One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  Robert and his father weren’t close. His father had never spent much time displaying affection. Love was an uncontrollable emotion, and Robert’s father was all about control. Their relationship was held together with the glue of achievement and public recognition. His father’s unrelenting desire for power made Robert feel permanently subordinate. There was no comfort in the relationship, but Robert knew that if there was something brewing in DC, his father either had a hand in it, or was familiar with the details.

  “Robbie, good to hear from you.” His father’s voice boomed over the line, interrupting his thinking.

  “Hello, Father.” He clenched his teeth, thinking about how his father refused to use his adult name, Robert.

  “How’s the work?”

  “Fine.” Robert felt uncomfortable talking to his father about his work, even though that’s exactly what he had intended to do. He decided to cut to the chase. “I called to ask you a question. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Certainly; everything going well?” His father made that sound like more of a remonstrative remark than a concern.

  “Yes. Fine. I need to know...” he began, struggling with his words. He started over. “Did you know the President assigned the Secret Service to cover my office after Bradley’s accident?”

  The phone remained silent for an uncomfortably long time.

  “Yes.” The answer finally came back. “Tom and I discussed it.”

  Even though he had been expecting the answer, Robert was taken aback, disappointed, and stunned all at once. His father had discussed a situation regarding his safety with the President, but neither had mentioned it to him. Robert was the acting Deputy Attorney General of the United States of America, but the President discussed issues of national security with his father, not with him. National security! Not simply his personal safety.

  His father continued. “We were concerned. You never know whether some things are a coincidence, or if there might be more to the situation. It seemed a prudent decision.”

  “Was it your idea, or the President’s?” Robert felt unusually bold. Usually his father asked the questions. Robert’s job had always been to listen. Another silence made him very uneasy.

  “It was my request.” His father had thought about that simple statement a long time. He was either deliberately excluding, or shielding the President from the decision that had been made. Why?

  Robert tried to think quickly. “You know that I am actively using the Secret Service on my current investigation?”

  “Yes, I think that’s wise.”

  Damn it! How the hell did he know that? Had Carey reported that information to the President? What shocked Robert was not that the President had been informed, but that the information had already been disseminated to his father.

  “Why would you say that?” Robert asked, hoping for a clue to what else his father might know.

  “It’s obviously in your best interest to use whatever resources are available,” his father answered smoothly.

  An evasive answer, Robert thought. Robert’s question had not been well defined, but it was clear that his father didn’t want to address it in depth. Robert decided to be as direct as possible. He had little to lose, and he needed to get his bearings. “Father, do you have any specific knowledge that my investigation and the situation with OPOV are related to Bradley’s accident?”

  His father easily detected the cross-examination technique, and quickly diverted the conversation. His tone shifted to sounding parental and indignant. “I don’t know why you think that I’d know anything about that. I’m simply trying to help you, and make sure that you and your family are safe. Instead of hearing that he’s grateful for my concern, my son wants to put me on the stand, and question me! I think you need to work on your attitude. You have an important position, you have a problem on your hands, and the President is asking you for answers. Yet, you seem to have nothing better to do than to call me, and question my interest and involvement? I hope you’re smarter than this in your interactions with Tom, Robbie.”

  Robert immediately felt defensive. He fought the urge to respond to his father as he would have when he was younger. He felt angry, resentful, and childish, as his father meant him to feel. He forced down his emotions, and stumbled into a response. “I’m sorry, Father. I know you are concerned, and I appreciate that. I was simply attempting...” Robert stumbled, not knowing where to go with the statement. Grimacing, he silently cursed himself for letting his father sidetrack him once again. He’d irrevocably lost the line of questioning.

  “You need to concentrate on the issue at hand, Son, and stop focusing on these extraneous incidentals.” His father was continuing in a commanding tone. He finished with, “I have some important calls to make before my next meeting.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for your time.” Robert answered mechanically.

  “I’m glad everything’s going well. Keep up the good work.” His father hung up.

  Robert wondered why he’d made the call. He should have known that if his father wanted to tell him anything, it would be because he had an agenda—not because Robert needed information. It was typical for his father to wrap up the conversation on a controlled, seemingly positive note. His father never accepted or acknowledged a lack of mutual understanding.

  He also never accepted a question he didn’t want to answer. Robert had always joked that his father was “the king of diversion; Teflon Man.” Anything he didn’t want to take the hit for slid away in a sea of distraction. Like all guys made of Teflon, nothing bad ever stuck.

  Robert slumped back into his chair. His waning energy was now gone; sucked out completely. He regretted calling his father for information, but he had learned a few things.

  He had confirmed that the President and his father were in close communication about Robert, and about OPOV. They had known that something was very wrong when Bradley died, or at least they suspected that was the case. Had Jack been told? Why hadn’t Robert been informed? And why was he being plunged into a dangerous investigation with limited official assistance?

  Robert realized that there was another question he should be asking. Who, or what had tipped them off that Bradley’s death wasn’t an accident?

  Chapter 40

  Marty had been staring at his computer for hours now, and he hadn’t touched a key or the mouse. He was reviewing over and over again the break-in at his house. Every time he re-played it the image of the man’s eyes became more accentuated, his voice more pronounced. The recollection became bigger, brighter—almost a caricature of what he had actually experienced. The memory was sharper than anything he could possibly have seen or heard that night—but Marty was sure now that one of the men had been Carey. Marty sat thinking, unaware that his behavior was being observed.

  Agent Paul Carey was seated in the basement of the Justice Building. No one else was in the secured room. Long was upstairs, sitting outside Carlton’s office. Several optical disk recorders were quietly running. Their level meters indicated conversations were being actively recorded. Racks of sensor indicators on the wall were set to monitor secure lines, and some cameras were recording digital video in various offices. Carey watched one of the banks as he picked up a phone receiver. Several red lights came on, flickered, and turned green. One of the video screens was drawing his eye. He dialed a number and waited.

  “Yes?” A voice answered.

  “Have you had time to review that data?” Carey knew the sound of the voice he had called. Carey’s voice was also easily identified to the man on the other end of the phone.

  “We may have a problem.” The voice came back.

  “You’ll let me know if it needs addressing.” Carey responded.

  “Yes. Stay with what you’re doing.”

  “Right.” Carey hung up.

  Bill Karlovich came out of his office and strolled casually down the row of cubicles. The staff was accustomed to his end of the day, bed-check behavior. It was his way of
showing “management support” to his underlings. He’d once gone to a seminar that touted the virtues of “Management by Walking Around,” and the title had stuck with him. He’d never really understood the actual working concept, but he walked around anyway. His management liked to know he was in touch with his employees, and the habit made him feel as though he was. His routine was to slow down at each cubicle opening, and if the occupant made eye contact, or had a question to ask, he’d exchange a few words with them. Most of the conversations started with, “How are things going?” Or, “How’s the family?”

  When he reached Marty’s cube, Marty did not look up. Bill stopped anyway.

  “So, how’s the project going?” Bill asked.

  “Fine, Sir. No problems.” Marty still did not turn around, concentrating on his monitors.

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. No deadline problems? No bugs?” Karlovich persisted.

  “No, just the usual; everything is going fine.” Marty was attempting to hide his irritation and nervousness.

  “Good. Good.” Bill continued his stroll.

  “Terri! Life treating you well?” He smiled.

  Terri swung around in her chair, flashing some leg at him as her skirt rode up her thigh. “It’s terrible, my car wouldn’t start, and my dog died. I desperately need to talk to someone,” she said conversationally, smiling.

  “Well, just let me know if there’s anything I can help with.” Karlovich’s eyes never got higher than her thigh.

  As soon as Bill was out of earshot, Terri crept over into Marty’s cube. “I love doing that to him. He can’t hear a word I’m saying if my skirt’s more than an inch above my knee.”

  Marty didn’t hear a word she was saying, either. His mind was spinning with implications and paranoia. His imagination had been building outlandish scenarios for hours. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t spotted the file change he had made. It was glaring to him. They had to know. How could the NSA’s internal security miss it? He knew they were setting him up; that it was all a plot. They’d find the connection, nail him, and they wouldn’t care if Christen was murdered in the process. He’d go to prison forever.

  “Hey, are you listening to me?” Terri smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

  “What? No—I mean, yes. I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Marty tried to come out of his stupor.

  “Forget it. It’s almost five. Let’s get out of here.” She went back to her chair and grabbed her coat. Returning to his cube, she pulled his coat off the hook, and tossed it into his lap. “You, too. Time to leave. The boss just finished his bed check.”

  Marty mechanically got up, and put on his coat.

  “That’s a good boy.” Terri playfully gave him a little shove to get him walking. Then, mimicking his voice she intoned, “Why don’t I buy you a drink?” Recovering her own voice she answered with a smile; “Why yes, that would be nice. Thank you.” Tracie pushed Marty into the airlock.

  “Okay.” Marty gave in on the other side of the airlock. He had forgotten his earlier rejection of her invitation. The airlock had given him time to think about going home, and he knew he didn’t want to do that. Not there. Anywhere but there. Getting a drink sounded like a good idea.

  Karlovich sat in his office watching Terri and Marty on the parking area security camera. When they reached her car, he picked up the phone.

  Chapter 41

  Lorraine chimed in on the intercom, “Mr. Turner is here to see you.”

  “Send him in.” Robert had been expecting Jerry to arrive with his first report.

  Jerry came through the door. He brusquely handed over a packet of twenty or so pages. “Here’s the report. We’ve only had time to document an outline of the analysis of the original work. You’ll find the section assignments, individual owners, deadlines, and their preliminary reviews in this batch.”

  Robert accepted the document. “I appreciate your promptness, Jerry.” He scanned it enough to see that each section was done in a different writing style. These were indeed individual reports compiled together. That would make it fresh and unbiased, which was exactly what he wanted.

  “This will do just fine. It looks very thorough.” He commented.

  “If there’s nothing else, I have a lot to do.” Turner was moving toward the door before he finished his sentence.

  “No, that’s it.” Robert said. Jerry appeared to have re-acquired the chip on his shoulder. Robert figured this meant that his team wasn’t finding any significant problems, and that Jerry saw the exercise as a waste of time.

  “Lorraine.” Robert called through the closing door.

  “Yes, sir.” Lorraine entered the office.

  “Arrange for a courier at five. I’ll want copies of this confidential document delivered to The President, and to Senator Gregg’s office. Start a standard daily update report cover letter. Title it: OPOV Update, Office of, etc..”

  “Attorney General Letterhead, and standard office folio covers?”

  “Yes, the black ones.” Robert said absently.

  “Yes, Sir. By the way, it’s five now.” She went back to her desk.

  Robert began quickly scanning through the material, making sure there was nothing in it he wouldn’t want sent forward. It contained assignments, timelines, repeats of information already documented, and political jargon. It was thorough, and was full of the kind of stuff that would keep everybody off his back for a day or two. Jerry was good at that kind of report, and this document was no exception.

  Robert finished his reading. Reaching toward the phone, he tapped the intercom button once.

  Lorraine popped her head in the office. “The courier will be here in five minutes.” Her years of experience and a computer full of templates made this kind of letter quick and easy. Handing him three identical cover letters, she watched as he quickly read the first, then signed each one.

  He handed all the documents to her. “Don’t file the original, yet. I need it back. Just put it on my desk.”

  Lorraine took the papers and left without a word. Underneath her professional demeanor, Robert clearly felt something amiss. What was it? Annoyance? Stress? He knew she was wondering why he had security, but he thought it would be better for her not to know.

  He punched the intercom button, again.

  “Yes, Sir?” Lorraine answered promptly.

  “No word from Agent Carey?” He queried.

  Agent Long leaned toward Lorraine’s desk and answered. “No, Sir. At last call he was running some checks with Mr. Davidson. I don’t believe they will be done until much later.”

  “If you hear from either of them I want an update. I’ll be ready to leave in a few minutes.” Robert let go of the button.

  Turning to his computer he started the shutdown process and began loading some papers in his briefcase. Lorraine came in with the original report from Jerry set in a black cover. Robert added it to the contents of the briefcase.

  “Thanks, Lorraine. I’m going to head for the house. You can call it a day whenever you’re ready.” Robert didn’t pause to consider that her day should already have been over.

  “Thank you, Mr. Carlton.” She said automatically as she headed for her desk.

  Robert went to the closet and got his coat. As he walked out the door Long met him, ready to go.

  As he and Agent Long exited the office, Lorraine picked up a call.

  “Associate Attorney General’s office, Lorraine speaking, how may I help you?”

  Robert ignored the activity, and with Long in tow started down the hall.

  “Mr. Carlton!” Lorraine called out from the office and down the hall. “I have a call for you, he says it’s urgent!”

  Robert stopped abruptly. Normally Lorraine wouldn’t have bothered him with any call, and she would have messaged him with anything considered vital information.

  “Who is it?” He called back.

  “All he said was, ‘It’s thirteen and it’s urgent!’ I thought you’d want to know.”
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  Robert ran back to the office. “Put it through.” He blurted out as he ran past Lorraine’s desk, slamming the door behind him.

  He couldn’t believe it. There was no way this call could be happening. Grady was alive!

  Chapter 42

  From the moment Grady pulled the top off the can of mixed nuts, his path to invisibility unfolded like a roadmap with only one direction.

  Instead of nuts inside, he’d found a grey canister shaped like a spray paint can, with a lever handle and ring on top. The purple markings read AN-M14 INCEN TH. After a few shocked seconds, Grady realized he was looking at an incendiary grenade.

  Sitting on the bed, he stared at the grenade, gently pulling it from the can. He felt its heft as he held it in his hand. He knew it was the same thing that had been used on his house. He knew what it could do.

  A plan began to gel in his aching head. Deciding to see what else might be in the car, Grady pulled his shoes on and headed out across the parking area to where he’d left the brown vehicle.

  Opening the doors he found nothing of use except a map of DC, and one for the Alexandria, Virginia area. He thought that was a little unusual, in this era of GPS. Maybe these guys hadn’t trusted GPS and cell phone location technology to be one-way data. He decided that maybe they’d been smarter than they had appeared.

  The glove box didn’t have any registration information. Grady tried the under-dash trunk release, but found it didn’t work. There was a second key on the ring, which he assumed opened the trunk. He put the key into the trunk latch and turned it. Pulling out the key, he let the lid rise. When it opened, he dropped the keys on the ground.

  “Jesus!” Grady jumped back from the car.

  With eyes wide open, the dead man in the trunk stared up at Grady. Dried blood from a gaping head wound matted the man’s hair, and was smeared over his face. Grady’s stomach rose into his throat as he tried to look away from the grizzly sight. He edged forward, reaching up to pull down the trunk lid. He barely managed to catch it as it fell, keeping the lid from slamming shut. Panicked, he looked around, but quickly remembered there’d been no sign of life in this mostly empty parking lot when he’d entered it. The dim early morning hour was in his favor, too. It was doubtful that anyone would have been able to see anything in the trunk. He slowly raised the lid again. His heart pounded and his hands shook a little. He reached in and patted the man down. There was no wallet, but he found an empty gun holster with a spare magazine attached to it. There was also a money clip with several hundred-dollar bills, a few twenties, a license, and a credit card. The guy had been sloppy. Grady knew that assassins didn’t usually carry anything that could identify them. Despite his revulsion, Grady stuffed the money, license, and credit card into his pocket. He had a feeling they’d come in handy.