“And yet it’s not a 501(c)(3). Why didn’t you incorporate as a nonprofit foundation? That’s unusual, to say the least.”
“The board members are very patriotic. They actually like to pay taxes.”
In fact, Groepping’s lawyers had insisted, so there’d be no need for public filings and/or problems with the IRS. Pan-Pacific Solutions might be a front, but it was at least a legal one.
Tierney put down his notepad. “Mr. McIntyre, may I be candid?”
“By all means. Candor is . . . so candid. I’m all for it.”
“Not to sound rude, but frankly I’m having a difficult time believing all this. Actually, any of it.”
“Really? Well, that’s disappointing.”
“I’ve done some research into your funding. It took some piecing together, but it all basically originates at Groepping-Sprunt. There were a number of cutaways, but if you want, I can show you the various—”
Bird held up a hand. “No, that won’t be necessary.” Bird took a deep breath. “Did you at least like the decor?”
Tierney glanced around. “All this—for me?”
“Not bad for forty-eight hours, huh? Did you like the Warhols? They’re not real. Still.”
“Mr. McIntyre,” Tierney said, putting his notepad on the desk, “now let me be candid. I don’t particularly care about Pan-Pacific.”
“You don’t?”
“To put it bluntly, another sleazy Washington lobby story is no longer front-page news.”
“Well,” Bird said, “I don’t know about ‘sleazy,’ but if you say so.”
“My interest is Groepping-Sprunt.”
“Ah.”
“Specifically, a project they’re developing for the Pentagon.”
“Keeping America safe by keeping America strong. It’s on the letterhead. Under the eagle.”
“What can you tell me about Project Taurus?”
Bird shifted in his chair. “Taurus? Taurus. Well, I must say, I’m impressed. That’s a highly—highly—classified program.”
“Yes.”
Bird leaned forward. “Mr. Tierney, shall we talk turkey?”
“I’d rather talk Taurus.”
“Okay, but being a sleazy Washington lobbyist, let me put it to you: What’s in it for me?”
“Well, I could write a story about your Potemkin foundation here. And all the nice touches and Warhols. Or I could write about Taurus. And I’d rather write about that.”
“I’d rather you write about Taurus myself. But I’m somewhat reluctant to sign my own death warrant.”
“Are you saying it’s that sensitive?”
“You have no idea, sir. No idea.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily have to use your name. But that would depend on what you tell me.”
“Mr. Tierney.” Bird leaned back in his chair. “What do you know about muons?”
CHAPTER 21
THIS SKYSCRAPER OF PREVARICATION
You told him what?” Chick Devlin spluttered.
Bird felt it was only fair to alert Chick to the visit from Tierney of the Times and the load of—taurine excreta that Bird had fed him in return for not writing about Pan-Pacific Solutions. Not that he thought there was any point in mentioning that part of it to Chick.
“God in heaven.” Chick groaned. “Birdman. What have you done?”
“Chick. He already knew. Had to tell him something. Figured we might as well try to control the story, right?”
“Muons,” Chick muttered. “Muons? How in hell did muons ever enter into this?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I kind of improvised there. When Angel asked me about Taurus, I told her it was about muons.”
“What? Why?”
“Thought it might throw her off the scent.”
“Where did you come up with muons?”
“It’s from a book. One of mine, actually.”
“You telling me this is in some book?”
“Yes.”
“But if it’s in a book, how long is it going to take the reporter to find that out?”
“Not to worry,” Bird said brightly. “The book hasn’t been published yet. I’m holding on to it for now.”
“So all I have to worry about is my phone ringing from a reporter wanting to know about our top-secret muon project? Thank you. You’ve put me in the tenth circle of hell.”
“There are only nine, technically.”
“What am I supposed to tell him?”
“That you can’t talk about it. And that’s nothing but the truth, right? It’s classified. Want me to draw up some talking points for you?”
“No! I’m having chest pains, Bird.”
“I really think there’s a way to capitalize on the muon scenario.”
Here Bird had a definite agenda: self-preservation, the purest of all motives. If Tierney of the Times discovered that he had been lied to—lied to massively—Bird would certainly end up the subject of “yet another Washington sleazy-lobby story,” regardless of what page it appeared on.
He said to Chick, “Look, whatever Taurus really is, you want it to remain secret, right?”
“Of course I do!” Chick said.
“Then feed him muons as a decoy.”
Silence.
“I don’t know,” Chick said warily. “That kind of thing can turn around and bite you on the ass.”
“Here’s the headline: ‘Defense Aerospace Giant Groepping-Sprunt Said to Be Developing Top-Secret Program to . . .’ ” Bird’s voice trailed off.
“I’m listening.”
“ ‘Top Secret Program to . . .’ ”
“I’m still listening, Bird.”
“ ‘Neutralize Chinese Communications Grid.’ ” Why not?
There was a long silence. Chick finally said, “All right, Bird, how did you find out about that?”
Well, well.
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” Bird said, for once truthfully. “So that’s it? Taurus, like in the constellation. V-shaped network of satellites that—”
“Bird, I’m not going to talk about it. Leave it. Jesus.”
“Well,” Bird said, “I couldn’t be more proud of the old home team. This’ll give Beijing a case of the turkey-trots. Woo-wee.”
“I can’t have you going around town crowing about this like some bent rooster.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone. Am I not permitted to have a moment of pride in our company?”
“Let’s think this through. This Tierney. What do we do?”
“Take his phone call. You might compliment him on his last Pulitzer. He got it for . . .” Bird recalled that it was for an exposé of a company whose CEO ended up going to jail. “. . . just tell him congratulations. You know writers. They love a little stroking. Sound like you’re a tad nervous—”
“That won’t be hard.”
“Tell him you really didn’t want to take his call but that I told you you had to. Remember that part. It’s sort of key.”
“Yeah, yeah. What then?”
“Soon as he mentions Taurus, make a little gasping sort of noise and say, ‘Oh, Lordy, I can’t talk about that!’ And when he says ‘muon,’ don’t say a thing for ten seconds. Do the full count. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand. Then tell him, ‘Sir, I’m afraid I cannot discuss that.’ Then—hang up.”
“I don’t know, Bird. I’m an engineer.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen you tell some beautiful lies. You can do this. A hundred years from now, they’ll be writing ballads about you. Chick Devlin, father of the muon bomb. Oh, gather round, children, and you shall hear . . . of a man named Devlin, a great pioneer—”
“Quit!”
“Hey, be happy. You told me it looks like you’re going to get your funding, right? You should be happy. When word of this hits the street, Groepping’s stockholders are going to be very happy.”
“I’ll have to put some people in the picture about this. But maybe, as a decoy it’s not half bad.”
; “There you go,” Bird said.
“This muon book. I’m assuming you won’t publish it.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair, Chick.”
“Bird.”
“I worked hard on this book. This could be my masterpiece. My Moby-Dick.”
“You try my patience, Bird. Honest to God you do.”
“Once the Times exposes your big muon project, it won’t matter if it’s in my novel. Hell, I’ll probably get creamed by the critics for lack of imagination. I’m the one taking all the downside here.”
“You could talk the devil out of his pitchfork. Meantime you keep that novel in a safe-deposit box.”
“Frankly, Chick, a little gratitude wouldn’t be entirely out of order here.”
“Gratitude?”
“Here I whip you up a fine, foamy froth of anti-China sentiment and, as a bonus, a billion dollars’ worth of free publicity. And all you can do is whine. Forgive me. Forgive me for hitting a home run for the team. With bases loaded.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I said you did good. Wasn’t saying otherwise. But this thing’s gotten more complicated than the specs for our R2-20 phased-array radar. I’m still not sure I understand it. Is your blond Angel of death in on this skyscraper of prevarication you’ve erected?”
“No, no. She’s having way too much fun giving Beijing fits. I tremble to think that that woman actually once worked at the White House and the Pentagon. God forbid she should ever get her pretty little manicured fingers anywhere near a Launch button.”
“You keep me posted.”
“Roger that, Commander. McIntyre out.”
Bird hung up. He let out a long sigh of relief. He considered his astounding good luck in having correctly guessed what Taurus was. State-of-the-art stuff. Good old Groepping. No wonder Chick wouldn’t tell him anything about it. More importantly, he had managed to extract his roasting chestnuts from a very hot fire.
CHAPTER 22
THIS JUST IN FROM ZHONGNANHAI
You talk to the Big Guy about my little proposal?”
Barney Strecker and National Security Director Rogers P. Fancock were speaking over the secure line between CIA and the White House.
“By ‘Big Guy’ do you mean the president of the United States of America?”
“No. Fatty Arbuckle. Come on, Rog, we’re up against the clock here.”
“Strictly, and I mean strictly entre nous?”
“Did you think I had you on speaker? Yes, entre nous.”
Fancock relived the moment. The way the sun slanted through the windows in the Oval Office. The faint scent of honeysuckle that wafted through the open French doors from the Rose Garden. The president’s dachshunds, Ajax and Achilles, curled up on the sofa.
“It would be accurate,” Fancock said to Barney, “to say that the Big Guy did not leap into the air like a trout to the fly. In fact, it would be accurate to say that smoke issued from his ears and the ground trembled beneath his feet. He expressed the keenest curiosity as to the identity of the public servant who had put forth this—he used the word medieval—proposal, as well as the desire to terminate said person’s employment in government. As for that, you needn’t worry. Fortune was smiling on us, inasmuch as my main agenda walking in was to inform the Big Guy that even as we were speaking so pleasantly about your little brainstorm, two Jianghu II–class Chinese naval frigates were steaming with what might be called indecent haste toward a U.S. Navy communications ship. Communications as in spy ship in the East China Sea. Nothing like the prospect of a naval confrontation on the high seas when you’re trying to distract the most powerful man on earth from having your friend’s head mounted on a spike. Rather clever timing on my part, I might add. You know my rule: never enter the Oval Office without an exit strategy. In so many words, Barn, you owe me.”
“Well, that’s a shame, is all I can say.”
“Shame?” Fancock said dryly. “That you didn’t get the go-ahead to finish off the Dalai Lama? Or shame that the United States and the People’s Republic of China may soon be initiating World War III? Speaking of which, I dare not tarry. My presence seems to be desired in the Situation Room. What fun this weekend promises.”
“Looks like Beijing is trying to change the subject.”
“Yes, that would be my evaluation as well.”
“It’s also obvious, Rog, if you don’t mind my saying so, that we wouldn’t have a naval incident brewing in the East China Sea if this Dalai Lama thing had gone away.”
“Barn. I tried. I ran it up the flagpole. The commander in chief did not salute. He gave it the finger. All right? I have to go.”
“Okay, but before you sashay over to the Sit Room, you want to hear the latest from our Zhongnanhai desk?”
“Only if it’s epic. Barn, there are two PLN fast frigates bearing down on—”
“They’re going to do him.”
“They? Do what? To whom?”
“MSS. Chinese security. They’re going to take out the Dalai Lama.” Strecker added, in a tone that struck Fancock as inappropriately merry, “Great minds think alike, huh?”
“What are you telling me, Barn?”
“I’ll give it to you straight up. The Chinese are going to take the life—or what’s left of it—of the Right Reverend Tenzin Gyatso, aka the Dalai Lama. In Cleveland. Ohio. That’s in the Midwest, where you eastern elite types don’t go on account of there’s no French restaurants.”
Fancock sat frozen. “Is this—do we know this? For a fact?”
“Yes, Rog.”
Fancock felt his heart pounding. “Have you called Doug Richardson at Treasury? His Holiness is already under Secret Service protection, but in light of—”
“No,” Barney said. “You’re the first name on my speed dial. I thought you and I might want to have a little tête-à-tête before we went pressing any other buttons. Strictly entre nous.”
“Oh, no, Barn. No. No, no, no.”
“Hear me out. Just hear me out. MSS, these people are—whatever else you think—they’re pros. Frankly, I sometimes wish some of own people had their skill sets.”
“Barney!”
“Listen, Rog. It’s not like a dozen ninjas are going to rappel down the outside of the hospital and get into a firefight with the Secret Service. Hell, the Chinese have been at this sort of thing since Our Lord was walking the earth in sandals, sticking it to the Philistines. We probably won’t even see ’em coming. Or going. You remember Clint Eastwood in that movie Million Dollar Baby? The scene at the end where he—”
“No, I don’t. And I’m going to hang up now. I’m calling Doug Richardson.”
“Rogers. Steady, old bean. Don’t go doing something you’re going to regret. Think it through. That’s what you used to tell us in Exit Strategies. You go alerting the Secret Service, what’s that going to accomplish?”
“Other than saving the Dalai Lama’s life?”
“Fine. Fine. You put them on high alert. And what happens when they catch the guy? Then what? ‘U.S. Foils Attempt by China to Kill Dalai Lama. Killer Held at Guantánamo.’ That’ll calm things down nicely. Hope you got your talking points ready.”
Fancock confronted the fact that his choices were now reduced to the odious and the unpalatable.
“Can you stop them?” Fancock said.
“Stop them? Rog, I’m the one who suggested this in the first place.”
A knock on the door. Bletchin’s face, all shiny and eager, no doubt panting for permission to get Dr. Kissinger on the line.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. You’re needed in the Situation Room. Right away.”
Why—why—had Fancock gone back into government? Here it was a Friday in June. He could have been sailing on his yacht, Ophelia, on a gentle reach down Nantucket Sound, wind off the quarter, bare feet on sun-warm teak deck, cutting a neat wake through green water, sipping Pimm’s Cup, Dorothy beside him, knitting, listening to Mozart, trying to decide what sauce to serve with the lobster tonigh
t. Instead . . . this.
CHAPTER 23
MORE THAN I COULD HAVE HOPED FOR
I’ve got an ear-ly birth-day gift,” Angel said in singsong to Bird as she approached his station in the ICC war room on little cat’s feet.
Given the kittenish vibrations Bird had been picking up lately, he thought it prudent to respond cautiously, in case “birthday” turned out to mean “naked.”
To his relief, Angel had not stopped by the Military-Industrial Duplex the other night after her slugfest on Hardball with Winnie Chang.
“Birthday?” he said. “Not until September, actually.”
“Guess what? I just had a call from a friend at the Pentagon. There’s something cooking in the East China Sea. Something big.”
“Oh?”
“Um-hm.”
“We’re not at war or anything, are we?”
“Not yet. But things could get very, very in-ter-est-ing.” She turned to go.
“Wait.”
“Got to make some calls. You don’t think I’m going to wait to hear this on CNN, do you?”
“Is it . . . serious?”
“Let’s hope.”
“Oh, Ange, you make me nervous when you talk like that.”
“Back in a jiff.”
She returned a half hour later, pink-faced and flushed, looking as though she’d gone for a two-mile run in the park.
“Oh, Bird,” she said. “We did it. We really did it. When we first started on this project, I thought maybe we’d nudge public opinion along a bit. But this is so much more than I could have hoped for. Two Chinese fast frigates—Jianghu II class—are on an intercept course for one of our ships.”
“Oh, no. What kind of ship?”
“A surveillance vessel! The Rumsfeld. Spy ship! Antisubmarine. Loaded to the gills with the very latest.”
“This is . . . good?”
“Good? We may be on the verge of the biggest high-seas showdown since the Pueblo. Yes, this is good. Why are you frowning?”
“I don’t know,” Bird said. “Maybe I’m a few drinks behind.”
“You might show a little enthusiasm.” She turned and left, high heels, high dudgeon.
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 18
