Murder at the Pentagon
Page 31
“Satisfied?” Massingill asked.
She was numb, speechless.
Joycelen had been murdered by Captain Robert Cobol.
“You don’t have to worry about clearing his name any longer, Major,” Massingill said. “His name is tainted because it deserves to be. My suggestion is that we all go home, get a good night’s sleep, and wake up in the morning ready to continue the daunting challenge of defending this nation against those who would see it destroyed. Oh, by the way, Major Falk, I’ve personally reviewed your father’s file. It seems he was the victim of an unfair process. I’ve ordered that he posthumously receive a commendation, and a promotion.”
Margit fought back bitter tears. She stood and said loudly, “If Cobol did it, he was told to do it. Programmed to do it. He was blackmailed, brainwashed.” Her brief proclamation drained all energy from her. She sat.
“That active imagination of yours will snap back to reality pretty quick,” Massingill said. He came around behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad we could resolve this for you, Major Falk. I think you’ll find your next assignment to be the sort of job every chopper pilot dreams of. Colonel Bellis will fill you in. Major Mucci will accompany you from the building.”
He removed his hand and went to the door, Getlin and Carter following. “Good night,” he said. “Please turn off the lights when you leave.”
Mucci stood at attention by the door. Margit looked across the table at Bellis, who seemed to have aged. “I’d like to leave,” she said.
Bellis stood. His shoulders sagged; his eyes missed hers.
She said to Mucci, “No one, especially you, will escort me anywhere.”
He remained in his silent brace.
“Please excuse us, Major,” Bellis said. When Mucci didn’t respond, Bellis said in a louder voice, “Leave the room, Major Mucci. We will be out shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” Mucci said.
When he was gone, Bellis said to Margit, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what? That I was wrong—but am right—about Cobol? That I’ve been offered a blatant bribe to be a good little girl and keep my mouth shut?”
“No,” Bellis replied. “I’m sorry that this night ever happened. What will you do?”
“Tomorrow? I don’t know. Tonight? I have some phone calls to make.”
“I admire you, Major,” Bellis said.
“Admire me? For what?”
“For having a set of convictions that run deep. Get those convictions from your father?”
Her eyes misted. “I guess so,” she said in a voice on the verge of breaking.
“Sometimes our convictions get pushed aside by pragmatic needs,” Bellis said. Margit raised her eyebrows. “Career, family, just getting through,” he continued. “And sometimes because of a belief in something that doesn’t hold up to hard scrutiny. Like tonight.” He sat in his chair, the room’s dim light leaving half of his face in shadow. “Go make your phone calls,” he said. “I think I’ll just sit here awhile. I have some thinking to do.”
She walked to the door, stopped, and turned. He smiled, and tossed her a small salute. She left.
Mucci stood at attention just outside the door. Despite Margit’s objections, he followed her from the meeting and to one of the Pentagon’s exits. He held the door open for her. “Take the advice,” he said, his eyes black, his mouth barely moving.
She came to attention. “No, you take this advice, Major. You ever touch me—you ever come near me—and you’ll end up singing in a boys’ choir.”
34
March of the Following Year
Wisconsin senator Henry “Hank” Wishengrad looked down from his chairman’s chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee. His glasses poised precariously on the tip of his nose. His unsparing expression was matched by his voice.
“The testimony you have given here today is shocking in its ramifications. Naturally, I wish you could have brought us more tangible evidence of the charges you level. On the other hand, with the way most of our military and intelligence establishments function under a dark blanket of secrecy, I wouldn’t be surprised that the physical elements you describe have long ago felt the shredder’s teeth. We’ve subpoenaed the videotape you’ve told us about, but we’re told no such tape ever existed. We subpoenaed the psychiatrist in New York, Dr. Marcus Half, but he refuses to testify because of his doctor-patient relationship. The medical corpsman who visited Captain Cobol in his cell will say only that he administered a sedative because the captain was highly agitated, and the corpsman was afraid he posed a danger to himself. Why a medical corpsman is free to make such judgments, and to administer injections, is something else this committee should look into.
“Whether we ever get to the bottom of this remains conjecture. I will say, however, Ms. Falk, that you are one courageous lady to have stood by your principles, abandon a sterling military career, and come before this committee and the American people to call for righting what is, if it can be proved, a tale of gross abuse of power. I’ll go further. Anyone, civilian or military, who would take the law into their own hands, and for their own purposes, is stealing our country right out from under us. They’re our own people, but every last one of them is a traitor.”
Margit smiled weakly at Wishengrad. Her eyes went to Jeff Foxboro, who sat behind and to the left of the senator. He’d become her ally because of the hearing. What personal feelings remained between them were relegated to memories.
“May I make one final statement?” Margit asked.
“You make as many statements as you wish, Ms. Falk.”
“The saddest day of my life was the day I resigned my commission in the United States Air Force. Every morning I put on that uniform, I felt a sense of pride and purpose. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt as patriotic as I do today. This country, this government, and the armed services that serve both, are made up of thousands of dedicated and qualified men and women. They carry out their daily assignments believing that what they do benefits their country and its people. But there are within this group of good people those who would subvert the laws and regulations in order to fulfill their own prophecies. They believe, I suppose, that what they do is right and good. It isn’t. We are a nation of laws, which led me to become a lawyer. These people—and my solace is that there are so few of them—ignore the very thing they are charged with protecting. They burn the village to save it, as we all heard from Vietnam. They take it upon themselves to decide what is right for this country, ignoring those with legal authority who say otherwise. It was my misfortune to be put in direct contact with this minority when I was assigned to the Pentagon. My life has changed dramatically because of it, and I will, for the rest of my days, regret my bad luck. But I wish to leave this committee with the understanding that I have been proud to serve with the men and women of our armed forces, and will always view them with that same pride.” Her eyes filled up, and concluded with a broken voice, “Thank you very much.”
Wishengrad’s female colleague on the committee said, “May I say, Ms. Falk—no, I think I’ll call you Major Falk—may I say that you are an exemplary young woman. The air force, and this country, have lost a valuable person, and I rue the circumstances that led to your resignation. But rest assured that the service you do here today, while condemned by those involved in this outrageous episode in our history, deserves our everlasting gratitude.”
It was eleven in the morning. Wishengrad called a twenty-minute recess.
When the committee returned, and the next witness was seated at the witness table, Wishengrad smiled down at Margit. “I’m pleased you chose to remain, Major Falk,” he said. He looked at the new witness, who sat next to her. “You, sir, are obviously cut from the same cloth. You have had an esteemed career in our military service. You have served this country admirably and unselfishly. Yet, because you place principle at the top of your priority list, you sit before this committee to testify against some of the same men you so
faithfully served. I commend you for this action.”
Colonel James Bellis, in full uniform, sat hunched over the table, elbows pressed into it, face leaden. Margit glanced at him. You’re a good man, she thought. You and my father would have gotten along.
Wishengrad adjourned that day’s portion of the hearing at six, with Bellis scheduled to return the following day. The colonel had told everything he knew about the plan hatched by Bruce Massingill—and carried out by a small core of believers within the Pentagon—to provide nuclear weapons to the Arab dictator for the purpose of creating panic within the United States and forcing the hand of Congress to substantially increase the military budget. His testimony was detailed and compelling. He’d been present at many key meetings, and had kept his own personal and confidential diary, which he had shared with the committee prior to his appearance. Because those involved with the plan had been meticulously careful not to leave tracks, tangible evidence to support his and Margit’s allegations was slow in coming. But come it did, in dribs and drabs, one piece leading to another, each bit of testimony sending committee investigators down new paths of inquiry. And the nation sat glued to its collective TV set as the hearings were broadcast in all their shocking and tawdry truth.
Members of Consulnet who’d been subpoenaed had refused to appear, and there was no way to enforce the subpoenas. All of them, with the exception of Potamos, were foreign citizens. Potamos, learning of the probe into Consulnet’s activities, had packed up and moved to Greece. But Foxboro had told Margit—“Your ears only”—that the British member of the arms-dealing consortium, Sanford Sheffield, was weakening under intense pressure from his own government, and was close to testifying.
Wishengrad’s final comment to Bellis and Margit as he closed the session was, “I find something uplifting about the two of you choosing to remain together throughout these proceedings. There is a feeling of solidarity that gives credence—at least to this senator—to your testimony. I wish you a pleasant evening, and look forward to continuing in the morning.”
The sharp rap of his gavel signaled the day was over.
Mac and Annabel had their choice of two favored tables at Mac’s favorite D.C. steak house, the Georgetown branch of Morton’s of Chicago. There was the table in “Rosty’s Rotunda,” where Dan Rostenkowski, Democratic chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, often camped; or “The Box,” a table below a large portrait of former House Democratic whip Tip O’Neill. They chose the Box. Mac knew, and was fond of, the retired Boston pol.
Annabel enjoyed Morton’s, too, which made it easier for Smith. She was generally quick to turn down his suggestion to dine at other temples of beef, but not Morton’s. The lighter side of the menu appealed to her, and there was the unfailingly warm greeting they received as semiregulars.
“Will Margit call tonight?” Annabel asked after shrimp cocktails had been served. It had been the first day of the Wishengrad committee’s hearings.
“I don’t know. If I were her, I’d go straight home to bed,” Mac answered.
“She’s a remarkable person,” Annabel said. “To give up her career because of what she believes in—such idealism ought to have been taught to every yuppie her age who came out of college looking to make money in investment banking.”
“And in the law,” Smith added. “There are few of her class. And she seems happy. The fact that Bellis decided to stand up with her made a big impression on her. What did you think of Bill Monroney?”
“My jury’s still out on him. Obviously crazy about her. What’s your verdict?”
“It’s Margit’s verdict to come to, not ours. I trust her judgment. She was taught by the best.” He sat back and smiled wryly.
That day’s edition of The Washington Post was on the banquette next to Smith. He glanced down at the front-page headline: TROOPS IN BORDER SKIRMISHES—THREE AMERICANS DIE.
The fourth in a series of articles by Louise Harrison also occupied page 1. It was accompanied by a photograph of Margit and Colonel Bellis as they left the Russell Senate Office Building the previous day after having met with Wishengrad’s staff. The first three articles laid out every detail of the Cobol-Joycelen story as recounted to her by Margit. Now, it had shifted to the story of Consulnet and the Massingill conspiracy, with Colonel James Bellis quoted extensively.
“Watergate. Iran-contra. October surprises. Now this.” Annabel sighed. “At least it’s coming out in the open.”
“I think Beardsley acted too soon sending troops to the Mideast,” Smith said.
“Maybe Margit’s and Bellis’s testimony will help bring them back.”
“Not a chance. Beardsley needs a war the way Bush did. We’re not exactly reveling in an age of prosperity here. Besides, it’s good for the yellow-ribbon manufacturers.”
Annabel smiled. Her husband was at his cynical best.
She asked, “What do you think will happen to Margit when this is over?”
“I’d say she’ll do just fine. That start-up helicopter service knew a good thing when it saw her. Three days a week as its legal counsel, and two days captaining one of its choppers. She’ll never be totally happy out of the military. She bleeds blue, only it isn’t for the Dodgers. But she’ll be okay. She had no future there. I think the toughest thing she had to do was face Cobol’s mother. I knew when Margit told Mrs. Cobol the truth that we’d hear from her again. If she’d decided to fade away and not pursue what happened through Wishengrad and his committee, she would have lied to Mrs. Cobol, told her she was unsuccessful in clearing her son but that she still believed in his innocence. She never intended to let it drop. Not from Day One.”
Their steaks were served Pittsburgh style—black-and-blue.
She took a bite. “Excellent,” she said.
He did the same. “Excellent,” he said.
“Mac,” Annabel said.
“What?”
“Has this episode with Margit changed you?”
“In what way?”
“Has it caused you to—to want to get back into the arena? Take on bigger challenges than teaching law?”
“No,” Smith said, enjoying another piece of steak.
“I’m glad,” Annabel said.
Their eyes met, and knowing smiles came to their lips.
Annabel’s smile turned into a cynical laugh. “You lie,” she said.
Smith shook his head. “I’m not looking for action or challenge anymore, Annabel. I happen to be contented with the bland, peaceful, uneventful life I currently lead. You provide all the spice I need.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“I like that. I didn’t know you considered me spicy.”
“All I’ll ever need.”
“Good.”
Their waiter passed the table. “Anything I can get you?” he asked.
“Some horseradish, please,” Smith said. “Make it the hot stuff.”
TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE ARMED FORCES, EACH AND EVERY ONE
By Margaret Truman:
MURDER IN THE SUPREME COURT*
MURDER IN THE SMITHSONIAN*
MURDER ON EMBASSY ROW*
MURDER AT THE FBI*
MURDER IN GEORGETOWN*
MURDER IN THE CIA*
MURDER AT THE KENNEDY CENTER*
MURDER AT THE NATIONAL CATHEDRAL*
MURDER AT THE PENTAGON*
MURDER ON THE POTOMAC*
MURDER AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY*
MURDER IN THE HOUSE*
MURDER AT THE WATERGATE*
Nonfiction:
FIRST LADIES*
BESS W. TRUMAN
SOUVENIR
WOMEN OF COURAGE
HARRY S TRUMAN
LETTERS FROM FATHER
The Truman Family’s Personal Correspondences
WHERE THE BUCK STOPS
WHITE HOUSE PETS
*Published by Fawcett Books
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MURDER.
MARGARET
TRUMAN.
National bestsellers available from Fawcett Books.
Is there one you missed?
MURDER IN THE SUPREME COURT
MURDER IN THE SMITHSONIAN
MURDER ON EMBASSY ROW
MURDER AT THE FBI
MURDER IN GEORGETOWN
MURDER IN THE CIA
MURDER AT THE KENNEDY CENTER
MURDER AT THE NATIONAL CATHEDRAL
MURDER AT THE PENTAGON
MURDER ON THE POTOMAC
MURDER AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY
MURDER IN THE HOUSE
MURDER AT THE WATERGATE
MURDER AT THE WATERGATE
It is home to the powerful, the glamorous, and the politically connected. It has a gorgeous view and a notorious history. Now the Watergate, a vast complex of hotel rooms, apartments, health spas, and fine restaurants, is famous for something else: two shocking murders whose victims have ties to Mexico. As the case reaches from the Watergate into the White House, law professor Mac Smith and his wife, Annabel, set out to uncover the truth. Because the ultimate dirty trick is threatening a political career and a nation’s future. And the killer is already plotting his next lethal move.…
“Truman’s inside knowledge adds to the crisp plot, and her portrait of capital people … is superb. Who can you trust? In D.C. politics, there’s no way to know.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
MURDER IN THE HOUSE
He died beneath the Statue of Freedom, clutching a 9-mm pistol in his hand. But as dawn rose, the politician would die again—in a hail of rumor and character assassination.
Now one man suspects the shattering truth: that the congressman’s suicide was a carefully planned murder. In the heart of the free world, a furious struggle begins: to reclaim a man’s innocence, expose a woman’s lie, and stop a chilling conspiracy of murder that reaches halfway around the world.…
“This is the 13th in her Capital Crimes series, and it’s as rich as the others in behind-the-scenes Washington detail.”