The Rule of Nine Read Free

only ones we know about are the ones that leak. This morning Zeb Thorpe, assistant director for the FBI’s National Security Branch, is trying to wedge all four fingers and his thumb into the cloak-and-dagger dike, which is starting to drip.
    Thorpe has us closeted in the federal building out near Miramar for what appears to be a session of truth and consequences.
    â€œMr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds, Mr. Diggs. I appreciate all of you coming out here this morning.”
    â€œI didn’t know we had a choice,” says Harry.
    Harry Hinds is my law partner. He doesn’t like cops and had developed a terminal aversion to the FBI when he discovered several months ago that they had wired our office and tapped our phones.
    â€œNonetheless, we appreciate your cooperation,” says Thorpe.
    The best he gets from Herman Diggs, our investigator, is a dark-eyed nod. Herman is African American, about six foot four, so Thorpe has to look up at him as he smiles.
    â€œPlease come in, take a seat. Can I get you anything—coffee, soda, bottled water?” He directs us toward the long, dark conferencetable in the center of the room, where a court reporter is already set up behind his stenograph machine. Seated at the table is James Olson, the new United States attorney for the Southern District of California. Seated beside him is a slender, austere man in a naval uniform.
    â€œJust what I wanted for breakfast, coffee and a transcript,” says Harry.
    â€œWe could have done it surreptitiously, digital tapes and microphones,” says Olson.
    â€œThat would have felt like home,” says Harry. “Just like my office.”
    Ordinarily Olson would not be doing this himself. He would have assigned it to one of his deputy U.S. attorneys. But given the sensitive nature of the inquisition, I am surprised they haven’t dispatched Olson’s boss from Washington to conduct it.
    â€œI would apologize for the wiretaps and the surveillance,” says Thorpe. He ushers us inside and closes the door, and then motions us toward the three chairs closest to the court reporter. “But we didn’t have much choice. You have to understand that at the time, we had no idea who you and Mr. Madriani were working with, where your loyalties lay, or for that matter what you knew. We did what we had to do.”
    â€œAs I recall, that was the defense at Nuremburg,” says Harry.
    â€œAnd we’d do it again,” says Olson.
    â€œYou mean the gassing or the wiretapping?” says Harry.
    Olson gives him a mean-eyed stare.
    â€œI know you’re new to the job and you probably need to practice your law enforcement hard-on for Mr. Thorpe and the court reporter. So feel free to jump right in,” says Harry.
    The court reporter looks up. “Should I be taking this down?”
    â€œNo.” Olson fires at him a stony-eyed stare from across the table.
    â€œGentlemen, please. Let’s try to keep this civil and brief.” Thorpe tries to moderate. “Mr. Madriani, how about some water for you?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œMr. Diggs?”
    â€œDepends how long we’re gonna be here,” says Herman.
    â€œThat depends on what you have to say.” Olson speaks before Thorpe can open his mouth.
    â€œA bottle of water would be nice,” says Herman.
    Harry, Herman, and I take our seats and Olson nods toward the court reporter. “Now,” he says.
    He has each of us identify ourselves for the record and state our home addresses. The stenographer has us spell our names.
    â€œI suspect you gentlemen know what this is about,” says Olson. “The events outside the North Island Naval Air Station earlier this year, what the media now refers to as the ‘Coronado Assault.’”
    For about eight months, Thorpe and his minions have managed to maintain wraps on the central missing detail surrounding the gun battle outside the gates of the North Island Naval