Part 7 (1/2)

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 a.s.shole. 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 a.n.a.l 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 f.u.c.k 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?” 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 that would be a felony.” 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 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.” 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.”

n.o.body 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 cla.s.sified.”

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?”