Nature of the Game (14 page)

“I'll do my best.”

“If you need something, give me a call. That's both official and unofficial.”

“I appreciate it, sir.”

“My, we are formal today. You're supposed to keep your NIS credentials. Don't smear shit on them, okay? And hurry back.”

“I'll try.”

“One more thing. General Butler requires your presence at the Pentagon
before
you commence your new detail.”

“Did he say why?”

“You and I do not ask Marine generals
why
.”

Wes's parting salute was friendly.

“Anchors away,” said the man in the white uniform.

Samuel Butler, United States Marine Corps, wore two stars on his starched shirt. His desk and its tidy piles of paper were at right angles with the walls of his Pentagon office. A picture of his wife and three children faced the general's chair at exactly a forty-five-degree angle from the desk's right-hand corner. The wall facing the general held a color picture of the Iwo Jima Memorial. On the wall to his left hung a black-and-white photo of then Major Butler breaking the rules and personally leading a patrol in February 1969. Butler's square-jawed features were barely visible amidst the helmets and flack jackets, the M16s and radios, the nervous faces of young Marines. In that picture, Lt. Wesley Chandler's fatigues were fresh. The coat-tree in the office corner held General Butler's jacket with its four rows of ribbons. His desk drawer contained the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Across from him sat Wes.

“The Commandant told me about your detail,” said Butler.

Wes dreaded lying to General Butler. Saying nothing let him keep both his integrity and his promise to Denton. In the instant he chose silence, Wes felt a chill brush his heart.

“See the stars on my shoulders?” asked Butler.

“Yes sir.”

“They're on a
Marine
uniform. No better suit. They mean I'm responsible for everybody in olive drab with less metal. You're one of my men. And no Marine knows your marching orders.”

“Sir, sometimes national security—”

“Don't tell me about
national security
,” snapped Butler. “And don't tell me about
intelligence requirements
.”

Butler shook his head. His silver hair was brushed flat. “Know why I joined the Marines, Wes?”

“No sir.”

“Because real
national security
is the damn most important thing a man can do. In a world like ours, that means you need to be prepared to go to war and damn well able to win it.”

“But I don't want any more of my men wasted because of politics camouflaged with words like
national security
and
intelligence requirements
. Bunches of tight-assed, ivory-towered politicians playing tough guy. Using my men.”

“Sir, I am not at liberty to discuss any details of my current assignment. Like you, I trust the chain of command.”

Butler shook his head. “Where you're going, it's not trust, it's faith. And it's not government, it's theology.”

Wes risked a smile. “I hope not, sir. Religion has never been a compass for me. I like a good team, but a chance to swing my own bat. And this … Sir, I have an authorized detail. A legitimate mission.”

“Legitimate? Give me land to seize, an enemy to fight, a war to win. But don't give me any more no-win, no-end
missions
.”

Butler jabbed his forefinger at the man across the desk from him. “Don't end up as another embarrassment to the Corps, whining in front of some congressional committee.”

“No sir.”

“You might need support,” said Butler, “wherever it is you're going and whatever it is you're doing. The Commandant says hands off, you belong to the suits in the woods now.”

Butler shrugged. “I can't send air strikes or artillery, but if you holler, maybe I can drop some flares in the shadows.”

“I appreciate it, General.”

The two men stood. Wes started to salute, but the general extended his hand. As they shook, Butler said, “When you get out there, remember who you are. Watch for mines.”

The bare trees along Virginia's George Washington Parkway swayed as Wes drove to the CIA. He'd changed to his civilian clothes in a Pentagon bathroom. At the CIA's chain link fence, guards in a glass booth checked a clipboard, directed him to a parking space by the main doors. Up the marble steps, inside the marble foyer. Guards searched his briefcase, then turned him over to an escort who led Wes to an elevator that whisked them to the seventh floor. The escort nodded Wes toward a deserted reception area, then rode the elevator back down.

A door opened. Noah Hall beckoned Wes. “Any trouble?”

“No,” said Wes. The door Noah led him through had no number, no title.

Three of the four desks in the windowed room were bare. Classified reports, file folders, computer printouts, phones, Rolodex files, and a battered aluminum briefcase with combination locks covered the desk nearest the window.

“The boss is mopping up Iran-contra shit,” said Noah as he lumbered behind the cluttered desk. “I'll get you going.”

The bulldog sat. Wes took a chair from another desk.

“Security will give you a building pass that'll get you up here. If you need to go anyplace else in the facility, give a call to me or the boss's secretary, we'll clear you.”

“Why not issue me a pass with building-wide clearance?”

Noah waved his hand. “Too much monkey business.”

As he turned the combination locks on his briefcase, Noah said, “When you're at Security getting your pass, see Mike Kramer. He'll play you the tape of your guy's call, plus others from him that they just ‘happened' to find.”

The briefcase locks snapped open. From inside its scarred metal, Noah took an unlabeled folder.

“That's the pick shit paperwork, my notes,” he said.

Noah tossed Wes a heavy white business envelope.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” said Noah as Wes counted the used fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Noah passed him a pad and pen. “Advance on expenses. Write me a receipt—and sign it.”

Wes did, passed the pad and pen back, said, “Now you write me a receipt—for my receipt. And sign it.”

The CIA Director's bulldog blinked. “We said we didn't want a paper trail, Wes.”

“You just had me make one. But it only goes one way.”

Noah laughed, shook his head. As he scrawled a receipt, he said, “You might do after all.”

“When you leave here today,” said Noah, “you got a guy to go see. Somebody to give you a hand when you need one.”

“I thought this was a solo mission.”

“There may be things you need expertise on, and since we're frozen out of the apparatus here …” Noah shrugged.

“Who?”

“Jack Berns,” said Noah. “He's a private eye. Nailed a senator in a divorce, fucked up a federal judge. A White House man in Watergate went to Jack for help when the law was closing in. But Jack had a hard-on for the Nixon crowd. Some deal gone sour. Jack had the guy come to his den, law books on the walls, pictures of big shots. Hidden microphones. Jack tapes the shit out of the Watergate guy spilling his guts, then gives the tapes to that fucking columnist Peter Murphy.”

“Why do I want to have anything to do with him?”

“Beats me, Wes. You figure it out.”

“Has he worked for the CIA before?”

“Our government doesn't hire guys like Jack,” said Noah.

They watched each other.

“You want to know what I do with him?” asked Wes.

“All we want to know is what you get,” said Noah. “But Berns expects you. I'd hate to see an old friend disappointed.”

“I'd like copies of those tapes,” Wes told the gray-haired man behind the desk in the blank-walled room. A tape recorder and nine cassettes were the only things on the desk. A purple-coded picture ID was clipped to Wes's suit jacket.

“You don't have clearance for that,” said the man. His ID badge had rainbow hues, a dozen numbers, said he was Michael Kramer, but didn't say he was Head of Security, CIA.

“How can I get clearance?” asked Wes.

“Get that other butt boy Noah Hall to do it.”

Kramer's gaze was flat.

“I'm not here to give you trouble,” said Wes.

“Then why are you here?”

“Ask the Director,” said Wes.

“That's not my prerogative, is it,
Major?
”

“What do you want?”

“My pension's guaranteed. I can leave anytime.”

“You don't care about your pension,” Wes told him.

And saw Kramer smile for the first time.

“What do I want?” said Kramer. “I want this place to run like it should. No fat-cat appointees preening upstairs until something better comes along. No meddlers on the Hill saying don't do this and don't do that but don't let the bad guys win.”

“I'm not one of the bad guys.”

“Maybe not. But you aren't one of us. You're a toy soldier doing dirty work for the politician on the top floor.”

The bare walls held no clock to count the silence between the two men.

“Thank you for your warm cooperation,” Wes finally said.

“I do my job,” said Kramer. “You want cooperation, get me to trust you.”

“I don't care if you trust me.” Wes stood.

“One more thing,” said Kramer as Wes opened the door. In the hall waited the escort who'd guided Wes to this basement lair. “Deputy Director Cochran wants to see you. You're smart, you'll do what Billy says.”

In the hall, Wes tarried outside Kramer's closed door. His escort finally coughed. “Director Cochran is waiting—”

And Wes jerked open Kramer's door.

The security chief had taken a telephone from a desk drawer, was punching in a number.

“Just wanted to say thanks again,” said Wes, smiling at the man caught making a secret phone call on a secret phone.

As he left, Wes slammed the door.

* * *

“I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” Billy Cochran told Wes.

“No problem,” Wes told the man who had souls of a hundred nations reflected in the thick lenses of his glasses. On the Deputy Director's desk, a stack of classified files awaited Billy's eyes.

They sat on padded chairs in a corner of Cochran's office. One wall held five Japanese woodblock prints, ink portraits and still lifes, wisps of blue and red with black calligraphy. The room was quiet and still. Cool.

“The Director informed me of your job,” said Billy. “I recommended against pursuing this matter.”

“Why?”

Billy looked out the bank of windows.

“You can't see the Potomac,” said Billy, “because of the those trees. Most of them are rooted in Virginia, but Maryland is out there somewhere. So, we trust, is the river.”

The Deputy Director looked back to Wes.

“The longer I work in intelligence, the more cautious I become. The actions we take trying to acquire data can trigger the catastrophes we fear. Our job is to learn facts, not create them. I don't believe this phone call necessitates an effort by us.”

“I'm not much of an effort,” said Wes.

“The danger is not who you are,” said Billy, “it's what you could become. You must be careful of nuances you might not sense. Both the Director and I agree on the absolute necessity for this undertaking to be as discreet as possible.”

“Of course,” said Wes. He hesitated, then said, “Do you know anything about Jud Stuart?”

“I know the Agency's data,” said Billy.

“I'm only trying to find the truth.”

“Then you'll be employed forever,” said Billy.

“We're both soldiers,” said the three-star Air Force general. “You're carrying out a legitimate order from a superior officer. I want to see you do well.”

“Your head of security thinks I'm the enemy.”

Billy frowned. Wes told him about his encounter with Kramer, thought,
But I bet you already know
.

Billy walked to his desk. The cold weather made him limp. In 1964, Billy'd been an Air Force intelligence officer whose myopia almost washed him out of uniform. He was at Bien Hoa Air Base on Halloween night when the Viet Cong mortared the runways and sappers penetrated the wire. As two giant planes burned on the runway, unarmed Billy left his bunker to pull a wounded airman from a jeep, grabbed a carbine off a dead air policeman, and fought off the VC. Mortar shrapnel peppered his leg; he lost his glasses. “I shot at blurs,” he told the commanding officer. Billy refused any medal higher than a Silver Star: anything else might shine a spotlight on a spy.

“Mike?” said the Deputy Director into the phone. “Please provide Major Chandler with those tapes…. My authority…. Thanks.”

Now am I supposed to be obligated to you?
thought Wes.

Billy walked Wes toward the exit.

“You might find it useful to check with me from time to time,” said Billy. “Perhaps I can open other doors.”

At his office exit, he put his hand on Wes's arm. “I'll be sure to stay in touch.”

Back at the Pentagon, alone in a windowless office, Wes ate a vending-machine sandwich and drank cold coffee. The lime-green walls were hung with mementos of a nineteen-year Army career. The framed photo on the desk showed a twenty-nine-year-old second wife and a new baby in front of a suburban Virginia home.

A colonel wearing the screaming-eagle shoulder patch of the 101st Airborne Division hurried into the office, carefully shutting the door behind him. He held a file folder in one hand, and with the other signaled Wes to be silent. The colonel unplugged the phone on his desk.

“They can do things with phones,” said the colonel as he sat down. He'd gained a belly since jump school. His eyes darted around the room, then locked on the Marine in the visitor's chair.