Man in the Middle (6 page)

In Washington, there are literally thousands of these expat revolutionaries in the wings, organized into hundreds of groups and organizations, all vying to get their dreams and their causes on Uncle Sam’s to-do list. The lucky few even find rich and/or powerful patrons to bankroll and lobby their causes. But there is, I suppose, something romantic and adventurous about these foreign people peddling grand ideas for miserable places, because they are highly sought figures on the Hollywood Stars Seeking Grand Causes tours, the D.C. cocktail circuit, and in Georgetown’s more storied salons. And why not? Listening to Xian discuss why anguished Tibet must be liberated and free certainly makes for more ennobling table talk than the hubbies bitching about greens fees at the Congressional Country Club. Personally, I prefer uncomplicated company when I eat—definitely when I drink.

But it’s clear what draws these galvanized exiles to our shores: our unimaginable power, and their deplorable lack of it; our “light on the shining hill” mentality, and their fingers pointed at dark places; our uniquely American sense of can-do compassion, and their desire, no matter how selfless, to exploit it.

Indeed, America has a grand record of knocking over other nations, even if our history of installing lasting new regimes is a bit checkered. Plus, I suppose it’s hard these days to find a great power willing to kick a little butt for a righteous cause. The Europeans have been there, done that; they have lost their appetite, if not their flair, for foreign empires, intrigues, and escapades that often turn out badly. As for the Russians and Chinese, they lack charitable impulses. They liberate like the mob lends money; the vig sucks. But Americans are a generous if slightly naive people, with a distinct messianic bent and the animating conviction that what works for us must work equally well for others. We are the New World, they are the Old; new is always better. Right?

But as I said, Washington attracts a lot of these zealots yearning to borrow Uncle Sam’s checkbook and a few legions to rearrange the decor at home. Some are the real deal and their tales of oppression and woe, and their sad optimism, are deeply affecting, even heartbreaking; others are charlatans, schemers, phonies, and scoundrels. Unfortunately they are hard to tell apart, and when you guess wrong, you have a long supply of corpses with a short list of excuses. A happy few, like Shah Pahlavi or Aristide, get their wish; but possibly these are not the best examples.

It’s interesting. Having Irish heritage, I find all this a little ironic. Rather than enlist others to fight their battles, my ancestors had the literally unsettling habit of migrating in vast, freckled flocks to fight other people’s causes.

There is, in fact, an almost embarrassingly long tradition of this in the Drummond strain. In 1862, Great-great-grandpa Alfonso fled Ireland, he claimed to escape the potato famine; and a pregnant lady and an aggravated father with a shotgun might have added a little impetus. While still scratching his ass on the dock in New York harbor, he promptly accepted one hundred greenbacks from a prosperous New Yorker to take his place in the Civil War draft. He spent three years as an infantryman in a war he understood nothing about, killing people he felt no animus toward, at the behest of somebody who
deserved
to be there, and decided America truly was the Promised Land.

Great-grandpa Seamon served nearly a year in the trenches as an infantryman in the War to End All Wars—subsequently renamed the First World War, after that turned confusing. He insisted to his grave that he shipped out without the slightest idea the Germans, whom he had no particular feelings toward, were killing the English, whom he truly detested, and the French, whom he regarded as uppity bastards who would benefit from a Hun boot on their throat. At least Seamon read the newspaper, cover to cover, every morning the rest of his life.

Grandpa Erasmus waded ashore at Normandy, got lost in the Huertgen Forest, and spent the final months of his war cooling his heels in Stalag Eighteen. Afterward, he swore those were the most relaxing and luxurious years of his life. But maybe you had to know Grandma Mary.

My own father became a lifer, and made a full-blown career of fighting wars in hilly and jungled places with obscure and unpronounceable names. He battled the commies in Korea and completed nearly two full tours in Vietnam—the former referred to as the Forgotten War, and the latter as the War Everybody Wishes They Could Forget.

But as I look back on this extended family chronicle, it strikes me that the Drummonds make good infantrymen—at least we survive—though, as they warn about mutual funds, past successes never guarantee future returns.

Also the wars that five generations of Drummonds have fought have become increasingly less popular, less fashionable, and more morally confused. I myself was an infantryman before I became a lawyer and saw action in Panama, the first Gulf War, Bosnia, and Mogadishu—messy war, good war, utterly confused war, total fuckup.

As I grow older, I find myself less tolerant of people with well-expressed causes they want Sean Drummond to fight for.

Anyway, Phyllis must have been reading my thoughts, because she suggested, “So you’re familiar with Mr. Charabi?”

I allowed that question to linger in the air, then said, “What was . . . or what
is
, the Agency’s relationship with Charabi?”

“None. He approached us many years ago. We did some back-grounding and didn’t like what we saw.”

“I know the official line. Try the truth.”

“I’m telling you the truth. We took a pass.” She emphasized, “Charabi was, and
is
, the Pentagon’s creature. Start to finish.”

“And how did the dead guy on the bed end up as Charabi’s . . . as his
what
?”

“Technically, his controller. But it’s more complicated than that . . . Before he moved to the Pentagon, Cliff Daniels was a career officer at the Defense Intelligence Agency. About a decade ago he befriended Mahmoud Charabi, or possibly vice versa.” She concluded, “That’s it. As far as I can go on an unsecure line.”

I thought about this a moment. From the news reports, I had read that Charabi spent about twenty years peddling his plans and scams for a free Iraq. I’ll bet he thought his train had come in when this President decided that Saddam needed the boot, if only somebody could help him justify why.

I wasn’t sure why or how Charabi became that go-to guy; but he did, and apparently the dead guy on the bed played a big hand in it. Also, as I recalled from the news reports, Charabi was supposed to be the Pentagon’s man to run Iraq after the invasion, though obviously that hadn’t worked out exactly as planned, since nobody seemed to be in charge in Iraq now, at least no Iraqis, and possibly not even the

U.S. military.

Then, somehow, Daniels himself ended up as a target of intelligence interest, with an invitation to explain his activities in front of a congressional panel. Interesting.

Anyway, Phyllis repeated herself, saying, “I really can’t go any deeper on the phone.” She added, “I’ve told you more than you should know, as it is. Unless you’re part of the investigation.”

“I didn’t know there was an investigation.”

“With Daniels dead, it’s now imperative to learn
why
. An investigation is how we usually handle these things.”

“Maybe it was suicide. Sure looks like suicide.”

“Maybe it was. But knowing what you now know, the alternative gains a little added weight . . . don’t you think?” She gave me a moment to think about it, then said, “Now you persuade the Arlington police that it
was
suicide. And bring back that briefcase.”

“Are you ordering me to lie to the police? I want to be clear on this.”

“Did I say that?”

“In so many words . . . yes.”

I couldn’t see her smile, but I could picture it. She said, “You’re a lawyer, Drummond. Handle it.”

“Am I part of this investigation?”

“Do you want to be?”

“No.”

“Then now you are. Is that settled?”

“Not yet. Who am I working for?”

“You report to me.”

“And who do you report to?”

She ignored my question and said, “The Agency inspector general and the FBI already have an ongoing investigation, of which Daniels was a subject. But we’ll handle them as parallel efforts. Ours will be kept separate, quiet, distinct.”

Interesting. “And will one hand know what the other hand is doing?”

“I receive ongoing updates on what they’re doing.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Figure it out.”

I figured it out. Phyllis would hold
all
the cards. I asked, “What am I investigating?”

“Whether Daniels was murdered or not. We’ll see where it leads from there.”

“And Major Tran?”

“Yes . . . I’m glad you brought her up. Do you feel you can trust her?”

“As much as I trust you.”

Now I was sure she was smiling. She asked, “More relevantly, does Major Tran trust you?”

“Absolutely. As we speak, she’s on the other side of a glass slider, trying to read my lips.”

Phyllis laughed. She asked, “Can you
work
with her?”

“I can work with
you
, so I’m sure I can work with her.”

I thought I heard a sharp breath. I think I had just worn out her patience for my insolence. Part of the fun of this job was seeing how far I could push it. The Army, peculiar institution that it is, tends to be fairly stiff regarding such issues as insubordination and disrespect to superiors. Candor is permitted, even encouraged, so long as it is rendered respectfully. Of course, one senior officer’s interpretation of respect can differ substantially from another’s, so you have to watch your P’s and Q’s. The CIA, also a fairly hierarchical organization, is sort of a halfway house between a martial culture and a civilian one, and you have a little more leeway to be a pain in the ass.

Back to Phyllis. She said, “I think it would be invaluable to have the Defense Secretary’s own investigative staff in on this. The Pentagon is, after all, a fortress of sorts. You should . . . partner with her.”

“You mean, use her as a Trojan horse?”

“You know how much I dislike analogies. You shouldn’t oversimplify complex situations.” She added, after a long pause, “But yes, that one fits.”

Lest you think I’m a complete fool, it was Phyllis, after all, who dispatched me to this death scene in the first place, and nothing she does, or thinks, is serendipitous. She is well aware of my nosy, mulish ways, my propensity to rush around corners, my . . . well, enough virtues. The larger point is, I was the sole military person in her office, Mr. Daniels was an employee of the Pentagon, and it was suddenly clear why she picked me for this job.

And now she was exploiting one Trojan horse to recruit another— a frightening display of how her mind works.

The truth is, our relationship is no more or less complicated than that between a cat and a mouse. I’m nimble and quick. And so is she, with a facile mind and razorlike paws. It’s sort of fun, also scary, and often dangerous. But the larger truth is, I wanted a piece of this case.

Phyllis mentioned, “Incidentally,
Bis dat qui cito dat
.”

In plain English, he gives twice who gives promptly—and I understood what she meant, and why. As soon as Clifford Daniels’s identity was nailed down, via witnesses, personal identity cards, dental records, and/or fingerprints, the Arlington Police Department public affairs people would issue a standard public notice. With luck, the local press might not recognize the significance of Daniels’s name before they filed their late edition; without luck, some enterprising reporter would run Clifford’s name through Lexis, Google, or Yahoo! and get an interesting hit. Either way, by morning, the nuts and junkies would be on this like flies on poop.

Washington has always thrived on juicy rumors and corpulent conspiracy theories, fueled by amateur Oliver Stones—people with dark outlooks, overheated imaginations, whose mental bolts could stand a good tightening. But the proliferation of cable news channels, talk radio, and Internet blogs has changed a beltway pastime into a national frenzy. Every paranoid idiot now has an outlet and an audience. A few even have network anchor jobs.

I informed Phyllis, “That isn’t my problem.”

“It is now. Speed, Drummond. Get this done quickly.” Right.

She agreed to call Major Tran’s office and work out some kind of bureaucratic entente, and I told her what I needed when I returned to the office . . . starting with a new job.

I snapped shut the cell, stepped back inside, and rejoined Major Tran, who was still pretending to study a piece of faux artwork on the wall.

I nodded at her. She nodded back.

“When did you first figure me out?” I asked her.

“I don’t know. Maybe . . . the instant you claimed you’re FBI.”

“Really? I was obnoxious, overbearing, and a prick. What gave me away?”

“You were all of the above. You just don’t fit the mold.”

“I’m . . . devastated.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I’m even wearing fresh undershorts.”

“Thank you for sharing that.” She smiled. “You forgot your look of wholesome goodliness.”

We walked together, she and I, back to the bedroom and Detective Sergeant Enders.

CHAPTER FOUR

I
f possible the smell had worsened to the point that Bian Tran refreshened her disinfectant the moment we reentered the bedroom. Our newly erected partnership apparently had limits; she never offered me a dab.

Tim Reynolds was still painstakingly lifting lint and particles off the bed and dropping them into labeled plastic Baggies.

Enders, still with an eye on the briefcase, was conferring with another gent, who also wore a cheap sports coat and bad necktie—it had green and yellow polka dots. As he spoke, he kept glancing at his notebook, presumptive evidence that he also was a detective.

Clifford Daniels remained naked—and dead.

In fact, as we entered the detective was informing Enders, “. . . suicide. Yeah, I’m comfortable with that. I guess I’d feel better if I knew something about his life, whether he fits into a suicidal profile. But . . . look . . . gun in his own hand, no break-in, the overall physical arrangement . . . it’s fairly clear-cut.”