Free Man in the Middle by Brian Haig Page B

jurisdiction, surely you must be aware that your office lacks authority to investigate matters outside of military property.” I smiled. “If I give you this briefcase,
that
would be a felony.”
    Waterbury was giving me a stone face, as if he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. I knew how to fix that.
    I looked again at Phyllis. “This briefcase has to go to the FBI. And I will of course inform our federal friends that Mr. Waterbury has foreknowledge about whatever they’ll find.” I looked at Waterbury and noted, “They love it when the evidence comes with somebody to explain what it means. Saves time.”
    I stood but did not walk out.
    As though it needed to be said, Phyllis mentioned to Waterbury, “Did I fail to mention that Drummond is an attorney?”
    Waterbury mumbled under his breath, something fairly short, about two syllables, I’m sure about what a good lawyer I am.
    To Phyllis I said, “So . . . if you’ll excuse me . . .”
    Waterbury had gone from red in the face to worried. He said to me, “Sit down.”
    “I don’t take orders from you, pal.”
    Phyllis said, “You do from me. Please sit until we get this matter resolved.”
    I sat.
    Phyllis took my cue and turned to Waterbury. She asked him, “What’s on that laptop?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “You might not know the particulars, or you might, but you have some idea or you wouldn’t be here.”
    “It’s none of your business.” He looked at Phyllis. “Tell Drummond to hand over that briefcase.”
    Phyllis ignored this request and Waterbury looked increasingly ill at ease. As I said, the man was not clever, and clearly he lost his sea legs in an environment where the lines of authority were ambiguous and the solution to a dispute cannot be found in the manual.
    He needed another little nudge, though. I leaned forward and advised Phyllis, “You don’t want to hear what’s inside the briefcase. Once you
know
what he knows, it could implicate you in a criminal conspiracy.” I looked at Waterbury. “It’s his problem. Don’t let him make it yours.”
    Nobody spoke. I had just uttered the golden phrase—criminal conspiracy—with all it’s nasty echoes of Teapot Dome, Watergate, Iran-Contra. Nothing strikes greater fear into the heart of a government bureaucrat—and from Waterbury’s change of expression, I had clearly hit a nerve. Phyllis had a hand over her mouth, but I couldn’t tell if she was choking back laughter or biting her lip. As for Waterbury, his lack of cleverness notwithstanding, clearly he had enough feral cunning to understand what he had just heard—the last lifeboat was being lowered over the side.
    “Uh . . . okay . . .” He reluctantly said, “It’s possible Daniels was carrying on correspondence with some of his Iraqi friends. Freelancing. Outside of work. It’s also possible that some of that correspondence is classified.”
    Phyllis asked, “Do you suspect this, or do you know this?”
    “We merely suspect it.”
    I said, “It’s possible, or probable, or definitely he was?”
    “Don’t push me, Drummond.”
    “Waterbury, friends of mine are across the waters right now. I attended two funerals last month, good men who died much too young. If somebody back here is playing games with their lives, I’ll push you into an ocean of shit so deep your feet will never touch bottom. Are we clear?”
    “It might surprise you to know, that would piss me off, too.”
    “That would surprise me.” Clearly we were both getting on each other’s nerves; the difference was I was enjoying it.
    Phyllis interrupted our little pissing contest, and said to Waterbury, somewhat dryly, “Explain what you mean by correspondence.”
    “We really don’t know. Daniels was a senior employee. He had leeway to operate independently.”
    Phyllis skillfully allowed Waterbury a moment to reconsider his position, then suggested in a sly tone, “Mark, I think it would be in our mutual interests to pool our efforts