Secret sanction sd-1

by Brian Haig

  He leaned across the table and, in a tellingly reasonable tone, said, “Listen close, Drummond. I’m not going to be listed in your report. Let’s get that clear. My work requires me to do sensitive work, and I cannot risk being exposed. Just use the name of the NSA chief, Lieutenant General Foster.”

  I grinned. “Hey, don’t sweat it, Jonesy, old pal. My report’s going to have ‘Top Secret Special Category’ stamped all over it. You won’t be exposed. Besides, General Foster had nothing to do with this.”

  A tinge of red was working up Tretorne’s neck, and his face was becoming flushed. “He knows all about it, Drummond. Just do what you’re told.”

  You could tell by his tone that Tretorne was a guy who was used to giving orders and getting his way.

  My smile got even wider. “Gee, I really can’t, old buddy. Look, if it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll list your name and employment data in a special annex that’s eyes only to the Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Can’t get more accommodating than that, can we? See, the thing is, Jonesy, you’re now part of my investigation. You invited yourself in the moment you walked into my office. I mean, surely you knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t. And I still don’t believe it.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said, getting up and preparing to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Tretorne demanded, now even more perplexed.

  “I’m going to call a military judge. I’m gonna tell him to write me a court order addressed to the director of the NSA that gives him six hours to release your name and job data.” I was assuming that Jack Tretorne was not an attorney and wouldn’t know whether I could do that or not.

  “That wouldn’t be a very good idea,” he muttered in a very menacing tone.

  “Why, Mr. Jones, you’re not threatening me, are you? There is another way I can handle this. I’m pretty damned sure I can also talk that judge into issuing a writ against you and your agency for withholding evidence critical to a criminal investigation. Hell, maybe I’ll ask the judge for both.”

  This issue of law, Tretorne obviously thought he knew something about. “You can’t bluff me,” he snarled. “That’s been tested in federal court a million times. Nobody can force the government to release classified data.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But you’re also a little confused. All those cases involved civilians without security clearances requesting the release of classified information. I represent another government agency. Also, the information I’ve requested is going to be enclosed in a classified investigation packet.”

  He was still sputtering something when I closed the door behind me. Another law of war is to keep the enemy off balance. God knows he got his share of agony out of me the day before, and I wanted Tretorne to feel what it was like to sweat for a change.

  I was sure he would immediately get on the phone to the lawyers back at the CIA to ask them if I could accomplish everything I’d just threatened. They were lawyers, though. They would defer. All lawyers, everywhere, always defer. In civilian firms, lawyers never answer anything right away because then they’d lose the opportunity to pump up a bunch of billable hours. In government agencies, lawyers never answer right away because they’re bureaucrats and on general principle never do anything right away. Besides, they like to minimize risk by meeting with lots of colleagues, so they can make sure the blame for wrong answers gets spread around.

  What Tretorne would eventually learn was that I could get the writ for his name, but CIA and NSA lawyers could fight it and keep it in limbo for months, long past the point of relevance. He would also be told that no military judge can compel another government agency to hand over sensitively acquired, classified information. Regardless, it was going to be a while before he got this confirmed, and I wanted to see if I could force his hand.

  I went back to the office and returned to working on my phony screed. At four o’clock I went back over to General Murphy’s headquarters building and asked an eager-looking captain if he could please find me a secure phone in a private room. He led me down the hall to the adjutant’s office, who was off visiting troops somewhere, got me the secure key, and left me alone.

  I called the Chinese takeout again and was put right through to Colonel Bill Tingle.

  I said hi, we did the shift to secure mode thing again, then Tingle said, “Found him.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, sir. Who is he?”

  “Tretorne’s a GS-17 in Operations.”

  A GS-17 is like the equivalent civilian rank of someone between a two- and three-star general, and Operations is the half of the CIA that does field work.

  “Wow,” I blurted out, because I couldn’t think of anything even halfway clever to say. I felt like that proverbial fisherman in the small wooden boat who’s just realized he’s hooked a three-ton man-eating shark on his line.

  He added, “He’s in charge of field operations for the Balkans. Career man, too. Not one of them political Pudleys.”

  I had no idea what a Pudley was, but that was the word Tingle commonly used to describe anyone he didn’t like. Most often, I’d heard him use it to describe lawyers. Like years before, when I told him I was leaving the outfit to become a lawyer, and he screamed, “You wanta stop bein’ a hardcock to become a goddamn Pudley?”

  I said, “Did you learn anything else about him?”

  “He’s got a good rep. A can-do guy. Also, he went to West Point. Guess he did his few years, then got out and went to the Agency.”

  I said, “Very interesting. By the way, I read about Operation Phoenix.”

  “Don’t believe the half of it. Believe the other half, though. That really happened.”

  He was in Vietnam then, and was wearing a green beret, so I assumed he probably had firsthand knowledge about the whole thing. He may even have been part of Operation Phoenix. I didn’t like the thought of Bill Tingle, who was something of a personal hero of mine, assassinating folks, so I did what I always do when confronted with unpalatable facts. I instantly decided he didn’t do it.

  I said, “Any chance that’s what’s going on here?”

  “How the hell do I know, Drummond? I’m here, and you’re there.”

  “I just thought there must be some reason you wanted me to look it up.”

  “Look, son, I’ve been in the Army since 1950. You have no idea how stupid we can be.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”

  “Right. Hey, another thing. You see that Williams asshole again, tell ’em I said to get fucked.”

  “Will do, Colonel.”

  “One more thing. Think before you act, boy. Sometimes what looks bad is really good.”

  “Right,” I said, then he hung up.

  Bill Tingle was a coarse, crusty old fart, but you don’t get to be old in his line of work by being stupid. “Think before you act” was always good advice. Of course, that required that you have time to think, which was something I didn’t.

  Chapter 23

  I went back to the office and exchanged my battle dress for the uniform Imelda had sewed new insignia on. My new nametag and rank declared me to be Sergeant Hufnagel. Harold, I decided; I would be Sergeant Harold Hufnagel. Say that ten times real fast and see what happens.

  Specialist Hufnagel was the legal clerk who looked a bit like a saber-toothed tiger. I figured I couldn’t get her or me into any trouble by borrowing her name. If someone took undue interest in me, they could turn this base inside out looking for a male sergeant named Harold Hufnagel, and we’d both be safe and clear.

  I left and walked over to the supply room Imelda had staked out as her unofficial communications center. I asked if I could borrow the phone. The private on duty said sure. I called the Tenth Group’s information office. A sergeant named Jarvis answered.

  I said, “Sergeant, this is Barry McCloud at the day desk of the Washington Herald. You got any of my reporters out there?”

  “Right, sir,”
he very politely said. “Two to be exact.”

  “I’m trying to get hold of them. We had their numbers here, but some dumbshit on the night shift misplaced them. Would you do me the kindness of telling me where they’re staying, and what number I need to use to get hold of them?”

  “Uh, sure,” he said. I heard him tapping some computer keys, and assumed he was accessing some file. “Got ’em right here,” he announced.

  “Great, I’m ready to copy,” I said.

  “Gee”-he chuckled-“that’s exactly how we say it in the Army. Ready to copy.”

  I wanted to kick myself. “Uh, yeah, sure. I’m an old vet myself.”

  “Oh really? Who were you with?” he asked. He was a really friendly sort of guy.

  “You know, here and there. You got those numbers yet?”

  “Yeah, sure. Okay, Clyde Sterner’s in room 201. You can reach him at 232-6440. Janice Warner’s in room 106, same number, only put a three at the end. Dial the same extension you used to get Tuzla.”

  “Great, thanks,” I said, then hung up.

  Let’s see, which one should I call? Sterner or Warner? I flipped a coin and it came down heads. Clyde Sterner it was. Then I dialed the number for Janice Warner’s room. Like I was going to call a Clyde over a Janice.

  An intriguingly soft voice answered, “Janice Warner.”

  “Hi, Miss… uh, is that Miss or Mrs. Warner?” I very slickly asked.

  “It’s Miss. What can I do for you?”

  “Name’s Sergeant Harold Hufnagel. Harry, to my friends. I knew Jeremy Berkowitz.”

  “That’s nice, Sergeant. I knew Jeremy, too.”

  “Yeah, well, he was a swell guy. A real sweet guy. Damn shame what happened.”

  “No, Jeremy was not a swell guy. Nor was he a sweet guy. He was a rotten prick, but you’re right about it being a damned shame what happened. Is there some reason you called?”

  I liked this girl. “Yeah, actually. I might know something about what got him killed.”

  There was this long pause before she finally said, “It sounds like you and I should get together.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to,” I said, “I really would. But there’s complications.”

  “I’m sure we can find some way to work around them.”

  The hook was in. “See, Miss Warner, the thing is, the Army doesn’t like buck sergeants talking to reporters. Especially about sensitive stuff like murder.”

  “I see your point,” she said.

  “We’d have to meet in secret.”

  “Why don’t you just come to the Visiting Journalists’ Quarters? I’ll sneak you in.”

  “Uh-uh. They got guards on your building. They might catch us. Then they’ll take my name and I’ll be in front of the colonel’s desk within an hour.”

  “Okay, then, what’s your idea?”

  “Meet me tonight. Nine o’clock, by the entrance of the mess hall. And come alone, or you’ll never see me.”

  She said, “Okay. Oh, and Sergeant Hufnagel, I’ll be armed. I’m a really good shot, too. Get my drift?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Farthest thing from my mind.”

  Her voice might’ve sounded soft and pleasant, but she sure as hell didn’t sound soft. I had this sense that Miss Warner was going to be an interesting package. If she showed up wearing one of those duck-shooting vests, I was going to blow my brains out.

  There were two more hours before we were supposed to meet. For want of anything better to do, I returned to my hiding place across from the NSA building. I stood there and watched for over an hour. A few of the nerds I’d seen earlier in the conference room passed in and out, but there was no sign of Mr. Tretorne or Miss Smith.

  I was just getting ready to call it quits, when who should walk out of the entrance but that unmistakably tall and handsome hero, General Murphy. A Special Forces captain held the door, then fell in to walk beside him. His aide-de-camp, I guessed. Murphy had to have been inside the building at least an hour and a half. Now what would draw him to this facility, much less keep him inside that long?

  Maybe he was there to view satellite films and radio transcripts. Not likely, though. Lieutenants and captains do that kind of scut work, not brigadier generals. Much more likely, that bastard was in there meeting with Tretorne. Maybe he was there picking up new lists of people to be sanctioned. Or maybe they were talking about me. Hell, maybe I was on the list to be sanctioned.

  But that would really be stupid. I mean, how would the Army and CIA explain the murder of the chief investigating officer of the Kosovo massacre? Were they that stupid? Worse, were they that desperate? No, I decided. Right now they thought they had me right where they wanted me. Well, except for the threats I’d made to Jones. But would they try to kill me for that? Anyway, there was no more time to ponder those lofty questions because it was time to go meet Janice and see if her voice was the only interesting thing about her.

  I jogged and got there twenty minutes before nine. I found a spot about three buildings away, where I could safely observe. I watched the cooks file out and lock up the mess hall at 8:45 P.M. as they did every night. This left the building entirely abandoned, which was precisely why I chose this time and place. It made it easier to see if Miss Warner was bringing company. Maybe I was being overly scrupulous, but I didn’t want to join Jeremy Berkowitz, stuffed in a container of dry ice on the back of a C-130.

  At nine o’clock exactly, I saw a slender woman dressed in civilian attire stroll leisurely toward the entrance of the mess hall. No sway to her walk, just a straight, unassuming gait. She stopped under a light and leaned against the wall. Her hair looked long and black. She wore jeans with a short leather jacket. I was so glad she didn’t have one of those vests. Now I didn’t have to shoot myself.

  I began doing a complete circuit around the mess hall, checking the alleys and sneaking around to see if anyone was watching. Nobody. Then I walked to the corner of a building located about forty yards from the mess hall.

  “Miss Warner!” I yelled.

  She glanced over and I meandered slowly to the nearest street. She followed me. When she finally caught up, I started walking and she fell in beside me.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Can’t be too careful these days.”

  “Do you have something to be afraid of?”

  “Well, you never know.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we’d just walk. Good for the health,” I said, inspecting her face for the first time. Sharp, perceptive eyes. Pronounced cheekbones. Wide lips. A thin, willowy body. She looked like that girl in your high school class who got straight A’s, but was too detached and intellectually sophisticated to go out with a jock. I’d never gotten to know that type well.

  She said, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Nowhere special. This your first time at Tuzla?”

  “Yes. This isn’t my beat.”

  “What is your beat?” I asked.

  “West European politics and economics.”

  “Um-hum, but you’re here to cover Berkowitz’s murder?”

  “Partly. Clyde Sterner and I have been thrown into the breach to cover what Berkowitz was working on, at least until the paper can get a replacement out here.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  Well, in a few moments, I intended to make it even more interesting. I said, “Do I take it you and Jeremy weren’t friends?”

  “Let’s just say we had different philosophies on reporting.”

  This sounded interesting. “What’s yours?” I asked.

  She studied me with those perceptive eyes for a few seconds. “I don’t believe in paying my sources. If that’s your game, you’ve got the wrong reporter. Try Sterner. He’s got an expense account just like Berkowitz.”

  “Actually that’s not what I’m asking for.”

  “Then what are you asking for, Sergeant?” she asked with an indulgent look.


  “I’d like the same deal I had with Berkowitz.”

  “Which was?”

  “We traded information,” I said. I didn’t think it necessary to admit that this only happened once or that I’d lied and tried to set him up. Why bore her with small details?

  She stopped walking and eyed me even more suspiciously. “Why would a sergeant be interested in information? Who do you work for, Hufnagel?”

  Miss Janice Warner had a very quick mind, and this was exactly the deduction I’d hoped she would draw. I gave her a big, broad smile. “Look, we’re not at that point yet. Are you ready to talk the deal or not?”

  “What if I’m not?”

  “Then I find myself another reporter. The smell of a corpse has brought fresh new flocks. There’s scads of ’em around here these days.”

  She considered that a moment, but from the expression on her face I wouldn’t say she was fully committed. At least, not yet.

  “Okay, continue,” she said.

  “The way this works is you’re going to give me a little information. Then I’m gonna give you a little information. Play me right, and I’ll give you a story that stops hearts.”

  “I’m nobody’s dupe, Stupnagel.”

  “Hufnagel. Harold Hufnagel,” I said. I loved the way that rolled off my tongue. “But you can call me Harry.”

  “Are you an MP?”

  “Ah-ahh! You’re not allowed to probe.”

  “How do I know the info you have on Berkowitz’s death is legit?”

  “Because I was one of Jeremy’s inside sources. I gave him a big story, then he got garroted.”

  She was nodding as I spoke. “That it?” she asked, somewhat dubiously.

  Give her credit for trying. “Come on, Miss Warner. In or out?”

  She stopped and examined my face. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Like I said, she had these real perceptive eyes, which meant they took a lot in, but emitted nothing.

  “All right, we’ll try it,” she said. “You give me one piece of information, and I’ll give you one piece. Right?”

  This reminded me of the game little boys and girls always like to play. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. I’d tried it once. When I was six. Only this little girl talked me into showing mine first, then she laughed and ran away and told all her little friends what a stupid dunce I was.