by Clancy, Tom
“Almost certainly.”
“Do you happen to know, Dr. Allan, where on the human body field agents are told to give lethal injections?”
“In the muscles,” he said.
“Not in veins?”
Allan shook his head.
“Why?”
“Muscle fiber has a very dense network of blood vessels and delivers drugs in just a few minutes,” the physician told him. “The entry point is clearly visible, but that is the trade-off to a quick, efficient injection. That’s another reason I do not believe your killer is a Company alumnus.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Most of the people we send into the field are survivalists,” Allan told him. “They are not scientists or doctors. Techniques are dumbed down as much as possible to give agents as little to worry about as possible. It is easier to inject an individual in the buttocks or thigh than in the arm or a more exotic spot, such as between the toes. An injection in the root of the tongue is relatively precise, not to mention dark and slippery. The person giving it cannot be a novice. In this case, maybe you should look for someone with dental training. The underside of the tongue is an entry point for a number of drugs used in oral surgery.”
“I’ve already done that,” McCaskey said. “Getting back to this question of novices, the Company has used precision assassins in the past. Poison in the tip of a blind man’s cane, formaldehyde on a hero sandwich in a victim’s refrigerator, even the abortive attempts on Castro.”
“Yes, and those efforts against Castro are the reason today’s killings are outsourced,” Allan said. “Assassins can make millions of dollars a hit. Why would they work for salary and an inadequate pension?”
“Patriotism?” McCaskey asked sincerely.
“God and country cannot overcome greed,” Allan replied. “When we engage in field work of this kind, it has to be successful. Often, it also requires plausible deniability, as you know. When we need it super clean, we go into a for-hire mode.”
McCaskey had no more questions. But something the doctor just said did interest him. He stood. Allan also rose.
“Sir, I appreciate your time and counsel,” McCaskey said.
The men shook hands across the desk.
“I am truly sorry it could not be more,” Allan said.
“To the contrary,” McCaskey told him. “This was very helpful, though I have to ask you, Doctor, to satisfy my own curiosity. What is it that drives you? Patriotism or greed?”
“Neither. I’m here for the difference in conjunctions,” Allan replied.
“I don’t follow.”
“I asked myself that very question for years,” Allan told him as they walked toward the door. “I deluded myself into thinking I came to work here out of civic spirit. Then I realized that, at the heart of it, I enjoyed more power than any other physician I know. I have power over life and death. That’s and, Mr. McCaskey. Not or.”
The difference in conjunctions.
McCaskey left the doctor’s office. He was glad to go. The office that had seemed warm and personal when he arrived now had a pall about it, a subtle chill, like the waiting room of a slaughterhouse. Murder was conceived here, plotted with cool, impersonal efficiency.
The young aide was still waiting outside the door to escort McCaskey back to the lobby. They walked in silence. This time, though, McCaskey’s head was filled with noise. There was the sound of his own voice as he cherry-picked what had been said by Link and others. He played out an evolving monologue in his mind as he sifted through the last few days for clues.
He confronted his own shortcomings in his approach to the murder.
Maria always said her husband was naive. In a way, he was. He had always been an idealistic, self-denying G-man, Harry Hairshirt. In this instance maybe they were both right. Any crime could be approached two ways: with facts or with philosophy. McCaskey had been looking mostly at the facts. That was useful but narrow. A good commander could cover his tracks, as the assassin had done, but not his philosophy.
Greed versus patriotism versus power. One or more of those could well be the motive in this case, but to what degree and in what combination?
McCaskey had contemplated possible reasons behind Wilson’s assassination, possibly a warning to investors that they should bank American. Perhaps the truth was much bigger than that.
Mike Rodgers had spent time with these people. The admiral himself was a military man. If Link were behind this, Rodgers might have thoughts about which of those values applied. McCaskey had to get in touch with him and the senator.
There was an out-of-service response from the general’s cell phone, and no answer at his house. That left one place for McCaskey to try.
He slid into his car and headed toward Washington. McCaskey decided not to call Senator Orr’s office but simply to go over. Rodgers might not like it, and the senator might like it even less. McCaskey had only two words for that, words he was prepared to back with his own show of greed and power.
Too bad.
THIRTY-THREE
Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 4:10 P.M.
Mike Rodgers knew that he had already made a complete mental break from Op-Center. Since the Mondaymorning meeting with Hood about budget cuts, Rodgers had not worried about unfinished NCMC business, about future activities, or about the operational status of his field agents.
After the blast, however, Rodgers suspected something else: that he had also divorced himself from Op-Center emotionally. He felt sad for the team members, who were hardworking and diligent, and for Mac’s family, of course. But the carnage itself had not affected Rodgers. At least, not yet. Perhaps his brain had gone into survival mode. Ignore the pain, deal with the problem. Maybe, though, the blast was an outward expression of what he had already done inside. He had trashed Op-Center in his mind, angrily and violently. He had used a blowtorch to burn the place from every crease in his brain that might have cared. That was how Mike Rodgers had learned to deal with loss. It was cold, but it worked.
That did not mean Rodgers condoned this abhorrent attack. Therein lay the problem for him. If it were executed by a member of the Op-Center staff, the bombing was a repugnant way to manipulate policy. Rodgers did not believe Hood or any of his team were capable of doing that. If the bombing had been committed from without for political reasons, either by a domestic or foreign agency, the perpetrator would be uncovered. Someone would talk. Washington, D.C., had the most fertile grapevines this side of Northern California. Secrets were kept with the same care and sacred diligence as marriage vows.
And if Rodgers found out that anyone associated with Admiral Link or the USF Party had been responsible?
The general did not want to believe that. But if it turned out to be the case, Rodgers would make sure the perpetrators learned that truth and justice could not be suppressed. Not on his watch.
Rodgers did not remain in the parking lot with Paul Hood and the others. He spoke briefly with the base commander and Hood, then borrowed a Jeep to go into Washington. His own car had been one of those destroyed by the pulse. Rodgers felt a chill when he contemplated what had happened here. Electromagnetic pulse weapons were still in their infancy. The bombs were small, with a limited range. The problem developers faced was to generate a sufficiently wide-ranging pulse before the explosive trigger destroyed the weapon itself. But the impasse was nearly beaten, and within a year the Pentagon expected to deploy the first EMP devices. The navy would use the powerful microwave pulses of e-bombs to knock down antiship missiles ; the army would pack pulse generators into artillery shells to neutralize the mechanized forces, field headquarters, and telecommunication capabilities of enemy troops; and the air force would load pulse weapons in bombers, fighters, missiles, and unmanned drones to shut down the infrastructure of enemy cities and take out aircraft. The latter could be particularly devastating. Unlike conventional explosives, which destroyed a plane in the air, an e-bomb would simply shut the engine off and drop the plane, its fuel, and its bombs
on whatever was below. An enemy bomber taking off could be used to cripple its own air base. Tactical e-bombs could be fired air-to-air. A single fighter would be able to destroy entire enemy squadrons and their payload. Mini e-bombs, smaller than the one used against Op-Center, could become effective antiterrorist tools. In a properly shielded nuclear power plant, dam, or passenger aircraft, an electromagnetic pulse could be employed to shut down timers and thereby defuse bombs.
Of course, the reverse was also true. E-bombs could be used against American military assets and domestic infrastructure, just as it was today in Op-Center. Nuclear war had never really been an option. An EMP conflict, a war against binary digits, was probably inevitable.
And we may have just fought the first battle against ourselves, Rodgers thought. There was something unpleasantly biblical about that. It was a new world, and not necessarily brave. Combat would be waged via monitors and grids, not face-to-face or vehicle-to-vehicle. Maybe that was better for the psyche, and soldiers would be better adjusted. Post-traumatic stress would be reduced to a level of disappointment equal to losing a video game.
Rodgers wondered whether the senator’s office had already heard what happened. Not that it mattered. A first reaction would not tell him whether or not they had been involved. He was more interested in going there, integrating himself in the activities of the late afternoon, and watching the people. Rodgers would be looking for exchanged glances when something about the attack was mentioned, or whispered phone conversations. Then there was the best information-gathering technique at all: the direct question. What was said was often less revealing than what was not said. His last talk with Paul Hood was evidence of that. The director of Op-Center knew exactly where Rodgers was going but did not offer advice. There was trust, caution, hope, and even gratitude in Hood’s silence.
The senator’s office seemed no different than it had been before. Kendra Peterson was standing outside her office, talking to an assistant. When the woman saw Rodgers, she stopped what she was doing and went to him. Her slender face reflected deep concern.
“General, did you hear about Op-Center?” Kendra asked.
“I was there,” Rodgers told her.
“Sweet Jesus.”
“How did you find out?” Rodgers asked.
Kendra took him by the elbow and led him to a corner, away from the intern pool. “The senator received a call from Dan Debenport at the CIOC.”
“Why would Senator Debenport call here about that?”
“To say that he would request emergency funding so that Op-Center could continue to function,” she replied. “Senator Orr is Chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Short-Term Funding.”
“That makes sense.” Rodgers wondered if it was also a warning to Senator Orr that the investigation of William Wilson’s death would continue. He could not understand why Debenport would be interested. Perhaps it was nothing more than backroom drama taking a turn in the footlights. “Is the admiral around?”
“Actually, he is not,” she told him. “He left for a meeting with network producers about covering the convention. Do you need to talk to him? His cell phone is on.”
“No, I’ll talk with him later,” Rodgers said. “What about Kat?”
“She’s in. How well did you know the man who was killed?”
“Not very,” Rodgers said. “He was a good man, a hard worker.”
“That’s a fine enough epitaph,” Kendra said. “Do you or Director Hood have any idea who was responsible?”
“I don’t, and if Paul Hood suspects anyone, he did not share that information with me,” Rodgers told the woman.
“Is there a reason he would not?” Kendra asked.
“I’m sure Paul was preoccupied,” Rodgers replied. He did not want to discuss the attack with Kendra. Not if there was a chance that she was involved. “What about you? Have you or the senator heard anything else?”
Kendra shook her head. “This is one of those things our country is going to have to watch out for more and more,” she said solemnly. “The senator was saying that he wants to push for a new division of Homeland Security, one that would concentrate exclusively on the technology sector. He does not think he will have much trouble getting the funds after what happened today.”
He could not tell whether Kendra had avoided the question or had instinctively and innocently slipped into stump speech mode. Just sell the preapproved ideas, nothing more. If you stick to the script, you cannot get into trouble.
“Well, that’s always the way, isn’t it?” Rodgers asked. “Get shot first, ask questions later.”
Kendra smiled. “I like that.”
“By the way, what are the senator’s travel plans?”
“He is leaving for the convention tonight on his private jet,” Kendra told him.
“Who else is going with him?”
“You’re just full of questions,” she observed. “I am going. Kat and the admiral will take a commercial flight tomorrow morning.” She hesitated. “We had hoped you would be joining us in San Diego. Will that be possible now?”
“I don’t know,” the general replied.
“You’re not part of the investigation, are you?” She added after a short pause, “Of the bombing, I mean.”
“No. I am not.”
His answer was as specific as her question. Kendra looked at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, to say he was not part of any investigation. He did not want to lie to her so he said nothing. Yet once again, saying nothing was probably as informative as Yes. I am.
The woman smiled tightly, knowingly, then excused herself. Rodgers went to talk to Kat. He was annoyed with himself. He felt clumsy and exposed. He wondered how Darrell or Bob would have handled that differently.
Well, there is no turning this around, he told himself. The only thing to do is move forward.
Kat was in her office, on the phone, when Rodgers walked up. She smiled and motioned him in. Rodgers shut the door behind him and sat on the small sofa. A moment later, Kat hung up. She exhaled loudly.
“That was Lucy O’Connor—”
“Let me guess,” Rodgers said. “She wanted to know if the senator had any reaction to the attack on Op-Center.”
Kat nodded.
“Does he?”
“He thinks it’s awful, as we all do,” Kat said. Her warm eyes settled on his. “Were you at the NCMC at the time?”
Rodgers nodded.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Surprisingly, yes. I lost my car and my work cell phone, and I’m guessing my credit cards got scrambled. But all of that can be replaced.”
“I assume Hood and the others are pretty shaken.”
“They’re on autopilot, but they’ll get through this,” Rodgers replied. “I’m more interested in who was behind this.”
“Of course. Any thoughts on that?”
He hunched forward. Now that Kendra was suspicious, there was no reason to be discreet. “I need to ask this, Kat, and I hope you’ll keep it between us. But is there any chance that Admiral Link was involved?”
The woman did not seem surprised by the question. “A chance? Sure. A likelihood? No. Think what the admiral would stand to lose if he were caught.”
“For what? Attacking Op-Center or having William Wilson killed?”
That one came out sounding more like an accusation than a question. This time Kat was openly disapproving.
“I surely hope you do not believe the admiral was involved in either of those,” Kat said.
“I want to believe that,” he said truthfully.
Kat’s phone beeped. She answered. She listened for a moment, said she would be right there, then hung up.
“That was reception,” she said. “Your friend Mr. McCaskey is here. He insists on seeing the senator.”
“Let me talk to him,” Rodgers said.
“We’ll both go,” Kat replied flatly.
Tension had descended like sleet, heavy and cold. The two
walked through the office. Though it was nearly five o’clock, none of the workers was preparing to leave. Rodgers heard pizzas being ordered for dinner. There was excitement in the air, energy in the staff’s activities, a sense of purpose on youthful faces. Here he was, embarking on a new career and trying to find out who bombed his old office. Yet he felt none of what these people felt. It was not a virtue of age but of attitude. For the first time in his life, Mike Rodgers did not know which side he was on.
McCaskey was pacing in the carpeted reception area. That was unusual. He was usually Mr. Patient.
“Hello, Mike,” McCaskey said thickly. “I’d like to talk to you.” He regarded Kat. “I also want to see the senator.”
“That is not possible,” she replied. “He is out.”
“Then I’ll go wherever he is,” McCaskey told her.
“Don’t waste your time,” she said. “Senator Orr has already said he would only speak to your superior, and then as a courtesy, nothing more.”
“My superior had his office fried—” McCaskey said.
“We were very sorry to hear that.”
“I’ll pass that along when I see Paul. Meanwhile, I want to discuss the attack with the senator.”
“In what context? And by what authority do you come here and even make a demand like that?”
“Section 611 of the NCMC Operational Code,” McCaskey replied. “I quote, ‘If an ongoing operation is impeded by a tactical strike, the NCMC has the responsibility and the authority to investigate the person or persons who were a target of said operation.’ Said operation is the investigation into the murder of William Wilson. Said target is Senator Orr. As the chief law enforcement officer for Op-Center, it is my duty to speak with him.”
“From the start, Mr. McCaskey, I have believed this investigation to be politics, not police work,” Kat said. Her gaze shifted from the former FBI officer to Rodgers. “General, you are still this man’s superior. Would you, perhaps, suggest a less inconvenient and obvious avenue of harassment?”
“That is not what this is about,” McCaskey insisted.
“No, not to you,” Kat replied. “I believe you are an earnest man, a knight being moved on a chess board, convinced of his virtue but blind to the endgame. This whole thing, first the death of Wilson and now the attack on Op-Center, is clearly being hung on the senator by someone who does not want him to become president. That is what this is about. Hey, why don’t you interview Lucy O’Connor ? Her journalistic career is going to benefit a great deal from all of this.”
