Three Minutes to Doomsday

by Joe Navarro

  Rod: [Laughter].

  So now I’m thinking I know a little more of the puzzle. Not only is Rod a drug user; since he must have known about random piss testing, he’s also either a risk taker or someone who doesn’t think all that clearly or often about the consequences of his actions. The smart-ass way he enunciates “cannabis” tells me something about his intellect, but I also sense from how he answered that he didn’t expect to get caught and wasn’t happy to get bounced from the army.

  While I’m processing all this, Al gets to the heart of the matter: “Didn’t Clyde Conrad work in G-3 Plans for the Eighth ID back then?” And that’s when all the baselines I’ve been laying down since we arrived start crashing into play. Quick with an answer otherwise, Rod stretches this one out, as if he has to access the deepest reservoirs of his memory. Mostly precise, too, in his responses, he stumbles through a reply before finally bringing this one to a close: “Oh, sure, Clyde Conrad—of course.” He says this with little emphasis, but what really catches my eye is in his hand.

  His cigarette shakes—not the familiar jitters I’ve been seeing but a good, hard tremor—like a seismograph announcing Mount St. Helens. Before the question, a velvety, smooth contrail of smoke. Thirty seconds afterward, smooth again. But in between, at the precise moment Al Eways mentions Clyde Conrad’s name, the contrail breaks up into a sharp zigzag that Rod has no more control over than his circulation.

  Is it meaningful? You bet. Anything we do that potentially threatens us—burning a finger on the stove, say, or committing a criminal act—gets stored deep in the brain, in the hippocampus, and anything that awakens that threat—a glowing heating unit, mention of our partner in crime—puts us instantly on guard. That’s what happened to Rod: For just a moment he trembled and froze, the same way any of us would temporarily freeze if we rounded a bend and saw a snarling dog in front of us.

  Why would the words “Clyde Conrad” threaten Rod Ramsay?

  “Rod,” I say when Al takes a pause, “your recall is exceptional. I thought this would be a short interview, but I can see where you can fill in a lot of the holes. Here’s the deal, though. It’s hot as hell, and we could use more of your help. What if we move to a hotel nearby? We’ll get a room, sit in comfort, enjoy the AC, and order a nice lunch if you want to join us.”

  Rod is holding still as he listens to what I’m saying. I sense this, so I shift my weight back and angle my feet so that I’m standing just a very precious few inches farther away from him, with a more oblique angle that presents less of a threat. As Al is giving me a stiff glance, Rod responds to my slight backing away, so I raise my shoulders and smile, nonverbally saying: “What do you think?” With that, he relaxes his arms once more, and the deal is done. If he was thinking we’d put him in the trunk of my Bu-Steed and feed him to the alligators, he’s no longer worried.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “You think your mom is home yet?”

  “Most likely,” he says.

  “Then call her. Tell her we’re headed to the Pickett Hotel, over on US 60, where we can do our business in comfort, and see if she has any concerns. Fair enough?”

  In part, I’m just being practical here. In that close-knit trailer park, the neighbors are sure to tell Mrs. Ramsay that the feds came looking for her son. The last thing I need is a panicked mother calling an attorney at the start of a simple inquiry. But something about Rod tells me he’s not loaded with friends. Maybe his mother is all he’s got to hold on to.

  “Yeah, fair enough,” he answers back, with just enough relief to make me think I’m right.

  * * *

  YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT seduces. Sometimes it’s a combination of things: tone of voice, a smile, standing at a slight angle so you don’t appear threatening, or maybe just the prospect of a free lunch in an air-conditioned hotel. Whatever it is, Rod agrees to come with us and that’s all that matters—more face time. Ten minutes later, Al is checking us in at the Pickett Hotel, obtaining a suite with ample room for everyone to sit and spread out. I don’t want either of us too close to Rod—this isn’t the movies, comfort is key here—and of course we have to make allowances for Rod’s smoking. While Al signs us in, Rod and I bond off to the side.

  “So, what were the girls like in Germany?” I ask. Rod immediately perks up.

  Honestly, I’m pulling a cheap trick, but the worst thing you can do in interviewing is set the bar at confession. What you want is what I was just talking about: face time. Get enough of it, and eventually you’ll learn everything you want to know. Rod, as I said earlier, is a bit gawky. His face seems weathered, even at his early age, by acne scars and heavy smoking. I doubt that the city’s most sought-after females lie in bed at night dreaming of Rod Ramsay’s thin lips pressed against theirs. But I’m also betting Rod likes to think of himself as a ladies’ man, and if I treat him like one—feed his narcissism—he’ll want to be near me so I can feed it some more. The reemergence of that Cheshire cat grin tells me I’m right.

  “Did you know prostitution is legal in Germany?” he asks.

  “No! Were they really good-looking?”

  “Oh,” he says with a little moan, “there was this one I frequented a lot. She was unbelievably good-looking, built like a supermodel. I’d call in to the service just for her. I spent a fortune on that woman.” Rod has his eyebrows arched again as he says this.

  “How much?”

  “Sometimes a couple hundred a week. Once I dropped twelve hundred dollars on her in one week alone, but God was she worth it. What a body!”

  “How about the marijuana?” I say, bending the subject. “Just between us girls, what would a bag go for in Germany back then?”

  “Well,” he answers, all businesslike, “a three-finger bag might be the equivalent of twenty-two bucks. I’d go through one of those a week.”

  By the time Al gets back to our corner of the lobby with the room key, I’ve not only learned about Rod’s lifestyle during his tour in Germany—dope and whores—I’ve also developed a pretty good feel for his personal economics, and they’re troubling. I might never have served in the military, but I worked beside army sergeants in my Yuma posting, and I happen to know that they earn less than $100 a week. Rod’s marijuana tab alone would have eaten up a quarter of that. Unless he’s got a trust fund not readily evident from his current circumstances, his prostitute bill even in a slow week would have put him seriously in debt, and this (like cannabis) is a service not discounted at the base PX. Either Rod was living far beyond his means in Germany, or he had means far beyond his rank. And if so, where did they come from?

  Every new thing I learn about Rod makes him more of a mystery, but in America, you’re allowed to be an enigma . . . so long as you stay on the right side of the law.

  * * *

  UPSTAIRS, THE HOTEL HAS just the effect I’d hoped for. The AC soothes us, after an hour-plus on our feet in and around that little oven of a house; the ample sofa and two easy chairs are just what the doctor ordered. Even Al eases off long enough to let me jump in with some questions.

  “Tell me about this G-3,” I say to Rod. “I don’t know the Eighth Infantry Division from the ‘Twelfth of Never.’ ” Rod wasn’t even born when Johnny Mathis recorded that song, but a little nod of his head says that he appreciates the cultural allusion and the tacit assumption that he’ll pick up on it.

  “G-3 is where the plans are made and stored for going to war.”

  “War?”

  “With the Soviets. In case you haven’t noticed, Joe, the Warsaw Pact is just across West Germany’s eastern border.”

  The “Joe” part intrigues me. It’s been “Al-this” and “Al-that” almost since we showed him our credentials, but he hasn’t called me anything previous to this, not even “Agent Navarro.” I’m starting to realize that in almost everything Rod says there is calculation. So where’s he going with the “Joe” bit?

  “Indulge me,” I say. “Dispel my ignorance.” And he does.

  “When it
comes to us against them, it’s all how a given side reacts, how it deals with contingencies. Everything is constantly changing, so the plans have to be updated almost weekly. What’s the troop force count? What’s the air force going to do? Or NATO forces? What happens if the space shuttle goes down in Siberia instead of the Mojave Desert? Remember when we lost the three H-bombs over Spain?” (I do. January 1966. A midair collision between a US B-52 and a US KCK-135 jet tanker, and I know Rod is testing me with the question.) “What if something similar happens tomorrow over, say, Bulgaria? We need contingency plans for any number of scenarios.”

  This is good. Rod likes educating me, likes showing off his knowledge. And when it comes to G-3 and related subjects, he’s got a ton of it—I’m impressed. He talks as I’d expect a senior army officer to brief. He understands tactical and strategic matters at a level that is startling. Plus, he also understands history and how it factors in—I’m fascinated by what he knows . . . and deeply aware that if this interaction between us continues beyond today’s meeting, Rod will be a challenge.

  A lot of times when I interview people with highly specialized knowledge—doctors and lawyers, for example—they quickly become very arrogant, so disdainful that they forget we agents are the ones who’ll throw the full weight of government at them if they don’t turn it down a notch. Rod isn’t like that, not that obvious—he doesn’t have the educational credentials. But I can feel him edging toward a red line as I ask questions and he answers.

  Though Al likely doesn’t realize it yet, Rod seems to have dismissed him as a threat. He’s smart enough to know that because he’s a civilian the army and INSCOM have no hold on him. Poof! In Rod’s head Al is already gone—a zero threat. Now he’s trying to figure out how to get the upper hand with me.

  “Joe,” he asks, patronizingly, “how high is your clearance?”

  “Pretty high,” I answer.

  “No, Joe, exactly how high? Do you have a top-secret clearance?”

  “I do.”

  “How about SCI?” he asks, referring to sensitive compartmented information.

  “That too.”

  It’s obvious he’s going to keep walking up this ladder, and I’m getting tired of his increasingly snotty tone, so I decide to end it right there.

  “Roderick,” I say, lowering my voice, leaning forward while making sure our eyes don’t break contact, “I am cleared for weird, do you understand? I have a higher clearance than anyone in this room, including Mr. Eways, and that’s why I’m here.” At this point even Al is sitting still—you can feel the chill in the room—but I’m not through. I take our uncomfortable silence and hold on to it as the muscles in my jaw intentionally throb. After a few moments Rod gathers himself up on the couch, breaks eye contact, and looks at me contritely. Message received.

  It’s by far the sharpest tone I’ve taken with Rod since we met, but I’ve done it without raising my voice and for a very specific reason: I don’t want him to feel threatened, but I don’t want him to feel superior to me either. If Rod is going to have to be interviewed again on this matter—whatever the matter might be—I’ll most probably be the one doing it, and I don’t interview people who feel superior. That’s a losing proposition. No one confesses to a fifteen-year-old, which is exactly the situation when an interview subject feels superior.

  Surprisingly, Rod seems to like me enough to tolerate being put back in his place. His look softens, and he nods amiably. I said what I had to say and I move on—no harangue. Rod, I’m noticing, gets it quickly. For both of us it’s game on.

  * * *

  THERE’S STILL THE MATTER of that shaking cigarette to puzzle over. It’s happened twice now. Maybe twenty minutes ago, back when we first got onto the G-3 stuff, Al happened to blurt out something like “Didn’t Clyde Conrad have something to do with those plans also?” Al didn’t look up from his notes long enough to see Rod’s response, but I did. Rod’s cigarette trembled again and sent another zigzag of smoke curling to the ceiling.

  That’s two in a row. Three’s the charm, I figure, but this time I want to do the test myself, in the most controlled circumstances possible in a hotel room. To set that up, I have to calm Rod down.

  Fortuitously, about this time lunch shows up: a pile of sandwiches with pickles and chips on the side, rolled in by a bellboy in a purple uniform with gold piping. Rod settles in immediately. For him and his current lifestyle, this is a nice treat, but I always like to introduce food into an interview, even when the subject has been living high on the hog. Food changes the dynamic; it’s much harder to resist someone who has just fed you. To keep the spirit going, and to give Al a chance to swallow, I revert to my conspiratorial kidding mode.

  Me: “Rod, I get a sense from what you’re telling us that officers really were not minding the store and that lower enlisted men were doing as they pleased: bending rules, smoking dope . . . ”

  Rod, his smile sneaking back: “It was loose. Everyone was doing dope, even many of the officers, and of course there was the black market of PX items you could sell at a discount on the street.”

  “You, of course, lived at the foot of the cross?” I say with a big grin. Rod grins back—more confirmation that laws and rules for Rod are just something to get around.

  “How about wine? Was it cheap on base?”

  “Really cheap.”

  “You like it?”

  “Oh, yeah, especially the Riesling. Everyone was drunk all the time over there. There’s nothing else to do on base.”

  This is now the fourth or fifth time Rod has said “everyone,” a verbal tell signaling guilt. In his mind “everyone” else is doing something bad, so why shouldn’t he? I wonder if he even pays his taxes (assuming he even makes enough these days to owe Uncle Sam) or if that isn’t necessary because “everyone” cheats.

  Al goes back to asking questions about the kind of travel soldiers were allowed. Rod answers that he often walked in the countryside as many Germans do on the weekends, but he says nothing about visiting other countries. More important than the answer, though, he’s obviously relaxing. He’s talking at a normal speed. His hands aren’t flying all over the place when he answers. It must be fifteen minutes since he last lit a cigarette when he finally shakes a new one out of his thinning pack. I wait until he has it lit and has pulled that first heavy puff into his lungs before I ask the question that all this has been leading up to.

  “The people you worked for, this Clyde Conrad—was he a good guy? What was he like?”

  Rod is listening intently. The tissue just under his left eye and just above the cheekbone quivers slightly; usually you see that only in poker players who are bluffing. But it’s his cigarette I need to track.

  “Conrad’s really smart,” he finally answers. “He used to read a lot—knew more about plans than most of the officers.” That’s when I see his cigarette shake for a third time, and I have the confirmation I’ve been looking for.

  These autonomic reactions, as they’re known, are very word-specific. Kill someone with a machete, for example, and “ice pick” and “knife” aren’t going to have any effect on you. Only the word or phrase directly and specifically associated with the act triggers the threat reflex. For Rod, that phrase, I’ve now confirmed, is “Clyde Conrad,” but why? Even when they carry all that extra weight, proper nouns are hard to pin down. Maybe Conrad and Rod hung out with whores together, or as he has already hinted, they sold PX cigarettes on the black market. But to see these reactions over and over, there has got to be something serious that happened between these two.

  Obviously, this has to be pursued further, but there’s a practical issue to be gotten around. Al has run out of time. Rod can take care of himself—he followed us over to the Pickett in his own down-at-the-heels Dodge Aries, which I held tight in the rearview mirror all the way to the hotel, but if I don’t get Al to the airport in the next half hour, he’s going to miss his flight.

  “Why don’t you call your mom before you leave,”
I suggest to Rod, “just so she doesn’t have to worry.”

  “Oh, she’ll be fine,” Rod says. “I’ll call her when I get back.” He’s smiling again—a real smile this time, not a smirk. He seems glad about the answers he gave us, and really, we didn’t press him at all. If you were a fly on the wall, you might well wonder, “What the hell was achieved here?” This all sounded like storytelling and bragging, with a little Cold War historical garnish and the occasional BS. But that fly on the wall would be very, very wrong.

  As Rod heads for the hotel-room door buoyed by our gratitude and no doubt glad this is over—or so he thinks—I wait until he has his hand on the doorknob to lob one last question at him.

  “By the way,” I say, “did Conrad ever give you anything?”

  In the interrogation business, this is known as the doorjamb confrontation. The interview is over; the subject is feeling psychologically safe—freedom is only steps away, literally a turn of the doorknob. You never know what you might get when you try it.

  “No, nothing much,” Rod says, “but he did give me a telephone number.”

  Without missing a beat, he pulls a wallet out of his rear pocket, picks out a worn piece of paper, and holds it up for us.

  “Can I have it?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. “Take it.”

  I pinch it by the corner, turn it over carefully, and read the number that has been written there: 266-933. I quickly notice that the number nine is written in the German style so it looks like a “g” with a curled tail, so I’m guessing Rod didn’t write it.

  “What’s it for?” I ask.

  “A telephone, I guess. He said to use it in the future if I had to get hold of him.” And with that Rod walks out and closes the door.

  Before Rod gets to the elevators, I’ve placed the paper carefully into a hotel stationery envelope. Forget about the numbers. Something about the paper—its density, the fibers and the texture—feels very odd.

  2

  LIFESTYLE ISSUES