by Brian Haig
I made sure the guards at the facility knew they were not allowed to even enter his cellblock. I even made them all wear earplugs, on the grounds that it never hurts to be too safe.
Then I went to Imelda’s tent, instructed her on what we were going to do, and we walked together back to our office building. It took nearly three hours before we were done making our preparations.
I left her there and took a walk over to the NSA facility. I went through that same old routine of showing the guards my orders, ringing the buzzer, and staring into the camera. Miss Smith opened the door and greeted me again. I was too sore and swollen to engage in my normal, charmingly obnoxious banter.
She studied the bandages on my head, my black eye, my swollen lips, and the various other bruises and abrasions I’d managed to collect. She didn’t look sympathetic. In fact, she smiled. Not that old wooden smile, either. The real thing.
“I need to see Tretorne,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, trying to appear clueless. “I don’t know anyone named Tretorne. Are you sure you don’t want Mr. Jones?”
“Look lady, I want to see your boss, Jack Tretorne, or Jack of Serbia or Clyde Smothersmith-Blakely, or whatever stupid alias he’s going by today. By the way, I don’t like your alias, either.”
She spun around and did this huffy heel-stomping thing as she led me back through the facility, then down the stairs. I was in a fairly ornery mood myself. With a dash of petulance, she sliced her card through the slot at the conference room door, then nearly shoved me into the room. Tretorne and General Murphy were seated together, with a bunch of papers tossed around the table.
Miss Smith’s voice came out prudish and high-pitched. “Excuse me, Mr. Jones, General. I’m sorry to bother you. This officer is insisting on meeting with someone named Jack Tretorne. I told him there was no such man here.”
She must’ve thought she was putting me in my place, because a general was here and that was supposed to make me get real shy and timid. Tretorne gave her a swift sideways nod, like get lost. She smirked as she roiled past me, and I became instantly worried for any nation that had people like her in their CIAs.
Tretorne, I noticed, wasn’t wearing his duck-murdering vest. In fact, he looked quite natty in a perfectly tailored dark blue serge suit and a stiffly starched white shirt with French cuffs. A pair of big presidential cuff links were poking out of his sleeves, where they were meant to show. Well, I wasn’t impressed. Well, actually, I was, but I didn’t let on.
I said, “You’re together. Great. Saves me another trip.”
Murphy said, “What do you want, Major?”
There’s a way of enunciating a man’s rank that’s supposed to remind him of his place. The trick is, you put all the emphasis on that first syllable and depress the rest. Like “What do you want, Major?” It’s taught in Lesson 101 at West Point, and Murphy had been a good student.
Only problem was, I was past caring. I felt unfettered and seditious. I said, “A little wrinkle has developed in your plan, guys. CID just arrested Berkowitz’s real killer.”
Tretorne did not look happy to hear this. He toyed with one of those cuff links that had that presidential seal on it, then looked up. “It’s irrelevant, Drummond. You gave your word. There were no conditions.”
“You’re right,” I said, “no conditions. Just like when I took my oath to become an officer. No conditions then, either. Or when I took my oath to become an officer of the court. No conditions that time, either. That’s two unconditional oaths to one. You lose.”
Tretorne said, “Don’t do this, Drummond. Force my hand, and I’ll just come up with something else. You can’t win.”
I’d been waiting for him to say this. I’d rehearsed all kinds of great lines to throw back at him, but in the end I decided on a childhood classic.
“Up yours,” I said. “You throw your best shot, and I’ll throw mine. I only came by to tell you that I’m throwing mine now. I’ve just written a long statement that exposes everything. Both of you are mentioned prominently. So is Clapper. So is General Foster. If I don’t make a call in forty minutes, that statement will be in the hands of the Herald, the Post, the Times, and Newsweek. Even your fancy NSA technology can’t stop it now.”
Tretorne shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re doing, how serious this is, what’s at stake.”
“But I do,” I assured him. “You and your big buddy here are out on a limb that’s breaking. You’re assassinating Serbs and it don’t get much more serious than that.”
The two of them looked at each other in shock. Murphy was so choked with surprise that he did not even reprimand me for calling him Tretorne’s big buddy. West Point would frown on him for letting that one slip by.
“Sit down. Please,” Tretorne said.
It was couched more like an invitation than a demand. Well, what the hell, I thought; at least he asked nice. That was my first sign that I was finally winning. I tried my damnedest not to smile.
He waited till I was seated and comfortable, then asked, “What do you think’s going on here? What we’re doing?”
I said, “I know what you’re doing. You’re using Green Berets to murder Serbs. Sort of a modern version of Operation Phoenix. ‘Sanction’ was the euphemism then, wasn’t it?”
“You’re wrong,” Murphy said. “Dead wrong.”
I said, “Is that right?”
Murphy scratched his big head with his big hand. “To start with, Operation Phoenix was the result of an informal handshake between the Special Forces and the CIA. It was done without official knowledge or permission. We’re operating with a presidential finding. You know what that means? This operation is fully approved by the President. It’s also known within a select committee of Congress.”
I didn’t expect to hear that. I thought he might be lying, but that proverbial voice we all have in the back of our heads warned me he wouldn’t be stupid enough to lie about something like this. It was too easy for me to say, Prove it.
He added, “Also, we’re not assassinating Serbs.”
I said, “Sorry, I’m not buying it.”
Murphy studied me for a moment, then said, “Please step out of the room. Just for a moment. No funny business, I promise. Jack and I need to speak.”
I didn’t like it, but I did it. I mean, what the hell, I had nothing to lose. Imelda and all four of her assistants were positioned at various locations around Tuzla, each poised over a fax machine, each ready to push a button. Each had a sealed envelope in her hand that contained a copy of the statement I’d written earlier. In less than forty minutes, those envelopes would be torn open, the electrons would start buzzing, and the cat would leap out of the bag. There was nothing Tretorne or Murphy or NSA could do to stop it.
About five minutes passed. The conference room had specially sealed doors, which I found awfully inconvenient, because I had my ear pressed to the crack but couldn’t hear even a murmur. When the door opened, Murphy waved his hand for me to reenter. I walked back in and took the same seat.
Murphy said, “Jack and I are going to clear you for this operation.”
I said, “Don’t think I’m falling for that. I’m not taking any vows of secrecy.”
Murphy nodded at Tretorne and I had the impression they’d guessed I’d say that. I wanted to thumb my nose at them, or pull down my pants and bend over, anything that would surprise them. So far, they’d managed to predict every move I’d made.
Then Tretorne said, “What’s happening here is we’re losing a war. We’re losing because it’s a NATO operation, and the President has his hands tied. Our allies are dead set against ground forces. All we’re allowed to do is bomb.”
Like a tag team, Murphy said, “You can’t win a war with bombs. That’s why we came up with the idea of building the KLA. We hoped to use them as our ground element, only they’ve been a terrible disappointment. Six or seven KLA units have done good work, but the rest are completely outmatched. They’re
ineffective. Most just stay hidden in the woods, praying this thing will end. Several KLA teams have been chewed up and almost all the rest are demoralized.”
“That’s not a justification,” I said. “Assassination’s illegal.”
“We’re not assassinating anyone,” Tretorne said, sounding tired. “Guardian Angel is a ruse for an operation we call Avenging Angel. Some of the SF teams we’re sending into Kosovo with the KLA are selectively performing the missions their KLA units are supposed to be doing.”
“What kind of missions?” I asked.
“Raids, ambushes, interdicting supply lines. Several times, we’ve learned the Serbs were planning another massacre, and we had them go in and free the Kosovar prisoners. We’re very careful, believe me. No assassinations, no vigilante stuff.”
“That right?” I said. “Then what happened with Sanchez’s team?”
They exchanged more looks, and a lot of wind seemed to go out of their sails. Murphy’s face looked like it was trapped in a warp.
He said, “We don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s right. The KLA company they were with, Akhan’s team, all of them were killed. We’re still not certain how it happened.”
“But Sanchez’s team wasn’t detected by the Serbs, was it? And they weren’t responding in self-defense, right?”
Tretorne said, “We have no way of knowing.”
“Bullshit.”
He said, “The satellite tapes and transcripts we showed you were forgeries. Somehow, you obviously figured that out. Our real images for those days showed no unusual activity for Sanchez’s team. We’ve got shots of them in their base camp, a few where they’re traveling… nothing, though, that shows them being detected or chased.”
“Then why-”
“Because we couldn’t allow Avenging Angel to be exposed,” Murphy said.
“I don’t get it.”
Tretorne was drumming a finger on the table. “When Sanchez’s team extricated, they didn’t report anything about the ambush. We didn’t learn of it until three days later when Milosevic started holding press conferences.”
I could hear little pieces beginning to fall into place.
“So you arrested Sanchez’s team?”
“Right,” Murphy said. “And they gave us the story about being detected and chased. Jack had NSA check their files and there was nothing that substantiated their story. Nothing contradicted it either, though.”
“Then why was I brought in?”
“That was decided back in Washington. The massacre suddenly had international attention. We all felt the easiest solution for all concerned was to conduct a genuine investigation. Sanchez’s team was sticking with their story, and we were ordered to make it a more convincing tale.”
“And where was this decided?” I asked.
Tretorne didn’t answer, at least verbally. He simply held up a hand and pointed at his cuff link.
I shook my head. Maybe Oliver Stone wasn’t as harebrained as I’d always thought.
With as much disdain as I could, I said, “So you cooked up a deal with Sanchez and his men. They work with you on the cover-up, and they walk away scot-free.”
Murphy did not appear the least bit fazed or ashamed to admit it. “That’s right,” he said, “except you’re forgetting one thing. We have no proof they’re guilty of anything. Maybe it happened exactly the way they said.”
“Really?” I said. “I went to the morgue. I saw the Serb corpses. How do you explain the holes in their heads?”
Tretorne finally stopped tapping the table. “Please believe me, we didn’t know about that until you reported it to Clapper. By then, this thing was already in motion.”
“But you didn’t do anything once you learned of it, did you? You kept right on with the cover-up.”
“We had our reasons,” Murphy said. “But we’re prepared to make a deal with you now.”
I looked down at my watch. In another twenty-seven minutes, Imelda and her crew were going to push a few buttons and unleash an army of hungry reporters on these two. They’d probably guessed what I had in store for them. It was a little like a poker game where they knew I was holding a royal flush, and they wanted me to allow them to take some of their cash out of the pot before I flashed my cards. These guys had balls made of brass.
I chuckled and shook my head. “I’m listening.”
Murphy said, “We’re willing to let you complete your investigation. We won’t hinder you in any way. No more games. We’ll give you the actual logs. We’ll tell you everything we know, and you see if you can find the truth.”
I said, “How kind of you.”
Tretorne ignored my sarcasm and said, “There’s only two conditions.”
“And what are those?” I snarled. I mean, where was this guy coming from? Conditions at this point?
“Hold off on going to the press. When you’re done, come back and talk with us.”
It was a surprising offer, so I took a moment to consider it. Maybe they were just trying to buy time till they could arrange some other diabolical plot against me. If so, they were stupid. They’d just admitted the details of their conspiracy. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a flashback to Operation Phoenix, but running a secret war wasn’t chump change, either. They’d also admitted their orders came from the White House.
But they weren’t stupid men, I reminded myself. God knows, I’d learned that by now. They had to be aware they’d just given me more ammunition to use when I went public and exposed them.
“That it?” I asked.
Tretorne said, “After we talk, if you want to go public, that’ll be your option. We won’t try to stop you.”
I will admit, I was stunned. I had expected that they would look for some last-minute way to shut me up. Maybe this was it. Maybe they were lying their asses off to buy time to find a foolproof solution against Sean Drummond and his goody-two-shoes philosophies. If they were, though, I sure as hell couldn’t see it. I could blow the whistle anytime I liked.
It was my turn to test the waters with a few demands. “No more phone taps? No more bugs in my office? No more following me around?”
Tretorne grinned. “You had all that figured out, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Done,” said Tretorne.
“Oh, and your mole goes,” I said. “Morrow climbs on the next plane.”
Tretorne’s grin became a smile. “You might not want to get rid of her.”
“Oh yeah I would.”
“She’s not working for us.”
I cocked my head a little, and he actually chuckled.
“That little shit Delbert?” I asked.
“Floyd Collins, actually. Floyd’s a real Army lawyer, too. A very ambitious one, although unfortunately, his trial record nowhere near matches the record you were provided in your folder.”
Sometimes you just outsmart yourself. I had thought Delbert, or Floyd, had just seemed too obvious to be the mole.
“Okay, he goes,” I said. “I won’t have you owning anyone’s vote.”
“Done,” Tretorne said.
“And I’ll have to tell Morrow what’s going on. She’ll have to be cleared, too.”
“Okay.”
I got up and started to leave. I made it to the door before Murphy said, “One more thing, Major.”
I turned around and faced him. That big, handsome face was staring up at me.
He said, “Sometimes those principles they teach at West Point about duty and honor and country, sometimes they clash against one another. The world’s not as pristine as West Point makes it out to be. Sometimes you have to decide which of those three is most important. You have to decide which principle you need to sacrifice.”
I stared back at him. I knew he was reciting the rationalization he’d employed to justify his own dishonesty in this affair. And it got me feeling real righteous and uppity.
I said, “I didn’t go to West Point, so I don’t know about
all that. I tell you what I do know. I know what makes us different from the Serbs. We don’t coddle our murderers. We don’t lie to the world when our troops commit a massacre. We wash our laundry in the open. That’s duty and honor and country, all in one.”
He shook his head in a condescending way, like I just didn’t get it. Only he was wrong. He was the one who didn’t get it. At least that’s what I thought.
Chapter 28
A good night’s sleep did a lot for my disposition, but I couldn’t say the same for my body. My bruises and broken ribs sort of calcified, and the pain seeped down through another few layers of tissue. I awoke feeling terrifically stiff and sore. I limped to the latrine tent, took a long, hot shower, and tried to coax the warm water into soothing my aches and pains. I ended up with crinkly, wrinkled fingers, but my wounds proved impregnable. I was still sore as hell.
Clapper had not made his normal two o’clock call. I guessed he was too abashed to talk with me. Delbert was gone when I walked into the office. He left a note in my message box: It read “Sorry,” and it was signed Floyd G. Collins, Captain, JAG. Probably it was best that Murphy and Tretorne sneaked him out in the middle of the night. Probably if I’d seen Floyd I would’ve done something stupid, like reposition his nose so it stuck out through the back of his head. He lied to me, screwed me, and trampled all over his oath as an officer and a lawyer. I have this bad habit of taking things too personally. Tretorne and Murphy must’ve figured that out about me.
Morrow was back at her desk, rabidly scribbling something in longhand. She coldly ignored me as I walked by. I went to the coffee urn and began making a cup. I made as much noise as I could, clanging my spoon against the side of my mug, knocking the coffeepot around, then took several real noisy, annoying sips as I tested my mix of sugar and cream. She kept right on giving me the bone-chilling indifference routine. She was good at it, too. Personally, I’ll take the hot, smoldering treatment any day. You can always duck a punch.
