“What about Interpol? He killed a man.”
“Who tried to kill him,” added Fitzpatrick quickly, a lawyer rejoining a negative statement by a witness on the stand. “That will be clarified internally and the charges dropped.”
“You’re pretty smooth, Commander,” said Dowling, sitting up. “Better than you were last night—this morning, actually.”
“I was upset. I’d lost him and I had to find him. I had to deliver vital information.”
The actor now crossed his legs at the knees and leaned back, his arm slung casually over the slatted rim of the bench. “So this thing Converse and you are involved with is a real hush-hush operation?”
“It’s highly classified, yes.”
“And you and he being lawyers, it’s got something to do with legal irregularities over here that somehow reach into the military, is that right?”
“In the broadest sense, again yes. I’m afraid I can’t be any more specific. Converse mentioned that there was someone you wanted him to meet.”
“Yes, there is. I said a couple of harsh things about him, but I take them back; he was doing his thing. He didn’t know who the hell I was any more than you did. He’s one smart man, tough but fair.”
“I hope you understand that under the circumstances Converse can’t comply with your request.”
“You’ll do,” said Dowling calmly, removing his arm from the back of the bench.
Connal was suddenly alarmed. There was movement behind him in the shadowed moonlight; he whipped his head around, peering over his shoulder. Out of the protective darkness of the building from within the pitch-black cover of a doorway the figure of a man began walking across the dark green lawn. An arm thrown casually over the rim of the bench, then just as casually removed. Both movements had been signals! Identity confirmed; move in.
“What the hell have you done?” asked the Navy lawyer harshly.
“Bringing you two bucks to your senses,” replied Dowling. “If my celebrated instincts are valid, I did the right thing. If they’re wrong, I still did the right thing.”
“What?”
The man crossing the lawn entered the spill of clear moonlight. He was heavyset and wore a dark suit and tie; his scowling, late-middle-aged face and straight gray hair gave him the air of a prosperous businessman. It was clear that at the moment he was intensely angry.
Dowling spoke as he got up from the bench. “Commander, may I introduce the Honorable Walter Peregrine, United States ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany.”
Lieutenant David Remington wiped his steel-rimmed glasses with a silicone-treated tissue, then threw the tissue into a wastebasket and got up from his desk. Returning the glasses to his face, he walked to a mirror secured to the back of his office door and checked his appearance. He smoothed his hair, shoved the knot of his tie in place, and looked down at the failing crease of his trousers. All things considered—it was 1730 hours and he had been harassed at his desk since 0800 in the morning, including that crazy Four Zero emergency from Fitzpatrick—he looked quite presentable. And anyway, Rear Admiral Hickman was not a stickler for spit and polish where the desk corps was concerned. He knew damn well that most of the legal execs would bolt in a minute for much higher paying jobs in the civilian sector if the dress and other disposable codes were taken too seriously. Well, David Remington wouldn’t. Where the hell else could a man travel all over the world, housing a wife and three kids in some of the nicest quarters imaginable, with all the medical and dental bills paid for, and not have the terrible pressures of rising in private or corporate practice. His father had been an attorney for one of the biggest insurance companies in Hartford, Connecticut, and his father had had ulcers at forty-three, a nervous breakdown at forty-eight, his first stroke at fifty-one, and a final, massive coronary at fifty-six; everyone had said he was so terrific at his job he might even be in line for the presidency. But then, people always said things like that when a man died in the line of corporate duty—which men did too goddamned frequently.
None of that for David Remington, no sir! He was simply going to be one of the best lawyers in the U.S. Navy, serve his thirty years, get out at fifty-five with a generous pension, and become a well-paid legal-military consultant at fifty-six. At the precise age when his father died, he would start living very nicely, indeed. It was simply a matter of building a reputation as a man who knew more about naval and maritime law—and who stuck to it—than any other lawyer in the Navy. If he stepped on toes in his performance, so be it; it could only enhance that reputation. He didn’t give a damn about being popular; he cared only about being right. And he never made a decision until he was certain of its correct legal position. Consultants like that were prized commodities in civilian practice.
Remington wondered why Admiral Hickman wanted to see him, especially at this hour when most of the desk corps had gone for the day. There was a court-martial pending that could become a sensitive issue. A black officer, an Annapolis graduate, had been caught selling cocaine off a destroyer berthed in the Philippines; that was probably it. Remington had pre-prepared the case for the judge advocate, who frankly did not care to prosecute; the amount was not that large, and others were certainly selling far more, and they were probably white. That was not the point, Remington had insisted. If there were others, they had not been caught; if there was evidence, it had not been found. The law was color-blind.
He would say the same thing to Hickman. The “stickler prick,” a derisive nickname Remington knew was used behind his back, would stand firm. Well, at fifty-six—the age at which his father had been killed by company policy—a stickler prick would have all the comforts of an exclusive country club without paying the corporate price. Lieutenant Remington opened the door, walked out into the gray hallway, and started for the elevator that would take him to the office of the highest ranking man at the San Diego naval base.
“Sit down, Remington,” said Rear Admiral Brian Hickman, shaking the lieutenant’s hand and indicating a chair in front of the large desk. “I don’t know about you, but this has been what I used to call at your age one fucked-up day. Sometimes I wish Congress wouldn’t appropriate so damn much money down here. Everyone gets on such a high you’d think they’d smoked everything in Tijuana. They forget they’re supposed to have architects before they start bribing the contractors.”
“Yes, sir, I know what you mean, sir,” said Remington, sitting down with proper deference as Hickman stood several feet to his left. The mere reference to Tijuana and drugs confirmed his suspicions; the admiral was about to launch into the everybody-does-it routine, which would lead to “Why should the Navy stir up a racial controversy with something that took place in the Philippines?” Well, he was prepared. The law—naval law—was color-blind.
“I’m going to have a well-deserved drink, Lieutenant,” said Hickman, heading for a copper dry bar against the wall. “Can I get you something?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Hey, look, Remington, I appreciate your staying late for this—conference, I guess you’d call it, but I don’t expect any version of corporate military behavior. Frankly, I’d feel foolish drinking by myself, and what we’ve got to talk about isn’t so almighty important. I just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Corporate behavior, sir? I’ll have some white wine, if you have it, sir.”
“I always have it,” said the admiral with resignation. “It’s usually for personnel who are about to get divorced.”
“I’m happily married, sir.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m on my third wife—should have stuck with the first.”
The drinks poured, the seating arrangements in order, Hickman spoke from behind the desk, his tie loosened, his voice casual. But what he said evoked anything but casualness in David Remington.
“Who the hell is Joel Converse?” asked the admiral.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
The admiral sighed, the sound indicating t
hat he would begin again. “At twelve hundred hours, twenty-one minutes today, you placed a CLO negative on all inquiries regarding a flag on one Lieutenant Joel Converse’s service record. He was a pilot in the Vietnam action.”
“I know what he was, sir,” said Remington.
“And at fifteen hundred hours, two minutes,” continued Hickman, looking at a note on his desk. “I get a teletype from the Fifth Naval District requesting that the flag be removed in their favor and the material released immediately. The basis for their request was—as it always is—national security.” The admiral paused to sip his drink; he appeared to be in no hurry, simply weary. “I ordered my adjutant to call you and ask why you did it.”
“And I answered him completely, sir,” Remington broke in. “It was at the instructions of the chief legal officer of SAND PAC, and I cited the specific regulation that states clearly that the CLO of a naval base can withhold files on the basis that his own inquiries can be compromised by the entrance of a third party. It’s standard in civil law, sir. The Federal Bureau of Investigation rarely gives a local or metropolitan police force the information it’s collected in an investigation for the simple reason that the investigation could be compromised by leaks or corrupt practices.”
“And our chief legal officer, Lieutenant Commander Fitzpatrick, is currently carrying out an investigation of an officer who left the service eighteen years ago?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Remington, his eyes noncommittal. “I only know those were his orders. They’re in force for seventy-two hours. After that, you, of course, can sign the order of release. And the President, naturally, can do so anytime in a national emergency.”
“I thought it was forty-eight hours,” said Hickman.
“No, sir. The forty-eight hours is standard with the release of every flag regardless of who asks for it—except, of course, the President. It’s called the vet delay. Naval intelligence cross-checks with the CIA, the NSA, and G-Two to make sure there’s no material being released that’s still considered classified. That procedure has nothing to do with the prerogatives of a chief legal officer.”
“You know your law, don’t you?”
“I believe as well as any attorney in the United States Navy, sir.”
“I see.” The admiral leaned back in his upholstered swivel chair and placed his legs on the corner of the desk. “Commander Fitzpatrick’s off the base, isn’t he? Emergency leave, if I recall.”
“Yes, sir. He’s in San Francisco with his sister and her children. Her husband was killed in a robbery in Geneva; the funeral’s tomorrow morning, I believe.”
“Yes, I read about it. Goddamned lousy.… But you know where to reach him.”
“I have the telephone number, yes, sir. Do you want me to call him, Admiral? Apprise him of the Fifth Naval request.”
“No, no,” said Hickman, shaking his head. “Not at a time like this. They can dry their mops at least until tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got to assume they also know the regulations; if security’s so damned jeopardized, they know where the Pentagon is—and the latest rumor out of Arlington is that they found out where the White House is.” The Admiral stopped, frowned, and looked over at the lieutenant. “Suppose you didn’t know where to reach Fitzpatrick?”
“But I do, sir.”
“Yes, but suppose you didn’t? And a legitimate request was received—below presidential involvement, but still pretty damned urgent—you could release that flag, couldn’t you?”
“Theoretically, as next in authority, yes I could. As long as I accepted the legal responsibility for my judgment.”
“The what?”
“That I believed the request was sufficiently urgent to override the chief legal officer’s prior order, which granted him seventy-two hours for whatever action he deemed necessary. He was adamant, sir. Frankly, short of presidential intervention, I’m legally bound to uphold the CLO’s privilege.”
“I’d say morally, too,” agreed Hickman.
“Morality has nothing to do with it, sir. It’s a clear legal position. Now, shall I make that call, Admiral?”
“No, the hell with it.” Hickman removed his feet from the desk. “I was just curious and, frankly, you’ve convinced me. Fitz wouldn’t have given you the order unless he had a reason. The Fifth D can wait three days, unless those boys want to run up telephone bills to Washington.”
“May I ask, sir, who specifically made the request?”
The admiral looked pointedly at Remington. “I’ll tell you in three days. You see, I’ve got a man’s privilege to uphold too. You’ll know then anyway, because in Fitz’s absence you’ll have to countersign the transfer.” Hickman finished his drink and the lieutenant understood. The conference was over.
Remington got up and returned the half-filled wineglass to the copper bar; he stood at attention and spoke. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, that’s it,” said the admiral, his gaze straying to the window and the ocean beyond.
The lieutenant saluted sharply as Hickman brought a casual hand to his forehead. The lawyer then did an about-face and started for the door.
“Remington?”
“Yes, sir?” replied the lieutenant, turning.
“Who the hell is this Converse?”
“I don’t know, sir. But Commander Fitzpatrick said the status of the flag was a Four Zero emergency.”
“Jesus…”
Hickman picked up his phone and touched a combination of buttons on the console. Moments later he was speaking to a fellow ranking officer in the Fifth Naval District.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait three days, Scanlon.”
“Why is that?” asked the admiral named Scanlon.
“The CLO negative holds on the Converse flag as far as SAND PAC is concerned. If you want to go the D.C. route, be my guest. We’ll cooperate.”
“I told you, Brian, my people don’t want to go through Washington. You’ve had these things happen before. D.C. makes waves, and we don’t want waves.”
“Well then, why don’t you tell me why you want the Converse flag? Who is he?”
“I’d tell you if I could, you know that. Frankly, I’m not all that clear on it myself, and what I do know I’ve sworn to keep secure.”
“Then go to Washington, I’m standing behind my Chief Legal, who, incidentally, isn’t even here.”
“He isn’t? But you talked to him.”
“No, to his next in line, a lieutenant named Remington. He took the direct order from the CLO. Believe me, Remington won’t budget. I gave him the chance and he covered himself with legalities. Around here he’s known as a stickler prick.”
“Did he say why the negative was put out?”
“He didn’t have any idea. Why don’t you call him yourself? He’s probably still downstairs and maybe you can—”
“You didn’t use my name, did you?” interrupted Scanlon, apparently agitated.
“No, you asked me not to, but he’ll know it in three days. He’ll have to sign the release and I’ll have to tell him who requested it.” Hickman paused, then without warning exploded. “What the hell is this all about, Admiral? Some pilot who was discharged over eighteen years ago is suddenly on everybody’s most-wanted list. I get a departmental priority teletype from the big Fifth D and you follow it up with a personal call, playing the old Annapolis memory game, but you won’t tell me anything. Then I find out my own CLO without my knowing about it has put a negative on this Converse flag and labeled it a Four Zero emergency status! Now, I know he’s got personal problems and I won’t bother him until tomorrow, and I realize you’ve given your word to stay secure, but goddamn it, somebody had better start telling me something!”
There was no response from the other end of the line. But there was the sound of breathing; and it was tremulous.
“Scanlon!”
“What did you just say?” said the voice of the admiral thirty-six hundred miles away.
“I’m going to find
out anyway—”
“No, the status. The status of the flag.” Scanlon could barely be heard.
“Four-Zero emergency, that’s what I said!”
The interruption was abrupt; there was only an echoing click. Admiral Scanlon had hung up the phone.
Walter Peregrine, United States ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany, confronted Fitzpatrick. “What’s your name, Commander?”
“Fowler, sir,” answered the Navy lawyer, glancing briefly but hard at Dowling. “Lieutenant Commander Avery Fowler, United States Navy.” Again Connal looked at the actor, who stared at him through the moonlight.
“I understand there’s some question about that,” said Peregrine, his glare as hostile as Dowling’s. “May I see your identification, please?”
“I’m not carrying identification, sir. It’s the nature of my assignment not to do so, sir.” Fitzpatrick’s words were rapid, precise, his posture squared and erect.
“I want verification of your name, your rank, and your branch of service! Now!”
“The name I’ve given you is the name I was instructed to give should anyone beyond the scope of the assignment inquire.”
“Whose instructions?” barked the diplomat.
“My superior officers, sir.”
“Am I to infer that Fowler is not your correct name?”
“With respect, Mr. Ambassador. My name is Fowler, my rank is lieutenant commander, my branch of the service is the United States Navy.”
“Where the hell do you think you are? Behind the lines, captured by the enemy? ‘Name, rank, and serial number—that’s all I’m required to say under the rules of the Geneva Convention’!”
“It’s all I’m permitted to say, sir.”
“We’ll damn well find out about that, Commander—if you are a commander. Also about this Converse, who appears to be a very odd liar—one minute the soul of propriety, the next a very strange man on the run.”
“Please try to understand, Mr. Ambassador, our assignment is classified. In no way does it involve diplomacy, nor will it impair your efforts as the chief American representative of our government. But it is classified. I will report this conversation to my superiors and you will undoubtedly hear from them. Now, if you gentlemen will forgive me, I’ll be on my way.”
The Aquitaine Progression: A Novel Page 29
