expressions to describe small ideas. The battlefield lab work is left to somebody else.
But, well . . . shame on me for being so small-minded toward my host. I'm sure Albert's heart was in the right place. I might feel better about him, however, if I thought he could distinguish an M1A1 tank from an M1A2 as their treads crushed his shiny Beemer in the Pentagon parking lot.
Also, according to a number of articles I had read, Albert Tiger-man and his boss, Thomas Hirschfield, were now in a bit of a jam because they were publicly credited with being the intellectual and bureaucratic forefathers of a war that had run a little longer than they predicted, gotten a lot messier than they had foretold, with casualty lists that were large--with no end in sight.
As Bian mentioned, this was Albert's second time in the Pentagon, in both incarnations working with and under his longtime mentor, Thomas Hirschfield.
Tigerman's door opened, and I looked up. A pair of Air Force generals walked out, thick briefing binders under their arms, and they ignored us, as military folk tend to do toward civilians, which I wasn't, though I was dressed like one. The assistant waited two beats, then said, "You may now enter."
We followed Herr Waterbury into the office, and three feet inside the doorway Albert Tigerman was standing waiting, like a perched bird. His hand shot out to Waterbury.
I took a moment to study our host and was a little surprised to observe that he was not even remotely impressive-looking--short, slightly pudgy, silver-haired, with thick horn-rimmed glasses, sort of a fleshy, characterless face, and a small, pinched mouth. I'm embarrassed to admit, he looked like a lawyer.
He finished shaking Waterbury's hand, saying, "Mark . . . damned good to see you again. I hear you're doing damn fine work up there."
I watched their faces and I knew. What a load of crap. This was not the first time these two were together that day.
There was a long, telling hesitation before Waterbury, unaccustomed as he was to slyness, replied, "Well . . . it's always a pleasure to see you, too, Al. I'm . . . sorry the occasion is such grim business."
"Can't be helped, can it?" Turning to Bian and me, Tigerman announced, "And you must be Drummond and Tran."
Who else would we be?
Bian said to him, "Sir, let me start by thanking you for taking this time out of your busy schedule to see us."
Not wanting him to get the misimpression that I regarded this as a big favor, I immediately said, "If you don't mind, sir, we'd like to start." I added, "I'm sure you are very busy. In fact, Waterbury told us our time is limited to five minutes."
I was sort of hoping he would say, "That ass Waterbury said what? . . . Why, a good man, a man who worked for me, a lifelong public servant, is dead under mysterious circumstances--of course you can take all the time you want or need." But he did not say that. He pointed at a short conference table near the window. "Is over there okay?"
Over there was fine, and we moved to the table. Tigerman sat at the head, Waterbury took the seat to his right, and Bian and I sat across from him.
Tigerman squirmed around in his seat for a moment, then leaned across the table and said, "Mark tells me one of our people died. How damned unfortunate."
Bian replied, "The employee's name was Clifford Daniels. He was a GS-12, and for the past three years he worked here, in your organization. We assumed you knew him."
"Yes . . . yes, maybe I recall the name. I'm sure I would recognize his face if I saw him." He removed his glasses from his nose and a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping the lens. "It's damned unfortunate, really . . ."
After a moment, Bian asked, "What's unfortunate, sir?"
"This organization--the Office of the Under Secretary . . ."
"What about it?"
"We have a total of some nine hundred people. As much as you would like to know all of these fine people . . ." He raised his glasses in a pedantic gesture of helplessness. "Well . . . how did he . . . this, uh, Mr. Daniels . . . how did he . . . you know?"
"That's still under investigation," I informed him.
Waterbury said, "Suicide. Blew his brains out."
"I see." Tigerman tapped his fingers on the table. "Again,