LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  “Why don’t you first tell me what her name is?”

  “Her name? Marx, I think she said.”

  Warner sprang to his feet. “Marx? Sophie Marx from Paris? And you’ve been giving her the brush-off?”

  “Right, chief. That’s policy, isn’t it?”

  Warner tried to control his frustration. It was policy for unsolicited press calls. Sophie had convinced him she wouldn’t be calling, so he hadn’t notified his staff of a possible exception. This whole thing was his fault. “Look, Simmons, whatever you do, get me that lady back on the line. I don’t care if you have to have a tracer put on the call. Find her number and put me in touch with her. Is that clear Simmons? Is that CLEAR?”

  “Sure, chief, I just – ”

  “Get moving.”

  On his way out, Simmons collided with a secretary on her way in.

  “Sorry, Gwyn,” he muttered.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Simmons. Mr. Warner.”

  “What?”

  “It’s that lady from Europe again. Tim said he was going to ask you how to deal with her.”

  “I’ll tell you how to deal with her,” Warner said. “Put her through.”

  “What, sir? I promise this isn’t someone you want to talk to. She’s – ”

  “Ms. Skidmore, did you hear me or did I speak too softly? I said, put her through.”

  Warner sat back and waited for the phone to ring. He tried to calm himself. God how he hoped she had come up with something. He was invited to a White House meeting after lunch. He knew Galloway and the other hotheads would be pushing for an immediate military strike against Iraq. His chances of stopping them were nil unless Sophie had come across something he could use.

  The call came through a few seconds later. “Yes? This is Frank Warner.”

  “Good morning, Frank,” Sophie said in a husky, confident voice. “I’m sorry I had to be so obnoxious to your staff.”

  “Forget it. I hadn’t told them you might call because I had no reason to believe you would. What’s up?”

  “A lot. I gather from my sources there’s a real conviction in Washington that Iraq is the culprit. That’s America. Anything goes wrong, blame Iraq.”

  “Yes, that’s right, even though it’s clear Iraq is not involved.”

  “I know that now, Frank. I hope you’ll forgive me for my obtuseness earlier.”

  “Sophie, what’s going on? Do you know something?”

  “Do I ever. Not by design, mind you. The French are behind this débâcle. Not Airbus but a group of nationalists. Iraq has been set up to appear guilty.”

  Warner closed his burning eyes. “Jesus, I hope you have proof.”

  “Unfortunately it’s not yet bankable. I’ve already been to see William Fairchild, the top CIA man in France. He treated me like I had an advanced case of Alzheimer’s. The problem is this. My associate stumbled onto the story by chance. He wasn’t prepared to make tapes when he found himself listening to this ugly piece of news.”

  Warner was squeezing the receiver so hard his fingers turned white. “Where was he? When did this happen?”

  “Last night in Fontainebleau, Frank. He sneaked into a wine cellar below the room in which a meeting was taking place. He cut a hole in the heating duct and listened. He was hoping to come up with leads for an unrelated story of mine. It took him about two words to realize that he was listening to the men who had hit Boeing.”

  “Jesus Christ. And you’re sure this associate is reliable?”

  “Entirely. And you’ll be pleased to know that you won’t have to rely on my feeble account for long. There’s going to be another meeting in the same room tomorrow night. The French are working with a former KGB agent, a man who oversaw their capability to sabotage American aircraft during his thirty year tenure in the States. He’s the one who did the actual dirty work. He’ll be at the meeting to collect for the crashes he’s caused. Frank, he’s going to be paid a quarter of a billion dollars in cash.”

  “Holy Christ. And you say this meeting is going to take place tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock Paris time.”

  “So what you need is some sort of credible documentation of the proceedings?”

  “I’m glad somebody understands. I would say I need a spy, Frank, a person with high-tech listening devices, a professional whose findings will be taken seriously in Washington.”

  “I’m positive I can get someone who’s over there now to help you. I’m meeting with the crisis leaders in a couple of hours. CIA Chief Willis will be present. I’ll make sure you get your man. In fact, I’ll guarantee it. I don’t know how to thank you. You can’t imagine what this is going to do for me personally and for our country.”

  “Don’t thank me. I said No to you, Frank. It’s blind luck I have anything to report.”

  “That’s irrelevant now. All that matters is not to let these sons of bitches get away. I’d like to hear more. Do you have time?”

  “Yes, but I want you to use discretion with what I give you. In other words, don’t tell the CIA anything they don’t absolutely need to know. They might try to bypass me and go it alone if they think they have enough information.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything, Frank, and I think you know it. They would blow the entire operation. I’ve seen enough of their covert activities to know this. My associate knows the ropes. He can get an agent in, which the CIA can’t – not on such short notice. I want you to have the person who’ll be working with us report to me.”

  “They’ll balk.”

  “I’ll make it easy on you. I’ll only give you my address.”

  “Okay, we’ll try. Could you get on with your account now?”

  “Yes, Frank, but first I’d like to ask you a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Has anyone over there visually laid eyes on a man who could be considered a suspect.”

  Warner thought for a second. Hadn’t King, the young cop, told him something about the guy who poured the cement saying he’d dealt personally with Stein? Yes, that was it. But when King had shown him a picture of Stein, he’d said it was someone else. Someone who was not Stein but had claimed to be Stein, someone who had ordered, supervised and paid for the cement job.

  He said, “I don’t know if you’d officially call him a suspect, but yes. Why?”

  “Because I have a picture of the man who set up the sabotage operation in the States. I’m going to transmit it to you when we finish talking. His name is Hans-Walter Claussen. He’s an East German who emigrated to the U.S. in 1960. His papers showed him to be a resident of the West German city of Bremen, but I’ve done some checking and that was not the case. Anyway, he left the States in 1991 and bought a farm in what used to be East Germany. He must have reached this ghastly agreement with the French after his return to Europe.”

  “By all means, transmit the photo. I’ll run it by the people in Seattle. If it’s the man they saw, then we’ve made it to first base.”

  “We’re a lot farther along than that, Frank, but I know you don’t want to get your hopes up. This must sound too good to be true.”

  “But it is true, isn’t it, Sophie? You have no doubts about that, do you?”

  “None, whatsoever, Frank. You won’t either once I’ve filled you in.”

  ***

  King looked at himself in the mirror. Very coply and proud, a little too much fat bulging out around the collar but he’d take it off as soon as Elliot’s doughnuts weren’t part of the daily routine.

  In the bedroom he strapped on his pistol and leaned down to kiss his wife. He hoped his breath didn’t still smell of beer from last night’s celebration of his hundred buck a month raise.

  The phone rang. He answered it the only place he could, in the kitchen of their cramped apartment. “Officer King here.”

  “Officer, good morning, this is Frank Warner in Washington. I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Mr. Warner! Ho
w are you?”

  “Fine, Officer. There’s something urgent I need you to do for me.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Mr. Warner. What is it?”

  “I’ve transmitted a photograph to you by e-mail, care of Captain Bullock at the Seattle Headquarters. I want you to go by and pick it up.”

  “A photograph?”

  “Yes. I need you to run it over to the cement contractor who took payment from the man he thought was Stein. I need to know if the man in the picture is the person he dealt with. You’ve got to hurry, Officer King. I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but the future of this country’s commercial aircraft industry might be riding on how quickly you get back to me with an answer. I’m going to leave you my emergency telephone number. You can reach me anywhere at any time. I hope you’ll do just that within the next hour. Is it a realistic possibility, Officer?”

  “Maybe, Mr. Warner, if you could call the Captain and have someone who is already at Headquarters drive the picture over to DiStefano Sand and Gravel. That would save me a good forty-five minutes. I’m afraid I don’t have enough clout with those people at HQ to ask for any special favors. You, on the other hand – ”

  “All right, Officer, head for DiStefano’s. I’ll make sure the photo is there to meet you. And call me the instant you have an identification – positive or negative.”

  “Right, sir. You can count on it.”

  Warner gave him the emergency number and hung up. King went out and quietly locked the front door.

  His Pontiac started on the second try and he drove off shaking his head. No doubt about it. He was a born investigator. But he didn’t understand what Mr. Warner meant when he said the future of America’s commercial aircraft industry might depend on how fast he got back to him with Chuckie Stafford’s answer.

  Oh, well, you didn’t have to understand everything to do your job.

  King put his detachable light on the roof and turned on his siren. The confirmation that the photo was on its way to meet him crackled over his radio a few minutes later.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A White House staffer ushered Warner into the Situation Room at two p.m., the exact hour Galloway had told him to be there. Galloway had given him the impression the meeting would not begin until his arrival, but Warner could see that the participants had been at it for some time.

  He had been tricked. It was written all over Galloway’s welcoming smirk. He tried to control his temper. He had a job to do. He couldn’t let himself be distracted by this hyena. He stepped further into the room, nodding at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Salinski, who stood with a pointer in front of a map of the Middle East.

  “Hello, Frank,” Galloway said in a voice as glib and confident as that of a motivational speaker. “It would have been thoughtful of you to let us know you were going to be late. We needed your input a couple of hours ago.”

  Warner took his seat without uttering a word. What could he say? This was his fault. He should have called around and checked the time that other members of the administration had been told, as any politically savvy administrator in his position would have done. He had been in this town long enough to know that personal vendettas and dirty tricks superseded the national interest more often than you wanted to believe. He roasted Galloway with a quick stare, then took in the rest of the room.

  The players had changed dramatically from the last meeting on the air safety crisis. The two members of the administration who had spoken out in Warner’s defense, FBI Director Daniels and Secretary of Commerce Williamson, were absent. So was Hal Larsen, who had made the first credible case for Iraqi involvement but had recently expressed doubts.

  In their stead were top military and foreign policy people: Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Salinski; Admiral Chalmers; the hawkish Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, Sam Narr, his House counterpart, Secretary of Defense, Wes Allison, and a gaggle of experts from State. The only holdovers of note other than Galloway were CIA Director Willis, Secretary of State Olsen and FAA Chief Jack Shelton, an obsequious lap dog of the airline industry.

  At today’s policy meeting, the usual bickering and infighting were conspicuously absent. The air was heavy with righteous indignation and unflinching purpose.

  Typical, thought Warner, trying to read the expression on Ed Willis’ face. The one time these guys got their act together and agreed to move in the same direction, it was the wrong direction. He had his work cut out for him getting them to abandon their present mind set.

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” Warner said, knowing he would have to disturb them in some drastic fashion later. “Please go ahead, General Salinski. I apologize for the interruption.”

  “No need to apologize, Frank. But it’s too bad you missed the President. He didn’t know much about military matters when he was first elected. You should have heard him today.”

  Warner lowered his head. Things were worse than he realized. By excluding him from the meeting until now, Galloway had deprived him of the chance to influence the proceedings. Opinions that were perhaps still divided a few hours ago had now crystallized around the destruction of Iraq. If he was going to stop this dangerous juggernaut, he would have to do it soon.

  Salinski thundered on about the country’s military options. Warner tuned him out but it didn’t help. He was unable to think clearly. The call he’d gotten from Sergeant King after lunch kept running through his head like a broken record.

  It was all so mind-boggling, so incredible: “Hey, Mr. Warner, looks like we’ve got something here. The guy at DiStefano Sand and Gravel, the guy named Chuckie Stafford, positively identified your photo. Even better, sir, the owner was back from vacation. He also identified the man in your picture. That’s the individual who paid them for the cement job at Stein’s Tool and Die – ”

  Salinski wrapped up his presentation and asked for questions. Warner decided he should jump in as soon as the general sat down. But he still had no plan of attack, no idea how he was going to make the men in this room understand that the conspirators could only be nailed by learning more about Claussen and his recent contacts. And that was only part of what he had to get across. He had to make them see the horrible consequences of punishing the wrong party. The country would end up looking ridiculously inept, the guilty would walk and, worst of all, the United States might remain vulnerable to future attacks on its airliners.

  That should be enough to deter them if they remained open to the truth.

  Should be. But when the politicians were desperate to appease an irate public, when the military brass were searching for a way to become heroes again, the truth could be a low priority. Still, he had to try.

  The drone of the meeting intensified around him like a growing swarm of bees. Arguments broke out during the questioning session. They were not arguments over whether to hit Iraq but how and when the attack should take place.

  This was a war council working itself into a bellicose frenzy. Secretary of State Jerry Olsen, the man who had taken control of the last meeting, tried valiantly to interject a word of restraint. He was shouted down. Things were not looking good.

  Galloway hit the table with his gavel. “All right, that will do. We’ve outlined the situation. We’ve heard the options. I’ll brief the President on what was said after he left. I know he’ll make the right decision. This meeting is adjourned.”

  Warner sprang to his feet. “Just a minute, Galloway. You’re about to steer the country in the wrong direction. I have new and conclusive evidence that Iraq is not to blame.”

  “Mr. Warner, didn’t you hear me? This meeting is adjourned!”

  “Look, Galloway, if you want to bomb Iraq, go bomb Iraq. But don’t try to justify it with the present air safety crisis. There is no connection between the crashes and any Middle Eastern nation. I know who is responsible. While you were in here trying to influence the President, I was out gathering information. Does anyone in this room care to hear the truth?”


  “Be quiet, Mr. Warner. We’ve had to suffer your incompetence long enough. The evidence is in and, believe me, it’s conclusive. I don’t know who you’re trying to protect with your eleventh hour histrionics, but this administration cannot and will not tolerate any more diddling. The public won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it. And the President won’t stand for it. Good day.”

  “Mr. Hopkins!” Warner shouted at the White House aide who had been taking notes of the meeting. “Don’t stop! Write my remarks into the record. I was intentionally told the wrong time for this meeting by Mr. Galloway. He knew from Hal Larsen that there were holes in the existing evidence, and that I would challenge it. Iraq is not to blame. I know who is. I want the President to be informed that I know. Would you kindly get that on paper.”