Man in the Middle (7 page)

“Yeah . . . but . . .”

Before he could finish that “but,” I chose to intervene. “Major Tran and I are equally satisfied it was suicide.”

Enders glanced in my direction. “Did I ask your opinion?”

“That was more than an opinion.”

It got a little frosty in the room. “What are you talking about?”

“As there’s no apparent reason to suspect foul play, Major Tran and I are seizing Daniels’s briefcase as government property. It’s immaterial to your investigation and we’re asserting the right of higher domain.”

“The . . . ? What in the hell are you talking about?”

For his edification, Bian explained, “It’s a complicated legal theory. Something to do with big dogs, small dogs, and, if I recall correctly . . . urinating on trees.”

Enders looked at me like I was nuts.

“That briefcase is mine,” I said, and stepped toward the bed and the briefcase.

He put a hand on my arm. “Welcome to Arlington County, pal. Higher domain, my ass—
my
beat,
my
briefcase. I decide what’s relevant and what’s not.”

“Not this time.”

“This time, every time.” I took another step toward the bed, and he said, “Touch that case and I’ll slap cuffs on you.”

Bian and I traded looks and shared the same disquieting thought. Somebody needed to play good cop. I can do that, though it’s not really my forte, and in any event, the slip was already showing beneath my sheep’s clothing. Besides, differences in uniforms aside, a cop is a cop, and Bian was a cop, and she could talk the talk. She said to Enders, “Barry, do you have doubts about this being suicide?”

“Well . . . I . . . uh . . .” It seemed Enders either had none, or at least none sufficiently evolved to be expressed.

“Because I agree with Drummond,” Bian continued. “So does your detective. He called it clear-cut and he’s right. The man killed himself.”

“Nothing’s firm until I get results from forensics, and until I know something about the victim . . . what might’ve led to this. You’re a cop. You know that.”

“I know how it works procedurally, Barry. I’m also aware that you have certain leeway for extraordinary circumstances.”

He looked at her. “I have an ongoing investigation here. That briefcase could contain evidence relevant to my investigation, and until I know otherwise, it stays in my custody.”

“Should we find any, I’ll call immediately. Promise.”

“Come on. I shouldn’t need to remind you about chain of custody issues.”

“I . . .” Bian paused and looked at me: Cop-to-cop, she was getting the crap kicked out of her.

This sounded like a good time for a little expert legal advice— meaning vague, selective, and possibly misleading advice. I turned to Bian and asked, “Your office—is it an investigative agency or a law enforcement office?”

“Both—I have the power to make arrests, as well as the legal authority to refer for prosecution.”

“Well, there you have it.” I turned to Enders. “Just sign an evidence transfer statement, from you to her. Right?”

“And if it don’t stand up in court, I’m left holding the bag. The county prosecutors here are real . . . Look, I’m two years short of retirement. I don’t need trouble.”

“I’m a government lawyer. Trust me.”

Maybe that was a poor choice of words. He replied, “I don’t even know who the hell you are. You claimed to be FBI, then CIA, now you’re a lawyer. You better figure out who you are before you start offering advice.”

Bian assured him, “He
is
a lawyer, Barry. Also an Army lieutenant colonel . . . a JAG officer.”

My identities and jobs were switching so fast, poor Enders looked like he needed a flowchart to keep me straight. I explained, “Look, Detective, it’s no different than forwarding samples to a state forensics facility or an FBI lab. Major Bian has an investigative specialty—to wit, a security clearance—that affords her the ability to examine and interpret evidence neither you nor your department possess.”

I was making this up, of course. It did sound good, though, and Enders seemed to be impressed by my grasp of legal technicalities, or my inventive bullshit, which are actually the same thing. Still, he insisted, “I’m going to see what’s inside that briefcase.”

Bian started to object, before I said, “Fine. He’s doing his job. Let’s just make sure there’s no cover sheet that says Top Secret.”

I walked to the bed, bent down, and picked up the briefcase. As I mentioned, it was a valise-style case—so no lock, just a brass clasp that I undid then peeked inside.

There were no loose papers, certainly no Top Secret cover sheets, nor did I see a helpful and illuminating suicide note, just a slim gray Gateway laptop computer and a thick store-bought address book. I carried the valise over to Enders and allowed him to peek inside and observe the contents.

Bian, peering over his left shoulder, predictably concluded, “Looks innocent enough.”

Enders asked, “Is that an office or a personal computer?”

“I’d have to turn it on to tell,” Bian replied. “But not in your presence. It’s irrelevant, anyway.”

Bian reached into her pocket and withdrew her business card, which she thrust into Enders’s hand. “If this causes you problems, Barry, refer them to me.”

I said to Enders, “When you get the results from forensics, call. Also, we’d like to know if the gun belonged to Daniels or somebody else.”

He looked at me and replied, “I can’t tell you how fucking pleased I am to be of service.”

“Incidentally, we were never here.”

“You know what?” he replied. “I wish that were true.”

In the parking lot, Tran and I decided that as she had arrived in her own car and I in a government sedan, we would depart together in mine. The subtext here: Neither of us trusted the other alone with the briefcase. Also my car, a big blue Crown Victoria, used taxpayers’ gas. This is called interagency cooperation.

As soon as we were seated and buckled in, she said, “Don’t take this the wrong way . . . but your place or mine?”

“I’m driving. Mine.”

“I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

“What did you expect? I’m CIA.”

I put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space, and headed east in the general direction of Crystal City, specifically toward the large brick warehouse where my office is located.

I should mention that the Office of Special Projects is located not, as you might expect, at the sprawling headquarters at Langley but in the aforementioned warehouse. The warehouse is a front, or in the lingo of the trade, an offsite, with a sign out front that reads “Ferguson Home Security Electronics.” A double entendre is supposed to be located in there somewhere. Don’t ask.

I was still new to all this, but as I understand it, OSP handles important projects for the Director that are highly sensitive and confidential in nature. And CIA people are, by training and instinct, nosy, cunning, and intrusive—at least the better ones are. So the purported intent of this geographic separation is to reduce the chances of leaks, thefts, or competitive sabotage. I guess it’s no secret that the CIA distrusts other governments or even its own government. But it is somewhat surprising how little it trusts even itself.

After a moment of companionable silence, Bian said, “I have a confession.”

“If this concerns your steamy sex life, keep it to yourself, Major.”

She looked at me. “Is this going to be a long day?”

“You’ll earn your paycheck.”

“Well . . . okay, here goes. About Cliff Daniels . . . I may have— actually I
wasn’t
entirely forthcoming.”

When I failed to reply to this bold revelation, she said, “I was sent because Daniels was the controller for a man named Charabi. Are you familiar with that name?”

“Sure. Simon Charabi. Delivers my laundry.”

She was obviously getting to know me and said, “I’ll assume that means yes.” She paused, then said, “Because of Daniels’s relationship with Charabi, a House investigating subcommittee ordered him to testify. He was scheduled to appear next week.”

“I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“Probably not. Anyway, his death is going to require an explanation to the panel members.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“As long as we’re working together, I . . .” She paused for a moment and reconsidered her words. “Cooperation is a sharing experience.” She touched my arm and said, “I expect you to reciprocate. We’re partners, right?”

She stuck out a hand. We shook.

She was a good liar, but not that good. What she really meant to say was that she thought Phyllis might have already let me in on this secret, or soon would. But rather than harm our plastic mood of amity, I asked, “Where’d you get that combat patch?”

“Iraq. During the invasion, and a year afterward.”

“You should fire your travel agent.”

She smiled and said, “We have the same travel agent.” She added, “I was the operations officer of an MP battalion during the invasion. Afterward, during the first year of the occupation phase, I was with the corps intelligence staff. My alternate specialty is military intelligence and I’m a fluent Arabic speaker. A lot of my time was spent interrogating prisoners, or performing liaison with local Iraqi police in our sector.”

“I’ll bet the Iraqis got a kick out of that.”

“Out of what?”

“An attractive Asian-American woman speaking their lingo. Was it a problem?”

She shrugged. “It was awkward. Not the language part, the female part. They have fairly medieval views toward women. It’s not a fundamentalist society, but in Arab countries the notion of male supremacy is more cultural than religious.”

“No kidding? Hey, I might even like it there.”

She wisely ignored my chauvinism and added, “You have to learn the tricks.”

“Like what?”

“Show them your gun and speak with blunt authority. If they’re still leering, knee them in the nuts.” She added, “They grew accustomed to that under Saddam. It helps them get over it.”

“Does it? I don’t recall that technique from the textbook.”

“I’m speaking metaphorically. But Iraq
is
different. The textbook doesn’t work there. You have to make certain . . . adjustments.”

“Every war is different.”

“I’m talking about something else. One minute the people are smiling and waving at you, and then . . . the moment you’re out of sight, those same people are planting artillery shells and bombs in the road to blow you to pieces.”

“Maybe you misinterpreted their waves. Maybe they meant ‘au revoir, asshole.’ ”

“That’s not funny.”

“That wasn’t meant to be funny.”

She took a deep breath, and then we made eye contact and she said, “One day, I watched a car pull up to a checkpoint. A woman in a black veil was driving and yelling out the window for help. A little kid was in the passenger seat, for Godsakes. Two of my MPs let down their guard, they approached her and— It was really awful. Body parts flew all over the place.” She held my eyes for a moment, then added, “They don’t play by
any
rules—that leaves you no choice. What kind of people blow up their own children? You have to throw away the rule books over there.”

“Do you?”

“Oh . . . I forgot. You’re a lawyer.”

“Meaning what?”

“You know what it means.”

“I really don’t. Explain it.”

“Nothing. Drop it.” I glanced at her and she said, “I wasn’t trying . . . I wasn’t implying—”

“Did it ever strike you that maybe the people there are pissed off because we invaded their country, and now they view us as unwelcome occupiers? Unreasonable, I know, but maybe it’s why they’re trying to kill us.”

Apparently I struck a raw nerve because she said, “Spare me the armchair moralizing. Here you see these news reports of people having their heads lopped off, or being blown to bits by roadside bombs, and you think, oh goodness, how awful. Over there, you lay awake at night wondering if you’re next.”

She started to say something else, but apparently changed her mind.

“When you throw away the rule book, Bian, you get Abu Ghraibs. Play by those rules, they lose
and
you lose.”

She decided to change the topic, because she asked, “How did you wind up at the Agency?”

“One day I came into work and everybody was gone. All the furniture was gone, too, except a desk with my nametag on it.”

She laughed.

“Countries, governments, office buildings . . . that’s how they do things.” After a moment, I added, “They’re not completely bad people, though. I got to keep my parking space.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously . . . I don’t have a clue.”

She changed subjects again, and asked, “So what do you think? About Daniels? Did he kill himself or was he murdered?”

“What do
you
think?”

“To be frank, a few elements appeared out of sync for a suicide. You must have noticed the silencer. Also, his nudeness—that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Nothing to feel bad about. He was pretty big.”

She elbowed my arm. “You know what I’m saying. There’s a contradiction here.”

“Explain it.”

“All right. He uses a silencer, presumably not to disturb the neighbors. The inference here is that even as he’s contemplating suicide, he’s concerned about how those neighbors will remember him. Yet he’s willing to expose himself as a vulgar idiot as a corpse. Does that make sense to you?”

I hadn’t even considered that angle. I mean, anyone contemplating suicide, by definition, needs to get his or her head screwed on straight. She said, “Incompatibilities are clues in themselves.”

“Right. And did you notice his dying expression?”

“I know what you mean. Scared, frightened . . . actually, surprised. Also out of character for the situation.”

“Was he married?”

“Was. I was told he was divorced.”

“What else were you told?”

“I was in a rush. There wasn’t time to run a full background check.”

“Okay. Well, we’ll soon learn more about this guy and what made him tick.”

After a long moment, she replied, “Perhaps we’ll learn more than we want to know.”

In retrospect, that turned out to be the ugly truth.