Part 14 (2/2)

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 lords.h.i.+p, 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 Was.h.i.+ngton Insider Was.h.i.+ngton 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 partners.h.i.+p 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 s.h.i.+ny 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. ”Was.h.i.+ngton 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 . . .”

<script>