Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  “Of course,” she said. “Just don’t make any incisions.”

  McCaskey said he would not.

  The doctor went upstairs to arrange for analysis of the tissue. That left McCaskey alone with the cadaver. The former FBI agent found no other marks on the upper half of the body. He covered Wilson with the sheet and returned him to the cooler. He closed the door.

  Wilson was not doing drugs. They would have shown up on the initial lab report. So would injections of insulin or some other medication. Unless the man had nicked himself on a fish bone at the party, this probably meant that someone stuck him under the tongue.

  If William Wilson had been murdered, Washington would be turned into a pop-culture Dallas with public and private investigations and endless conspiracy scenarios about who killed the Internet tycoon.

  The medical examiner returned. She took McCaskey’s cell phone number as well as his office number and promised to call as soon as she heard something. He thanked her for her help and asked for her complete discretion.

  “The autopsy results will be sealed,” she said, “though in my experience that’s as good as saying we have something to hide.”

  “In this instance, we may,” McCaskey remarked.

  As he left the medical center, McCaskey found something ironic in how this had unfolded. Something that even Bob Herbert might find amusing.

  That for a few hours at least, the quintessential team player would be working on this case alone.

  TEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 11:00 A.M.

  As the press secretary to Senator Donald Orr, twenty-nine-year-old Katherine “Kat” Lockley typically reached the office around seven-thirty each morning and stayed until seven or eight at night. That was fine with her. She loved her work. But it was intense and exhausting, and a midday lunch break was not a luxury, it was a requirement. She liked to get out of the office, go to the Green Pantry down the street, stock up at the salad bar, and do the New York Times crossword puzzle while she ate. Forty-five minutes. That was all she required to recharge her brain.

  She would not be getting away from the office today.

  Kat did not care about William Wilson personally. The two had barely made eye contact at the party, let alone spoken to one another. When she turned on the BBC news at six A.M., as she did every day, and learned of his death, Kat’s only concern was for Senator Orr and how the software magnate’s death would impact them. As someone who greatly admired the senator, Kat would have to work hard to keep the focus on politics, not gossip. As the daughter of one of Orr’s oldest friends, Lieutenant Scott Lockley of the RED HORSE unit, it was also Kat’s pleasure to help the senator.

  Kat mentally composed a press release as she showered, made notes as she dressed, dictated the final draft as she drove to work, and plugged the digital tape recorder into her computer when she arrived. The voice recognition program transcribed her words, and she edited them while she phoned the senator. It had been a long night of meeting and greeting, and he was still asleep when she called. He listened to the news without comment, a talent good politicians practiced even in private conversations. Kat E-mailed the text of the press release to the senator’s laptop. He approved it, and the short statement was E-mailed to the press by eight A.M.

  Although the media reported that Wilson had been with a woman he apparently met at the senator’s party, neither Kat nor Kendra knew who that was. The official party photographer had E-mailed all the images he took the night before, over two hundred of them. Wilson spoke to a number of women. He left alone. That fact was included in the press release.

  At the Columbia School of Journalism they called this “drawing first blood.” You did not wait for reporters to come to you. You went to them and established the parameters of the dialogue. Kat had the senator state, “I have never been interested in the private lives of private citizens, so I will only comment on the man as I knew him: through his work.” She had made a point of specifying “private citizens” in case it ever became necessary to attack the personal activities of a fellow politician. Kat did not want to have their moral stand in this instance misunderstood as general disinterest in the morality of public officials.

  After sending out the press release, Kat fielded calls literally from A to Z, from Blue Danube Radio in Austria to ZBC Television One in Zimbabwe. There were also interview requests from all the American network morning and evening shows. Kat declined to make the senator available to everyone but CBS Evening News and Nightline . That would give them several hours to find out more about what had happened to William Wilson and to formulate a response. She E-mailed that information to the staff.

  Senator Orr sat in his sunny, wood-paneled office with Kendra and Kat and decided that Kat’s plan was a good one. The senator would stick to the day’s schedule. Wilson had not been a friend to the American economy. The only reason the Englishman had been invited to the party was so that key Washington bankers could make his acquaintance and try to discourage him from his Eurocentric banking plans. It was a delicate thing, mourning a man whose invention had improved everyone’s quality of life but whose politics were aggressively anti-American.

  “I am curious, though, about who he might have met at the party,” the senator had said. “Any ideas?”

  “I had the photographer send over his shots from last night,” Kat said. “He talked to a number of women, most of them married.”

  “Which could be why there are no clear video images of her from the hotel security system,” Kendra remarked.

  “She didn’t want to be identified,” the senator said. “Well, hopefully, it will not be our concern after today.”

  “Which is why I’ve instructed the photographer not to provide any of those pictures to the press,” Kat said. “The fact that he was here shows that you were trying to be a mediator. That’s a good thing. Photographs of Wilson at the party will create a different impression.”

  “In what way?” Kendra asked.

  “I call it the stink of Pulitzer prize,” Kat replied. “What’s the first thing you think of when I say ‘John F. Kennedy?’ The Bay of Pigs invasion? The Cuban Missile Crisis? Marilyn Monroe?”

  “The Zapruder film,” Kendra admitted.

  “And what do we remember Dallas for?”

  “I get it,” Kendra said, nodding.

  “Death resonates, unnatural or otherwise, and pictures reinforce that,” Kat said. “Pearl Harbor, the World Trade Center, the Challenger and Columbia—the emotional power of the end of something overshadows whatever else it stood for. Images strengthen that impact.”

  “But there’s something we want to strengthen,” Kendra said. “The difference between what Wilson stood for and what the senator and USF stand for. Wouldn’t this be a good opportunity to do that?”

  “It would be convenient, but not good,” Kat said. “There is a certain level of tawdriness in how Wilson died. We want to stay clear of that, especially if it turns out he was canoodling with someone from the gala.”

  “Couldn’t we use that to cheapen him and his ideas?” Kendra asked.

  “That would cheapen us, I think,” Kat replied.

  “Yes, I have to agree with Kat on that one,” the senator said.

  Kendra nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I was just asking.”

  Kat did not always like Kendra’s go-for-the-throat thinking, but at least the woman did not take the rejection personally. She was here for Senator Orr and the USF, not for herself.

  “There is also the chance that late-night comics turn on Wilson and his lover in a day or two,” Kat added. “If that happens, we risk becoming part of the joke right when we are holding our convention.”

  “Another good point,” Orr said.

  “So how do we exploit the media exposure we’ll have tonight?” Kendra asked. “If the senator condemns Wilson, he’ll appear heartless. If he praises the man, we lose credibility. If he goes into his stump speech, then we’re obviously exploiting the media exposure.
Could we move the announcement of a presidential run?”

  “Ouch,” Kat said.

  “Why?” Kendra asked.

  “That would keep Wilson alive,” Kat said. “Wilson’s death and the senator’s candidacy become a run-on sentence, inseparable.”

  “I see it as planting flowers in fertilizer,” Kendra said. “Something wonderful coming from shit.”

  Kat frowned.

  “Who cares if we are linked to Wilson?” Kendra continued. “I see that as a good thing. Wilson’s ideas were very bad for America. The USF is good for America.”

  “But we’ll be linked to his death, not his ideas,” Kat said. “We’ll be seen as vultures, opportunists.”

  “Just having the senator on one of those shows will be perceived that way, won’t it?” Kendra asked.

  “Not necessarily. The senator will be seen as a diplomat. He can say things like, ‘Mr. Wilson and I had a different worldview, but his contribution to technology was invaluable,’ or, ‘Mr. Wilson was embarked on a path I opposed. His genius was in other areas.’ You start with the negative to make an impact, then sugarcoat it so you seem magnanimous.”

  “I am magnanimous,” Orr teased.

  The women laughed. It was true. Orr was a politician. Typically, that was not a good fit with idealism or philanthropy. All a philanthropist had to do was convince himself that something was worthwhile and make it happen. An elected official had to convince others, and there was often a considerable gulf between conscience and compromise. A man like Franklin Roosevelt may have felt it was the right thing to free Europe from Hitler. But he needed Pearl Harbor to make that happen. John Kennedy may have thought it was a good idea to send people to the moon, but he needed the threat of a Soviet space platform to get the funding. Fortunately, the senator cared more about getting his message across than about winning the White House.

  “I agree with Kat,” Orr said. “I don’t want to dance too enthusiastically on the man’s grave. But I do like Kendra’s idea of making some kind of announcement as soon as possible. Kat, what USF personnel are we looking at today?”

  “Just two,” Kat said. “A military adviser and an economic guru.”

  “The military adviser is General Rodgers, the deputy director of Op-Center?” Orr asked.

  “That’s correct, Senator.”

  “He took our boys into North Korea, India, Russia, the Middle East to stop things from blowing up,” Orr said. “That’s good. It would make a good counterpoint to what Wilson stood for. Kat, would you give him a call and find out what he thought about the party, see if there’s anything we’ll need to show him or tell him to make him more comfortable?”

  Kat said she would do that at once.

  The media portion of the meeting was over, and Kat left the senator with Kendra. She returned to her office, pausing only to make sure the other staffers did not discuss William Wilson with the media. Orr’s personal staff of three men and four women were pretty sharp. Kat did not think they would have done that. But the D.C. press corps was smart, too. They had back-door ways of asking questions. “I’m not at liberty to say” could be written as “so-and-so refused to comment,” which suggested that there was something to hide. For Orr’s staff, the correct response to all questions about Wilson was, “Would you like to talk to Ms. Lockley?”

  Throughout the morning, several people had wanted to talk to Ms. Lockley. She would call back later and tell them that the senator had nothing to add to the statement he had made that morning. Right now she needed to talk to Mike Rodgers. She called his cell phone and introduced herself. The general seemed happy to hear from her.

  “Are the senator and I still on for this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, General Rodgers. The senator is looking forward to it. In fact, he wanted me to call and find out if you need anything. Additional information, a brand of cigar, a favorite beverage.”

  “Actually, there are just two things I want,” Rodgers told her.

  “What are they?” Kat asked.

  “I want to meet a man with vision and the courage to see that vision through,” Rodgers said.

  “You will definitely find that.”

  “I believe I will,” Rodgers said. “I have read about the senator, and I admire the values for which he stands. The other thing I want to find is a man who is willing to listen to the people around him.”

  “General, I just came from a meeting with the senator. I assure you, he listens and he hears.”

  “Then I look forward to meeting with him, and hopefully to working with him,” Rodgers replied.

  “May I ask a somewhat personal question, General?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you eager to make a move at this time?”

  “If it’s the right one,” Rodgers told her.

  “I’m glad to hear that, sir,” Kat told him. “We all look forward to seeing you again.”

  The woman hung up and relayed the information to Senator Orr. He was glad to hear how the general felt.

  “He sounds like our kind of fighter,” Orr said.

  Kat was glad to hear the senator excited. In a day that offered their first major challenge on the national stage, it was reassuring to find a potential ally.

  Now it was time to call back the rest of the reporters who wanted to talk to the senator. First, however, she made another call. One that was more important to her.

  She phoned the Green Pantry and ordered a turkey club sandwich.

  ELEVEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 12:53 P.M.

  On the way back to Op-Center, McCaskey stopped at a gas station market for lunch. He got a hot dog and a Mountain Dew. As he stood outside eating, he glanced at a rack of newspapers. The headlines of the Washington Post, USA Today, and a handful of foreign papers were all about the untimely death of William Wilson.

  When he was with the FBI, McCaskey attended a class in ATT—antiterrorist tactics. The teacher, psychologist Vic Witherman, was an expert in what he called countdown profiling. Witherman maintained that it was possible to spot a terrorist who was within minutes of launching an attack. There was a dark brightness in their eyes, undistracted purpose in their step, a confident boast in the way they held their head and shoulders. It was the posture of a demigod.

  “It comes from three things,” Witherman had said. “One, of course, is adrenaline. Two is the fact that they are out of hiding for the first time in months, maybe even years. But three is the most significant of all. They possess what no one else has: knowledge of the future.”

  McCaskey was struck by that observation. But today was the first time he had ever experienced something similar. If he was right, he knew what tomorrow’s headlines would read.

  McCaskey’s cell phone beeped as he was getting back into the car. It was Dr. Hennepin.

  “It took exactly fifteen minutes for the laboratory to find something that did not belong in a man’s mouth,” she said. “Traces of potassium chloride.”

  “Which is used for what?” McCaskey asked.

  “Executing criminals by lethal injection,” the medical examiner told him. “It stops the heart.”

  “Is there any way our subject could have acquired that substance naturally?” McCaskey asked. He was careful not to use William Wilson’s name, since this was not a secure line.

  “Only if he had been eating dog food and certain brands of weight loss bars and dietary supplements,” she said. “I did not find anything in the contents of his stomach that indicated he had eaten any of the above. Moreover, in the case of the bars and supplements, potassium chloride would have been detected in conjunction with potassium citrate or potassium phosphate.”

  “The sample you found was pure.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So he was murdered.”

  “Unless it was self-inflicted.”

  “Which does not seem likely,” McCaskey said. “Who has to be informed about this?”

  “I have to send a report to the
Metro Police superintendent of detectives and a copy to the MP forensics office,” she replied.

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can write it up,” the doctor told him. “They should have it within an hour.”

  “Can you write slowly?” McCaskey asked. “I have to get back to my office and give Scotland Yard a heads-up. There may be individuals they want watched before the information becomes somewhat public.”

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll have them run tests for other coronary inhibitors. That should take an extra hour.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Hennepin,” McCaskey said. “Will you be able to forward a copy to me?”

  “Sure.”

  McCaskey thanked her again.

  Op-Center’s top policeman was already on the road before the conversation ended. He did not want to call Op-Center or Scotland Yard from the secure cell phone in the car. He was not thinking about the empowerment he gained by possessing foreknowledge. Right now, the former FBI agent was thinking about everything that would have to be done to find the individual who had gone to William Wilson’s room and apparently assassinated him.

  Upon arriving at Op-Center, McCaskey went directly to his office, shut the door, and called George Daily. The detective superintendent was less surprised than McCaskey had expected.

  “It’s more credible, frankly, than hearing that he died of heart failure,” the British investigator remarked.

  “I’m going to meet with Director Hood as soon as he’s free,” McCaskey said. “Do you want to approach the Metropolitan Police, or would you prefer that we work on your behalf?”

  “We’d best do both,” Daily told him. “When the press gets hold of this, we will be pressured to take a direct hand. In the meantime, it would help enormously if you would earmark areas that we will need to examine. Local police can be very territorial about their sources and the interrogation process.”

  “I’ll make sure you are represented, Detective Superintendent,” McCaskey promised.

  “How long do we have until this news becomes public fodder?” the Englishman asked.