Man In The Middle Part 14

I knew what he meant. "I can't imagine anybody relaxing in your presence, Mr. Waterbury." I smiled.

He obviously understood the underlying message and did not appreciate it, because he did not smile back. Lest you think I was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with Waterbury just for the fun of it, he was speaking to me in this really condescending tone. To borrow a metaphor, he was the lion back in his own hunting ground, informing the interloper who was the king of this jungle. To stretch that metaphor a bit further, I'm like a hyena--I scavenge where I like, am quicker on my feet, and my sound is very annoying. Also, it was was fun. fun.

He came to the point and asked us, "Did you learn anything from Mrs. Daniels?"

Bian started to reply, and I cut her off. "Like what?"

"Answer the question, Drummond."

"Oh . . . well . . . she smokes Camels. About three packs a day. She has a thing for cheap gin. Her car and face need paint jobs, her house--"

"I don't care about all that. Anything relevant to Daniels's death?"

I stared down at him. "It will be in my report. When I get around to writing one, you can read all about it."

His eyes narrowed. He said to Bian, "Major, you you do work for me, right?" do work for me, right?"

"Yes sir, and--"

"Then answer the question."

After a moment, Bian said, "We learned nothing relevant to Daniels's death. She didn't know why her husband died, or how."

He studied her face, then mine. He informed us, "I think it was suicide."

"It wasn't," I replied.

"That's your view." He added, "I called the Arlington police and had a long conversation with Detective Sergeant Enders. The ballistics results came in. The gun belonged to Daniels."

"We a.s.sumed that--"

"And a preliminary match was made between the splatter on the pistol and Daniels's blood type." a preliminary match was made between the splatter on the pistol and Daniels's blood type."

"We also a.s.sumed that," I informed him. "If you'd be so good, keep your nose out of this investigation."

"This investigation is half mine. I'll involve myself as I see fit."

I looked at him and said, "Major Tran informed me that you're a former military policeman."

"That's right. Twenty-five years' service. d.a.m.ned good one, if I say so. My commands always led in closure rates."

"Twenty-five years. I'll a.s.sume then that you know the basic rule of criminal procedure--let the investigators do their job."

As you might expect, I work with the MPs and CID types a lot. As cops go, they tend to be excellent; for some reason the military concepts of discipline and obedience and the societal concepts of law and order are a marriage made in h.e.l.l. Also, unlike cops in civilian communities, the military cop does not exist in a world apart, feels no disorienting distance from his community, nor is there a blue wall of silence that pops up whenever the p.o.o.p hits the fan. Rank is rank in the Army, and the military policeman is well advised to remember it. You can give a speeding ticket to the Secretary of the Army, and I know an MP private who did. But there had better be an up-to-date calibration record at the MP station for the speed gun, which explains why the private was a sergeant when he first became my client before his court-martial.

Occasionally, however, one finds an individual who transcends these boundaries and traditions. I suspected that Waterbury was such a man, and I would bet he wasn't fondly remembered by the military communities he oversaw.

In fact, Waterbury told me, "I weighed into investigations whenever I felt it was necessary. My MPs appreciated it, too."

"Well, I don't."

We stared at each other a moment.

Satisfied that he made his petty point, he informed me, "As I said, Enders and his detectives are leaning toward a ruling of suicide."

"Good. That's exactly what we want them to conclude at this stage."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then leaned toward me and said, "The position of the Defense Department is that we will subscribe to whatever determination the police--the proper civil authorities--whatever they decide."

"Why do I think you have something to add?"

"You're right, Drummond. You and Tran will confine your investigation to the possibility of a security leak. How Daniels died is neither the purpose of this investigation nor is it your business, nor will you interfere with or duplicate the work the civilian authorities are doing." He finally came to the real point of this dialogue and said, "When you speak with Mr. Tigerman, you'll contain your questions to that realm of inquiry."

"The question of Daniels's death and a security leak are possibly related. You know that."

"That's speculation. In the mind of the investigating detective, we're dealing with a suicide, not h.o.m.ocide. Daniels was certainly a ripe candidate . . . a broken marriage, a foundering career . . . Who knows what else was going wrong in his life or his head?"

It appeared that Mr. Waterbury had done a little research and investigation since we last spoke. Or maybe he knew all about Clifford Daniels all along, but he and the boys upstairs--actually, downstairs--had put their heads together and figured out how to handle this thing--and Sean Drummond.

I said, "Why don't I tell you what else? He had an order to testify before a congressional investigating committee."

"Irrelevant. I'll reiterate--this investigation is not about his death."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "It also strikes me, Drummond, that I had better remind you that Albert Tigerman is not not a suspect. Nor will he be treated like one. He is an important man, a busy man. He has agreed to meet with you out of courtesy." He added, "You will have five minutes." a suspect. Nor will he be treated like one. He is an important man, a busy man. He has agreed to meet with you out of courtesy." He added, "You will have five minutes."

Bian protested, "Sir, five minutes is--"

"Is more than enough. Choose your questions wisely. In fact, I'm coming with you. Step over the line, and I'll gladly terminate the interview."

I said, "What are you afraid of, Waterbury?"

"Deal with it, Drummond." He stood. "Follow me."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Albert Tigerman's office was located on the second floor of the E-ring--the outermost ring--which, within this building, is the equivalent of a beachside condo on the Cte d'Azur.

Grand t.i.tles are the coin of the realm in Washington, and particularly among political appointees--many of whom paid a fortune for these jobs--the t.i.tle at least has to sound sound impressive. It can get fairly confusing, and even annoying, as there is this bewildering array of deputy this and a.s.sistant that, with the ever-popular stringing together of two or more of these prefixes, and a flowering of suffixes on the caboose to tell you what the guy actually does. So you get things like the Deputy a.s.sistant Under Secretary of Defense for Facilities Management and Building Restoration. Translation: janitor. impressive. It can get fairly confusing, and even annoying, as there is this bewildering array of deputy this and a.s.sistant that, with the ever-popular stringing together of two or more of these prefixes, and a flowering of suffixes on the caboose to tell you what the guy actually does. So you get things like the Deputy a.s.sistant Under Secretary of Defense for Facilities Management and Building Restoration. Translation: janitor.

I would limit everybody to one prefix, one suffix, and fire the rest. If it takes more than four syllables to describe your job, there is no job. Period.

But the danger is, when you meet one of these clowns with a multisyllabic t.i.tle, you don't know whether you're dealing with a superfluous taxmuncher or somebody who can really mess up your paycheck. Generally, the more prefixes, the less they can hurt you. Not always, though.

Anyway, the office of Albert Tigerman, Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Policy, was located on the most prestigious wing, and on the most prestigious floor, a mere six doors from his lordship, the Secretary of Defense. If proximity is influence, this guy had his tongue deep in the boss's ear.

Waterbury gently eased open that door and we entered an anteroom where a pert, efficient-looking young a.s.sistant was hidden behind a large wooden desk covered by a forest of computers and phones.

She looked up, and Waterbury said to her, "Please inform Al that we're here for his six-thirty. He's expecting us."

"I know." She lifted the phone, punched a few numbers, and said, "The OSI people are here." She listened and hung up. "He'll be a few minutes. Please have a seat."

I mentioned to Waterbury, "Wow . . . chairs. This guy's a managerial p.u.s.s.y."

He tried to ignore me.

Bian, I noted, had retreated into a sort of meek silence. From my dealings with her this seemed out of character, though I thought I knew what was behind it. She was using me as a foil for the idiot she worked for, which was politically shrewd, and possibly even entertaining for her, and probably dangerous for me.

Well, whatever her reason, she wasn't in a talkative mood, and I wasn't being paid enough to chitchat with Waterbury. What would we talk about, anyway--how many people you can fit inside a boxcar?

So the three of us were seated, somewhat awkwardly, on a stiff leather couch with a coffee table to our front. Neatly organized on that table was a thick stack of magazines I quickly browsed through for something to kill the time. Unfortunately, they all had such interesting t.i.tles as Foreign Affairs Foreign Affairs, the New Republic New Republic, Orbis...o...b..s, the Economist Economist, and such. I wondered, did the man inside the office actually read this stuff? Probably yes--and probably Albert spent his weekends watching C-SPAN and gardening, and his children rode horses and played squash, and his wife was on a first-name basis with all the helpful salesladies at Bloomingdale's. My lower-middle-cla.s.s sn.o.bbery aside, I didn't think Mr. Tigerman and Mr. Drummond drank the same brand of beer.

So, with nothing better to do, I spent my time reviewing what I knew about this man we were about to meet. Before we departed my building to drop in on Theresa Daniels, Bian had made a trip to the powder room, and I had made a trip on the Internet to see what I could discover about our presumptive host. I located his official CV on the Defense Department Web site and, a few entries later, a more enlightening article from Washington Insider Washington Insider that fleshed out the juicier personal parts. that fleshed out the juicier personal parts.

Chronologically, he was born in the year 1946, in the city of Boston, on the better side of town, to a wealthy family. What followed was a prototypical northeastern rich boy's pa.s.sage to adulthood: St. Paul's prep, Yale, Yale Law, then a fast-track partnership at a top New York firm. Not exactly a Horatio Alger, rags-to-riches tale; his was the more archetypal American riches-to-riches struggle. I love this country.

Anyway, over the proceeding thirty years, Albert had bounded between Washington jobs when Republicans were in power, and back to the New York money mill when not. Along the way, he acquired a venerated reputation as a defense intellectual.

Regarding this term--"defense intellectual"--for the life of me, I wouldn't recognize one if he pontificated on my lap or blew a brilliant opinion in my ear. For one thing, war is hardly an intellectual exercise; it's visceral, not cerebral, a contest of wills settled by pounding the c.r.a.p out of each other until one guy screams uncle.

But, from the best I can tell, you get to be a defense intellectual by attending a lot of windbag conferences and writing scholarly articles that employ big theoretical and largely abstract expressions to describe small ideas. The battlefield lab work is left to somebody else.

But, well . . . shame on me for being so small-minded toward my host. I'm sure Albert's heart was in the right place. I might feel better about him, however, if I thought he could distinguish an M1A1 tank from an M1A2 as their treads crushed his shiny Beemer in the Pentagon parking lot.

Also, according to a number of articles I had read, Albert Tiger-man and his boss, Thomas Hirschfield, were now in a bit of a jam because they were publicly credited with being the intellectual and bureaucratic forefathers of a war that had run a little longer than they predicted, gotten a lot messier than they had foretold, with casualty lists that were large--with no end in sight.

As Bian mentioned, this was Albert's second time in the Pentagon, in both incarnations working with and under his longtime mentor, Thomas Hirschfield.

Tigerman's door opened, and I looked up. A pair of Air Force generals walked out, thick briefing binders under their arms, and they ignored us, as military folk tend to do toward civilians, which I wasn't, though I was dressed like one. The a.s.sistant waited two beats, then said, "You may now enter."

We followed Herr Waterbury into the office, and three feet inside the doorway Albert Tigerman was standing waiting, like a perched bird. His hand shot out to Waterbury.

I took a moment to study our host and was a little surprised to observe that he was not even remotely impressive-looking--short, slightly pudgy, silver-haired, with thick horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, sort of a fleshy, characterless face, and a small, pinched mouth. I'm embarra.s.sed to admit, he looked like a lawyer.

He finished shaking Waterbury's hand, saying, "Mark . . . d.a.m.ned good to see you again. I hear you're doing d.a.m.n fine work up there."

I watched their faces and I knew. What a load of c.r.a.p. This was not the first time these two were together that day.

There was a long, telling hesitation before Waterbury, unaccustomed as he was to slyness, replied, "Well . . . it's always a pleasure to see you, too, Al. I'm . . . sorry the occasion is such grim business."

"Can't be helped, can it?" Turning to Bian and me, Tigerman announced, "And you must be Drummond and Tran."

Who else would we be?

Bian said to him, "Sir, let me start by thanking you for taking this time out of your busy schedule to see us."

Not wanting him to get the misimpression that I I regarded this as a big favor, I immediately said, "If you don't mind, sir, we'd like to start." I added, "I'm sure you are very busy. In fact, Waterbury told us our time is limited to five minutes." regarded this as a big favor, I immediately said, "If you don't mind, sir, we'd like to start." I added, "I'm sure you are very busy. In fact, Waterbury told us our time is limited to five minutes."

I was sort of hoping he would say, "That a.s.s Waterbury said what what? . . . Why, a good man, a man who worked for me, a lifelong public servant, is dead under mysterious circ.u.mstances--of course you can take all the time you want or need." But he did not say that. He pointed at a short conference table near the window. "Is over there okay?"

Over there was fine, and we moved to the table. Tigerman sat at the head, Waterbury took the seat to his right, and Bian and I sat across from him.

Tigerman squirmed around in his seat for a moment, then leaned across the table and said, "Mark tells me one of our people died. How d.a.m.ned unfortunate."

Bian replied, "The employee's name was Clifford Daniels. He was a GS-12, and for the past three years he worked here, in your organization. We a.s.sumed you knew him."

"Yes . . . yes, maybe I recall the name. I'm sure I would recognize his face if I saw him." He removed his gla.s.ses from his nose and a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lens. "It's d.a.m.ned unfortunate, really . . ."

After a moment, Bian asked, "What's unfortunate, sir?"

"This organization--the Office of the Under Secretary . . ."

"What about it?"

"We have a total of some nine hundred people. As much as you would like to know all of these fine people . . ." He raised his gla.s.ses in a pedantic gesture of helplessness. "Well . . . how did he . . . this, uh, Mr. Daniels . . . how did he . . . you know?"

"That's still under investigation," I informed him.

Waterbury said, "Suicide. Blew his brains out."

"I see." Tigerman tapped his fingers on the table. "Again, Mr. Drummond, how can I . . . What?"

"We just have a few questions. Background stuff." I smiled. "Major Tran won't be reading you your rights or anything."

He smiled back. "So it's perfectly harmless?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

We stared at each other.

I said, "Two weeks ago, Daniels received a notice to appear next week before the House Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee. Were you . . . aware of this?"

"Well . . . let me think . . ." He then spent a brief moment pretending to think. "Yes . . . I believe I was. Several of our people have gotten these summons. It's d.a.m.ned unfortunate . . ."

"Unfortunate?"

"You know . . ." He looked at me, trying to calibrate how much bulls.h.i.t to throw in my direction. "Washington is a rough-andtumble town, always has been . . . but with this war, with the political polarization on the Hill, with the election heat, and of course the loud carping from the liberal media . . ."