He leaned across the table and, in a tellingly reasonable tone, said, “Listen close, Drummond. I’m not going to be listed in your report. Let’s get that clear. My work requires me to do sensitive work, and I cannot risk being exposed. Just use the name of the NSA chief, Lieutenant General Foster.”
I grinned. “Hey, don’t sweat it, Jonesy, old pal. My report’s going to have ‘Top Secret Special Category’ stamped all over it. You won’t be exposed. Besides, General Foster had nothing to do with this.”
A tinge of red was working up Tretorne’s neck, and his face was becoming flushed. “He knows all about it, Drummond. Just do what you’re told.”
You could tell by his tone that Tretorne was a guy who was used to giving orders and getting his way.
My smile got even wider. “Gee, I really can’t, old buddy. Look, if it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll list your name and employment data in a special annex that’s eyes only to the Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Can’t get more accommodating than that, can we? See, the thing is, Jonesy, you’re now part of my investigation. You invited yourself in the moment you walked into my office. I mean, surely you knew that.”
“No, I didn’t. And I still don’t believe it.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, getting up and preparing to leave.
“Where are you going?” Tretorne demanded, now even more perplexed.
“I’m going to call a military judge. I’m gonna tell him to write me a court order addressed to the director of the NSA that gives him six hours to release your name and job data.” I was assuming that Jack Tretorne was not an attorney and wouldn’t know whether I could do that or not.
“That wouldn’t be a very good idea,” he muttered in a very menacing tone.
“Why, Mr. Jones, you’re not threatening me, are you? There is another way I can handle this. I’m pretty damned sure I can also talk that judge into issuing a writ against you and your agency for withholding evidence critical to a criminal investigation. Hell, maybe I’ll ask the judge for both.”
This issue of law, Tretorne obviously thought he knew something about. “You can’t bluff me,” he snarled. “That’s been tested in federal court a million times. Nobody can force the government to release classified data.”
“You’re right,” I said. “But you’re also a little confused. All those cases involved civilians without security clearances requesting the release of classified information. I represent another government agency. Also, the information I’ve requested is going to be enclosed in a classified investigation packet.”
He was still sputtering something when I closed the door behind me. Another law of war is to keep the enemy off balance. God knows he got his share of agony out of me the day before, and I wanted Tretorne to feel what it was like to sweat for a change.
I was sure he would immediately get on the phone to the lawyers back at the CIA to ask them if I could accomplish everything I’d just threatened. They were lawyers, though. They would defer. All lawyers, everywhere, always defer. In civilian firms, lawyers never answer anything right away because then they’d lose the opportunity to pump up a bunch of billable hours. In government agencies, lawyers never answer right away because they’re bureaucrats and on general principle never do anything right away. Besides, they like to minimize risk by meeting with lots of colleagues, so they can make sure the blame for wrong answers gets spread around.
What Tretorne would eventually learn was that I could get the writ for his name, but CIA and NSA lawyers could fight it and keep it in limbo for months, long past the point of relevance. He would also be told that no military judge can compel another government agency to hand over sensitively acquired, classified information. Regardless, it was going to be a while before he got this confirmed, and I wanted to see if I could force his hand.
I went back to the office and returned to working on my phony screed. At four o’clock I went back over to General Murphy’s headquarters building and asked an eager-looking captain if he could please find me a secure phone in a private room. He led me down the hall to the adjutant’s office, who was off visiting troops somewhere, got me the secure key, and left me alone.
I called the Chinese takeout again and was put right through to Colonel Bill Tingle.
I said hi, we did the shift to secure mode thing again, then Tingle said, “Found him.”
“I can’t thank you enough, sir. Who is he?”
“Tretorne’s a GS-17 in Operations.”
A GS-17 is like the equivalent civilian rank of someone between a two- and three-star general, and Operations is the half of the CIA that does field work.
“Wow,” I blurted out, because I couldn’t think of anything even halfway clever to say. I felt like that proverbial fisherman in the small wooden boat who’s just realized he’s hooked a three-ton man-eating shark on his line.
He added, “He’s in charge of field operations for the Balkans. Career man, too. Not one of them political Pudleys.”
I had no idea what a Pudley was, but that was the word Tingle commonly used to describe anyone he didn’t like. Most often, I’d heard him use it to describe lawyers. Like years before, when I told him I was leaving the outfit to become a lawyer, and he screamed, “You wanta stop bein’ a hardcock to become a goddamn Pudley?”
I said, “Did you learn anything else about him?”
“He’s got a good rep. A can-do guy. Also, he went to West Point. Guess he did his few years, then got out and went to the Agency.”
I said, “Very interesting. By the way, I read about Operation Phoenix.”
“Don’t believe the half of it. Believe the other half, though. That really happened.”
He was in Vietnam then, and was wearing a green beret, so I assumed he probably had firsthand knowledge about the whole thing. He may even have been part of Operation Phoenix. I didn’t like the thought of Bill Tingle, who was something of a personal hero of mine, assassinating folks, so I did what I always do when confronted with unpalatable facts. I instantly decided he didn’t do it.
I said, “Any chance that’s what’s going on here?”
“How the hell do I know, Drummond? I’m here, and you’re there.”
“I just thought there must be some reason you wanted me to look it up.”
“Look, son, I’ve been in the Army since 1950. You have no idea how stupid we can be.”
“Okay,” I said, “I can’t thank you enough, sir.”
“Right. Hey, another thing. You see that Williams asshole again, tell ’em I said to get fucked.”
“Will do, Colonel.”
“One more thing. Think before you act, boy. Sometimes what looks bad is really good.”
“Right,” I said, then he hung up.
Bill Tingle was a coarse, crusty old fart, but you don’t get to be old in his line of work by being stupid. “Think before you act” was always good advice. Of course, that required that you have time to think, which was something I didn’t.
Chapter 23
I went back to the office and exchanged my battle dress for the uniform Imelda had sewed new insignia on. My new nametag and rank declared me to be Sergeant Hufnagel. Harold, I decided; I would be Sergeant Harold Hufnagel. Say that ten times real fast and see what happens.
Specialist Hufnagel was the legal clerk who looked a bit like a saber-toothed tiger. I figured I couldn’t get her or me into any trouble by borrowing her name. If someone took undue interest in me, they could turn this base inside out looking for a male sergeant named Harold Hufnagel, and we’d both be safe and clear.
I left and walked over to the supply room Imelda had staked out as her unofficial communications center. I asked if I could borrow the phone. The private on duty said sure. I called the Tenth Group’s information office. A sergeant named Jarvis answered.
I said, “Sergeant, this is Barry McCloud at the day desk of the Washington Herald. You got any of my reporters out there?”