A man you don't want to tangle with." She gave me a pointed look. "You might want to exercise a little . . . rhetorical restraint."
"How do you spell that?" I knew, of course, that SES 1 stands for Senior Executive Service, Level One--a politically appointed rank roughly equivalent to a brigadier general. I told Bian, "Right this way," and led her to the door at the rear of the store, which I opened, and through which we entered into a large cavernous space, essentially a converted warehouse.
The government does not believe in spoiling its employees, and the home of OSP sets a shining exemplar; clearly the lowest bidder furnished it, and it is poorly lit enough to provoke suicidal fits. There actually are a few genuine offices for the more senior people, none of which read Drummond on the nameplate; mostly, however, it's a congested, sprawling cube farm. The lack of walls and privacy are designed to engender teamwork and a sense of community, and the communal sparseness to encourage a feeling of proletarian solidarity. Anyway, that's the theory; reality is a roomful of people who whisper a lot and act sneaky.
A few people said hi as Bian and I made our way to the rear where Phyllis had her office. I knocked twice, and she called for us to enter.
Phyllis was behind her desk, and to her front was seated a gentleman of late middle age, bald head, intense brown eyes, who at that moment appeared to be experiencing unhappy thoughts. Phyllis stood and said, "Mr. Waterbury, obviously this is Sean Drummond." Phyllis walked from around her desk and extended her hand to Bian, saying, "And you're obviously Major Tran."
Mr. Waterbury did not rise to shake my hand, which was interesting, and revealing. But now that we knew who we all obviously were, Bian and I took the chairs against the far wall. I placed Clifford Daniels's briefcase prominently on my lap, and like the good subordinate I sometimes pretend to be, allowed my boss to make the opening move.
Phyllis had returned to the seat behind her desk, which I knew to be her standard practice whenever she needs a physical barrier from an asshole. She looked at me. "Mr. Waterbury is the director of the Office of Special Investigations."
I nodded at Mr. Waterbury, who was studying me.
Phyllis continued, "He's not completely convinced that a joint investigation is the best way to proceed."
"Why not?" I asked.
"He believes this matter falls squarely under his jurisdiction. As he pointed out to me--rightly--the CIA has no business investigating a domestic death, be it suicide or homicide."
"A very persuasive point," I noted diplomatically as I stifled a yawn.
I took a moment and studied Mr. Mark Waterbury even as he continued to study me. From his upright, wooden posture, trim figure, neat attire, and severe expression, I was sure he was former military.
But of a certain type. Some are drawn to military service as a patriotic calling, others by a yearning for glory, others in an effort to reform a life going wrong, and others to put a dent in their college tuition. I do it because I happen to look really good in a uniform. A select few, however, are enthralled by the lifestyle--the rarefied military sense of order, discipline, and a rigidly hierarchical universe where everything has its place, and everybody has their place. Hollywood caricatures are often based upon these stereotypes, and while by no means are they a majority of people in uniform, they are out there, and they do stand out. They tend not to be clever or resourceful, but they do keep you on your toes.
This, of course, was a lot to read from a brief glance. It was in his eyes, though--a pair of compressed little anal slits with tiny ball bearings for irises.
In fact, Waterbury's first words to me were, "You had no business being at Daniels's apartment."
"Nonsense."
"Is it? This agency is barred by law from involvement in domestic matters."
"A man was reported dead and I went to look. Simple prurient curiosity. Where in the federal statutes does it say CIA employees can't look?" I smiled at Mr. Waterbury.
We exchanged looks that were fairly uncomplicated, essentially telling each other to fuck off. This was not one of my better Dale Carnegie moments, but why waste time acting civil and friendly when you already know where it's going to end up?
He pointed at the briefcase on my lap and, with a nasty smile, said, "Yes .