Brian Haig - PrivateSector

“Then why are you here?”

He studied her face. He said, “The Director called me an hour ago. He’s furious. The Director, God damn it…” He paused and poor Georgie did look a little stunned, and my guess was that the conversation hadn’t been all that pleasant. He said, “All because your friend here was shooting off his idiotic mouth to some AP reporter.”

Janet glanced at me, then back at Meany. She asked, “What are you talking about?”

“The news, Janet.” In response to her blank look, he explained, “It’s being carried everywhere. This idiot, Drummond, told some reporter the killer is a dimwit, that the Bureau is bungling this case since we’ve failed to stop him. He also informed the reporter that the FBI is focused on the wrong suspect, that the man who attacked you clearly isn’t the L. A. Killer.” His eyes shifted to me. “Do I need to explain how much the Bureau appreciates having its nose rubbed in shit by this clown?”

I didn’t recall couching my comments exactly that way. But you see what happens when you do a favor for a reporter?

Now Janet also was looking at me, and she asked, a bit sharply, “Sean, please tell me you didn’t say all that to a reporter.”

“I sure did. All those women looking over their shoulders for a short, stumpy guy with a ponytail. It might even save a life. Did you or your boss ever think about that, George?”

“He’s lying,” Meany said. “Drummond called the reporter to humiliate me and harm my career.”

Not true. Just not true. But I kicked myself because I should have.

He stared at me and added, “Well, guess what, smart guy. The Director made a call to your boss. General Thomas Clapper, right? You’re the one who now has career problems.”

I was hoping Janet was seeing what a grouchy, vindictive dick-head this guy was.

But at the same time, it struck me that I might be in serious trouble here. In fact, I was having disturbing visions of Johnston Island Atoll, of Sean Drummond choking on leftover anthrax or mustard gas, or something.

Then again, with a world-class killer hunting my ass, and a roomful of pissed-off lawyers upstairs who would also like to murder me, this was the least of my problems. In fact, I had a lot of balls up in the air, and my life depended on remembering which were catastrophic and which were merely disastrous.

Anyway, Meany began briefing Janet about all the things he’d done to catch the killer. And it all sounded really impressive, unless you listened really closely, in which case it amounted to a lot more of Meany sniffing his own ass.

Also, it went on for a while, because Meany was one of those guys who mistake words and action for results. But he finally wrapped it up, saying, “So, that’s where we’re at, honey.”

Janet replied, “Good. What’s next?”

“Next is you. We need to get you out of here, to someplace safe. The Director authorized a safe house. We’re also beefing up your security detail to ten men.”

Janet said, “George, that’s excessive.”

He smiled and touched her arm. “I’d make it twenty if the Bureau would let me. You’re the most important thing in my life, babe. I’m taking no chances.”

Even the other agents were coughing into their hands and rolling their eyes, which I guess George noticed, because he swiftly mentioned, “Actually, the Director was very expressive about taking every precaution concerning your safety.”

Well, which was it, George-love and lust, or orders from on high?

Understand, though, that I really didn’t give a shit about his motives, and I was actually very pleased with this arrangement. I actually wanted-no, I actually needed -Janet tucked away in a safe and faraway place.

So we bid each other adieu, which in Janet’s case meant a kiss on my cheek, which surprised me a little and annoyed George Meany a lot, before he whisked the damsel away to his mountain fortress.

But I now owed George big-time.

And, as if I didn’t have enough problems already, I suddenly recalled that my leased Jag was still parked near the Pentagon heliport, all of Meany’s guys had just left in a cloud of shiny Crown Vics, and I was fairly certain nobody upstairs was in the mood to give mean old Sean a lift back to his apartment. This really got on my nerves. I called a cab.

I actually knocked on my own apartment door, which I don’t ordinarily do. But I was glad I did, because it was opened by Danny, who wore a bulletproof vest and, coincidentally, was directing the nasty black barrel of an M16 assault rifle at my face.

He said, over his left shoulder, “It’s all right. It’s him.”

He stepped back and I entered. I noticed two other men in the middle of my living room, also wearing bulletproof vests, and both were at that moment lowering their weapons.

Spinelli waved an arm in their direction and said, “Chief Warrants Bill Belinovski and Charlie Waters.”

We all nodded at one another. I said to Spinelli, “Problems?”

“None. The provo owes me a few. I told him you was a witness to the murder of an Army soldier and needed protection.”

His reference was to the provost marshal of Fort Myer and the Military District of Washington, a full colonel by rank, military police by branch, who had the unenviable task of overseeing law and order for the entire Army community living around the Capital area. This entails some thirty thousand people, so this is a guy who survives on aspirins and hemorrhoid suppositories. And after signing this authorization, I was going to have to send him my firstborn child, or, considering my romantic prospects, somebody else’s firstborn.

Understand that I’d done everything I could think of to draw the killer to me. But Mrs. Drummond didn’t raise an idiot; no sir. While there’s a certain gallantry in solitary combat-you know, the knights of old, mounted on their trusted steeds, swords at the ready, charging one another in a celestial contest of courage, skill, and wits-the Infantry Manual clearly states that if you show up for the fight, and it turns out it’s an even match, you planned wrong.

Anyway, I faced the three of them and asked, “Did anyone, by chance, happen to remember to bring a flak jacket for me?”

Spinelli lifted one off the floor, tossed it at me, and said, “No weapon though. No authorization for that.” He then asked, “How sure are you he’s coming?”

“Enough so that I just took out a million dollar term life policy.”

We all chuckled, which is the right and manly thing to do in such situations. Everybody knows Army guys are steadfast, hard as nails, and brave to a fault, so that was the act we were trapped in.

But Bill, who incidentally was about six foot two, about 220 pounds, and about as well acquainted with weight machines as our killer, asked me, “What can you tell us about this peckerhead, Major? Strengths, weaknesses.”

“I’m glad you asked. You’ve studied the composite?”

“Danny showed us the shots.”

“Then we all know what he looks like”-I reconsidered that- “well, we know what he looked like this morning. He might be into disguises. But I’m expecting a blind date to drop by. So if a tall, really ugly, fat broad with big tits shows up…”

“Yeah?”

“And she asks for me…”

“Uh-huh.”

“This guy is pretty clever… and, well… there’s only one way to really know. You know what I’m saying? That’s your job, Bill.”

Yuck, yuck.

But we were all, I think, feeling tense and keyed up, and it’s important to get past that, because cool thinking and settled nerves were our only prayer of success.

So everybody stopped laughing, and in a more serious vein, I continued, “Here’s what the composite doesn’t show, that he can’t disguise. He’s about your size, Bill… slightly bigger, perhaps.”