by Brian Haig
There was a very unsettling problem with that scenario, though. Mr. Jones wasn’t a freelancer. Mr. Jones was here because General Clapper had officially requested NSA to assist my investigation. And Mr. Jones had the authority to waltz in and sequester the use of a fully functioning NSA field facility. And Mr. Jones had the resources to create false satellite images. I mean, I’d seen my share of satellite images, and the ones I just saw sure as hell looked like the genuine article. On the other hand, computer graphics being what they were these days, two expert analysts with a Sun microstation and CorelDRAW probably could have fabricated that product.
I wanted to kick myself for being such a gullible dumbass. I should have seen it. The con job was too perfect by half. First came that trumped-up explanation that no photographic satellites had passed over Zone Three, only a thermal imaging collector that spit out all those vague, unidentifiable little green dots. Then only two sets of film, both of which verified everything Sanchez and his men claimed. Then, voilà—Jones and his people just happened to have discovered those intercepted transcripts that just happened to solve the last great mystery about how those corpses got all those nasty little holes in their heads.
Of course, Jones could not have done this without help from someone inside my team. He knew every pressure point of our investigation, every area of doubt, every unresolved mystery. Well, all of them except one—the body count. But then, no one knew that I’d asked McAbee to prepare that particular article. Back at the morgue, McAbee and I were alone when we spoke about that. Delbert and Morrow were off in another corner together, comparing notes. Therefore Jones and his people had probably applied that old tried-and-true, well-studied maxim that for every man killed in battle, there are usually one or two wounded. Jones just split it right down the middle and made it one survivor for every corpse. Only problem is, when it comes to ambushes, particularly one with a devilishly well-prepared killzone, that ratio has a tendency to get badly skewed.
But where did knowing all this get me? The answer is it got me closer to the alligator pond than ever before. I had no proof. If I confronted Mr. Jones, he’d scratch his head and say, gee, old buddy, that’s really odd. I didn’t do the work myself, you know, so why don’t I get on the horn and check the numbers with the old home office. Then someone back in Maryland would simply say, oops, how awfully embarrassing. One of our simpleminded clerks made a stupid mistake when she transcribed those Serb transmissions. Drummond was quite right: Alfa 36 reported twenty-five corpses.
Besides which, I now knew there really was a conspiracy. I hadn’t been imagining things. How big a conspiracy I had no way of knowing, but all of a sudden, those dark, steely-eyed power brokers in Brooks Brothers suits were dashing through mazes inside my skull again. Not that I took any satisfaction in that. The problem with this being a conspiracy was that there was no one I could trust. Clapper? He was the guy who sicced Jones on me. Accidental? I don’t think so. And if I had reason to suspect him, then what I felt about Morrow and Delbert was beyond suspicion. I’d already convicted them in my mind. Well, I’d convicted one of them. Which one, though?
Was it Delbert, who came up with the bright idea to start checking around for satellite shots in the first place? I mean, how in the hell did he think of that? His specialty was criminal law, not strategic intelligence.
Or was it Morrow, who’d asked all the right questions for Jones to unfold his spiel? Her performance reminded me of those wonderfully contrived dialogues Ed McMahon used to have with Johnny Carson. Gee, Johnny, yuck, yuck, and why do you think the Serbs stopped transmitting right at that particular moment?
All of which meant it was now time to take inventory. What stake did I have in this investigation? No stake. It was another job. Simple as that.
What did I care if Sanchez and his men murdered thirty-five Serbs? Other than the families of those men, did anyone care what really happened? It was war. Men got killed. Nobody said they had to die in fair ways. There were no Marquis of Queens-berry rules in battle. Besides, who knew what those thirty-five Serbs did before they died? How many rapes, how many massacres, how many towns and villages had they ethnically cleansed?
But let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that I decided I wanted to be stupid and get to the bottom of this.Where would I start?
I guessed that I’d start by buying myself a little time. Then I’d buy myself a little space to maneuver. Then I’d begin wondering who Mr. Jones and Miss Smith really were.Who sent them here? And why?
Then I’d wonder who really killed Jeremy Berkowitz. Maybe Berkowitz knew there was a conspiracy. Maybe he tried to break one scandal too many. Maybe he got too close to the truth, and Mr. Jones, that marble-eyed prick, decided it was time for him to go. That sounded like complete hogwash even to me, but as long as I was ruminating, I might as well fit a few long shots in there. I mean, I’m part of the television generation. I’d read all those Robert Ludlum books, and Oliver Stone might be nuts, but I still loved his flicks.
Then, of course, back to the basic question I was supposedly sent here to answer: What had really happened out there with Sanchez and his men? The one thing Jones’s charade accomplished was to confirm that it was something terribly rotten. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and where there’s a cover--up, there’s a sin. Usually a really big, really smelly sin.
Chapter 20
By 1 P.M. Delbert and Morrow still hadn’t returned to the office. I was glad. It gave me time to think. Time I badly needed.
In the Navy, they yell “clear the decks” and “batten down the hatches” whenever they’re about to go into combat. Sort of like your father punching you on the arm and asking if you have one of those shiny little wrappers in your wallet before your first date. Or your mother asking if you’re wearing clean, fresh undershorts every time you grab the car keys. Proper preparations take many forms.
My two colleagues waltzed into the office together at quarter past one, chattering happily, just all too pleased to have spent most of their day with a couple of sterling physical specimens of the opposing sex. After passing the rest of the morning with Mr. Jones and Miss Smith, I guessed they’d both shared a leisurely lunch with their new, or old, NSA chums. Whichever.
Imelda was smoldering. She had this stern notion of duty, and long, unaccounted-for absences were damned close to a mortal sin. I heard her demand to know where they’d been all morning. As usual, Delbert was too pumped up on his own garlic to either fib or just outright humbly admit guilt. I could hear him arguing, then trying to tell Imelda it was none of her business. That boy had a death wish. He might be right about it being none of her business,only being right never worked where Imelda was concerned. She was the one who decided what was her business and what wasn’t. Whenever she chose to butt into my business, for instance, I just moved aside and made room for her.
I chose this moment to walk out of my office and into the building maelstrom. I was sorely tempted to sit back and enjoy the fireworks, but that didn’t fit into my freshly devised scheme. It was time to clear the decks, batten down the hatches, check my wallet and underpants. Whatever.
“What the hell’s going on here?” I barked.
Imelda’s feet were spread wide apart, her fists were clenched, her lips were fluttering, and a trail of angry black smoke was leaking out of her ears. She was in her full Mount Vesuvius mode.
Delbert pointed a shaking finger at her and, in a very prim, very outraged voice, he declared, “Major Drummond, this specialist has been disrespectful to me for the last time. I’m filing charges.”
“You’re doing no such thing,” I yelled.
More meekly, he said,“She’s been demanding to know where we’ve been. It’s none of her business.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, Captain. I’ve been harassing her all morning to find out where you were. You and Captain Morrow have been AWOL.”
Imelda looked curiously over her shoulder at me. I hadn’t once asked her where they were.<
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“I’m sorry,” Delbert said, “we were with Harry and Alice.” “Harry and Alice? Just who the hell are Harry and Alice?” I demanded.
Morrow, who looked absolutely baffled, said, “Mr. Jones and Miss Smith.”
“Those two assholes? You spent half the day with those two assholes? Was this social or professional?”
“A bit of both,” Morrow said, boldly and bravely admitting the truth. Well, the truth don’t always set you free.
“Get your asses in my office,” I coldly ordered. “And don’t even let me find you in a relaxed posture when I get in there.”
That line was one some old drill sergeant had once used on me, and I’d always wanted a chance to try it out.
They traded quick, fearful glances, then scurried away like chastened children. Imelda was checking me out, and I gave her a wink. She smiled and winked back. She never did like those two.
I went over and fixed myself a cup of coffee. I took my time. I slowly added sugar and cream. I took forever to stir. Let Delbert and Morrow stew, I figured.
Finally I walked back into the office and fell into my chair. I took one or two leisurely sips from my cup, just to remind them who was boss.I always hated bosses who lollygagged while I waited. It’s such a naked display of power. Heh-heh-heh.
I stared icily. “Think this investigation’s over?”
Morrow, thinking she’d defuse this with smooth gallantry, said, “Sir, we apologize if we’ve caused an inconvenience.”
I coldly said, “I didn’t ask that, Captain. I asked if you think this investigation’s over.”
Delbert gulped and took his turn. “Sir, well, uh, after this morning, uh . . .”
“What about this morning?” I asked with a nasty scowl. This brought another round of panicky glances between Delbert and Morrow.You could almost read their minds.Wasn’t this dork listening during this morning’s session? What is he, dense?
Delbert finally blurted, “Well, uh ...yes, frankly.”
“So everything’s wrapped up?”
Morrow’s brow was furrowed and she was studying my desktop as though maybe the answer to my question was lurking inside my inbox, or maybe lying on my blotter.
I said, “Captain Morrow, what was the exact chronology of events between the fourteenth and the eighteenth of June?”
“Chronology, sir?”
“Don’t they teach chronologies at Harvard? You didn’t think we were going to turn in our report without a detailed chronology?”
“Uh, no, Major.” She nodded like, woops, yeah, gee, you’re right. A chronology; what kind of a half-assed packet would it be without one of those?
See, that’s another of those silly little things about the Army. When a senior officer comes up with a perfectly insipid suggestion, the rules dictate that it be treated like Einstein’s theory of relativity.
“And Delbert,” I yapped, “isn’t something else missing?”
“I . . . uh—”
“Don’t be hasty, Delbert. Think, now. What else?”
“You mean aside from the chronology?” he asked, trying to buy time.
I said,“Duh!”I couldn’t believe I said that.I detest that phrase. It’s so infantile, so obnoxious.
He blushed.“Perhaps a few more interviews wouldn’t hurt.” “Of course we need more interviews. Thick is always good in government work. Shows we worked hard. Shows we’re diligent. We do want the powers that be to know we worked hard and we’re diligent, don’t we?”
“Uh, yes, sir, of course. And I suppose we could check around and see if any other teams had to use force,” he said, getting into the spirit of this thing.
“You’re grabbing at straws, Delbert. What about the rules of engagement?”
“Rules of engagement?”
“Right. Shouldn’t someone fly to Bragg and find out what the inventors of this operation intended? See if an ambush was a permissible act of self-defense.”
“Why, yes, I see what you mean,” he said, stroking his chin like I was the smartest guy on earth.
Of course he saw what I meant. In addition to all his other flaws, this boy was so sycophantic he could suck the bark right off a tree.
“Good, we’re all in agreement,” I announced. “Morrow, get your ass back to Aviano. Build a chronology. Delbert, your butt better be on an airplane to Bragg tonight. Don’t come back without an answer to my question.”
They both reeled back in shock. But which of them was most in shock, I asked myself. Tough call there. Morrow’s eyes grew wide, and Delbert looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. I still couldn’t tell which one was assigned to watch me.
“Move fast,” I barked. “Only three days left.”
“What are you going to do?” Morrow asked. It was either a very nervy question or she was the one who had to report back to her superiors on my activities. Hmmm.
Either way, she’d asked for it. “I’m writing the closing summary,” I announced, mustering as much arrogance into my tone as I could manage. “I considered letting one of you two write it. The only problem is, it has to be perfect. Can’t risk any amateur mistakes, can we?”
Morrow clearly wanted to howl at that one, but she bit her tongue. “And what position are you going to take?” she asked.
“Isn’t that obvious? Now move it, damn it! Both of you! Don’t let the door hit you in the ass!”
That was another timeworn statement, but it served its purpose admirably. They were gone in less than two seconds. Both of them would be gone from Tuzla before the cock crowed, or fell asleep or whatever cocks do when it gets dark. Right now, they’d both be dawdling on the street outside this building, scratching their heads and trying to decide what just happened. They’d figure I was a sorehead about being proved wrong. That much was true, only I hadn’t been proved wrong. I’d had my pocket picked. They’d figure that like every other typical senior officer, I was taking out my bitchy, foul mood on them. They’d figure that now I wanted to cover my ass by polishing the packet and writing the summary myself, as though I had believed in innocence all along. These were all things your average senior officer would do.
And whichever of the two was the mole would report back to Mr. Jones or General Clapper that I’d caved in, that we were just wrapping things up. Then the mole would climb on an airplane and be out of my hair for at least a day or two. I felt pretty proud of myself. What a smart guy you are, Sean Drummond. See how easily I could forget about being the biggest sucker at Tuzla Air Base?
I picked up the phone and called my old buddy Wolky. I thanked him for lending me his guards. I told him they were no longer needed. He was profusely happy.Ever since Berkowitz’s murder, he was being required to provide guards for every journalist in the guest quarters. To make matters worse, the murder of one of their brethren had drawn them like flies. A whole flock of fresh, inquisitive reporters were now in Tuzla, which, Wolky complained, was stretching his meager resources to the breaking point. Only too glad I could be of service, I told him.
I walked out of my office and nodded at Imelda. She left her desk and followed me out into the street. I looked around a few times, then indicated for her to walk with me a while.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I’d like you to go to my tent and get one of my uniforms. Remove all the patches and sew on sergeant’s stripes. Then get a nametag from one of your assistants and sew that on.”
Imelda said, “What’s this about?”
I said, “Imelda, I’m over my head. I need your help.”
Her tiny brown eyes got tinier, and I laid it all out. I didn’t like dragging her into this, but I couldn’t see that I had any other choice. For one thing I couldn’t sew. For another, I was going to need a great deal of assistance and a worthy co-conspirator. She listened attentively, nodded occasionally, blew bubbles with her lips a few times, but did not seem the least surprised.
“One of those two legal aces has been rattin’ on you, huh?” “At least
one. Maybe one or two of your girls as well. Every move I’ve made has been watched and reported from the second I got off the plane. I’d guess our phones are bugged. Maybe the office also.”
She considered that a moment. “I can get that checked.” “Please don’t. Let whoever’s listening think everything’s normal. They have to believe they won.”
She agreed in her characteristic way, mumbling something under her breath, which could have been “Great idea. You’re really one hell of a smart guy” or “Friggin’ A.” Whichever.
I went to the mess hall for a belated lunch. Any long-serving veteran will tell you there’s a trick to eating in Army mess halls. You have to be very, very imaginative.
The mess hall was a long, narrow wooden building, jammed with blocklike wooden tables and chairs. The extent of interior decoration was a few plastic plants someone had sprinkled around and a bunch of Army recruiting posters on the walls. The recruiting posters mystified me. I mean, who exactly did they expect to recruit in an Army mess hall in Tuzla? At any rate, this would not work at all. I decided the recruiting posters were actually Rembrandts and a few Degas, because the mess sergeant—I mean the Paris-trained chef—was a man of eclectic tastes. The plastic plants became towering tropical ferns that wound their way along the walls, with long, winding stems that had wrapped themselves around the nonexistent mahogany ceiling beams. We were doing tropical paradise restaurants today.
Three shifts of hungry soldiers had already tromped through, so the pickings were slim. I slid my tray along a metal railing and took a dried-out salad with brown edges, a carton of lukewarm milk, and a slab of some kind of meat that looked like mottled liver. A cook wearing a dirty white apron lazily watched, and I chose not to ask about the meat. I decided to call it grilled pepper steak, to go with my lobster salad, and the milk would be an exotic coconut cocktail the local natives devised.
I found a table and sat down to eat. I took the first bite of that meat. It had the texture of overcooked leather, and this was when my imagination faltered. I suddenly found myself wondering where my law school classmates were eating. About a year before, I had gone to lunch with a guy I hung around with named Phil Bezzuto, who was already a partner in one of those big D.C. firms. He took me to one of those glitzy power restaurants on Wisconsin Avenue, where rich and famous people were sprinkled about at various tables, feeling oh so superior because they could all afford hundred-dollar lunches that they tried not to spill on their thousand-dollar suits and hundred-dollar neckties. No imagination required at that place. All the tables had white linen tablecloths, crystal glassware, and the kind of super-fancy plates that actually break when you drop them. Phil was rubbing it in real good. When it came time to pay the bill, he flashed his firm’s card and told the waiter to put it all on the expense account. Not that he couldn’t afford to pay it himself. He told me he was pulling down 300K a year with an almost guaranteed 30 percent bonus. I was making just short of 50K and the Army has this thing against bonuses. Expense accounts, too. He was doing real estate law, and the things he feared most in life were paper cuts or running into some road-raged driver on the beltway. Then again, for all I knew, Phil’s gleaming new Mercedes 300SL was bulletproofed.
