Either Delbert or Morrow had ratted me out. Hell, maybe they’d both ratted me out. I could just hear their two voices on the phone, competing to see who could outrat who.
It’s not that I expected loyalty, because most lawyers can barely spell the word. But there’s disloyalty, and then there’s something that flies unspeakably beyond those bounds. It was a really good thing neither of them were here at this moment. They’d look damned silly with a telephone sticking out their butts.
And why did I get this sudden feeling that Clapper had just subtly pressured me to declare these men completely innocent of all possible charges? I wanted to vomit-and I might have-except I’m too cool for that.
I had trusted Clapper completely. Worse, I owed him. This was the same guy who gave me my start in law, literally in a classroom at Fort Benning, then later when I needed the Army to sponsor me through law school. He was also the man who picked me for this job. Until now, I’d just assumed it was because I was the hotshot young lawyer he’d always wished he’d been. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but I at least thought he liked me.
Somebody at the White House must’ve really put his balls in an intolerable vise, because until this moment he’d been very high and mighty about seeking the truth. Or maybe he’d just been pumping me full of bullshit to prepare for this moment.
They say that the devil makes sure the wicked get more than their share of luck, and just at that moment there was a timid knock on my office door. It slowly opened, and another of Imelda’s assistants, the one who strongly resembled a saber-toothed tiger, cautiously stuck her long, narrow face in.
“Uh, Major… excuse me,” she kind of whispered, like she didn’t want to start an avalanche.
I looked up and tried to control my temper. “What?”
“There’s a man here to see you. A civilian.”
“Does he have a name?”
“I asked him, but he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did you ask him nicely?”
She giggled a little too nervously, the way some people do when they’re placing blasting caps inside C4 explosive. “If you’d like, sir, I’ll tell him you’re busy.”
“No, show him in,” I said.
For some reason or other, nearly all reporters, when they’re in the field, like to wear those silly-looking tan vests. You know the type, the ones that have a dozen or so pockets, like bird shooters use, so they can have a handy place to tuck all that ammo they’re going to use against all those vicious ducks and geese.
This man wore one of those vests, only it was a really big one, more like a tent with pockets. He looked to be about three hundred pounds. He was a little shorter than me and about thrice as wide. The word “lardass” instantly popped to mind, and I instinctively looked around to see if there was any chair in my office that was sturdy enough to handle him. There wasn’t.
“Hi,” he said, real friendly-like, as his beady little eyes did a quick inspection, apparently also seeking a chair. “You must be Major Drummond.”
“Says so on my nametag,” I replied, pointing down at my chest.
“Hah-hah,” he laughed, waddling forward. “That’s a really good one.”
“Actually it wasn’t all that funny the first time you heard it, and it hasn’t improved with age.”
His laughing stopped. “You know who I am?”
“Mr. Berkowitz, right?”
He gave me this ingratiating smile. “Hey, no hard feelings, right?”
“Hard feelings?” I asked with an inquisitive frown. “Why would I have hard feelings?”
“Come on.”
“No, what?”
“You’re screwin’ with me, right?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Berkowitz, we don’t get the Washington Herald out here. Is there something I should know about?”
This sly grin crossed his lips. “Nah. It’s just that some military guys don’t like my writing slant very much. I always worry about it.”
“Well, don’t. I never read the papers. They make pretty good toilet paper in an emergency, but of course, then you end up with all this black ink stuck to your fanny, which is damned hard to explain to your proctologist.”
He edged over and planted his big ass on the corner of my desk. “Hah-hah! That’s a good one, too. By the way, call me Jeremy.” He stuck out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Jeremy. Call me Major Drummond.”
“Okay, if that’s what you’re comfortable with,” he said, becoming more amiable by the second now that he thought I didn’t know he’d raped me on the front page of his paper.
“So what’re you doing out this way, Jeremy? Checking out the good restaurants?”
“Hah-hah.” He gave me another dose of that same phony laugh. “Actually, I’m doing a story on how the operation’s going. Of course, I’m also working on the ambush story, and I thought I’d stop by and see if you changed your mind.”
“Changed my mind?”
“Yeah. About talking with me.”
“Geesh, this is tough, Jeremy. I’d love to, I really would.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
I rubbed my jaw a few times and gave him the squinty, calculating look people say makes me resemble a Turkish rug merchant. “Well, there’s a certain amount of risk in it for me. I mean, what do I get out of it? I just don’t see that it’s worth my risk.”
Jeremy stared at my desktop for a moment, contemplating this new twist. Then he tentatively said, “The paper provides me this very tiny pool of money for occasions like this. Perhaps a small emolument would be in order?”
I got rid of the rug merchant look and replaced it with my best “Gee, I’m shocked as hell” look. “Jeremy!” I yelled.
“Sorry,” he declared, quite insincerely, “I didn’t mean to insult you, but lots of you military guys insist on being paid.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No, really. I’m talking colonels, even some generals.”
“Generals?”
“Greediest sons of bitches you ever saw.”
“Was that how you got my name? Did you pay someone for it?”
“I didn’t pay anyone, but that’s as much as I’m gonna say.”
I grinned. “Yeah, sure. More power to you. In fact, confidentiality was gonna be one of my requirements.”
He gave me this real righteous look and sketched a cross on his heart. “They could stick hot pokers up my ass and I wouldn’t divulge.”
By the look of him I suspected he might be telling the truth. About the hot poker thing, anyway. But just wave one juicy Big Mac under this guy’s nose and he’d be singing arias.
Then he said, “What other requirements you got?”
“I want a two-way street. I give you info, you give me info.”
He actually looked relieved. “Just info? That’s all? Hey, no problem.”
“Okay, me first. What nasty rumors are you hearing back in Washington about the investigation?”
“I would’ve thought you’d know more about that than me.”
“Well, I’m stuck out here, and like I said, I don’t read the papers.”
He grinned. “The stuff I’ll give you, you won’t find in the papers. Least, not yet.”
“Like what, Jeremy?”
He bent toward me, very conspiratorially. “Well, did you know, for instance, that the President starts every day with a fifteen-minute update on your investigation?”
I tried my best not to look surprised. “Of course he does,” I said, as though I already knew that, as though where else could the briefer possibly be getting his information, if not from me? Except that I hadn’t given out fifteen minutes of information on the investigation since we started. Not to anyone, not even Clapper. So where the hell was the information coming from?
“They say this thing has him tied up in knots,” he added. “The press secretary says that’s because his conscience is eating him alive, that the thought that our soldiers-American soldiers-would massacre a bunch of Serbs has him begging forgiveness from the Lord every night.”
“But you don’t believe that?” I asked.
“The only time that son of a bitch prays is when a camera’s around. And if he’s got a conscience, it’s news to me. News to his wife, too, I’d imagine.”