McDermott started to protest, but Wingate held up his hand.
“Wait outside, Bryce.”
“But…”
“I’ll be fine.”
As soon as the door closed behind Kirkpatrick, McDermott, and the General’s bodyguards, Wingate took a seat across from Schoonover and the assistant FBI director.
“We have a problem, General. Or, rather, you do,” Schoonover said.
“What problem?” Wingate asked.
“I’m afraid that some of your testimony under oath wasn’t true and I thought that you’d like to clear it up before the press finds out.”
“I’m not following you,” General Wingate said.
“You testified that you had no contact with Carl Rice between the time he was in high school and the time he invaded your mansion.”
“That’s correct.”
“During her cross-examination, Mrs. Vergano read you a list of names of men who were supposedly in the secret unit you ran out of the AIDC. You said you’d never heard of them.”
“That’s right.”
Schoonover took a sheaf of papers out of an attache case and pushed them across the table.
“Then how do you explain these?” he asked.
The General shuffled through the papers for a moment. They were covered with numbers and letters and appeared to be some kind of code.
“What are they?” he asked.
“Do you want to explain, Victor?” Schoonover said.
“Sure. Your daughter took the personnel records of the men in your secret unit from your safe.”
Wingate smiled. “There were never any records, Mr. Hobson. They are…”
“Yes, yes,” Hobson interrupted, “figments of the imaginations of two very disturbed people, as you testified, and I’m sure the originals don’t exist anymore. You’d have been a fool to keep them after Carl Rice killed Eric Glass to get them, and you are definitely not a fool. But neither is your daughter. Vanessa wrote down the names of the men before she gave the documents to the congressman, and that enabled me to track down the documents Ted just gave you.”
“These don’t look like personnel records,” the General said.
“They’re not. I did serve a search warrant at the army records center in St. Louis, Missouri, for the personnel records, and they found records for all the men on Vanessa’s list. They were similar to Carl’s official records. The men were all listed as having few if any combat missions, and most of those were early in their careers. They were also shown as having stateside duty for most of their time in the service. None of them had a rank over sergeant.
“But the personnel records weren’t the main thing I was looking for. Carl always claimed that he was a captain. A captain’s pay is significantly higher than a sergeant’s. Vanessa told me to look for the pay records, too. Strangely, none of the pay records for these men existed in St. Louis. The clerk I spoke with told me that a fire of mysterious origin destroyed a lot of their records in 1973.”
Hobson paused and stared at the General, but Wingate did not react. Hobson smiled.
“A lot more microfilm was destroyed in the mid-nineties when the information was upgraded to digital media,” he continued. “I thought that I’d reached the end of the line when the clerk remembered that the Defense Finance and Accounting Service in Indianapolis kept copies of the original pay records on microfilm.”
Hobson shook his head. “I had a hell of a time finding them. The microfilm was in old moldy boxes filled with thousand-foot rolls. My men and I thought we’d go blind, but we finally got the pay records for all ten men.”
“I can’t make heads or tails of these numbers and letters,” Wingate said.
“But you do recognize the names at the top. They’re the same names that Mrs. Vergano read to you, the names you testified under oath rang no bells.”
Hobson placed a document on the table. “This is Carl Rice’s pay record for his time in the army from 1970 until 1985. You should have a copy in that stack.”
Wingate found his copy and stared at it.
“I couldn’t make any sense of this either,” Hobson said, “but I got a subject-matter expert at the DFAS to interpret the code. What’s important is the pay rate for each man. Carl was paid as a captain right after he claimed to have started working for you. And he received hazardous-duty pay, which he would not have received for teaching at the language school. But most important, someone had to authorize the promotion of these men so they could receive the pay increase. On the page for each of these men is a code that authorizes their promotion to captain so they could be paid as captains. The papers promoting these men were with their pay records.”
Hobson pushed them across the table.
“They were all signed by you, General,” Schoonover said.
Wingate looked at the documents but did not touch them.
“Victor, would you step outside?” Schoonover asked.
Hobson got up without a word. As he circled the table, his eyes never left Wingate. The General was pale. He seemed disoriented, like a man awakening from a deep, troubled sleep.
“So, what does Jennings want?” Wingate asked as soon as he and Schoonover were alone.
“He’d love to see you on California’s death row awaiting execution for the murder of Eric Glass. Actually, we both would.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Wingate picked up the papers he’d stacked in a pile. “This jumble of numbers and letters won’t get you anywhere. And neither will testimony from my daughter, the ex-mental patient; or Carl Rice, the mass murderer.”
“Carl passed three polygraphs since we took him into federal custody. Vanessa passed her tests, too.”
“Polygraph evidence isn’t admissible in court.”
Schoonover smiled. “You’re right, but newspaper reporters are. The bail hearing is only in recess. What do you think the papers will print when these documents are admitted into evidence? You’ve testified under oath that you’ve never heard of these men and that you had no contact with Carl after he graduated from high school. Your signature on the pay records proves that you’re lying.”
“These documents are forgeries. Jennings probably had someone from the CIA doctor them.”
“Right, the CIA. That reminds me. Do you remember getting a visit from a CIA agent shortly after Eric Glass was murdered?”
“No.”
Schoonover nodded. “Charles told me you’d deny any knowledge of the meeting, and Gregory Sax, the agent, is dead-the victim of an armed robbery that occurred shortly after Peter Rivera was murdered.”
“Where is this going?”
“Sax was the Unit’s liaison with the White House in 1985. When Vanessa told the police that Carl Rice murdered Eric Glass, Sax knew that a member of the Unit had killed the congressman, and he had a crisis of conscience. He’d been leery of some of the Unit’s missions, but there had always been some sort of national security justification that let him rationalize the assassinations, the drug dealing, and all the other sordid activities in which your men engaged. But Glass’s murder was the last straw. He’s the one who went to President Reagan and told him that the Unit had to be shut down. He’s the man who carried President Reagan’s order to shut down the Unit back to you in 1985. And you really shut it down, didn’t you? You sent those fine soldiers to their deaths. Then you made it look like Carl Rice had murdered Peter Rivera for the codes to the secret fund, but you killed Rivera and took the money, didn’t you?”
“It’s convenient for you that this Sax person and the president he allegedly told about Vanessa’s secret army are dead. Where is this fairy tale going?”
“When Sax was murdered, President Reagan put a bright young CIA agent in charge of a secret investigation of the Unit. The agent was Charles Jennings.”
“Ah, and I suppose that Charles is going to get on TV and tell the world about his secret investigation that just happens to prove that the man who is running against him is a murderer and a th
ief.”
“You know better than that. But the president knows you’re dirty, Morris. He doesn’t have to be convinced that you betrayed your men in Vietnam, that you stole the millions in the secret fund and used that money to buy into Computex, and that you were behind the murders of Sax, Glass, and Rivera. Unfortunately, with Rice missing and Sax dead, he could never prove anything. Then Carl Rice returned from the dead. And now we have the pay records of men that you swore under oath you didn’t know, with your signature authorizing their promotions to a rank their official files say they never attained.”
“This is all very interesting but I’ve got a statement to make to the press and a plane waiting to take me to Pittsburgh.”
“Use the press conference to announce that you’re dropping out of the race.”
“Not a chance.”
“Then we’ll go public with the pay records, the Justice Department will look into where you got the money you used to finance Computex, and we’ll investigate the plane crash that killed Simeon Brown. With all the negative publicity, you’ll be lucky to get any votes in the primary, and the president will have four more years to make your life hell.”
“This is what happens in banana republics, Ted,” Wingate replied calmly. “The person in power arrests his opposition. If Charles tries that with me, I’ll win the primary in a landslide.”
“You’ll be able to count the votes in jail, if the other prisoners vote to watch the news that night,” Schoonover answered.
Wingate stood up. “I’m calling your bluff, Ted. If you persist with these outrageous demands, I’ll hold a press conference, all right, and I’ll use it to expose the blackmail threats you’ve just made. I’ll have Brendan Kirkpatrick and the Secret Service agents in my guard detail tell the world how the president’s hatchet man insisted on this private meeting. Then I’ll get the best experts money can buy to prove that these documents are false.”
Schoonover smiled. “When I was in ’Nam, we had a name for guys like you who sent other people to die doing their dirty work. We called them REMFs. It’s an acronym that stands for rear-echelon motherfuckers. We despised them, just like I despise you. That’s why I’m going to take great pride in bringing you down.”
Sam Cutler was working on the details of security for an appearance in Madison, Wisconsin, when the General stormed into his hotel suite. Wingate had been calm and self-assured when he spoke to the reporters at his press conference, but he was seething now.
“Sam,” Wingate barked. Cutler cut short his phone conversation and followed the General into the bedroom.
“Has this room been swept?” Wingate asked.
“We can talk,” Cutler assured him.
As he changed into casual clothes for the trip to Pittsburgh, Wingate told Cutler about his meeting with Ted Schoonover.
“The documents can hurt us,” the General said, “but our real problem is Carl Rice. Vanessa knows only what he told her. Carl is the key.”
“What do you want me to do?” Cutler asked.
Wingate stared at his aide. “Don’t be obtuse.”
“Rice is going to disappear, General. Jennings will stash him in a safe house.”
“Then find him. Use our contacts at Justice, the CIA. Pay what you have to, but find him. And remember, Sam, I’m not the only person who’s in danger. You have a lot to lose as long as Carl Rice is alive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ryan was supposed to go home with Bobby O’Dell’s mother, so he was surprised when Ami picked him up at school and told him that they were going to the Multnomah County courthouse. The last time Ryan had been to the courthouse was on “Bring Your Child to Work” day. Before court convened, a nice lady judge had let him sit in her chair and hold her gavel. Then he’d had to sit in the spectator section for an hour and listen to his mom and another lawyer talk. Ryan liked sitting in the judge’s chair, but the other stuff was pretty boring. Ryan asked Ami why they were going downtown. Ami said it was a surprise. She didn’t tell him that this meeting had been one of Carl Rice’s conditions for helping Ted Schoonover and President Jennings bring down Morris Wingate.
The courthouse was still busy when Ami and Ryan arrived, but the only people in the corridor outside Judge Velasco’s courtroom were a hard-looking man and woman in plainclothes, who Ami guessed were FBI agents. Inside the locked courtroom, two other agents watched the door to the judge’s chambers.
Ami knocked on the hall door for Judge Velasco’s chambers. It opened into the anteroom where the judge’s secretary worked. The secretary was gone, her place taken by two FBI agents who watched alertly as Ami and Ryan entered.
“Go on in, Mrs. Vergano,” said the agent who had unlocked the door. Ami thanked him and ushered Ryan into the judge’s office where Carl Rice waited, free of his shackles and dressed in tan slacks and a plaid cotton shirt.
Ryan hesitated when he saw Carl, suddenly shy and tentative.
Carl flashed a big smile. “Hey, Champ, how’s the team doing?”
“Okay,” Ryan answered quietly.
Ami placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “They won one and lost two, but Ryan had a single and a double in the last game.”
“Not bad,” Carl said. “How’s the curveball coming?”
“I haven’t really been practicing,” he mumbled.
“That’s not good. You won’t master the curve if you don’t practice. Have your mom catch for you.”
Ryan shrugged. Carl knelt down so that he was closer to Ryan’s height, and Ami stepped back.
“You’re upset by what happened at the ball game, right?”
Ryan shrugged again but wouldn’t look Carl in the eye.
“That’s okay. It shook me up, too. It’s no fun being shot, and I feel very bad about hurting Barney Lutz and that policeman. That was wrong.”
Ryan shifted uneasily.
“But I didn’t ask your mom to bring you here to talk about that. There’s something I want to tell you.”
Ryan looked at Carl expectantly. “Are you coming home?”
“I wish I could.” Ryan’s face fell, and Carl put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise to keep it to yourself? It’s important that no one but you and your mom know.”
Ryan hesitated. He looked confused.
“My real job isn’t being a carpenter, Ryan. I’m a spy. You know what that is, right?”
“Like James Bond.”
Carl nodded. “I work undercover for our government, and I was on assignment when I was living at your house. I can’t tell you what the assignment was, because it’s top-secret, but it was very important. When I got shot, it loused up everything, but my bosses squared it with the police and I’m not in trouble anymore.”
“If everything is okay, why can’t you move back?”
“I wish I could. I really like your mom, and you’re terrific, but spies don’t get to settle down like regular people.”
Carl leaned forward until his lips were close to Ryan’s ear. “This is something even your mom doesn’t know,” he whispered. “I work directly for the president, and he just gave me new orders. I can’t tell you what they are, but it’s my most important assignment ever.”
“Really?”
Carl nodded. “I’ll tell you something else that isn’t a secret. If I had a son I’d want him to be just like you, but spies don’t get married. We have to be on the move all the time, and we don’t want to put the people we love in danger.”
“Don’t you get lonely?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah,” Carl said. He felt a tightening in his chest and had to struggle to hide his sadness from Ryan. “But, from now on, when I start to feel down, I’ll remember the fun I had at your house and I’ll cheer right up. I’ll be able to keep track of you guys, too. My intelligence agency will let me know how you’re doing in school and Little League. That’s why I want you to practice that curve. It would be great if I heard that you’d won a few games with the pitch I taugh
t you. What do you think?”
“I’ll work on the curveball.”
“Will you help him, Ami?” Carl asked.
“Definitely,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
“School, too. I want you to do your best. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ryan answered solemnly as a tear trickled down his cheek.
Carl stood up. It took all his training to stay calm. “Let’s shake on it, then.”
Ryan held out his hand, and Carl’s engulfed it. Then Carl drew Ryan to him and gave him a hug.
“Wherever I am, you’ll be in my heart, Ryan.” His eyes met Ami’s. “You and your mom.”
“Will we ever see you?” Ryan asked, tears coursing down his cheeks now.
“I’d sure like to see you again, someday. Meanwhile, you take care of your mom, okay? She needs you, and you need her. And work on that curve.”
Carl tousled Ryan’s hair.
“I’ve got to go now. The president sent a special plane for me, and I can’t keep him waiting.”
Ryan wiped a forearm across his eyes.
“Keep safe,” Carl said. Then he touched Ami on the shoulder and walked through the door to the courtroom. The door closed behind him, and Ryan didn’t see the agents secure his handcuffs before leading him away.
“He’ll be okay, Ryan. You don’t have to worry,” Ami assured her son, her eyes still on the door to the courtroom. Then she looked at Ryan.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.
Ryan nodded, embarrassed to be crying but unable to stop.
Ami knelt beside him. She had tears in her eyes, too. “It’s okay to be sad. He’s a good friend. And maybe he’ll get some time away from his job someday and you’ll see him again. The important thing is to know that he cares about you very much. You understand that, don’t you?”
Ryan nodded.
“And you also understand about keeping what Carl told you a secret.”
“I won’t tell,” Ryan answered solemnly.
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