by Stuart Woods
“FBI, CIA, ATF, DEA. Any with a tech services department.”
Kate Rule Lee spoke up. “I’ll have a list of such employees at the CIA printed out and messengered to you today, Bob.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The president sighed. “Bob, I’m afraid it’s time to go public with your suspicions.”
“Must I, Mr. President?”
“The press is already putting it together. Let’s not wait until we’re cornered. Anyway, going public might turn up some leads for you.- We might get a phone call from a friend or relative with suspicions.”
“I’ll issue a press release this morning, Mr. President.”
“Do that, but read it at a press conference. You dictate something to my secretary, and you can address the White House press corps at this morning’s regular briefing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks, everybody, that’s all.” The president stood up, and everyone filed out of the room.
Bob Kinney stood in the little auditorium and read his press release. “The FBI is investigating the murders of Senator Frederick Wallace, Mr. Van Vandervelt, and Mr. Timothy Brennan, which we believe were committed by the same person.”
There was a roar of questions from the reporters, which were shouted down by the White House press secretary.
Kinney continued. “We are concentrating our investigation, at the moment, on former government employees who may have acquired skills in the line of duty that are now being used to kill people.”
“Questions?” the press secretary asked, and pointed at a reporter.
“Why do you think the murders are connected?”
“Because of the political connections among the victims and for other reasons I cannot go into.”
The questions continued to come, and Kinney answered them as frankly as he could. Finally, the press secretary ended the questioning, and Kinney was escorted to an exit, where his car was waiting. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook in the backseat, and it was only then he realized that he had sweated through his shirt. He was glad he didn’t have to face the press every day.
Will Lee called his core aides into the Oval Office. “What do we know about Robert Kinney, the deputy director for investigations at the FBI?”
Kitty Conroy opened a file. “He’s one of three or four people inside the Bureau on our list of candidates to replace Heller. All I have at the moment is a resume, which is impressive.”
“Find out more. He was just in here, and I liked him.”
“What did you like about him?”
“No-nonsense, professional, has a certain gravitas.”
“He did well at the press conference,” somebody said.
“I didn’t see that, but I could tell from his body language during the meeting that he doesn’t think much of Heller, and that speaks well of him.”
Kitty laughed.
“Of course, we couldn’t give him the job until these right-wing murders are solved. He’s in charge of the case.”
“Is that what we’re calling them? The right-wing murders?”
“Absolutely not,” Will said. “Anyway, the press will come up with a name for them eventually.”
Kitty crossed her legs, something she always did when she was about to bring up something important. “We’re going to begin to get some political fallout from these killings pretty soon.”
“What kind of fallout?” Will asked. “Is the right-wing going to start accusing me of ordering them murdered?”
“They already are, on some of the extreme websites,” Kitty replied.
“You’re kidding!”
“Of course, they hold you responsible for the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, too.”
Everybody laughed.
“I’m not kidding. This is going to work its way up the food chain to Congress pretty soon, and we’d better be ready for it.”
“Get somebody to ask a question about it at my press conference tomorrow,” Will said.
“We won’t have to plant anything. There’ll be lots of questions.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Will sighed.
19
The post office delivered the mail to the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary at mid-morning, and the magazines and newspapers were hand-trucked to the library. A prisoner sorted them and put them into the racks, displacing the old issues.
Ed Rawls, who had a very good job in the library, got to the Washington Post first, as he always did, and his attention was drawn to the interview with the Arlington arson inspector, about the Van Vandervelt killing.
As Rawls read the piece, something began to sound very familiar. His mind traveled back to a murder that he himself had committed more than twenty years before, in Beirut. He remembered the bomb that had been specially designed and built for the purpose, the flat one with the squat switch, meant to go under a car seat, and he remembered who had designed and built it.
Rawls found a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote a letter. He addressed it to a very special box number in the White House zip code and wrote personal and confidential on the envelope, though he had no idea if that would do any good.
He had not been this excited for a very long time.
The letter took two days to reach its destination, then it was X-rayed and sniffed by a machine designed to detect explosives. When the envelope was deemed to be safe it was routed to the first lady’s office, where two secretaries opened every piece of mail and read it before deciding what the first lady should see. The secretary who received the envelope balked at opening it when she saw the personal and confidential note scrawled across the front. She handed the envelope to her older colleague.
“Should I open this? And what’s that box number for the return address? It sounds familiar.”
“The box number is the prisoners’ return address for the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary,” the older woman said. She held the envelope up to the light. “Seems to be just a piece of paper, and it’s already been through security.”
“Should I open it?” the younger woman persisted.
“It would probably be all right, but I’m not sure I would want to have opened it, if it turned out to be something really personal. Just put it in with the others and let the first lady deal with it.”
“All right.” The younger woman placed the envelope on a stack of other letters addressed to the box number and forgot about it.
Kate got home from Langley at a quarter to seven, and Will, who was already in his slippers in the family quarters, fixed her a drink and handed it to her. She accepted it, took a sip, and walked to the desk where her personal mail was placed every day. Riffling through the stack, the letter from Atlanta caught her eye; it was the first one she’d had for several months. She restacked the mail, leaving the envelope in the batch, and sat down next to her husband. “So, how was your day?”
“Pretty routine, except Kitty thinks the right-wingers are going to start blaming me for these murders.”
“I didn’t know you were that good a shot, or had the bomb-making skills,” Kate said.
“You’re probably a better candidate than I am,” Will said. “You’re certainly a better shot, and you have all that technical advice at the agency.”
“You have a point, and I’m motivated, too. You know how I feel about those people. Who would you like me to take out next?”
Will thought about that. “How about Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun, in Atlanta,” Will said. “He’s featured prominently on the ACT NOW website. That son of a bitch has been annoying me since I ran against him for the Senate, and he’s getting better at it.”
“Will do,” Kate said.
“And make it as painful as possible, please.”
“Certainly.”
“I hope to God nobody is bugging the family quarters,” he said, and they both laughed.
The phone rang and Will picked it up.
It sounded like a long call, so Kate picked up her mail and went into her li
ttle study. She ripped open the letter from Atlanta and read it.
I believe I might be of use to you in figuring out who’s doing those murders of right-wingers. I might even be able to name the killer, if the reward is attractive enough. You know I don’t want money, but I do pine for the piney woods of Maine. Let me know if you’d like my help. Hope you are both well and happy.
Kate read the letter again then ran it through the shredder beside her desk. She didn’t like hearing from Ed, and she wasn’t going to bite, either. She went back into the living room, where Will was winding up his phone conversation.
He hung up. “What’s for dinner?”
“You’re asking me?” She laughed heartily.
“How about I grill us some steaks?”
“If you can get the staff out of the kitchen. And can your cholesterol level take it?”
“Walter Reed says I’m in great shape,” Will replied. “And they won’t be testing my cholesterol for another three months.”
“Then what the hell,” she said. “Let’s have those steaks.”
20
Kate arrived at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, at 7:45 a.m. and was at her desk in the director’s office by eight. Her secretary buzzed.
“Mr. Broward, from personnel, is here to see you,” she said.
“Oh, yes, send him in.”
Broward looked younger and more athletic than a personnel officer was supposed to look, and he carried a large cardboard box as if it were lighter than it really was. “Good morning, Director,” he said.
“Just put them on the conference table in the next room,” Kate replied, “and we’ll go through them together.” She followed him into the conference room.
“Yes, ma’am.” He set the box down and took out a stack of file folders, some of them very thick. “There are eighteen printouts here, representing everyone who has left technical services during the past ten years, either retired, fired, or for any other reason. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
Kate pulled up a chair. “What’s your first name?”
“Harold.”
“It’s like this, Harold: We’re looking for someone with the technical skills and the motivation to have carried out the murders of Senator Wallace, Van Vandervelt, and Timothy Brennan. I’m sure you’ve read about them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d like you to sit here and read these files and make notes on anything in any of them that might be relevant. Let me give you an example: Suppose you find in somebody’s file that a man was given a hard time in one of the committees Senator Wallace served on. That’s my idea of a motivation. Also, look for membership in any liberal-oriented groups—the American Civil Liberties Union, People for the American Way—any of those, plus subscriptions to publications like The Nation. Anything at all that would indicate a strong leaning to the left or an antipathy for the right. These files are going to go to the FBI, and I want to know what’s in them before they leave the building.”
“I understand, ma’am.”
“When you’re done, buzz me, and we’ll talk about what you’ve found.” She closed the door and left him to his work.
Kate was concluding a meeting just before lunch when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“It’s Harold Broward, Director. I’ve finished.”
“I’ll be right with you, Harold.” She concluded her business, then went into the conference room. Broward stood as she entered, and she waved him back into his seat. There were two stacks of files next to him and one thick folder before him. “Have you got something, Harold?” she asked.
“Maybe so, ma’am. At least, this guy meets the specifications pretty well.”
“Tell me about him.”
Broward consulted his notes. “His name is Edward Eugene Coulter. He retired two years ago at age sixty-five. He was an assistant director of technical services, having served in that department for thirty-nine years in a variety of capacities, gradually being promoted. He has expertise in firearms, explosives, drugs, document work, and almost anything else you could ask tech services for. He was a member of the ACLU, but that was his only political affiliation. He didn’t subscribe to any publications, except The New Yorker and Washingtonian. He testified before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence four years ago and was raked over the coals by Senator Wallace for his ACLU membership and for being associated with some documents that his department had prepared, which were later stolen and used in an operation against us in the Middle East.”
“Now that’s what I call a good fit,” Kate said.
“Shall I send all this to the FBI?”
“Yes, but not yet. Call the office of Robert Kinney and tell his secretary that we’re messengering the files over tomorrow. In the meantime, leave them here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kate went back to her office and called the office of internal investigations. Fifteen minutes later, two officers stood before her desk. She handed them Coulter’s file. “I want you to copy this, then conduct an immediate investigation of this man. Don’t interview him, but I want to know how and where he lives his life; how much money he has; who, if anyone, he lives with; the organizations he belongs to; his hobbies; and anything else there is to know—and I want it all by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Any questions?”
“Are we permitted to know the reason for this investigation?” one officer asked.
“He’s a suspect in the right-wing murders you’ve been hearing about. By tomorrow afternoon, the FBI will be all over him, and if he’s the killer, I want to know about it first.”
“I understand,” the man replied. “Then get on it.”
Helen entered Bob Kinney’s office. “The CIA personnel office just called. They’re sending over all the relevant files tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” Kinney replied. “Put a couple of people on them as soon as they arrive, and let’s see if we can develop some suspects.”
“There’s something else,” she said, laying a thick brown envelope on his desk.
“What’s this?”
“When going through Senator Wallace’s personal files, I found that more than two dozen cards had the president’s name on them, going all the way back to when he was in college.”
“Did you read them?”
“No, sir. I checked the early ones to see when they began and the later ones to see where they ended. There are notations dated as recently as a month ago.”
“Thank you, Helen, I’ll deal with these myself. When will you have your digest of the others prepared?”
“In a couple of days, I think.”
“See that it contains no reference to the president.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a letter.”
She picked up a pad and sat down. “Go ahead.”
“To the President of the United States, for his eyes only: Sir, enclosed are index cards bearing your name from the personal files of Senator Frederick Wallace, the remainder of which are in my possession. To the best of my knowledge, no one except Senator Wallace has read them, certainly not I nor anyone else at the Bureau. The files bearing your name are not evidence in any case, and you need not return them to me. They may be disposed of as you wish, and no copies have been made. Sincerely, etc.
“Have the package hand-delivered to the president personally by an agent and have him sign for them. If he’s busy, have the messenger wait until he can receive them. Let his secretary know to expect our agent.”
“Yes, sir.” She went to do her work and returned shortly with the letter for him to sign.
He signed it and sent the package on its way.
21
Special Agent Kerry Smith arrived at the White House and, after identifying himself twice and having his package X-rayed, he was admitted to the office of the secretary to the president.
Smith had been at the Washington headquarters of the Bureau for less than a month, after tours in Atlanta, Houston, an
d Seattle. He thought of himself as a supremely competent FBI agent, but being inside the White House rattled him. When he reached the office of Cora Parker, he was sweating.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“It’s hot in here.”
She got up and walked over to the thermostat on the wall of her office. “It’s sixty-eight degrees. Everybody else is wearing sweaters. Are you sick? I’m not having any viruses in the Oval Office.”
“I’m not sick, I assure you.”