out to stay away from me because I was investigating some of their brethren, and everybody wanted to make damn sure they did nothing to help put some of their own guys away. From a technically legal standpoint, that was a large-scale conspiracy to commit obstruction of justice. From a human standpoint, it was an understandable, and in some ways even admirable, fraternal response.
The hitch was that added warning about this being for keeps. I mean, at right about that moment, a big, bloated corpse was packed in a container of dry ice, on the back of a C-130, winging its way to Washington. I’d call that “for keeps.”
I reached down and fingered the. 38 caliber that rested in the holster on my hip. The time had come for me to actually get some ammunition for this thing. On the other hand, given my deplorable marksmanship skills, I’d probably stand a better chance if I just threw the damn pistol at anyone who was coming after me.
Chapter 17
The fellow waiting for me back at my office looked like a spook. Maybe it was all those James Bond movies. Or maybe it was all those spymaster novels that were the rage during the cold war, but sunglasses and trench coats had become the shibboleths for anybody connected with intelligence collection. Now just how an NSA guy expected to be perceived as a daring spy was beyond me. I mean, give me a break. NSA guys and gals don’t do secret missions or any of that crap. Hollywood sometimes portrays them as furtive skulduggers, but that just goes to show what happens when you give guys like Oliver Stone a camera and a license to interpret the universe. The NSA folks are terrestrial gazers. They rely on satellites and fancy airplanes with lots of odd gizmos to do all their work. Still, I guess you can’t fault them for wanting to exploit that spurious image Hollywood has created for them. I mean, it’s a cheap way to have a little sex appeal.
At any rate, this guy was sitting in a chair beside my office door, trench coat slung across his lap, Washington Post splayed open, just trying his damnedest to look like some nonchalant, hotshot, dashing operative. Actually, he pulled it off pretty well. He was a handsome guy with slicked-back blond hair, grayed nicely at the temples, and by his build I’d say he and the NSA gymnasium were fairly well acquainted. Most NSA folks look like clerks with wide, flat asses. That’s what comes from sitting all day and peering at the world through a satellite aperture.
“Hi,” I said as I walked past him.
The newspaper was instantly closed, he popped out of his chair and followed me. “You’re Major Drummond?”
“Last time I checked,” I said.
He trailed me into my lair, where I got myself situated behind my desk, and he got his self situated in front of my desk. Digging his wallet out of his trench coat, he flung it open to show me some kind of ID. He tried to do this swiftly, the way some cops do, but I caught a glimpse of the letters NSA before he slammed it shut with a quick, violent swinging motion. I wondered if this guy was on steroids.
I said, “I guess you got my request.”
“The home office back in Maryland got it. They asked me to make contact with you.”
“Good. You’ve done your job well. We’re now in contact.”
My wiseass manners were lost on this guy. He said, “I always do my job well. And you’re in luck, Major. We did have a satellite focused on Zone Three during the period in question.”
“Great. When can I have the pictures?”
“Well, I’m afraid that’s going to take a while. Zone Three is a large area. In fact, nearly two hundred square miles. There’s a great deal of human activity inside that sector. We’ve requested Tenth Group to provide us the coordinates of the base camp, and the exact location of the ambush. Once we have those, our analysts should be able to do the cutouts. You want film or stills?”
“Both. I’d like to look at everything you’ve got and see what I can tell myself.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Do your people know I’m in a hurry?”
He said in a very condescending way, “Of course they know. Everybody wants our stuff in a hurry. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a war going on just north of here.”
There was something about this guy I didn’t like. I didn’t like his eyes, which reminded me of a couple of pale blue marbles stuffed inside a pair of narrow sockets. There was no life in those eyes, only color, like they were artificial. But there was something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it. There just was something.
I said, “I didn’t know you guys were directly supporting Tenth Group.”
“Sure.”
“And you’ve got a facility here at Tuzla?”
“Located right beside the Air Force’s C3I facility. It’s just a small setup, but it’s a secure facility. You can view the shots there.”
“What if I want to take pictures out?”
He broke into a knavish smile. “Uh-uh. That’s not gonna happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re too highly classified.”
“Look, Mr… uh, I didn’t really catch your name.”
The smile changed to a half-assed smirk. “That’s because you weren’t meant to. Just call me Mr. Jones.”
I said, “Damn, that’s real original.”
He said, “Yeah, I’m a real clever guy. Ask anyone.”
Now I knew what I didn’t like about this guy. My office was pretty tiny. There was barely enough oxygen for one pushy wiseass, which meant he was crowding my airspace.
I said, “So what happens if I decide I have to include some of your satellite shots in my investigation packet?”
“That’s your problem. They’re not leaving my facility.”
“Am I gonna have to push this up the line?”
“Push as far up as you like, buddy. These shots were taken by a brand-new experimental satellite, with capabilities I’m not about to describe to someone like you. The President himself couldn’t order me to release those pictures.”
I brooded over that a moment. “How do I get hold of you?” I finally asked.
“You don’t. I’ll get hold of you when we’re ready.”
“You’re stationed here?”
“Yep. They called me from home station this morning and told me to assist you. Just be a good boy, and we’ll make this as painless as possible for both of us.”
“Gee, thanks. I’m really looking forward to working with you,” I said as he walked out the door.
This guy really bothered me. His eyes bothered me. His manners bothered me. You know what bothered me more than anything, though? The Washington Post tucked under his arm. And that silly trench coat. It hadn’t rained in Tuzla in days. The sun was out and was baking everything in sight. I walked out and found Imelda, who was busily reviewing the transcripts we had taken back at Aviano.
“Hey, Imelda, do me a favor.”
“I don’t do favors,” she grumbled. “I only follow orders.”
“Right. Then do me an order. Call Washington and find out what the weather’s been like the past twenty-four hours.”
“How come? You planning on takin’ a trip yesterday?” She cackled, and I had to admit it was one of the funnier things I’d ever heard her say. I guess part of me was starting to rub off on her. Unfortunately, it was the bad joke part.
“Actually, my car’s parked at Andrews Air Force Base,” I told her, “and I just remembered I left the window open. Oh… one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Where are you storing our case materials at night?”
