, a couple of adolescents trading dopey insults and playground threats. But we meant every word of it. And we both, through however we learned it, could deliver on our threats.
Then he said, “But in the interest of accuracy, Drummond, you don’t have a little sister. A brother, John, and a mother and father who also live in California, but no little sister. In fact, I have their addresses in my pocket.”
I felt a sudden chill. “Don’t even think about it, asshole. Go near them and I’ll make your death indescribably painful.”
He laughed. “Well, this has been really fun. I enjoy getting to know my victims. It makes my work so much more meaningful, and memorable.”
But before he could hang up I thought of something else, and I said, “Hey, don’t you owe Morris Networks a rebate? Weren’t you supposed to ice me before I figured out and exposed the scam?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Morris Networks, bozo. The assholes who overpay you for your screwups and mishaps. I know all about Jason Morris, and about Hal Merriweather and about . . . well, about the lawyers working with them.”
“Drummond, you’re starting to annoy me.”
“Wait’ll I kill you, sport.”
“And I’ll be sure you have the opportunity to tell me how much you regret your taunts.” He paused a moment, then said, “Ah . . . one last thing, please be sure to pass my regards to Miss Morrow. Tell her I haven’t forgotten her.” Then he hung up.
At that very instant the cops rushed through the door and all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THEY CAME IN LIKE A SWAT TEAM, ROLLINGTHROUGHTHE DOORWAY, YELLING and hollering. The lights were still out, so I yelled, “Just friendlies in here.”
A voice replied, “Drummond?”
It was a familiar voice, though I couldn’t place it. Spinelli, however, yelled, “Who the fuck did you expect, Martin? . . . It’s his fuckin’ apartment.”
Then a pair of flashlights popped on and somebody yelled, “Weapons down, and stand with your hands over your heads!”
I put the shotgun down, placed my hands over my head, and stood. Their flashlights and weapons were pointed in our direction.
One cop yelled, “Hey, asshole, I said put your hands up.”
Spinelli sourly replied, “Shut the fuck up. I’ve got a chunk of wood in my shoulder.”
I said, “Everybody relax.”
And everybody did. Somewhat.
Once the cops had collected all the weapons and determined that everybody was either disarmed, unconscious, or dead, two more figures came through the doorway.
A medical technician came rushing in first, and was directed toward Bill, who obviously needed more help than Charlie, who unfortunately was dead. Then in sauntered George Meany, sporting one of those nifty dark blue FBI windbreakers, an FBI cap, an FBI shirt, and for all I knew had “FBI” tattooed on his ass.
Nor had it escaped my notice that Meany waited until Martin cleared and secured the place before he decided to join us. George was smarter than I gave him credit for. Just a little chicken.
But there was something else that didn’t escape my notice. I glanced at my watch, and I recalled that the shooting started a little after 4:05, and while I didn’t know how long the firefight lasted, or even how long I chatted with Mr. Asshole on the telly, Martin and his guys got here awfully damned fast. I mean, it was only 4:15, and Supercop Meany is up and about at this hour, playing Johnny-on-the-spot.
But before I could ponder these facts further, the lights popped back on, and my eyes were drawn to the carnage. Two bodies were by the doorway, one inside the door, and one plastered like a swatted fly on the hallway wall. I was going to have to invest in new furniture, wall repairs, carpets, and so on. The guys hanging from the ropes had employed silencers, and until this moment I hadn’t fully appreciated how much lead they squirted through my porch door. The walls were peppered and my big-screen TV was a big-screen mess. It was a miracle only Bill and Charlie had been hit.
Also, I noticed that about three-quarters of the cops were dressed like Meany, so they were Feds.
Lieutenant Martin also looked around and said, “Jesus, what the hell happened here?”
I replied, “I fucked up. I let Spinelli spend the night.”
Spinelli and I both giggled, and everybody stared at us like we were weird.
But we were both, I think, nervous and jittery, not yet recovered from the aftershock of being ducks in a shooting gallery. Lieutenant Martin, particularly, appeared not to appreciate my dark humor and pointed at the gun shields and the pile of spent shot-gun and M16 shells on the floor. “Whose are those?”
Spinelli said, “Mine. Tell your dickheads not to touch them.” Danny, characteristically, was finessing the situation.
I mentioned to Lieutenant Martin, “You might want to get some people up to the roof. Three of the shooters hung down on ropes.”
While he shouted at a few officers to get upstairs, George Meany, I noticed, had moved into the corner, where he was talking quietly into his cell phone. I did not like the look or smell of this.
The nearest shotgun was a mere five feet away from my foot. Could I pick it up and blow George’s ass into the kitchen without anybody noticing?
But Martin was peppering me with questions—whose corpses were on the floor, why were there corpses on my floor, that kind of thing. So I ignored George Meany and informed him, “Before I say a word, I need to confer with my attorney.”
He shook his head. “But you are a damned lawyer.”
He appeared slightly frustrated as I pointed at Spinelli and added, “Yes. I’m his lawyer, and he’s got nothing to say.”
Meany overheard this exchange, snapped shut his cell phone, and moved toward me. “Forget it, Drummond.”
“Forget what, George?” I mean, Meany had obviously stepped forward to show the idiotic locals how a real pro handles a recalcitrant witness.
But we were off to a bad start already. From his expression, he did not like my response or my tone. He said, “You have a lot of explaining to do, Drummond. And you must think I’m stupid if you believe I’ll allow you to conspire on your alibis.”
Actually, I knew he was stupid. But I resisted the urge to tell him that, and instead asked, “Would you happen to have a law degree?”
“An accounting degree. So what?”
“Yet, as a federal officer, you’ve surely been taught that I cannot be deprived of legal representation?”
“This . . . well, this is different.”
“Why?”
“Because you were involved in this . . . whatever the hell it was.”
“Crime?”
“Yes. . . maybe.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Maybe.”
“And what felony did I potentially commit?”
Thinking he was capable of playing this game, he smiled. “Possibly none.”
I said, “You heard him, Danny. We’re free to leave.”
In fact, I was walking toward the door when Meany yelled, “Don’t you fucking move!”
“But you said no crime was committed. I’ll leave if I want.”
“There is the possibility of a crime.”
“Really? Then you’re required by law to inform me of the exact nature of that crime. Read Miranda, pal.”
“Possibly manslaughter, discharging firearms, disturbing the peace . . . I won’t know till we fully interrogate you and get to the bottom of this.”
I looked at Martin. “You heard the man and the charges. He suspects me of being a suspect. That suspicion obviously extends to my accomplice, Mr. Spinelli. We demand to speak with our lawyers.”
Martin was staring at Meany and realizing, I think, that he really was an idiot. I was just brok
enhearted that Janet wasn’t here to witness what a putz this guy was. Not only was I slick and brilliant; he was stupid.
But back to Lieutenant Martin, whom I actually liked, and whom I felt a little sorry for. This whole affair was fairly confusing.
But he was smart enough to appreciate that Meany had just blown any chance of an on-scene interrogation, so he rolled his eyes and nodded.
Actually, I was being a prick on the general legal principle that you should always be a prick. Also, I wasn’t sure whether I had a legal problem or not. Whoever they were, the shooters had invaded my home. Virginia law stipulates that homeowners may take reasonable steps to protect themselves and their property. When your door blows down and a firing squad starts emptying clips through your porch door, reasonable steps cover a lot of territory.
Spinelli and his fellow agents were all properly licensed to carry firearms—kosher on that front. Also, we had that helpful authorization provided by the provost marshal. But I didn’t mention that yet, because somebody was bound to wonder why there was a need for such an authorization. And why three armed agents of the United States Army were camped out with loaded guns in Sean Drummond’s apartment.
Martin and his boys weren’t stupid. After inventorying our arsenal and finding the shooter’s shields and burglar detection systems, they’d start scratching their furrowed brows and pondering what the hell was going on here.
George Meany was an idiot, and even he knew something was fishy.
But fortunately things suddenly turned chaotic. Five extendable stretchers had been brought up, and six medical technicians and a covey of cops and detectives were huddled around corpses. Some of Martin’s guys were scraping chalkmarks, Bill was being wheeled out with an IV poking out his arm, and a medic was trying to coax an ill-tempered Spinelli onto a stretcher. Spinelli was right, incidentally—there was a big splinter of wood poking out of his shoulder.
Just then two guys in gray suits appeared in the doorway. A cop blocked them from entering, and Lieutenant Martin glanced in their direction and yelled, appropriately, “Crime scene, gentlemen. Turn your asses around and get out.”
Meany said, “Let them come in.”
What?
The one in the lead, the older of the two, walked confidently up to Martin, flashed a set of credentials, and said, “How about a word in the hallway, Lieutenant.”
What bothered me most about this was that he had deliberately positioned himself so I couldn’t see the credentials. But they must’ve been pretty good shit, because Martin shrugged and obediently joined him in the hall. The second guy remained by the doorway and kept his eye on me. But I did notice that he and George exchanged brief nods. Not good. Really, not good.
Also, I noticed that the two gray-suited gentlemen had failed to sign in with the cop who stood by the door, a legal requirement for all visitors at an active crime scene. Nor did Lieutenant Martin make a stink about it. Also not good.
After a minute or so, Martin walked back inside, followed by the other gentleman. He said to me, “These gentlemen are going to take you to a suitable location for a debriefing.”
For the record, semantically speaking, cops interrogate; other kinds of agencies debrief. It sounds more polite and genteel. It’s not; it just sounds that way.
As though the choice were mine, I said, “Whatever.”
I looked over at George and smiled.
For once, George smiled back.
I said, “Hey, George, I think one of the attackers left some spent cartridges on the porch. Did you check there yet?”
“What? No . . . I’ll, uh. . .” He turned around, stepped onto the porch, and then said, “Auuggghhh.”
I walked out between the two gentlemen in gray suits, who, incidentally, had forgotten to offer me their names or show me their credentials. And of course, I noticed that they also had arrived awfully damned fast, which added another notch to my curiosity.
Well, good things come to those who wait.
But so do bad things.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
IMAGINE MY DELIGHT WHEN I FOUND MYSELF IN A BLACK GOVERNMENT sedan, speeding down the George Washington Parkway. Or my utter surprise when we took the exit to Langley and were soon waved through a guarded checkpoint, and then pulled to a stop in front of the sprawling headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.
A word here about that “debriefing” thing. The list of the proliferating species of Feds who do spooky things, and carry variations of law enforcement credentials, has gotten to be as long as your frigging arm. There’s the DEA, the NSA, the DIA, guys from several counterterrorism agencies so new they don’t even have recognizable initials yet;and these days, even the IRS, U. S. postal inspectors, and Customs Service are elbowing their way into national security turf.
Still, think foppish, secretive, uptight assholes and you end up with . . . who?
Anyway, my lockjawed escorts and I climbed out of the sedan and then loitered by the entrance until three black Crown Vics
pulled up and Janet stepped out. I was pleased to see her; just not pleased to see her here. However, she pecked my cheek and squeezed my shoulder, which I liked. We had only a brief moment to speak, during which she informed me that George the Moron had phoned and told her about the little problem back in my apartment. I didn’t really think it was a good idea to discuss this in front of our two gray-suited escorts, and I promised we’d talk more about it later.
But regarding this building, the Army and the Agency are on the same team, and in my line of work, as you might imagine, I often come into contact with CIA people. I have found them to be almost universally loyal, patriotic, intelligent, and courageous. But if you ever, say, end up in the shower with one, keep your hand on the hot water knob and, for Godsakes, don’t drop the soap—it’s sort of instinctive for them.
Our mute escorts directed us inside, got us building passes, then led us swiftly to an elevator that sped us upstairs to the fourth floor. Janet’s expression was one of surprise and awe, and in fact, she looked like Dorothy after the twister dropped her tush in a strange land filled with odd people, wicked witches, and wizards. That metaphor fit really well, incidentally; inside this building nobody was what they appeared to be, hearts and sometimes brains are in short supply, and all kinds of weird crap occurs behind impenetrable curtains.
Anyway, we were led to a briefing room, sort of a mini-theater, and asked to take seats. Which we did. But when I looked back over my shoulder for our escorts, they had vanished, probably through trapdoors in the floor or something.
Janet examined the room and whispered, “What are we doing here?”
“First time?”
“Of course.”
“Keep your legs crossed, don’t take any IOUs, and I hope you’re on the pill.”
She shook her head. Apparently, she thought I was trying to be witty or melodramatic. I wasn’t.
The door behind us opened. A man and a lady entered.
The man looked like your typical CIA field operative type— ordinary build, indeterminate weight, facial features, and age, a guy you could spend a long weekend skiing with and not remember what he looked like, his name, even that you skied; just that somebody humped you in the shower and stole your ID and charge cards.
The woman was older, close to seventy, I think—white-haired, thin, soft-featured, in fact grandmotherly in appearance, dress, and manners. But as I mentioned, nothing in the CIA is as it appears— she probably stuck firecrackers up puppies’ butts for fun and frolic.
The two of them sat in the row in front of us. The man spun around and said, “I’m Jack MacGruder. And this is Phyllis Carney. I’m in charge of Operation Trojan Horse. Phyllis is my boss.”
It suddenly struck me that my suspicion about Grand Vistas being a foreign intelligence front of some sort had to be correct, that this guy and this lady were somehow onto the gambit also, and now it was time for us all to play a little truth or consequences.
But before
I could say a word about that, the man who called himself Jack MacGruder said to the thing masquerading as a rear projection booth, “Dim the lights and start.”
The CIA is really into mind games, and the idea here was to create psychic shock, and build on the momentum.
Well, the lights cooperatively dimmed and there were a few bright flickers on the screen, then a slide that said, “Operation Trojan Horse, TOP SECRET, L-5 Compartmentalized.”
Without further preamble, Mr. MacGruder began speaking. “In 1995, President Clinton signed a Top Secret finding ordering the Central Intelligence Agency to form a task force for the purpose of tracking illegal funds worldwide. His order grew out of a general frustration with the drug lords in Latin America. A number of methods were employed to stamp out their business, influence, and power. All failed. By 1995, Colombia had been turned into a charnel house by cocaine barons who were literally stronger than the state. We were warning the President that the balkanization of Colombia threatened to spill over to other Latin states, to destabilize newly democratic governments that lacked both the police power and wealth to resist cocaine money.”
A new slide appeared—your basic map of the world with hundreds of little boxes filled with tiny initials in a number of countries. I should mention that nobody makes slides like the U. S. government. I even have this quirky theory that we won the cold war because their slidemakers couldn’t cram as much shit onto an eight-by-eleven page as ours. But let’s save the full explanation for another occasion.
Anyway, the guy known as Jack MacGruder continued, “But we in the CIA were also concerned with other rising international groups, like the Mafiya who had seized control of much of Russia’s economy, and terrorist groups like Al Qaeda, led by a fanatic millionaire who was receiving millions in illegal donations and investing his own wealth to subsidize his growing organization. What you see here is a country-by-country listing of criminal and terrorist organizations we regard as threats to American interests.”