Secret sanction sd-1

by Brian Haig

  “Nope, you first,” I insisted, still smarting from that old memory.

  “Is there some specific area you’re interested in?”

  “In fact there is. I happen to know that Berkowitz was on to something big. Why wasn’t there any hint of that in his final story?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Berkowitz was working several different story lines.”

  “Come on. Don’t be cute. The Kosovo massacre.”

  She seemed genuinely bewildered. “He sent a dispatch back to the paper the night he died.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “But the next day’s story was an empty puff piece. Last time he and I talked, he told me he was going to break something big.”

  She seemed to be reappraising me, as though our discussion had just taken an unexpected turn and ended up on uncertain ground. “Was that where you were helping Berkowitz? The Kosovo massacre?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  She canted her head sideways. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. Then she added, “Let me check with the paper on Berkowitz’s last dispatch. Sometimes the editors cut a lot out.”

  I shook my head like I wasn’t buying it. “Your editors wouldn’t take a pass on something that big.”

  “You never know,” she said. “Editors can be maddeningly arbitrary. Maybe they didn’t think his sources were complete or reputable enough. Berkowitz had a reputation for hip-shooting.”

  “Okay, you do that,” I said. “But do it quickly.”

  “Why? Are you in some kind of hurry?”

  “I have my reasons. Now, my turn. Berkowitz believed there was some kind of conspiracy here. Now I’m gonna give you a name. Jack Tretorne. Ever hear of him?”

  She shook her head, and her luxuriant black hair shook all around, catching flecks of light. “Can’t say I have,” she said.

  “He’s a big muckety-muck with the CIA. He’s been spending a lot of time here at Tuzla working directly with the Green Berets.”

  “And this is supposed to have something to do with Berkowitz’s murder?”

  “It’s related,” I assured her.

  “And what am I supposed to do?”

  “Maybe shake the trees to find out a little more about Tretorne and what he’s up to. Be careful when you shake, though. You know what they say about shaking trees with gorillas in the branches.”

  “That it?” she asked, eyeing me speculatively.

  “For now, yes. I’ll get hold of you again tomorrow morning. When I call, I’ll say I’m Mike Jackson and your order is ready. I’ll give you a time to pick it up, which means meet me at the mess hall entrance at that time. Got that?”

  “Sure, fine,” she said, but the way she said it, she evidently thought I was maybe a little weird or extravagant with my secret passwords and clandestine meeting places. Well, she didn’t know what I knew.

  We were only a block from the reporters’ compound, so I left her there and headed back to my tent. I was beginning to get my traction. I now had an unwitting ally-the best kind of ally for this kind of fight. The CIA thrives on secrecy. Its worst enemy is the threat of public exposure. A guy like Jack Tretorne would shrivel up and die if he was yanked out of the shadows. I’d just sicced Janice Warner and her paper on his trail, which was bound to make his life a little more miserable. Hopefully a lot more miserable.

  I really was curious to learn why Berkowitz had never filed the story I gave him. It had to be a key piece in the puzzle. The plot that was taking shape in the back of my mind went something like this: Tretorne somehow learned that Berkowitz was on the verge of breaking the conspiracy story. Maybe Tretorne got tipped because the Washington Herald filed an inquiry with the CIA back at Langley. I’m no expert in the ways of modern journalism, but I am under the impression that newspapers generally offer the chance of rebuttal or comment to someone before they slice ’n’ dice them on the front page. Or maybe Tretorne had NSA eavesdropping on Berkowitz’s electronic transmissions, maybe even his computer, and learned of it that way. Anyway, Tretorne then had Berkowitz “sanctioned,” and faxed the Herald a planted story under Berkowitz’s name.

  The only thing that confused me was that Janice Warner sounded completely clueless about what was happening around here. When I mentioned the Kosovo massacre, she seemed genuinely confused. Maybe Tretorne had succeeded in throwing her paper off track. Since Berkowitz never got his real dispatch filed, the Herald had no idea what he’d discovered.

  When I got back to my tent, I noticed that my possessions had been rifled through. The CID guys had been benevolent enough to try to put everything back where they found it, but a few things were out of place. Also, my running shoes were gone. Such are the terrific inconveniences I had to work with.

  Chapter 24

  Clapper called at two that night. I began to suspect something insidious in these late-night calls. Maybe this was part of the conspiracy: to try to make me so groggy and miserable that I’d be willing to buy any line of baloney just to get this over with and get some rest. Very devious, those guys.

  Clapper said, “Where are you? Are you getting it wrapped up?”

  “Dotting a few i’s and crossing a few t’s,” I answered, trying to sound confident.

  “I had a call from General Foster over at NSA. He’s furious. He said you’re making trouble for one of his employees, a Mr. Jones. What’s this one about?”

  I should have expected this. I said, “I’m just trying to make him get reasonable. He’s the same guy who showed us the tapes and transcripts. Only he won’t let us have any copies. Too sensitive, he says. I told him I could live with that as long as I had his name and section so I can refer to him in my report.”

  Clapper said, “You should be able to get by perfectly fine without them. This Jones character is apparently in a very sensitive job. General Foster offered to let us use his own name.”

  “Boss, it’s a chain of evidence thing. Only in this case, I’m not allowed to even touch the evidence. You know the rules. You’ve got to establish the chain of evidence.”

  This was an entirely specious line of legal reasoning, but it sounded proximate enough to the real rules of evidence that it might be true.

  At any rate, Clapper blew right through it. “If you’re going to recommend against court-martial, it’s irrelevant. It won’t be tested in court. Damn it, Sean, just use Foster’s name.”

  I said, “Sir, I’m the investigating officer. I don’t care if it won’t be tested in court. I don’t do shoddy work. You can advise me on this, but you can’t order me.”

  There was the sound of a set of lungs being emptied on the other line. Clapper was ordinarily a very even-tempered fellow, but major generals don’t generally take it kindly when junior officers remind them of their limits.

  “You’re already facing an inquiry into your professional conduct. Let’s not make this any worse.”

  “Sorry, General, but I have to do what I think is right.”

  “Have it your way,” he said before he hung up, sounding very pissed off.

  I hung up the phone myself, then pushed the stop button on the tape recorder I had turned on the moment he identified himself. Recording a phone conversation without the willful consent of the other party is a moderately serious violation of the federal statutes. I really didn’t care, though. I didn’t plan on using the tape in court, where it would be inadmissible anyway. But I knew the boys in the editorial office of the Washington Herald would love listening to it, if things came to that. Besides, they-whoever they were-weren’t playing fair with me. So why should I?

  On that note, I slept soundly until I felt a rough hand shaking my shoulder. I blinked a few times, until I was able to get my lids to stay up. Not up very far, but enough that I could squint and just make out vague shapes. Martie whatever was hunched over beside my cot and peering into my face. Behind him were two real big shadows that I guessed were military policemen.

  “Please get dressed and come with me,�
� he said.

  I struggled out of my sleeping bag and sat up. “Are you going to explain what this is about?” I asked, searching around for my battle dress and combat boots.

  “When we get to my office.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “I’m taking you into custody.”

  I felt very groggy, and decided not to speak again until I had a cup of coffee in my hand and the caffeine was doing its magic. I got dressed quickly, then stood up and staggered along behind Martie. A military policeman walked on each of my flanks. I noticed that Martie was dressed in the same cockeyed checkered outfit he’d worn the day before. He must’ve worked through the night.

  The time was three in the morning, so the streets were still dark and empty as we headed to his office. I kept a wary eye on Martie and his escorts. For all I knew, they were working for Tretorne or Murphy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed like a perfect pretense to perform one of those nasty “sanction” things on me. They’d take me to some dark, secluded part of the compound, then pop me in the back of the head. On the other hand, they hadn’t handcuffed me, and I took that as an encouraging sign.

  It wasn’t until we got to the MP station that I relaxed. I shouldn’t have though. What Martie had in store for me was better than taking me into the woods and shooting me.

  “Sit down, please,” he ordered once we were gathered around a table in an interview room. He then read me my rights. This was something I’d done to suspects a number of times, but you get tight in funny places when the words are recited to you.

  I heard him out until he asked, “Do you wish to retain counsel at this time?”

  This is always the critical question. I had no idea what I was charged with. I had no idea if I was even going to be charged. I decided that a lawyer probably wasn’t going to do me any more good than I could do for myself. I mean, I’m a lawyer, right? Of course, it’s exactly that kind of solipsistic thinking that gets a lawyer in deep shit. When it’s you the police are questioning, you lose the ability to make the kind of cold, disinterested, dispassionate decisions a hired barrister provides.

  Regardless, I said, “Not at this time.”

  Martie looked at the two military policemen and nodded for them to leave. They closed the door behind them. He then spent a moment just staring at me, I guess to make me nervous. There was a big mirror on the wall, like there is in most interrogation rooms. I figured it was probably one of those two-way jobs with somebody on the other side. Maybe Murphy. Maybe Tretorne. Maybe both of them.

  “You have a serious problem,” Martie finally said. “Your running shoe matches a print we took from the latrine where Jeremy Berkowitz was murdered.”

  I said, “That’s impossible.” Of course, those were the first words out of the mouth of every suspect. So much for my brilliant legal acumen.

  He shrugged, then leaned across the table. “Look, Major, if you were in the latrine that night, it would go better if you’d just admit it. Maybe you met him there?”

  “I didn’t go near the latrine that night.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that somebody else borrowed your running shoes, murdered Berkowitz, then put them back under your bunk?”

  “I don’t expect you to believe any damned thing. I didn’t go near that latrine, and unless my running shoes grew legs, neither did they.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that your shoe prints were there?”

  This was a standard technique. God knows, I’d defended enough clients who’d fallen for it. Get me to start building excuses, then tear apart my alibis and try to chase me into a confession.

  “I’m not here to explain any damned thing. I never went near that latrine.”

  He leaned back and began playing with his pen. “There’s more,” he said.

  If this was supposed to make me more nervous, I wasn’t biting. I sat patiently and coolly watched him.

  He began tapping the pen against his chin. “Among the notes we found in Berkowitz’s room was one where you asked him to meet you in the latrine at one o’clock.”

  My coolness suddenly dribbled away. I now knew I was in very serious trouble. The running-shoe prints could be challenged in a courtroom. There was always the possibility of the crime scene being contaminated by poor procedure or even of contamination at the lab back in Heidelberg. Poor police and lab procedures had bollixed more than one case. There was also the chance that someone with my exact same shoe size and taste in running gear did the crime. An outside chance, admittedly, but I’d built defenses on weaker arguments and prevailed. I mean, I knew I’d never gone near that latrine, so somebody, somewhere, had made a bad mistake. The note, though-that was a slam dunk.

  I blurted out, “That’s impossible.” Oops! There I went again.

  “We’ve had two experts examine the handwriting. It’s yours, Major. For Chrissakes, you’re an attorney. Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  No, he didn’t have to spell it out for me. I was being framed. Actually, I was being framed for the second time, if you want to get perfectly technical about it. I didn’t know how, but there was no other explanation. I knew I’d never made an appointment with Berkowitz. And I knew I’d never been in the latrine.

  I was surprised how tight my lips were when I said, “Martie, I’m done talking without counsel.”

  He stared at me a few seconds, then stood up, walked over to the door, and knocked. The two MPs came back in, and he ordered them to book me and put me in a cell. They did. First, I was dumbly led to another room where I was fingerprinted, although for the life of me I didn’t know why. The military keeps copies of the fingerprints and dental X rays of all personnel in the event they’re needed to identify remains. Maybe they just wanted to humiliate me. It worked, too.

  My belt and shoelaces were collected, then I was taken to a cell. I knew I’d need a clear head in the morning, so I collapsed onto the bunk and tried to will myself back to sleep. Of course, that never works when you need it to. For thirty minutes I sat there thinking how terrifically stupid I’d been. I’d been too overconfident. I’d overestimated my own cleverness. Worse, I’d once again underestimated who I was dealing with.

  I just couldn’t figure out how they’d pulled this off. Even if Martie was working for Jones, aka Tretorne, how in the hell had they fabricated such condemning evidence?

  I suddenly heard the sound of a lock being opened down the hall. Then footsteps. No lights were turned on, so the hallway and my cell remained pitch-dark. The footsteps stopped in front of the cell.

  I could smell the cologne. A good one, too, like scented pines. Very expensive.

  “Tretorne, you bastard,” I said.

  “You look good in there, Drummond,” he said.

  I said, “Yeah? Why don’t you come on in and join me? I’d love a chance to rip your guts out.”

  He chuckled. “I knew it was you who burgled my room. You have no idea what that briefcase cost. And I really would like to get my passport and ID back. It’ll be a real pain in the ass if I have to get them replaced.”

  Sounding more bitter than I wanted, I said, “Gee, Jack, I’m really sorry. I’d hate to think I’ve put you out.”

  “Well, you have, Drummond. You’ve really pissed me off.”

  “Then we’re even. Let me out of here.”

  “I’m afraid it’s no longer that easy.”

  “Sure it is, Jack. If I go to jail, I won’t take my secrets with me.”

  “You don’t have any secrets. You only think you do.”

  “Hah,” I said. “I know all about what you and Murphy are up to. You frame me, and I’ll get the word to every reporter I know. Believe me, I’ll find a way. Think about that.”

  “I already have, Drummond. You think they’ll listen to you? No one listens when an accused murderer starts mumbling about conspiracies and frame-ups. Think about it, Drummond. You’ve got no evidence, and you’ve got no leverage.”

  He was
right, of course. And that only infuriated me all the more. He moved back and I saw him lean against the wall. His face was completely in the shadows, which only made him appear more sinister.

  When he spoke again, his tone sounded suspiciously reasonable. “Regardless, I’m here to make a deal. This will be your only chance. Want to hear it?”

  I said, “I’ve got nothing better to do for the moment.”

  “Okay. You quit screwing around and do what you’re supposed to do on this investigation, and we’ll call this thing even. I’ll even convince Clapper to cancel that inquiry, and you can get on with your career.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  “And I’m supposed to just overlook this little thing you’ve got going with the Green Berets?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “What about Berkowitz? Am I supposed to forget you did that, too?”

  “We didn’t do Berkowitz’s murder.”

  Now it was my turn to chuckle. “Horsecrap.”

  “It’s the truth. I don’t know who murdered him.”

  “But you’re framing me for it.”

  “Sure. You’ve put us in a difficult corner, Drummond. But if you’re the leading suspect in a murder investigation, well, you can hardly remain the chief of the investigating team. Nor can you leak to the press like you tried with Berkowitz. Very cute, that.”

  So that confirmed it: My office was bugged. They’d listened to the whole conversation I had with Berkowitz. They’d listened to everything.

  That confirmed something else, too. They had a compelling motive to murder Berkowitz.

  I said, “Come on, Tretorne. What was it? Was Berkowitz getting too close? Did he have you figured out? Why’d you have him killed?”

  “I’ll say it again. I don’t know who killed Berkowitz. We didn’t do it. I’m not crying any crocodile tears about it, though. He wasn’t much of a human being. However, his death gives me the opportunity to get you out of the way.”