Man in the Middle (8 page)

We turned in to the parking lot of Ferguson Home Security Electronics.

CHAPTER FIVE

F
erguson Home Security Electronics: There actually is a store directly inside the front entrance that would appeal to the most paranoid citizens, including shelves bristling with high-tech bric-a-brac to keep burglars out of your home or unwanted husbands out of your life, whichever ails you.

If that doesn’t fool you, there is also a helpful female receptionist, Mrs. Lila Moore, who does actually possess expert knowledge of home security devices; in her spare time she also happens to be an officer in the Agency’s security service, with a gun inside her desk and a license to kill, which is one of the reasons I’m nice to her. The other is she’s really pretty.

Lila looked up as we entered, awarded us a vacuous smile, and asked me, “What can I do to assist you, sir? We’re having a big sale on a spectacular line of window alarms. Would that interest you?”

Bian looked around, obviously wondering if we had wandered into the wrong place.

“I’m interested in you,” I informed Lila.

She stared back, wide-eyed.

“Hands where I can see them. Your money or your life.”

Lila raised her hands in pretended alarm. “Please, sir . . . I’m a mere employee. Don’t hurt me.” She frowned and added, “There is no money. Basically, business really sucks here.”

“Well . . . I already knew that. What do you have?”

“Let’s see . . .” She smiled. “How about a pissed-off senior citizen waiting for some guy named Drummond?”

“Oh . . .”

Lila laughed and shoved the sign-in sheet across her desk. “You know the drill.” I scrawled Bian’s name on the page, while Lila handed her a white guest pass. This is a controlled facility, with obviously questionable standards, because they let me in. She informed us, “Some Pentagon bigwig arrived a few minutes ago. Phyllis logged him in.”

I saw a name on the log and pointed it out to Bian.

“Mark Waterbury,” she informed me. “My boss. An SES 1. A man you don’t want to tangle with.” She gave me a pointed look. “You might want to exercise a little . . . rhetorical restraint.”

“How do you spell that?” I knew, of course, that SES 1 stands for Senior Executive Service, Level One—a politically appointed rank roughly equivalent to a brigadier general. I told Bian, “Right this way,” and led her to the door at the rear of the store, which I opened, and through which we entered into a large cavernous space, essentially a converted warehouse.

The government does not believe in spoiling its employees, and the home of OSP sets a shining exemplar; clearly the lowest bidder furnished it, and it is poorly lit enough to provoke suicidal fits. There actually are a few genuine offices for the more senior people, none of which read Drummond on the nameplate; mostly, however, it’s a congested, sprawling cube farm. The lack of walls and privacy are designed to engender teamwork and a sense of community, and the communal sparseness to encourage a feeling of proletarian solidarity. Anyway, that’s the theory; reality is a roomful of people who whisper a lot and act sneaky.

A few people said hi as Bian and I made our way to the rear where Phyllis had her office. I knocked twice, and she called for us to enter.

Phyllis was behind her desk, and to her front was seated a gentleman of late middle age, bald head, intense brown eyes, who at that moment appeared to be experiencing unhappy thoughts. Phyllis stood and said, “Mr. Waterbury, obviously this is Sean Drummond.” Phyllis walked from around her desk and extended her hand to Bian, saying, “And you’re obviously Major Tran.”

Mr. Waterbury did not rise to shake my hand, which was interesting, and revealing. But now that we knew who we all obviously were, Bian and I took the chairs against the far wall. I placed Clifford Daniels’s briefcase prominently on my lap, and like the good subordinate I sometimes pretend to be, allowed my boss to make the opening move.

Phyllis had returned to the seat behind her desk, which I knew to be her standard practice whenever she needs a physical barrier from an asshole. She looked at me. “Mr. Waterbury is the director of the Office of Special Investigations.”

I nodded at Mr. Waterbury, who was studying me.

Phyllis continued, “He’s not completely convinced that a joint investigation is the best way to proceed.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“He believes this matter falls squarely under his jurisdiction. As he pointed out to me—rightly—the CIA has no business investigating a domestic death, be it suicide or homicide.”

“A very persuasive point,” I noted diplomatically as I stifled a yawn.

I took a moment and studied Mr. Mark Waterbury even as he continued to study me. From his upright, wooden posture, trim figure, neat attire, and severe expression, I was sure he was former military.

But of a certain type. Some are drawn to military service as a patriotic calling, others by a yearning for glory, others in an effort to reform a life going wrong, and others to put a dent in their college tuition. I do it because I happen to look really good in a uniform. A select few, however, are enthralled by the lifestyle—the rarefied military sense of order, discipline, and a rigidly hierarchical universe where everything has its place, and everybody has their place. Hollywood caricatures are often based upon these stereotypes, and while by no means are they a majority of people in uniform, they are out there, and they do stand out. They tend not to be clever or resourceful, but they do keep you on your toes.

This, of course, was a lot to read from a brief glance. It was in his eyes, though—a pair of compressed little anal slits with tiny ball bearings for irises.

In fact, Waterbury’s first words to me were, “You had no business being at Daniels’s apartment.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it? This agency is barred by law from involvement in domestic matters.”

“A man was reported dead and I went to look. Simple prurient curiosity. Where in the federal statutes does it say CIA employees can’t look?” I smiled at Mr. Waterbury.

We exchanged looks that were fairly uncomplicated, essentially telling each other to fuck off. This was not one of my better Dale Carnegie moments, but why waste time acting civil and friendly when you already know where it’s going to end up?

He pointed at the briefcase on my lap and, with a nasty smile, said, “Yes . . . well, you walked out of a possible homicide investigation with material evidence, Drummond. That, in fact, is a serious violation of the federal statutes.”

I love it when idiots try to play lawyer with me. I live for moments like this. I held up Daniels’s briefcase. “
Evidence?
Did you say this case contains evidence?”

“I . . . what?”

“Evidence, Mr. Waterbury. You claimed this case contains evidence.”

“I did not say—”

“I’m sure you did.” I looked at Phyllis, who appeared amused, and asked her, “Isn’t that what he said?”

“It’s definitely what he implied.”

I turned back to Waterbury, whose face was reddening. “By inference, you have relevant, prior knowledge about what’s inside this case.” He stared back without comment, and I continued, “By implication, something inside this case is pertinent to Cliff Daniels’s death. That’s news to me. Wow! I need to turn this case over to the proper authority.”

“Don’t play games with me, Drummond. You’ll hand that case over to me.”

“Not likely.”

Mark Waterbury apparently was not accustomed to having his orders questioned and was experiencing some trouble maintaining his equanimity. In fact, his face reddened, he clenched his fingers, and a snort erupted through his nostrils.

I continued, “You’re a political appointee, not a law enforcement official. And since you raised the issue of jurisdiction, surely you must be aware that your office lacks authority to investigate matters outside of military property.” I smiled. “If I give you this briefcase,
that
would be a felony.”

Waterbury was giving me a stone face, as if he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I knew how to fix that.

I looked again at Phyllis. “This briefcase has to go to the FBI. And I will of course inform our federal friends that Mr. Waterbury has foreknowledge about whatever they’ll find.” I looked at Waterbury and noted, “They love it when the evidence comes with somebody to explain what it means. Saves time.”

I stood but did not walk out.

As though it needed to be said, Phyllis mentioned to Waterbury, “Did I fail to mention that Drummond is an attorney?”

Waterbury mumbled under his breath, something fairly short, about two syllables, I’m sure about what a good lawyer I am.

To Phyllis I said, “So . . . if you’ll excuse me . . .”

Waterbury had gone from red in the face to worried. He said to me, “Sit down.”

“I don’t take orders from you, pal.”

Phyllis said, “You do from me. Please sit until we get this matter resolved.”

I sat.

Phyllis took my cue and turned to Waterbury. She asked him, “What’s on that laptop?”

“I have no idea.”

“You might not know the particulars, or you might, but you have some idea or you wouldn’t be here.”

“It’s none of your business.” He looked at Phyllis. “Tell Drummond to hand over that briefcase.”

Phyllis ignored this request and Waterbury looked increasingly ill at ease. As I said, the man was not clever, and clearly he lost his sea legs in an environment where the lines of authority were ambiguous and the solution to a dispute cannot be found in the manual.

He needed another little nudge, though. I leaned forward and advised Phyllis, “You don’t want to hear what’s inside the briefcase. Once you
know
what he knows, it could implicate you in a criminal conspiracy.” I looked at Waterbury. “It’s his problem. Don’t let him make it yours.”

Nobody spoke. I had just uttered the golden phrase—criminal conspiracy—with all it’s nasty echoes of Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra. Nothing strikes greater fear into the heart of a government bureaucrat—and from Waterbury’s change of expression, I had clearly hit a nerve. Phyllis had a hand over her mouth, but I couldn’t tell if she was choking back laughter or biting her lip. As for Waterbury, his lack of cleverness notwithstanding, clearly he had enough feral cunning to understand what he had just heard—the last lifeboat was being lowered over the side.

“Uh . . . okay . . .” He reluctantly said, “It’s possible Daniels was carrying on correspondence with some of his Iraqi friends. Freelancing. Outside of work. It’s also possible that some of that correspondence is classified.”

Phyllis asked, “Do you suspect this, or do you know this?”

“We merely suspect it.”

I said, “It’s possible, or probable, or definitely he was?”

“Don’t push me, Drummond.”

“Waterbury, friends of mine are across the waters right now. I attended two funerals last month, good men who died much too young. If somebody back here is playing games with their lives, I’ll push you into an ocean of shit so deep your feet will never touch bottom. Are we clear?”

“It might surprise you to know, that would piss me off, too.”

“That would surprise me.” Clearly we were both getting on each other’s nerves; the difference was I was enjoying it.

Phyllis interrupted our little pissing contest, and said to Waterbury, somewhat dryly, “Explain what you mean by correspondence.”

“We really don’t know. Daniels was a senior employee. He had leeway to operate independently.”

Phyllis skillfully allowed Waterbury a moment to reconsider his position, then suggested in a sly tone, “Mark, I think it would be in our mutual interests to pool our efforts and get to the bottom of this. Don’t you?”

Still staring at me, Waterbury replied, “Are you giving me a choice?”

“Drummond just explained your choice.”

Of course, he had to get in his last licks, and insisted, “Here’s the terms. Whatever we find goes to the Secretary of Defense for disposition. There is a war on, and if Daniels did something harmful to . . . that effort . . . it must be weighed against the larger needs of national security. Take it or leave it.”

He made a threatening glower at Phyllis, then at me. I’m not overly Pollyannaish about the public’s right to know, but I meant every word I said to Waterbury. My brothers and sisters in arms were getting blown to pieces over there. Depending on what I found, I would make up my own mind about how to deal with it.

I turned to Waterbury and assured him, “Sounds good to me.” Of course my fingers were crossed.

Phyllis, displaying more honesty than I, insisted, “Whatever we find will also go to the Director. I will abide with his decision.”

Waterbury studied her face, and although it went against his obvious grain, he nodded. Phyllis said, “Good. Please allow me a moment to speak with Drummond.”

Waterbury and Bian stood. They left the room, and the door closed with a loud crack.

Phyllis smiled at me and said, “You handled that well.”

“He’s a dimwit.”

“And don’t you underestimate him,” she replied sharply. “He won’t be so easily dealt with if you don’t have him by the balls.” She added, “I’ll do my best to watch your back, but you had better watch your own ass.”

Either my coarse soldier talk was starting to rub off on Phyllis or she was taking it down a notch to make sure the message got through. I have that effect on people. Anyway, I already had figured out that my future dealings with Mr. Waterbury were likely to be stormy, perhaps hazardous.

There was something I did not understand, however. “What’s going on here? What has Waterbury all worked up?”

“You don’t know?”

Obviously not.

She said, “I’ve already told you that Daniels was career DIA. Here’s what I didn’t mention. In the run-up to the war, as you might’ve read in the newspapers, the Office of the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy decided it did not like, or perhaps trust, the intelligence the Agency was providing the White House. They therefore formed their own small intelligence cell to . . . in their words, to vet and decipher the intelligence on Iraq. This cell had a straight pipeline to the Secretary of Defense, and via him, to the White House.”