Who currently knew?
The detective, Brixton.
The reporter, Sayers.
The lawyer, Mackensie Smith.
Her friend, Mitzi Cardell.
Mitzi’s father, Ward Cardell.
The president of the United States.
Were there others?
She had to assume that there were.
Of course there were.
She was deep into these upsetting thoughts as she went downstairs to her office, where her staff awaited. Missing was Lance Millius. She asked about him.
“He called in, Mrs. Jamison. He has some personal business and will be here after lunch.”
Millius’s absence wasn’t upsetting. She was aware that he worked impossibly long hours and was entitled to as much time off as he needed.
Other members of her staff conferred with her about projects for which they were responsible, and she forced herself to concentrate on what they said, banishing those other nasty thoughts to their own compartment. But they rushed back to the forefront the minute there was a lull in the conversation and she wondered how she would get through the day.
• • •
Millius had been up and out of his Bethesda apartment early that morning. He’d received a call at six from President Jamison’s chief of staff, Chet Lounsbury, who said that the president wanted to meet with him privately; he was to tell no one, including the first lady.
“What’s it about?” Millius asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Lounsbury replied, sounding annoyed.
• • •
The relationship between Millius and Lousbury was tenuous at best. It wasn’t lost on Lounsbury that despite being chief of staff to the president of the United States, his counterpart in the first lady’s office maintained a closer, strangely special relationship with the president. It went back to Jamison’s tenure as governor of Georgia, when Millius was his right-hand man in more ways than one. Rumors abounded about the role the young man played in the governor’s inner sanctum. Some said that Millius was the cleanup man for Jamison’s indiscretions. There were even those who claimed that there were dead bodies in Jamison’s past and that Millius had had a hand in arranging for certain individuals to be “neutralized.” It was all juicy political gossip-mongering, of course, and no one had ever developed evidence to support the rumors.
When Millius was named the first lady’s chief of staff, it had set off another round of rumors and speculation. Some considered it a demotion for Millius, and he was asked that question a few times by reporters. His boilerplate response served to cut off further inquiries, although skepticism remained: “The president feels that the first lady will play a vitally important role in his administration and wants me to help her achieve her goals. I consider working directly with her to be a welcome challenge as well as an opportunity to help shape the president’s ambitious agenda for the American people.”
Millius’s boilerplate statement was dutifully reported, while the reporters covering him laughed among themselves. No one pressed Lance Millius for a more cogent comment. From the day Fletcher Jamison took office it was understood by the press corps that Lance Millius had the president’s ear. Offend him and you offended the president of the United States. Goodbye press pass. Goodbye access. Goodbye career.
• • •
“Where?” Millius asked Lounsbury.
“The Treaty Room, nine thirty sharp.”
The line went dead.
Millius looked down at the silent receiver in his hand and smiled. He had little use for Lounsbury and enjoyed those moments when his West Wing counterpart was unhappy.
After showering and dressing, he retrieved his new silver Lexus from his apartment building’s garage and drove to the White House, where he parked in his reserved spot. He passed through security and chose a route to the second floor of the West Wing that circumvented the first lady’s suite of offices in the East Wing.
One of Jamison’s personal aides who’d been awaiting Millius’s arrival went to summon the president. While waiting, Millius went to a large overmantel mirror on the west wall and checked his appearance in it. Satisfied, he sat in a chair on the visitor’s side of the Treaty Table on which President McKinley had signed the peace treaty with Spain in 1898, which ended the Spanish-American War. The room had been the private office of a succession of first ladies until Rosalynn Carter moved in and preferred that her office be on the first floor in the East Wing, closer to the center of government and political activity, closer to her husband.
He was studying the ornate Victorian chandelier above him when Jamison entered, closing the door behind him. Millius stood but Jamison waved him back down and took his chair on the opposite side of the table.
“There’s a messy situation looming that I want cleaned up before it happens,” Jamison said.
Millius nodded.
“It involves the first lady, but I don’t want your participation in it known to her.”
“All right, Mr. President.”
“It’s a long, convoluted story, Lance. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. You don’t need to know all the details. It involves a man named Robert Brixton. He’s a—”
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m aware of this man, Brixton. The first lady asked me to run a background check on him.”
Jamison’s expression mirrored his surprise. “When did she do that?”
“A number of days ago. I had the check run and provided it to her.”
“Did she tell you why she wanted it done?”
“No, sir, and I didn’t ask. I mention this only to let you know that I already know something about him.”
“I suppose she forgot to mention it to me. It doesn’t matter. It gives you a head start. You have the results?”
Millius hesitated. He’d made a photocopy of the dossier on Brixton and taken it with him. He said, “I have access to it, sir. What do you want me to do?”
Jamison didn’t hesitate. “I want this Brixton shut up.”
“Could you be more specific, sir?”
“Do I have to be?”
Millius’s silence confirmed to the president that further specific instructions weren’t necessary.
“I’ll only say this, Lance. If Brixton is allowed to continue delving into the first lady’s life—into my life by extension—it could have a terrible impact on my administration.”
“I’ll have to be away from the office for a while, Mr. President. Will you speak with Mrs. Jamison and—?”
“There’s no need for that. I don’t see this dragging out for very long. She’s off to Savannah. She’ll be there for a few days. Get this thing done before she comes back.”
Jamison stood and looked as though he had something else to say. Millius waited. The president came around the Treaty Table, slapped Millius on his shoulder, and was gone.
• • •
The first lady’s chief of staff followed the route he’d used when he’d arrived to avoid Jeanine’s offices, got in his car, and drove away from the White House grounds. He crossed the Potomac over the Key Bridge, pulled off the road, opened the trunk, and removed the Brixton file he’d claimed to have taken home with him. He got back into the Lexus, pulled a cell phone from the glove compartment, chose a stored number, and pushed the speed-dial button.
“Hello.”
“It’s Lance.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. I have a message for you.”
“Good.”
“Can we meet?”
“I think so. When?”
“Now.”
“Where are you?”
“In Virginia, right off the Key Bridge.”
“The Island in a half hour. The parking lot.”
Millius ended the call.
Millius next called the Hotel Rouge.
“Mr. Brixton please. He’s a re
gistered guest.”
The desk clerk rang the room. “I’m sorry but Mr. Brixton doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.”
Good, he thought. He’s still registered there.
He waited a few minutes before driving away and heading for the Theodore Roosevelt Island and Memorial, a ninety-one-acre marshland and wildlife sanctuary in the Potomac between the Key and Theodore Roosevelt Bridges, a fitting tribute to the ecologically minded twenty-sixth president of the United States. He entered the island from the northbound lanes of the George Washington Parkway, pulled into the parking lot, and walked to the eighteen-foot tall bronze statue of Roosevelt, where the man he was meeting stood. They shook hands and strolled casually to an area void of tourists.
“What do you have?” asked the man, who was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and tie.
Millius handed him the envelope containing the Brixton report. The man tucked it under his arm and they continued their walk, stopping again in a grove of trees.
“This is from the top?” the man asked.
“Yes. It has to be done quickly.”
The man smiled. “I believe they call it ‘stat’ in emergency rooms.”
“I suppose.”
“The reason?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Where?”
“Here in Washington. He’s staying at the Hotel Rouge, on Sixteenth. There are photos of him in the envelope.”
“I’m not sure how fast they can act.”
“Whatever it takes. The funds are there.”
“Sounds important.”
“It is. Anything else you need from me?”
“Not at the moment. If there is I’ll contact you.”
“Good. You leave first. I’ll follow later.”
Millius watched him saunter away and breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sure that he could put it into motion that quickly. In past cases it had involved a lot of strategic planning that meant days, sometimes weeks of delays. Business must be slow, he thought as he returned to the Roosevelt statue and read from the four granite tablets surrounding it, each containing Roosevelt’s thoughts on nature and the state. Roosevelt would be proud, he thought as he walked away. He was a man who appreciated action.
• • •
The man with whom Millius had met returned to his office at CIA headquarters, in Langley, Virginia, and went to his office, a small space behind a sign: STATISTICAL RECONCILIATION. He sat behind his desk and perused what Millius had given him. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the request had been initiated by the president. Millius was Jamison’s point man when it came to arranging unusual assignments at the CIA. His word was as good as the president’s, and had been since Fletcher Jamison was governor of Georgia.
CHAPTER 36
The office of Statistical Reconciliation, STAT-RECON, was tucked away in a secluded corner of CIA headquarters. Its existence went back more than sixty years under other names. Its stated mission was to analyze statistical information gathered by various agency intelligence sources. Its budget as included in the agency’s annual report to Congress was modest; its official listing on the CIA’s organizational chart showed it reporting to the chief of Statistical Intelligence. It was manned, according to staffing reports, by four people. Its current leader was the man who’d just met with Lance Millius on Roosevelt Island.
STAT-RECON was the outgrowth of a small, secret wing of the agency that came into existence in the late 1950s under the blanket term Executive Action. While the CIA was created to garner intelligence from America’s Cold War enemies, it was decided that it would also be necessary, at times, to take a more proactive stance—in other words, to “eliminate” selected enemies who posed a distinct threat to the nation’s security. The National Security Council (NSC) and its internal “Special Group,” also known as the 40 Committee, whose mandate was to “counter, reduce and discredit International Communism,” was established to oversee the Executive Action group within the CIA. These assassination attempts, either through direct action initiated by the CIA or by supportive groups within the target’s own country, necessitated establishing a clandestine operation to undertake “wet jobs,” the killing of foreign leaders—and others—when called upon to do so by the president and his top intelligence officials.
Because of its secretive nature, its operations and budgets were shielded not only from congressional oversight but from other top government officials. It functioned as a separate entity within the intelligence community, answerable to no one except the highest echelons of the CIA and NSC. There had been concern when the group was formed that because of its clandestine structure there was the possibility of perversion of its reason for existing. But that was considered a small price to pay when compared to the potential gains it could achieve.
Attempts were made on the lives of such foreign leaders as Patrice Lumumba of the Congo; Fidel Castro of Cuba; Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic; Ngo Dinh Diem of Vietnam; and General René Schneider of Chile. Some succeeded, some didn’t. But always these undertakings were conducted with “plausible denial” uppermost in mind.
The fear that such a secret organization within the government might be used for nefarious purposes was well founded.
In the 1950s, a small group of wealthy men, primarily oil barons from the Southwest, got together to discuss what they considered the downward path the nation was taking. At that time, the president, John F. Kennedy, had captured the American public. The White House had become Camelot; the youthful president could do no wrong in the eyes of most Americans. But the small group of wealthy men saw things differently. Kennedy’s agenda concerned them. He talked of pulling back support for the South Vietnamese government, which they viewed not only as creating an opening for a Communist takeover of Asia—the “domino effect”—but as negatively impacting the financial health of the military-industrial complex. Too, Kennedy’s failure to support the Cuban exiles and their 1961 attempt to topple Fidel Castro, or to destroy Castro during the Cuban missile crisis of 1962, said to them that it was time to alter the course of the nation they professed to love, no matter how dramatic the required actions might be.
Their initial financial support of projects aimed at carrying out their vision was soon enhanced by donations from other wealthy men across the country. In effect, they created a government of their own with its own purpose—to rid the country of leaders whose visions for the nation clashed with theirs. They found willing accomplices within a small, rogue group of CIA operatives, and a complex web of financial fronts was established to further fund operations.
As always, plausible denial was a sacrosanct concept, both for the rogue element within the CIA and for this group of men. From the beginning, the actual dirty work was farmed out to individuals and organizations far removed from those who gave the orders. Members of organized crime were called upon from time to time to carry out hits on the group’s selected targets. In some cases, warped individuals with the wherewithal to eliminate a selected target, and who believed in the group’s brand of perverted patriotism, were utilized.
The wealthy cabal’s success in ridding the country of those they felt were taking the nation in the wrong direction began in spectacular fashion on November 22, 1963, in Dallas’s Dealey Plaza, when President John Kennedy was shot dead. Five years later, on June 5, 1968, the slain president’s brother, Robert Kennedy, a candidate for the presidency, was gunned down in the kitchen of a hotel in Los Angeles where he’d just given his victory speech after winning the California Democratic primary. In both cases, plausible denial was effectively implemented. Official reports on both assassinations concluded that the killers of the two Kennedys were lone gunmen acting alone. No conspiracy was determined. The group and its backers were free to continue their “crusade.”
As the years passed, it was decided that a more well-ordered assembly of on-tap killers was needed. That’s when three men in Washington, D.C., each a former CIA operative, e
stablished a clearinghouse, an employment agency of sorts to provide selected individuals to accomplish further assassinations as deemed necessary. Included among the three was a small, bald, bespectacled man known to his colleagues, and to those he recruited as paid assassins, only as Dexter.
• • •
Carrying the folder containing information on Robert Brixton, the man left Langley and drove to a parking lot in Maryland, where he used a special cell phone to make a call.
“Dexter?”
“Yes.”
“Morris,” he said, using the predetermined code name.
“Yes?”
“Can we meet in an hour? I have something for you.”
“Of course. Number Seven.”
Number Seven was on a list of meeting places shared by Dexter and his caller, the parking lot of a Roy Rogers fast food outlet on Belle View Boulevard in Alexandria, Virginia.
Dexter placed the cordless phone back in its cradle in his office in the building south of the Pentagon. Visitors to the building saw a small sign on the front, Z-STAT ASSOCIATES, which was registered as a legitimate corporation whose official source of business was providing consulting and administrative services to the CIA’s Office of Statistical Reconciliation.
He left the building and went to where the meeting would take place.
The man handed him the envelope. “There’s an urgency to this,” he told Dexter.
“He’s here in Washington?”
“The Hotel Rouge, on Sixteenth.”
“It will be taken care of,” said Dexter. “The usual fee.”
“That will be fine. Let me know when it’s completed.”
“Of course.”
The fee would be six hundred thousand dollars paid through the multimillion-dollar hidden fund at the CIA, provided by nameless, faceless rich men scattered across the country.
Monument to Murder Page 24
