“Feel like some air?” she asked, having decided to avoid the table.
“I feel like sitting after that workout—yours, I mean.” He took her hand and led her to the table.
After they were seated, Margit said to Mucci, “You’re quite a dancer.”
“Thanks,” he said. His date, whose name was Jill, smiled, pretended to be exhausted, and said, “He wears me out.”
Monroney bought a round of drinks for the table. He said to Margit, “Beautiful dress.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “Left over from the prom.” She wore a shell-pink, almost knee-length cotton piqué dress, scooped low in the front and with a front-to-back portrait collar. Her shoes had been dyed to match. Foxboro, whose wardrobe consisted primarily of sports jackets and slacks, had dragged a gray suit from the recesses of his closet, one with permanent wrinkles. He might walk the corridors of power, but a power dresser he was not.
The conversation at the table was spirited, and took many turns. At one point a marine captain asked, “Everybody got their desert boots out and ready?”
“You really think Beardsley will order it?” Monroney asked.
“Why not?” the marine said. “Bush didn’t hesitate—and it made him King for a Day.”
“Yeah, but criticizing Desert Storm, and the mess it left, helped Beardsley get into the White House,” Monroney offered.
“Beardsley doesn’t have any choice,” Mucci said. “He knows we’d better get over there before the second bomb goes off, and this time it won’t be a test, or a warning.”
“How do you feel about it, Margit?” Monroney asked.
She shrugged. “He gives the order. We go,” she said.
The rumor that the United States would once again deploy troops to the Middle East had been circulating for weeks. Yesterday, the United Nations Security Council had passed a resolution condemning the detonation of the nuclear device. The resolution went on to demand that any remaining nuclear weapons be identified to a UN commission, and that those weapons be placed under the commission’s irrevocable control.
“You might lose your friend here,” Mucci said to Foxboro, looking at Margit.
Foxboro replied, “They won’t need lawyers in the Middle East.”
“Maybe they won’t need lawyers,” Monroney said, “but they’ll need chopper pilots.”
“And grave-diggers,” said Foxboro.
“Oh,” the marine said. “Do I detect a nonbeliever in the crowd?”
“Jeff is on Senator Wishengrad’s staff,” Monroney said.
“The bane of our existence,” said the marine.
“The voice of reason,” Foxboro said.
“I love all you guys on the Hill,” the marine said, thrusting his jaw in Foxboro’s direction. “You ever put your ass on the line for this country?”
“This is silly,” Margit said.
“No, it’s not,” Foxboro said. “Have I ever been in the service? I haven’t. But you don’t have to lie in mud to know when a pig farmer’s making bad decisions about his stock.”
“You guys make me sick,” the marine said.
“Throw up someplace else,” Foxboro said, his own jaw extending.
Margit was relieved when another officer at the table said, “Aren’t you the major who was defending Dr. Joycelen’s murderer?”
“One and the same.”
“Cobol’s a head case who won’t be missed,” the man said.
Margit looked past him to where her boss, Jim Bellis, and his wife were enjoying seconds from the dessert buffet. A few feet from them was a knot of unaccompanied single officers, including Max Lanning.
Margit had forgotten about Lanning. When she and Jeff had arrived, the first familiar face she’d spotted was Lanning’s, and she’d warmly greeted him, adding, “Max, this is Jeff Foxboro.”
Foxboro had extended his hand. Lanning took it, said, “Excuse me,” and was gone. Margit had looked down at her dress to see whether she’d suddenly displayed a sign warning of contagious disease.
She brought her attention back to the table. Mucci was staring at her.
Foxboro stood, put his hand on Margit’s shoulder, and said, “Be right back.” He headed for the rest rooms.
Monroney said, “Nice young man you have there.” Before she could respond, he added, “Shame he works for Hank Wishengrad. Like breaking bread with the enemy.”
She faced him. “I don’t view it that way. We’re all part of one big country, with the same goals. Americans.”
“Some more than others. You and I should have a talk.”
“Why?”
“Because I think you could use some good advice. By the way, Celia and I are getting a divorce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Inevitable. A long time in coming. No black or white hats, just a relationship gone sour. Not especially good for the career, but I’m not looking for stars on the shoulders anymore.”
“Why do you think I need advice?”
“Because rumors around the Palace say you’ve been stepping on big, big toes.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, turning away. When he said nothing, she faced him again. “What rumors?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. I won’t bug you, Margit. Call me when you have time, and an open mind. Don’t wait too long.” He smiled. “Have to run,” he said, standing. “Good night, everybody.” His fingertips rested on Margit’s shoulder. He squeezed, and walked away as Foxboro returned to the table.
The band started another slow number. “Dance?” Foxboro asked. “I’m a master.”
She shook her head. “I’m beat. Had enough?”
Foxboro looked at the marine, who’d glowered at him since their exchange. “I’ve had plenty. Ready any time you are.”
“Cinderella’s going home,” Margit announced to the table. “Have to be back here tomorrow at two for a flying date. Good night.”
She made a point of stopping on their way out to say good night to Bellis and his wife, to whom she’d introduced Foxboro earlier in the evening. The colonel smiled and shook Jeff’s hand again. “Tell your boss on the Hill that we’re all in the same game,” he said pleasantly.
Foxboro said, “I think he knows that, Colonel. He just sees the game being won with a different playbook. Nice meeting you.”
“Take good care of this special lady,” Bellis said, smiling at Margit. “I know she’s a good lawyer, hear she’s a hell of a chopper pilot, and now I’ve seen she’s a world-class dancer.”
“Tonight, I’m a dancer,” Margit said. “Tomorrow, I’m a chopper pilot. And Monday? The law beckons again. Nice life. Good night Mrs. Bellis, Colonel Bellis.”
“Feel like a nightcap? Coffee?” Foxboro asked as they left the parking lot.
“Coffee would be nice,” she said. She’d decided while at the table that she would not wait to bring up what she’d learned about Foxboro’s regular Tuesday night visits to Joycelen’s apartment. She’d also decided to return to him the note she’d taken from his desk. Enough shadows. Time to get everything out in the sunshine.
She’d assumed they’d stop at a late-night spot for coffee, but he headed for Crystal City, evidently intending to serve up coffee at his apartment. Fine. It didn’t matter where, just as long as the setting was conducive to a heart-to-heart.
“Regular or cappuccino?” he asked after they’d arrived.
“Fancy,” she said. “When did you get a cappuccino maker?”
“This morning. It took me a couple of hours to figure it out, but I think I have it down now.”
“Cappuccino, by all means.”
As he worked in the kitchen, she stepped out onto the small terrace. Clouds that had hovered above all day were now far out to sea. The sky was intensely black, the stars distinct. She stood at the railing, identifying constellations to escape the earth, when he came up behind. She wasn’t aware he was there and continued looking up at the heavens until he put his hands on her
shoulders and pressed against her.
“You startled me,” she said.
“Jumpy, aren’t you?”
He stepped back. She turned, rested against the railing. “I suppose I am. I have reason to be.”
“Feel like talking about it?”
“I would like that very much.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Hopefully with something that approximates cappuccino.”
Sitting in one of two chairs, she opened her purse, and her fingers found the note she’d taken from his desk. Should she start with that, or first mention the sketch Buffolino had provided? That decision was taken from her when Foxboro placed two cups on the table and said, “Here. At least it’s brown and liquid. Before you get into what’s got you uptight, let me ask you a question. Did you take a piece of paper from my desk the last time you were here?”
He knew—she hadn’t expected it. “Yes,” she said, pulling the note from her bag. She handed it to him.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.… You’d left, and I was unhappy. I started looking for a piece of paper to type my note on, and this came up with it. The address looked familiar, but I didn’t know why. So, I took it. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You knew Joycelen pretty well, didn’t you?” she said.
“I didn’t know the man at all,” Foxboro said.
“Then why a note with his address on it?”
“No reason.”
“Jeff, that doesn’t make sense.” He said nothing. She continued. “Joycelen was providing information to Wishengrad and the committee. Right?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s going to come out. A reporter …”
Foxboro leaned forward. “What reporter?” His expression was stern.
No more shadows. All sunshine from now on. “Her name is Louise Harrison. She’s with The Washington Post. She’s part of an investigative team looking into Cobol’s so-called hanging and Joycelen’s whistle-blowing.”
“You’ve been talking to the press?”
“Only once, and I offered little.”
“What else have you learned?”
“That you—that you had regular contact with Joycelen. Tuesday nights at midnight.”
He cocked his head and nodded. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Excuse me.” He went inside. Should she follow? She didn’t have time because he reappeared. “How did you find that out? This reporter?”
“No. She doesn’t know anything about it. But I do, and it upsets me. Were you the contact with Joycelen for Senator Wishengrad? Did Joycelen hand over materials for the committee to you?”
“Right again.” He drew a deep breath. “Your cappuccino is getting cold,” he said.
She stood. “Jeff, whatever went on between you, Senator Wishengrad and Joycelen is of no concern to me. At least it wouldn’t be if Joycelen hadn’t been shot, and I hadn’t been handed the lousy job of defending his accused murderer. Cobol didn’t kill Joycelen. I know that as surely as I know my own name. But someone did.”
“Are you suggesting that I might have?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. But if Joycelen’s death had something to do with the fact that he was providing sensitive information to your boss and his committee, then it might have had something to do with his being killed, and with Cobol being accused. I want to clear Cobol’s name. Not only have I made that pledge to his mother, I’ve made it to me. I don’t make many promises to myself, but when I do, I keep them, even if it means trouble for me.”
“Which it will.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she said. “What do those numbers mean on the paper?”
“Since you’re batting a thousand, you tell me what they mean.”
“I have no idea. A code of some sort. They can’t be dates. Dollar figures? Hundreds? Thousands?”
“Thousands,” he said.
Margit’s eyes opened wide.
“Joycelen was selling us the information. Every time I paid him off on a Tuesday night—a thousand, three thousand, whatever—I noted it on that piece of paper to keep track.” He scrutinized her. “Does that satisfy your curiosity about the Foxboro-Joycelen connection?”
“Is there more?”
“Sure. Joycelen fed us enough to make a strong case against Project Safekeep and its California contractor, Starpath. There’ve been enough payoffs on that project to cut the national debt by half. The people involved are going to have their asses handed to them, and with pleasure. But Joycelen died too soon. He had more to give—correction, to sell us—bigger fish, tangible information about that wonderful organization you work for that’ll blow it out of the water, or at least bring it back to civilian control.”
“Organization? The military? The Pentagon? Information about what?”
“About selling out this country.” Now there was fire in his eyes. She saw it for the first time. A zealot’s eyes. An evangelist preaching something distinctly not religious, but an equally powerful metaphor. Patriotism. By his definition.
“I’d better go,” Margit said.
“I think you’d better stay,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because there’s more to talk about.”
“Not if it’s military-trashing time. I heard enough of that at the table tonight.”
“Fair enough. Feel like watching a video?”
“No.”
“Come.” He took her hand, led her to the living room, and indicated she should sit on the couch in front of the TV. “Just a short piece,” he said, inserting a cassette into the VCR. He sat next to her and hit Start on the remote control. A color grid appeared on the screen, then static, then—the desert erupted as the nuclear bomb that had been detonated in August lifted earth into the heavens, followed by the familiar-shaped cloud. The screen went black.
“Why did you show that to me?” she asked.
“To remind you.”
“Of what? That a bomb was tested? Hard to forget.”
“Not so hard for some people. Have you seen what’s happened since the demonstration?”
“Lots of concern. The UN …”
“Military muscle,” he said. “Billions more for arms in case the next bomb is aimed at somebody. Weapons systems that will bankrupt this country. The president’s about to deploy troops there again. Nice. Like the policy was written by the beneficiaries.”
“The military?”
“Right again, Major.”
They looked at each other before Margit broke their silence. “Are you suggesting that the United States—at least its military arm—planned this?”
He laughed. “You could make a living as a fortune-teller.”
“No.”
She went to the sliding doors to the terrace and looked through them.
“Yes,” he said from the couch. “Your folks planned it. Sold the weapons to our friendly Arab dictator.”
She spun around. “This is insane,” she said.
“It happens to be true.”
“That was what Joycelen told you?”
“That was what he started to tell us.”
Margit returned to the couch. “Why did Joycelen decide to cooperate with you? With Wishengrad and the committee?”
“The numbers on the paper. He was a whore. Money.”
“He sold cheap.”
“For Project Safekeep information. His price was considerably higher where the bomb was concerned. Actually, he wasn’t in much of a position to make demands of us. Once he’d sold out on Safekeep and Starpath, we had him.”
“Had him?”
“Right. Had him. All we had to do was leak his actions to DARPA and the Pentagon, and he was dead meat. We pointed that out to him, and he saw our logic.”
“I—I find this incredibly distasteful,” Margit said.
“Why?”
“You work for a United States senator, not a district attorne
y. You sound as though you were out to put a mobster away.”
“What’s the difference? The people in the military who arranged for the bomb—bombs—to be delivered to the Mideast are no different from any mob organization. Arranging to deliver nuclear weapons to another country is against the law in this land of ours, Margit. The military mafia. Thugs. Traitors. Different uniforms.”
“Some of them, maybe. Damn few. Can you prove it?” she asked, unable to control the rising emotion in her voice.
“Not yet. Will you help?”
“Me? Help betray the United States?”
“Wrong, Margit. Help save the United States.”
The next question wasn’t easy for her, but she said anyhow, “Or to advance the career of an ambitious young man named Jeff Foxboro?”
He ignored it. “Ever hear of an organization called Consulnet?” he asked.
She didn’t reply.
“Arms dealers. A consortium. One of the shadowiest, biggest, and most powerful in the world.”
“So?”
“So—they pulled in the plum of their shady existence. Provide nuclear weapons to one nut in the Mideast so that this country will panic and pump billions into the Pentagon.”
“Proof?”
“Help us find it.”
“By being a Joycelen?”
“Yup. You’re inside. You’re sitting at the right elbow of what makes the Pentagon tick. You’ve also proved with this Cobol thing that you have all the investigative zeal of a TV Columbo. Maybe a Miss Marple is more apt.”
She sprang to her feet, grabbed her shawl from where she’d tossed it on a chair, and went to the door.
“Aren’t you overreacting?” he asked.
“You should see this Miss Marple when she really overreacts. Good night.”
“Sleep on it,” he said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Wrong. I am spending tomorrow by myself. I fly at two. That’s because I am a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force, and damned proud of it.”
“Wait. I’ll drive you home.”
“I think I’d rather find my own way—home.”
“Margit, please listen to me. We could work together. Joycelen is gone. You’re not.”
Murder at the Pentagon Page 26
