“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.”
“Boss, it’s a chain of evidence thing. Only in this case, I’m not allowed to even touch the evidence. You know the rules. You’ve got to establish the chain of evidence.”
This was an entirely specious line of legal reasoning, but it sounded proximate enough to the real rules of evidence that it might be true.
At any rate, Clapper blew right through it. “If you’re going to recommend against court-martial, it’s irrelevant. It won’t be tested in court. Damn it, Sean, just use Foster’s name.”
I said, “Sir, I’m the investigating officer. I don’t care if it won’t be tested in court. I don’t do shoddy work. You can advise me on this, but you can’t order me.”
There was the sound of a set of lungs being emptied on the other line. Clapper was ordinarily a very even- tempered fellow, but major generals don’t generally take it kindly when junior officers remind them of their limits.
“You’re already facing an inquiry into your professional conduct. Let’s not make this any worse.”
“Sorry, General, but I have to do what I think is right.”
“Have it your way,” he said before he hung up, sounding very pissed off.
I hung up the phone myself, then pushed the stop button on the tape recorder I had turned on the moment he identified himself. Recording a phone conversation without the willful consent of the other party is a moderately serious violation of the federal statutes. I really didn’t care, though. I didn’t plan on using the tape in court, where it would be inadmissible anyway. But I knew the boys in the editorial office of the Washington Herald would love listening to it, if things came to that. Besides, they-whoever they were-weren’t playing fair with me. So why should I?
On that note, I slept soundly until I felt a rough hand shaking my shoulder. I blinked a few times, until I was able to get my lids to stay up. Not up very far, but enough that I could squint and just make out vague shapes. Martie whatever was hunched over beside my cot and peering into my face. Behind him were two real big shadows that I guessed were military policemen.
“Please get dressed and come with me,” he said.
I struggled out of my sleeping bag and sat up. “Are you going to explain what this is about?” I asked, searching around for my battle dress and combat boots.
“When we get to my office.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“I’m taking you into custody.”
I felt very groggy, and decided not to speak again until I had a cup of coffee in my hand and the caffeine was doing its magic. I got dressed quickly, then stood up and staggered along behind Martie. A military policeman walked on each of my flanks. I noticed that Martie was dressed in the same cockeyed checkered outfit he’d worn the day before. He must’ve worked through the night.
The time was three in the morning, so the streets were still dark and empty as we headed to his office. I kept a wary eye on Martie and his escorts. For all I knew, they were working for Tretorne or Murphy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed like a perfect pretense to perform one of those nasty “sanction” things on me. They’d take me to some dark, secluded part of the compound, then pop me in the back of the head. On the other hand, they hadn’t handcuffed me, and I took that as an encouraging sign.
It wasn’t until we got to the MP station that I relaxed. I shouldn’t have though. What Martie had in store for me was better than taking me into the woods and shooting me.
“Sit down, please,” he ordered once we were gathered around a table in an interview room. He then read me my rights. This was something I’d done to suspects a number of times, but you get tight in funny places when the words are recited to you.
I heard him out until he asked, “Do you wish to retain counsel at this time?”
This is always the critical question. I had no idea what I was charged with. I had no idea if I was even going to be charged. I decided that a lawyer probably wasn’t going to do me any more good than I could do for myself. I mean, I’m a lawyer, right? Of course, it’s exactly that kind of solipsistic thinking that gets a lawyer in deep shit. When it’s you the police are questioning, you lose the ability to make the kind of cold, disinterested, dispassionate decisions a hired barrister provides.
Regardless, I said, “Not at this time.”
Martie looked at the two military policemen and nodded for them to leave. They closed the door behind them. He then spent a moment just staring at me, I guess to make me nervous. There was a big mirror on the wall, like there is in most interrogation rooms. I figured it was probably one of those two-way jobs with somebody on the
