Drummond here is working on a very critical project, and I must speak with him. Alone.”
The nerds all got up and began filing out of the room. Finally, it was just the three of us, and Miss Smith closed the door.
“Hi,” I said.
He got right to the point. “What do you want?”
“I just need a few minutes. I’m preparing our summary, and I have to get a few questions answered. You understand, right?”
I collapsed into a chair before he could answer. I looked over my shoulder. “Miss Smith, would you be a good girl and fetch me a cup of coffee? Three sugars and just a small dose of cream.”
The lovely Miss Smith’s face turned instantly ugly. “I don’t fetch things, and don’t call me a good girl.”
I smiled. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were Mr. Jones’s administrative assistant.”
I could see Jones nodding his head furiously for her to do what I asked. She pouted for about two seconds, then whirled around and walked back through the door.
I said, “Boy, has she got an attitude. How do you put up with that?”
Jones’s eyes were studying me very coldly. It was a little like being examined by that mechanical camera upstairs. “She’s all right,” he assured me. “This isn’t the Army, Drummond. We fetch our own coffee around here. Now, what do you want?”
“Well, remember yesterday when we looked at those films, and you read those radio transcriptions?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Good. I’ll need some kind of verification that all that was authentic. Also, you mentioned that the films will be stored in a file at NSA. I’ll need some kind of reference or name for that file.”
“I can get you that,” he said. He smiled. This was all so easy.
“Gee, that’s great,” I said. “One other thing. I’m gonna need your full name, social security number, and where you work at NSA.”
Oops, it was not so easy anymore. The smile was instantly replaced by a deeply perplexed look as he said, “Why?”
“Well, since you wouldn’t let me have the films or transcripts, you know, them being too sensitive and all, I have to cite you as a material witness in my exhibit. This is a highly controversial incident we’re investigating. The findings are going to be closely scrutinized. I can hardly write that I met with some jerk from NSA named Jones and leave it at that. I mean, how many Joneses are there at NSA? Must be a thousand or so, wouldn’t you guess?”
Tretorne’s jaw, I noticed, became very tight. There was very little body fat on his face, and right at that moment, those two little muscles just below his ears were ticking like time bombs. My obnoxiousness was breaking through the iceberg.
Just at that moment, he was saved by the bell. Miss Smith traipsed back through the door with my cup of coffee in hand. She gave it to me, and I took a sip. It was cold as ice, and she must have added half a jar of cream and at least ten large spoonfuls of sugar. The girl had spunk. I liked that.
I cranked back my neck and drained the whole thing. “Ah, just the way I like it. Thanks, honey.” Take that for spunk, bitch.
Miss Smith tried to take this in stride, but I noticed that she stomped a little as she worked her way around the table and took a seat near the opposite end. Unfortunately, Tretorne had recovered his composure.
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?”
