“I do, sir,” Detective Mastio replied. “You are Senator Donald Orr. I have a warrant for your detention as well, Senator.”
“Detention?” Orr snapped. “Are you saying we are under arrest?”
“No, Senator. Formal charges will not be filed until we have had a chance to further review the evidence that has been presented, Senator,” Mastio replied.
“We have a convention to run!” Kat said. “You have no right to walk in with accusations based on hearsay and interfere with our work.”
“I’m sorry,” Mastio told her. “We do have that right.”
Orr turned back to Howell. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I have extradition papers,” Howell said. He raised the envelopes. “If you are arrested for crimes that may have been committed in our jurisdiction, we will be bringing you to D.C. for arraignment.”
“This is the most outlandish and offensive thing I have ever heard!” the senator barked. “I am the one who was assaulted here! Link and his accomplices are the ones you should be talking to!”
Orr seemed anxious to turn away, to throw his position and reputation against the problem and make it go away. Howell seemed equally determined to prevent that. When Rodgers had called McCaskey to suggest the detective fly out, Op-Center’s top law officer seemed eager to make that happen.
“I find it odd that neither of you asked who was murdered,” Rodgers said, stepping forward.
“I assume this has to do with that idiot Englishman,” Orr said.
“What this has to do with are the rights of a murder victim,” Rodgers said.
“How dare you lecture this man about rights!” Kat yelled. “He defended his nation in Vietnam and has spent a lifetime legislating on behalf of citizens like us, improving the standard of living for all Americans and for women in particular.”
“The senator’s patriotism is not at issue,” Rodgers said. “Robert Lawless was an American,” Rodgers remarked. “What happened to his rights? Lucy O’Connor is an American woman. Did she have any idea what she was getting into?”
Kat turned on Rodgers. “You are the worst of them all. We took you in when you had nothing. I was responsible for Lawless and for Lucy. The senator had nothing to do with this.”
“Admiral Link tells a different version of the story,” Rodgers said.
“Ms. Lockley,” Mastio said, “would you please turn around?”
Kat glared at her. “What? Why?”
Mastio removed handcuffs from her belt.
“You’re handcuffing us?” Kat screamed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Detective, I am not going anywhere without my personal attorney,” Orr said. “I will call him and wait here until he arrives.”
“I’m sorry, Senator, but that is not how it works,” Mastio told him. “You will have to come with us. All of you.”
“This is ridiculous!” Orr huffed.
“No,” Rodgers said. “This is the system you took a vow to uphold.”
“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer any questions,” Mastio said to them. “Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law—”
“Please don’t do this to the senator,” Kat implored. “His office demands some measure of respect.”
“It’s like a bank account, Kat,” Rodgers said. “The more you invest, the more you earn.”
As Mastio finished reciting the Miranda warning, Kat turned again and glared at Rodgers, then at the others. Fierce, angry glances from the senator and his aide were met with resolute looks from the others. It was only a moment, but it was like nothing Rodgers had ever experienced. This was not like political views or tactical opinions clashing in an office or command center. Those were about ideas, and they were expressed in words. This had become a primal, unspoken confrontation, something closer to the apes than to the stars.
The young San Diego detective broke the tension. She provided an edge of humanity, a touch of the dignity Kat had requested.
“Senator, Ms. Lockley, if you agree to come peaceably, I will remove restraints,” Mastio said. “My officers will gather your things and bring them to the stationhouse.”
She agreed. “The press is downstairs,” Orr said. “Will I be allowed to speak with them?”
“Actually, Senator, we will be leaving through the underground delivery level,” Mastio said.
“The basement?” Kat declared.
“Yes,” the detective replied. “We do not wish to upset the senator’s supporters and risk a riot.”
“You deserve one,” Kat said.
“They don’t,” Mastio replied, impatience flashing for the first time. “Innocent individuals might be hurt.”
There was no further discussion. The senator went to put on a necktie. Kat stepped into the hallway. She grabbed a banana from the room service cart. It had arrived during the debate and was left behind. One of the police officers made sure she took only the fruit and not a knife or juice glass.
While they waited for the senator, Detective Howell took Rodgers aside. The men stood beside the foyer closet.
“General, I want to thank you for asking me to come out,” Howell said.
“It seemed the place you should be.”
“You know I screwed up on this,” Howell said.
“I’ve heard rumors,” Rodgers said. He smiled. “Just rumors.”
“Thanks. I want you to know I’ll make it right with the department,” Howell said. “I’ll resign or take a bust-down or whatever disciplinary action they want.”
“Detective, I have a feeling your testimony is going to be important in this case,” Rodgers told him. “You’re going to take heat for what you did, and there’s going to be exposure on aspects of your personal life. Whatever dues you need to pay will get paid. I would be surprised if the Metro Police asked for more than that.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“People are pretty compassionate, when you get down to it. They’ll understand the kind of crap you were under from the start. If you hang tough, you’ll be okay.”
“Thanks.” Howell smiled. “Just having Darrell make the call meant a lot.”
“He’s tough but fair,” Rodgers said.
The senator arrived, and the group left, save for three police officers. Hotel security was called, and under the eyes of two house detectives, the trio of officers packed up Senator Orr’s belongings and had them taken downstairs. Then they went to the rooms of Kat Lockley, Kenneth Link, Eric Stone, and Kendra Peterson and did the same. The suitcases were placed in a police van and driven to the station.
Mike Rodgers did not join them as they closed up the suites. He had a job to do. Ironically, with everyone else gone, General Rodgers was in fact if not in name the ranking official of the USF. He decided to go down to the convention hall and address the attendees. Though he was not one for public speaking, he was remarkably calm as he stood at the podium and said simply that the events of the past day had forced the USF to reevaluate its launch plans. He suspected the senator would have a statement to make within the next day or two but had no additional information or insights to share at present. He did not answer questions shouted from those near the stage.
“As of now,” he said in closing, “the party is over.”
The double meaning did not appear to be lost on anyone. Slowly, thousands of people made their way to the street. Some went to their hotels to change flights, others waited for the downtown bars to open, and still others picked up discounted souvenirs from vendors.
By early afternoon, as word of the arrest and extradition of Senator Orr spread through the city, the USF banners were already coming down. Soon, all that was left of the USF were discarded state placards and crumpled flyers tumbling from overstuffed trash cans and blowing down the Pacific Coast Highway.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:22 A.M.
It was a bittersweet meeting for all.
Stuffy, wit
h a hint of smoke still hanging high in the air, the Tank was what it would never be again: home to all the surviving, original members of the Op-Center command team: Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers, Bob Herbert, and Darrell McCaskey. Hood had seen the men talking in the hallway and invited them in. Only Martha Mackall, who was slain in Madrid, was not present. Lowell Coffey, Matt Stoll, Ron Plummer, and Liz Gordon had joined later. All were involved in getting Op-Center running again. Coffey was talking to Senator Debenport about appropriations, Stoll and his team were installing new equipment, and Liz was talking to the staff to make sure there were no postpulse fears about being downstairs in a sealed environment, in a place where one of their coworkers had been killed.
Hood had expected there to be tension between himself and Rodgers, between himself and Herbert. Instead, there was a sense of triumph. Darrell McCaskey had started an operation that they had seen to the finish line, all of them carrying the load part of the way. Hood was glad that it was Mike who had gotten to carry it home. He deserved to go out with a victory. If Bob Herbert held any bitterness about the downsizing of Op-Center, he had put it aside for now. Or maybe it was forgotten. The Mississippi native was like magnesium: a quick, bright burn, and then it was over. Just a few months before, Herbert had been angry at Rodgers for taking on an intelligence unit after the disbanding of Striker.
Or maybe he is just exhausted from pushing his wheelchair around, Hood thought. Herbert had ordered a spare motor, phone, and computer from the base quartermaster, but they would not be delivered until the next day.
“Detective Superintendent George Daily is a very happy man,” McCaskey said as they settled in around the conference table. He looked at Rodgers. “Mike is a hero in the London press.”
“Maybe Scotland Yard will give me a job,” Rodgers replied.
“Whatever you do, go someplace where there is a window that opens,” Herbert said. He was fanning himself with an intelligence briefing from Andrews. Until his own division was functioning again, Herbert had to rely on data from other OSARs, offices of surveillance and reconnaissance. “The flyboy engineers said it could be a day or two before they get the motor working again.”
“Don’t believe them,” Rodgers said. “Military engineers always say things will take longer than they should. That way, when everything is up and running, we think they’re miracle workers.”
“I thought I was cynical,” Herbert said. “Someone’s been in the military way too long.”
“You know, you could always run for president,” McCaskey said. “I hear the USF has an opening.”
“That is not for me,” Rodgers said.
“The job or the philosophy?” Hood asked.
“The mantle of Donald Orr,” Rodgers said. “I don’t think the USF will survive. If it does, it will be a fringe organization. If what Kenneth Link said about Orr proves correct, he will become a poster boy of the lunatic far right.”
“It’s very true,” Herbert assured him. “Whatever job you take next, Mike, let me handle the due diligence. I looked at the minutes of some of those closed sessions Link told you about, the ones Orr attended. USF should have stood for Under a Serious Fascist.”
“Gentlemen, Link is a name I do not particularly want to hear right now,” Hood interjected. “Not after what he did here.”
“In the name of patriotism, no less,” McCaskey said.
“The sick thing is, who can deny that Senator Orr was a threat?” Rodgers said.
“Me,” Herbert said, raising his hand. “Who can deny that William Wilson was a threat to the American economy?”
“No one, but that doesn’t justify murder,” McCaskey said.
“Why not? We’ve fought wars over economic issues,” Herbert said. “Lots of people died in those, all of it wrapped in flags and served with apple pie.”
“So we should just kill people who threaten our wallets?” McCaskey asked.
“That is way too big a thought for me,” Herbert said. “I’m in intelligence, not wisdom.”
Rodgers smiled.
“Look, I’m not defending Orr,” Herbert went on. “If nothing else, he was a coward for sending a gullible kid like Lucy O’Connor to do his crap work and lying to her about what would happen. He was a scumbag for blackmailing Detective Howell. All I’m saying is that this happens routinely as a matter of national policy. In that respect, Orr’s mistake was that he was the only member of Congress to vote on the issue. If war had been declared on England and Wilson were the only casualty, this whole thing would have been legal.”
“I always believed that one should try to fight harmful or restrictive policies with better, more creative policies,” Hood said.
“Sure. And when that fails, guys like me come in and set it right,” Rodgers said.
“Bingo,” Herbert said.
“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “My older sister used to take part in sit-ins and be-ins in the sixties. They were pretty effective.”
“Very,” Rodgers said. “They cut the aid and support me and my guys needed to beat the Vietcong,” Rodgers grumbled. “Only at that, Darrell.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. The sense of a bittersweet reunion had passed. The balance was way off now, even among the men who were remaining with Op-Center.
“I think we’re all still a little close to this situation,” Hood said. “We should probably table the political debate.”
“I agree,” Rodgers said. “I just came by to thank Darrell and Bob for their help on this, and also Maria. She did great.”
“I’ll tell her,” McCaskey said. He regarded Rodgers for a long moment. “So. What are your immediate plans?”
“Professionally, I have none,” Rodgers said. “Personally, there’s something I have to do. A question I have to answer.”
“Need help?” Herbert asked.
“I thought you were short on wisdom,” Rodgers said.
“That was false modesty,” he replied.
“No,” Rodgers said. “It was something the admiral asked me while the marines were taking him away. One of those lady-or-the-tiger things that I want to think about. Preferably while I’m rock climbing or baking on a coast-line somewhere.”
“You earned those breaks,” Hood said. He was hurt by the fact that Rodgers had singled out the help of the others but not him. It seemed petty. But he let it pass. Hood was not in Rodgers’s position and did not know how it felt.
The meeting broke up, McCaskey and Herbert leaving to help reboot Op-Center. Hood and Rodgers stood. The general faced his longtime associate.
“Have you spoken with the president about what went down?” Rodgers asked.
“Late last night,” Hood said. He hesitated. He wanted to say more about the new arrangement, solicit the input of a valued confederate. He decided against it. “The White House was happy and very appreciative.”
“That’s good.” Rodgers said. “Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“You looked like you wanted to say something else,” Rodgers said.
“No,” Hood assured him. “No, I just remembered there’s an intern who I need to check in with.”
“An intern? After all this, you’re worrying about an intern. Can you say ‘micromanage’?”
“It isn’t that,” Hood told him. “He’s the son of Sharon’s new squeeze.”
Rodgers made a face. “And you’re taking him on?”
Hood nodded. He felt like the high school nerd who had joined another club because they needed a chess player or debater.
“Always a difficult tightrope to walk, isn’t it?”
Hood smiled. “Hopefully, my low-yield form of diplomacy will work.”
“That wasn’t a knock earlier, about talk ending in combat,” Rodgers said. “It was a lament. I don’t like war any more than you do. I’ve lost too many friends.”
“I know.”
The general’s eyes softened and moistened. For a moment, he seemed to be near tears.
“I also didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you before, when I thanked Bob and Darrell for their help. One of the things I was thinking on the flight back was some of the decisions Orr and Link made. It isn’t like the military, where you have a target and a limited number of ways to reach it. Where everyone in your unit is identically armed and trained and you know pretty much how they’re going to react. There is nothing predictable and no one reliable in politics.”
“Some of us try; most of us fail,” Hood admitted.
“You tried harder than most,” Rodgers said. “I haven’t always bought what you were selling, and I’ve been pretty vocal about that. But I can’t fault your efforts. I guess you were the right man for this job.” He gestured behind him to indicate all of Op-Center. “You listen, your instincts are damn good, and you have a good heart. And, hell. You had the White House nipping at one ankle, me kicking at the other, and a bomb that tore a hole through your middle. You still got us through and beat the bad guys.”
“We all did,” Hood reminded him.
“You were the coach. You get first champagne.”
“Thanks,” Hood said. It seemed a frail word for what Hood felt. But the feeling behind it was sincere.
“Well, I’m going to get myself out of here,” Rodgers said. “Start that long furlough.”
“You earned it,” Hood said. “And I hope you find the answer to whatever the question is. You know where to come if you need advice.”
“Yeah,” Rodgers smiled.
The men shook hands, then embraced. It was a tough good-bye. The men had been through loss and triumph together. This was the man who had saved the life of Harleigh Hood. Though Hood expected that they would see each other again, an era of shared victory and pain was ending.
Rodgers broke the embrace with a sharp salute, then turned and left. He walked quickly and proudly into an uncertain future.
Hood went back to the conference table. His own future was also cloudy. There was rebuilding to be done, not just at Op-Center but inside Paul Hood. He did not question the decisions that had brought them to this point, the loss of Rodgers and other staff members, as well as the new alliance with the White House. But Hood did regret them. He always would.
Call to Treason (2004) Page 36
