by Clancy, Tom
Richmond started down the fire road toward the Jeep. The driver’s side window was open.
“Good morning, Deputy,” Richmond said as he approached.
The deputy glanced into the side mirror. “Morning, sir.” He regarded Richmond a moment longer. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“Looks like you got your arm bundled up.”
“No, no, I’m just collecting birds’ eggs for my aviary,” he smiled. He was speaking in a soft, fair voice. Laying a trap was part of the fun.
“Collecting eggs—with a bowie knife?” the deputy asked.
“That’s for snakes,” Richmond said as he reached the window.
“I thought so, though I suggest next time you bring a firearm. Carrying anything larger than a pocket knife is a felony.”
“But not a handgun?” Richmond said.
“No, sir.”
“Lord bless the NRA,” Richmond said.
The deputy took a swallow of coffee, then replaced the cup on top of the thermos. He was wearing a wedding band. He could not have been more than twenty-six. Richmond wondered if he came up here to slack off in secret or to contemplate the universe. Was he deciding whether to leave his wife or wistfully remembering how they used to come up here at night to make out? Richmond tried to guess how far ahead this young man had planned his life. To the next day? To the next promotion? To his first or next child?
“I’m Wayne Richmond, by the way,” the man said.
“Andy Belmont,” the deputy said. He extended his hand, then withdrew it when he remembered the bundle of eggs. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Richmond replied. “I walk here often, but I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I was transferred from Southwest Station last week,” Deputy Belmont told him. “I thought it would be a good idea to familiarize myself with the area in case I’m ever called up here.”
“Good thinking,” Richmond said. “Tell me, Deputy, is this the start or end of your shift?”
“The end,” the deputy said. “I get the morning babysitting chores so my wife can go to work. Then her mother relieves me so I can go to sleep.”
“Really? It must be difficult, working different hours like that.”
The deputy smiled. “I don’t know. It sort of makes us appreciate the time you do have together.”
“I guess that would be true,” Richmond said. He looked down at the young man’s exposed lap. All he had to do was empty the windbreaker sleeve and grab the radio from the deputy’s left shoulder. It was within easy reach, by the window. Deputy Belmont would die where he sat.
The deputy put his thermos in the cup holder between the seats. He turned his headlights back on. “Have a good day, sir, and don’t forget about the knife.”
Richmond had bent forward to talk to the deputy. He straightened so that his waist was even with the window. “Thanks. I won’t.”
He stood back. The deputy waved as he started down the path. Richmond nodded after him. And with his fingers tightening around the snake’s neck, he twisted it in a complete circle. The snake, which had begun wriggling again, trembled for a moment and then was still. Richmond shook the sleeve lightly. The snake did not move. He dumped it from the sleeve and jumped back.
The snake hit the ground and lay there. It was dead. Richmond left it for the crows, then turned and started back toward the ledge.
The day had begun better than Richmond could have imagined. Two snakes were dead, and he had spared a deputy. Three lives had been his. More, if he counted the wife and child.
To risk or not, to kill or not. Choice was the heart of control, control was the engine of power, and power was the key to a rewarding life. Wayne Richmond did not know how rewarding the rest of his life would be. But this day, at least, had begun very well indeed.
TWENTY-THREE
Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 9:44 A.M.
Darrell McCaskey was not what his FBI coworkers would have described as “badge heavy.” He did not bully suspects, subordinates, or anyone else. But when he wanted results, he usually got them. He was earnest. And if the earnestness failed to register, there were always his squared shoulders, unyielding eyes, and commanding manner.
McCaskey was dressed in a leather jacket instead of his usual tweedy blazer. He felt the battered old bomber jacket looked street-smart, a little more intimidating. He arrived at the Russell Senate Office Building and showed his Op-Center ID to the security guard. McCaskey instructed the young woman not to call ahead. He wanted to send a signal to the admiral. This was an investigation, not a fishing expedition. McCaskey would be courteous and respectful during the interview, but he would not be servile. The Bureau referred to this as the LAT approach—legal authority tactics. Suspects had rights under the law. So did police and Bureau interrogators.
McCaskey walked quickly to the senator’s office. The receptionist directed McCaskey to the conference room. Political parties are not permitted to have unelected representatives working on federal property. There were no regulations governing unaffiliated advisers.
Admiral Link had just returned from the press conference and was checking E-mails on his laptop. He appeared slightly unsettled.
“You don’t waste time,” Link said without looking up from the computer.
“Not when I’m on the taxpayers’ clock,” McCaskey said.
“Civic responsibility. A sad exception, not the rule,” Link said. “Would you like coffee or tea, Mr.—?”
“McCaskey, and no thanks,” McCaskey interrupted. He took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I just wanted to ask you questions about some of your activities at the Company.”
Link smiled. “I have two things to say, Mr. McCaskey. First, you’re aware that I am not permitted to discuss any of the work I did, even with a member of an intelligence service.”
“Technically, that isn’t true.”
Link finally glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“The standard CIA employment agreement says that a former employee may not reveal information that might compromise ongoing operations,” McCaskey said. “You signed such an agreement without riders. I checked. My questions involve personnel you may have worked with who are either no longer with the Company or may be assigned to the D.C. area.”
“You abrogate the spirit of confidentiality, Mr. McCaskey.”
“People have said worse things about me, sometimes in English,” McCaskey replied. “What is the second thing you wanted to say?”
“Sidestepping the question of whether you or anyone else has reasonable cause to insist on this interview, I’m curious,” Link said. “By what chartered authority is Op-Center here to question me?”
“By the International Intelligence Cooperation Act of 2002,” McCaskey replied as he sat at the table across from Link. “A British national has died, Scotland Yard has requested an investigation, and we were the agent they selected. By law, I am permitted to ask questions of potential witnesses to the crime or events leading up to it. The senator agreed to an interview with Director Hood, which establishes his understanding of the validity of the IICA. Do you object to my questioning you?”
“Yes, and I also question your interpretation of the law,” Link said. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—for the moment.”
“Thank you. Admiral Link, have you personally hired anyone for the United States First Party?”
“No,” Link replied.
“Have you recommended anyone for a staff position, paid or interned, for the United States First Party?”
“Eric Stone, the young man who is managing the convention,” Link said. “That’s Eric with a c.”
“How do you know Mr. Stone?” McCaskey asked as he wrote the name in his notebook.
“He was my assistant at the Company. Eric is a very good organizer.”
“Does he have field experience?”
“As a certified public accountant,” Link replied. “Chicago o
ffice.”
“Have you hired or recommended anyone else?” McCaskey asked.
“Not yet.”
“What about the senator’s staff?” McCaskey asked.
“I brought in Kendra Peterson,” Link said.
“How do you know her?”
“She was a field agent based in Japan but working in North Korea and Taiwan,” Link said.
“One of yours?”
“Yes. Strictly ROO.”
ROO was recon only operative. However, McCaskey knew that even passive field agents were sometimes used in offensive operations. There was a case in Russia in 1979 when CIA operative Genson Blimline had been exposed by a Soviet mole. Rather than pull him out, the Company sent an observer in to watch the men who were sent to watch him. When they moved against Blimline, the ROO moved against them. Both the ROO and Blimline were able to get to a safe house in Moscow.
“Ms. Peterson’s name came up as a possible contact when Striker went over there,” said a voice from behind McCaskey. “I can get you that file.”
McCaskey turned. Mike Rodgers was standing in the conference room doorway.
“May I come in?” Rodgers asked Link.
“Absolutely,” Link replied.
Rodgers entered. His eyes were fixed on McCaskey. “What’s the latest on the witch-hunt?”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” McCaskey replied.
Rodgers did not reply.
“Mr. McCaskey, if you have more questions, would you please get to them?” Link said. “I have real work to do.”
Link’s smugness was starting to piss McCaskey off. “Admiral, this is a serious inquiry,” McCaskey said. “It would be a mistake to think otherwise.”
“Sir, you are taking it seriously, which is not the same thing,” Link told him. “But then, I have an advantage you do not, Mr. McCaskey.”
“And that is?”
“I know that I am innocent of any wrongdoing or complicity in wrongdoing. Now, what’s your next question?”
As much as McCaskey disliked Link, he reminded himself that he was here to get information, not to make a new friend.
“Are you aware of anyone who might possess the skill to talk their way into a man’s room, kill him by lethal injection under the tongue, and leave virtually undetected?” McCaskey asked.
“A woman, you mean.”
“Or a man who might have trained a woman.”
Link acknowledged the correction with a nod. “Only Kendra.”
“That woman is a font of hidden talents. Where did she get her training?” McCaskey asked.
“From the United States Marines,” Link said. “She spent several months as a 91-W, a health care specialist. She had to transfer out because of a problem with her fine motor skills.”
“Related to tendonitis?” McCaskey asked.
“I don’t know,” Link said. “Would you care to ask her?”
“Not at present,” McCaskey said. He wanted time to research Kendra’s file before talking to her.
“You may not get another chance,” Link advised him.
“Why not?”
“Because when you’re finished here, I intend to see that neither you nor anyone else from Op-Center get back in,” Link told him.
“That sounds like a warning and smells like guilt.”
“Only to a group of very desperate intelligence operatives,” Link said. “Paul Hood is already having difficulties with the CIOC. Senator Orr can see that he has a great many more.”
“Oh? Under what theory of Congressional authority?”
“Harassment of a private citizen,” Link told him. “Look, Mr. McCaskey. I don’t want to be difficult. We’re on the same team. Two businessmen have been murdered, and I would like to see their killer found and punished. But you have very odd suspicions about me and no evidence. Now you want to heap some of that vague conjecture on Kendra Peterson. I will ask her to join us in the spirit of cooperation, not because I believe the interview to have merit or cause. I would take that opportunity while the spirit is willing.”
McCaskey looked from Link to Rodgers. “No, Admiral. If I want something from Ms. Peterson, I will be in touch.”
Link laughed. “I haven’t decided whether you’re confident, proud, or obtuse, Mr. McCaskey. But you are selfrighteous. If I have not made it clear, you will not be coming back.”
McCaskey rose. “Thank you for your time, Admiral.” He looked at Rodgers. “I’m sorry this has been difficult for you, Mike.”
Rodgers did not reply with words. His hard expression was enough to convey his anger.
McCaskey looked back at Link. The admiral had already turned his attention back to his laptop.
“One more thing, Admiral,” McCaskey said.
“All right.” He did not look up.
“How do you feel about Mr. Wilson’s death?”
“Inconvenienced and torn,” Link replied without hesitation. “A man enjoyed the senator’s hospitality, returned to his hotel, and was murdered. That’s a sad, lawless, unjustifiable act. But he happened to be an individual whose economic ideas would have been detrimental to our nation. You can see my dilemma.”
“Some people would call it something else. A motive.”
“If only the world were so black-and-white,” Link said, “men like you would be ringmasters instead of sweeping up after the elephants. I’ll tell you one last time, Mr. McCaskey. You are misguided and doing both yourself and your organization a disservice.”
McCaskey showed himself out of the senator’s office. He wondered if Link were being sincere. Years at the CIA had given the man one hell of a poker face. And he had been extremely forthcoming about Kendra’s background. That is not something a guilty man was likely to do. McCaskey also wondered if he himself was being stubborn—“obtuse,” as Link had put it—by not interviewing Kendra Peterson now. McCaskey decided he was not. He wanted to have a look at photographs from the party, at photographs from Kendra’s file. He wanted to compare them with the indistinct pictures from the surveillance cameras. If there were no similarities, McCaskey might not have any reason to talk to her. Besides, if he had accepted, he would have been probing blind. He also would have been surrendering Op-Center’s authority by acknowledging Link’s control. Either Op-Center had the right to seek this information, or they did not. If Senator Orr could stop them with a phone call, McCaskey might as well give up the investigation now.
The former FBI agent put the process aside for now to consider the data. Senator Orr had three former CIA employees on his staff. Admiral Link had spent several years at the Company. He knew a few good people. This could be nothing more than that. Yet at least two of those people, Link and Kendra, had the skills, opportunity, and probably the resources to have targeted, cornered, and executed William Wilson and Robert Lawless. Link’s caustic dismissal aside, his dislike of the man’s fiscal policies could have moved him to murder. McCaskey knew of at least two instances when business concerns were said to have inspired CIA-organized TDs—terminal directives, the euphemism for assassinations. Patrice Lumumba, the first democratically elected leader of the Congo, was assassinated in January 1961 to protect American and Belgian business interests. In 1979, South Korean President Park Chung Hee was shot by CIA-backed personnel who feared that the economic boom was putting the nation too deeply in debt to Japanese lenders.
Perhaps William Wilson had been planning to contribute substantial monies to a USF rival. Scotland Yard might be able to find out for him. That would have rid both the party and the United States economy of a potential threat.
McCaskey did not have a lot of information. But he did have more than when he arrived. For all of Link’s bluster, the interview was a success. The only thing he had not anticipated was the presence of Mike Rodgers. The men had a lot of history between them, and he hoped they could get past this.
If not, McCaskey would survive. He was only an agent of policy, not the one who designed it.
Paul Hood was the man in
the crosshairs.
TWENTY-FOUR
Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 10:00 A.M.
It was a warm, clear day, and the world around him white and blue. Hood’s eyes went from the gleaming monuments that dominated the Washington skyline to the clear sky that dominated the monuments. Many of the city’s significant landmarks were visible from the White House, enhancing the already strong sense that this was the center of the globe.
Hood pulled into the heavily barricaded parking area on the north side of the White House. Being outside, warmed by the sun, Hood should have enjoyed a burgeoning sense of well-being. He did not. President Lawrence and Senator Debenport belonged to the same centrist section of the same party. Between them, they controlled Op-Center’s charter and Op-Center’s funding. If the two men had an agenda, Hood had no avenue of appeal. What he did not know was whether Lawrence and Debenport had called him here to expand the downsizing of Op-Center or whether they wanted him to work on some partisan intrigue.
On one level, it did not matter. Whether it was a mugging or a hazing, Hood knew it would hurt.
Hood passed through the security checkpoint at the west gate. Since he was not carrying anything, that meant a wand search from the security guard. A Secret Service agent met Hood at the security vestibule and escorted him to the office of the president’s executive secretary. Senator Debenport was already in the Oval Office. Hood was told to go right in.
Debenport was standing with his arms folded. President Michael Lawrence was seated on the edge of a desk that had once belonged to Teddy Roosevelt. That was the spot from which the president preferred to conduct meetings. He stood just over six feet four inches tall. This put him eye level with most of the people who came to see him. The president’s sharp blue eyes shifted from Debenport to the door as Hood walked in. Lawrence’s expression was warm and welcoming. The two men had always enjoyed a good rapport. That bond was strengthened over a year before, when Op-Center protected the president from a coup attempt. Unfortunately, politics were governed by a single rule: “What can you do for me now?” If Hood and Op-Center were a liability, the president would be hard-pressed to help them.
