Debt Of Honor (1994)

by Tom - Jack Ryan 06 Clancy

  "I presume Tokyo," Mancuso replied. "That's us minus five."

  "So we start looking for patterns, midnight and even hours their time." There were five of the wide-folded sheets. Jones flipped one complete set at a time, noting the time references in the margins. It took him ten minutes.

  "Here's one, and here's another. These two are possible. This one's also possible, but I don't think so. I'll put money down on this one ... and this one for starters." His fingers tapped on seemingly random lines of dots.

  "Wally?"

  Chambers turned to the other table and flipped the marked-up sets to the proper time settings. "Jonesy, you fuckin' witch!" he breathed. It had taken a team of skilled technicians--experts all--over two hours to do what Jones had accomplished in a few minutes before their again-incredulous eyes.

  The civilian contractor pulled a can of Coke from the nearby cooler and popped it open. "Gentlemen," he asked, "who's the all-time champ?"

  That was only part of it, of course. The printouts merely gave bearing to a suspected noise source, but there were several of the bottom-sited SOSUS arrays, and triangulation had already been accomplished, nailing the datum points down to radii of ten to fifteen nautical miles. Even with Jones's improvements in the system, that still left a lot of ocean to search.

  The phone rang. It was Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet. Mancuso took the call and made his recommendations for vectoring Charlotte and Asheville onto the suspected contacts. Jones observed the exchange and nodded approval.

  "See what I mean, Skipper? You always did know how to listen."

  Murray had been out discussing a few budgetary matters with the Assistant-Director-in-Charge of the Washington Field Office, therefore missing the phone call. The top-secret dispatch from the White House was tucked away in secure files, and then his secretary had been called out to bring a sick child home from school. As a result, the handwritten message from Ryan had been unconscionably late in coming to his attention.

  "The Norton girl," he said, walking into Director Shaw's office.

  "Bad?"

  "Dead," Murray said, handing the paper over. Shaw scanned it quickly.

  "Shit," the FBI Director whispered. "Did she have a prior history of drug use?"

  "Not that I recall."

  "Word from Tokyo?"

  "I haven't checked in with the Leg-At yet. Bad timing for that, Bill."

  Shaw nodded, and the thought in his mind was transparent. Ask any FBI agent for the case he bragged about, and it is always kidnapping. It was really how the Bureau had made its name back in the 1930s. The Lindbergh Law had empowered the FBI to assist any local police force as soon as the possibility existed that the victim could have been taken across a state line. With the mere possibility--the victims were rarely actually transported so far--the whole weight and power of America's premier law-enforcement agency descended on the case like a pack of especially hungry wolves. The real mission was always the same: to get the victim back alive, and there the results were excellent. The secondary objective was to apprehend, charge, and try the subjects in question, and there the record, statistically speaking, was better still. They didn't know yet if Kimberly Norton had been a kidnap victim. They did know that she would be coming home dead. That single fact, for any FBI agent, was a professional failure.

  "Her father's a cop."

  "I remember, Dan."

  "I want to go out there and talk it over with O'Keefe." Part of it was because Captain Norton deserved to hear it from other cops, not through the media. Part of it was because the cops on the case had to do it, to admit their failure to him. And part of it would be for Murray to take a look at the case file himself, to be sure for himself that all that might have been done, had been done.

  "I can probably spare you for a day or two," Shaw replied. "The Linders case is going to wait until the President gets back anyway. Okay, get packed."

  "This is better than the Concorde!" Cathy gushed at the Air Force corporal who served dinner. Her husband almost laughed. It wasn't often that Caroline Ryan's eyes went quite so wide, but then he was long accustomed to this sort of service, and the food was certainly better than she customarily ate in the Hopkins physicians' dining room. And there the plates didn't have gold trim, one of the reasons that Air Force One had so much pilferage.

  "Wine for madam?" Ryan lifted the bottle of Russian River chardonnay and poured as his plate came down.

  "We don't drink wine on the chicken farm, you see," she told the corporal with a small measure of embarrassment.

  "Everybody's this way the first time, Dr. Ryan. If you need anything, please buzz me." She headed back to the galley.

  "See, Cathy, 1 told you, stick with me."

  "I wondered how you got used to flying," she noted, tasting the broccoli. "Fresh."

  "The flight crew's pretty good, too." He gestured to the wineglasses. Not a ripple.

  "The pay isn't all that great," Arnie van Damm said from the other side of the compartment, "but the perks ain't too bad."

  "The blackened redfish isn't bad at all."

  "Our chef stole the recipe from the Jockey Club. Best Cajun redfish in town," van Damm explained. "I think he had to trade his potato soup for it. Fair deal," Arnie judged. "He gets the crust just right, doesn't he?"

  One of Washington's few really excellent restaurants, the Jockey Club was located in the basement of the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Massachusetts Avenue. A quiet, dimly lit establishment, it had for many years been a place for "power" meals of one sort or another.

  All the food here is good, Libby Holtzman thought, especially when someone else paid for it. The previous hour had handled all manner of small talk, the usual exchange of information and gossip that was even more important in Washington than most American cities. That was over now. The wine was served, the salad plates gone, and the main course on the table. "So, Roy, what's the big item?"

  "Ed Kealty." Newton looked up to watch her eyes.

  "Don't tell me, his wife is finally going to leave the rat?"

  "He's probably going to be the one leaving, as a matter of fact."

  "Who's the unlucky bimbo?" Mrs. Holtzman asked with a wry smile.

  "Not what you think, Libby. Ed's going away." You always wanted to make them wait for it.

  "Roy, it's eight-thirty, okay?" Libby observed, making her position clear.

  "The FBI has a case running on Kealty. Rape. More than one, in fact. One of the victims killed herself."

  "Lisa Beringer?" The reason for her suicide had never been adequately explained.

  "She left a letter behind. The FBI has it now. They also have several other women who are willing to testify."

  "Wow," Libby Holtzman allowed herself to say. She set her fork down. "How solid is this?"

  "The man running the case is Dan Murray, Shaw's personal attack dog."

  "I know Dan. I also know he won't talk about this." You rarely got an FBI agent to discuss evidentiary matters in a criminal case, certainly not before it was presented. That sort of leak almost always came from an attorney or court clerk. "He doesn't just do things by the book--he wrote the book." It was literally true. Murray had helped draft many of the Bureau's official procedures.

  "He might, this one time."

  "Why, Roy?"

  "Because Durling is holding things up. He thinks he needs Kealty for his clout on the Hill. You notice that Eddie-boy has been in the White House a lot lately? Durling spilled it all to him so that he can firm up his defense. At least," Newton said to cover himself, "that's what people are telling me. It does seem a little out of character, doesn't it?"

  "Obstruction of justice?"

  "That's the legal term, Libby. Technically speaking, well, I'm not quite sure it meets the legal test." Now the hook was well in the water, and the bait worm was wiggling very nicely.

  "What if he was just holding it off to keep it from competing with the trade bill?" The fish was giving it a look, but wondering about the shiny, barbed thing behin
d the worm....

  "This one goes back further than that, Libby. They've been sitting on it for quite a while, that's what I hear. It does make a great excuse, though, doesn't it?" It was a very enticing worm, though.

  "If you think politics takes precedence over a sexual-assault case. How solid is the case?"

  "If it goes in front of a jury, Ed Kealty is going to spend time in a federal penitentiary."

  "That solid?" My, what a juicy fat worm it was.

  "Like you said, Murray's a good cop."

  "Who's the U.S. Attorney on the case?"

  "Anne Cooper. She's been full-time on this for weeks." One hell of a good worm, in fact. That barbed, shiny thing wasn't all that dangerous, was it?

  Newton took an envelope from his pocket and set it on the tablecloth. "Names, numbers, details, but you didn't get them from me, okay?" The worm appeared to dance in the water, and it was no longer apparent that the hook was the thing really moving.

  "What if I can't verify anything?"

  "Then there's no story, and my sources are wrong, and I hope you enjoyed dinner." Of course, the worm might just go away.

  "Why, Roy? Why you, why the story?" Circling, circling. But how did this worm ever get here?

  "I've never liked the guy. You know that. We butted heads on two big irrigation bills, and he killed a defense project in my state. But you really want to know why? 1 have daughters, Libby. One's a senior at U-Penn. Another one's just starting University of Chicago Law School. They both want to follow in their dad's footsteps, and I don't want my little girls staffing on the Hill with bastards like Ed Kealty around." Who really cared how the worm got in the water, anyway?

  With a knowing nod, Libby Holtzman took the envelope. It went into her purse without being opened. Amazing how they never noticed the hook until it was too late. Sometimes not even then. The waiter was disappointed when both diners passed on the dessert cart, settling for just a quick espresso before paying the bill.

  "Hello?"

  "Barbara Linders?" a female voice asked.

  "Yes. Who's this?"

  "Libby Holtzman from the Post. I live a few blocks away from you. I'd like to know if I might come over and talk about a few things."

  "What things?"

  "Ed Kealty, and why they've decided not to prosecute the case."

  "They what?"

  "That's what we're hearing," the voice told her.

  "Wait a minute. They warned me about this," Linders said suspiciously, already giving part of the game away.

  "They always warn you about something, usually the wrong thing. Remember, I was the one who did the story last year about Congressman Grant and that nasty little thing he had going on in his district office? And I was also the one who nailed that bastard undersecretary in Interior. I keep a close eye on cases like this, Barbara," the voice said, sister-to-sister. It was true. Libby Holtzman had nearly bagged a Pulitzer for her reporting on political sex-abuse cases.

  "How do I know it's really you?"

  "You've seen me on TV, right? Ask me over and you'll see. I can be there in five minutes."

  "I'm going to call Mr. Murray."

  "That's fine. Go ahead and call him, but promise me one thing?"

  "What's that?"

  "If he tells you the same thing about why they're not doing anything, then we can talk." The voice paused. "In fact, how about I come over right now anyway? If Dan tells you the right thing, we can just have a cup of coffee and do some background stuff for later. Fair enough?"

  "Okay ... I guess that's okay. I have to call Mr. Murray now." Barbara Linders hung up and dialed another number from memory.

  "Hi, this is Dan--"

  "Mr. Murray!" Barbara said urgently, her faith in the world so badly shaken already.

  "--and this is Liz," another voice said, obviously now on tape. "We can't come to the phone right now ..." both voices said together--

  "Where are you when I need you?" Ms. Linders demanded of the recording machine, hanging up in a despairing fury before the humorous recording delivered her to the beep. Was it possible? Could it be true?

  This is Washington, her experience told her. Anything could be true.

  Barbara Linders looked around the room. She'd been in Washington for eleven years. What did she have to show for it? A one-bedroom apartment with prints on the wall. Nice furniture that she used alone. Memories that threatened her sanity. She was so alone, so damned alone with them, and she had to let them go, get them out, strike back at the man who had wrecked her life so thoroughly. And now that would be denied her, too? Was it possible? The most frightening thing of all was that Lisa had felt this way. She knew that from the letter she'd kept, a photocopy of which was still in the jewelry box on her bureau. She'd kept it both as a keepsake of her best friend and to remind herself not to go as dangerously far into despair as Lisa had. Reading that letter a few months ago had persuaded her to open up to her gynecologist, who had in turn referred her to Clarice Golden, starting the process that had led her--where? The door buzzed then, and Barbara went to answer it.

  "Hi! Recognize me?" The question was delivered with a warm and sympathetic smile. Libby Holtzman was a tall woman with thick ebony hair that framed a pale face and warm brown eyes.

  "Please come in," Barbara said, backing away from the door.

  "Did you call Dan?"

  "He wasn't home ... or maybe he just left the machine on," Barbara thought. "You know him?"

  "Oh, yes. Dan's an acquaintance," Libby said, heading toward the couch.

  "Can I trust him? I mean, really trust him."

  "Honestly?" Holtzman paused. "Yes. If he were running the case all by himself, yes, you could. Dan's a good man. I mean that."

  "But he's not running the case by himself, is he?"

  Libby shook her head. "It's too big, too political. The other thing about Murray is, well, he's a very loyal man. He does what he's told. Can I sit down, Barbara?"

  "Please." Both sat on the couch.

  "You know what the press does? It's our job to keep an eye on things. I like Dan. I admire him. He really is a good cop, an honest cop, and I'll bet you that everything he's done with you, well, he's acted like your big tough brother, hasn't he?"

  "Every step of the way," Barbara confirmed. "He's been my best friend in all the world."

  "That wasn't a lie. He's one of the good guys. I know his wife, Liz, too. The problem is, not everyone is like Dan, and that's where we come in," Libby told her.

  "How do you mean?"

  "When somebody tells a guy like Dan what he has to do, mostly they do it. They do it because they have to, because that's what the rules are--and you know something? He hates it, almost as much as you do. My job, Barbara, is to help people like Dan, because I can get the bastards off their backs, too."

  "I can't ... I mean, I just can't--"

  Libby reached out and stopped her with a gentle touch on the hand.

  "I'm not going to ask you to give me anything on the record, Barbara. That could mess up the criminal case, and you know I want this one to be handled through the system just as much as you do. But can you talk to me off the record?"

  "Yes! ... I think so."

  "Do you mind if I record this?" The reporter pulled a small recorder from her purse.

  "Who will hear it?"

  "The only other person will be my AME--assistant managing editor. We do that to make sure that we have good sources. Except for that, it's like talking to your lawyer or doctor or minister. Those are the rules, and we never break them."

  Intellectually speaking, Barbara knew that, but here and now in her apartment, the ethical rules of journalism seemed a thin reed. Libby Holtzman could see it in her eyes.

  "If you want, I can just leave, or we can talk without the recorder, but"--a disarming smile--"I hate taking shorthand. You make mistakes that way. If you want to think about it a little while, that's okay, too. You've had enough pressure. I know that. I know what this can be like."
/>   "That's what Dan says, but he doesn't! He doesn't really."

  Libby Holtzman looked straight into her eyes. She wondered if Murray had seen the same pain and felt it as deeply as she did now. Probably so, she thought, quite honestly, probably in a slightly different way, because he was a man, but he was a good cop, and he was probably just as mad about the way the case was going as she now felt.

  "Barbara, if you just want to talk about ... things, that's okay, too. Sometimes we just need a friend to talk to. I don't have to be a reporter all the time."

  "Do you know about Lisa?"

  "Her death was never really explained, was it?"

  "We were best friends, we shared everything ... and then when he--"

  "Are you sure Kealty was involved with that?"

  "I'm the one who found the letter, Libby."

  "What can you tell me about that?" Holtzman asked, unable to restrain her journalistic focus now.

  "I can do better than tell you." Linders rose and disappeared for a moment. She returned with the photocopies and handed them over.

  It only took two minutes to read the letter once and then once again. Date, place, method. A message from beyond the grave, Libby thought. What was more dangerous than ink on paper?

  "For what's on here, and what you know, he could go to prison, Barbara."

  "That's what Dan says. He smiles when he says it. He wants it to happen."

  "Do you?" Holtzman asked.

  "Yes!"

  "Then let me help."

  17

  Strike One

  It's called the miracle of modern communications only because nothing modern is supposed to be a curse. In fact, those on the receiving end of such information were often appalled by what they got.

  It had been a smooth flight, even by the standards of Air Force One, on which many passengers--mainly the younger and more foolish White House staffers--often refused to buckle their seat belts as a show of ... something, Ryan thought. The Air Force flight crew was as good as any, he knew, but it hadn't prevented one incident on final at Andrews, where a thunderbolt had blown the nosecone off the aircraft carrying the Secretary of Defense and his wife, rather to everyone's discomfiture. And so he always kept his belt on, albeit loosely, just as the flight crew did.