by Brian Haig
In the end, as Freudians say, it’s all about ego, and in my experience, self-made types are particularly susceptible to an omnivorous sense of self-worth.
So now we were past the early years, the marriage, the house, the two children, and Theresa, now past her fourth gin, was starting to slur and giggle at inappropriate moments. She said, “Throughout the seventies he was on the Iranian desk. In 1982 he was shifted to the Iraqi section, a real backwater. He thought it was the end of the world. Nobody cared about Iraq. Back then, Iran was the career-maker, and as I said, Cliff knew Farsi. He complained bitterly to his bosses and they claimed that’s where they needed him.”
Incidentally, Bian’s questions seemed more oriented toward their marriage and family life, which, I think, is one of those X versus Y chromosome deals. I, being a male, am confident that life’s mysteries and puzzles are all rooted in money, power, and lust. Men and women investigators bring different things to the party, but it seems to work out.
Predictably, Bian asked, “How did this affect your marriage?”
“If anything, Cliff became a more attentive husband, a better father. He always worked long hours . . . he began to scale back. He coached Little League, learned to play golf, spent more time with the kids.”
She lit another cigarette and drew a long breath. “The eighties were good for us. Happy years. He was professionally bitter, but our marriage was healthy. No fights, no stresses.” After a moment, she added, “Until 1991.”
“When Iraq invaded Kuwait,” I guessed.
“You’ve got it.”
“What happened then?” Bian asked.
“The beginning of the end . . . or maybe the end of the beginning. Those thoughts are so interchangeable, don’t you think?”
No, I didn’t think, and I found it instructive that she would.
“What were those problems?” Bian prodded.
“A lot of things came together. Midlife crisis . . . job dissatisfaction . . . I don’t know. Something inside Cliff snapped.”
Bian, who had obviously been paying attention, suggested, “Or was reawakened.”
Theresa took another long sip. “He was one of the few men in Washington who knew anything about Saddam. About Iraq. Ironic, if you think about it. The very thing that got him stuck in quicksand suddenly vaulted him into great demand everywhere. He briefed Schwarzkopf, Powell, and Cheney. He visited the White House a number of times.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately fired up another. “Overnight, he was briefing the Joint Chiefs of Staff, eating lunches in the White House mess, being flown on government jets to Tampa and Kuwait, getting calls in the middle of the night from reporters begging for tips and insights.”
I remembered a pithy quote and told her, “Our virtues are most frequently but vices in disguise.”
This was a little too philosophical for a lady on her fourth gin, and she glanced at me with frustration and maybe annoyance. “I’m just saying he wasn’t equipped to handle it. For nine months, he was at the center of the storm . . . that was the play on words he liked to use. Then it suddenly ended.”
“Because the war ended?” I suggested.
“Why else?”
“Was he disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” She contemplated this question a moment, then asked, “Are you an ambitious man, Mr. Drummond?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“Is it?” She blew a long plume of smoke in my direction.
Bian commented to her, “He’s a man and a lawyer. What did you expect? Introspective questions confuse him.”
They both laughed. This was funny?
Theresa stopped laughing, and opined to Bian, “I’ll bet that’s why he’s not married. That’s not a criticism, incidentally. Before he marries, a man should understand his ambition.” She looked at me. “Do you understand what I’m talking about, Mr. Drummond?”
“Well, I . . .” No, and I didn’t care.
She turned back to Bian. “We had children, for Godsakes. A home, a good marriage. Wasn’t that enough? . . .” and so on for another minute or so.
Suddenly, I found myself trapped in an extended episode of General Hospital. I offered Mrs. Daniels a sympathetic smile and eyed the exit.
Fortunately, Bian changed the channel and got us back to the good stuff. She suggested to Theresa, “You’re telling us he had a taste and he wasn’t going to relinquish it.”
“In his own words, he wasn’t going to slink back into the muck of anonymity. He had big ideas, big ambitions . . . big-shot new friends.”
Bian seemed to know where this was going and said, “Albert Tiger-man and Thomas Hirschfield—that’s who you’re referring to, right?”
Theresa nodded.
Bian explained for my benefit, “Hirschfield and Tigerman both held senior Pentagon jobs during the first Gulf War. When that administration ended, Hirschfield went to a Washington think tank, and Tiger-man returned to his law firm. As you know, now they’re back in the Pentagon.”
I remarked, “But they were out of power during most of the nineties.”
Bian said, “You mean they were no longer connected to a President. They still had Republicans on the Hill, the Republican Party itself, the web of Republican think tanks . . . Heritage Foundation, et cetera.” She observed, “Out of power these days is an illusion.”
I guess I knew what she meant. Like musical chairs, the winners take over the government buildings and the losers move a few blocks away into the office space recently vacated by the winners, where they proceed to cash in on their fame, connections, and influence. They collect great gobs of money and connive and hatch plots to get back into power so they can go back to residing in crappier government offices, making less money and working longer hours. How can anybody vote for people who think like this?
Bian turned to Theresa and asked a very good question. “Exactly how did Cliff remain connected to these men?”
“Well . . . as you might remember, Iraq stayed in the news over those years. There was the attempt on President Bush’s life in Kuwait, the UN sanctions, our Air Force planes constantly being shot at . . . Would you like me to recount the entire history? It dominated our lives for over a decade.”
I assured her we would check it ourselves, thank you.
She continued, “Everything became ridiculously hush-hush when he was home. Which wasn’t often. But Albert Tigerman called the house a lot.”
“Do you know what they talked about?” Bian asked.
“As I said, Cliff never shared it.” She waved her glass around the cramped kitchen and house. “But how could I not overhear what Cliff was saying?”
She paused to fire up another cigarette, and Bian and I stared at her expectantly.
Eventually she said, “They were like some silly cabal. They believed Saddam needed to be overthrown. Cliff, as a career civil servant, was still on the inside, still able to influence perceptions and to work actions inside the administration. Tigerman and Hirschfield were the thinkers. Cliff became their tool. They exploited him.”
I asked, “They were using him, or was he using them?”
She gave me a look, like I had asked a dumb question. “He was way out of his league with those two.”
“How?”
“Well . . . I wouldn’t know the particulars, would I? I’ll tell you this, though. Very often, after they spoke, he went on long overseas trips.”
“Where?”
“Sometimes Europe, sometimes the Middle East.”
“What did he do on these trips?”
“I think they were putting him in contact with various Arabs. I suppose Iraqis . . . people willing to help overthrow Saddam.”
“Was Cliff freelancing or were these trips authorized?”
“I can only tell you we weren’t paying for it. I suppose DIA for some reason authorized and financed his travel.”
This was curious, but I thought I understood the underlying reasons. I recalled
that in the mid- to late nineties, the previous administration had ordered the intelligence community to engineer an effort to dethrone Saddam. Unfortunately, my knowledge of the details was somewhat sketchy. And, knowing my CIA friends, everybody now had an onset of amnesia. It must be something in the water at Langley. I mean, these people can’t even remember what color socks they’re wearing.
From news reports around that period, however, I recalled that there had been an effort, sometime in the mid-nineties, to bribe a bunch of high-level Iraqi generals to overthrow Saddam. Saddam somehow got wind of it and the generals were subsequently invited over to his house for a barbecue and swim party—half the generals got put on spits and were barbecued, the other half got to paddle around the pool with Saddam’s pet alligators.
I vaguely recalled reading about other attempts as well, mostly halfassed affairs, employing Kurds or Iraqi expats, all of which came to naught and were swiftly and quietly aborted. Usually Agency people are pretty good at this kind of thing—practice makes perfect as they say—so it was a tribute to Saddam’s paranoia that, this time, good wasn’t good enough. I mentioned some of this to Theresa, then asked, “Was Cliff involved in any of these efforts?”
“I’m sure he was.”
“And Hirschfield and Tigerman? Were they also involved?”
“They helped . . . in the wings, advising him . . . I think helping him plot and putting him in touch with various Iraqis who might be useful.”
“Why? By that I mean why would they become implicated in these affairs? It wasn’t their watch.”
“Ask them.”
“What was Cliff’s motive?” I remembered to add, “I can’t ask him.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
It was, but I needed to hear her say it. “Tell me.”
After a moment she said to me, “We’re back to ambition, Mr. Drummond.”
Bian asked, “Meaning there was a quid pro quo from Hirschfield and Tigerman, right?”
Theresa nodded. “Put it this way. The moment the new administration took over, Cliff was pulled out of DIA, given a promotion, and was hired to work for them at the Pentagon.”
“What kind of work?”
“We were separated by then. Talking through lawyers. I wouldn’t know.”
We were now edging into hearsay, which was informative and even juicy, though not necessarily accurate. I checked my watch—4:30 p.m. If we hurried, it might be possible to arrange an interview with Hirschfield, or possibly Tigerman, or possibly both. But there remained one nagging question, and I asked Theresa, “Can you think of any reason Cliff would kill himself?”
She mulled this over for a long period. Eventually she said, “You remember I told you that Cliff was already dead?”
I nodded.
“About five, maybe six years ago, he began . . . self-destructing. It wasn’t an overnight thing. Just gradually, he changed.”
“How?”
“I think . . . you have to understand, he was essentially a desk jockey at DIA. The most adventurous thing he did was to drive home on the beltway. I know this sounds . . . maybe crazy, maybe nutty . . . but Cliff began to think he was a character in a movie. Like James Bond.”
She was right, it did sound crazy, and nutty, and I suppose that showed on my face.
She immediately said, “No . . . not literally, Mr. Drummond.”
“Then how about unliterally?”
“The undercover work, the trips, the involvement in espionage, the clandestine meetings in the Kasbah . . . you know what I’m talking about?”
She was staring at me as though I, a male, would have a proprietary chromosonal insight into this cryptic accusation. Actually, I did know and replied, “He was seduced by the adventure and excitement.”
“Seduced? . . . No—consumed. He changed, became moody, sneaky . . . but also short-fused, testy, self-absorbed, full of himself. You asked about that pistol earlier.” She stared into her drink. “When he brought it home and showed it to me . . . I knew then he had lost it.”
“Lost what?”
“Interest in the house. In the kids. In me. He was so proud of that damned gun.” She looked at Bian and confided, “He came back from trips, and I could tell . . . I could just tell . . .”
“He was having an affair?” Bian suggested.
“An affair? . . .” She laughed bitterly.
I gave her a moment to get it out of her system, then asked, “Would you happen to know the names of the women he slept with?”
“You’ll need a thicker notebook.” She laughed. “If it couldn’t outrun him, he fucked it.”
Neither Bian nor I commented on this sordid revelation. Sexual betrayal is, of course, the most ubiquitous cause for divorce, and Theresa had already confided to us that infidelity provided the legal foundation filed by her attorney. There are many reasons husbands cheat on wives, and wives cheat on husbands, nearly all of which boil down to boredom, weak libidos, revenge, or narcissistic lust. Well, unless you’re French; then the whole reason for marriage is to have illicit affairs. But in English-speaking lands, we tend to have a lot more hang-ups about sex.
This, however, sounded like something more, something deeper, more twisted. Also, Tim, the forensics examiner, had mentioned hair traces from two or possibly three different females. Added to the overall feng shui at the crime scene, it all hinted at some kind of sexual shenanigans.
I tuned back in, and Theresa was confiding to Bian, “I knew it was happening. I followed him one night to a local motel. I got pictures of him with some woman. You know what really hurt? She wasn’t even pretty. In fact, she had a big fat butt.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, and I didn’t mean about the fat butt.
Not to be uncharitable, but as I looked around—at this suffocating house, at Theresa groping her fifth gin, at the unchanging neighborhood—and added to that mixture a stale and frustrated professional life, I thought Cliff Daniels was an accident waiting to happen. I could see a man trapped in this professional and marital quagmire committing suicide. But I could not see a man who had escaped into a new life—who had put this behind him—taking that drastic step.
To a greater or lesser extent, we all lead lives of quiet desperation; metaphysically and, often in reality,we’re all lined up at the convenience store counter, praying for that lucky lottery ticket that will change our lives. Men, of course, will settle for a lovely nymphomaniac who’s a football fanatic and owns her own beer company. We’re pigs.
I asked Mrs. Daniels, “Incidentally, was Cliff left- or right-handed?”
“Right-handed. Why?”
“Just one of those weird statistics we’re required to keep about human proclivities.” I smiled. “You know the federal government— building a great society one statistic at a time.” I added, “Maybe you can help with another statistic. It’s . . . well . . . a little uncomfortable. Did Cliff ever exhibit any tendency toward homosexuality?”
“Haven’t you been listening, Mr. Drummond? The man was a raging heterosexual.”
“Of course.”
I glanced at Bian. She quietly nodded, and clearly she understood why I asked. Were this murder, the suspect pool had just been cut in half.
After a moment, I again asked Theresa, “Why would Cliff kill himself?”
“You’re asking the wrong question.” She put her back against the sink and exhaled. “Why wouldn’t he kill himself?”
CHAPTER NINE
I went out and started the car while Bian stood by the curb and used her cell phone to call and ask her boss, Oberst Waterbury, to persuade either Hirschfield or Tigerman—or better still, both—to clear a little time on their schedules.
She climbed into the passenger seat and said, “He’ll take care of it.” She looked at me. “What do you think?”
“I need fresh air.”
“Her life needs fresh air.” She suggested, “So let’s start with her.”
“You mean, is she a suspect?”
&n
bsp; “She’s not. We both know that, don’t we? But she’ll have happy dreams tonight, imagining she did it. My sense is she wrote him out of her life.” She reconsidered her words and said, “That’s not exactly true. He was her boogeyman, the fount of all her miseries and unhappiness. Now she’ll miss him. You know?”
“I know.”
“But is she credible? Bitter people make poor witnesses.”
“She’s very credible about what counts, and her bitterness is justified.”
“You believe she deserves sympathy?”
“I sure do. She built a life and a family around this guy. He turned into an asshole.”
“There’s a stylish elegy. Can I borrow it for my write-up?”
“You should hear my court summations. Come early. Long lines, and the ticket scalpers make a killing.”
“I’ll bet you’re very . . . entertaining.” She thought for a moment, then observed, “We only heard her side of the tale. Every divorce has two sides.”
“Good point. If you think of a way we can hear his side, be sure to let me know.”
She shook her head. I can be annoying.
I said, “It’s an old story with many titles: the starter wife, the first-wife syndrome, middle-age idiotitis. Cliff wasn’t very complicated or hard to understand. He wanted to be something he wasn’t—dashing, dangerous, mysterious, sexually alluring. Theresa and the kids were part of the old, lesser, disappointing him.”
“You make him sound very shallow.”
“A lot of men harbor secret dreams of being James Bond, but they wake up and see George Smiley staring back from the mirror.” I added, after a moment, “Men have two brains in constant warfare over the body’s blood supply. When one wins, the other shuts down.”
“It’s that simple?”
“It’s that simple.”
“I see.”
