Authors: Brian Haig
Private Sector (2 page)
I wondered if Clapper was staring across that road and pondering his mortality. How foolish—he was apparently pondering mine.
He asked, over his shoulder, “Have you ever heard of the WWIP?”
“Sure. I had a friend who caught it once. Very rough. His dick fell off.”
He was not amused. “The full title is the Working With Industry Program, Sean. It’s where we put an officer in a civilian company for a year. The officer learns what’s new and state-of-the-art in the private sector, then brings that knowledge back into the military. It’s a highly regarded program for our most promising officers—good for the individual and good for the Army.”
“It does sound like a great program. I’ll even name ten guys who’d love to do that.” I then added, “But my name won’t be on that list.”
“In fact, yours is the only name on that list.” He walked back in my direction and ordered, “Report for duty at Culper, Hutch, and Westin first thing in the morning. It’s located here in D. C. , and it’s a damned fine firm.”
I said nothing.
He said, “Don’t give me that look. It’ll do you good. You’ve worked a lot of hard cases, and you’ll benefit from the break. Actually, I’m envious.”
It’s worth noting here that
who
needed the break was a debatable point. I had handled a few very sensitive cases, most recently one concerning a general officer accused of treason, where I’d stepped on a few very important, oversensitive toes.
Nor, I expect, did I do myself any favors when, in the afteraction report on that same espionage case, I referred to the JAG as a backstabbing ass who’d hung me out to dry. This was not news to him, of course. Still, this might not have been a good idea, I realized.
But concerning Clapper, he is, as I mentioned, the head of all the Army’s lawyers, judges, and legal assistants, an attorney by trade, and a superb one in his day. The stars on his shoulders attest to his command of the legal arts and also his political moxie, as raw competence only gets you so many rungs up the pay ladder in this man’s Army. He was raised in the South, where military virtues and selflessness were stamped into the young men of his generation from birth. He is tall, poster-boy handsome, and courtly in manner, except when someone irritates him, which, regrettably, I have a habit of doing.
Regarding me, I was raised as an Army brat, a lifestyle that leaves one rootless, with muddled habits and speech patterns and, oddly enough, with less reverence toward the grand institution than generational novices. We view it as a family business, and we tend to be a bit more alert to the Army’s flaws and clumsy tendencies, and considerably more circumspect when it comes to entrusting our fates to professional whimsy.
“Please pick someone else,” I replied.
“Sean, we all must do what we must do. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred, right?” Right. And none rode back out, he failed to mention.
He leaned back into his chair, possibly considering a new line of attack. After a moment, he suggested, “Captain Lisa Morrow, you and she are acquainted, I think. In fact, you’re friends, aren’t you?”
Did he really expect me to reply to this question? Understand that Clapper had, only two years before, personally assigned Morrow and me a very delicate Article 32, pre-court-martial investigation in Kosovo, after which she’d been transferred into my spooky unit. We had subsequently fenced in court many times, and I would prefer to say we were evenly matched and I gave as good as I got. But we weren’t and I didn’t. Frankly, it was a bit of a relief for me when she transferred back out. Not that I was keeping score or anything, but the Army does. She was blond, extremely attractive, and, as you might expect, clever, brilliant, and fiercely competitive. And also witty, well-mannered, and charming; however, let’s not get too wrapped around the gratuitous footnotes.
She and I became professionally close, and I considered trying to become emotionally close, then physically close—perhaps I confused that order—but it never worked out. It could work, however. In fact, this conversation wasn’t a complete waste of my time, as he’d just reminded me that I owed her a phone call.
When it became clear I wasn’t going to reply, he said, “I want you to talk to her, Sean. You need to adjust your attitude, and I think the conversation will be helpful. Lisa’s been with Culper, Hutch, and Westin this past year. She’s had a wonderful time. She loves them and they love her.”
No doubt we both recognized we could play this game for another hour, so to do us both a favor I cut to the chase and asked, “Is this negotiable?”
“No.”
“Is your nonnegotiability negotiable?”
It appeared not. He replied, “You know your options.”
Okay, my options.
One—tell him to stuff this opportunity up his butt, followed by my resignation. Among other problems with this course was the very pressing issue of who’d send me a check every month.
Option two—a good soldier does not question his orders; he snaps his heels and marches smartly off to his fate, at least pretending to believe that those who wear stars are celestially wise and all-knowing. Across the highway are several sections of monuments dedicated to this strangely popular option.
Oh, there was also, I suppose, a third option, though it is so disgraceful I hesitate to bring it up and, clearly, never gave it a second thought. But this would be the one where I reported to this firm, screwed up everything I touched—including a partner’s wife— peed in the morning coffee, and got sent back to the Army labeled unfit for civilian duty.
As I said, though, I never gave it a second thought. What was the big deal anyway? I had caught a bad rap. Nobody goes the full three rounds of a military career who can’t stand on their head for a year or two. And perhaps it would turn out to be fun, enlightening, and all the rest of that bullshit Clapper promised. For that matter, regarding Clapper, perhaps I misjudged his motives. He probably was concerned for me, my career, my chances of surviving the next promotion board.
So I contemplated this and said, “Perhaps I’ve been hasty.” After a moment of further reflection, I added, “You’re right. I could use. . . you know. . . professional growth, a chance to try something different . . . new horizons.”
I smiled and he smiled back. He said, “Sean, I was really afraid you were going to be difficult about this. I’m glad you understand.”
“I do understand.” I looked him dead in the eye and promised, “And I assure you, General, I will do you and the Army proud.”
P. S. , see you in a week, two at the outside, big guy.
T
he photo was a clean shot, revealing a face both lovely and angular. Full lips, pert nose, eyes that were deeply and memorably green. She was smiling when the picture was taken, a likable smile, effortless and without artifice. Eyes that festered with sympathy. No makeup. No jewelry. She was beautiful, yet tended to ignore or at least not amplify it. He liked this and so many other things about her.
She would be first.
He stole another glance at her bedroom window; the light was still on, and he returned to studying her photo, as though it could yield a clue he had somehow overlooked.
She appeared younger than thirty—no wrinkles, droopiness under her eyes, nor flab as best he could tell. Yet he knew for a fact that she had crossed that benchmark in May, was single, currently uninvolved, and had lived in the Washington suburbs the past three years.
He had unobtrusively edged into line behind her two days before at a nearby Starbucks, had sniffed her perfume and approved: expensive and tasteful. About five foot eight, possibly 115 pounds, and she carried herself well; poised, but with no hint of the conceit or brashness one expects from women with her looks and brains. She was courteous and friendly to the girl behind the counter and left a seventy-five-cent tip for a $1.25 coffee—overly generous by his reckoning—no sugar, no cream. She was not a health nut;he’d twice seen her eat meat, but she appeared mindful of bad habits.
Actually, she had to be the first.
He had batted it around inside his head three dozen times, chewed over the pros and cons, pondered it so hard that he nearly gave himself a splitting headache.
It had to be her.
Put her off and the whole thing could collapse.
But how?
By far, she was the riskiest of the group. He was methodical by necessity, and had actually devised a computer program to help him judge and assess these things. Plug in this factor and that vulnerability, and the algorithms worked their twisty magic and spit out a number. Ten was the level of most damnable difficulty. She was an eight, and anything above seven worried him—the program wasn’t flawless, and there surely were factors he had overlooked, qualities he had failed to plumb, so the magnitude could be underestimated. He’d never done a nine or, God forbid, a ten. Over the years, he had considered a few and walked away. The odds of a blunder were simply too damned high and the penalty of failure unthinkable. A seven also happened to be on the list, edging toward eight, but the rest were sixes and below. His usual method was to save the hardest for last, as a mistake in the beginning could unravel the whole thing.
But it wasn’t an option.
It had to be her.
So, back to how.
The top file on the car seat beside him was thick with details about her life and habits, acquired mostly with very little trouble from public sources and several days of cautious snooping. A few critical details had been obtained elsewhere.
She had clockwork habits. At 5:30 each and every morning her bedroom light flicked on. Fifteen minutes later she came bolting out the front door in spandex running tights, and she certainly had the figure for them: long, lean legs and a bodacious ass. A dark runner’s shirt that contrasted handsomely with her short blond hair and practical but expensive running shoes completed her morning attire. She was fit and very, very fast. He had clocked her twice—five miles in thirty-two minutes over a course that was hilly and daunting, without ever varying her route or pace.
She had been a long-distance track star in high school and college. Her college newspaper described her as a steady performer, consistently placing first against weak schools, but apt to disappoint against the powerhouses. The rebuke struck him as unfair. She ran in the East, where blacks dominated, and did quite well for a white girl. Also, she’d managed a 3.9 GPA as an undergrad at the University of Virginia and graduated fifteenth in her class from Harvard Law. He regarded it as shameful that they couldn’t meet under less complicated conditions. He preferred intelligent, accomplished, athletic women and felt certain they would hit it off.
She lived alone in a community of townhouse dwellers whose homes, economic stations, and lifestyles were tedious and ordinary. However, the neighborhood was clean, safe, and a short commute from her office. She was sociable with her neighbors, but that was as far as it went. Her close friends were made at work and elsewhere.
Her townhouse was a two-story end unit, brick-fronted, slat-sided, with a one-car garage tucked underneath the living room. Thick woods were behind the complex, apparently left standing by a thoughtful builder to afford a sense of privacy. He appreciated the irony. Both nights he had scaled a tall tree and, using night-vision goggles, had observed her through a window.
After her runs she took thirty minutes to shower, dress, and breakfast. At 7:15 her garage door slid open and her shiny gray Nissan Maxima backed out. A brief stop at the Starbucks three blocks from her townhouse, then a straight scoot to her office. A Daytimer crammed with notes and appointments dictated her life. She lunched at her desk and shopped only on weekends. Her evenings were the only erratic and unpredictable part of her schedule. She tended to work late, occasionally past midnight.
She dated one man at a time, as best he could tell, and was finicky and old-fashioned about matters of romance. Spontaneous pickups and one-night stands weren’t part of her style. Too bad, because he could picture scenarios where this would be a workable approach, but he could more easily picture a swift brush-off fraught with unacceptable complications.
She was cautious and had commendable security habits. With her looks she should be, in his view. She locked her car door every time she left it. Penetrating her workplace was out of the question. She had installed a security system in her townhouse that she meticulously activated every time she walked out the door. A fairly good system in his expert judgment: a battery backup; the windows and doors were wired; a motion detection system was installed in the living room; and he guessed there was at least one panic button, most likely positioned in her bedroom. She tended, however, to leave open the second-floor bathroom window, presumably to prevent odor and mildew.
That flaw, however, did him no good. His script was everything, and no matter how he jiggled, twisted, or warped it, that glaring oversight could not be made to fit.
He kneaded his neck, turned off the car’s overhead light, and tossed the file back on the passenger’s seat. His decision was made, and in every way he could consider it made sense.
He would take her where she least expected it. He would move in when her alertness and instincts were at their lowest ebb, and would approach her in such a manner that she would let down her defenses and allow him near.
She would be his calling card, and what a memorable one she would be.
T
HE VERY GRATING VOICE ON THE PHONE SAID, “I’M SALLY WESTIN. I’VE BEEN assigned to welcome you to Culper, Hutch, and Westin.” When I failed to reply, she prompted, “The firm you’ll be working for.”
The clock was still stuck on 4:30 A.M. I said, “Do you
know
what time it is?”
“Of course. Do
you
know where we’re located?”