Part 23 (1/2)
Don's face registered a s.h.i.+fting mixture of bewilderment and frustration, and eventually settled at resentment. He got to his feet and stood a moment. ”I'd like to be kept in the loop about this investigation. Actually, I . . . I need to be kept aware. This is important to us . . . to me. You know that.”
Phyllis replied, somewhat cruelly, ”You'll hear from me at the appropriate moment.”
The confidence seemed to drain out of him. For a long moment he maintained eye contact with Phyllis. He opened his mouth and started to say something, thought better of it, and then spun around and left.
Bian and I remained perfectly still as the door closed loudly behind Don, and as Phyllis returned to her seat behind the desk. She folded her hands in front of her and stared at her desktop, sphinxlike.
Eventually she deigned to speak. ”Which of you would like to hazard a guess at what this is all about?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bian rose to that challenge and replied, ”Don is . . . No, he was was the head of the exploitation cell for the Iranian transcripts.” the head of the exploitation cell for the Iranian transcripts.”
Phyllis nodded. ”Yes. On both counts.” She looked at me and said, somewhat crossly, ”You shouldn't have taunted and humiliated him that way.” She added, ”We've put him through h.e.l.l these past three months. The poor man has virtually walked around with a lie detector connected to his tail.”
”I handled him as I would any witness who might be lying, quibbling, and withholding.” I added, ”People without last names bother me.”
”I know why why you did it. That's why I'm having doubts about you. This is not a criminal case, nor can it be treated in a legalistic manner. I really--” you did it. That's why I'm having doubts about you. This is not a criminal case, nor can it be treated in a legalistic manner. I really--”
”Excuse me--it's a murder case.”
She gave me one of those looks that suggested I was dancing on thin ice. ”Hear me out, Drummond. We are at war. In wars people do stupid things, even venal things, things that very often result in deaths. The lines between stupidity, inept.i.tude, gullibility, and criminal mischief become very fluid. Do you understand the distinctions?”
”Maybe.”
”Maybe won't do.” She examined me a moment, and I had the sense the ice was cracking. ”You're a soldier, and for various reasons I would prefer to keep you on this investigation. But for the same reasons I'm now experiencing reservations. Do you understand what I'm talking about?”
”I don't exactly . . .” Care.
She turned to Bian, who apparently was guilty by a.s.sociation. ”Do you understand, Major?”
Bian replied noncommittally, ”A fuller explanation might clear up any misunderstandings.”
”All right.” Phyllis studied us both a moment. Her fingers, I noted, were clutched and looked fidgety, for her, the equivalent of a hysterical fit.
I thought I knew why, and also I thought it best to hear her out. She informed us, ”I've been in this agency or its predecessor through seven or eight wars. World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Grenada, Panama, two Gulf wars--fill in the blanks. Were you to closely scrutinize any of these wars, were you to look past the sepia-tinted memories and turn over all the rocks in this town, you would discover a dismaying array of bad decisions, mistakes, misimpressions, incompetence, and in a few cases, outright lunacy. Many tens of thousands of lives were wasted. The historians know barely a quarter of it. I was here, I saw it firsthand, and I doubt I know the half of it. But bad things happen in wars, and had those things become exposed to the public during during those wars, our history books might . . . well, they those wars, our history books might . . . well, they would would look quite different.” look quite different.”
”I'm still confused.”
”Nothing is black and white here.”
”I'm a lawyer, Phyllis. We invented moral relativity. I don't need this lecture.”
”And I don't need a legal gunslinger,” she snapped. ”The mission of this agency is not law enforcement, it's intelligence. I'm suggesting a little . . . moral patience.”
”Don't need that either.”
”Well . . . what do you need?”
I thought I now understood where this was going and replied, ”Cliff Daniels committed a very heinous mistake, one that may have crossed over to a crime--possibly several crimes--including espionage and possibly treason. We have the paper trail of his misdeeds. Also, we have two high-level officials, Albert Tigerman and Thomas Hirschfield, who possibly knew about this crime, who possibly ordered or condoned it, and who possibly were coconspirators, or, at the very least, have embarked on a cover-up. Not to be overlooked, there has also been a murder and they are also suspects in that crime. I hope this is not news to you--each of these things have sections and t.i.tles dedicated to them in the federal statutes.”
She smiled patiently, as if she was humoring me. ”That's a lot of possiblys. What would you have us do?”
”What the law requires requires. Call in the FBI. Let them chat with a federal judge, and do what they do best--read people their rights, threaten, bust nuts, kick down doors, cut deals, until somebody squeals. It might surprise you, but regarding federal crimes, there actually are laws and tested procedures that usually get results.”
My sarcasm apparently struck a nerve, because she replied, ”I believe I have a little experience in these matters, having lived through it three or four dozen times.”
”And may I say that this agency has a wonderful record of handling it right every time.”
Her eyes narrowed. She took a long breath, then said, ”Use your critical faculties as an attorney--how would you describe the evidence?”
”I don't understand the question.”
”I think you do.”
”Then why ask me me?”
”Weak and inconclusive, right?”
”Well . . . yes, and--”
”And to compensate for that lack of material evidence, I'm sure you have a long list of willing and credible witnesses.”
”You know I--”
”And you should know that the instant anybody calls the FBI, the administration will throw a s.h.i.+eld of executive privilege over everything involved in this matter. Of course it will be challenged, and of course the courts--after all, we are at war--will uphold the administration's claim. In twenty-five or fifty years, the cla.s.sifications will expire and we'll finally get to the bottom of this.”
I said, ”Maybe.”
Phyllis looked annoyed. ”Where are the maybes?”
Bian, who had been sitting and listening to us bicker and debate these weighty issues of right versus wrong, of legal procedure versus seat-of-your-pants bulls.h.i.+t, chose this moment to observe, ”I think she's right.”
This statement annoyed me a lot, coming as it did at such a pivotal moment; no less from a military police officer; no less from a comrade in arms; and last and not least, from my putative partner.
Partners are supposed to back each other up. Right? I was really p.i.s.sed and I looked at Bian. ”I don't remember asking what you think.”
”Don't use that tone with me,” she snapped. ”I told you before, I don't like to be condescended to.”
I studied her a moment. Now she was really p.i.s.sed. I could tell.
”I'm sorry.”
”Try it again and you'll be sorrier.”
My goodness. But Phyllis quickly swooped down on her new ally and asked Bian, ”Why am I right?” am I right?”