I opened it up and there was Jones’s handsome face inside his passport. The name wasn’t Jones, though. It was Tretorne; Jack Tretorne, to be exact. I flipped quickly through the pages. Jack was a busy traveler. The passport had been issued only a year and a half before, yet nearly all the pages were already filled with visa stamps and entry permits. All the ones I saw were for European countries, the majority of which were Balkan states. It was not an official passport of the type commonly issued to government employees. It was a common, garden-variety passport. That might mean something, and that might mean nothing. As a result of the terrorist scares of the seventies and eighties, lots of government employees in sensitive jobs were encouraged to travel with civilian passports. That way, when Abdul the 747 hijacker began walking up the plane row collecting passports and looking for candidates to shoot and dump on the tarmac, he wouldn’t be able to discriminate.
Since I’d already had to break into his briefcase, I decided to keep his passport. It might come in handy, but even if it didn’t, now Tretorne would have to go through all the hassle of getting a new one. I rather liked that idea. I had ruined his briefcase, and now I was stealing his passport. Then I began rummaging around inside the briefcase again. This time I was fishing around to see if I could find a small plastic card. It took a while, but I finally felt a hard plastic edge inside one of those little compartments they put inside these fancy briefcases.
I pulled it out and flashed my penlight on it. There was Jack Tretorne’s handsome face again. Only this card did not show his name, only a long number and the name of the issuing agency. Oh, and of course, it also proudly displayed the shield of the Central Intelligence Agency. This was the identification card Jack used to get in and out of that big complex in Langley, Virginia. An NSA factotum, my ass.
I decided to keep his ID also, before I put everything away and walked back across the street to the Visiting General Officers’ Quarters. I went back down the hallway to Tretorne’s room, entered quietly, and made sure I moved just as stealthily back over to the desk. I gently set the briefcase back down on the floor, right where I found it, with the side I’d cut open flat against the desk, where I hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable.
I then made my way back out, this time turning the inside locking mechanism on the doorknob so the door would lock when I closed it. I hadn’t noticed Tretorne carrying his briefcase when he first came to see me two days before. Nor had he carried it with him the evening before, when I followed him back to his quarters. I hoped he was the type who didn’t use his briefcase every day. I didn’t want anything to make him suspicious yet.
I decided to give Miss Smith a pass that night. It seemed highly likely that she was also a CIA employee, and I really didn’t care what her real name was.
I raced back to my tent and changed into battle dress. Then I went to General Murphy’s headquarters building. The sergeant who was pulling night duty asked me what I wanted. I whipped out my fancy orders and told him I needed a private office with a secure phone. He showed me down the hall and let me into the office of the operations officer. Then he used a key to open up a special metal cabinet that contained another special key that would convert the phone to secure. He handed the key to me, warned me not to mess anything up, and left me alone.
Colonel Bill Tingle was a living legend in the Special Operations community. It was widely rumored he was the real-life guy John Wayne portrayed in that sappy 1968 movie The Green Berets. Tingle was long past mandatory retirement age, but a special committee of Congress just automatically extended him on military duty every year. For all I knew, he had over a hundred years on active duty. He’d been a full colonel during the Vietnam War and was the mastermind behind the San Te raid, which was a heroic attempt at a helicopter assault deep into North Vietnam to free a bunch of our POWs. The raid went off without a hitch, but for one inconvenient little detail. Unfortunately, the North Vietnamese had removed all the POWs from the camp a few weeks before. As a result, the raiders went in and killed a bunch of bad guys, but returned empty-handed. It was an intelligence glitch-up, but other than that, everybody agreed the raid itself was a stunning masterpiece.
After the war ended, it was Tingle’s idea to form the outfit, and he’d remained on board ever since as the official adviser. It was a young man’s game, so outfit commanders came and went, but old Bill Tingle was always there, like the cornerstone of a building. Even after I left, I always made it a point to call Tingle at least once a year, and we were on each other’s Christmas card lists. I think he found it terribly amusing that an outfit guy left to go to law school and become a JAG officer. Bill Tingle hated lawyers.
I dialed a special number that all outfit vets were required to carry around in our wallets. If we ever suspected our former association with the outfit was at risk of being exposed, we were supposed to call that number. A male voice answered and said, “Ling Hai’s Chinese Takeout.” This was the outfit’s screening service, and I said, “I’d like to talk with the bull, please.” The bull was Bill Tingle’s code name.
I heard some switching noises in the background, then this deep, gravelly voice said, “Tingle.” I can’t remember ever seeing Bill Tingle without a lit Marlboro in his lips, which accounted for the fact that he sounded like Darth Vader chewing on marbles. On the other hand, him being the toughest man anyone ever saw, maybe he was born that way.
I said, “Hey, sir, Sean Drummond here.”
“Drummond? Drummond? Ah yeah, the dumbass who quit and went to law school.”
“Right, sir. Same Drummond. Listen, I need a big favor.”
“Favor? Then I’ll give you the number for May’s escort service. Old May’ll do you a favor you’ll never forget.”
Tingle had a lousy sense of humor. I laughed anyway. “Sir, if you don’t mind, we have to go secure.”
Tingle grunted, then we went through the laborious process of using the special keys to change our phones from unsecure to secure. The secure mode scrambled a perfectly human voice and made it sound like Tingle sounded normally. You can only imagine what it did to Tingle’s voice. Made you think you were talking to the guy who ran hell.
It took about thirty seconds, then I said, “Listen, I think I’m in real deep shit, and I need some help.” Raw candor was always the best way to deal with Tingle.
“All right, spill it, Drummond.”
And I did. I spilled everything that had happened, right down to breaking into Jones’s room and stealing his passport and ID. He listened to it all and said nothing for a moment.
Finally he broke the silence. “Don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“I didn’t think you did. That’s not why I called.”
“Why did you call?”
“I need to find out more about this Jack Tretorne guy.”
“And you figure I can do that?”
“Yes, sir. You’ve got all kinds of contacts up there. Maybe you can find who I’m up against.”
There was a long silence for another moment. I heard Tingle cough a few times. On a secure phone, it sounded like little mines detonating in his throat. He really needed to quit smoking.
He finally said, “All right, Drummond. By the way, you ever hear of Operation Phoenix?”
I said, “Vaguely. One of those Vietnam things, wasn’t it?”
“Right. Look it up,” he ordered me. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Colonel,” I said, “if you don’t mind, that’s not a good idea. I think my phones are bugged. I’ll call you.”
“Whatever.”
“By the way, I ran into another outfit vet out here. A Sergeant Major Williams. Remember him?”
“We’ve had three Williamses come through the outfit. Of course, one died. Mogadishu, I think. Yeah, it was Mogadishu. Poor bastard.”
“This one’s still kicking. He worked the POW hard sell when I went through screening. He told me you kept having him kick the crap out of me.”