Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  “I still do not believe she had anything to do with it.”

  “Why? Talk to me.”

  “Let me ask you something first,” she said. “You’ve killed people. What does it take to do that?”

  “Unless you’re a textbook sociopath, all it takes is the first kill to commit the second and third,” Rodgers told her.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s like skydiving or eating snake,” Rodgers said. “You’ve already made the determination that it’s something you need to do. What you need then is something to kick you over your gag reflex. One of my Strikers, Corporal Pat Prementine, had to think of a high school bully he hated the first time he lobbed a grenade.”

  “What did it take for you?”

  “Economy.”

  “What?”

  “Two weeks after I arrived, my platoon was doing recon in the southern region of the Central Plateau,” Rodgers said. “We bumped into a large ’Cong encampment. They tried to surround us, and we knew we would have to punch hard and fast to secure an exit route. I was ordered to hunker down behind a rank-smelling tree trunk and cover a small clearing. I did. My soles were deep in muck, bugs crawled over my boots, and I was hot as hell. I heard gun-fire start to crack in sporadic bursts. It was a hollow, distant, lonely noise that shut all the birds and insects up. I never experienced such silence once the shooting started. I knew the guys with guns would be coming my way soon enough, and I had to face the fact that I could die. I was okay with that. I made mental good-byes and said some quiet I-love-yous to my folks. While I was doing that, I saw an opportunistic target. Five ’Cong moved into position about two hundred yards away. They did not see me. I remember staring along my M1 thinking it wasn’t fair to clock them from hiding, without warning. I even thought, Hell. This is their home. What business do I have shooting them? Then I saw one of them pull a bamboo stick grenade from a pouch. That was highly explosive, very deadly ordnance. I couldn’t see our guys, but obviously Charlie could. Otherwise, he would not be going for the grenade. And at that moment it hit me. If I tag him, he’ll drop the pestle—that’s what the grenade looked like, a pharmacist’s pestle—and it will blow all five of them to snake food. The ’Cong were crouching, and this guy stuck his head up for a last look. I had done the math, it worked, and I took the shot. It was clean, through his temple. The other four guys shouted and scrambled, I ducked behind the tree, and the pestle blew. I sat there with my back against the damp trunk as the smoke and the sharp smell of the explosive charge rolled by. I held my breath so I didn’t start to cough and reveal my position to any backup they might have had. After about a minute, I swung around to look at the clearing. I saw a couple of ’Cong crawling through the smoke to try to find whoever had fired the shot. I picked them off.”

  “The second group was easier to kill?”

  “Not just easier. Easy. Once you cross that line, you’re not worried about damnation anymore.”

  “Like women and sex, I guess,” Kat said.

  “Killing. The male virginity,” Rodgers said.

  “Do you regret that experience?”

  “How can I?” Rodgers asked. “It allowed me to do my job in Vietnam, in the Persian Gulf, and at Op-Center.”

  “A job whose legitimacy you questioned the first time you did it,” the woman pointed out.

  “I was nineteen.”

  “That did not make you wrong,” Kat said.

  “Okay,” Rodgers said. “Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand. Are you justifying what Lucy may have been involved in?”

  “No. I’m questioning what appears to be your own convenient morality. Killing is okay in the first person, if you do it, but not if someone else does it.”

  Rodgers had opened himself up to Kat, hoping she would do the same. He had not expected that response. He also did not appreciate it.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m holding a pestle in a clearing,” Kat said.

  “No. You already lobbed it,” he replied.

  “Touché,” she said. “It was not my intention to attack you. I’m just trying to understand what drives the man who may be the next secretary of defense. But we’re obviously getting ahead of ourselves. I do not know about Lucy O’Connor’s activities that night, and I do not believe she is capable of what happened at the hotel or at Op-Center. I can only suggest that your people talk to her.”

  “I am sure they will,” Rodgers said.

  There was a poorly concealed threat in her comment about “getting ahead of ourselves.” If Rodgers did not join the team, he would become a free agent.

  “So where does that leave us?” Kat asked as she picked up the phone.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I feel like I’ve crossed a line here, but this is an unusual situation.”

  “I agree,” Kat said. She crossed her legs and moved her right foot anxiously. “Let me make this really simple, because I still have calls to make. I want this relationship to work. You’re an exceptional man, and you would be a great asset to the party and to our team. But the core group should be able to watch out for each other. We should not have to watch each other.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Rodgers said. “That’s why I said I am not sure where this leaves us.” The way Kat was sitting then reminded him of seeing her on the bar stool at the Equinox in Washington. Her foot bouncing as it did now, Kat wired at the end of a long and stressful day. How much different the world and his own future seemed just a few days ago.

  “You should let Admiral Link know,” Kat said. “That’s only fair.”

  “Sure. Just one more question, though,” Rodgers said. “What would you do if you found out someone in the core group was behind this?”

  “You’re really pushing me, General.”

  “Would you watch their back?” he demanded.

  “Until they were proven guilty, yeah,” she replied. “This is America.” She went back to her cell phone.

  Rodgers walked over to a refreshment stand and ordered a black coffee. Thinking about the Equinox dislodged something in his memory. Something that had not seemed unusual at the time but did now. Rodgers took his black coffee and went back to the corner of the empty gate. He sat down, sipped the coffee for a moment, then took out his own cell phone. He called Darrell.

  There was something Rodgers needed him to check.

  Fast.

  FORTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 1:29 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey was in the car with his wife. They were about to get onto 395 when McCaskey’s phone beeped. It was Mike Rodgers. The general asked if anything was new.

  “Maria and I just did a UPS on the reporter,” McCaskey told him. “Her apartment, her car, and the radio station were clean.” A UPS was an unsanctioned prescreen, meaning the two Op-Center agents had a look around without the benefit of a search warrant. That was necessary when law enforcement did not want an individual or group to know that new evidence had surfaced. Op-Center wanted time to get agents on her trail. Until then they wanted to make sure she continued talking to the same people as before. “We’ve got the Metro cops picking through the dump right now, looking for signs of the dress. We were about to join them.”

  “I don’t think they’ll find it,” Rodgers said.

  “Talk to me,” McCaskey said.

  “The night after the murder, I had dinner with my traveling companion,” Rodgers told him. He was being nonspecific because of the unsecure line. “When I got there, she was talking with your target. My companion had a shopping bag. She told me it contained comfortable shoes, Nikes, which she never put on. She is wearing high heels now as well. I’m thinking—”

  “She may have given her the dress for disposal after I exposed the crime,” McCaskey said.

  “Correct.”

  “That was the night of the second crime,” McCaskey said.

  “Also right.”

  “Got a name on that shopping bag?” McCaskey asked.

&
nbsp; “Groveburn,” Rodgers said. “Yellow plastic, red rope handles.”

  “We’ll look into it at once,” McCaskey said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find the hypodermic there as well.” He turned the car around and headed toward Kat’s apartment on the corner of New Hampshire and N Street. “One more thing. What is her attitude about all of this, Mike?”

  “She is acting more offended than guilty,” Rodgers said. “If she is worried, she’s being very cool about it.”

  “An operation like this would not hitch its wagon to a bunch of Jittery Janes,” McCaskey said. “Mike, thanks for this. I’ll leave a message if we find anything. Meanwhile, watch your back.”

  “Never been good at that, Darrell,” Rodgers said. “Good or bad, the future’s in front of you.”

  Rodgers hung up, and McCaskey handed the phone to Maria. “Mike is getting philosophical,” McCaskey said. “That means he’s worried.”

  “Mike is always worried,” Maria said.

  “True,” her husband replied. “But most of that is usually on the surface. This is coming from inside.”

  McCaskey briefed his wife, who asked what he thought Rodgers might be worried about.

  “That Kat could be guilty,” McCaskey told her.

  “Of what? Does he think she could have masterminded it?”

  “I don’t know if he believes that,” McCaskey said. “My own feeling is that someone like Link had to be involved. Not only because of the sophistication and coordination of the kills, but because it would be difficult to execute without someone covering for them inside Orr’s office.”

  “Which brings me back to why,” Maria said. “Could this really be all about money, about Wilson’s plans for boosting European investments?”

  “It could,” her husband replied. “We’ll know that when we talk to the people who did it.”

  “Assuming we get them,” Maria said.

  “We will,” McCaskey said confidently.

  “At Interpol Madrid, our success rate solving homicides was a little over sixty percent.”

  “We did a little better than that at the Bureau, but not enough,” McCaskey said. “That was one reason I joined Op-Center. Results change when people like you, Mike, and Bob Herbert are added to the process.”

  “Your tactics also have changed,” Maria pointed out. “We just did a break and enter.”

  “That is true, though I look at it as exploratory surgery. It sounds more benevolent than criminal.”

  “Sweetheart, there is nothing criminal about what we are planning,” Maria said with absolute confidence. “We have a clear objective and will limit ourselves to that. Ms. Lockley will never know, unless we find something, in which case we will be in a position to step back and build a stronger case.”

  “We are still invading her privacy,” he said. “We are still ignoring the Bill of Rights.”

  “What we are planning is less of a crime than those committed against Mr. Wilson and Mr. Lawless,” Maria replied. “If we can stop a third homicide, then it is a risk worth taking.”

  “Obviously, I agree, or I would not be doing it,” McCaskey said as he turned onto N Street. “But I am not going to pretend it is legal.”

  “To me, legal is less important than moral,” Maria said. “My conscience is not going to bother me tonight, whatever we find.”

  There was no explaining to Maria the American idea of personal rights. That was as pointless as arguing against Maria’s logic. One was an absolute, the foundation of a national philosophy, the other was airtight. The only way to sidestep either was by embracing the other. McCaskey had made his choice.

  The apartment building was a three-story, white brick structure. There was an outside door with a lock, a foyer for mail, and an inside door that led to the apartments. They would have to go through two locks before they reached the apartment. That would not be a problem. McCaskey carried a magnetic snap gun in his car. The original snap gun was developed in the 1960s so that law officers who were not trained lockpicks could open doors using something other than traditional raking techniques—that is, inserting a pair of picks and searching for the proper combination to turn the lock. The snap gun generated torque that simply muscled the lock back. It also tended to bend or destroy the lock, evidence that someone had forced their way in. The magnetic gun generated a powerful magnetic force in whatever direction the user indicated. It popped the lock and any interior dead bolts in an instant.

  McCaskey and his wife approached the door. They had decided, if asked, that she was looking for an apartment and he was a broker. He put the point of the palm-size unit into the keyhole. He used his thumb to adjust the directional vector to the right. The lock opened immediately. The couple moved into the foyer, where they got a free pass. A resident was just coming out and opened the door. McCaskey dropped a pen and stooped to pick it up as the man passed. He did not want his face to be seen. Then McCaskey and Maria went inside. Since the elevator had a security camera, they took the stairs to Kat’s third-floor apartment. There were five other apartments on the floor. While Maria watched the doors, her husband took a palm-size disk from his jacket pocket. He put it against the door-jamb. It was an ampere detector. If the door were wired with a burglar alarm, this would show current. He watched the digital readout. There was nothing. Although there could still be a motion detector inside, most urban apartments, especially newer buildings such as this one, had been prewired for perimeter entry. McCaskey used the snap gun to open the knob lock and dead bolt. McCaskey put the snap gun in his jacket pocket and removed a pair of leather gloves. He pulled them on so he would not leave fingerprints. The couple went inside.

  The shades were drawn, and the apartment was dark. There was a small penlight attached to McCaskey’s key chain. He flicked it on. Neighbors might know that Kat was away. He did not want them seeing lights behind the shades.

  They were in a small corridor that led to the living room. McCaskey swung the light across the floor to look for pet hair. If Kat had a pet, she might also have a walker, someone to come by and take it out. He saw no traces of fur, nor did they hear anything. They started forward.

  “I do not smell a fireplace,” Maria said.

  “I know,” her husband replied.

  They entered the living room. There was no fireplace there or in the master bedroom. They searched Kat’s closets for the bag Rodgers had described.

  “That’s a good sign,” Maria said after they had finished looking in the kitchen cabinets.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Those are the kinds of bags women save,” she said. “They make good gift bags or tote bags. Ms. Lockley had other bags in the broom closet. She obviously got rid of this one.”

  “Intriguing but circumstantial,” her husband replied. He looked around. He went to the bookshelf and pulled down her college and high school yearbooks. He flipped through them, looking for a name that might have come up during the investigation, a possible collaborator. There was none.

  “We should have brought Matt to get into her computer,” Maria said, pointing to a desk near the window.

  “I’m sure that anything important is on a laptop, and I’m just as sure it is with her,” McCaskey said.

  He heard running water. It was coming from the kitchen. It was just the freezer. The ice maker was making ice.

  “That’s odd,” he said.

  “What is?” Maria asked, joining him.

  “Ice makers only fill up when they’re low.”

  He went to the stainless steel unit and opened the door. The engine was humming loudly, amplified by the close walls of the small kitchen. McCaskey flipped up the ice compartment. He dug through the new ice to the cubes below. He broke several chunks free and pulled them out.

  “Damn.”

  Maria moved closer. “What is it?”

  “There are blue stains in the ice,” he said, holding a cube up to the freezer light. “See them?”

  Maria nodded. “She had the dress in
the ice compartment. That’s a very good hiding spot.”

  McCaskey nodded. He set the ice down carefully on a shelf and used his pocket knife to poke around inside, just in case the hypodermic was there as well. It was not. That was probably in the milk, he thought only half in jest.

  “If the dress was here this recently,” McCaskey went on, “it means she may have taken it with her.”

  “Isn’t that risky to have evidence on your person?” Maria asked.

  “It would have been riskier to leave it here or to have destroyed it when you are on a short list of suspects,” McCaskey replied. “Think about it. Where would the garment be safer than in the hands of airport security? My guess is she will dispose of it as far from the crime scene as possible.”

  Maria went back to the freezer. She stopped. Her husband smiled and handed her a spoon from the dish rack. He had wrapped it in a dish towel so they would not leave prints. She stuck it through the handle and pulled the door open, so as not to leave, or smudge, any fingerprints. She looked in the ice compartment.

  “Why wouldn’t she have taken out all the ice as a precaution?” Maria asked. “Dress fibers may have become stuck to them.”

  “That would have put them in plain view in the sink,” McCaskey remarked.

  “She could have washed them away.”

  “The FBI routinely checks drainpipes for evidence,” McCaskey replied. “Whoever was behind this would surely have known that.”

  Maria made a face and looked down. She crouched. Her husband shone the light on the tile floor.

  “Find something?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Look at this,” she said.

  McCaskey squatted beside her. Maria was pointing to several slightly off-color stains.

  “This limestone has no shine, which means it has not been sealed,” Maria said. “The tile is extremely porous. It soaks up water.”

  “Okay. Some of the ice fell and was not picked up. It melted. It stained the limestone—”

  “Darrell, the dampness stays in the tile for about an hour, then it evaporates,” Maria told him.