by Tom Clancy
“You are uniquely qualified,” Link added.
“I’m also a little confused,” Rodgers said. “Are you making me an offer?”
The senator laughed. That one was a short stage laugh. “As I said, Texas is in here.” Orr touched his chest. “I watched how you walked into the office. That’s the way I want my cabinet members to step to a podium.”
Rodgers was flattered and also suspicious. Either Orr was hooking him for some other reason, or he was exactly as he said: a straight-shooting politician.
“General, may I ask how things are at Op-Center?” Link said.
“Why?” Rodgers asked. “What have you heard?”
“Not much,” Link replied.
“In D.C.? That’s unlikely,” Rodgers said.
“He’s got you there, Ken.” Orr laughed, once again for real.
“Touché,” the admiral said. “The truth is, we just heard they’re spearheading the investigation into the murder of William Wilson.”
“Really?” Rodgers said.
Link was watching him. “You seem surprised.”
“I am. Who’s the point man?”
“I don’t know. But whoever it is, he’s good,” Link replied. “He’s the one who found signs of trauma under the tongue that the medical examiner missed. He turned this from a heart attack to a homicide.”
“I see,” Rodgers replied.
That sounded like a street-smart “get” by Darrell McCaskey. Op-Center must have become involved at the request of Interpol or Scotland Yard.
“General, we heard that the CIOC has instructed Op-Center to make budget cuts,” Link went on. “Why would Director Hood take on an outside project like this in an environment trending toward austerity and realignment?”
“You would have to ask him,” Rodgers said.
“Of course,” Orr said. “Ken, you’re asking General Rodgers to breach departmental confidentiality—”
“Actually, it’s more than that,” Rodgers informed the men. “This morning I learned that I am part of those bottom-line reductions. My tenure as deputy director is effectively over.”
“They asked for your resignation?” Orr asked, surprised.
“Two weeks from now I’m either working with you or back at the DoD in some other capacity.”
“Now that’s a kick in the damn teeth,” Link said. “They ship out an American hero, then help to investigate a decadent British billionaire.”
Orr’s phone beeped. He answered, listened, said he would be right there. “I’m expected in the conference room for a pre-interview with Mr. Dan Rather’s associate producer,” he said. “General, will you be able to stay for a bit? This should not take more than fifteen minutes.”
“Of course,” Rodgers said, rising as the senator did.
Orr left the room and shut the door behind him. Rodgers sat back down. Link was looking at him. Rodgers took a sip of coffee.
“General Rodgers — Mike, if I may — do you mind if I ask you something personal?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you feel betrayed by Paul Hood or Op-Center?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rodgers replied.
“How far would you go?”
That was a loaded question, Rodgers thought, though he was not sure what exactly it was loaded with. He knew at once that this was not idle chat.
“I don’t feel good about the way things happened, but this was an assignment, a tour of duty,” Rodgers replied. “For whatever reason, that job is over. I’m ready to move on.”
“That’s a healthy attitude,” Link said.
“Thanks. Now I’d like to ask you a question, Admiral.”
“All right.”
“Does it matter how I feel about Op-Center?”
“Not in terms of your working with us,” Link said. “It’s more a question of helping them.”
“I’m not following.”
“Paul Hood is moving them into a very dangerous place, not just for him but for us,” Link said.
“Why us?”
“It’s a question of appearances,” Link told him. “If the NCMC is ham-fisted about their investigation, it’s going to slop all over us, all over our guests, and all over our convention.”
“Why do you assume it will be handled badly?”
“Because Op-Center is suddenly very shorthanded,” Link said. “Let’s say that Individual X has taken on this assignment. He still has to perform his other duties, plus whatever new duties he inherits due to the cutbacks. I don’t have to tell you that in a reduced-personnel environment in the military, standard operating procedure is to shoot every door in a house and see which one groans. If Individual X is forced to take that approach here, we may suffer unwarranted hits.”
“Possibly. But the hits should not be serious.”
“When you’re launching a new political party, any stain on your credibility is serious,” Link said. “It scares away donors. Also, I’ve spoken to a number of people on the Hill. They wonder if Hood may be using this action to try to retrench, to fold the idea of international criminal investigation into crisis management. He did something like that before.”
“Actually, we backed into that one by stopping a missile attack on Japan,” Rodgers said. “The president asked us to take on additional responsibilities.”
“I understand that the situations are different,” Link said. “So are the times. The CIA was moving from human intelligence to electronic intelligence. Data was falling through the digital cracks. Op-Center was there to catch it. The Company won’t let that happen this time.”
“Okay. Even if that is true, why is it our concern?” Rodgers asked.
“Because the perception is that Paul Hood may have manufactured a situation,” Link replied.
“Horseshit,” Rodgers snapped. He hoped this perception was not something Link had whipped up. It was contemptible. “I know the people at Op-Center. They would never do that.”
“Other people aren’t so convinced,” Link said.
“What people?”
“Influential people,” Link replied. “People who have the ear of the CIOC and the president. What I’m saying, Mike, is that it is a bad situation all around.”
“Okay, it’s bad. Why share that insight with me?”
“I think you should talk to Hood,” Link said. “Tell him that the way to help Op-Center is to soft-pedal this.”
“Soft-pedal. Do you mean bury?”
“I mean they should let the Brits handle this through channels. They should let the Metro Police work the investigation.”
The Metropolitan Police were efficient, sensitive, and discreet. Their footsteps would not splash much mud. While Rodgers did not believe that Hood was doing this for the reasons Link had stated, there was no doubt that the presence of a crisis management organization would leave a much bigger footprint.
“There’s something else to consider,” Link went on. “The CIOC can effectively dissolve Op-Center tomorrow simply by downsizing the budget to zero. If Hood steps on FBI jurisdiction, that could happen. Be a friend to him. Suggest to Hood that he reconsider his involvement.”
“I’ll think about it,” Rodgers said.
The subject was not raised again.
The men talked a little about the USF and the convention, and Link shared a list of politicians and business leaders who were privately committed to lending support to the party. It was impressive. He also gave Rodgers a CD containing USF press releases and internal directives to bring him up to speed.
Donald Orr returned, and so did a sense of balance. The senator said the interview had gone very well, that he had told CBS that they should wait for an official statement from investigators before speculating about the death of the man he described as “Britain’s gift to Europe.” That was one of Kat’s phrases, Orr said, and he liked the point it made.
As Rodgers conferred with the men, he found himself very relaxed with Orr and very suspicious of Link. The Orr-Link dynamic was n
ot good cop, bad cop. It was more honest than that. Orr was like the white hat sheriff who would face a gunslinger on Main Street at high noon and let him draw first. Link was the deputy who hid behind a window with a rifle, clipped the bad guy in the shoulder, then went over and stepped on the wound until the man told him where the rest of the gang was hiding. Both approaches were strategically valid as long as you were not the target. Rodgers knew where he stood with Orr. He was not so sure about Link. There was a fine distinction between being employed by someone and being used by them. It was up to the integrity of the employer and the dignity of the employee to see that the line was not crossed.
Rodgers left, promising to call the men with his answer in the morning. He wanted to join them. The idea was exciting, and it was a new experience for him. Still, Rodgers was not certain what to do. It would mean leaving the military for something that was wildly uncertain. On the other hand, what in the world was not uncertain? When Rodgers woke this morning, he was still the deputy director of Op-Center.
As Rodgers walked to his car, he found himself feeling surprisingly bitter about his dismissal. Why would Hood fire him, then put a high-overhead individual like Darrell or Bob Herbert on an off-topic investigation? It wasn’t exactly disloyal, but it did suggest some sadly screwed-up priorities. And what about the idea that Hood might use this to help Op-Center? Though he did not for a moment believe that the evidence would have been falsified, as Link suggested, perhaps Hood would in fact seize on this to help redirect an ailing Op-Center.
That’s the beauty about being deputy sheriff, the general decided. The sheriff was the big symbol and the big target. He had to get out in the street and confront the outlaw. He could not snipe at him from safety, and he did not have time to run a psy-ops campaign.
Clearly, Kenneth Link’s years as the director of covert operations for the CIA had not been wasted. As Rodgers drove into the heavy traffic and rust-colored sunlight of late afternoon, he decided he would have that talk with Paul Hood about the William Wilson investigation.
FIFTEEN
Charlottesville, Virginia
Monday, 4:18 P.M.
When April Dorrance was a young girl growing up in rural Sneedville, Tennessee, on the Virginia border, her father collected discarded appliances and fixed them for resale. That was the kind of thing a skilled and resourceful African-American man had to do in the South in the early 1970s to feed his family. April loved playing house with the appliances before they were repaired. She also enjoyed watching her father work. She loved seeing his huge hands manipulate fine wire and tools. He always explained what he was doing and why.
“That was how my pop taught me,” Royal Dorrance said one night in their small cabin with its corrugated tin roof.
“And is that how his father taught him?” April asked.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied.
“Who was the first one who learned it?”
“That would be my granddad, Mr. Walter Emmanuel Dorrance,” Royal told her. “He was a private with the 803 Pioneer Infantry during World War One. Big segregated unit, meaning they only allowed black soldiers. He learned all about engineering when he fought in France.”
“He went to school in a war?” April asked.
“In a way, Precious,” her father said. “He had to learn things to survive and to help his friends survive.”
“Does that mean war is good?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “We’re free because of a war. And a lot of things get invented to fight wars.”
April never forgot the idea that war could be a positive aspect of civilization.
When April was a little older, not quite eleven, she began coming home from school and fixing some of those appliances herself. She loved how proud her father was when he came home with a new truckload of goodies. After his death, she continued in the family business to help support her mother and younger brother. With the help of her high school science and shop teachers, the young woman earned a scholarship to study electronics at the University of Tennessee College of Engineering in Knoxville. April excelled and graduated in 1984 from Cornell University with a Ph.D. in QuASSE — quantum and solid state electronics. She was immediately recruited by the CIA. April agreed to go to work for them because of the challenge, the job security, and the fact that it was close to her mother and brother. She went to work in a secret research laboratory located in Richmond, Virginia. The facility was actually below Alexandria, in a bunker below the University of Richmond. Only the UR president, select members of the board of trustees, and the UR chief of police knew they were there. No one knew what they did there. A large annual endowment bought their disinterest.
And April Dorrance got to learn and grow because of war.
The eleven-person staff of the School, as they called it, tested new forms of electronic jamming, surveillance, and triangulation equipment for use by mobile forces during combat. A university was the ideal place to do that, since computer and telecommunications use on campus was constant and typically cutting-edge. There were always students who brought with them the latest laptops, cell phones, and other portable electronics. The kids owned everything a modern soldier, spy, or terrorist might possess. Probably more. The School staffers liked nothing more than field-testing prototypes on unsuspecting students and teachers. It was like Candid Camera, watching them as they tried to figure out why their cell phones were suddenly talking to them in Bantu, the language of April’s ancestors.
The problem with the School was the burnout factor. It was intense work done in windowless surroundings for long hours. It was impossible to have a social life. It was also difficult to leave. The CIA had control over the kinds of positions one could seek after leaving their employ. They did not want confidential information finding its way into the private sector. An electromagnetic inhibitor that could plant false readings on enemy radar could easily be built into an automobile to befuddle police radar. April did not want to work for a government contractor who would demand the same extended hours and would not have the kind of budget or resources she had at the School. That left teaching. April had bought a house in Goochland, halfway between Richmond and Charlottesville. She simply drove twenty miles in the opposite direction each morning to teach microelectronics at the University of Virginia.
But people who had worked with April over the years often called her to consult on specific projects, and she was happy to do so. The government still possessed the best toy box on earth.
Nonetheless, the call was unexpected.
The caller left a message on her cell phone, which she returned on a more secure landline in her office. It was not the caller who surprised her. Though the two of them had never worked together, they had met on a number of occasions. What surprised April was what the caller wanted. The government had hundreds of these weapons stored in military and intelligence warehouses around the globe. Then again, April understood that they might not have one exactly to these specifications. She also knew that sometimes goods had to be acquired “off the books” because the system had “moles and holes,” as the caller referred to them.
April could deliver it, of course. And she would, because she trusted the caller and their mutual friend.
Besides, it was fun and lucrative. Just like working on the old Formica-topped kitchen table in the cabin in Sneedville.
April was informed that the components would be delivered to her home that evening, and she was to assemble them for pickup the following morning. That was more than enough time. These weapons were increasingly modular. Not like the days when Private Walter Dorrance had to use a mallet and spare train rails to fashion replacement cranks and ballast for the Allies’ twelve-inch Mk4 siege Howitzers. He certainly did not get paid as well as she did, either. This one would buy her mother a new car.
And maybe do some good. Because war could be a force for good.
Even a war that was only one bomb long.
SIXTEEN
Washington, D.C.
Monday, 5:22 P.M.
When Darrell McCaskey worked for the FBI, he nurtured relationships with the press. McCaskey did not believe it was the right of the public to know everything that was going on in law enforcement. But reporters had sources who were otherwise unavailable to the Bureau. Information was the coin of the realm, and to find out what journalists knew, McCaskey often had to trade confidential data. Happily, he was never burned. Trust was the foundation of journalism — between reporter and subject, medium and audience. Throughout his years with the Bureau, McCaskey had encountered a handful of agents he did not trust for one reason or another. Yet he never met a reporter who went back on his or her word. Results were the foundation of crime fighting,
The guest list for Orr’s party, published in the Washington Post, differed from the guest list given to McCaskey by the Metro Police. The newspaper had a list of everyone who was invited. The police had the list of people who had actually showed up, as tallied by the invitations turned in at the door.
There were four names on the invite list that did not show up on the attendance list. Mike Rodgers was on both lists. McCaskey could not imagine why the general had been invited.
Rodgers was out of the office, and McCaskey left a message on his cell phone. Then he called the Washington Post reporter who had covered the event. It would be necessary to talk to everyone who was there and also get an accurate head count; someone might have slipped in through the kitchen or a side door or walked in on the arm of a senator. McCaskey also wanted to find out who Wilson was seen conversing with. That was something a journalist would have noticed.
Bill Tymore was the Post business reporter who had attended the party. He had come as the date of Kendra Peterson, Senator Orr’s executive assistant. Tymore agreed to talk if McCaskey agreed to keep him in the loop, off the record. McCaskey did not have a problem with that.
“Before you ask, I’ve been seeing Kendra for nearly a year, she does not expect preferential coverage, and I left about a half-hour before Wilson did so I could write my article,” Tymore said.
