The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen Frey

  Walker paused at the window of his first-floor suite in the Russell Senate Office Building to collect his thoughts. From this spot he had a wonderful view of the Capitol. Only senior senators were allowed office space in the Capitol itself. The rest of them walked or took the short train ride through the underground corridor connecting the two structures to attend sessions. “First, I will disclose the existence of the A-100 stealth fighter-bomber,” he began. “I will detail the A-100’s immense cost to the American people, probably a hundred fifty billion dollars over seven years when everything is said and done. And the fact that it represents an extraordinary waste of taxpayer money in this day and age of United States military dominance. I will, of course, point out that the funds could be used more effectively in a number of social programs, citing several specific examples.

  “Second, I will discuss the black budget in general and how the A-100 contract was awarded under its veil. I will call for a full Senate investigation of the contract process, both in Congress and at the Pentagon, with the objective of shutting down the old-boy network.” He pushed out his chin defiantly. “There. What do you think of that?” he asked, turning away from the window.

  He would be taking a huge gamble following this strategy, Monique knew. “What exactly do you intend to say about the black budget?”

  “What I know.”

  “Tell me again what that is.”

  Once more Walker began pacing. “That a select number of senior senators, possibly as many as three, probably two, but maybe just one, can, on their own authority, without accountability to anyone, secretly appropriate up to ten percent of the defense budget each year and spend it on new weapons development. That no one has the ability to question the allocation of these funds by the black budgeteers. Not Congress, not the Office of Management and Budget, not the General Accounting Office, not even the President, for crying out loud. That deals with defense firms can be cut under the protection of the program without any objections being raised.” Walker noticed that his chief of staff seemed to be more interested in her skirt than his remarks. “Monique?”

  She’d been rubbing a spot on the skirt. “Yes?” The spot was an irritating reminder that she’d eaten a fruit-filled Danish for breakfast and spilled a good bit of it on herself.

  He didn’t appreciate the indifference she consistently showed for his fight against the Defense Department. “People need to know about the black budget, Monique. They need to understand that this system has been in place for years. That black programs are costing taxpayers a great deal of money, at least thirty billion a year, and that tremendous opportunities exist for fraud and at the very least, incredible conflicts of interest. It’s a system that has never been audited and never will be unless someone takes a stand. I’ve been fighting government waste in the DOD ever since coming to the Hill. I’m the logical choice to lead this battle.” He sat down behind the desk, picked up a tennis ball lying in an unused ashtray, leaned back in the leather chair, and tossed the ball toward the ceiling. “And the press conference will generate a lot of great publicity for us right when we need it the most.”

  “How do you know the black budget actually exists?” The spot wasn’t coming out. And she’d just picked up the skirt from the dry cleaner.

  “Come on.” He was annoyed. “We all know it does.”

  “Specifically, how do you know? The press will ask if you really choose to let loose with all this. You’d better have an answer prepared.”

  “Okay, okay. How about an example? The B-10 bomber was a black-budget program. And what do they estimate each one of those nasty little buzzards cost the American people?” Walker asked rhetorically. “A billion two, that’s how much. Of course, the real price was probably twice that high, and you know people got wealthy off the books. You know development money found its way into secret coffers.”

  “What proof are you going to offer?”

  “The fact that no one will account for the money. Talk to a Pentagon accountant and there’s the fear of God in the expression below the green eyeshade. Talk to OMB or GAO and their eyes just glaze over.”

  “You need more,” Monique said decisively.

  “Look, if you hang around the halls of Congress for six years, you hear things. Whispers about how the DOD budget game is really played. How the contracts are awarded. You never hear anything concrete, never anything anyone will own up to, but you know what you know.”

  “Maybe there’s a good reason no one will own up to it,” Monique offered ominously, still scraping at the spot on her skirt with her long fingernails.

  “Hey, we promised each other we’d never be scared off by these people.” Walker sensed her apprehension, and it irked him. She was a strong-willed woman, and he had never seen her this way before. “Are you getting soft on me?”

  “No!” Her eyes flashed to his. “But sometimes it’s better just to let the lions take their pound of flesh and not bother them.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Walker threw the tennis ball toward the ceiling again. When it came back down he bobbled it. It fell to the floor and rolled across the thick red carpet toward a far corner of the office. “Did someone get to you?” he demanded.

  “Of course not.”

  “Be honest. Did someone approach you?”

  “No, dammit, I’m just trying to protect you.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “Malcolm, let’s suppose you’re right. Let’s suppose there is a huge fund within the Defense Department budget that one or two senators personally control. That there is a conspiracy involving a small cadre of senior Pentagon officials and defense industry top management. Do you really think you’re going to persuade Congress to investigate what’s going on? If the fund is there, it’s there because senior legislators think it ought to be there. You’re going to ask the very same people who think the fund ought to exist and who would then be profiting from it to investigate it. To investigate themselves, in other words. It isn’t going to happen, and you’re going to be ostracized in the process.” She gave up on the spot and resigned herself to another trip to the dry cleaner. “I know you’re disappointed in me, but my advice is to fight them on a project level. Expose the A-100, but leave it at that. Play the game by the rules. You’ll make points with voters and you’ll stay alive.”

  “Oh, please.” He waved a hand at her. “You’re being a little melodramatic.”

  “Am I?” She wasn’t so certain.

  “Yes.”

  “Stay away from the black budget, Malcolm. It’s not that I’m scared. I just don’t think it’s a good move politically to focus on it. I’m your chief of staff. You pay me to give you advice. That’s what I’m giving.”

  “How about the fact that there’s an Air Force captain sitting in a cell at Area 51 who hasn’t been charged with anything?” Walker asked. “Taken into custody and left to rot. Doesn’t it bother you that they can do that?”

  “Of course it does. But doesn’t it bother you that he hasn’t said a word? That he hasn’t accused anyone of anything? That he’s so scared he’s willing to sit in an eight-by-ten room and play tic-tac-toe on cinder-block walls rather than fight to get home to his children? I’d say they’ve gotten to him. If you don’t draw that conclusion from his silence, you’re blind.” She paused. “Doesn’t it bother you that his Washington contact, Senator Malcolm Walker, hasn’t tried to get him out?”

  Walker banged the desk loudly with his hand. “That’s not fair! Captain Nichols came to me. I told him there wasn’t anything I could do if they got to him. He knew the risks.”

  “You’ve got to help him anyway.”

  Walker rose from the chair and began pacing again. “I know,” he said, emitting a long, guilty sigh. “And I will. Just let me lay open the black budget first. Then I really will be able to help him.”

  “But I don’t think anyone on Capitol Hill is going to start an investigation on the basis of what you’ve told me,” she
reiterated.

  “What do you want me to do, Monique?” His voice suddenly reflected the strain of the last few months. “If I don’t try something drastic, Elbridge Coleman is going to roll over me in November. That’s obvious from the trend in the polls. I need a splash. Something that will take the spotlight away from him and put it on me. Otherwise I’m gone. It won’t matter if I’m politically ostracized or not, because I won’t be around. Look at the numbers.” He stopped pacing and jammed his hands in his pants pockets. “There’s an ABC poll coming out tomorrow that has Coleman five points ahead of me now.”

  “How did you find that out?” she asked quickly. Usually she was able to screen those calls.

  “Peter Jennings, for Christ’s sake. He called me directly for a comment.”

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm.”

  “It’s all right.” He rubbed his forehead for a moment. “There’s one more thing I haven’t told you.” He picked up a paperweight from the desktop, then put it back down. “I have a piece of physical evidence.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yes. It’s small, but it would probably be enough to at least start a Senate investigation.”

  “What is it?” She was suddenly excited. “I mean, if you have something like that, maybe it would be enough.”

  Walker sat back down in his chair and pulled open a desk drawer. He removed a manila envelope and tossed it toward her.

  She grabbed the envelope from where it had landed atop several unread Washington Posts, pulled out the single piece of paper from inside, and read it quickly. Her eyes widened. “This is a handwritten memo from Chief of Naval Operations Ted Cowen to Senator Webb requesting an appropriation from the black budget for the A-100! I mean it actually says the words ‘black budget.’ And it’s clearly addressed to Senator Webb.”

  It was like a gift from God. And just when he had needed it most. “Can you believe it?” Walker asked. “From what I understand, nothing important like that is ever written down when it comes to the black budget. I guess it just goes to show how the Navy’s been ignored over the past few years. Admiral Cowen must not have been aware of black-budget protocol.”

  “Is that definitely Admiral Cowen’s signature at the bottom of the memo?”

  “Yes. No doubt of it. I had an expert examine the handwriting.”

  “But how did you get this?” She could barely contain her excitement.

  Once more Walker thought about Captain Nichols sitting alone in the cell. He would get the man out if he had to call in every favor he had. “From a file at Area 51. It was the last piece of physical evidence Captain Nichols was able to smuggle out before he was silenced.”

  At precisely one in the afternoon, Senator Malcolm Walker moved through the wide doorway into the Central Hearing Facility of the Hart Building. The large room was packed, mostly with members of the press. Several reporters nodded or patted Senator Walker on the back as he approached the dais. He had always enjoyed an amicable relationship with reporters—even ones sympathetic to the conservative side who detailed his investment portfolio and school résumé. It was never a good idea to irritate the press, no matter what. Walker had learned this lesson at the outset of his political career.

  He tapped the microphone a few times and smiled at several familiar faces in the crowd. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned his head slightly, tilted it down, and stared directly into the CNN camera. “Thank you for coming today. What I am going to tell you will—”

  “Senator Walker!” A deep voice rose from somewhere in the back of the huge room, interrupting Walker’s delivery.

  Walker shaded his eyes against the bright lights, trying to identify the speaker.

  The Reverend Elijah Pitts began moving toward the podium, flanked by two large young bodyguards. “Senator Walker, for some time we at LFA have been attempting to initiate a dialogue with your office.”

  Walker turned quickly to an aide. “How the hell did they get in here?”

  The aide shrugged nervously, aware that his job was suddenly in jeopardy.

  “Senator!” The reverend used his sermonic voice, wavering his tone for effect.

  Walker spun back around to face Pitts, who had now made his way to within a few feet of the podium through a rapidly parting sea of reporters.

  “I have repeatedly tried to contact you, but you have ignored my calls. You and I have many things we need to discuss about the black community.” He pointed a long finger at Walker. “Why are you ignoring our organization? Why do you ignore Liberation for African-Americans? Have you forgotten your people, Senator?” The last words reverberated dramatically throughout the room.

  Walker whipped back toward the aide. “Where the hell are the Capitol Police? They should be here to take this guy away.”

  “I don’t know where they are, sir,” the young man stammered.

  “Where’s Monique?”

  The aide shrugged.

  “Dammit.” Walker glanced into the CNN camera, then quickly away. He could feel the opportunity to disclose the A-100 and the black budget slipping away. “As I was saying—” he attempted to begin again.

  “Answer me!” the reverend roared above the growing hum of the crowd.

  “Yeah, answer him,” a reporter for The New Republic piped up. “Why won’t you recognize LFA?”

  Camera bulbs began to pop, and Walker felt perspiration forming on his forehead. Suddenly the lights seemed hellishly hot. Never let them see you sweat, he thought. “I am of course happy to meet with the reverend at some point down the road to begin mapping out ways for us to work together.” He turned his head to the side so he wasn’t speaking directly into the mass of microphones.

  “Will you invite me onto your stage as a sign of brotherhood? Will you invite me up there today? Right now?” the reverend yelled.

  Walker gave the CNN camera one more forlorn look. The tape of this news conference was going to be broadcast on the evening news over and over in every home in America. He swallowed hard. If he displayed overt unity with LFA, he could easily lose a substantial block of white voters. On the other hand, if he didn’t embrace Pitts now, he might lose his core black constituency. Not that they would vote for Elbridge Coleman, they just wouldn’t vote at all. Which would be just as devastating. Suddenly there was no way out, and Malcolm Walker felt the floor beneath his feet thinning to tightrope width.

  “Ask me to join you on the dais, Senator Walker. Show me you respect our people.” Pitts launched a deadly arrow at the stage.

  And it might as well have been real. Walker felt pain, as if an arrow had actually seared into his chest. Slowly he nodded, then smiled a broad, political smile. “Join me on the stage, Reverend Pitts.” It was the only option. He couldn’t turn his back on LFA in such a public forum and expect to hold together his black support. He would simply have to engage in damage control later and hope for the best.

  Pitts stepped up onto the podium, where he took Walker’s wrist and raised his arm in triumph. For several minutes they stood together, arms held high together as hundreds of cameras clicked.

  Senator Webb watched from the doorway as Walker’s campaign disintegrated. Doub Steel’s secret support of LFA had suddenly earned a destructive dividend, as had Webb’s control of the Capitol Police. His ability to direct the building’s guards to permit the good reverend into this room had allowed a stake to be driven right through the heart of what remained of Walker’s campaign. Webb smiled as he turned away and headed for his office in the Capitol.

  Chapter 24

  “You are a very beautiful woman. It’s been a pleasure meeting you tonight.”

  The cozy, candlelit table was tucked into a corner of the tasteful Four Seasons private suite. “I don’t feel very beautiful,” Monique said softly.

  Senator Webb slid his hand slowly across the linen tablecloth and patted her delicate fingers. “Well, you are. You’re one of the most exquisite women I’ve ever seen,” he said in an exaggerated Georgia
drawl, watching her hair shimmer in the candlelight. “Phil Rhodes told me you were very attractive, but I had no idea. I’m very glad he arranged this meeting.” Webb picked up a sterling silver pot. “Would you care for any more coffee? Any dessert? I’d hate to think dinner was over.”

  If this interlude could have been over before it began, that wouldn’t have been soon enough for Monique. “No thanks,” she said politely, trying to act as if she were enjoying herself.

  Webb could see that the lies and deceit were taking their toll on Monique, but that was all right. It would only serve to make her more vulnerable, more malleable. There was no escape from this, and he could see in her eyes that she had already realized that. “Rhodes mentioned that you might have something for me.”

  Monique hesitated a moment, then reached down to her purse leaning against one leg of the table, and pulled out an envelope. “Here.”

  Webb calmly took the envelope, extracted the single sheet of paper from within, and perused the handwriting quickly. “Is this the original?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any copies?”

  “No. That’s the only record of Admiral Cowen communicating to you about the black budget.”

  “How did Senator Walker obtain this?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Captain Paul Nichols?”

  “Yes.” The young pilot was sitting alone in the bowels of Area 51. She had given him away to Rhodes, and for what? A few extra dollars and the chance to save herself the embarrassment of having her pictures exposed to the world. She brought her hands to her face. Captain Nichols had two children and a wife who had no idea what had happened to him.

  “Thank you, Monique.” Webb slid the envelope and its precious contents into his suit jacket. “I will make certain there is a bonus in your account tomorrow.”

  “Keep your damn money.” Monique stood up and threw her napkin on the table, disgusted with herself and the temptations to which she had so easily yielded. “I’m leaving.” She turned to go.