Brian Haig - Private sector

Also by Brian Haig

Secret Sanction

Mortal Allies

The Kingmaker

To Lisa Brian, Pat, Donnie, and Annie

Books are the products of many hands and talents. For example, Alexander Haig, my brother, a crackerjack lawyer who gave me expert advice on law firms, telecommunications, and many lessons in sibling rivalries.

Or my agent and good friend, Luke Janklow, who handles everything with extraordinary grace, integrity, and humor.

Or my editor and also friend, Rick Horgan, a man with a remarkable eye, a brilliant mind, and patience.

Or Mari Okuda and Roland Ottewell, copy editors, but more than that, friendsand nearly coauthors, in my case.

I owe them all, and the rest of the remarkable crews at Janklow, Nesbitt, and Warner Books, a huge debt.

I BELIEVE YOU CALLED ME, I INFORMED THE VERY ATTRACTIVE YOUNG LADY seated at the desk.

She appeared not to have heard me.

Excuse me, Miss. Major Sean Drummond... the phone, you called, right?

She replied, sounding annoyed, Yes. I was ordered to.

Youre angry.

Im not. Youre not worth getting mad about.

I honestly meant to call you.

Im glad you didnt.

Really?

Yes. I was tired of you anyway.

She stared into her computer screen. And indeed, she was mad. It occurred to me that dating the bosss secretary might not have been a good idea. But she was quite good-looking, as I mentioned, with smoldering dark eyes, bewitching lips, and, I recalled, beneath that desk, a pair of splendid legs. Actually, why hadnt I called her?

I leaned across her desk. Linda, I had a wonderful time.

Of course you did. I didnt.

Im truly sorry it didnt work out.

Good. Im not.

I searched my mind for an appropriate sentiment and finally said, So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

What? She finally looked up.

The Great Gatsby... the final line.

Fuck offthats Jackie Collins, if youre interested. She added, icily, And take your hands off my desk. I just polished it.

Goodness. Now I recalled why I never called her after that first date. Actually, I never called her before the first dateshe called me. But I learned long ago that what matters is not who starts it but who ends it.

I straightened up and asked, So, why does the old man want to see me?

Ask him.

Id rather ask you.

All right. Ask more nicely.

Fine. Please, Linda... why am I here?

Im not at liberty to tell you. She smiled.

Well, what more was there to say? She was being petty and unreasonable.

I backed away, far enough that she couldnt staple my hand to my crotch or something. That smile, however, bothered me. Absit omen, I mumbledMay it not be an omen.

I suspected it was, however. So I spent a moment thinking about that. It occurred to me that nearly two months had passed since my last session with the boss. These are never pleasant meetings. In fact, they are never intended to be. The boss and I have a relationship that might be described as messy, and he has developed this really weird opinion that if he rides my butt hard enough, and often enough, it will fix itself. He calls them preemptive sessions. I call them a waste of time. They have not worked in the past, and we all know that persistent failure is not fertile ground for future success. But he stays at it. This must be what its like to be married.

Ill just wait here till hes ready, I informed Linda. It fit, I decidedGeneral Clapper would toast my ears a little, and nosy, vindictive Linda would press her ear to the door and indulge in her vicarious retribution. Id tune him out, as I always do, and Id assure him at the end, also as I always do, that hed made some very constructive points and had seen his last trouble from Sean Drummond.

No big deal. Right?

Wrongahead lay murder, scandal, and deeds so odious and foul they would turn my life, and this entire city, upside down. In fact, while I cooled my heels in this office, the murderer was already plotting the first of what would become many kills. And those who would become kills were going about their lives, unaware they were in the crosshairs of a monster.

But I dont think Linda foresaw that. I dont think she even wished it.

Incidentally, I dont work in the Pentagon, where this particular office was, and still is, located. I hang my hat in a small red-brick building inside a military base in Falls Church, Virginia, a tiny place with high fences, lots of guards, no signs, and no confusing room numbers. But if youre into confusing room numbers, Clappers office is designated 2E5352 connoting the second floor, E signifying the outer and most prestigious ring, and 535 indicating the same side of the building that got clobbered by Osamas boys. In the old days of the cold war, the courtyard in the middle of the Pentagon was called Ground Zero, the innermost A-Ring was Suicide Alley, and the outermost E-Ring was the place to be. But its a new world and things change.

Hes ready for you now, announced Linda, again smiling.

I glanced at my watch: 1700 hours, or 5:00 P.M. , the end of the official duty day, a warm early December evening to be precise. I love this season. I mean, between Thanksgiving and Christmas no-body in Washington even pretends theyre working. How good is that? In fact, the last case in my in-box had just danced over to my out-box, and it was my turn.

Anyway, I stepped into Clappers office, and he seemed so delighted to see me he even said, Sean... Im so delighted to see you. He waved at a pair of plush leather chairs and asked, Well, my old friend, how are things?

My old friend? Im fine, General. Thank you for asking.

Well, good. Youve been doing great work, and Im very proud of you. His ass relaxed into a stuffed chair, and it struck me I was getting enough phony sunshine stuffed up my ass to be a health risk. He asked, That Albioni case, has it been wrapped up yet?

Yes. This morning, in fact. We reached a plea agreement.

For some reason, I had the annoying sense he knew this already.

By the way, Im what the Army calls a Special Actions attorney. If you want to know, Im actually a defense counsel in a specialized compartment of lawyers and judges. Were specialized because we manage the legal issues of the Armys black operations, a menagerie of people and units so spooky nobodys supposed to know they even exist. Its all smoke and mirrors, and were part of that circus.

In fact, my office supposedly doesnt exist, and neither do I, which often makes me wonder why in the hell I get out of bed in the morning. Just kidding. I love my job. Really. However, the sensitivity and seriousness of our work means we work directly for the Judge Advocate General, a line on Clappers organizational chart he bitterly regrets, as we, and particularly me, are a royal pain in his ass.

So, what else? Im 38 years old, single, have always been single, and the way things were looking, the past was lining up to be a prologue to the future. I regard myself as a fairly decent attorney, a master of the military legal code, clever, resourceful, and all that. My boss might object to any or all of those points, but what does he know? In my business, its the clients who count, and I rarely get complaints.

But, back to my superficially perfect host. He inquired, So tell me, Sean, what punishment did Albioni take in exchange for his guilty plea?

You know... it was fair and just.

Good. Now describe for me please your idea of fair and just.

All right. Two years in Leavenworth, honorable discharge, full benefits.

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 youre 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 arent invited to each others 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 Luigis job was to skulk around and obtain photos of the camel-jockey as he shot craps in Monaco and cavorted in Amsterdams brothels.