Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  “Both of which are Constitutionally protected activities,” Kat said. She regarded the senator. “Sir, I agree that there is mutual exploitation going on. We can use tonight as a staging area for the convention and use the convention to build our platform. To do more tonight is ghoulish.”

  “That’s a strong word, Kat,” Link remarked.

  “Isn’t that what we’re talking about, generating strong reactions?”

  Orr could see this getting personal. Kat was very protective of her public relations activities, and both Link and Kendra liked to be involved in everything. Until now, they usually agreed.

  The senator looked at his watch. “People, General Rodgers will be here soon. I suggest we do the following. I agree with Kat. I do not want to come on too strong tonight—about Wilson. But I do see one way in. This is a Metro Police matter. A federal agency like the National Crisis Management Center has no business being involved. General Rodgers works for Op-Center. He will know what is going on. That is something we can be aggressive about.”

  “Right,” Kat said admiringly. “That will also shift the attention from us onto some vague conspiracy theory.”

  “That’s a good one,” Kendra admitted.

  “Ken, do you know anything more about this budget cut?”

  “No. I saw it in the Congressional Intelligence Oversight minutes.”

  “What other agencies were hit?” Orr asked.

  “None,” Link told him. “They all received bumps, in fact.”

  “So this is a big wrist-slap for Hood,” Orr said. “Kat, research the NCMC and talk to Senator Debenport. He’s the head of the CIOC. See if you can find out, informally, what precipitated the cut. That might be useful in the general election. Debenport will have to explain why he is putting our nation at risk. I’ll find out what I can from Mike Rodgers.”

  “Senator, the CBS people will be here in a half hour to set up,” Kat said.

  “I’m sure General Rodgers won’t mind a brief interruption.” Orr rose. “Thank you, all. This has been very stimulating.”

  The conference room emptied quickly, and the senator went to his office. A sense of order had been restored, but one that was laced with healthy tension. The interns, assistants, and secretaries felt it and stayed focused. This was how Orr liked it. Direction with a whisper of urgency, purpose without desperation.

  Of course, things might not remain this way. But that was all right, too.

  Senator Orr shut his office door. The heavy silence felt good. He enjoyed it for a moment, then listened to the phone messages his secretary had passed on. He returned just one, a call to his wife. He wanted to tell her about William Wilson before she heard it on the news. Valerie Orr spent most of the year in Texas because she disliked catty Washington society. The senator missed her but was glad she chose the ranch over D.C. If anyone ever insulted her or talked about her, he would give that individual an old-fashioned switch-whipping.

  As he sat down to review General Rodgers’s dossier one last time, Orr thought about something his father used to say on the ranch. Whenever money or water were precipitously low, Jeremiah Orr would push an ever-present plug of Red Man chewing tobacco between his cheek and gum, look down at his feet, and say to no one in particular, “I still like our position a whole lot better than the cows.’ ”

  Come what may, Senator Orr liked a good challenge. He liked testing his own ideas and hearing the ideas of his team. He liked his position.

  He liked it a lot better than William Wilson’s.

  FOURTEEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 2:59 P.M.

  To most outsiders, the Capitol and the office buildings that serviced it defined the phrase corridors of power. For over a century, ideas that had first influenced the world, then dominated it, were debated here. Refined here. Presidents were humbled here or declared war here. Laws were passed or revoked here, causing ripples that affected every life in the nation, through every federal, state, and local court. Art and expression were financed here or restricted here.

  What Mike Rodgers saw were not COPs. Whenever he had business here—which was mercifully rare—Rodgers felt as though he were entering an abattoir. Fortunately, until this morning, he had not been a very fat cow, so the blades did not usually affect him. But this was where budgets were hacked, policies were eviscerated, good ideas were whittled to nubs, and wise or well-intentioned men and women were cut down at the knees or decapitated.

  Vietnam was lost here, not on the battlefield.

  The Capitol was about power in the same way ice hockey was about travel. There was a lot of aggressive, muscular movement but very little progress. It was odd. Rodgers did not even see the white of the dome and columns as much as he saw the dark recesses and shadows that creased and abutted them.

  Rodgers hoped that Senator Orr could change those impressions.

  Military reservists were stationed outside the building, and Rodgers acknowledged their salutes as he was checked through. He went to Senator Orr’s first-floor office and was buzzed in. He did not need to announce himself. A security camera above the door did that for him.

  Maybe they should call it the corridors of paranoia, he thought. He glanced along the hall. Security was an important issue. But he did not think it was necessary to have a camera above each door. The money the government spent on this surveillance system would be better spent on one or two good Special Ops agents who could track and eliminate assassins.

  Rodgers refused to let any of this flavor his opinion of Donald Orr. Men could not be held accountable for the transgressions of their peers.

  A sharp young female receptionist sat behind a mahogany desk in the small waiting area. The woman had already come from around the desk. She welcomed Rodgers with a large smile and a strong handshake.

  “General Rodgers, thank you for coming. The senator is expecting you,” she said. The woman entered a code into a keypad by the six-panel cherry wood door. This opened into the main offices. “May I get you coffee or a soft drink?”

  “Black coffee would be good. No sugar.”

  She walked him through a short maze of desks and cubicles to the senator’s closed door. She knocked and was told to enter. The big Texan rose and walked from behind his desk. His eyes were squarely on the general.

  “The man who prevented World War III,” Senator Orr said. “Twice.”

  “I’m hardly that, but thank you,” Rodgers said.

  “General, modesty is forbidden on the Hill,” Orr said. “We passed a law against it, I think.”

  “I’m only visiting.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Orr said as the men shook hands. “I hear tin horns every damn day. When you’ve got Gabriel’s trumpet, play it.”

  Rodgers felt old calluses on the senator’s palm and undersides of his fingers. He knew that the Orr family was in ranching. He was glad to see the senator had not been too privileged to work.

  “Besides, I’m hoping we can convince you to stay,” the senator went on. “Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a leather armchair.

  The receptionist returned with Rodgers’s coffee. He had not even seen her slip away. She set it on a glass-topped teapoy in front of the chair. Steam rose from a navy blue mug with the Camp David logo in gold. The logo was set facing Rodgers. It was just a cornet semiquaver but unavoidable.

  A barrel-chested man entered as the receptionist left. Rodgers recognized him from the party.

  “Admiral Link,” Rodgers said, rising.

  “Sit,” the admiral said. He shut the door behind him before shaking Rodgers’s hand. He swung an armchair around so that there were three chairs in a circle. “Good to meet you. Sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk last night.”

  “Those things are always so unmanageable,” said the senator, taking a seat. “Not like a good cattle drive.”

  “You should hand out electric prods,” Rodgers said.

  “Best idea I’ve heard in a while.” Orr laughed. It was a genuine laugh,
not a performance.

  “I heard about William Wilson on the drive over,” Rodgers said. “Has there been any fallout?”

  “Not yet,” Orr said. “I have to do a live segment on the CBS Evening News in about twenty minutes, though. I’ll know more after that. Hopefully, you’ll stick around so we can talk more. I don’t want to rush this.”

  “Of course,” Rodgers said. “I have to tell you, though, Senator. I’m not really sure what ‘this’ is.”

  “A new political party, a new way of doing business in D.C.,” Orr told him. “You have heard this before, I’m sure.”

  “So often that I’ve stopped listening,” Rodgers admitted.

  “Most Americans have tuned out, General Rodgers, which is why we need to get their attention. We need to make a dramatic new start fast, no wasted time.” Orr leaned forward in his chair. “I am about to announce my candidacy for the presidency. I will be asking the admiral to be my running mate. None of that will surprise anyone. However, what I will be asking for in my acceptance speech will be different from typical convention rhetoric. I will demand what we are calling FAIR change. That’s full American infrastructure reform. Everything from the judicial system to Social Security will be reorganized to serve the people who need them.”

  “That’s going to take clout and money,” Rodgers said.

  “The funds will come from misguided programs, such as the billions we spend annually in unappreciated foreign aid and foreign products,” Orr said. “If other nations want access to our consumers, it will cost them in tariffs. As for clout, I’ll get that from the people of this country. We’ve forgotten the electorate, General Rodgers. If necessary, we will hold monthly plebiscites to decide issues. Representatives who oppose the wishes of their constituents will become former representatives.”

  “It’s a program with hair on its chest, I’ll give you that,” Rodgers said.

  Orr sat back. “But?”

  “I’m from ‘show me’ Missouri by way of hell,” Rodgers said. “I’m a starry-eyed pessimist.”

  “I like that,” Admiral Link confessed.

  “Hope for something good but expect the worst,” Orr said.

  “I would say ‘anticipate it,’ ” Rodgers said.

  “Sam Houston was like that, and look what he accomplished,” Orr said. “He built a state.”

  Rodgers grinned. “But then, he was from Texas. I’m from Connecticut.”

  Orr smiled broadly. “Texas is a state of heart, not just geography. General, we’re a little different from you, the admiral and I. We are cautious optimists about how FAIR will be received. Regardless, once our campaign is under way, I will need a military adviser, one with chops. A man who has been out there getting his hands dirty and who also understands intelligence work. One who will become the secretary of defense in an Orr administration.”

  “You are uniquely qualified,” Link added.

  “I’m also a little confused,” Rodgers said. “Are you making me an offer?”

  The senator laughed. That one was a short stage laugh. “As I said, Texas is in here.” Orr touched his chest. “I watched how you walked into the office. That’s the way I want my cabinet members to step to a podium.”

  Rodgers was flattered and also suspicious. Either Orr was hooking him for some other reason, or he was exactly as he said: a straight-shooting politician.

  “General, may I ask how things are at Op-Center?” Link said.

  “Why?” Rodgers asked. “What have you heard?”

  “Not much,” Link replied.

  “In D.C.? That’s unlikely,” Rodgers said.

  “He’s got you there, Ken.” Orr laughed, once again for real.

  “Touché,” the admiral said. “The truth is, we just heard they’re spearheading the investigation into the murder of William Wilson.”

  “Really?” Rodgers said.

  Link was watching him. “You seem surprised.”

  “I am. Who’s the point man?”

  “I don’t know. But whoever it is, he’s good,” Link replied. “He’s the one who found signs of trauma under the tongue that the medical examiner missed. He turned this from a heart attack to a homicide.”

  “I see,” Rodgers replied.

  That sounded like a street-smart “get” by Darrell McCaskey. Op-Center must have become involved at the request of Interpol or Scotland Yard.

  “General, we heard that the CIOC has instructed Op-Center to make budget cuts,” Link went on. “Why would Director Hood take on an outside project like this in an environment trending toward austerity and realignment?”

  “You would have to ask him,” Rodgers said.

  “Of course,” Orr said. “Ken, you’re asking General Rodgers to breach departmental confidentiality—”

  “Actually, it’s more than that,” Rodgers informed the men. “This morning I learned that I am part of those bottom-line reductions. My tenure as deputy director is effectively over.”

  “They asked for your resignation?” Orr asked, surprised.

  “Two weeks from now I’m either working with you or back at the DoD in some other capacity.”

  “Now that’s a kick in the damn teeth,” Link said. “They ship out an American hero, then help to investigate a decadent British billionaire.”

  Orr’s phone beeped. He answered, listened, said he would be right there. “I’m expected in the conference room for a pre-interview with Mr. Dan Rather’s associate producer,” he said. “General, will you be able to stay for a bit? This should not take more than fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course,” Rodgers said, rising as the senator did.

  Orr left the room and shut the door behind him. Rodgers sat back down. Link was looking at him. Rodgers took a sip of coffee.

  “General Rodgers—Mike, if I may—do you mind if I ask you something personal?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you feel betrayed by Paul Hood or Op-Center?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Rodgers replied.

  “How far would you go?”

  That was a loaded question, Rodgers thought, though he was not sure what exactly it was loaded with. He knew at once that this was not idle chat.

  “I don’t feel good about the way things happened, but this was an assignment, a tour of duty,” Rodgers replied. “For whatever reason, that job is over. I’m ready to move on.”

  “That’s a healthy attitude,” Link said.

  “Thanks. Now I’d like to ask you a question, Admiral.”

  “All right.”

  “Does it matter how I feel about Op-Center?”

  “Not in terms of your working with us,” Link said. “It’s more a question of helping them.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Paul Hood is moving them into a very dangerous place, not just for him but for us,” Link said.

  “Why us?”

  “It’s a question of appearances,” Link told him. “If the NCMC is ham-fisted about their investigation, it’s going to slop all over us, all over our guests, and all over our convention.”

  “Why do you assume it will be handled badly?”

  “Because Op-Center is suddenly very shorthanded,” Link said. “Let’s say that Individual X has taken on this assignment. He still has to perform his other duties, plus whatever new duties he inherits due to the cutbacks. I don’t have to tell you that in a reduced-personnel environment in the military, standard operating procedure is to shoot every door in a house and see which one groans. If Individual X is forced to take that approach here, we may suffer unwarranted hits.”

  “Possibly. But the hits should not be serious.”

  “When you’re launching a new political party, any stain on your credibility is serious,” Link said. “It scares away donors. Also, I’ve spoken to a number of people on the Hill. They wonder if Hood may be using this action to try to retrench, to fold the idea of international criminal investigation into crisis management. He did something like that before.�
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  “Actually, we backed into that one by stopping a missile attack on Japan,” Rodgers said. “The president asked us to take on additional responsibilities.”

  “I understand that the situations are different,” Link said. “So are the times. The CIA was moving from human intelligence to electronic intelligence. Data was falling through the digital cracks. Op-Center was there to catch it. The Company won’t let that happen this time.”

  “Okay. Even if that is true, why is it our concern?” Rodgers asked.

  “Because the perception is that Paul Hood may have manufactured a situation,” Link replied.

  “Horseshit,” Rodgers snapped. He hoped this perception was not something Link had whipped up. It was contemptible. “I know the people at Op-Center. They would never do that.”

  “Other people aren’t so convinced,” Link said.

  “What people?”

  “Influential people,” Link replied. “People who have the ear of the CIOC and the president. What I’m saying, Mike, is that it is a bad situation all around.”

  “Okay, it’s bad. Why share that insight with me?”

  “I think you should talk to Hood,” Link said. “Tell him that the way to help Op-Center is to soft-pedal this.”

  “Soft-pedal. Do you mean bury?”

  “I mean they should let the Brits handle this through channels. They should let the Metro Police work the investigation.”

  The Metropolitan Police were efficient, sensitive, and discreet. Their footsteps would not splash much mud. While Rodgers did not believe that Hood was doing this for the reasons Link had stated, there was no doubt that the presence of a crisis management organization would leave a much bigger footprint.

  “There’s something else to consider,” Link went on. “The CIOC can effectively dissolve Op-Center tomorrow simply by downsizing the budget to zero. If Hood steps on FBI jurisdiction, that could happen. Be a friend to him. Suggest to Hood that he reconsider his involvement.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Rodgers said.

  The subject was not raised again.

  The men talked a little about the USF and the convention, and Link shared a list of politicians and business leaders who were privately committed to lending support to the party. It was impressive. He also gave Rodgers a CD containing USF press releases and internal directives to bring him up to speed.