Under the color of law

Chapter 10

Fred Browning was on a natural high. The new job in Silicon Valley had turned into a very sweet deal. A company vice president had met him at the San Francisco Airport and chatted him up on the drive to the corporate headquarters.

He offered Fred a big bump in salary, the rent-free use of a town house for the first six months, and a stipend to pay all relocation expenses.

With Tim Ingram's promise of a job that would get him back to Albuquerque in a year, Fred jumped at the offer. Before catching an evening flight back to Albuquerque, he spent the day signing preemployment paperwork, touring the facility, and meeting with members of his new security staff. During the Phoenix layover he called Tim Ingram and gave him the news.

Tim proposed they should celebrate by heading down to the lake a day early instead of waiting until Saturday. Fred thought that was a fine idea. He downed a couple of self-congratulatory whiskeys in the airport bar, had another one on the short hop to Albuquerque, and rolled up the jetway with a bit of a buzz. Tim greeted him inside the terminal.

Fred grinned at his friend.

"Is it Friday already?" he asked.

"No," Tim said, grinning back.

"But knowing you, I figured you would have already started celebrating.

I bet you're a point or two over the blood alcohol legal limit."

"Maybe just barely."

"Come on, I'll give you a ride home."

"What about my car?" Fred asked.

"Leave it here. You can pick it up on Sunday when we get back from the lake."

Fred shrugged.

"Why not? Let me buy you a drink."

"Not necessary," Tim said.

"I've got a flask in my glove box

"That'll do."

Browning took two hits from the drug-laced flask and passed out on the short drive to the air force base. Ingram checked his carotid artery and found a strong pulse. As an intelligence operative Ingram had carried out a number of disagreeable assignments. But delivering a man to be killed, especially one he'd worked hard to keep alive and who wasn't a clear security threat, made Ingram feel like a sadist. At least he wouldn't have to watch Fred Browning get wasted.

He flashed his headlights as he approached the guard gate, and the air policeman waved him through. On the tarmac a car and a helicopter waited. Ingram rolled to a stop. Applewhite opened the passenger door, gave him a cold look, and jammed a syringe into Browning's neck.

Ingram wanted to shoot her, stomp her, slug her. Instead he counted seconds.

Browning convulsed and died in less than a minute. He got out of the car, sucked in some fresh, cold air, and watched the body get loaded into the helicopter.

Smiling, her eyes dancing, Applewhite came around the front of the car.

"You're a stone-cold bitch," Ingram said.

Applewhite laughed at her old West Point classmate.

"I didn't want to leave you out of the loop, Tim."

"You like killing people, don't you, Elaine?"

"This Bureau detail has made you soft," Applewhite said darkly.

Ingram watched the chopper take off. In two hours Browning's body would be fed into a high-temperature furnace at a primate research laboratory on a southern New Mexico air force base.

"Ashes to ashes," Applewhite said.

Ingram turned away, drove to his quarters, swallowed a quick double shot of single mash, and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. It didn't matter that the hit had been sanctioned by the chain of command, an innocent man was dead. That made it capital murder. In a just world he would be arrested, charged, convicted, and sentenced for the crime.

None of this should have happened. Not to Browning, Terjo, or Stewart.

He turned out the light, wondering what had become of the fresh-faced, idealistic kid from Iowa who'd wanted to be a career officer, a war-fighter, a kick-ass, gung-ho soldier? Could he ever put on the uniform again?

Bobby Sloan's undercover four-by-four Chevy Blazer came with all the customary surveillance goodies, plus the added bonus of a laptop computer linked to federal crime information computers and state motor vehicle data banks. After checking out the vehicle Bobby had clipped a wallet-size photograph of his wife to the visor, just like in his regular unit. Lucy had never been a babe in the Hollywood sense of the word, but she was his babe. The photo reminded Bobby that his first priority on the job was to survive and go home to Lucy when work was done.

Tailing Applewhite to Albuquerque had been a breeze, but he'd been forced to break off contact when she entered Kirtland Air Force Base at a guard checkpoint station. Bobby waited away from the gate and down the street to avoid raising suspicion. Over the years Sloan had trained dozens of new detectives in undercover and surveillance techniques. He'd always hammered away at the mantra to observe, record, take nothing for granted, and get the details. Bobby practiced what he preached.

Only a few cars entered the base while Bobby waited. He used his time spotting license plates through binoculars, running MVD record checks on the laptop, and writing down the information. It was a boring task, but it kept him focused. His interest jumped when a car approached the gate, flashed its headlights, and got waved through without stopping.

Somebody important was in a hurry.

Sloan ran the plate, got the name of the registered owner, and searched motor vehicle files for driver's license information. The likely driver of the car was a. Timothy Ingram. Sloan saved the information, which came with a color photograph of the subject, on a floppy disk.

After spending all night poring over the Mitchell evidence, Kerney allowed himself two hours of rack time and fell asleep immediately. The alarm jarred him awake. He cleaned up, spooned down a bland-tasting bowl of instant oatmeal, and played back Sara's telephone messages.

Message 1: "You sounded edgy the last time we spoke. Call me. I'm worried about you."

Message 2: "Are you busy? Should I cancel the weekend trip? Call me."

Message 3:

"Nobody at your office knows where you are. I can't spend all day trying to track you down. Dammit, Kerney, where are you! I'm flying in. Meet me at the airport if you can."

Kerney winced. Sara was justifiably pissed at being ignored. He'd put Molina and Sloan deep undercover. That meant no contact with their families or the department, no disclosure of the assignment, and no communication that could compromise the operation. Stupidly, he'd been operating with the same mindset, which was exactly the wrong thing to do. He needed to act like everything was normal.

Kerney checked the clock. Because of the difference in time zones it was an hour later at Fort Leavenworth. If Sara was true to form, she would be out on her morning run before heading off to classes. He called and left a message. The week had been hellishly busy, he couldn't wait to see her, nothing was wrong, and he was sorry he hadn't called sooner.

He'd pick her up at the airport.

He went to the bathroom, ran the shower, and called Reynaldo Valencia, a professor of Latin American studies at the university in Albuquerque.

Mitchell had phoned the professor a number of times from Brother Jerome's office. He woke Valencia up and explained his reasons for calling. Valencia agreed to meet with him immediately.

His house phone rang before he could leave. He picked up and Helen Muiz asked him if he was ever planning to come into the office again.

"What's up?" Kerney asked.

"Mr. Demora, the city manager, is eager to see you."

"About?"

"He wouldn't say. But he left three messages last night after six P. M."

"You're at the office early."

"Someone has to hold things together in your absence."

"I have a deputy chief now, Helen."

"Yes, and thank goodness he's here to assist me. You also have other tasks waiting that need your attention."

"Can they hold?"

"I suppose so." Helen sighed.

"Call Demora and ask him if this afternoon would be convenient."

"And where will you be until then?"

Kerney thought fast.

"I have a doctor's appointment in Albuquerque."

"Is something wrong?"

"Just the knee acting up again."

"You should get it looked at," Helen said sympathetically.

"You've been limping rather badly lately. I'll put you down on sick leave for the morning."

Even though he had no visible tail, Kerney ditched his unit in front of his orthopedist's office in Albuquerque and called a cab to pick him up at the back of the building. Reynaldo Valencia lived near the university on a street named for one of the early presidents. The house was a fifties post-war, Santa Fe-style single-story residence sheltered from the street by mature shrubs and large trees.

Valencia was a tall man with graying hair that matched the color of his neatly trimmed mustache. He greeted Kerney with a serious, questioning expression and guided him to a family room that proclaimed an enjoyment of books and learning.

Shelves crammed with books filled walls from floor to ceiling, magazines, journals, and newspapers filled table tops and thick dictionaries and atlases rested on pedestal stands.

"I don't know if I can help you," Valencia said. He gestured at a comfortable chair and took a seat in a rocker. He spoke perfect English with a slight Spanish accent.

Kerney sat down.

"I'm sure you'd like to see Father Mitchell's killer brought to justice."

"Very much so. But my experience has made me rather distrustful of police officers."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kerney said.

"Have you had some bad experiences with the police?"

"Indeed, I have.

For example, it was the police who inadvertently introduced me to Father Mitchell," Valencia said.

"We met in jail, after having been arrested during a peaceful, nonviolent demonstration at the entrance to Fort Benning. The police roughed us up, handcuffed us, put us in paddy wagons, and locked us in a cell for hours. They had no cause to do it."

"That doesn't sound pleasant," Kerney said.

"Unfortunately, not all police officers are competent or well led.

Would a belated apology from an officer who had nothing to do with taking you to jail make it better?"

"You're joking," Valencia said

"Only partially," Kerney replied.

"I don't appreciate cops who make the rest of us look bad. It destroys the public's trust and makes the job more difficult."

"Why should I assume that you're really any different? How can I be sure of your motives?"

"Perhaps if we talk for a while, you'll be able to form an opinion or make a judgment about those questions," Kerney said.

Valencia studied Kerney for a few seconds.

"That's fair enough. But if I think you've come here to investigate my political beliefs and actions, or those of my friends and associates, I will cut you off."

"That's more than reasonable," Kerney said.

"I take it you came to know Father Mitchell fairly well after your time together in jail."

"Yes, we were both active in the School of the Americas Vigil Committee."

"From what I've learned, he seemed intent on discovering the specifics about his brother's death."

Valencia took a pipe from a side table and toyed with it.

"It was constantly on his mind. He spent a year in Venezuela and Colombia searching for answers."

"What did he uncover?" Kerney asked.

Valencia filled his pipe.

"He believed that his brother had been put in charge of establishing a secret training facility for assassins who were to be sent into Colombia to murder members of the drug cartels."

"Funded and operated by our government?"

Valencia nodded.

"Using the same ruse that failed so miserably in Vietnam, military advisors."

"Father Mitchell was convinced of this?"

"Yes. His brother was an experienced intelligence officer who specialized in training field operatives."

"Did he have proof?" Kerney asked.

Valencia lit his pipe and the scent of tobacco filled the room.

"He was never able to corroborate his theory. Most of the information came to him as rumor or supposition."

"What did he learn about his brother's death?"

"Supposedly, the murder was arranged by drug lords who learned of the colonel's mission from a bribed Colombian army officer. As I understand it, Colombian police were to be trained in Venezuela by the U. S. Army, then sent home to infiltrate the cartels and kill the jefes and their associates. At the time a commonly held belief among American intelligence agencies was that the cartels were nothing but a large-scale version of common street dealers. In fact, the cartels had a superior intelligence-gathering apparatus."

"Did the mission go forward after the colonel's death?"

"Yes, but not quite the way it was supposed to," Valencia said.

"Our government unwittingly placed in the hands of the cartels a cadre of qualified assassins who were used against the supporters of the American-backed drug interdiction program."

"The jefes infiltrated the project?"

"No, they simply identified the recruits, waited until they were trained, and bought the services of most of them. Jump ahead in time.

The police assassins who refused to serve the jefes are murdered one by one. Car bombs kill ranking federal prosecutors. Politicians running on anti cartel platforms disappear. The federal official in charge of drug interdiction, a man of impeccable reputation, is killed by a sniper's bullet. Journalists sympathetic to the anti cartel movement are found burned to death in tragic automobile accidents. Judges are kidnapped, held for ransom, and then shot. Are these the acts of untrained, unsophisticated street thugs?"

"I doubt it," Kerney said.

"But weren't some arrests made?"

"Of course. Teenagers mostly, with no knowledge of the inner workings of either the cartels or the hit squads."

"So, you believed Father Mitchell," Kerney said.

Valencia tamped out the tobacco in his pipe and laid it aside.

"I was born and raised in Colombia, Chief Kerney. I know how the rich, the powerful, and the privileged are treated because of the resources they possess. I've seen firsthand how money can purchase special favors.

Even though Father Joseph had not one shred of proof to back up his contentions, I believed him."

"It seems as though Father Mitchell was trying to uncover much more than just the truth about his brothers murder."

"He was an expert in modern U. S. military history with an emphasis in Latin American affairs," Valencia said.

"He had strong fears that something more was at hand."

"Such as?"

"The people of Colombia are poor, the government is corrupt, and the elite rule.

Rebels and bandits roam the countryside, where the army refuses to go.

The country is only partially under the control of the government.

Cartels earn billions of dollars from the illicit American drug economy.

Growers are now raising opium to get a share of the North American heroin market. Counterfeiting of American currency is rampant. The United States has overthrown governments, supported dictators, and started wars in South America for fewer reasons than that."

"Can you be more specific about Father Joseph's concerns?"

"He thought that a number of federal agencies were participating in a clandestine plan to eliminate the drug cartels, install a new government in Bogota, and support a full-scale ground war against the rebels."

"Did he ever mention a secret American trade mission to South America?"

Kerney asked.

Valencia looked quizzical.

"No, and I've heard nothing about it from any other sources. Does one exist?"

"I've been told that one does."

"Interesting," Valencia said.

"How so?" Kerney asked.

"If Washington's goal is to overthrow the Colombian government and make war on the cartels and the rebels, it would be wise to have a compact with countries bordering Colombia that supported U. S. intervention."

"Would such a compact be possible?"

"Criminals give bribes to achieve their goals, governments call it foreign aid.

And all of South America is in desperate need of economic assistance."

"Do you know a woman named Phyllis Terrell?" Kerney asked.

Valencia reached for his pipe.

"The ambassador's wife who was murdered in Santa Fe? I never met her."

"Did Father Mitchell know her?"

"I don't know if he did or not. Last fall he gave a talk about the growing threat of military intervention in South America at a peace forum in Santa Fe.

He called me to talk about it a few days later. He said a woman had come to the meeting specifically to meet him, and that she might have some highly sensitive information that would be helpful to his research. He never mentioned a name.

But he sounded very excited about it."

"Do you know of any earlier attempts on Father Mitchell's life?"

Valencia stood up.

"We never talked of such matters, although I'm sure he knew he took some risks. There must be a dozen government agencies that would find his research bothersome. You must excuse me. I have a class at the university within the hour."

"Yes, of course," Kerney said, getting to his feet.

"Did Father Mitchell stay in touch with you only by telephone?"

"Most of our communication was by email."

"Do you have his e-mail address?"

Valencia nodded and reached for an address book from a bookcase shelf.

"I have little faith in computers. They crash far too often, so I always write e-mail addresses down. Joe had two: one for general use and another for more private communication."

Valencia read off the information.

"Did you have copies of Father Mitchell's e-mail letters?" Kerney asked.

"Or perhaps keep them stored in your computer?"

Valencia shook his head and smiled.

"Copies, no, and I make it a practice to have very little about my private or personal life in the computer. I trust them even less than I trust most police officers."

"Thank you for your openness, Professor."

"You strike me as a sincere, fair-minded man, Chief Kerney. I wish you well in your investigation. Father Joseph deserves justice."

One of Mitchell's Internet service providers was an Albuquerque based company with corporate offices in a business park adjacent to the Interstate. With walls of glass facing the outside world, the building presented what passed for a sleek, modern look. To Kerney it seemed nothing more than a five-story rectangular box, plopped down next to another equally unattractive box, with nice landscaping designed to hide its pedestrian dullness.

A directory inside the lobby next to the elevators listed the various company suites. Kerney found his way to the ISP's offices, where a young woman smiled genially as he approached the reception desk. She wore a bright yellow lapel pin that read ASK ME ABOUT SWAMI. On the wall behind the desk a poster proclaimed SWAMI: THE NEXT GENERATION OF INTERNET TOOLS. A swirling, modernistic, multicolored turban served as the logo.

He showed the woman his shield and asked to speak with the person in charge of the subscriber database. A young man no more than twenty-five answered the receptionist's call and introduced himself as Wallace Brooks. He guided Kerney into an office cluttered with computers and thick black notebook binders.

Kerney asked for Joseph Mitchell's e-mail records.

"Do you have a court order?" Brooks replied.

"Can't we dispense with the details?" Kerney asked.

Brooks smiled and shook his head.

"That's not possible, especially now. We're re tooling our subscriber list is frozen, and we can't release any information."

"Why is that?"

"Our current customer base is being used to test the SWAMI software.

With the trade secrets involved I can't possibly give you access to anything without a court order. Even then, our attorney would probably challenge it immediately."

"What can you tell me about SWAMI?" Kerney asked.

The young man's eyes lit up.

"SWAMI stands for Systemwide Application for Managing Information. It's a breakthrough tool for Web content management that's going to revolutionize how people use the Internet. And it's scalable, which means it can accommodate everyone from home computer users all the way up to major corporations."

"How does it work?"

"Right now the World Wide Web is a monster. There are millions of sites with astronomical amounts of data and information getting added at an exponential rate. SWAMI allows users to filter and organize the stream of information. And its a server add-on software package, so users won't have to worry about upgrading to new versions."

"Sounds like a good investment," Kerney said.

"Tell me about your corporate structure."

"We're a subsidiary of an investment corporation. The technology we've developed is based on research done at the national science laboratories right here in New Mexico."

"Isn't this a risky time for a new start-up?" Kerney asked "We're not worried about the dot com or the technology stock shake-out.

Everybody is going to use SWAMI."

"Who supplied the venture capital?"

"We're wholly owned by APT Performa, a subsidiary of Trade Source."

"Does Trade Source own the rights to SWAMI?"

"Clarence Thayer, the CEO of APT Performa, owns the rights to SWAMI."

"When does SWAMI hit the marketplace?"

"In three months, max. We believe the trade name is going to be as well known as Intel and Microsoft."

"What are the royalty arrangements?"

"A fee will be passed on to consumers by the server companies. But we're talking about tens of millions of users worldwide paying a small monthly add-on charge."

"I hope you have some stock options," Kerney said.

Brooks smiled gleefully and said yes.

Kerney left, questioning silently if SWAMI's software tricks might be used for intelligence gathering. The FBI already had Carnivore, an Internet wiretap system, in service. Wasn't that enough? Or did the feds want something that had a more global reach?

He followed the connection that ran from Phyllis Terrell to Father Mitchell, and on to the ambassador and Clarence Thayer. Could the murders have had anything to do with SWAMI?

At the top of La Bajada Hill, Santa Fe spread out below him and the mountains filled the horizon. Kerney barely noticed the soft sheen of mare's tail clouds nestled in the foothills. He keyed his microphone, spoke to the detective sergeant on duty, and asked for a court order to access Father Mitchell's e-mail accounts.

He gave the sergeant enough information to start the paperwork process, tossed the microphone on the passenger seat, called Sara on his department cell phone, and left a message for her not to come to Santa Fe for the weekend. He was going to be busy after all.

Outside Applewhite's hotel Bobby Sloan ate a gooey jelly doughnut and sipped lukewarm coffee from a vacuum jug, hoping the sugar and caffeine would keep him going. He hadn't eaten a real meal since lunch yesterday and he knew better than to load up on food if he wanted to stay awake.

While he didn't like going hungry, the upside was his stomach gas had eased off considerably. Maybe it was time to think about changing his diet.

Applewhite didn't move until ten in the morning. But when she did, she left in a hurry. Sloan tailed her to the Rodeo Road Business Park, where she parked and went inside a building marked by a sign on the front lawn that read, APT PER FORMA Five minutes later Charlie Perry arrived to join the party, followed by Lieutenant Molina, who parked at an adjacent building. He spotted Molina with his binoculars, and Sal pointed in sequence at the row of cars in front of the APT Performa building and made a camera clicking motion with his finger. Bobby got busy taking photographs and running plates.

He finished up as a car eased into an empty slot. The plate registered in his mind as he snapped the shutter: it was the same vehicle that had breezed through the guard checkpoint at the air base without stopping.

He got three good shots of the driver's face before the man entered the building.

Sloan accessed the floppy disk with the driver's license photo and MVD record he'd saved last night. The driver was Timothy In gram and he had a Kirtland Air Force Base address.

For whatever it was worth, another player in the game had been identified.

Tim Ingram tried without success to get interested in the shapely legs of the young woman who led him down the office corridor. Instead, the image of Applewhite sticking the syringe into Fred Browning's neck replayed through his mind, as it had since he'd awakened.

At a conference room Ingram gave the woman a weak smile, pushed through the door, and found Applewhite, Charlie Perry, and Clarence Thayer huddled at the far end of a large oval table. Thayer made a "join us" gesture and Ingram took a seat next to Perry. Applewhite looked at him briefly, expressionless.

Ingram concentrated his attention on Thayer, noting the expensive black wool turtleneck under a perfectly tailored gray sport coat. He'd last seen Thayer in army fatigues with colonel's eagles on the collar when both had been tasked to the SWAMI project. Officially, Thayer had "retired" to start APT Performa and Ingram had "resigned" from the service to go FBI. In truth both remained serving officers, as did Applewhite.

That left Charlie Perry the only true civilian in the room and therefore the one most likely to be slam-dunked should the need arise.

"Good, you're here, Tim," Thayer said in his Back Bay accent.

"Soon as I could make it, sir," Ingram said, thinking that Thayer could easily pass for a Kennedy with his lanky athletic frame, good looks, and patrician style.

"This is your show, Charlie," Thayer said, smiling graciously at the special agent.

"Bring us up to speed."

Nervously, almost turned away from Thayer, Perry laid out what he knew.

Kerney had factual knowledge he was being watched; factual knowledge that Phyllis Terrell's murder had been cleansed; factual knowledge of Mitchell's probe into SWAMI; factual knowledge of the existence of the SWAMI project. Additionally, he had made a hard evidence connection between Father Mitchell and Phyllis Terrell.

"Are there any other holes that need plugging?" Thayer asked.

"One of the Santa Fe detectives made a copy of the Mitchell evidence Agent Applewhite seized under a court order," Perry said.

"It's in Kerney's possession."

Thayer swung his attention to Applewhite.

"Does that cause a problem?"

"Not for SWAMI, sir," Applewhite replied.

"Although it could bring public attention to sensitive matters of an historical nature."

"Which is not our immediate concern," Thayer said.

"Anything else, Charlie?"

"Arrangements have been made to have the official autopsy report show that Randall Stewart's death was accidental. Kerney knows better. When the report comes out, he could decide to challenge the findings. The report won't be released until Monday. Stewart's body will be held until then."

"That gives us enough time to set the problem aside for now," Thayer said.

"By Monday we'll have closure."

"Also," Perry said, "Kerney is moving for a court order to get Mitchell's e-mail correspondence."

"The files have been sanitized, so let him have what's left. Is he acting alone or mobilizing his departments resources?"

"As far as we can tell, except for some minor paperwork assistance, he's doing this solo," Charlie replied.

"The primary investigators, a detective and a lieutenant, are attending a law enforcement training seminar."

"Very good," Thayer said, smiling in Ingram's direction.

"I'm tasking Agents Applewhite and Perry on a special assignment and I need you to temporarily fill in. Monitor the situation and handle any cleanup items. You'll have full operational control."

"Yes, sir."

Thayer nodded and opened a slim folder.

"We shut everything down in forty-eight hours. Here's the preferred scenario if our difficulty with Chief Kerney cannot be resolved in a less extreme manner. A few years ago Chief Kerney earned the displeasure of a Mexican drug lord named Enrique De Leon In fact, he did it more than once, but I won't go into details. To retaliate De Leon approached a high-ranking Mexican army intelligence officer who happens to have his hand in the drug cartels' pockets while drawing a nice retainer from the CIA. De Leon asked the officer to make available two highly trained Cuban assets for the express purpose of removing the source of his annoyance."

Thayer turned a page.

"Unfortunately, both men were killed in a plane crash while machine-gunning a squad of Mexican federal police who were protecting a drug shipment, so the officer has been unable to fulfill De Leon request."

Thayer patted the folder and looked at Applewhite.

"Senor De Leon continues to express an interest in Kerney's demise, which has been well documented by several DEA agents in Juarez as well as a highly reliable Interpol informant.

De Leon is in Juarez expecting to meet with you and Agent Perry this afternoon in the hope that you might be willing to take the contract.

"He knows you're Americans, believes that you're former CIA field operatives, and that you're now freelancing in the States. He has no reason not to trust the officer who supplied him with the information, although you both will be carefully scrutinized. You're expected to leave enough of a trail so the Mexican authorities can document the visit. DEA, of course, will confirm the Mexican report.

Your true identities will not be revealed. Make your arrangements with De Leon and then come back to Santa Fe."

"Is all this necessary?" Charlie asked.

"In terms of establishing plausibility, yes," Thayer replied.

"In terms of taking definitive action, I hope not. But that will depend on what Chief Kerney does or doesn't do over the short term."

Ingram knew that Thayer was placating Perry. Thayer wouldn't be talking about a removal sanction if the hit hadn't already been approved.

Applewhite must be creaming in her pants. Ingram kept his expression neutral, but inside his stomach turned over.

"Maybe I should talk to Kerney again," Perry said.

"I think we're at a point where it's best to let Chief Kerneys actions speak to us," Thayer replied.

"I don't like this," Perry said.

Thayer nodded in agreement.

"None of us do, Agent Perry. But we keep our disagreements within the family, so to speak, which you apparently forgot last night when you made unauthorized contact with your superior and asked to be removed from your assignment. That request has been denied."

Charlie's jaw dropped.

Ingram remembered a commercial that used to run on television when he was a kid.

Charlie, the talking tuna fish, would swim around in the ocean trying to get caught by the world's best tuna company. But Charlie wasn't good enough to get hooked, processed, vacuum-packed, and served up in a white bread sandwich.

Sorry, Charlie, you poor son of a bitch, Tim thought grimly.