The Generals of October

by John T. Cullen

  David sat gaping.

  “If you want to be part of this team, and I think you do, now is the time to say so.”

  “I don’t know, Sir. Sight unseen--I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “I understand. I don’t blame you.” He paused. “If it’s any help, I’ve reviewed your records. You have a solid combat record from Gulf III. I’ve watched you in action. You’re a heroic man. You have a sense of honor, and common sense to boot. I think you’d welcome a chance to serve your country.”

  David nodded. “Okay. If I can serve. If I'm needed. I’m in.”

  “Thanks.” Jankowsky shook David’s hand. “See, not everything is what it seems. Like my little unit. We don’t really need to have a separate I.G. detachment here.”

  “I wondered about that, Sir.”

  “The truth is, while I am an I.G. officer, and this is my I.G. detachment, we are a cover for a Federal investigation. A civilian investigation involving several agencies--the FBI, the IRS, Treasury, and various state police forces.”

  “Who are you after?”

  “Robert Lee Hamilton, for starters.”

  David whistled--founder and manipulator of the Middle Class Party. The most powerful political figure in the nation.

  “I should properly not say we are after Mr. Hamilton. When I say we, I mean these agencies. I am a facilitator, if you will. This is on orders from the White House. Need to know is Maximum Presidential. That's the top of the food chain. Shoob really did stumble onto something. You didn’t tell me you were meeting him at the observatory.”

  “I’m sorry--”

  “Don’t be. You weren’t prepped. You were acting expediently, trying to get to the Corcoran matter, which is stirring up some other issues. But more of that another time. We need to find Shoob because we need the list. We know there is a conspiracy involving CON2, but we don’t know who or why. If we had the list, we’d know whom to investigate. The President believes insiders in the White House and the Government conspired to kill Vice President Cardoza and pin it on militia groups. The President has ordered us to monitor--not Hamilton, which would be illegal--but certain individuals who might reasonably be expected to be contacted by Hamilton--if indeed Mr. Hamilton is guilty of anything, this is all if’s--and offered any bribes to throw the convention one way or the other. We have wiretap authority under a sealed memorandum from a Federal district magistrate. The reason I’m telling you all this is because it’s important that you know what really is going on so you don’t fall on your face. Shoob might try to contact you, or he might have left the list with someone else. Right now, you are a magnet of sorts. You will continue your activities as I assign cases to you, but everything will be secondary to finding Shoob.”

  “As a matter of fact, Sir, I’m going to be looking for him this evening. With Lieutenant Breen, his unit XO”

  “The gorgeous woman who dropped you off?” Jankowsky’s eyes twinkled.

  “I didn’t think anyone saw, Sir.”

  “You’ve been tailed every minute since you arrived in Washington.”

  “No kidding.”

  “All part of the spook game. You’ll get used to it. We had your clearance under investigation while you were in I.G. school. Remember Colonel Rick Sutcliff at Ft. Bragg?” David nodded, stunned. He clearly recalled the Afro-American officer, a West Pointer, who’d made such a big deal of reviewing the Army Regulations and moving David safely to this command to preserve his best interests and those of the Army. “Sutcliff was scouring the Army for a guy just like you. It was fate that you showed up on his doorstep with the broken legs and the career problem.” Jankowsky rose. “Come on, David. It’s time for you to see your other office. You have two places to hang your hat.”

  Jankowsky slipped on his saucer cap and raincoat. David did the same and followed Jankowsky down the stairs and into the back alley. Their booted feet crackled on gravel. They walked along the building, passing several rear service doors. David noticed again the dim outline of stained glass windows behind protective wire mesh. Jankowsky knocked on a door, and they were admitted by a trim, husky buck sergeant in fatigue uniform and side arm.

  Jankowsky led the way up a narrow, dimly lit flight of wooden stairs. At the top he knocked on another door. As they waited, David noticed a surveillance camera turning to look at them. A buzzer sounded, and the door slid open.

  Jankowsky and David entered a rich looking, though subdued, tiled foyer. It was round, with a domed ceiling, and a curving stairwell running to a higher story. David heard a hum of activity, a chatter of voices in small offices along thickly carpeted hallways. A short, lively man, brawny and dark-haired, stepped out to shake their hands. Introducing himself to David as Special Agent Tony Tomasik, FBI, he led them into a small office whose walls were lined with books. It was a small but cozy work space, with a stained glass window. Tomasik noticed David staring at the scalloped and ogived concrete window triplet that contained glowing red and blue stained glass. The theme was abstract and hard to make out. “This was a chapel at the turn of the century. Belonged to an order of religious educators. They sold to a university, which made it a drama playhouse. Finally it was partitioned into offices, and here we are.”

  Jankowsky said: “My I.G. detachment is kind of a Trojan Horse. I’m a Reserve Army general, and I was indeed an I.G. officer. The President realized that it would be inexpedient to assign Military Intelligence directly to snoop on CON2, so we’re playing this shell game, with civilians investigating civilians under a civilian court order.”

  Tomasik said: “Welcome to U.S. Federal Task Force 20XX Dash 97A. You’re still working directly for Colonel Jankowsky, but I’m in your matrix of operations. We’ll work very closely together when the time comes.”

  Chapter 14

  That evening, David drove to the Naval Observatory, where Tory met him outside. It was dark already, and most of the employees had gone home. Under the trees, with the fog creeping between his ankles just like the other night, he nearly hugged her as she came out to meet him, but remembered they were in uniform and it was against regulations. Tory seemed to have the same impulse, for she brushed dangerously close to him, bundled in her long coat and scarf, with purse strap over one shoulder, and garrison cap rakishly down over her forehead. “You came.” She looked darkly around.

  “You’re surprised. You think I might have been followed.”

  “I’m--grateful. Yes, it's possible you might be followed.”

  “It was like this last night.”

  “Spooky.” She shivered. “Poor Ib.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “I called his wife, Hala, and got a list of places Ib liked to hang out. She was so grateful that I called.”

  He regarded the skyline that burned like a million candles on a funeral mound. He scratched his head. “Tory, that’s a huge haystack. And one NCO is a small needle.”

  “We’ll just check a few places, okay?”

  “Let’s go,” David said. “I’ll drive, you look.”

  “I’ll buy you gas.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  David drove through the sparse evening traffic. Heavy police patrols were everywhere, and pedestrians few. The emptiness of the streets added an eerie quality. CON2 was in session, and the city blocks at and around the Atlantic Hotel and Convention Center looked like fortresses of light, burning at all hours in the meeting rooms visible from far away. The three towers burned with lights as if they were on fire inside. From road block to road block, David drove as Tory directed him from one Ib-hangout to the next--a computer store on K Street. A bookstore on Vermont Avenue. A library branch open late, over in Foggy Bottom. A Palestinian market in Alexandria. He’d wait at the curb while she ran inside to speak with the management. He’d watch her animated conversation as she described Ib--the manager would nod yes--and then she’d spread her arms asking where Ib was and the manager would head-shake. Tory would run back to the car ready for the nex
t place.

  A few hours later, they came to a street that looked as though, if there were a literal end of the earth beyond which you could fall off, it would be within walking distance. They sat under a street lamp while he watched her think hard and dab a few tears. The trees on either side of the street looked dark and ominous, despite streetlights reflecting in puddles. The jagged brick walls of a ruined building nearby looked threatening. Its sagging doorway offered a trip to nowhere, maybe off the edge of the world into some black abyss in which a few stars suffocated. A light wind stirred in the autumn leaves, and the air smelled faintly smoky.

  “Well,” she said.

  “Well,” he echoed.

  “We can’t sit here all night or we’ll get mugged.”

  “I’m starting to worry a little bit about that,” he said. “Even though we are both armed and dangerous.”

  “All right,” she said sighing. “I had to try. Obviously the civilian police have the manpower and the resources--”

  “Don’t berate yourself.” He started the car. “Why don’t you go home and change and then meet me at my place. I’ll have some dinner ready.”

  “That’s the best idea yet. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “I’m sure.” He drove back to the observatory so she could get her car.

  Later that evening at his apartment, David showed Tory to the reclining chair surrounded by his shelved books, while he cooked dinner. She wore a dark-blue sweatsuit with U.S. Army Olympics in white letters along one leg.

  He opened the French door leading to the patio. Cool, damp wind blew in, smelling of hedges and late flowers. The kitchen windows dripped with perspiration from pasta water bubbling in a pot, not to mention chicken cacciatore simmering in a piquant sauce, and garlic bread baking in the hot oven. “Dinner in five minutes,” he said.

  “Smells wonderful.”

  “Didn’t realize you were in the Olympics.”

  “I wasn’t. Well, I almost was. I didn’t quite make the team back at Fort Jackson. That’s where Maxie and I met.”

  “What event?” He peered into the livingroom.

  “Track. Cross-country.”

  She looked tired, her head back, eyes closed and shadowed; her stocking feet elevated on cushions. “I may have a lead. Or another problem, depending on one’s viewpoint.”

  David set the steaming dishes on the table, then returned to the living room, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. “Talking in your sleep?”

  “I’m wide awake.” Her eyes opened and she sat upright. “It occurred to me in the shower at home. Ib Shoob and Tabitha Summers were pretty good friends. She was this very senior GS-18 civilian computer expert. They’d bicker, because they are both brilliant. Tabitha suddenly retired about two months ago. I was new then, and didn’t know, but everyone else thought it odd. She really liked her work.”

  “Coincidence,” David suggested. “He wasn’t sitting on this for two months.”

  “What if he was?”

  “We could call her right now.”

  “That’s an idea.” She fumbled with her com, and David waited. Her face brightened. “Tabitha? Tory Breen. How are you doing?” Tory listened. “Yes, right. Actually, I wondered if you knew that Ib was kidnapped the other night. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Have you heard from him?” Her face betrayed disappointment as she listened. “If he tries to contact you, will you let me know?--yes, that’s right--same office--yes, I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything--what’s that?--no, I tried looking, and you get frantic and all, but once you’re out there looking, you realize it’s hopeless; you just have to rely on the authorities because they have all the resources--yes, okay, keep in touch, bye!”

  Tory rang off and shook her head bleakly.

  “I’m sure the police are doing all they can.” David reached out. She accepted his hand and he pulled her upright. She had a firm, dry grip, the back of her hand warm and smooth. She walked in long and graceful strides.

  He pulled a chair back and she sat at the kitchen table, visibly pleased at his gentlemanly gesture. “It’s so cozy here,” she said with a genuine lilt of surprise as she eyed the wine rack, the shelf of cookbooks, the pots hanging from the ceiling to save space. He said: “I’ve been batching for over a year now. I may have been a fast food, socks all over the floor guy once, but a good man learns well.”

  “Been married?”

  “Afraid so. You?”

  The haunted look jogged past. “Oh yeah.” She grinned stoically and raised her glass. “Here’s to a good man.”

  He touched his glass to hers. “To a good woman.” They sipped.

  From her dark look, he knew she was holding something out on him.

  Soft pop dinner music blended with the steady hum of the oven exhaust fan under its enamel hood and made a self-contained world, almost as in a submarine. The ceiling lamp hung low over the heavy oak dining furniture, casting an island glow. A few sips of blood-red Italian wine, and David saw color in her cheeks, a glow in her eyes. The specter of Ib Shoob’s disappearance hung somewhere beyond the lamplight, in the shadows, part of a world they were trying to forget for an hour or two. After dinner they sat in the living room on the shag rug. David set out a pitcher in which he diluted the red wine with sparkling water, throwing in a lemon slice. He cut up a few oranges and joined her before a small, crackling fire. She cried a little bit and David gently stroked her hair. It felt thick and warm to the touch; and smelled faintly of chestnuts or sandalwood. He had a feeling she wasn't crying about Ib just now.

  Tory used her napkin to wipe tears away. “I’m sorry.” Her face seemed to linger in the atmosphere when all else had gone hazy. He found himself being drawn in by her hungry eyes, her lightly parted lips. He slowly embraced her and kissed her on the cheeks. Holding her firmly, feeling her hands on his shoulder blades pulling him toward her, he sought her tongue with his. For an instant, their eyes fluttered open in mutual surprise. Then he saw her eyes close in dreamy acceptance. He asked the question he’d been wondering how to ask: “Is there anyone in your life?”

  She shook her head and murmured “nuh-uh,” with her eyes still closed. He lowered her gently on her back and lay beside her. She felt good against his limbs, against his side, her cheek against his cheek. A soft rain pattered outside, competing with the crackling in the fireplace. He felt her hand exploring his back, his neck, her feminine fingertips ruffling the hair and skin at the base of his skull giving him goosebumps.

  She stopped suddenly, stiffened with some realization, paused--and then continued again, relenting in some battle within herself.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She was silent.

  “Dinner okay?”

  “Everything is perfect. You are perfect. It scares me a bit.”

  “There now. I cook you dinner, kiss you, and all I manage to do is scare you.”

  She choked with sudden laughter in his arms. She looked away, embarrassed. “I am such a geek, I know.” She started to scoot away.

  He hung onto her, and she only made it a few inches. Her mood had switched to silly, and she giggled nervously.

  “Hey, come back here.” She didn't, but let him crawl after her, and then sighed happily as she settled her back against his approaching body. She closed her eyes and had a pleased, nuzzling look. She didn't look scared. Or silly. There was some serious purring there. He enjoyed feeling her curves through her clothes without touching anywhere tabu for a first date. He tugged her gently with one hand, and she resisted. Then she rolled closer to him, laid her head on his chest, and placed one hand, palm down, where she could feel his heart beating. He heard the pace of her breath quicken gradually as their body heat mingled and their closeness aroused her. Gradually, comfort overcame arousal, and they fell asleep holding each other.

  The living room clock struck eleven when he suddenly awoke to find her sitting up beside him. She looked surprised and sleepy. Her arms were raised, hands lifting thick garlands
of dark amber hair, hairpin pinched between her lips. “I have to go,” she said contentedly.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “That’s so sweet of you.”

  “Dangerous out there.”

  “You’ll protect me.” It was a tease, but she ran her fingernails fondly around his ear. She whispered so close to his ear that he could feel the puffs of breath of each syllable: “It was nice sleeping with you, David.”

  He got goosebumps again. He knew better than to say anything. Instead, he put his hand on her hip and let electricity speak for him. She stroked his hand silently for a few minutes to let him know it was a good thing he was doing.

  After they bundled up, and he locked the door, they walked the four blocks between his place and hers. They held hands on and off, but both were independent spirits comfortable to orbit near each other without crashing into one another’s planets. Still, David felt himself remembering the wonderful pleasures--so unexpected in their timing--of falling in love. Tory was subdued and elegant--while Maxie was the blonde version, the light wine, a spumante, Tory was the dark version, the cabernet sauvignon. He kept glancing at her, and liking what he saw: dark sensuous eyes, slight smile, quirky poise when she said something witty or sarcastic or teasing or sad. Droplets pattered from trees on lawns, but the rain had stopped. A light fog stalked their heels. She slipped her arm through his. They arrived at her condo entrance and stopped. For a moment they were both awkward, away from the earlier spell, still strangers to one another. The disappearance of Ib Shoob, and his ominous discovery, hung in the atmosphere around them. He knew she would lie awake late tonight, worrying about Ib. She looked intently into his eyes with that dark, haunted look again. She placed her fists against his chest in frozen pummeling. “So much to sort out, David. So much that can’t be said. I wish it were easier.”

  “What are you talking about?”