Brian Haig - PrivateSector

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.

The 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?”

“I’m sure it’s in the phone book.”

“Fine,” she replied. “Ask for me when you arrive. The partners are here by 8:00 A.M. and it’s a good idea to arrive well ahead of them. There’s no time clocks… but it’s noticed. And I’m sure you want to make the right first impression.”

Now that she mentioned it, yes, I did. I hung up, rolled over, and closed my eyes.

At 8:30, I flipped on the TV, let Katie and the gang bombard me with bubbly glee, allowed Diane her equal shot in the ratings war, showered, shaved, and so forth.

Understand why I didn’t want to do this program. I love the Army. It’s the life for me. FTA, as the troops say, which, depending on your day, either means Fun, Travel, and Adventure or Fuck The Army. On particular days, it means both. So what else-interesting work, simplicity in your wardrobe, a well-ordered universe, and the sense of serving a higher calling. I’m too horny to be a priest, so there it is.

Also, there’s a wide chasm between the worlds of military and civilian law and, more particularly, the soft-heeled world of corporate law. We don’t play the billings game, or scramble, or plead, or compete for customers, and, less fortunately, there’s no fat bonus checks in our mailboxes at Christmas. Yet it has been my unfortunate experience that many big-firm lawyers look down their noses at us. They regard us as public dole idiots, soft, lazy, and lacking intellectual brawn. But I don’t feel slighted; after all, they’re all spoiled, arrogant, overpaid jerks.

Regarding Clapper’s assurances about Lisa Morrow and her experience at the firm, generals don’t lie, but truth can slip through their lips in fairly odd ways. I mean, do they say, “Three platoons that tried to take that hill just got the living shit kicked out of them and now, God bless you, boys, go on up there and take your ass kicking.” No; they say silly things like, “You are the finest soldiers on earth and I’ve therefore elected you for the very prestigious honor of taking that small, lightly defended hill.”

I’d be tucked in a corner office in the basement, where I’d spend my year counting how many paper clips it takes to run a law firm. I’d be handed a handsome plaque when the year ended, with my name misspelled, because, excluding the janitors, nobody in the friggin’ firm had the slightest idea who the hell I was.

Last, Clapper is not as smart as he thinks he is. Like most generals, he is adroit at holding his cards close to his vest and, like most lawyers, at cloaking the truth. I actually was a little hurt that he didn’t think I’d see through this. He obviously had a larger plan, and something told me it ended with Sean Drummond behind a desk in the Pentagon Contracts Office negotiating basing rights, weapons system agreements, and other things too appalling to mention.

Somebody has to do it, I guess. But, no sir, it wasn’t going to be me.

Anyway, the firm in question turned out to be located on Connecticut Avenue, six blocks from the White House, a neighborhood renowned for power restaurants, sluggish traffic, and astonishing rents. I found an underground garage, parked, and made my way to the nine-story building, where a wall directory by the elevator indicated the firm took up the top three floors. This answered the first question. It was a big firm. Also the unasked question-money mill.

The elevator opened on the eighth floor, and that last point was underscored in impressive fashion-burnished mahogany walls, dimly lit sconces, and “Culper, Hutch, and Westin” obnoxiously scribbled in gold letters on the wall. I stepped out of the elevator and vomited on the carpet. Just kidding.

Also sprinkled about were a few brass-studded leather couches, side tables and lamps, paintings of sailing ships, and an attractive middle-aged lady with her well-dressed ass parked behind a long wooden desk, who instantly inquired, “Might I help you?” in one of those clipped, upper-class English accents that fit nicely with the ambience.

I replied, “You may. Sally Westin.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Drummond.”

She had one of those telephone microphone thingees, she pushed a button, she whispered into the mouthpiece, and she then informed me, “Have a seat. Miss Westin will be out shortly to retrieve you.”

I smiled and asked her, “Hey, what’s the difference between a corporate lawyer and a liar?” When she failed to reply, I said, “Spelling.”

Appearing slightly annoyed, she informed me, “Really, I’m quite busy,” pointed at a chair, then pushed a button and pretended to be talking to somebody else.