Official Privilege

by P. T. Deutermann

  The captain was silent for a moment, and then he produced an eight and one half-by-eleven manila envelope and handed it to Malachi.

  “The subject,” he announced gravely.

  The subject, Malachi thought. Not the girl, or the woman, or her name, like she just might be human. The subject. Malachi opened the envelope and withdrew a glossy black-and-white official government photograph I of an attractive woman naval officer, a full lieutenant, in blues. He stared at the picture for a minute. The woman was black.

  “The principal is an idiot,” he said finally.

  The captain apparently decided to keep his own counsel. Malachi put the photograph back in the envelope.

  “I presume the principal does not want to buy her silence?”

  “The principal is not wealthy.”

  “At least not wealthy enough to pay both me and her.

  So then he wants the young lady scared into silence, right?”

  “Well—”

  “Well?”

  “Well, no physical violence, of course. But you have succeeded in, um, delicate missions in the past. The principal, of course, doesn’t really care or need to know—”

  Malachi laughed. “Principals never do. Right. Got it.

  You have the retainer?”

  The captain had passed over an envelope with Mala chi’s standard fee, in cash. He then pointed to the envelope containing the photograph.

  “Her address and some particulars are in there.”

  Malachi had looked at his watch. “I’ll take care of it.

  You look tired. You ought to come here more often, have a drink, read a good book. Relax a little.”

  The captain had simply looked at him, shaken his head, and left.

  That had been last week. Malachi glanced at his watch again, nodded to himself, and got out of the car.

  He took a shiny leather briefcase and locked the car behind him. He wore a dark gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and a conservative tie under an inexpensive but functional tan trench coat. J. Edgar would have approved.

  He carried the shield and photo ID of an FBI special agent in a credential case inside his breast pocket, and a 9-mm Beretta semiautomatic in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He looked both ways up and down the sidewalk to see if there were any spectators, or early muggers. Sometimes when he was bored, he sort of hoped for muggers, especially when he was carrying. Except that nowadays, the Washington muggers were likely to be sporting submachine guns. Still, it might beat watching Jeopardy. He stepped up to the doors of the lighted lobby and went inside.

  Even at fifty-two, Malachi Ward was a visibly hard man. His large head was blocky, in a Teutonic cast, and he had a prominent, slightly hooked nose; deep-set and gleaming gray eyes under dark brows; wide, almost sensuous red lips; and sparse gray hair tonsured to an even quarter inch all over, and receding on his forehead behind a prominent widow’s peak.

  His complexion was smooth except for crow’s-feet around his eyes and two pronounced vertical creases framing his mouth. His face had ruddy patches on each cheek and an overall roseate flush that revealed a fondness for bourbon. If one looked closely, a network of scars could be seen just above his shirt collar. He was not especially tall, but he had a massive upper body, with trunklike forearms that were noticeable in the way his arms filled out the upper sleeves of the trench coat. He stood very straight when he walked, as if to keep all that upper-body muscle mass from getting ahead of him.

  He looked the part of a cop, although he knew he had two features out of character for an FBI agent. The first was his overall size, especially his massive hands— workman’s hands, all calloused and red around the edges from his toughening exercises, with blunt, spatulate fingers and square-cut yellow nails. In the Army, he had been self-conscious about his oversized hands until he’d made it into the Military Police corps and found that, sometimes, just the sight of his two enormous fists was enough to settle a lot of problems before they really got going. In his current line of work, Malachi would let people discover his hands as part of the process of intimidation. If the object of his attentions was at all observant, one good look tended to dissolve any doubts one might have about the aura of physical violence he projected. Where some men talked tough, Malachi could project tough with a steady stare and his physical presence.

  The second uncharacteristic feature was his voice: a deep, hoarse, almost raspy voice, but one that had very little staying power, the result of an incident in Ger many while he had been in the Army, which made him now a man of few words. But he had learned how to use that voice to add menace to his conversations whenever he needed to, a faculty that came in handy when he had to sit down with someone, as he was about to do.

  He walked over to the keypad and, after looking around to make sure no one was watching, punched in the code. The door lock emitted a satisfying click. He nodded to himself. Always have two ways in and two ways out of every situation. Then he went back over to the communications pad, pressed the 412 button, and waited.

  “Who is it?” asked a crackly voice from the speaker at the top of the panel.

  “Special Agent Demarest, Federal Bureau of Investigation, to see It.

  Elizabeth Hardin,” Malachi intoned.

  His reply echoed officially around the faux marble tiles of the lobby, but there was no one there to appreciate the act. He had to move quickly to catch the door when the buzzer sounded. He went inside, found the elevator, and rode it up to the fourth floor. Stepping out of the elevator, he looked around to find the exit stairs. He checked the stairwell door to make sure it was unlocked on the stairwell side, then took a look down the stairs to see if there was a fire block anywhere.

  Only then did he go looking for apartment 412, which was six doors down, to the right of the elevator. He knocked twice and produced his credentials, stepping back away from the door a little. Elizabeth Hardin cracked open the door on a chain and peered out.

  “It. Elizabeth Hardin?” he asked formally.

  “Yes.”

  “Special Agent Demarest of the FBI. My credentials, Miss. Hardin.”

  Malachi held up the two-sided leather folder. She flicked a glance from the picture to his face, then nodded. She closed the door, removed the chain, and stood aside to let him in. Malachi stepped in and took off his raincoat and hung it on a coat tree by the door. Elizabeth Hardin preceded him into a living room that was small and plain, with one large, curtained dow overlooking an interior courtyard framed by the windows of several other apartments. There was a dining room table in one corner, an open kitchen area, and a door that presumably led to the bedroom and bath.

  Elizabeth Hardin indicated one of the two upholstered chairs in the room and asked if she could get him anything.

  “Thank you, no, Miss. Hardin. As I said, I apologize for the inconvenience, and I’ll get this done as quickly as possible.”

  “It’s your voice. Sounds like it needs a drink. Excuse me for a moment while I get my beer, then, Mr. Dema rest. I just got home.”

  Malachi arranged his briefcase on his knees and opened it while he tracked her out of the corner of his eye. She went into the kitchen and opened some drawers and then the icebox. She returned with a frosty pewter mug and sat down across from him at one end of the couch. Malachi realized that she was indeed very pretty —about five foot six, maybe 120 pounds. Her face had an intensely black, smooth complexion, high, arching eyebrows, slightly slanted brown eyes, and features that Malachi would have called more white than African.

  Her hair had been straightened and pulled back in a glistening, tight bun. She wore a brightly patterned blouse and a long, flowing, shapeless skirt. He noticed that she was in her stockinged feet, and that she was watching him while he looked her over.

  “I’m guess I expected you to be in uniform, Lieutenant,” he began.

  “I’m in CHINFO—that’s Navy public relations. The media types seem to feel more comfortable talking to people in civvies, so we oblige.” She sipp
ed some beer.

  “So what’s this all about, Mr. Demarest? We don’t do classified where I work.”

  “The possible compromise of some classified material, Miss. Hardin. But first let me verify some details about you.”

  He opened the briefcase, putting the raised lid between them, and rooted around for a leather folder containing a pad of yellow legal paper. He spread the [

  folder and set it on the briefcase, out of her direct view, using the briefcase as a lap desk. He pretended to scan some notes for a moment, and then verified her social security number.

  “You are Elizabeth Terry Hardin, born here in Washington, D.C. Date of birth: December 6, 1965?”

  She smiled. “Your data banks are correct,” she said.

  “And you are a staff public affairs officer in the Navy headquarter’s Chief of Information Office, as well as their computer information management specialist?

  And you’ve been assigned there for two years now?”

  “Two years, that’s right. I took a degree in computer science from GW.

  CHINFO is fully networked, but you know how computers are. Actually, we have good machines; it’s the users who are defective. I’m the one they call when their machines defeat them. I’m also the CHINFO database administrator, and I do research for news organizations or with other offices in Opnav. Basically, I’m their data dink.”

  “Opnav, Dink?”

  “Opnav.” She sighed patiently. “The headquarters staff of the Navy. The executive staff of the Chief of Naval Operations.

  Operations, Naval; unit of issue, one each. Opnav. We also work for the office of the Secnav.”

  “The Secretary of the Navy.”

  “You’re getting it. And dink is another word for nerd, Mr. Demarest.”

  “Right. I guess I don’t associate a word like dink with a beautiful young woman, Miss. Hardin.”

  He saw her stiffen. “And just what do my looks have to do with the classified-material problem here, Mr. Demarest?” she asked.

  Malachi closed his notebook, lowered the briefcase lid, and sat back in his chair. The lady was on guard.

  Good. Now she would pay attention.

  “Well, nothing at all, Miss. Hardin,” he said, smiling.

  “But your looks have everything to do with why I’m really here.”

  Alarmed, she put down the mug. He put up a hand.

  “No, no, don’t get all upset. I’m just a messenger boy, all right?”

  She shifted on the couch, putting her hands down as if ready to get up quickly.

  “I want to see those credentials again, Mr. Dema rest,” she said. “And if you’re—”

  Again he put up his hand. “Those credentials are entirely authentic, Miss. Hardin. I am a special agent with the FBI—by day. It’s just that I’m moonlighting right now. I’m here to talk to you about your sexual involvement with a certain senior person in the Navy.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath but continued before she could say anything.

  “I’ve been sent here to give you some advice … some really good advice. You can either listen to what I have to say or you can say the magic word and I’ll leave immediately. But before you do that, think about something.

  Think about the kind of power that can get an off-duty FBI agent to come calling about your love life.”

  “How dare you! Since when is my private life the business of the god damned FBI!” Her hands were clenched and her eyes wide in anger.

  “Exactly,” he said gently, and waited for her to get it.

  She stared at him for a few more seconds, then slowly leaned back in the couch. He pressed on.

  “I’ll get straight to it. The background I have is that this senior guy got the hots for you, and you saw a chance maybe to get close to a powerful man. You did what lots of pretty girls do in this town, and then after the two of you got it on, you got cold feet about the whole thing, wanted to shut it off unless it could be put on the up-and-up.

  But he’s senior, married, and wasn’t ready for that, and he also wasn’t ready just to say sayonara. He pressed to keep things as they were, you shut him off, he pushed harder, and you threatened to go public. That about sum it up?”

  She was silent for almost a minute, glaring at him. He could see that she was really angry now; small round shadows flushed on her dusky cheeks. But she was also worried.

  “No,” she said finally. But then she looked down at the floor for a moment. “There was more to it than that. There is more to it than that.”

  “Not anymore,” he said. Her head snapped up and she stared back at him.

  He realized in that instant that offering money would never have worked.

  The dummy was in love. The captain had had it backward. He decided to go straight at it. He leaned forward.

  “Not anymore,” he repeated softly. “Basically, you are going to forget about it and him. Just flat forget about it. That way, you keep your nice Navy career intact and everything works out for the best. But only if you keep your mouth shut and get used to the fact that it is now all over. Gone and down the road. In return, you get what you wanted: The great man keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t bug you anymore. But no kiss and-tell. No Navy Times scandals, no sexual harassment news conferences, no Anita Hill scene, no nothing. You are probably not the first pretty pasture he’s plowed in his career, and you probably won’t be the last.

  But you are going to keep your mouth shut.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” she said. “I only threatened to expose him because he … he kept after me. I told him that a secret affair had been a mistake.”

  She paused, looking down at the table. “The whole thing was a mistake.

  Bigger than he knows.”

  “You’ve got that precisely right,” Malachi agreed. His voice was getting tired. “But then, twenty-something women who fool around with guys my age are always bound for grief—especially when you’re mixing black and white.”

  She flared. “And just what the hell does that mean?”

  He realized he’d gone too far, but her snippy attitude was starting to offend him. Goddamn women were all alike.

  “It means that whites and blacks shouldn’t breed, that’s what it means.

  It’s against nature.”

  “You bastard! Against nature? Against nature! Who or what the hell are you?” she shouted.

  Malachi felt his own temper surge. He put the briefcase down, stood up, and stepped closer to the couch.

  He was looming over her. What are you? Impudent little bitch. He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice as she recoiled against the couch, her hands clutching the cushion, her face filling with fear.

  “What am I? I told you. I’m the messenger,” he whispered, putting his hand out to point a thick finger right into her face, letting her see those hands. “And the message is that you need to keep your head down and your mouth shut and your legs closed. And if you don’t, you stand to lose a lot more than just your job.”

  But she wasn’t getting it. There was still as much anger in her face as fear. He put his right hand in her face, his fingers clawing, advancing to grab her chin, when he glimpsed a flash of steel and felt a searing pain across the back of his fingers. He jumped back with a hiss of pain as she lunged sideways off the couch to face him, her body in a crouch, a long kitchen knife in her left hand. She had cut him across the backs of all the fingers on his right hand. There was blood welling up all over the back of his hand as he raised it to see how badly he was hurt.

  “You get out—get out of here!” she was yelling.

  “Right now! Move!”

  He stepped backward and straightened up, a white hot rage framing his voice. Another god damned woman with a knife—he could almost feel the other pain again, the sickening knowledge of what the German bitch had done. He thought about the gun for a moment but then regained control of himself. He took a deep breath and held his bleeding hand up in front of his face, turn
ing it this way and that as if to inspect it, letting the blood run down his shirtsleeve and not on the carpet. Then he looked back at her. She was trembling but standing her ground.

  “Right,” he said calmly, his right arm still up in the air, turned so that she could see what she had done. “I will leave now. You’ve made a big mistake, bigger even than falling in lust with the wrong guy, as you will see in good time.”

  “You just get out,” she said again, her courage rising when she realized he was going to leave. “You’re the ones who’ve made the big mistake, buster, as you all are going to see first thing tomorrow. See and hear. I work in public relations, remember? Now you shag your white ass out of here.”

  She gestured toward him with the knife. He bent down and picked up the briefcase with his left hand and backed away toward the door, his right arm still held upright. Then he stopped, dropped the briefcase, and undid his suit coat, shucking it off awkwardly and then wrapping it around his bleeding hand. With the coat off, she could see the 9-mm gun in its shoulder rig, and he saw her eyes widen as she stopped in her tracks. He could feel without looking that the elbow of his shirtsleeve was soaked through, so he wrapped the rest of the suit coat around his forearm. He lifted his raincoat off the coat tree with his left hand and then opened the door carefully, glancing out into the hall to make sure no one was watching, deliberately smudging the metal of the door handle to wipe any prints. He picked up the briefcase and looked back at her.

  “It’s never nice to hurt the messenger, Lieutenant,” he said with a cold smile as he backed into the hall. She moved quickly toward the door and kick-slammed it in his face.

  Out in the hallway, Malachi tightened the suit coat around his forearm, wiggled his way into the raincoat, and headed for the stairway. He took the stairs down to the ground floor, cracked the fire door to see if the hallway was clear, but then chose to go out a fire exit that led to the parking garage’s entrance area. His hand was beginning to really hurt, but he was more worried about being seen.

  The parking garage was an unattended underground lot with a machine-operated door. The stairway door had come out on the first level, right next to the street doors. He walked quickly over to the out ramp and waved his left hand in front of the electric eye, which triggered the door opener. A minute later, he found himself out on the rainy street. He walked around the block containing the apartment complex before approaching his car. Bitch might have called the cops, and he did not want to walk into any traps. He kept the bloody bundle that was his right hand out of sight as best he could, but there was no one around. There was a flare of headlights as a car pulled into the apartment garage, the driver working his card key to open the door, but then the street was empty again. He walked quickly back to his car, unlocked it awkwardly with his left hand, threw the briefcase in, and got in. The material of the suit coat was beginning to feel wet and soppy.