“Fine,” said Whitsun after a moment. “One month it is. Now, let’s get on with business, shall we? Assuming Campbell had that roster he’d have copied it to something—disk, printout. But it wasn’t on his body when it reached Arlington Hospital. And nothing in his desk, his email, his house or his computer. And I just learned that Mr. George Campbell of BUPERS was also Mr. George Campbell of the CIA—Covert Ops, retired. Or perhaps semi-retired, Harry?”
“Impossible,” said Rourke, startled. “If it was one of our operations, I’d know about it, unless...” he paused.
“Unless it had been set in place and given deep cover, maybe long ago?”
“Campbell could have been working for someone else—don’t assume that it was ever one of our operations.”
“He was working for or with someone,” said Whitsun. “People who know about this aspect of Telemachus and knew just when to strike.”
“There can’t be too many of them.”
“It would only take a few to compromise us,” said Whitsun. “We have to find out who they are, recover that roster and eliminate them. Campbell knew he had only hours after he snatched it this morning. He passed it on.” He handed a slip of paper to Rourke. “These two worked with Campbell—they were with him when he died. They’re the nearest thing he had to friends. Check out Munroe and the other one, a light Commander named Angelica Milano.” He paused—the name was tauntingly familiar. “If they’ve got that file, retrieve it and kill them.”
Rourke shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“What?” It was Whitsun’s turn to be startled.
“The Agency’s supported you and funded this project for years, Admiral. We’ll continue to do so as long as we’re told to. But having your people terminate Campbell without authorization has given your enemies fresh ammunition—and Admiral, you’ve got a lot of enemies. They’re saying you’ve lost your perspective, that you’re out of control. And saying it into receptive ears.”
Whitsun shrugged. “I mark my successes by the number of my enemies, Harry. As for disposing of Campbell, it had to be done quickly and I did it.”
“Maybe. But you went off on your own and there you stay. My instructions are clear—you may continue to use your own people, but we’ll give you only intelligence support. And if you get in over your head, I’ll only bail you out if told to.”
“Distancing yourself from me won’t save you if this falls apart, Rourke,” said Whitsun, face reddening. “Your precious Agency has been in on this since the start. You’re as dirty as the rest of us.”
Rourke rose. “My Agency, perhaps, but not me, Admiral—I’m the new boy on the block. And you no longer have the clout that made my predecessors your bat boys. I’ll see that you get the information on Munroe and Milano. Good day.”
Whitsun sat pensively for a time and then made the necessary phone calls, the last to an island in Boston’s Inner Harbor.
Driving back to McLean, Rourke thought about those patient spiders. One name kept recurring: Musashi.
Chapter 3
Jim lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. It’d been after five p.m. before the Defense Protective Service, the FBI and the Arlington County Police had finished taking his and Angie’s statements over at the Pentagon’s DPS office. Emotionally spent, they’d hitched a ride from the DPS cops back to the Bureau’s parking area and bid each other a somber goodnight.
He’d spent the evening detached, on autopilot. After microwaving and eating something that might have been beef, he’d gone to bed and struggled for sleep, his thoughts alternating between a replay of George’s murder—for what else could it have been?—and thoughts of family and friends long gone.
Throwing back the covers, he went downstairs. The microwave’s orange LED told him it was just after midnight. Turning on the lights in the big country kitchen, he sliced up a fresh lime, made himself a stiff Beefeater-and-tonic and read the Washington Post. Twice. A half-hour or so later, the gin and exhaustion combined to send him drowsily back to bed and to sleep.
The dream, so long gone, was back: Emmy, her eyes wide and distant, standing on the balcony beside the railing, holding Kaeko—Kaeko in her little I Love New York tee-shirt, its big red apple faded from many washings, and one of those silly cloth diapers Emmy insisted on using to save money, even though he’d told her a million times he could get the disposables at the commissary. Kaeko wailing, clinging to her mother—himself, running towards them, hopelessly slow even as Emmy stepped up onto table, put a foot on the railing and jumped.
As always, he jumped after them, falling, arms outstretched, trying to reach them as they spiraled towards the earth, impossibly far below—an earth that receded even as the three of them plummeted toward it. Then Emmy and Kaeko were gone, spinning away from him. He screamed as the ground rushed up to meet him.
Jim found himself sitting up in bed, heart pounding, clammy with sweat.
Sunlight washed into the room through the big bay window. From nearby came the sound of traffic cutting past on its way to 23rd Street and Crystal City. The overwhelming sense of helplessness and terror slowly faded.
Why is it back after so long? he wondered as he slowly showered, running the hot water over his tense neck and back. What the hell does Angie have to do with Emmy—dear dead Emmy? And why is Kaeko always wearing diapers? She was five when she died.
There were fifteen flag officers at the Bureau, differentiated mostly by where they were or weren’t going. Some, the comers, were getting their tickets punched on the way to better things, which in the Navy was being at sea and in command of as many pieces of floating gray metal as possible—ideally a carrier battle group. Some had screwed up and were awaiting retirement and some were just awaiting retirement. But there were always a few, like Frank Jameson, whose futures weren’t easily perceived. Jim and Angie’s division chief, Jameson was a two-star admiral, a Rear Admiral, Lower Half. As a captain, he’d commanded an air group during Desert Storm and been one of the few F-14 drivers to have been in a dogfight with Iranian MIGs—three, in fact. He’d sent them into the ocean, a set-to that had earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross and his first star.
Given charge of assigning half a million men and women to hundreds of ships and bases around the world, Jameson had confounded conventionality by learning about the computer systems that did so much of the work, and troubling himself to memorize the names and faces of the senior and mid-level civilians who ran those systems. He’d been back in the working area cubicles so often that all hands had been told to no longer bellow “Attention On Deck!” whenever all that gold braid came flashing down the dimly-lit halls.
Jim sat in the armchair opposite Jameson’s great mahogany desk. The Admiral’s desktop was clear save for a Naval Academy pen and pencil set, a leather desk blotter, a small stack of personnel orders awaiting signature, and to the right, a detailed model of an F-14. The latest flavor of PC sat behind him on a computer stand. Sharing his computer stand was a gold-rimmed coffee mug reading CVN 69 USS Eisenhower. The computer screen displayed the day’s appointment schedule, white letters on a blue background.
Angie had the other leather side chair. “You look like hell,” she’d said as they’d waited in the reception area.
“So do you,” Jim had said, noting the bags under her eyes.
“Bad night,” she said. “Took two glasses of sherry to send me off to dreamland.”
“I used gin,” he said, as they were ushered in.
“I’m very sorry about George,” said the Admiral following introductions. “Sharp as tack, knew ours systems inside and out. His work with GDR on this new SLIF system was outstanding.” Jameson shook his head. “The only thing that ever got in George’s way was his mouth. He once told my boss that if the Navy didn’t have a legal monopoly, its work should be put out for competitive bid.” He sighed. “George is going to be missed—even though a lot people probably won’t think so. At first.
“So how are you two doing? Seei
ng a friend killed can throw your world off compass.”
Jim and Angie assured him they were doing fine, thank you, sir.
Jameson was a large man and he filled the big desk chair. He was in his early fifties, with a bluff weathered face and sharp green eyes. “George had a unique and irreplaceable depth of knowledge about the weird way we do business here, and rock solid integrity. And the manner of his death...” Jameson shook his head. “He never said anything before he died?” he asked, his eyes, gauging their expressions as they shook their heads. “Well, you’ve got his job for now, Mr. Munroe,” he continued, looking at Jim. “Pending Mr. Gawkins approval, of course. Are you up to speed on the SLIF project? It’s high visibility. CNO’s following it closely.” Jim sympathized—the Chief of Naval Operations had once had Jameson’s current job and would know all the right questions to ask.
“Not yet, Admiral. A day or two, though, and I will be.” He wondered if that six-month contract he’d interviewed for at the FBI was still open.
“Very well,” said Jameson. “I’ve asked Captain Harris to keep me apprised of the status of the Federal investigation.”
Angie suddenly leaned intently forward. Crap, thought Jim. Here it comes.
“Sir, had you been there, I think you’d agree with Mr. Munroe and I that George was murdered—coldly and premeditatedly. George Campbell served this country faithfully for many years, sir. The least we can do is not brush his death under the table.”
Under the table’s where your personnel jacket’s going to be at your next promotion board, thought Jim.
“No one is trying to brush Mr. Campbell’s death aside, Commander,” said Jameson coldly.
“Are you going to request an NCIS investigation, Admiral?” she pressed on, referring to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.
“The FBI has jurisdiction over all crimes on Pentagon property, Commander.”
Jim tried not sink lower in his chair.
“I believe an NCIS investigation could be very beneficial, sir,” Angie said, undeterred. “The search for whatever caused his death should start here in the Bureau, and NCIS should be in charge—they’d get far more cooperation than an outside agency.”
Navy folks don’t like Suits, Jim silently agreed, watching a robin perch on the magnolia tree outside Jameson’s window.
“The vehicle that struck George had no identifying features,” Angie continued. “His death has every appearance of being planned. Planned, it would require a motive. And wouldn’t that motive most likely be found where George worked, here in the Bureau? I mean, Admiral, the man had no life outside of here.”
“I think you’re jumping the gun, Commander. It might have just been a couple of crack addicts from the District, joy riding in a stolen vehicle. There’s no indication it was premeditated.”
“A little early to tell, isn’t it, sir?” said Angie, smiling pleasantly.
The smile, thought Jim. She’s not going to let it go.
A discreet knock at the door saved them. Captain Harris’s graying crew-cut head appeared. “General Wilson’s here for your eleven hundred, sir.”
As the Admiral glanced at his appointment schedule, Harris looked at Jim and Angie, jerking his head toward the door. Jim gave him a thumbs-up. The Captain did not care for Jim’s thumb.
“There’s a graveside service for George tomorrow, next door at Arlington,” said the Admiral. “We’ll be posting the time and place.”
“Bureau personnel aren’t usually interred in Arlington, are they Admiral?” asked Jim as he stood. Arlington National Cemetery was reserved for those who had served with great distinction.
“George Campbell was a much-decorated Army officer, Mr. Munroe,” said the Admiral. “He was a platoon leader at Omaha Beach, commanded a battalion at Bastogne and later served as a staff intelligence officer in Occupied Germany—not to mention his many years of government service. Thank you both for your input. If I can do anything, please call me.”
They shook the Admiral’s hand and passed into his busy outer office, with its flag writer and yeomen and ringing phones, then into the even busier central corridor.
“Someday,” said Jim as they made their way back to their area, “they’re just going to have the Marines haul you outside and shoot you. Probably anyone with you, too.”
“You’re such a woos, Jim,” she said absently. “That was strange.”
“What?”
“That he met with us at all. What was the point?”
“He’s just expressing concern, Angie,” said Jim. “He’s a nice guy.” And, he thought, perhaps he also wanted to know if George had told us anything.
“He didn’t get to sit there by being a nice guy.”
“What a cynic. Did you know that George was a hero in the Big One?” he asked as they walked.
“Sure,” said Angie. “Didn’t you?”
“No. He never talked about the war or family or anything.”
“Did you ever ask him? He really liked you, you know.”
“No,” said Jim. If only I were paid by the regret rather than by the hour, he thought.
They stopped at the intersection of the main corridor and Wing Eight, the Dead Guys’ Corner: portraits of the former Chiefs of Naval Personnel, the oldest from 1842, back when it’d been the Bureau of Navigation. Angie had once said all of the 19th century admirals looked as though they might have barnacles beneath their beards. Jim thought none of them looked a stranger to the bottle.
Angie leaned close. “Okay, now, where’s the diskette?” she said softly as a gaggle of chiefs went by, headed for the training rooms.
“Home,” said Jim. “Hidden.” Naval officers aren’t supposed to wear perfume—folks around them might be allergic or think they were women.
“Have you looked at it?” she asked.
“Briefly. It’s one long sequential ASCII file with some gaps. Appears to be mostly personnel codes and dates—no names. We’d need to know the purpose of the data to figure out the format, maybe get some help from someone knowledgeable in Navy stuff. Someone like...”
“Me.”
“Yeah. We can try to work out the file structure. Why don’t you come over to my place tonight, since you’re too cheap to buy a computer?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Trying to lure me over to play with your file structure, Jimbo? PC still in your spare bedroom?”
He’d been on loan to Angie’s section for a few months. She’d kindly brought him lots of work while he was convalescing from a dislocated knee, along with some neat little communications software and a password generator that would let him send her his work every day. By 1700 hours, please.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Have I ever given you reason to think I was...” he hesitated.
“After my bod?” she smiled, enjoying his discomfort. “No.”
“Well, you don’t own a PC, do you?”
“Right.”
“So?” He waited.
“All right,” she said finally. “Seven okay?”
“Sure.”
“See you then. And,” she added, calling over her shoulder as she turned down her corridor, “you have to feed me. No pizza, no pasta and none of your stupid Italian jokes.”
“What sound does an Italian helicopter make?” he called back, but she was gone. “You’re such a bitch, Angie,” he added softly. He went back to his desk, determined to do some work.
A young black petty officer sat at George’s desk, playing a noisy computer game. George’s ashtray was gone, celebration of a small triumph by a small mind in the SEAL shop, perhaps. “You’re in the wrong cubicle, Petty Officer Williams,” said Jim, reading the man’s name tag.
The kid looked up, startled. “Senior Chief told me to sit here, sir. I’m new. He said this desk was vacant.”
“Hard to believe, but Senior Chief was wrong.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out.”
The kid looked ready to argue. Seeing the look on Jim’s face, he fled.
/> Jim felt sorry for a moment, then forgave himself and tried to work. It didn’t turn out well: he spent the day being quietly upset, staring at the screen, then left early to find a decent sirloin and a good Bordeaux.
Chapter 4
Sitting at the end of a short tree-lined cul-de-sac, Jim’s house had a big wrap-around verandah and from the back a view of much of Crystal City. Not that Jim or anyone he knew would ever want a view of Crystal City. But from the kitchen or the minuscule sloping backyard could also be seen the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial and the Dome of the Capitol.
Beneath his big front bay windows lived the implacable ancient pink azaleas with which he’d long fought a losing battle. With autumn, they were beginning to drop their leaves. Soon he’d resume the fight, trimming them back yet again. During the winter they’d lie dormant, then in the spring, roots having secretly burrowed and thickened, the branches would shoot up yet again to obscure the bottom third of his living room windows.
Opening the big oak-and-stained-glass front door, Jim went to the burglar alarm touchpad by the foot of the stairs and entered the disarm code. Only as he moved back into the hall did he see the faint trial of mud leading up the stairs.
Adrenaline surged and old instincts clicked in. Stepping quickly to the hall table, he unsnapped the old Army Colt .45 from its hiding place beneath the table top, thumbing off the safety. Chambering a round and cocking the hammer, he slipped into the kitchen, pistol held high and two-handed. Moving quickly, he made a circuit of the downstairs, then went lightly up the stairs.
Bedrooms, baths, closets, beneath the beds—all looked undisturbed. Setting the pistol aside, he sat down in front of the computer. Last used by him yesterday, the monitor was off and cold. The contents of the diskette box appeared undisturbed.
Leaning back in his desk chair, he sat with templed fingers, staring out the window, watching the steady parade of silver jets catching the late afternoon sun as they glided down the Potomac toward the airport.
The Eldridge Conspiracy Page 3
