Donald Orr returned, and so did a sense of balance. The senator said the interview had gone very well, that he had told CBS that they should wait for an official statement from investigators before speculating about the death of the man he described as “Britain’s gift to Europe.” That was one of Kat’s phrases, Orr said, and he liked the point it made.
As Rodgers conferred with the men, he found himself very relaxed with Orr and very suspicious of Link. The Orr-Link dynamic was not good cop, bad cop. It was more honest than that. Orr was like the white hat sheriff who would face a gunslinger on Main Street at high noon and let him draw first. Link was the deputy who hid behind a window with a rifle, clipped the bad guy in the shoulder, then went over and stepped on the wound until the man told him where the rest of the gang was hiding. Both approaches were strategically valid as long as you were not the target. Rodgers knew where he stood with Orr. He was not so sure about Link. There was a fine distinction between being employed by someone and being used by them. It was up to the integrity of the employer and the dignity of the employee to see that the line was not crossed.
Rodgers left, promising to call the men with his answer in the morning. He wanted to join them. The idea was exciting, and it was a new experience for him. Still, Rodgers was not certain what to do. It would mean leaving the military for something that was wildly uncertain. On the other hand, what in the world was not uncertain? When Rodgers woke this morning, he was still the deputy director of Op-Center.
As Rodgers walked to his car, he found himself feeling surprisingly bitter about his dismissal. Why would Hood fire him, then put a high-overhead individual like Darrell or Bob Herbert on an off-topic investigation? It wasn’t exactly disloyal, but it did suggest some sadly screwed-up priorities. And what about the idea that Hood might use this to help Op-Center? Though he did not for a moment believe that the evidence would have been falsified, as Link suggested, perhaps Hood would in fact seize on this to help redirect an ailing Op-Center.
That’s the beauty about being deputy sheriff, the general decided. The sheriff was the big symbol and the big target. He had to get out in the street and confront the outlaw. He could not snipe at him from safety, and he did not have time to run a psy-ops campaign.
Clearly, Kenneth Link’s years as the director of covert operations for the CIA had not been wasted. As Rodgers drove into the heavy traffic and rust-colored sunlight of late afternoon, he decided he would have that talk with Paul Hood about the William Wilson investigation.
FIFTEEN
Charlottesville, Virginia Monday, 4:18 P.M.
When April Dorrance was a young girl growing up in rural Sneedville, Tennessee, on the Virginia border, her father collected discarded appliances and fixed them for resale. That was the kind of thing a skilled and resourceful African-American man had to do in the South in the early 1970s to feed his family. April loved playing house with the appliances before they were repaired. She also enjoyed watching her father work. She loved seeing his huge hands manipulate fine wire and tools. He always explained what he was doing and why.
“That was how my pop taught me,” Royal Dorrance said one night in their small cabin with its corrugated tin roof.
“And is that how his father taught him?” April asked.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied.
“Who was the first one who learned it?”
“That would be my granddad, Mr. Walter Emmanuel Dorrance,” Royal told her. “He was a private with the 803 Pioneer Infantry during World War One. Big segregated unit, meaning they only allowed black soldiers. He learned all about engineering when he fought in France.”
“He went to school in a war?” April asked.
“In a way, Precious,” her father said. “He had to learn things to survive and to help his friends survive.”
“Does that mean war is good?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “We’re free because of a war. And a lot of things get invented to fight wars.”
April never forgot the idea that war could be a positive aspect of civilization.
When April was a little older, not quite eleven, she began coming home from school and fixing some of those appliances herself. She loved how proud her father was when he came home with a new truckload of goodies. After his death, she continued in the family business to help support her mother and younger brother. With the help of her high school science and shop teachers, the young woman earned a scholarship to study electronics at the University of Tennessee College of Engineering in Knoxville. April excelled and graduated in 1984 from Cornell University with a Ph.D. in QuASSE—quantum and solid state electronics. She was immediately recruited by the CIA. April agreed to go to work for them because of the challenge, the job security, and the fact that it was close to her mother and brother. She went to work in a secret research laboratory located in Richmond, Virginia. The facility was actually below Alexandria, in a bunker below the University of Richmond. Only the UR president, select members of the board of trustees, and the UR chief of police knew they were there. No one knew what they did there. A large annual endowment bought their disinterest.
And April Dorrance got to learn and grow because of war.
The eleven-person staff of the School, as they called it, tested new forms of electronic jamming, surveillance, and triangulation equipment for use by mobile forces during combat. A university was the ideal place to do that, since computer and telecommunications use on campus was constant and typically cutting-edge. There were always students who brought with them the latest laptops, cell phones, and other portable electronics. The kids owned everything a modern soldier, spy, or terrorist might possess. Probably more. The School staffers liked nothing more than field-testing prototypes on unsuspecting students and teachers. It was like Candid Camera, watching them as they tried to figure out why their cell phones were suddenly talking to them in Bantu, the language of April’s ancestors.
The problem with the School was the burnout factor. It was intense work done in windowless surroundings for long hours. It was impossible to have a social life. It was also difficult to leave. The CIA had control over the kinds of positions one could seek after leaving their employ. They did not want confidential information finding its way into the private sector. An electromagnetic inhibitor that could plant false readings on enemy radar could easily be built into an automobile to befuddle police radar. April did not want to work for a government contractor who would demand the same extended hours and would not have the kind of budget or resources she had at the School. That left teaching. April had bought a house in Goochland, halfway between Richmond and Charlottesville. She simply drove twenty miles in the opposite direction each morning to teach microelectronics at the University of Virginia.
But people who had worked with April over the years often called her to consult on specific projects, and she was happy to do so. The government still possessed the best toy box on earth.
Nonetheless, the call was unexpected.
The caller left a message on her cell phone, which she returned on a more secure landline in her office. It was not the caller who surprised her. Though the two of them had never worked together, they had met on a number of occasions. What surprised April was what the caller wanted. The government had hundreds of these weapons stored in military and intelligence warehouses around the globe. Then again, April understood that they might not have one exactly to these specifications. She also knew that sometimes goods had to be acquired “off the books” because the system had “moles and holes,” as the caller referred to them.
April could deliver it, of course. And she would, because she trusted the caller and their mutual friend.
Besides, it was fun and lucrative. Just like working on the old Formica-topped kitchen table in the cabin in Sneedville.
April was informed that the components would be delivered to her home that evening, and she was to assemble them for pickup the following morning. That was more than enough time. These weapons were increasing
ly modular. Not like the days when Private Walter Dorrance had to use a mallet and spare train rails to fashion replacement cranks and ballast for the Allies’ twelve-inch Mk4 siege Howitzers. He certainly did not get paid as well as she did, either. This one would buy her mother a new car.
And maybe do some good. Because war could be a force for good.
Even a war that was only one bomb long.
SIXTEEN
Washington, D.C. Monday, 5:22 P.M.
When Darrell McCaskey worked for the FBI, he nurtured relationships with the press. McCaskey did not believe it was the right of the public to know everything that was going on in law enforcement. But reporters had sources who were otherwise unavailable to the Bureau. Information was the coin of the realm, and to find out what journalists knew, McCaskey often had to trade confidential data. Happily, he was never burned. Trust was the foundation of journalism—between reporter and subject, medium and audience. Throughout his years with the Bureau, McCaskey had encountered a handful of agents he did not trust for one reason or another. Yet he never met a reporter who went back on his or her word. Results were the foundation of crime fighting,
The guest list for Orr’s party, published in the Washington Post, differed from the guest list given to McCaskey by the Metro Police. The newspaper had a list of everyone who was invited. The police had the list of people who had actually showed up, as tallied by the invitations turned in at the door.
There were four names on the invite list that did not show up on the attendance list. Mike Rodgers was on both lists. McCaskey could not imagine why the general had been invited.
Rodgers was out of the office, and McCaskey left a message on his cell phone. Then he called the Washington Post reporter who had covered the event. It would be necessary to talk to everyone who was there and also get an accurate head count; someone might have slipped in through the kitchen or a side door or walked in on the arm of a senator. McCaskey also wanted to find out who Wilson was seen conversing with. That was something a journalist would have noticed.
Bill Tymore was the Post business reporter who had attended the party. He had come as the date of Kendra Peterson, Senator Orr’s executive assistant. Tymore agreed to talk if McCaskey agreed to keep him in the loop, off the record. McCaskey did not have a problem with that.
“Before you ask, I’ve been seeing Kendra for nearly a year, she does not expect preferential coverage, and I left about a half-hour before Wilson did so I could write my article,” Tymore said.
“So you don’t know who might have left to visit him.”
“Or if anyone did,” Tymore pointed out. “I have someone looking into the local escort services. One of the girls might have been paylaid en route and an assassin put in her place.”
“Paylaid,” McCaskey repeated. That was a new one. “You think the escort might have been given a couple hundred bucks to have a cup of joe instead of visiting her client.”
“Right.”
“Did Wilson have a history of calling escort services?”
“Apparently,” Tymore replied. “It was his way of keeping gold diggers out of his bed.”
“What about last night?” McCaskey asked. “Do you recall which women he talked to?”
“He chatted briefly with Kendra and then Kat Lockley, who are on the senator’s staff,” he said. “He also talked with two congresswomen and a senator, Ken Link’s daughter Jeanne, Wendy Fayette from the New York Times, and one of the waitresses. She’s been cleared, though. She was still on cleanup detail when the woman arrived at the hotel. Now I have a question for you, Mr. McCaskey.”
“Okay.”
“What was General Rodgers doing there?”
“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “That was a surprise to me. Why don’t you ask Kendra?”
“I did. She wouldn’t tell me. My guess is they want him to be involved in the USF Party in some capacity. Is that possible?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” McCaskey told him. “Off the record, I think he’s looking to move on.”
McCaskey felt a little deceitful not telling Tymore what he knew. But it was up to Rodgers or Hood to talk about the general’s departure, not him. Trust was important, but it was trumped by loyalty.
“Now you tell me, Mr. McCaskey,” Tymore said. “Why is Op-Center interested in this?”
“We are involved at the request of Scotland Yard,” McCaskey told him. “It’s a common reciprocal arrangement among international agencies.”
“Why you and not the Metropolitan Police or the FBI?” Tymore asked.
“I know the Yard people from my years with the FBI,” McCaskey replied. “It was just a favor. We did not expect to find anything.”
“Can I quote you?”
“You can quote an unnamed source at Op-Center,” McCaskey said.
Tymore agreed.
McCaskey obtained the phone numbers Tymore had collected. Though the reporter had already called the women who had talked to Wilson, McCaskey wanted to speak with them himself. They all denied having gone to see the billionaire, of course, though maybe they would tell McCaskey things they were unwilling to tell the press.
Rodgers phoned before McCaskey was able to place the first call. The general had just returned to Op-Center and was about to see Paul Hood. He asked McCaskey to join them.
“Sure,” McCaskey said. “What’s up?”
“Paul said you’re running the Wilson investigation,” Rodgers said.
“Right—”
“I want to talk about it,” Rodgers said abruptly. “It could be a minefield.”
Rodgers did not elaborate. McCaskey could not tell whether that had been a warning or a threat. He headed to Hood’s office to find out.
Rodgers arrived moments ahead of McCaskey. Ron Plummer was just leaving. The silence exchanged by Rodgers and his replacement was actually heightened by the way they acknowledged each other, with a clipped first-name greeting and nothing more. The soldier and the diplomat never had much in common, but they had always gotten along. This was sad, but what made it worse was that McCaskey expected things were about to deteriorate.
“Ron did not want the job,” Hood said to Rodgers as McCaskey shut the door. “I just wanted you to know that.”
“Did he accept it?” Rodgers asked.
“For the good of Op-Center, yes,” Hood said.
“Of course. We’re all so damn selfless,” Rodgers said. He folded his arms tightly and looked at McCaskey. Both men had remained standing. “Who are you working for now? The Yard?”
“Don’t climb on my back, Mike,” McCaskey said. “You know the drill. We help each other.”
“We do?” Rodgers looked around. “I must have missed the lifeline you guys threw me.”
This was a different Mike Rodgers than Darrell McCaskey had encountered that morning. Obviously, Rodgers had had time to think about what happened and was not very happy.
“Mike, those were my calls,” Hood said. “Where to cut, who to shuffle, and who to help. If you want to vent, do it to me.”
“It’s not that clean, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I’ve been offered a position with Senator Orr’s new political party. The way this investigation is being handled could hurt us. And you.”
“I don’t understand,” McCaskey said.
“People are going to regard your involvement as opportunistic,” Rodgers told them. “Op-Center gets downsized, the director redefines its mission in a very public way, the cuts get restored.”
“I hope you don’t believe that,” Hood said.
“I don’t, but there are people who will,” Rodgers said. “They may try to hit you again.”
“So this is your lifeline to us?” McCaskey asked.
“Partly,” Rodgers said. “I also want to protect the senator. The Wilson death is already big news. The Metro Police are on it. People expect that. I’m worried that when they find out Op-Center is also involved, we’ll start hearing about international conspiracies.”
“An
d you think that our involvement will kick things to another level,” McCaskey said.
“Exactly,” Rodgers said. “It will bring even more unwanted attention to the senator and his cause.”
McCaskey saw Rodgers’s point. The murder was already crime news and business news. This would make it spy news.
“Mike, what’s the senator’s take on Wilson’s death?” McCaskey asked.
Rodgers pinned him to the wall with a look. “Are you asking as part of the investigation?”
“Nothing we talk about leaves this office,” McCaskey replied sharply.
“The senator had no beef with the man,” Rodgers said. “He didn’t like his banking plans but was going to fight those politically.”
“Does he think someone at the party may have been responsible?” McCaskey pressed.
“I really don’t know,” Rodgers said. “I didn’t see anything unusual while I was there.”
“I didn’t realize you were there,” Hood said. He seemed genuinely surprised.
“They asked me over for a meet and greet, and then made the job offer,” Rodgers said.
“Now I see why you’re uncomfortable about this,” Hood said. “You’d be a great asset to any team.”
“But we can’t just drop this.”
“Why? It’s a police matter.”
“We’ll be sharing information with the Metro Police, and we can shift the bulk of our load to them over the next few days. Hell, we have to do that. Darrell is needed elsewhere. But Scotland Yard asked for our help. Darrell found the evidence. For better or worse, we have to show London and the world some follow-through.”
“Or else?”
“Key alliances may be hurt, and we can’t afford that now,” Hood said. “We’re going to need to outsource more foreign recon than before.”
Call to Treason (2004) Page 11
