She stopped walking and eyed me even more suspiciously. “Why would a sergeant be interested in information? Who do you work for, Hufnagel?”
Miss Janice Warner had a very quick mind, and this was exactly the deduction I’d hoped she would draw. I gave her a big, broad smile. “Look, we’re not at that point yet. Are you ready to talk the deal or not?”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then I find myself another reporter. The smell of a corpse has brought fresh new flocks. There’s scads of ’em around here these days.”
She considered that a moment, but from the expression on her face I wouldn’t say she was fully committed. At least, not yet.
“Okay, continue,” she said.
“The way this works is you’re going to give me a little information. Then I’m gonna give you a little information. Play me right, and I’ll give you a story that stops hearts.”
“I’m nobody’s dupe, Stupnagel.”
“Hufnagel. Harold Hufnagel,” I said. I loved the way that rolled off my tongue. “But you can call me Harry.”
“Are you an MP?”
“Ah-ahh! You’re not allowed to probe.”
“How do I know the info you have on Berkowitz’s death is legit?”
“Because I was one of Jeremy’s inside sources. I gave him a big story, then he got garroted.”
She was nodding as I spoke. “That it?” she asked, somewhat dubiously.
Give her credit for trying. “Come on, Miss Warner. In or out?”
She stopped and examined my face. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Like I said, she had these real perceptive eyes, which meant they took a lot in, but emitted nothing.
“All right, we’ll try it,” she said. “You give me one piece of information, and I’ll give you one piece. Right?”
This reminded me of the game little boys and girls always like to play. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. I’d tried it once. When I was six. Only this little girl talked me into showing mine first, then she laughed and ran away and told all her little friends what a stupid dunce I was.
“Nope, you first,” I insisted, still smarting from that old memory.
“Is there some specific area you’re interested in?”
“In fact there is. I happen to know that Berkowitz was on to something big. Why wasn’t there any hint of that in his final story?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Berkowitz was working several different story lines.”
“Come on. Don’t be cute. The Kosovo massacre.”
She seemed genuinely bewildered. “He sent a dispatch back to the paper the night he died.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But the next day’s story was an empty puff piece. Last time he and I talked, he told me he was going to break something big.”
She seemed to be reappraising me, as though our discussion had just taken an unexpected turn and ended up on uncertain ground. “Was that where you were helping Berkowitz? The Kosovo massacre?”
“Maybe,” I said.
She canted her head sideways. “I don’t know what happened,” she said. Then she added, “Let me check with the paper on Berkowitz’s last dispatch. Sometimes the editors cut a lot out.”
I shook my head like I wasn’t buying it. “Your editors wouldn’t take a pass on something that big.”
“You never know,” she said. “Editors can be maddeningly arbitrary. Maybe they didn’t think his sources were complete or reputable enough. Berkowitz had a reputation for hip-shooting.”
“Okay, you do that,” I said. “But do it quickly.”
“Why? Are you in some kind of hurry?”
“I have my reasons. Now, my turn. Berkowitz believed there was some kind of conspiracy here. Now I’m gonna give you a name. Jack Tretorne. Ever hear of him?”
She shook her head, and her luxuriant black hair shook all around, catching flecks of light. “Can’t say I have,” she said.
“He’s a big muckety-muck with the CIA. He’s been spending a lot of time here at Tuzla working directly with the Green Berets.”
“And this is supposed to have something to do with Berkowitz’s murder?”
“It’s related,” I assured her.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Maybe shake the trees to find out a little more about Tretorne and what he’s up to. Be careful when you shake, though. You know what they say about shaking trees with gorillas in the branches.”
“That it?” she asked, eyeing me speculatively.
“For now, yes. I’ll get hold of you again tomorrow morning. When I call, I’ll say I’m Mike Jackson and your order is ready. I’ll give you a time to pick it up, which means meet me at the mess hall entrance at that time. Got that?”
“Sure, fine,” she said, but the way she said it, she evidently thought I was maybe a little weird or extravagant with my secret passwords and clandestine meeting places. Well, she didn’t know what I knew.
We were only a block from the reporters’ compound, so I left her there and headed back to my tent. I was beginning to get my traction. I now had an unwitting ally-the best kind of ally for this kind of fight. The CIA thrives on secrecy. Its worst enemy is the threat of public exposure. A guy like Jack Tretorne would shrivel up and die if he was yanked out of the shadows. I’d just sicced Janice Warner and her paper on his trail, which was bound to make his life a little more miserable. Hopefully a lot more miserable.
I really was curious to learn why Berkowitz had never filed the story I gave him. It had to be a key piece in the puzzle. The plot that was taking shape in the back of my mind went something like this: Tretorne somehow learned that Berkowitz was on the verge of breaking the conspiracy story. Maybe Tretorne got tipped because the Washington Herald filed an inquiry with the CIA back at Langley. I’m no expert in the ways of modern journalism, but I am under the impression that newspapers generally offer the chance of rebuttal or comment to someone before they slice ’n’ dice them on the front page. Or maybe Tretorne had NSA eavesdropping on Berkowitz’s electronic transmissions, maybe even his computer, and learned of it that way. Anyway, Tretorne then had Berkowitz “sanctioned,” and faxed the Herald a planted story under Berkowitz’s name.
The only thing that confused me was that Janice Warner sounded completely clueless about what was happening around here. When I mentioned the Kosovo massacre, she seemed genuinely confused. Maybe Tretorne had succeeded in throwing her paper off track. Since Berkowitz never got his real dispatch filed, the Herald had no idea what he’d discovered.
When I got back to my tent, I noticed that my possessions had been rifled through. The CID guys had been benevolent enough to try to put everything back where they found it, but a few things were out of place. Also, my running shoes were gone. Such are the terrific inconveniences I had to work with.
Chapter 24
Clapper called at two that night. I began to suspect something insidious in these late-night calls. Maybe this was part of the conspiracy: to try to make me so groggy and miserable that I’d be willing to buy any line of baloney just to get this over with and get some rest. Very devious, those guys.
Clapper said, “Where are you? Are you getting it wrapped up?”
“Dotting a few i’s and crossing a few t’s,” I answered, trying to sound confident.
“I had a call from General Foster over at NSA. He’s furious. He said you’re making trouble for one of his employees, a Mr. Jones. What’s this one about?”
I should have expected this. I said, “I’m just trying to make him get reasonable. He’s the same guy who showed us the tapes and transcripts. Only he won’t let us have any copies. Too sensitive, he says. I told him I could live with that as long as I had his name and section so I can refer to him in my report.”
Clapper said, “You should be able to get by perfectly fine without them. This Jones character is apparently in a very sensitive job. General Foster offered to let us use his own name.”