The Solomon Effect

by C. S. Graham

  Halloween.

  A Company car whisked them off to Langley, where Matt handed them mugs of steaming coffee and said, “I know you guys are tired. But we’re running out of time.”

  Jax leaned back against Matt’s steel table and blew on the vile brew in his cup. “Have you looked at the calendar? I’d say we’re out of time.”

  “And the DCI and Homeland Security still aren’t buying any of this.” Matt’s mop of curly, gray-streaked dark hair looked wilder than ever, and dark circles ringed his eyes. “I even went to the VP with the report you sent from Berlin on Tobie’s last viewing. But without something more definite…” He shrugged. “I’m afraid we’re on our own. Everything we do from here on out is off the Company clock.”

  Tobie took one sip of her coffee and quietly set it aside. “What did you find out about Martin Kline?”

  “Looks like the Russians were right: from what I can figure, the U.S. government brought Dr. Kline over here in the fall of ’forty-five. But after that, he just disappears. Everything related to him is still classified. Even the DCI couldn’t access it if he wanted to. That kind of clearance needs to come from the Secretary of Defense, and he’s not playing ball.”

  Tobie said, “I can’t believe they brought that guy over here. He was a war criminal!”

  Matt let out his breath in a harsh huff. “Ever hear of Arthur Rudolph? He built the V-2 rocket for Hitler at the Mittelwerk factory, where something like twenty thousand prisoners they used as slave labor died. We brought him over and put him to work designing the Saturn V rocket we used in the Apollo moon landings.”

  Jax rubbed his forehead. “So where did Kline go?”

  “That’s anybody’s guess.” Turning away, Matt picked up a sheaf of papers. “I had better luck with this stuff.”

  Jax looked up. “What’s that?”

  “I ran the fingerprints your buddy Andrei sent. Do you have any idea how much shit I’m taking around here for receiving a fax from the Russian SVR?”

  “Andrei is not my buddy.”

  “Maybe. But you owe him on this one. Turns out we had all four sets of prints in our files. The shooter with the Special Forces tattoo was a guy from Nebraska named Ben Salinger, while his buddy was an SAS vet, Ian Kirkpatrick. Both left the service several years ago for the big bucks to be had in the private warfare sector.”

  “And the Chechen?”

  “He was on the CIA payroll up until about eight years ago, when he went private.” Matt reached for another file and held it out. “All three of them worked with this guy.”

  Peering over Jax’s shoulder, Tobie found herself staring at a photograph of the lean, dark-haired man she’d originally remote viewed standing in a dark garden in Kaliningrad. “He’s the one who got away. How’d the Russians get his prints?”

  “Off one of the cars.”

  “Major Carlos Rodriguez,” read Jax. “U.S. Army Rangers. Retired.”

  “Let me guess,” said Tobie. “He’s gone private, too.”

  “You got it,” said Matt. “These guys were all mercenaries.”

  “So who are they working for now?”

  Matt scratched the beard under his chin. “I don’t know. But this guy Rodriguez has been doing a lot of contract jobs for the U.S. government lately. His last assignment was to put together a twenty-man team to train some Ukrainian Special Forces guys.”

  Tobie said, “What do you mean by ‘contract’ jobs?”

  “Basically, they’re no-bid contracts executed at the specific direction of the commanding general in charge of an operation. But here’s the interesting thing: in the last two years, Rodriguez and his boys have worked on six contracts. And five of those contracts were all for the same guy: Lieutenant General Gerald T. Boyd.”

  Jax swore softly under his breath.

  Tobie said, “Who’s General Gerald Boyd?”

  “The Deputy Commander of SOCOM—the U.S. Special Operations Command.”

  She sank into one of the battered chairs beside the table. “Are you telling me we’ve stumbled into some kind of black U.S. military project?”

  Matt shook his head. “Not necessarily. Most people don’t realize how little accountability there is on what these black ops people do. Once they slap a project ‘Top Secret,’ there’s no oversight. They’ve always had trouble with this kind of shit—Special Forces guys running their own secret projects without any authorization from above. Even the men working for them didn’t know their dirty little tricks weren’t really authorized.”

  Jax’s eyes narrowed. “Hang on there. Just because Boyd used Rodriguez in the past doesn’t mean he’s the one using him now.”

  Matt tossed him another file. “I’ve been looking into our general. The guy’s a real loose cannon. He’s been linked to everything from coordinating the activities of unauthorized assassination squads to funding black ops that were off the books. He also has a bad habit of shooting off his mouth in public. It was mildly embarrassing when he was going around calling the ‘War on Terror’ an Apocalyptic Crusade against the forces of the Antichrist. But then he came out with a few statements that teetered on the edge of anti-Semitism, and some key people in Washington decided that enough was enough. They’re retiring him at the end of the year, which means no fourth star for our man Boyd. From what I understand, he’s pretty bitter about that. He’s been making noises about finally doing what he says should have been done a long time ago.”

  Tobie said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Matt shrugged. “The guy’s not stupid. He hasn’t spelled it out.”

  Jax leafed through the General’s file. “Have you asked him about Rodriguez?”

  “I tried to make an appointment to get in to see him, but his aide, Phillips, basically told me to take a flying leap.”

  “So how do we talk to him?” said Tobie.

  “We don’t make an appointment,” said Matt. “Fortunately, he’s here in D.C. right now. He’s supposed to be a guest of honor at a charity breakfast at the Renaissance Washington being given today by Paul Ginsburg.”

  Tobie glanced over at Jax. “He’s one of your mother’s ex-husbands, right?”

  Matt grinned. “Number three.”

  “Jesus,” said Jax. “You keep track of them?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course I keep track of them. They’re great contacts. I already talked to Ginsburg. He’s arranging to get you a ticket for the breakfast. All you need to do is get cleaned up.”

  “Gladly,” said Jax. Straightening, he pulled out his travel wallet and dumped Jason Aldrich’s passport, driver’s license, and credit cards in a pile on the table. “Here. Do me a favor, would you? Burn this shit.”

  Matt laughed, but shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. If we don’t turn that stuff back in to ODIS, two dozen bureaucrats are gonna get their collective tits in a wringer.”

  Jax scooped up the documents and turned toward the door. “Then I’ll burn them. One of these days, some lazy idiot in ODIS is going to get me killed.”

  He suddenly froze.

  “What?” said Tobie, watching the smile that spread slowly across his face. “What is it?”

  He turned, the offending documents held up in one triumphant fist. “AODIS. That’s it.”

  She shook her head. “What is AODIS?”

  “The Archives for the Office of Documentation and Identity Support,” said Matt. “They’re the guys who supply field agents with their legends.”

  “Their whats?”

  “Their legends. You know—their cover stories. Life histories, documents, pocket litter. That stuff. They do the same thing for defectors and anyone else the Government wants to bring in on the sly. They’ve been around since the days of the OSS and TSD.”

  She knew what the OSS was—the Office of Strategic Services, the forerunner of the CIA. But…“What’s TSD?”

  “Technical Services Division,” said Jax, shoving the debris of Jason Aldrich’s legend into the pocket of his ja
cket. “That’s what ODIS used to be called. Their name might have changed, but that’s about it. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mudd inked our man Kline’s name into those old leather-bound ledgers himself.”

  “Mud?” Tobie looked from one man to the other. “Am I missing something?”

  “Herman Mudd,” said Matt. “Otherwise known as the Bowling Ball. He’s in charge of the legend archives. And Jax is right: if the Company manufactured new IDs for the really dirty guys they brought in through the ratlines, then you can bet fifty miles of red tape that some bureaucrat made a record of it.”

  Tobie said, “But that information would be classified, too, right?”

  Matt shook his head. “All the operational files and documents are classified. But the receipts they made Kline sign for his new birth certificate and social security number? That’s pure administrative shit.”

  Tobie pushed up from her chair. “So all we need to do is go to this legends archive, and we’ll be able to track down where Martin Kline went, right?”

  She watched the excited animation drain from Matt’s hairy face. “There’s a problem,” she said. “What? They’re not open on Saturday?”

  Jax squinted up at the buzzing fluorescent light overhead and said nothing.

  It was Matt who answered her. “Oh, they’re open. Mudd practically lives down there. The problem is, Jax had a little run-in with the Bowling Ball a couple of years ago.”

  “A little run-in? What kind of a little run-in?”

  “Let’s just put it this way: if anyone from Division Thirteen goes near Herman Mudd with this request, we can kiss our information good-bye.”

  “So how do we get our hands on this stuff?”

  She realized both men were now looking at her. “Me? Why me? I’m with Division Thirteen, too. Remember?”

  “Yeah, but the Bowling Ball doesn’t know that.”

  “Why do you keep calling Mudd ‘the Bowling Ball’?”

  Jax smiled, and turned toward the door. “You’ll see.”

  65

  By the time Rodriguez reached Rock Creek Park, the first flakes of snow had begun to drift down from the heavy sky. He cut quickly through the trees, to where the wide arch of Boulder Bridge soared over the rocky stream, the bridge a swath of hard gray against a quickly whitening backdrop of slender, snow-covered beech and gently rolling hills.

  The snow did not please him. But the flakes were big and wet, and would soon melt. He would like to have arrived sooner, to set up an early watch; but Colonel Sam Lee had not yet arrived.

  Stationing himself in the shadow of the bridge’s abutment, Rodriguez had not long to wait before the Colonel came hurrying down the path toward him. Reaching the bridge, Lee looked around nervously, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his parka. Rodriguez watched the man pace nervously back and forth, and decided the General was right: Lee was becoming a danger.

  Rodriguez stepped from behind the stand of dogwood that grew near the end of the bridge. Colonel Lee was about to become the victim of another mugging in Rock Creek Park. Jax stood at the entrance to the Grand Ballroom of the Renaissance Washington Hotel, where a myriad of tiny white lights sparkled above linen-draped round tables set with gleaming white china. Emaciated women in haute couture and wicked high heels mingled with self-satisfied men in hand-tailored Italian suits or ribbon-encrusted uniforms, their voices a low roar of polite chitchat or earnest networking. Vast urns of peach-colored roses and orange lilies filled the air with a heady perfume and served as an unwelcome reminder that today was Halloween.

  Jax paused next to his former stepfather. “Don’t you get tired of this sort of thing?”

  Paul Ginsburg laughed. “Some people enjoy getting shot at. I enjoy…this.”

  Jax’s gaze fixed on the far side of the room, where Sophia Talbot, luminous in Armani green silk, laughed with the current secretary of the treasury, who just happened to be ex-husband number five. “Isn’t it awkward, constantly finding yourself in the same room with your ex-wife and her various other ex-spouses?”

  “Actually, we’ve formed something of a club.”

  Jax made an incoherent sound deep in his throat and said, “Better introduce me to the General, quick, before she sees me.”

  General Gerald T. Boyd turned politely at their approach. He was a big man, well over six feet, with the brawny torso and tan, weathered face of a man who believed that just because he’d reached the rank of lieutenant general was no reason to stop jumping out of airplanes and charging over obstacle courses with the toughest of his men.

  “It’s a privilege to meet you, General,” said Jax, shaking his hand. “A real privilege.”

  “Excuse me,” said Ginsburg, moving on.

  “I ran into an old associate of yours the other day,” said Jax, when the General made as if to turn away. “A mercenary by the name of Carlos Rodriguez.”

  The General swung back to face him. The faint, polite smile of a politician never left his lips, but his eyes were cold and hard and decidedly hostile. “I think the Major prefers to think of himself as a private military company contractor.”

  “Any idea who’s contracting his services these days?”

  “Right now? No.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” said Jax, lifting a mimosa from the tray of a circling waiter.

  “Rodriguez? He’s a fine soldier, and an outstanding American. I’ve never known him to take on an assignment he couldn’t accomplish. Why do you ask?”

  Jax took a slow sip of his drink. “I’m afraid Rodriguez and his boys have been involved in some recent incidents that weren’t exactly laudable.”

  “Oh? Where was this?”

  “Kaliningrad.”

  Jax watched the General’s face. Boyd had obviously learned long ago to control every muscle of his face, every gesture, every nuance of stance and movement. But he couldn’t hide the gleam of lethal rage that flashed in the depths of his steel-gray eyes. “You must have him confused with someone else.”

  “I don’t think so.” Jax raised his glass and took another swallow. “You’re certain you’ve no idea who he might be working for?”

  “Sorry. I can’t help you.” Boyd shifted his gaze to the far side of the room. “Excuse me.”

  Jax was still standing there, sipping his mimosa, his gaze following the General’s determined progress across the crowded room, when Ginsburg walked up to him.

  “Think he’s involved?” said Ginsburg.

  Jax drained his glass. “He’s involved.”

  66

  Like Division Thirteen, the archives of the ODIS lay deep in the basement of the Old Building at Langley. The air was dank, the false ceiling of stained acoustical tiles low, the fluorescent lights humming an endless, maddening note. Tobie walked up to a high, battered counter and peered over it. From here she could see rows and rows of ladened metal shelves that stretched endlessly into the gloom. No one was in sight.

  She cleared her throat. “Hello?”

  A man who had been bent over at the far end of the counter straightened with a jerk, and she understood why Matt and Jax called Herman Mudd the Bowling Ball. Short, and as round as he was high, the archivist had a shiny bald head with sparse, nearly invisible eyelashes and eyebrows. His skin was pale and pink from a lack of sunlight, and while she doubted he’d been around since the days of the OSS, he was doubtless coming up rapidly on retirement age.

  He rushed toward her, pale plump hands waving, tongue clucking in annoyance. “No, no, no! You are not allowed to lean over the counter! Get back, please.”

  Tobie jerked back. Not exactly an auspicious beginning. She gave the angry man a broad smile. “You’re Mr. Mudd, right? How do you do? It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard you’re very particular about the way the legend archives are run. It’s always a pleasure to work with a professional.”

  Herman Mudd cleared his throat and blinked at her rapidly, like a man who wore contact lenses but had
never quite gotten used to them. “Yes, well…what do you want?”

  She breathed a long, troubled sigh. “I’m hoping you can help me. I need to see the file on the legend given to a German processed in late 1945. A man by the name of Dr. Martin Kline.”

  “1945? Those records aren’t computerized, you know. I’d have to look him up in the ledgers.”

  She parodied surprise. “Oh?”

  He stared at her solemnly. “May I see your authorization?”

  “Authorization? But…These records aren’t classified, are they?”

  “No. But you can’t expect me to show these records to just anyone who asks to see them.”

  Since Langley was hardly open to the public, she didn’t see how she could be described as “just anyone.” But she swallowed a rising spurt of frustration and said, “The problem is, I need this information now.”

  Mudd turned away. “Without authorization, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Good day.”

  Tobie resisted the urge to reach out and grab him and haul him back. Instead, she huffed another sigh. “I guess this means Jax wins.”

  Mudd paused to look back at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That dirty rat. He bet me I wouldn’t be able to get the information I need.”

  Mudd blinked ten times in rapid succession. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Jax Alexander. I know it’s not your fault. It’s just that he’s such a sneaky, lying cheat, I was hoping I could show him up for a change. Give him a taste of his own medicine. But…” She let her shoulders slump. “I guess he wins.”

  “Jax Alexander wants this information?”

  “Not exactly. He just doesn’t want me to get it.” She started to turn away.

  “Wait!” Mudd flung out one of his pale, plump hands. “What did you say this German’s name was?”

  “According to the records in the archives, Dr. Martin Kline was officially processed by the OSS in September of 1945,” said Tobie. They were sitting around the battered old table in Matt’s office. Tobie had a stale roll and a cup of lukewarm tea from the cafeteria; Jax was still in a suit that looked as if it cost as much as the entire contents of Tobie’s closet.