Man In The Middle Part 3

"Does the silencer strike you as odd?"

"I leave the conclusions to the detectives."

"As you should. Except I'm asking your opinion."

"Yes. It is unusual." In fact, I was sure Tim regarded it as more than unusual--even suspicious--though, sucked inexorably back into his...o...b..t of qualifiers and modifiers, he suggested, "You could postulate, I suppose, that the victim didn't want to disturb his neighbors. A final act of courtesy, so to speak. Or he didn't want to be discovered. I've seen suicides where the victim went to great lengths to avoid attention."

"I see." Sometimes it's the little things. Essentially, in almost every way this looked looked like a suicide; that is, every way but two. To begin with, that petrified expression on Daniels's face--eyes wide open, mouth contorted, a mixture of frozen shock and amazement. It's my impression that most people, in the millisecond before they blow a bullet through their own flesh, reflexively shut their eyes, purse their lips, and contract their facial muscles--this is going to hurt, a lot, and the mind and the body respond instinctively, even reflexively, toward the antic.i.p.ation of pain. like a suicide; that is, every way but two. To begin with, that petrified expression on Daniels's face--eyes wide open, mouth contorted, a mixture of frozen shock and amazement. It's my impression that most people, in the millisecond before they blow a bullet through their own flesh, reflexively shut their eyes, purse their lips, and contract their facial muscles--this is going to hurt, a lot, and the mind and the body respond instinctively, even reflexively, toward the antic.i.p.ation of pain.

Ergo, shock and surprise seemed wrong. After all, the act of suicide was his his idea. Relief, anger, sadness, pain--these, or some combination of these, are the expressions one would expect on his death mask. idea. Relief, anger, sadness, pain--these, or some combination of these, are the expressions one would expect on his death mask.

Plus, the silencer was was weird. If I a.s.sumed the pistol was Clifford's weapon, silencers are hard to come by, expensive, and, even for radical gun lovers, an unusual accessory. I mean, gun nuts live for the big booms. No, silencers are an instrument of a.s.sa.s.sins. weird. If I a.s.sumed the pistol was Clifford's weapon, silencers are hard to come by, expensive, and, even for radical gun lovers, an unusual accessory. I mean, gun nuts live for the big booms. No, silencers are an instrument of a.s.sa.s.sins.

Neither of these incongruities was entirely dissuasive of suicide, and neither alone implied murder. Taken together, however, they raised doubts, and doubts are like termites; ignore them at your own peril.

I was about to ask Tim another question when I heard footsteps. I turned around in time to see Major Bian Tran, accompanied by a tall, lanky black gentleman in a tweed blazer, walk through the doorway into the bedroom. The gentleman looked amazingly like that actor who played Alex Cross in Along Came a Spider Along Came a Spider, down to the pockmarked face, high cheekbones, salt-and-pepper hair, and thoughtful brown eyes. Weird.

The gentleman was staring at me with a p.i.s.sed-off expression. Major Tran, also with an eye on me, had an amused squint.

CHAPTER THREE

The gentleman marched straight up to me and asked two direct questions I did not want to hear: "Who the h.e.l.l are you? And what in the f.u.c.k are you doing at my crime scene?"

I withdrew my creds and flashed them in his face. "Special Agent Drummond."

He snapped the creds out of my hand and studied them for a moment. I had the impression he knew I was full of s.h.i.t.

"Who are you you?" I asked.

"Detective Sergeant Barry Enders. This is my investigation."

I shifted my attention to Major Tran. She was apparently preoccupied, because she avoided my eyes.

Enders pocketed my creds and said, "Look, Drummond--if that's your real name--you logged into a crime scene using a phony federal ID, you entered the premises, and lied to my investigators. Let's see, that's"--he began drawing down fingers--"impersonating a federal officer . . . trespa.s.sing . . . interfering with a police investigation, and . . . give me a minute--I'll think of three or four additional charges."

He reached down to his belt and whipped out a pair of metal cuffs, apparently not needing another minute.

I looked at Tran, and this time she returned my stare; actually, she smiled.

"What's going on here?"

Tran informed me, "No veteran agent comes to an indoor homicide without disinfectant. Rookies make that mistake--once. Cause for suspicion, right? So when I stepped out, I asked Barry what he knew about you."

Enders said, "And guess what, smart-a.s.s? There is no FBI liaison at the Arlington Police Department."

To Tran I said, "You're sharper than you look."

"Actually, you just weren't that clever." She added, "We called FBI headquarters and asked them to confirm the employment of Special Agent Sean Drummond. Would you like to guess what they said?"

I did not need to guess, and anyway, Enders weighed in again. "So let's start with your rights. You have the--"

"I have the right not to hear my rights."

"Ah, h.e.l.l . . . a funny guy. Who are you? A reporter?"

I ignored that insult. "Write down this number."

"Why?"

"Do as you're told, Detective. Now."

He stared back. Clearly he and I were in a macho p.i.s.sing contest; we would either stare at each other forever or somebody had to take a swing. Women are better at this; they smile, say something nice and conciliatory, and get revenge later.

But Tran withdrew a pencil and notebook from her pocket and said, "Give me the number."

She copied as I said, "Local, 555-4290. Call and ask what you should do with me."

Enders, taking a threatening step in my direction, insisted, "The next call anybody's making around here will be you--from lockup. Hands up for the cuffs."

"Don't be stupid, make the call."

Tran, who had already shown she was clever and alert, put a hand on Enders's arm and advised, "I don't see how it can hurt."

Reluctantly, he took a step back, then flipped open his cell and dialed as Bian read him the number.

I waited patiently as he listened to the phone ring, then somebody answered, and he identified himself, then explained his problem--moi--and, after a long moment, he said, "And how do I know you're who you claim . . . Uh-huh . . . okay . . . Yes ma'am . . . Uhhuh." He looked at me and listened for a long moment. "No, no need, ma'am . . . Yeah, that would be acceptable . . . Yes, in fact, he's standing right here."

He handed me the phone and rubbed his ear. To Tran he said, somewhere between impressed and annoyed, "This guy's CIA. That was the a.s.sistant to the Director." Then, to me, "She wants a word with you."

s.h.i.t. I took the phone from Enders and stared at it, while I toyed with the idea of just punching off.

The lady on the other end, Ms. Phyllis Carney, was my presumptive boss, an elderly lady with the looks and bearing of a fairy-tale grandmother and the avuncular temperament of the Big Bad Wolf. About eighty, and thus long past mandatory retirement, which showed she was either irreplaceable at her job, or she knows the apartment number where the chairman of the House Intelligence Oversight Subcommittee keeps his mistress. Probably both--Phyllis doesn't like loose ends.

Her official t.i.tle is Special a.s.sistant to the Director of Central Intelligence, an amorphous designation, which seems to suit her fine. I had been working for her for six months and had yet to figure out exactly what she does, or who she is. You feel you know her, and on the surface you do. At the same time, something about her is chronically elusive, a maddening mystique, as our writer friends might say. But partly her job is to cover her boss's b.u.t.t, a Sisyphean task in a democratic land such as ours, where the head spook is always distrusted by the President, despised by the press, pilloried by the left, demonized by the right, and at any given moment is the object of no less than thirty ongoing congressional investigations and inquiries.

It said something about Phyllis that her boss chose her for this punishing and thankless task. It said something more that she accepted it when her high school cla.s.smates were either six feet under or dodging skin cancer and hurricanes in America's elephant dying grounds.

She must've been a good choice, however, because her boss was already the second-longest-serving Director in a job where few occupants are around long enough to have overdue books at the library.

Enders reminded me, "Drummond . . . the phone. Your boss."

I actually like Phyllis. She's courtly and well-mannered in that nice, old-fashioned way, and also businesslike and intelligent. At times, too, I think she actually likes me. However, spooks and soldiers have a relationship that, to be charitable, is best characterized as complicated. Partly this is because Army folks, when not covering their own b.u.t.ts, live by the soldier's code, a credo that frowns upon such mannerisms as betrayal, deceit, sneakiness, and moral hedging. These of course are the very qualities that make the CIA the world-cla.s.s organization it is. But mostly, I think, we just don't trust each other.

Actually, I had no real cause to doubt this lady. And neither could I think of a single reason not to.

"Drummond," Enders barked, "you're wasting my county minutes."

I cleared my throat and put the phone to my ear. "Sorry for the wait. I was killing an international terrorist." Pause. "I strangled him with my bare hands. He really suffered. I knew you'd like that."

She made no reply, though I could hear her breathing heavily. I hate when women do that.

After a long moment I suggested, "Why don't I just hold this conversation with myself? At least I'll like the responses."

She answered, very tartly, "This is no laughing matter, Drummond. Do you know the cardinal sin in our business?"

I could tell she wanted to answer that, so I made no reply.

"You've just blown your cover." She said, "I shouldn't need to remind you that the CIA has no legal authority to investigate domestic homicides. If that detective decides to make a stink--"

"Thank you. I'm a lawyer. I understand."

"Are you? Well . . . Cucullus non facit monachum Cucullus non facit monachum."

Translated, the cowl does not make the monk. That really hurt. "Look, Phyllis--"

"No--you listen, I speak. Apologize to that detective. Kiss his . . . his f.a.n.n.y as much as it takes, then be gone. I promised him you'd depart immediately."

I glanced again at the briefcase by the foot of the bed. Bian Tran's eyes followed mine, and she smiled. I needed to even the score, and I knew how to do it.

I informed Phyllis, and by extension Enders and Tran, who were being rude and eavesdropping, "Of course. I'll just tell Enders you changed your mind."

"I . . . What?"

"Problem--? No . . . Detective Enders looks like a bright guy with good sense--"

"You'll explain nothing. I told you--"

"Complications? Just one. Call the Office of the Secretary of Defense."

"Drummond, are you listening to--"

"Exactly--what is is a military police officer doing in a civilian apartment building outside military jurisdiction and poking her nose into this?" a military police officer doing in a civilian apartment building outside military jurisdiction and poking her nose into this?"

Enders recognized something was amiss, and he was now staring with some annoyance at Tran. For some reason she had lost her smile. Actually, she looked p.i.s.sed.

Phyllis, also annoyed, was saying, "Drummond, you're out of your mind. The last thing we want--"

"Tell Jim . . . I mean, the Director . . . tell him we'll discuss this when I return." I punched off and handed the phone to Enders, who regarded me with newfound appreciation.

Major Tran also was looking at me, probably wondering how she was going to spend the rest of her day. She suggested to me, with a tiny note of apprehension, "We need to have a word. Alone."

Enders demanded, "What's going on here?"

I turned to Enders. "Understand that the victim was a Pentagon employee. He worked in a very sensitive office and possibly there are highly cla.s.sified materials in his briefcase. I suspect that's why the major is here." I gave Tran a pointed look and added, "I know that's why I'm here."

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I'm CIA. We lie."

He thought this was funny and chuckled.

I told him, "Don't touch that briefcase while Tran and I straighten this out."

She and I left and walked together through the living room, through the gla.s.s sliders, and outside onto the porch. It was narrow, not long, perhaps four feet, so we ended up about a foot apart, maybe less. Below us, Glebe Road was in its usual state of congested agony, and I pictured Cliff Daniels when he was still alive, standing where now we stood, c.o.c.ktail in hand, perhaps observing the swarm below, and also perhaps meditating upon the unhappy causes that would make him snuff out his own life. Rarely is suicide a spontaneous act, and I wondered what concoction of miseries and maladies convinced Cliff to remove himself from the gene pool.

Or perhaps Cliff never had that conversation with himself; maybe somebody had that conversation for him.

For a few moments neither Tran nor I said a word. Her arms were crossed and she was staring off into the distance at a mushy formation of c.u.mulus clouds that didn't look all that interesting. Despite this conversation being her idea, she was forcing me to make the first move.

So, to get this off on the right foot, I commented, "You ratted me out back there."

"Well . . . what can I say?"

"'I'm sorry'?"

"Screw off."

"Close enough." I smiled.

She shook her head. "All right . . . I'm sorry. Look, Sean--"

"Colonel Drummond to you, sister." Drummond to you, sister."

"You're--?" She looked at me with surprise, then disbelief. "Hold on--you've lied about your ident.i.ty once. And I'm supposed to believe you now?"

I opened my wallet and withdrew my military ID, which, as per regulations, I had only the week before updated to reflect my new rank and, more happily, my new paycheck. I allowed her a long moment to study it, and watched her expression shift from skeptical to irritated.

I slid the ID back into my wallet. She said, "I overheard you tell the lady on the phone that you're a lawyer. I . . . an Army lawyer at the Agency?"

"I didn't ask for this gig."

"Weird."

"Right." Of course higher rank is a license to bully, so wasting no time, I said, "Major, you have three seconds--what's going on here?"

"I told you."

"Tell me again. You have my permission to alter your story."

"Why would I change it?"