by Clancy, Tom
There was a time when Op-Center had nourished Rodgers, too.
While the general sat there, he checked his cell phone for messages. There was one call from psychologist Liz Gordon, checking to see how he was, and one from Paul Hood asking him to call as soon as it was convenient. Hood sounded annoyed. Rodgers smiled. He could guess why. He speed-dialed Hood’s direct line. Apparently, he was going to get his confrontation after all.
“ ‘Loyalty is missing in action, along with honor and integrity,’ ” Hood said angrily, without preliminaries. “Mike, did you give that quote to a reporter named Lucy O’Connor?”
“I did,” Rodgers replied.
“Why?”
“Because it is true. And don’t take it too personally, Paul. I told her it was missing everywhere, not just at Op-Center.”
“How I take it doesn’t matter,” Hood said. “It’s how the rest of the team takes it. Mike, I thought we had discussed the circumstances surrounding the budget cut, that you understood—”
“Paul, this is not just about me getting shit-canned,” Rodgers said. “It’s about this whole stinking investigation of Admiral Link.”
“Stinking in what way?” Hood asked.
“It’s harassment for gain,” Rodgers told him.
“You know us better than that, dammit.”
“I know Darrell better than that,” Rodgers said. “I’ m not so sure about you anymore, and I can’t believe he did that without your okay.”
“Yeah, I approved it,” Hood told him. “Hell, I encouraged it, and with good reason. I didn’t suggest the ramping-up, though. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but that was Bob Herbert’s idea.”
“Bob?”
“Bob,” Hood said.
That took Rodgers by surprise. It also stripped him naked. He looked around with slow, probing eyes. His gaze moved along the avenue, across the street, peered into parked cars and the windows of office buildings. Rodgers knew all the tails Op-Center used. He half-expected to see one of them watching him from behind a hamburger or a paperback book. The thought was also a disturbing reminder of how quickly an ally could become an adversary.
“Look, I’m not going to get into a howling contest in the press,” Hood went on. “I told Ms. O’ Connor that I disagree with your view and left it at that. But I do want to remind you that Op-Center is my first concern—”
“I have my dismissal to remind me, thanks,” Rodgers interrupted.
“I thought you understood what went down,” Hood said.
“I do. I thought you understood that I did not like it.”
Both men snapped off the conversation. The crackling cell phone silence was heavy, but it did not hurt. Rodgers felt that Hood was out of line. As he sat there, his eyes continued to search for familiar faces. Aideen Marley, Maria Corneja-McCaskey, David Battat, some of the others that Rodgers himself had trained. His heart ached over what they must be feeling.
“Mike, we both want the same thing,” Hood said. “Whichever way it goes, we want this to be over as soon as possible. So I’m going to ask you to cooperate by letting Bob’s people work—”
“Christ, you don’t have to ask that,” Rodgers said. “I know the drill. Just don’t put any of them on me.”
“Of course not.” Hood said. He sounded as though he had been wounded.
Too bad.
Rodgers clicked off the phone. He decided he was not angry with Bob Herbert. Yes, the intelligence chief was just doing his job. More importantly, though, Rodgers believed that Herbert had involved himself for the reasons Hood had stated: to put this crippled bird in the hangar. Unlike Paul Hood, Herbert was looking out for his friend’s interests.
Rodgers tucked the cell phone back in his pocket. Because he was not technically on duty, he was not in uniform. It seemed strange wearing a blazer instead of his uniform. It was also liberating. Mike Rodgers and General Mike Rodgers had been the same person for so long, he was looking forward to discovering what it was like to be a civilian. Starting with having the freedom to talk back to a commander who had betrayed him.
Rodgers stopped looking for spies. He enjoyed the respite, and when Kat finally showed up, breathless but smiling, he knew he would enjoy his lunch as well. They set out toward a café with open-air seating, put their names on the waiting list, and talked about the morning. Rodgers let her out-gas as they rather unromantically called it in the military. But he made Kat promise that once they were seated, she would not discuss the campaign, the investigation, or anything else pertaining to Senator Orr. He wanted to hear about her life.
She agreed to tell him.
It was good to be a civilian but, more important, it felt good to be a man. Hood had done him a favor. He tried not to let his mind go to a place where it desperately longed to be, to a future where Senator Orr was President Orr and Mike Rodgers was the secretary of defense. A future where a spoils system appointee took over the CIOC from Senator Debenport. A future where the first act of the new chairman was to ask for Paul Hood’s resignation.
Rodgers did not let himself go there because revenge was not a good primary reason to do anything. It caused rash, often counterproductive behavior, like the prizefighter who looked to put away a hated rival in round one and tired himself out.
Rodgers would take a more measured approach.
Revenge would not be an atom bomb. It would be fallout.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Herndon, Virginia Tuesday, 12:11 P.M.
For more than a century, the Washington & Old Dominion Railroad was a lifeline to the nation’s capital. Nicknamed the Virginia Creeper in honor of its speed—or lack thereof—the train moved northwest through Virginia to points beyond. The track still passes through the center of town, where an underground garage stands not far from the W&OD museum. Two hundred feet long by seventyfive feet wide, and fifteen feet deep, the garage used to have track over it. Now there is only high, wind-rustled grasses. Once covered by removable wooden slats, workers would use the garage to get underneath the cars and conduct repairs.
Today, the garage has a much different use. It is the workplace of Art Van Wezel. It is where the CIA employee runs three key facets of the black ops infrastructure, what he calls “ways, means, and most definite ends.”
Commandeered by the OSS during World War II and covered with concrete, the Garage—that became its formal code name—was originally used as a secret listening post. Fifth columnists working in and around Washington, D.C., would often go into the countryside to meet fellow operatives or send radio messages to waiting submarines. Because of the wires already in place for the railroad, the OSS did not have to erect additional antennae. The rails also gave them train and hand car access to the entire region, allowing for furtive counterespionage activities. After the war, the Garage was transformed into a storage facility for equipment used by the successor to the OSS, the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency. During the Cold War, the CIA leadership used the garage for decatalogued weapons and chemicals. These were produced for the sole purpose of arming field agents. They were stored in the Garage because, officially, such armaments did not exist. In the 1980s, the CIA converted the Garage to a warehouse for covert ops equipment. It was staffed by two former navy men: Jason Harper and Art Van Wezel. When Harper retired, only Van Wezel remained.
Van Wezel was still there.
When Kenneth Link took charge of covert ops at the CIA, he spent a lot of time in the Garage. Part of that was spent organizing it into a world-class repository for new and specialized ordnance. Part of the time was also used to shift deactivated matériel from the Defense Supply Center in Richmond, Virginia, to the Garage. His rank gave him access to everything the navy was no longer using. Many of these weapons were prototypes that were either abandoned or actually went into production. Van Wezel made sure the weapons were kept in working condition. He also made sure that most of them were reported to have been destroyed. Link countersigned those reports. The admiral held on to them.
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sp; The admiral also held on to Van Wezel. Link made certain he was promoted to increasingly more lucrative pay grades. Link gave Van Wezel friendship and job security in an insecure world.
During Link’s stewardship, the Garage appeared in fewer and fewer internal CIA memos. Over time, the warehouse virtually became Link’s own private black ops repository and staging area.
The fifty-year-old Van Wezel was devoted to Admiral Link. Together, over the years, they built a small network of off-the-books counterespionage agents code named Mechanics. Most of them were former SEALs loyal to the former admiral. Today, the Mechanics remained on the Company’s stealth payroll. But they were available to their friend and mentor for special jobs. They knew his heart, and they knew that it belonged to an uncompromising patriot. They recognized that Kenneth Link would never ask them to do anything that was not in the nation’s best interests.
One of these people was Jacquie Colmer, a former captain on the admiral’s staff. The thirty-six-year-old woman was fearless. When Link shifted to the CIA, he made certain that she was appointed the new navy liaison with the Garage. She and Van Wezel got together once a week to review inventory. That list was sent to Link, along with the whereabouts of the Mechanics. Jacquie also went out on the rare local jobs Link requested. Most of those were surveillance. A few were more hands-on.
Link had informed both Van Wezel and Jacquie about this new operation he needed done. The job was risky, and it was extreme. Both of the Garage veterans had grave reservations about the target. But they had read the newspapers. They understood what was at stake.
They would do what the admiral asked.
Van Wezel had two other functions at the Garage. One was intentionally visible. He maintained a small fleet of nondescript vehicles. These were “the means.” The trucks and vans were owned and operated by the Herndon Road Services Company, a shell company controlled by the CIA. The HRSC rented vehicles to local firms in order to appear legitimate. Van Wezel wore white coveralls and could frequently be seen taking care of his half-dozen vehicles, washing and servicing them and waving to the locals when they passed.
Van Wezel’s third job was to give operatives “the ways” to do their jobs. He maintained a large computer database of logos from utilities and local companies. He used these to make photo ID badges for the field ops. More often than not, he had the right one for the right job already at hand. He regularly checked the web sites of the firms to make sure the design had not changed.
For this particular mission, Van Wezel needed a badge for the Country-Fresh Water Corporation. The CFWC had a contract to provide water to the coolers in all local government agencies. He had called the CFWC, pretending to be the client, to make sure this was not a regular delivery day. It would be disastrous if the real provider showed up while Jacquie was there. Then he called the client to schedule a delivery for today. Van Wezel already had a badge prepared for another agent. It was an easy matter for him to put Jacquie’s photograph on that ID. He also had a small sign with the CFWC logo. He slipped that into a frame on the side of the van. If the guard asked, this was a loaner while the real truck was being repaired.
Van Wezel was confident about the ways and means. He also had the “ends,” one that was developed by the Air Force for air drops into power plants. It would accomplish the admiral’s goal with a minimum of event-injuried allies. Despite their differences, the men and women of Op-Center were also Americans. Link had no desire to hurt them. He had only one objective: to stop them.
TWENTY-NINE
Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 12:25 P.M.
Like dinner the evening before, lunch with Kat was a welcome respite from angry thoughts. She was a sophisticated young woman with an eye firmly on the future but also a critical eye on the past. She had not only been influenced by her police family, but her journalistic background had given her broad political exposure. Kat Lockley knew how the system worked. More importantly, the New York native obviously knew how to work the system.
“Being New Yorkers, how did you ever hook up with the senator?” Rodgers asked. “You said he was an old friend of your father. . . .”
“Army days. They drifted later, but never far or for long. When my dad was on the police force, he helped set up a program called Vacation Swap, when kids from the city went to some other place and vice versa,” Kat said. “He and one of their other army buddies, Mac Crowne—a Park Avenue dentist, fittingly—took kids out to the Orr Ranch a couple of times a year. They were as different as could be, which is probably why they got along so well.”
“Did you ever go?”
“A couple of times,” she said. “Good thing, too.”
“Why?”
“Senator Orr says he would never entirely trust a person who was uncomfortable around horses,” she replied.
“The admiral does not strike me as an equestrian,” Rodgers noted.
“He isn’t. But he hunted sperm whales as a teenager in Newfoundland, before it was banned. That registered big on the Orr machismo scale.”
“I hope the senator realizes I have nothing to offer along those lines—”
“But you do,” Kat commented. “Tanks. Big beasts, difficult to tame. To the senator, tank warfare is like a medieval joust. Very manly.”
“I see,” Rodgers said.
Kat was absolutely a good person to have on the team. Experienced, enthusiastic, energetic. It was not just Kat, though. The entire conversation felt good. It was full of insights and compliments, camaraderie and hope. When it was over, Rodgers decided to go back to Op-Center and clean out his desk. Though he was still technically on the payroll, he wanted no part of the organization. He did not want to hold on to the anger Hood had made him feel. He would say his good-byes to those who wanted to hear them, and then Mike Rodgers would do exactly what Kat Lockley was doing: use the considerable experiences of his lifetime to look ahead. Rodgers could not imagine that Paul Hood would want or need him for anything over the next few days.
He walked Kat back to the office building, then drove out to Andrews Air Force Base—possibly for the last time. Mike Rodgers was not sentimental that way. Yet he did wonder if, on the whole, this had been a positive experience. So much good had been done but at an extraordinary cost. For himself, the sadness of the people he had lost would probably be stronger in his memory than the goals they had achieved. He also believed, as he had since Op-Center was chartered, that he would have done a better job running it than Hood had done. He would not go so far as to say that good things had happened in spite of the director. But he would say that Hood had not been as proactive as he would have been.
Hell, I was the one who assigned myself to the North Korea mission, Rodgers thought.
If he had not, Hood might have refused to let Striker act as aggressively as it did. His CIOC-friendly methods may have allowed Tokyo to vanish under a barrage of Nodong missiles. Waiting for approvals and charter revisions was the way to build a legal and clean-living entity, not necessarily the most effective one. It would be like soldiers in the field asking the president or secretary of defense to okay each maneuver. Rodgers always felt it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.
The air force guard standing near the elevator saluted smartly. Rodgers saluted back. Nothing in the young woman’s eyes betrayed knowledge of what had gone on below. Perhaps she did not know. Op-Center’s grapevine tended to grow, and remain, underground.
The initial discomfort of employees in the executive section had passed. They greeted Rodgers warmly as he made his way to his office. Rodgers told Liz Gordon and Lowell Coffey that he had decided to accept Senator Orr’s offer and would be working on the campaign. Both wished him well. Rodgers did not know how he would respond to Hood if he saw him. The general could—and would—ignore his replacement, Ron Plummer. The political liaison had not won that job, it had been granted to him by default. That made Plummer neither enemy nor rival, just a man with a catcher’s mitt. Paul Hood was a different matter. He w
as the one who had made the default call. Rodgers imagined everything from ignoring him to grabbing the front of his lightly starched white shirt, slamming him against a wall, and spitting in his wide, frightened eye. What stopped him, when they did meet, was the realization that Hood was finally doing what Rodgers had wished he would do for years: telling the CIOC to screw its own rules and doing what he thought was best for Op-Center. It was only too bad his newly found courage came at Admiral Link’s expense.
Hood was talking to Bob Herbert in the intelligence chief’s office. The door was open as Rodgers walked by. He offered only a peripheral glance inside. Eyes on the future, he reminded himself. Now that he thought of it, that mantra would make a terrific campaign slogan.
Neither man called after him nor hurried into the hallway. Rodgers felt relieved for a moment. There would be no confrontation with Hood. He would not have to listen to Herbert explain why he had joined the assault. Then Rodgers felt offended. Who the hell are they to ignore me ?
He should have known Pope Paul better than that. The man was a diplomat, and diplomats could not leave situations unresolved. Even without the blessings of their governments, they usually employed back-channel routes to try to defuse crises. Maybe they needed to do good. Maybe they needed to meddle or to be loved. The motives were too complex for Rodgers to fathom. All he understood was soldiering. Until he came to Op-Center, that was all Rodgers needed to know. Inevitably, after the talks had broken down or bought only a temporary respite, it took spilled blood to grease the wheels of civilization.
Hood knocked on the open door as Rodgers was taking citations and photographs from the wall.
