Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  “Mr. Lawless—”

  “Bob,” he said softly.

  “Bob,” she said, “I appreciate your kindness, but I think I’ll just sit here a while and then go home.”

  “To a scoundrel?”

  “For now,” she said. “I will see about having him relocated in the morning.”

  “I am not without connections here,” Bob said, patting her shoulder. “Perhaps I can help. If you’d like, we can still have that drink.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No! He’s still here, and I don’t want to see him again—”

  “In my suite, then, if you like,” Bob said. “I will be a gentleman.”

  The woman dabbed her eyes and looked into his. “Well . . . I don’t feel like going home, and it is chilly.”

  “That is to be expected when you sit beside a fountain,” he pointed out with a smile. “Your shoulder is damp with spray. We can set your coat out to dry.”

  She smiled back. “All right, Mr. Lawless—Bob. Thank you. I would be delighted to join you for a drink.”

  Bob walked back to his aide and finished up their conversation. He sent the young man off in the limousine, then returned. He offered her his arm. She put on sunglasses—to hide her bloodshot eyes, she said—then took it. Less than two minutes later they were in his penthouse suite.

  They sat in the living room, and he poured drinks from the minibar. He removed her damp jacket for her. He sat on a separate chair, though he did move it over to be close. She asked what he did. He said he was one of the largest commercial real estate brokers in the Carolinas. He told her he spent a great deal of time in Washington lobbying for tax incentives so that companies would stay in the United States instead of moving to Mexico or the Far East.

  She felt bad. Bob Lawless was her kind of guy, except for the fact that he obviously had a wife and did not care. But she was here, and they needed this kill.

  He had moved in closer while he was speaking and fixed her with his pale blue eyes. She responded to his “gentlemanly” advance by crying and then taking his hand for support and allowing him to put his arm around her. He kissed her damp cheek. She turned and hugged his neck and put her hands behind his head. She let her fingers loose in his longish hair, and he began kissing her neck. Without breaking their connection, she slid from her chair and bent over him, still holding him tight.

  He was sitting and she was standing. She put her lips gently against his ear and continued to kiss it while she released her embrace and moved around him.

  “You are a wonderful man, Bob Lawless,” the woman whispered as she shifted behind him.

  “And you are a beautiful woman,” he replied. “One who should never know this kind of pain.”

  “You are so sweet, so gentle.”

  She sniffled hard to show that her tears were coming to an end. Then she eased her right arm around his throat. She slid her fingertips gently along his throat to the left, so that her forearm went across the front.

  “Your neck, your shoulders, they’re so strong,” she said.

  “That comes from a lot of golf and tennis,” he told her. “I also work out with a trainer.”

  “It shows,” she said. Her eyes ranged over his torso. “Broad shoulders, graceful motion, strong hands.”

  Her fingers moved to his ear. A moment later, his chin was near the crook of her arm.

  “I like outdoor games,” she said. “Indoor, too.”

  “Oh? What kind?” he asked slyly.

  Suddenly, the woman pulled her forearm back toward her, hard. Before Bob could react, she put her left hand against the left side of his face and pushed to the right. That drove his throat deeper into the wedge of her elbow.

  This particular choke hold blocked the air supply instantly and completely. It also cut off the flow of blood to the brain. Unconsciousness typically came in less than ten seconds. That was not even enough time for the skin of the neck to bruise.

  Bob Lawless gasped silently while tugging and then clawing desperately at her arm. He kicked out with his unscuffed Ferragamos as the seconds lengthened. The shiny black shoes moved like windshield wipers, in and out, in and out, before falling to the plush plum carpet. An instant later, Bob’s shoulders drooped, his arms went slack, and his head rolled to the right.

  Cautiously, the woman relaxed her hold. Bob’s head dropped forward, his breathing barely audible.

  “What kind of games do I like?” the woman said. “The kind where I make the rules.”

  The woman went to a lamp and angled the shade so the light hit Bob in the face. Then she retrieved her purse from a nearby coffee table. She removed the syringe and the handkerchief he had given her. She used the cloth to grip his tongue, raising it and working the needle underneath She poked the tip into the large vein at the root and injected ten milliliters of potassium chloride. Then she stepped back. She watched, listened as his respiration went from shallow to none.

  She tucked the handkerchief and syringe in her purse, retrieved her jacket, then undid one of the buttons of Bob’s shirt. She slid her right hand inside and felt his chest. There was no heartbeat. She stood back.

  “Sorry, Bob,” she said. “But at least you died advancing a cause you believed in.”

  Bob had removed her scarf. She used it to wipe fingerprints from the solid surfaces she had touched—the drinking glass and the wooden armrests of the chair. Then she slipped it back on her head. The woman removed a pair of white gloves from her purse and put them on, along with her sunglasses. She left the room and returned to the elevator, careful to keep her face downturned. All that the cameras in the elevator would see was her jacket and the top of her head.

  Just like the night before.

  Hopefully, no more killings remained.

  EIGHTEEN

  Washington, D. C. Monday, 8: 30 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey came by to see Rodgers after the meeting with Hood. He invited Rodgers for a drink but the general declined. He said he needed to be alone, to think about the job offer from the senator. In fact, Rodgers did not feel like socializing with anyone from Op-Center. It was nothing personal, but the odor of disloyalty hung about the place and its people. Rodgers hoped it would pass. He liked McCaskey and Bob Herbert. But he needed to get away from it now. He spent a few hours cleaning his office, deleting personal files from his computer, and storing them on disks.

  He reached his ranch-style home in Bethesda, Maryland, at seven-thirty. He removed his jacket and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. Then he poured a drink and sat down at the small dining room table. As he went through the mail, he sipped the small “medicinal dose” of Southern Comfort, as his grandfather used to call it. It was exactly what he needed to heal his wounded soul.

  The mail was all catalogues and bills, no letters. Not that Rodgers was surprised. He could not remember the last letter he received. He remembered what it meant to get letters in Vietnam, to read words that had made a journey from hand to hand. It was immediate and intimate, like looking over someone’s shoulder as they gave something of themselves. Opening an envelope that contained an offer for a 0 percent credit card or discount coupons from the local strip mall did not have the same effect.

  Then something nearly as good happened. Rodgers got a call from Kat Lockley. She was not calling about business.

  “I’m sorry I did not get to see you before,” she said. “It was a very press-intensive day. And it’s not over. We’ve got Nightline coming up.”

  “I understand completely,” he said. “Are you going with the senator to the Nightline broadcast?”

  “Actually, I’m not. I had a meeting outside the office about the convention. He went with his attorney, David Rico. Dave had some concern about what Koppel might ask and wanted some ground rules about the homicide.”

  “Understandable.”

  “So, since I’m free, and since it looks like we’re going to be working together, I was wondering if you felt like grabbing dinner or a snack or a drink,” she said.r />
  “Actually, dinner is a good idea,” he replied. “I didn’t have time for lunch. Where are you?”

  “In my car, on Delaware Avenue.”

  Rodgers thought for a moment. “How about Equinox, 818 Connecticut Avenue NW?”

  “Perfect,” she said. “American cuisine.”

  “That’s why I suggested it,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be there in thirty-five or forty minutes.”

  “I’ll be at the bar with a vodka martini,” she said. “By the time you get there, it will be my second.”

  “I hear that,” Rodgers said.

  He hung up, left his own unfinished glass in the sink, snatched his jacket from the sofa, and headed out. The call from Kat was more healing than the Southern Comfort. It was reassuring to feel part of a team, especially when a woman was right there in the huddle. It occurred to him that he did not even know if she was married, engaged, dating, or straight. Right now, the camaraderie was more important.

  The roads to D.C. were lightly trafficked, and Connecticut Avenue NW was virtually empty. Rodgers made the drive in a half-hour flat. The dark bar was crowded with staffers from the White House, which was nearby, along with a cross section of Washington power brokers. Kat was at the end of the bar, talking to a slender, very attractive woman. The woman was holding a small beaded purse in her left hand and a glass of red wine in her right.

  “Mike, I’d like you to meet Lucy O’Connor,” Kat said as he approached. It was loud in the bar, and Kat had to shout to be heard. No wonder nothing ever stayed a secret in Washington.

  The woman put her drink on the bar. “Delighted,” she said as she shook Rodgers’s hand.

  “Lucy writes about the Hill for the American Spectator and has a syndicated radio show,” Kat said. “How many markets now?”

  “Forty-seven,” she said.

  “Impressive,” Rodgers said.

  “Not compared to what you have done,” Lucy said.

  Rodgers rolled a shoulder. “I was in the wrong places at the right time.”

  “A true hero, taciturn and modest,” Lucy remarked. “But since you’ve very happily fallen in my lap, General Rodgers, tell me, in as few words as you like. Is Op-Center busy redefining its mission?”

  “If having your budget whacked is redefining, I suppose the answer is yes,” Rodgers replied.

  “I heard about the cuts, but that isn’t what I meant. I’m talking about the Wilson investigation.”

  “Wow, that’s really the talk of the town, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked.

  “Everything is the talk of this town,” Lucy said.

  “The Wilson investigation is a fluke,” he said.

  Rodgers leaned past the reporter and ordered a Samuel Adams. He hated being pushed, and he hated being pushed by journalists even more. They attacked the front door, the back door, the windows, and when that did not work, they crawled under the front stoop and waited like snakes.

  “Is that what you two are here to discuss?” Lucy asked.

  “Good guess, but no,” Kat told her.

  Lucy frowned. “You’re not going to tell me it’s purely social.”

  “Actually, it is,” Rodgers said as the bartender handed him his beer. “I was at the senator’s party last night. Ms. Lockley wanted to meet me and called. Here I am.”

  “Why were you at the party?”

  “Free food,” Rodgers said.

  Lucy smiled. “All right, General. I won’t press. But Kat? I want a half-hour window if there’s any news. That will give me time to put it on my web site.”

  “And give you bragging rights for being the first,” Rodgers said.

  “That’s what gives a reporter heft,” Lucy replied. “You remember those days, don’t you, Kat?”

  Kat said she did and agreed to give Lucy a scoop if there was one to be had. The reporter left the bar to scout for leads elsewhere. Kat picked up a shopping bag that was beside the stool, and Rodgers escorted his date and his beer to the restaurant atrium for dinner.

  “Sorry about all that,” Kat sat as they were seated. “She got there right before you did, so there was no time to disengage. I hope it wasn’t too painful.”

  “Define ‘too.’ ”

  “Enough to make you not want to work with us,” Kat said. “We have to be much more accessible than the key people at Op-Center.”

  “It will take getting used to, but I’ll survive,” Rodgers said. “All I need to do is keep up that Gary Cooper facade.”

  “That may be even more appealing,” Kat pointed out.

  “Maybe, but at least there are only two words to the script,” Rodgers said. “ ‘Yup’ and ‘nope.’ I can handle that. But how about we do what we told Ms. O’Connor. Keep this social.”

  “Good idea,” she said, just ahead of a smile that was the first one he could recall seeing.

  “Anything interesting in the bag?” Rodgers asked.

  “A present and my Nikes,” Kat said. “Heels get tiring.”

  “I can imagine,” he said. “You want to change? I won’t say anything.”

  “Not appropriate in here. When I leave.”

  “So tell me. How did you come to work with the senator ?” Rodgers asked.

  “Well, as you probably gathered from Lucy, I used to be one of them,” she said. “I graduated from Columbia and was hired by the Wall Street Journal as a reporter for the Washington Bureau.”

  “Were your folks reporters or politicians?”

  “They were New York City cops. Both of them. So was my older brother. The Lockley family defined the word tough.”

  “Was there any pressure for you to go into law enforcement ?”

  “Not directly.” She laughed. “Unless you consider taking martial arts and gun safety classes instead of ballet and playing with dolls to be pressure. I didn’t mind, though. We did it as a family.”

  “Sounds pretty well-adjusted,” Rodgers said.

  “It was.”

  “Then where did journalism come from?”

  “Our other family activity was watching the news on TV,” Kat said. “The local news always had a lot of police stories, and I loved watching the reporters. They got to hang with police officers and firefighters and soldiers, so I started doing my own newscasts with our video camera and interviewing my folks and their friends. I loved it, and it stuck.”

  The waiter came over, and they took a moment to look at the menu. They decided to order several appetizers and share.

  “So,” Rodgers went on. “Did you go directly from the Journal to becoming the senator’s press secretary?”

  “Pretty much,” she said. “I made some stabs at getting into TV, but you need connections, fangs, or both. All I had was an interest in reporting news. Dad and the senator were old buds. When I was assigned to cover Don Orr’s last campaign, he offered me a job. He said it wasn’t nepotism. He told me I had ‘the goods.’ ”

  “You do,” Rodgers said.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “I figured if nothing else, I’d pick up TV connections for the future.”

  “Smart. Looks like you anticipated everything.”

  “Not quite,” she said. “In a high-profile position like this one, you have to watch everything you say and everything your boss says.” She gestured toward the bar. “As you saw back there, self-censorship is a constant process, and you suffer a complete loss of privacy. I did not appreciate the degree to which that would happen.”

  “Maybe you need to come up with an alter ego,” Rodgers suggested. “Get a wig, a pair of sunglasses, black lipstick.”

  “I have all of those.” She laughed. “It’s my Goth side.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Goth. Gothic. You know—vampires, black lace and leather, sharpening your teeth with a file and dying your skin white.”

  “People do that?” Rodgers asked.

  Kat nodded. “It’s a large and growing subculture.”

  “I had no idea.”

  The age difference of some twenty year
s suddenly became very apparent to Rodgers. He still thought the rock group KISS was over the top. At the same time, Rodgers’s respect for Senator Orr grew. The Texan was even older, yet he had dared to hire a twenty-something who brought different ideas to the staff. Though it was alarming to think of vampires as a potential voting bloc.

  “It’s funny,” Kat said as the food arrived. “I’m the journalist, yet you’re the one asking the questions.”

  “I don’t have access to a dossier of your entire life,” Rodgers pointed out.

  “Touché,” she said, smiling again.

  The two talked a little about Rodgers and then about the problems of mounting a national campaign. It was an open, intelligent talk. Rodgers did not know if it had been part of Orr’s plan, but by the time they were finished, the general had decided to accept the employment offer.

  While they were having coffee, Lucy O’Connor returned. She was making notes in a PalmPilot as she weaved through the crowded restaurant and made her way directly to the table. Upon arriving, she fixed her eager eyes on Kat.

  “There’s been another killing,” she said breathlessly.

  “Who?” Kat asked. She seemed unusually alarmed. Or maybe she was tired of talking to reporters.

  “A big shot Southern realtor named Robert Lawless,” Lucy said, reading from the PalmPilot. “A woman went to his hotel room—at the Monarch, this time—and left a few minutes later. Sometime between, she apparently poked him under the tongue with a hypodermic. The only difference between the Wilson and Lawless incidents is that this killer went up with him.”

  “Did the security cameras get anything?” Rodgers asked.

  “Same as yesterday,” Lucy replied. “A woman whose features were hidden, this time by a scarf and sunglasses.”

  “How did you hear about it?” Kat asked.

  “Someone in hotel security saw the woman in the elevator, thought she looked suspicious, and decided to check on Mr. Lawless. I was in the bar, networking, heard the fuss.”

  “But they didn’t hold the woman,” Kat said.

  “They were a few steps too late,” Lucy said. “She got off on the mezzanine, not in the lobby, and walked out a side door. The good news, I guess, is that it seems to take your soiree out of the spotlight. Lawless wasn’t on the invite list.”