by Brian Haig
But finally Phyllis emerged, and after a moment, she said, “All right. There’ll be no problems, if you’re telling the truth. But if I find out you’re lying, or if you’re playing games…”
I said, “I wouldn’t dream of playing games.” But, as you might imagine, nobody in the room at the moment swallowed that. Anyway, I said, “Yesterday morning, right after the gunfight, the killer called me.”
“He called you?” Meany asked.
“Right. He was checking to see if I was still on his target matrix. So we talked.”
“About what?” Phyllis asked.
“What he was going to do to me, what I’d like to do to him, that kind of thing. But our conversation turned a little testy, and I suggested to him that I knew who sent him and whose asses he was sent to protect and why. Jason Morris and Hal Merriweather.”
There was a stunned silence for a moment.
Meany spoke first, and said, “My God, Drummond. You marked them for execution.”
Yes, I had. I definitely had. But I’d be really stupid to confirm that, so instead I informed them, “Merriweather was the syndicate’s inside guy.”
“Merriweather?” Phyllis asked. “How do you know that?”
“He was in charge of the firm’s information management systems, and was therefore authorized to mess around in the server. When he caught me sniffing around, he tried to set me up to be thrown out of the firm. He also slapped a firewall around Lisa’s electronic files to prevent intruders from seeing the connection between her, Julia, and Anne.”
“Go on.”
“Twice a day, he got server printouts that kept him informed of every case and client in the firm. It’s right there in their manuals-the instant you speak with a potential client, you’re required to notify the firm’s management committee through e-mail, so they know what the emerging opportunities are, and case teams can be formed. That’s how Merriweather learned who approached the firm for bankruptcy advice.”
Meany’s face had become incredulous, and he said, “Then a lot of people in that firm would know. Did it ever cross your mind, Drummond, that you might have just marked an innocent man to be killed?”
Phyllis, who really was very quick on the uptake, was apparently becoming just as annoyed with George’s malicious attitude as I was, and she informed him, “Don’t be an idiot. The syndicate knows who its inside man is. His death just confirms it.”
I nodded that this was so, because it obviously was so. But to further amplify her point, I added, “The irony is that the killer no doubt informed Merriweather that I fingered him and Morris, Merriweather informed the syndicate, and in so doing, he made himself expendable. He signed his own death warrant.” Phyllis nodded, and even smiled, struck, I think, by this turn of heavenly justice.
But Meany was by no means finished or defeated, and he said to me, “But Morris is a different story, Drummond. Isn’t he? The only suspicion we have on him was his possible implication in corporate graft. You gave him a death sentence.”
I said, “He set up the relationship with Grand Vistas.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Yes. He was the guy who told Cy Berger to send Barry Bosworth to Italy for the contract.”
“That’s circumstantial and inconclusive.”
“No, George, it’s ironclad. Morris knew his company’s condition and turned to the devil for salvation. Open and shut.”
“That doesn’t justify a death sentence, does it?”
I could sense Phyllis studying my face throughout this little exchange. She said, “He’s right, Drummond.” She regarded me more closely and asked, “You have no proof about Morris, do you?”
“He set up the partnership.”
“Of course. But regarding the murders…”
“Look, he set this thing up, and-”
“And you gambled,” she suggested. “You assumed he had knowledge about the murders, so you pulled the trigger. Isn’t that correct?”
I wasn’t going to answer her. But, yes; right on the money. In the split second I had to decide which names to give the killer, I threw the dice and included Jason Morris. I was not sure Morris had been behind, or was even knowledgeable about, the murders. My instincts told me he was, and I went with them.
Everyone was looking at me now and trying to see what I was thinking. I had actually considered this issue a great deal over the past twenty-four hours. Agonized over it, really. I knew I could have, at any point, stopped the wheels I put in motion. I could have informed the CIA or Meany about my little plot, and they would have jumped through their asses and found some way to put up a wall of protection around Morris and Merriweather. But the man who plotted Lisa’s murder would’ve been spared.
Genghis Khan was once supposed to have advised, “Kill them all, and you know you get the guilty ones.” American law does not operate that way, nor should it, nor should individuals. The most basic tenet of American law is the presumption of innocence. The protection of innocents is sacrosanct and is what separates civilization from savages.
I had reasoned and rationalized that Morris was the grand architect of the crimes that had caused the deaths of innocents. At the least, his guilt was indirect, and that was enough. But it wasn’t enough. And so I had accepted the bald fact that I was going to spend the rest of my life knowing I might have sentenced an innocent-or, actually, a corrupt man-to death, but for a crime I did not know for certain, and definitely could not prove, he committed.
“Christ, you’re no better than them,” Meany said.
It was an overstatement, but it was not an inaccurate one.
After a long and awkward moment, Phyllis glanced at Jack MacGruder. She said, “Well?”
MacGruder said, “He deserves to live with his decision.”
She said, less certainly, “Do you think so?”
He replied, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We don’t owe him anything.”
“It will cause no harm, Jack. Morris Networks is an artifact of history at this point.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but clearly MacGruder was your typical CIA type, secrets to the grave, tight lips save ships, and all that shit. He did not like her decision and somewhat spitefully confided, “We were tracing Morris. Phone taps, e-mail taps, you name it.” He paused, and then said, “He knew.”
“He knew?” I asked.
Phyllis said, “I’m afraid we had to fib to you and Miss Morrow the other day.” Her spindly fingers toyed with a lovely spider brooch on her collar for a moment, then she added, “In an e-mail about a month ago, Morris was informed by his contact in Grand Vistas of a serious leak that had to be plugged. That was the precise phrase, incidentally.” She then observed, “Don’t you find it peculiar the way all these criminals use plumber’s language that way?”
MacGruder said, “It was too generic to know what it meant. Only after the second death-”
And Phyllis interrupted to say, “I mentioned before that the syndicate is very sophisticated, and cautious about its communications. It would be fair to presume that the matter was discussed in more detail with Morris. Later, of course. And probably at his home in Florida.”
MacGruder explained that comment, saying, “Our FBI friends occasionally see men passing in and out who are part of the syndicate.” Another moment passed, then MacGruder said, “Really, Morris had gotten himself into a tricky pickle.”
I assumed he was referring to the baseball predicament of being trapped between the bases, rather than the ex-cucumber. I said, “You mean, it was him or the women?”
“Indeed. The syndicate could not allow him to survive if this thing became exposed. There would be an explosion of publicity, a trial, and Lord knows what Morris would have confessed.”
I wouldn’t say I breathed a sigh of relief. In fact, I had suspected as much. However, with that confirmed, I could continue walking through life with a halo. Right. I said to Phyllis, very sincerely,
“Thank you.�
�
She replied, “Think nothing of it.”
So I thought nothing of it, and said to her, “I owe you one, and here it is. I’ll bet you’re also wondering why Sally Westin didn’t figure out it was Merriweather.”
Okay, yes, I was showing off. But sometimes it’s a good idea to let the other side know you’re still ahead of them in the game, and this was one of those times. Also, I had one more point I needed to get on the scoreboard.
Phyllis shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s Sally Westin?” But I guess she realized from my expression that it wasn’t selling. Plus, I had piqued her curiosity, so she cleared her throat, then asked, “All right. How do you know about Sally?”
“One, she’s a lousy lawyer. A for effort, F for effect, right? Two, Sally arrived at the firm about three years ago, about when your investigation started, right? And if you’re wondering why Sally wasn’t able to pinpoint Merriweather, go back to point one.” I let them ponder that, and then asked, “Who is she?”
Phyllis nodded at Jack, who then said, “Not Sally Westin, if you’re wondering. The real Sally Westin became a nun and lives in a convent north of Denver. Go figure, right. The woman you know as Sally is a Bureau special agent, and that’s all you need to know.”
Jack studied the carpet a moment, then commented, “Jesus, I thought she had a foolproof cover. We invested a lot of time studying that firm. That whole thing with the Westin family, when we discovered that, I mean, how often does a legend like that land in your lap? We even had her graduate from Duke, because the firm has no Duke grads.”
“It’s a great cover,” I told him. “She’s got them completely fooled.” Then I let the shoe drop. “But for that one little slip, the girl’s a real pro.”
Phyllis’s lower lip twitched. “Little slip?”
“Her affair with Cy Berger. But you already know about that, right? I mean, surely an agent of her caliber would’ve informed you that she was sleeping with a possible suspect.”
Phyllis’s left eyebrow shot up at that one. She said, “You’re sure about this?”
“Ask her.”
“Oh, we will. Most definitely, we will.”
Lisa was surely smiling down on me for that one.
The way I figured it, Sally’s bulletproof legend had one flaw: She was drastically out of her legal league in a top firm. But if she slept with Cy then all her problems were solved. In return for all the free poon he could stomach, he’d slide her past her annual reviews, and she wouldn’t have to return to the FBI with her tail tucked between her legs. Or maybe Cy was just irresistible to the ladies. How would I know? I appear to have a few problems in that department.
Anyway, Phyllis then said, “Do you have anything else to add?”
“No. I’ve told you everything.”
She searched Jack’s face and asked, “Well?”
He rubbed his jaw a moment, then suggested, “My guess would be the syndicate realized the Grand Vistas-Morris Networks connection was getting out of hand, its people were exposed, and decided to terminate them. By tomorrow, they’ll have cashed out their stock in Morris Networks, Grand Vistas will be history, and they’ll move on to the next thing.”
“I agree with that assessment, Jack.” She then asked, “Any further damage we should be concerned with?”
He shook his head. “Not unless we treat Morris’s and Merriweather’s deaths like murders. But if we handle them like unrelated events, exactly as they were orchestrated to appear-a suicide and a diving accident-the syndicate will have no reason to think they’ve been further compromised.”
Phyllis also seemed to agree with that assessment. She looked back at me and said, “You had already thought that through, hadn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Meany said to me, “Jesus, you are one cold-blooded bastard.”
“Maybe I am, George. But Morris and Merriweather made their own choice. Make a deal with the devil, and you’re on his time.”
They all thought about that a moment.
But Phyllis had started playing with that spider brooch again, and she said, “But there’s one problem left, isn’t there?”
“You mean me.”
“Yes… you.”
Jack pointed out, “The syndicate should not be concerned with him. As far as they know, he’s unaware of their existence, or their connection to Grand Vistas. If they collapse that connection today or tomorrow, Drummond should be free and clear.”
Phyllis nodded. She asked me, “Is that your assessment?”
“Jack’s right. The syndicate won’t worry about me. I’m no threat to them.”
She said, “Then why that anxious look on your face, young man?”
“The killer, is he syndicate, or a local hire?”
Jack replied, “We assume he’s a local. For obvious reasons, it’s their habit to employ locals when it’s called for. They did a thing like this in Pakistan a year ago; all local hires.”
But again Phyllis showed her intelligence. She said to me, “But it’s gotten personal between you two, hasn’t it?”
“I know it’s personal for me. I think it’s personal for him.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You’ve really got yourself in a fix, then.” After a moment, she asked, “What would you like us to do about that?”
“Don’t remove your security from Janet, or from either of our families. This guy is vindictive.”
Meany, who’d been quietly licking his wounds, chose this moment to state, “The Bureau’s position, as you know, is the killer must be brought to justice. He has brutally murdered eight people and his case is on the front page of every newspaper in the country. We have to get him, Phyllis. Our image with the public is on the line.”
So they all looked at me.
Well, one did not need to be a genius to know what they were all thinking.
CHAPTER FIFTY
A driving winter rain was falling outside the classroom window, and my students were daydreaming, doodling, flirting, making fart jokes-anything but listening to me.
It had been three very long and considerably tense days since our meeting in the hotel.
In fact, we had departed the Madison right after that talk, and moved straight to the Pentagon, to Room 2E535, General Clapper’s office. Phyllis explained to my boss that I needed to be yanked out of the firm, toute suite, and immediately reassigned to other duties-duties that would leave me exposed and vulnerable, just not too exposed or vulnerable. I wasn’t at all sure what that meant, but Clapper promised to handle it, then very cordially asked Phyllis to wait in his outer office while he and I shared a few thoughts.
So our thought-sharing turned out to be one-way, and it began a bit stiffly, with a long talk about proper legal procedures, and the need for flawless professional conduct when operating in the private sector, not to mention other federal government agencies, that kind of thing. Clapper actually made some very good and valid points and I dutifully noted those areas where I badly needed improvement as I stood rigidly at attention in front of his desk.
Well, he got all that off his chest, then said, “Major Drummond, you may now be seated.”
So we adjourned to the same leather chairs over in the corner where all this started a few short weeks before. I sat across from him. He crossed his legs, smiled, and asked, “I believe there’s one other matter we have to settle.”
I replied, tongue in cheek, “I thought you covered everything fairly well.”
“The money.”
“Money?”
“Seventy million dollars.”
“Oh… that money.”
“Refresh my memory. How did it come into your possession?”
“The fruits of a legal settlement.”
“I think you’re confused, Major. It was the fruits of a criminal investigation.”
I said, “No, General, I was assaulted and pursued a very common legal remedy
.”
He replied, “Perhaps we’re having a terminology issue. You extorted the money from a public company. This extortion was authorized for a criminal investigation. The vernacular term is ‘sting, ’ and the money therefore belongs not to the agent, but to the government that authorized the agent.” He gave me a guarded look and added, “I’ve already asked the JAG School for an opinion on this matter and they assured me the odds are one thousand to one in the government’s favor.”
But that was three days ago, and I’m not one to dwell on the past. He got a piece of my ass, but as things turned out, I got a piece of his, too. I had strained his long and amiable friendship with Cy, who, oddly enough, did not appreciate that his old buddy had sent Calamity Sean into his very fine firm. The firm did not appreciate that Cy had extended the offer to the Army, and around and around it goes. The day after I left the firm, the management committee invited Cy to change his status from active partner to “of counsel” status, which is a polite term for “you’re retired,” though in his case it meant “you’re fired.” Barry got the same treatment, except in his case, there was no “of counsel” about it. He was simply fired.
But never think Clapper lacks a sense of humor. In response to Phyllis’s request, he assigned me to temporary instructor duty at Fort Myer, teaching JAG officers, of all things, a seminar on corporate accounting. JAG officers are JAG officers precisely because they want nothing to do with corporate law. Right? And it always makes for a lively classroom experience when the instructor shares the sentiments of the students.
Like my proteges had been doing the past hour, I checked the clock on the wall-three more minutes till happy hour. I paused from my truly invigorating and riveting explanation about currency hedging, and thought we’d end on a high note. Of course, this means a good joke. So I yelled at them to shut up. And they did.
I said, “Okay, these three guys are being interviewed by the CIA for jobs. The CIA recruiter takes them into a room, one at a time. He says to the first guy, ‘Here’s a gun. Your wife’s inside that door. Go in and shoot her. ’The guy takes the gun, he gulps, he goes into the room, ten minutes pass, then he comes out and confesses he just can’t do it. The recruiter informs him he lacks the acceptable level of commitment, and sends him away. The next guy comes in, same routine, but he’s in there only three minutes before he emerges and is sent away. The third guy takes the gun, and enters the room. A moment later there’s the sound of three shots. Five more minutes pass before the guy finally emerges. He throws the gun at the recruiter and says, ‘You stupid son of a bitch, some idiot put blanks in that gun. I had to strangle the bitch to death. ’”
