Man in the Middle - By Brian Haig Page 0,1

and honorable name, Lieutenant Colonel Kemp Chester, a great friend, a crackerjack military intelligence officer, and twice over a veteran of Iraq. Another close friend whose name I borrowed, Christopher Yuknis, served brilliantly for nearly thirty years and was one of the smartest officers I ever met. And Jim Tirey, a dear friend who performed countless dangerous missions for this country, and has always been a personal hero of mine. I also borrowed the name of a West Point classmate, Robert Enzenauer, who actually is a brilliant doctor, an officer in the Army Reserve, and who at great personal cost served for eighteen months in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Also, Claudia Foster. The real Claudia was in the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. She was a lovely young lady, smart, loving, and funny. Like so many, she perished and left behind a grieving family, who asked me to find a good place to fit her name into the novel. I hope I found it.

And last, Donnie Workman. The real Donnie Workman was West Point class of 1966, captain of the Army lacrosse team, a goalie with uncommon reflexes and nerves of steel. Goalies in all sports are a special breed; lacrosse goalies, though, are a class of their own. Donnie was a constant presence around our house when my father was on the West Point faculty. He was a model for young high school lacrosse players like me, and in countless other ways an inspiration to any young man. Less than a year after graduation, Donnie stepped on a land mine in Vietnam. A man who we all thought was larger than life, who would one day become a senior general, and a great one, was gone in the blink of an eye--but never forgotten.

For those at Warner Books who have labored so hard to repair my bad writing and to package and sell my novels, I cannot be more thankful or admiring. Colin Fox, my editor, known to all his writers as charming and fun and enormously talented. Mari Okuda, who does the thankless task of copyediting and somehow makes it seem fun, despite all evidence to the contrary. Roland Ottewell, who performs literary alchemy in transforming my fractured manuscripts into readable texts. And Jamie Raab and Larry Kirschbaum, the publisher and now departed CEO, and Rick Horgan, my former editor, who encouraged my writing, have made Warner a label any writer would be proud to have on his jacket cover.

Special thanks to Gerald and Trish Posner, who have done extraordinary research that was very helpful to the book.

And mostly, Luke Janklow, my agent and my friend, who, in both categories, is surpassed by none.

CHAPTER ONE

Lateness can be a virtue or a sin.

Arrive late to a party, for instance, and that's fashionable. Arrive late for your own funeral and people envy your good fortune. But come late to a possible murder investigation and you have a career problem.

But nearly every problem has a solution, and I turned to the attractive lady in the brown and tan suit who was standing beside me and asked, "Come here often?"

"Hey, that's very funny." She was not laughing, or even smiling.

"It's my best line."

"Is it?"

"You'd be surprised how often it works."

"You're right," she observed. "I'd be surprised." She placed a hand over her mouth and laughed quietly, or maybe yawned.

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. "Sean Drummond," then added less truthfully, "Special Agent Drummond. FBI."

"Bian Tran." She ignored my hand, and was trying to ignore me.

"Pretty name."

"Is it?"

"I like your outfit."

"I'm busy. Can't you make yourself busy?"

We were off on the wrong foot already. In all fairness, sharing a small space with a lovely lady and a fresh corpse does push charm and wit to a higher level. I directed a finger at the body on the bed. "It's interesting, don't you think?"

"I might choose a different adjective."

"Then let's see if we can agree on nouns--was it suicide or murder?"

Her eyes had been on the corpse since I entered the room, and for the first time she turned and examined me. "What do you think?"

"It sure looks like suicide."

"Sure does. But was it made to look that way by him . . . or somebody else?"

Funny. I thought that's what I had asked her.

I turned and again eyed the corpse. Unfortunately, a tall, plump forensic examiner was hunched over the body, mining for evidence, and all I could see was the victim's head and two medium-size feet; the territory between was