“I see.” But he did not look happy.
The subject in question was Sergeant First Class Luigi Albioni, who was part of a unit that collects intelligence on foreign targets and who had been dispatched to Europe with an American Express card to shadow the dictator of a country that must remain anonymous. If you’re curious, however, think of a large pisshole slowbaking between Egypt and Tunisia, a place we once bombed after it sent a terrorist to blow up a German disco filled with American GIs, and we still aren’t invited to each other’s barbecues. Yet it seems the dictator likes to don disguises on occasion and escape the stuffy Muslim ways of his country to partake in the decadent ways of the West, and Luigi’s job was to skulk around and obtain photos of the camel-jockey as he shot craps in Monaco and cavorted in Amsterdam’s brothels.
Exactly why our national leaders would want such disgusting pictures is, you can be sure, a question I would like answered. But in this business, don’t ask. They usually won’t answer. If they do, it’s all lies.
Anyway, a week after Luigi departed from JFK International, he-and a hundred grand drawn on his charge card-disappeared into thin air, whatever the hell that cliche means. Six months passed before Luigi did something inexplicably stupid: He e-mailed an ex-wife. To inquire if there was a bounty on his ass, she called the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, who notified us; who swiftly arranged to have that same ass collected from a well- known Swiss resort, which accounts for when and how I came into the picture.
Actually, Luigi turned out to be a pretty good guy for a scum-bag who deserted his country. We bonded a little, and he confided that in order to protect his cover he had tried his hand at black-jack, got seriously carried away, lost ninety grand, then his luck turned and he won nine hundred grand. It was a fingertap from God, Luigi was sure-after seventeen years of loyal and courageous service, the time had come to pack it in on his own terms.
But back to Clapper. He logically asked, “And what happened to the money your client stole from the… from our government?”
I pointed out, “You mean the hundred grand he borrowed? He always intended to send a check with compounded interest. The rest were winnings- his winnings.”
“Drummond… just don’t.” Well, it had worked with the prosecutor, but that’s another story.
“The remainder’s being donated to the Old Soldier’s Home.”
“Is that so?” He raised his eyebrows and suggested, I think skeptically, “A charitable gesture from a guilt- wrought man I take it?”
“In his own words, the least he could do, you know… considering his crimes, his love for the Army, and-”
“And the ten-year reduction played no role? None whatsoever?”
Well, he obviously knew more about the case than he had let on. And then he asked, “So what did we get for ten years of his life?”
“Seven hundred grand, give or take change. And be thankful- in the private sector, half that would be sitting in my checking account for services rendered.”
“Yes, half would be about right.” He chuckled and commented, “But then you wouldn’t have the grand satisfaction of serving your country.” This was an old joke that never goes down well, and he then added, “Actually, it’s ironic you should mention it.”
But he did not elaborate on that cryptic thought. Instead he asked, “Please remind me, Sean, how long have you been assigned to the Special Actions unit?”
“Oh, let’s see… eight years, come next March.”
“I think you mean since last September. Right? Four years prosecuting and four defending. Right?”
I nodded. Yes, that would be exactly right.
But regarding me, I believe wholeheartedly in the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not fixeth that which is not brokeneth. The Army, however, was created to wreck things that aren’t broken, a mindset that bleeds over into its personnel policies. Actually, nobody in the Army believes there are personnel policies, just a standing order that as soon as a soldier becomes acclimated to a certain place, masters a certain job, or appears happy where they’re at, it’s time to jerk their ass through some new knothole.
Professionally, I was very content where I was. Socially, I had serious problems.
But Clapper was explaining, “JAG officers have to be well-rounded. Contracts, negotiations, there’s a whole world of law you’ve never touched.”
“Good point. You’re right. Let’s keep it that way.”
“I… I understand.” He cleared his throat and continued, less tolerantly, “I also understand you’re up for promotion this year.” I nodded to acknowledge this fact before he added, “So, do I need to remind you that promotion boards tend to choose officers with more general knowledge and experience in the field of law?”
“Who cares?” Actually, I care. I’m as ambitious as the next guy, I just want to succeed on my own terms.
This, however, was neither the appropriate nor desired response. He got up, turned his back on me, and gazed out the window, across the highway at Arlington National Cemetery. He obviously had something up his sleeve, and I had the sense he was about to transfer it up my ass. That aside, you have to ponder the logic that placed the Pentagon and the cemetery next to each other-the living and dead, past and present, lucky and unlucky- right there. The sight of those endless rows of white stones tends not to promote those aspirations and ambitions that beget hard work, long hours, and diligence. But more sensibly, those markers do remind the powers who rule this building of the price of stupid blunders, which perhaps was what the designer intended.
I wondered if Clapper was staring across that road and pondering his mortality. How foolish-he was apparently pondering mine.
He asked, over his shoulder, “Have you ever heard of the WWIP?”
“Sure. I had a friend who caught it once. Very rough. His dick fell off.”
He was not amused. “The full title is the Working With Industry Program, Sean. It’s where we put an officer in a civilian company for a year. The officer learns what’s new and state-of-the-art in the private sector, then brings that knowledge back into the military. It’s a highly regarded program for our most promising officers-good for the individual and good for the Army.”
“It does sound like a great program. I’ll even name ten guys who’d love to do that.” I then added, “But my name won’t be on that list.”
“In fact, yours is the only name on that list.” He walked back in my direction and ordered, “Report for duty at Culper, Hutch, and Westin first thing in the morning. It’s located here in D. C., and it’s a damned fine firm.”
I said nothing.
He said, “Don’t give me that look. It’ll do you good. You’ve worked a lot of hard cases, and you’ll benefit from the break. Actually, I’m envious.”
It’s worth noting here that who needed the break was a debatable point. I had handled a few very sensitive cases, most recently one concerning a general officer accused of treason, where I’d stepped on a few very important, oversensitive toes.
Nor, I expect, did I do myself any favors when, in the afteraction report on that same espionage case, I referred to the JAG as a backstabbing ass who’d hung me out to dry. This was not news to him, of course. Still, this might not have been a good idea, I realized.
But concerning Clapper, he is, as I mentioned, the head of all the Army’s lawyers, judges, and legal assistants, an attorney by trade, and a superb one in his day. The stars on his shoulders attest to his command of the legal arts and also his political moxie, as raw competence only gets you so many rungs up the pay ladder in this man’s Army. He was raised in the South, where military virtues and selflessness were stamped into the young men of his generation from birth. He is tall, poster-boy handsome, and courtly in manner, except when someone irritates him, which, regrettably, I have a habit of doing.
Regarding me, I was raised as an Army brat, a lifestyle that leaves one rootless, with muddled habits and speech patterns and, oddly enough, with less reverence toward the grand institution than generational novices. We view it as a family business, and we tend to be a bit more alert to the Army’s flaws and clumsy tendencies, and considerably more circumspect when it comes to entrusting our fates to professional whimsy.
“Please pick someone else,” I replied.
“Sean, we all must do what we must do. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred, right?” Right. And none rode back out, he failed to mention.
He leaned back into his chair, possibly considering a new line of attack. After a moment, he suggested,
