Authors: Brian Haig
I began doing a complete circuit around the mess hall, checking the alleys and sneaking around to see if anyone was watching. Nobody. Then I walked to the corner of a building located about forty yards from the mess hall.
“Miss Warner!” I yelled.
She glanced over and I meandered slowly to the nearest street. She followed me. When she finally caught up, I started walking and she fell in beside me.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“Can’t be too careful these days.”
“Do you have something to be afraid of?”
“Well, you never know.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought we’d just walk. Good for the health,” I said, inspecting her face for the first time. Sharp, perceptive eyes. Pronounced cheekbones.Wide lips. A thin, willowy body. She looked like that girl in your high school class who got straight A’s, but was too detached and intellectually sophisticated to go out with a jock. I’d never gotten to know that type well.
She said, “Where are you taking me?”
“Nowhere special. This your first time at Tuzla?”
“Yes. This isn’t my beat.”
“What is your beat?” I asked.
“West European politics and economics.”
“Um-hum, but you’re here to cover Berkowitz’s murder?” “Partly. Clyde Sterner and I have been thrown into the breach to cover what Berkowitz was working on, at least until the paper can get a replacement out here.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Yes, actually.”
Well, in a few moments, I intended to make it even more interesting. I said, “Do I take it you and Jeremy weren’t friends?”
“Let’s just say we had different philosophies on reporting.” This sounded interesting. “What’s yours?” I asked.
She studied me with those perceptive eyes for a few seconds.“I don’t believe in paying my sources. If that’s your game, you’ve got the wrong reporter. Try Sterner. He’s got an expense account just like Berkowitz.”
“Actually that’s not what I’m asking for.”
“Then what are you asking for, Sergeant?” she asked with an indulgent look.
“I’d like the same deal I had with Berkowitz.”
“Which was?”
“We traded information,” I said. I didn’t think it necessary to admit that this only happened once or that I’d lied and tried to set him up. Why bore her with small details?
She stopped walking and eyed me even more suspiciously. “Why would a sergeant be interested in information? Who do you work for, Hufnagel?”
Miss Janice Warner had a very quick mind, and this was exactly the deduction I’d hoped she would draw. I gave her a big, broad smile.“Look, we’re not at that point yet. Are you ready to talk the deal or not?”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then I find myself another reporter. The smell of a corpse has brought fresh new flocks. There’s scads of ’em around here these days.”
She considered that a moment, but from the expression on her face I wouldn’t say she was fully committed. At least, not yet.
“Okay, continue,” she said.
“The way this works is you’re going to give me a little information. Then I’m gonna give you a little information. Play me right, and I’ll give you a story that stops hearts.”
“I’m nobody’s dupe, Stupnagel.”
“Hufnagel. Harold Hufnagel,”I said. I loved the way that rolled off my tongue. “But you can call me Harry.”
“Are you an MP?”
“Ah-ahh! You’re not allowed to probe.”
“How do I know the info you have on Berkowitz’s death is legit?”
“Because I was one of Jeremy’s inside sources. I gave him a big story, then he got garroted.”
She was nodding as I spoke. “That it?” she asked, somewhat dubiously.
Give her credit for trying.“Come on, Miss Warner. In or out?” She stopped and examined my face. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Like I said, she had these real perceptive eyes, which meant they took a lot in, but emitted nothing.
“All right, we’ll try it,” she said. “You give me one piece of information, and I’ll give you one piece. Right?”
This reminded me of the game little boys and girls always like to play.You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. I’d tried it once.When I was six. Only this little girl talked me into showing mine first, then she laughed and ran away and told all her little friends what a stupid dunce I was.
“Nope, you first,” I insisted, still smarting from that old memory.
“Is there some specific area you’re interested in?”
“In fact there is. I happen to know that Berkowitz was on to something big.Why wasn’t there any hint of that in his final story?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Berkowitz was working several different story lines.”
“Come on. Don’t be cute. The Kosovo massacre.”
She seemed genuinely bewildered. “He sent a dispatch back to the paper the night he died.”
“That’s right,” I said.“But the next day’s story was an empty puff piece. Last time he and I talked, he told me he was going to break something big.”
She seemed to be reappraising me, as though our discussion had just taken an unexpected turn and ended up on uncertain ground. “Was that where you were helping Berkowitz? The Kosovo massacre?”
“Maybe,” I said.
She canted her head sideways.“I don’t know what happened,” she said. Then she added, “Let me check with the paper on Berkowitz’s last dispatch. Sometimes the editors cut a lot out.”
I shook my head like I wasn’t buying it. “Your editors wouldn’t take a pass on something that big.”
“You never know,” she said. “Editors can be maddeningly arbitrary. Maybe they didn’t think his sources were complete or reputable enough. Berkowitz had a reputation for hip-shooting.”
“Okay, you do that,” I said. “But do it quickly.”
“Why? Are you in some kind of hurry?”
“I have my reasons. Now, my turn. Berkowitz believed there was some kind of conspiracy here. Now I’m gonna give you a name. Jack Tretorne. Ever hear of him?”
She shook her head, and her luxuriant black hair shook all around, catching flecks of light. “Can’t say I have,” she said.
“He’s a big muckety-muck with the CIA. He’s been spending a lot of time here at Tuzla working directly with the Green Berets.”
“And this is supposed to have something to do with Berkowitz’s murder?”
“It’s related,” I assured her.
“And what am I supposed to do?”
“Maybe shake the trees to find out a little more about Tretorne and what he’s up to. Be careful when you shake, though. You know what they say about shaking trees with gorillas in the branches.”
“That it?” she asked, eyeing me speculatively.
“For now, yes. I’ll get hold of you again tomorrow morning. When I call, I’ll say I’m Mike Jackson and your order is ready. I’ll give you a time to pick it up, which means meet me at the mess hall entrance at that time. Got that?”
“Sure, fine,” she said, but the way she said it, she evidently thought I was maybe a little weird or extravagant with my secret passwords and clandestine meeting places. Well, she didn’t know what I knew.
We were only a block from the reporters’ compound, so I left her there and headed back to my tent. I was beginning to get my traction. I now had an unwitting ally—the best kind of ally for this kind of fight. The CIA thrives on secrecy. Its worst enemy is the threat of public exposure. A guy like Jack Tretorne would shrivel up and die if he was yanked out of the shadows. I’d just sicced Janice Warner and her paper on his trail, which was bound to make his life a little more miserable. Hopefully a lot more miserable.
I really was curious to learn why Berkowitz had never filed the story I gave him. It had to be a key piece in the puzzle. The plot that was taking shape in the back of my mind went something like this: Tretorne somehow learned that Berkowitz was on the verge of breaking the conspiracy story. Maybe Tretorne got tipped because the
Washington Herald
filed an inquiry with the CIA back at Langley. I’m no expert in the ways of modern journalism, but I am under the impression that newspapers generally offer the chance of rebuttal or comment to someone before they slice ’n’ dice them on the front page. Or maybe Tretorne had NSA eavesdropping on Berkowitz’s electronic transmissions, maybe even his computer, and learned of it that way. Anyway, Tretorne then had Berkowitz “sanctioned,” and faxed the
Herald
a planted story under Berkowitz’s name.
The only thing that confused me was that Janice Warner sounded completely clueless about what was happening around here. When I mentioned the Kosovo massacre, she seemed genuinely confused. Maybe Tretorne had succeeded in throwing her paper off track. Since Berkowitz never got his real dispatch filed, the
Herald
had no idea what he’d discovered.
When I got back to my tent, I noticed that my possessions had been rifled through. The CID guys had been benevolent enough to try to put everything back where they found it, but a few things were out of place. Also, my running shoes were gone. Such are the terrific inconveniences I had to work with.
C
lapper called at two that night. I began to suspect something insidious in these late-night calls. Maybe this was part of the conspiracy: to try to make me so groggy and miserable that I’d be willing to buy any line of baloney just to get this over with and get some rest. Very devious, those guys.
Clapper said, “Where are you? Are you getting it wrapped up?”
“Dotting a few i’s and crossing a few t’s,” I answered, trying to sound confident.
“I had a call from General Foster over at NSA. He’s furious. He said you’re making trouble for one of his employees, a Mr. Jones. What’s this one about?”
I should have expected this. I said, “I’m just trying to make him get reasonable. He’s the same guy who showed us the tapes and transcripts. Only he won’t let us have any copies. Too sensitive, he says. I told him I could live with that as long as I had his name and section so I can refer to him in my report.”
Clapper said, “You should be able to get by perfectly fine without them. This Jones character is apparently in a very sensitive job. General Foster offered to let us use his own name.”
“Boss, it’s a chain of evidence thing. Only in this case, I’m not allowed to even touch the evidence. You know the rules. You’ve got to establish the chain of evidence.”
This was an entirely specious line of legal reasoning, but it sounded proximate enough to the real rules of evidence that it might be true.
At any rate, Clapper blew right through it. “If you’re going to recommend against court-martial, it’s irrelevant. It won’t be tested in court. Damn it, Sean, just use Foster’s name.”
I said,“Sir, I’m the investigating officer. I don’t care if it won’t be tested in court. I don’t do shoddy work. You can advise me on this, but you can’t order me.”
There was the sound of a set of lungs being emptied on the other line. Clapper was ordinarily a very even-tempered fellow, but major generals don’t generally take it kindly when junior officers remind them of their limits.
“You’re already facing an inquiry into your professional conduct. Let’s not make this any worse.”
“Sorry, General, but I have to do what I think is right.” “Have it your way,” he said before he hung up, sounding very pissed off.
I hung up the phone myself, then pushed the stop button on the tape recorder I had turned on the moment he identified himself. Recording a phone conversation without the willful consent of the other party is a moderately serious violation of the federal statutes. I really didn’t care, though. I didn’t plan on using the tape in court, where it would be inadmissible anyway. But I knew the boys in the editorial office of the
Washington Herald
would love listening to it, if things came to that. Besides, they—whoever they were—weren’t playing fair with me. So why should I?
On that note, I slept soundly until I felt a rough hand shaking my shoulder. I blinked a few times, until I was able to get my lids to stay up. Not up very far, but enough that I could squint and just make out vague shapes. Martie whatever was hunched over beside my cot and peering into my face. Behind him were two real big shadows that I guessed were military policemen.
“Please get dressed and come with me,” he said.
I struggled out of my sleeping bag and sat up.“Are you going to explain what this is about?” I asked, searching around for my battle dress and combat boots.
“When we get to my office.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“I’m taking you into custody.”
I felt very groggy, and decided not to speak again until I had a cup of coffee in my hand and the caffeine was doing its magic. I got dressed quickly, then stood up and staggered along behind Martie. A military policeman walked on each of my flanks. I noticed that Martie was dressed in the same cockeyed checkered outfit he’d worn the day before. He must’ve worked through the night.
The time was three in the morning, so the streets were still dark and empty as we headed to his office. I kept a wary eye on Martie and his escorts. For all I knew, they were working for Tretorne or Murphy. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more this seemed like a perfect pretense to perform one of those nasty “sanction” things on me. They’d take me to some dark, secluded part of the compound, then pop me in the back of the head. On the other hand, they hadn’t handcuffed me, and I took that as an encouraging sign.
It wasn’t until we got to the MP station that I relaxed. I shouldn’t have though.What Martie had in store for me was better than taking me into the woods and shooting me.
“Sit down, please,” he ordered once we were gathered around a table in an interview room. He then read me my rights. This was something I’d done to suspects a number of times, but you get tight in funny places when the words are recited to you.
I heard him out until he asked,“Do you wish to retain counsel at this time?”
This is always the critical question. I had no idea what I was charged with. I had no idea if I was even going to be charged. I decided that a lawyer probably wasn’t going to do me any more good than I could do for myself. I mean, I’m a lawyer, right? Of course, it’s exactly that kind of solipsistic thinking that gets a lawyer in deep shit. When it’s you the police are questioning, you lose the ability to make the kind of cold, disinterested, dispassionate decisions a hired barrister provides.