Free Man in the Middle by Brian Haig

be the ugly truth.
    We turned in to the parking lot of Ferguson Home Security Electronics.

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    F erguson Home Security Electronics: There actually is a store directly inside the front entrance that would appeal to the most paranoid citizens, including shelves bristling with high-tech bric-a-brac to keep burglars out of your home or unwanted husbands out of your life, whichever ails you.
    If that doesn’t fool you, there is also a helpful female receptionist, Mrs. Lila Moore, who does actually possess expert knowledge of home security devices; in her spare time she also happens to be an officer in the Agency’s security service, with a gun inside her desk and a license to kill, which is one of the reasons I’m nice to her. The other is she’s really pretty.
    Lila looked up as we entered, awarded us a vacuous smile, and asked me, “What can I do to assist you, sir? We’re having a big sale on a spectacular line of window alarms. Would that interest you?”
    Bian looked around, obviously wondering if we had wandered into the wrong place.
    “I’m interested in you,” I informed Lila.
    She stared back, wide-eyed.
    “Hands where I can see them. Your money or your life.”
    Lila raised her hands in pretended alarm. “Please, sir . . . I’m a mere employee. Don’t hurt me.” She frowned and added, “There is no money. Basically, business really sucks here.”
    “Well . . . I already knew that. What do you have?”
    “Let’s see . . .” She smiled. “How about a pissed-off senior citizen waiting for some guy named Drummond?”
    “Oh . . .”
    Lila laughed and shoved the sign-in sheet across her desk. “You know the drill.” I scrawled Bian’s name on the page, while Lila handed her a white guest pass. This is a controlled facility, with obviously questionable standards, because they let me in. She informed us, “Some Pentagon bigwig arrived a few minutes ago. Phyllis logged him in.”
    I saw a name on the log and pointed it out to Bian.
    “Mark Waterbury,” she informed me. “My boss. An SES 1. A man you don’t want to tangle with.” She gave me a pointed look. “You might want to exercise a little . . . rhetorical restraint.”
    “How do you spell that?” I knew, of course, that SES 1 stands for Senior Executive Service, Level One—a politically appointed rank roughly equivalent to a brigadier general. I told Bian, “Right this way,” and led her to the door at the rear of the store, which I opened, and through which we entered into a large cavernous space, essentially a converted warehouse.
    The government does not believe in spoiling its employees, and the home of OSP sets a shining exemplar; clearly the lowest bidder furnished it, and it is poorly lit enough to provoke suicidal fits. There actually are a few genuine offices for the more senior people, none of which read Drummond on the nameplate; mostly, however, it’s a congested, sprawling cube farm. The lack of walls and privacy are designed to engender teamwork and a sense of community, and the communal sparseness to encourage a feeling of proletarian solidarity. Anyway, that’s the theory; reality is a roomful of people who whisper a lot and act sneaky.
    A few people said hi as Bian and I made our way to the rear where Phyllis had her office. I knocked twice, and she called for us to enter.
    Phyllis was behind her desk, and to her front was seated a gentleman of late middle age, bald head, intense brown eyes, who at that moment appeared to be experiencing unhappy thoughts. Phyllis stood and said, “Mr. Waterbury, obviously this is Sean Drummond.” Phyllis walked from around her desk and extended her hand to Bian, saying, “And you’re obviously Major Tran.”
    Mr. Waterbury did not rise to shake my hand, which was interesting, and revealing. But now that we knew who we all obviously were, Bian and I took the chairs against the far wall. I placed Clifford Daniels’s briefcase prominently on my lap, and like the good