by Clancy, Tom
Maybe with good reason, Hood thought. “Darrell, look. I’m not asking you to have a seat in my bunker.”
“I know that, Paul—”
“My personal concerns don’t change the fact that the threat to Op-Center is real,” Hood went on. “We lost a fifth of our budget today. We can’t ignore the possibility that there will be additional cuts.”
“I agree.”
“At the same time, we have to do what we can to help our colleagues,” Hood continued. “All I want you to do is fly as far under the radar as possible.”
“In D.C.?”
“I know,” Hood said with resignation. “Just be careful. If your name gets attached to this, I don’t want any interviews. Make sure your Yard contact understands the lowprofile agenda, and maintain minimal C and C with your colleagues at the Bureau.”
C and C was contact and collaboration. It described the friendly enemy status of relations between rival domestic law enforcement and intelligence groups. Most international agencies got along fine.
“I will go out in stealth mode,” McCaskey promised.
“Good. And when you nail the guy who did this, we’ll have another look at how to play it with Debenport and the CIOC.”
“Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia, and then we’ll talk.”
“Something like that,” Hood said.
“Sounds good. And chief? I know it’s been a tough morning. If I came on a little hard, I’m sorry.”
“You asked the right questions at the right time,” Hood said. “If I can’t take that, I don’t deserve to be in this chair.”
McCaskey smiled. It was good to see that.
When McCaskey left, Hood told Bugs to hold his calls for five minutes. Then he rubbed his forehead and thought again about the situation with Frankie Hunt. If it were about his son, Alexander, Hood would not have failed to get him an internship. Sharon knew that. So she would know that her former husband had given this minimal effort—if that. Would the little bit of self-respect he gained be worth the little bit of self-respect he could give?
Hesitantly, as though it were a coiled snake, Hood reached for the phone. He began making more calls, in a less ambivalent voice than he had used that morning.
THIRTEEN
Washington, D. C. Monday, 2:17 P.M.
The telephone call came from Detective Robert Howell of the D.C. Metropolitan Police. Kendra Peterson took it in her office. The detective asked to speak with the senator. He would not say why. Orr was working in the sunlit conference room with Admiral Link and Kat Lockley. Kendra conferenced in the senator, then joined them. Orr put the call on the speakerphone. His American flag tie was loose, and his shirtsleeves were opened at the cuffs and pulled back along his forearms.
“Senator, before the news hits the grapevine, I wanted you to know that William Wilson appears to have been murdered.”
Howell said it quickly, efficiently, and unemotionally. The impact was like Franklin Roosevelt describing the day that would live in infamy.
“How did it happen?” Orr asked. He realized he had to take charge of the discussion. Everyone else was too stunned.
“Mr. Wilson was apparently given an injection of a heart-inhibiting drug,” Howell replied.
“Presumably by the woman he met in his hotel?” Orr asked.
“That is our assumption. We’ll require fine tissue analysis beyond the scope of the original autopsy to determine what the heart muscle may have absorbed. That will take several days of extensive circulatory analysis.”
“Detective, this is Admiral Ken Link. Was the new evidence discovered after the autopsy was completed?” he asked.
“Just a few hours ago, Admiral,” Howell said. “The medical examiner tells me that a gentleman from Op-Center had a look at the body and discovered the puncture mark.”
“Op-Center? What were they doing there?” Link asked.
“I don’t have that information, sir,” Howell said.
“And they found this wound in the presence of an ME?” Link pressed.
“Yes. Why?”
“I wouldn’t trust those spy boys to run a fair Bingo game,” said the Oregon-born officer.
“ ‘Those’ meaning from Op-Center?” Howell asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have reason to suspect they would falsify something like this?” Howell asked.
“Their budget was gutted this morning,” Link replied. “Paul Hood needs something to get back in the game.”
“Including sabotaging a body on short notice?” Howell asked.
“Jury-rigged sabotage is what field operatives do,” Link pointed out. “Detective, I’m not accusing Op-Center of wrongdoing. I am only saying that the timing is suspicious.”
Kat touched the mute button. “Ken, we can ask Mike Rodgers about that when he gets here.”
“That may not be wise,” Link said.
“People, we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Orr said. The senator deactivated the mute function. “Detective Howell, what kind of scrutiny is this office facing?”
“I honestly don’t know, sir,” Howell told him. “We need to find that woman. If he met her at a bar on the way home, or if he called an escort service some time during the day, then obviously you’re clear. If she was one of your guests, then I’m afraid the paddy wagon will kick up some mud.”
“Understandable,” Orr admitted. “You have the guest list from the party.”
“Yes, sir. We are in the process of interviewing the attendees.”
“Detective, I truly appreciate the call,” Orr said. “If we hear anything about the mystery woman, I will certainly let you know.”
“Thank you, Senator. I will do the same.”
Orr terminated the call. He sat back and crossed his big arms. “Who is she? Any thoughts, guesses?”
No one spoke. Orr was not surprised. When Ken Link worked at the CIA, Op-Center was perceived as a rival. The former admiral had an opportunity for payback and took the shot. There were always potential enemies among allies, and no one wanted to say anything that might backfire. Washington was a town of two degrees of separation. Between the four of them, they had known everyone at the party. Everyone at the party knew virtually everyone in D.C.
“All right then,” Orr went on. “Kat, does this change our strategy for the interviews tonight?”
“Not as far as the comments about Mr. Wilson,” Kat replied. She looked over her notes. “When asked about the death you were going to say, ‘As an inventor, Mr. Wilson left behind a significant technological legacy.’ Two mentions of his credentials as a scientist to suggest that Wilson was no banking genius. I do not see why we need to change that.”
“I agree, but the murder charge is sure to come up,” Kendra said. “The senator will need to address it.”
“I would deflect it with a boilerplate comment about the charges being hearsay or a police matter,” Kat told them. “Get in and out, say something that doesn’t invite a follow-up.”
“Why?” Kendra asked.
The question surprised Kat. “Because the press would love to link the senator or any public figure to a homicide,” Kat said.
“We’re already linked,” Kendra pointed out. “Wilson was dead within two hours of leaving the party.”
“Where are you going with this, Kendra?” Orr asked.
“The USF will have a platform built on the commonsense rights of American citizens. That includes justice for all and a presumption of innocence. Let’s be proactive about that. Tell the interviewer that innuendo is impertinent, intolerable, and eroding our society. That the quest for sensational headlines is counterproductive to the dignity inherent in our judicial system.”
“That’s like trying to reason with a cheetah or shame a snake,” Kat said. “A predator can’t change what it is.”
“Let them hiss. I’m talking about presenting our courage,” Kendra said. “We can’t be afraid to take on the press, and this would be a good time and place to margina
lize them.”
“I agree that the point is worth making,” the senator said thoughtfully. “But the immediate aftermath of Wilson’s death is probably not the best time.”
“You’ll have the nation’s ear,” Link said.
The admiral did not usually weigh in unless he felt strongly about something. Orr could not remember a time when his inner circle was this divided. Kendra was sitting ramrod straight, her expression tense. Kat was drumming her pen on her pad. Link was hunched over the table as if he were playing a naval war game, staring at a map and toy battleships. Orr did not know whether it was the pressure of the upcoming convention, the shock of the latest revelation, or both. He could not let himself be affected by either of those. As president, which he hoped to be, Orr would have to respond to greater crises with vision, intelligence, and poise.
“Ken, are you at all concerned that we will appear opportunistic or defensive?” Orr asked.
“Not especially,” Link replied. “Speaking the truth aggressively is a mark of confidence. As for opportunism, it’s the media that is taking advantage of you. You’re only getting this particular airtime because of Wilson’s death.”
“The audience will perceive the media as neutral,” Kat insisted. “They are the medium. We are the message.”
“I agree completely,” Kendra said. “Which is why we have to defend the women who were at our party. Otherwise, we will be perceived as using this misfortune just to get the senator’s face out there.”
“Kendra, none of our guests has been charged with a crime,” Kat pointed out.
“But all of them, you and I included, will be investigated by agents of the law and by the press,” Kendra said.
“Both of which are Constitutionally protected activities,” Kat said. She regarded the senator. “Sir, I agree that there is mutual exploitation going on. We can use tonight as a staging area for the convention and use the convention to build our platform. To do more tonight is ghoulish.”
“That’s a strong word, Kat,” Link remarked.
“Isn’t that what we’re talking about, generating strong reactions?”
Orr could see this getting personal. Kat was very protective of her public relations activities, and both Link and Kendra liked to be involved in everything. Until now, they usually agreed.
The senator looked at his watch. “People, General Rodgers will be here soon. I suggest we do the following. I agree with Kat. I do not want to come on too strong tonight—about Wilson. But I do see one way in. This is a Metro Police matter. A federal agency like the National Crisis Management Center has no business being involved. General Rodgers works for Op-Center. He will know what is going on. That is something we can be aggressive about.”
“Right,” Kat said admiringly. “That will also shift the attention from us onto some vague conspiracy theory.”
“That’s a good one,” Kendra admitted.
“Ken, do you know anything more about this budget cut?”
“No. I saw it in the Congressional Intelligence Oversight minutes.”
“What other agencies were hit?” Orr asked.
“None,” Link told him. “They all received bumps, in fact.”
“So this is a big wrist-slap for Hood,” Orr said. “Kat, research the NCMC and talk to Senator Debenport. He’s the head of the CIOC. See if you can find out, informally, what precipitated the cut. That might be useful in the general election. Debenport will have to explain why he is putting our nation at risk. I’ll find out what I can from Mike Rodgers.”
“Senator, the CBS people will be here in a half hour to set up,” Kat said.
“I’m sure General Rodgers won’t mind a brief interruption.” Orr rose. “Thank you, all. This has been very stimulating.”
The conference room emptied quickly, and the senator went to his office. A sense of order had been restored, but one that was laced with healthy tension. The interns, assistants, and secretaries felt it and stayed focused. This was how Orr liked it. Direction with a whisper of urgency, purpose without desperation.
Of course, things might not remain this way. But that was all right, too.
Senator Orr shut his office door. The heavy silence felt good. He enjoyed it for a moment, then listened to the phone messages his secretary had passed on. He returned just one, a call to his wife. He wanted to tell her about William Wilson before she heard it on the news. Valerie Orr spent most of the year in Texas because she disliked catty Washington society. The senator missed her but was glad she chose the ranch over D.C. If anyone ever insulted her or talked about her, he would give that individual an old-fashioned switch-whipping.
As he sat down to review General Rodgers’s dossier one last time, Orr thought about something his father used to say on the ranch. Whenever money or water were precipitously low, Jeremiah Orr would push an ever-present plug of Red Man chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum, look down at his feet, and say to no one in particular, “I still like our position a whole lot better than the cows.’ ”
Come what may, Senator Orr liked a good challenge. He liked testing his own ideas and hearing the ideas of his team. He liked his position.
He liked it a lot better than William Wilson’s.
FOURTEEN
Washington, D. C. Monday, 2: 59 P.M.
To most outsiders, the Capitol and the office buildings that serviced it defined the phrase corridors of power. For over a century, ideas that had first influenced the world, then dominated it, were debated here. Refined here. Presidents were humbled here or declared war here. Laws were passed or revoked here, causing ripples that affected every life in the nation, through every federal, state, and local court. Art and expression were financed here or restricted here.
What Mike Rodgers saw were not COPs. Whenever he had business here—which was mercifully rare—Rodgers felt as though he were entering an abattoir. Fortunately, until this morning, he had not been a very fat cow, so the blades did not usually affect him. But this was where budgets were hacked, policies were eviscerated, good ideas were whittled to nubs, and wise or well-intentioned men and women were cut down at the knees or decapitated.
Vietnam was lost here, not on the battlefield.
The Capitol was about power in the same way ice hockey was about travel. There was a lot of aggressive, muscular movement but very little progress. It was odd. Rodgers did not even see the white of the dome and columns as much as he saw the dark recesses and shadows that creased and abutted them.
Rodgers hoped that Senator Orr could change those impressions.
Military reservists were stationed outside the building, and Rodgers acknowledged their salutes as he was checked through. He went to Senator Orr’s first-floor office and was buzzed in. He did not need to announce himself. A security camera above the door did that for him.
Maybe they should call it the corridors of paranoia, he thought. He glanced along the hall. Security was an important issue. But he did not think it was necessary to have a camera above each door. The money the government spent on this surveillance system would be better spent on one or two good Special Ops agents who could track and eliminate assassins.
Rodgers refused to let any of this flavor his opinion of Donald Orr. Men could not be held accountable for the transgressions of their peers.
A sharp young female receptionist sat behind a mahogany desk in the small waiting area. The woman had already come from around the desk. She welcomed Rodgers with a large smile and a strong handshake.
“General Rodgers, thank you for coming. The senator is expecting you,” she said. The woman entered a code into a keypad by the six-panel cherry wood door. This opened into the main offices. “May I get you coffee or a soft drink?”
“Black coffee would be good. No sugar.”
She walked him through a short maze of desks and cubicles to the senator’s closed door. She knocked and was told to enter. The big Texan rose and walked from behind his desk. His eyes were squarely on the general.
�
�The man who prevented World War III,” Senator Orr said. “Twice.”
“I’m hardly that, but thank you,” Rodgers said.
“General, modesty is forbidden on the Hill,” Orr said. “We passed a law against it, I think.”
“I’m only visiting.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Orr said as the men shook hands. “I hear tin horns every damn day. When you’ve got Gabriel’s trumpet, play it.”
Rodgers felt old calluses on the senator’s palm and undersides of his fingers. He knew that the Orr family was in ranching. He was glad to see the senator had not been too privileged to work.
“Besides, I’m hoping we can convince you to stay,” the senator went on. “Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a leather armchair.
The receptionist returned with Rodgers’s coffee. He had not even seen her slip away. She set it on a glass-topped teapoy in front of the chair. Steam rose from a navy blue mug with the Camp David logo in gold. The logo was set facing Rodgers. It was just a cornet semiquaver but unavoidable.
A barrel-chested man entered as the receptionist left. Rodgers recognized him from the party.
“Admiral Link,” Rodgers said, rising.
“Sit,” the admiral said. He shut the door behind him before shaking Rodgers’s hand. He swung an armchair around so that there were three chairs in a circle. “Good to meet you. Sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk last night.”
“Those things are always so unmanageable,” said the senator, taking a seat. “Not like a good cattle drive.”
“You should hand out electric prods,” Rodgers said.
“Best idea I’ve heard in a while.” Orr laughed. It was a genuine laugh, not a performance.
“I heard about William Wilson on the drive over,” Rodgers said. “Has there been any fallout?”
“Not yet,” Orr said. “I have to do a live segment on the CBS Evening News in about twenty minutes, though. I’ll know more after that. Hopefully, you’ll stick around so we can talk more. I don’t want to rush this.”
