Private Sector

  Also by Brian Haig

  Secret Sanction

  Mortal Allies

  The Kingmaker

  To Lisa Brian, Pat, Donnie, and Annie

  Acknowledgments

  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, friends—and 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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  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.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “I’m not. You’re not worth getting mad about.”

  “I honestly meant to call you.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “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 boss’s 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 hadn’t I called her?

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

  “Of course you did. I didn’t.”

  “I’m truly sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Good. I’m 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 off—that’s Jackie Collins, if you’re 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 date—she 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.”

  “I’d rather ask you.”

  “All right. Ask more nicely.”

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

  “I’m 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 couldn’t staple my hand to my crotch or something. That smile, however, bothered me. “Absit omen,” I mumbled—May 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 it’s like to be married.

  “I’ll just wait here till he’s ready,” I informed Linda. It fit, I decided—General Clapper would toast my ears a little, and nosy, vindictive Linda would press her ear to the door and indulge in her vicarious retribution. I’d tune him out, as I always do, and I’d assure him at the end, also as I always do, that he’d made some very constructive points and had seen his last trouble from Sean Drummond.

  No big deal. Right?

  Wrong—ahead 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 don’t think Linda foresaw that. I don’t think she even wished it.

  Incidentally, I don’t 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 you’re into confusing room numbers, Clapper’s office is designated 2E535—2 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 Osama’s 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 it’s a new world and things change.

  “He’s 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 they’re 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 Clapper’s office, and he seemed so delighted to see me he even said, “Sean . . . I’m 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? “I’m fine, General. Thank you for asking.”

  “Well, good. You’ve been doing great work, and I’m 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, I’m what the Army calls a Special Actions attorney. If you want to know, I’m actually a defense counsel in a specialized compartment of lawyers and judges. We’re specialized because we manage the legal issues of the Army’s black operations, a menagerie of people and units so spooky nobody’s supposed to know they even exist. It’s all smoke and mirrors, and we’re part of that circus.

  In fact, my office supposedly doesn’t 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 Clapper’s organizational chart he bitterly regrets, as we, and particularly me, are a royal pain in his ass.

  So, what else? I’m 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, it’s 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 you’re 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 aren’t invited to each other’s 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 Luigi’s job was to skulk around and obtain photos of the camel-jockey as he shot craps in Monaco and cavorted in Amsterdam’s brothels.

  Exactly why our national leaders would want such disgusting pictures is, you can be sure, a question I would like answered. But in this business, don’t ask. They usually won’t answer. If they do, it’s all lies.

  Anyway, a week after Luigi departed from JFK International, he—and a hundred grand drawn on his charge card—disappeared into thin air, whatever the hell that cliché means. Six months passed before Luigi did something inexplicably stupid: He e-mailed an ex-wife. To inquire if there was a bounty on his ass, she called the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, who notified us; who swiftly arranged to have that same ass collected from a well-known Swiss resort, which accounts for when and how I came into the picture.

  Actually, Luigi turned out to be a pretty good guy for a scum-bag who deserted his country. We bonded a little, and he confided that in order to protect his cover he had tried his hand at black-jack, got seriously carried away, lost ninety grand, then his luck turned and he won nine hundred grand. It was a fingertap from God, Luigi was sure—after seventeen years of loyal and courageous service, the time had come to pack it in on his own terms.

  But back to Clapper. He logically asked, “And what happened to the money your client stole from the . . . from our government?”

  I pointed out, “You mean the hundred grand he borrowed? He always intended to send a check with compounded interest. The rest were winnings—his winnings.”

  “Drummond . . . just don’t.” Well, it had worked with the prosecutor, but that’s another story.

  “The remainder’s being donated to the Old Soldier’s Home.”

  “Is that so?” He raised his eyebrows and suggested, I think skeptically, “A charitable gesture from a guilt-wrought man I take it?”

  “In his own words, the least he could do, you know . . . considering his crimes, his love for the Army, and—”

  “And the ten-year reduction played no role? None whatsoever?”

  Well, he obviously knew more about the case than he had let on. And then he asked, “So what did we get for ten years of his life?”

  “Seven hundred grand, give or take change. And be thankful— in the private sector, half that would be sitting in my checking account for services rendered.”

  “Yes, half would be about right.” He chuckled and commented, “But then you wouldn’t have the grand satisfaction of serving your country.” This was an old joke that never goes down well, and he then added, “Actually, it’s ironic you should mention it.”

  But he did not elaborate on that cryptic thought. Instead he asked, “Please remind me, Sean, how long have you been assigned

  to the Special Actions unit?”

  “Oh, let’s see . . . eight years, come next March.”

  “I think you mean since last September. Right? Four years prosecuting and four defending. Right?”

  I nodded. Yes, that would be exactly right.

  But regarding me, I believe wholeheartedly in the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not fixeth that which is not brokeneth. The Army, however, was created to wreck things that aren’t broken, a mindset that bleeds over into its personnel policies. Actually, nobody in the Army believes there are personnel policies, just a standing order that as soon as a soldier becomes acclimated to a certain place, masters a certain job, or appears happy where they’re at, it’s time to jerk their ass through some new knothole.

  Professionally, I was very content where I was. Socially, I had serious problems.

  But Clapper was explaining, “JAG officers have to be well-rounded. Contracts, negotiations, there’s a whole world of law you’ve never touched.”

  “Good point. You’re right. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I. . . I understand.” He cleared his throat and continued, less tolerantly, “I also understand you’re up for promotion this year.” I nodded to acknowledge this fact before he added, “So, do I need to remind you that promotion boards tend to choose officers with more general knowledge and experience in the field of law?”

  “Who cares?” Actually, I care. I’m as ambitious as the next guy, I just want to succeed on my own terms.

  This, however, was neither the appropriate nor desired response. He got up, turned his back on me, and gazed out the window, across the highway at Arlington National Cemetery. He obviously had something up his sleeve, and I had the sense he was about to transfer it up my ass. That aside, you have to ponder the logic that placed the Pentagon and the cemetery next to each other—the living and dead, past and present, lucky and unlucky— right there. The sight of those endless rows of white stones tends not to promote those aspirations and ambitions that beget hard work, long hours, and diligence. But more sensibly, those markers do remind the powers who rule this building of the price of stupid blunders, which perhaps was what the designer intended.

  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.”