Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

“You should also realize that the deeper you get, the more difficult it will be to ease out,” Rodgers said. “There will be a turf war with the police, and then you’ll have to see this through or come off looking weak. People will wonder why you were involved in the first place. They won’t get the quid pro quo side of our business. They’ll think you were grandstanding.”

  “Perhaps,” Hood said. “I’m hoping there’s a middle ground and that we can find it.”

  “You know, there might be a way to satisfy everyone with a minimum of fuss,” McCaskey said. “Mike, how receptive do you think Senator Orr would be to meeting with me?”

  “I don’t know. To what end?”

  “To show his goodwill. An interview would acknowledge Op-Center’s role in this investigation. That could be our big, public flourish. It would allow me to tell the press and Scotland Yard that I met the man, found him blameless—I presume—and would like to hand this investigation to the police, where it belongs. We can still be the Yard’s eyes and ears but from a distance.”

  “I don’t know if the senator would have a problem with that, but his associate Admiral Link might,” Rodgers said.

  “Why?” Hood asked.

  “He has openly wondered if this whole thing is a ploy to get our—I mean your—budget cuts restored,” Rodgers said. “He might see this as a way for Op-Center to get attention.”

  “Is Link running the show?” Hood asked.

  “No,” Rodgers said. “But he was at the Company for years, and I would not want to invoke retaliation needlessly.”

  “If Link has it in for us, visiting the senator probably won’t change things,” McCaskey said.

  “It might,” Rodgers said. “He does not seem to be the kind of man who likes to be cornered.”

  “Who does?” McCaskey asked.

  “My point is, Link has the influence and resources to get uncornered,” Rodgers said.

  “That’s a potential problem,” Hood admitted. “But we’re in this thing now, and that’s a real problem.”

  “How do you position it so that Senator Orr doesn’t appear to be a suspect?” Rodgers asked.

  “I’m not going over there to find out what he did, only what he might have seen and heard,” McCaskey said. “We can even say he asked for the meeting. That would make him seem eager to cooperate.”

  Rodgers considered the proposal. “I’ll call him,” he said after a moment. “Kat told me that Senator Orr is going to do Nightline. That may be a good platform to announce something like this.”

  “It would help everyone,” McCaskey agreed.

  The general excused himself. Hood and McCaskey exhaled.

  “That was . . . strange,” McCaskey said, after searching for a better word but not finding one.

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess we’re the enemy now.”

  “I didn’t get that,” Hood said.

  “Oh? I heard a serious threat with Ken Link’s name attached.”

  “That was an advisory,” Hood said. “Mike is hurting, but he’s looking out for Op-Center. My head is the only one that might interest him.”

  The men discussed other Op-Center business until Rodgers returned. He looked like a catcher who disagreed with an ump’s call but knew better than to say so.

  “I just had a conference call with Senator Orr and Admiral Link,” Rodgers said. He regarded Hood. “The senator has declined to see Darrell but said he would meet with you as a courtesy.”

  “As a courtesy?” Hood declared.

  “This is a criminal investigation, not a press conference,” McCaskey said.

  “The senator does not want to give the impression that he is being interrogated,” Rodgers replied. “He told me he will gladly answer Paul’s questions about the case but insisted that he does not have much to say.”

  “Right. And when I go there, this immediately becomes more about us than about him,” Hood said. “It looks like I’m making a personal headline grab, which will call into question our motives—which Link has already done—and undermine everything Op-Center has or will contribute to the investigation.”

  “Mike, I just don’t get it,” McCaskey said. “I damn near agreed to exonerate the senator and back away. Why wouldn’t he want that?”

  “My guess is he isn’t guilty of anything,” Rodgers said.

  Hood rested his elbows on his desk. He dug his palms into his eyes. “I think it was Twain who said that when all else fails, do what’s right.” He looked up. “Gentlemen, we were justified getting into this, and we have a valid reason to see it through. Mike, please thank the senator for us and tell him we hope it won’t be necessary to accept his generous offer when the investigation is further along.”

  Rodgers did not respond. He looked at McCaskey, gave him a half-smile, and left the office.

  “Not ‘strange,’” McCaskey said when Rodgers was gone. “That was disturbing. How did we end up on different sides of the barricade?”

  “I’m not even sure how the barricade got there,” Hood said.

  “I swear, I should have just ignored the goddamn wound under Wilson’s tongue,” McCaskey said.

  “No!” Hood replied, a hint of anger in his voice. “That would have been a lot worse than disturbing, Darrell. When it becomes wrong to seek justice, we should all turn in our suits.”

  Darrell could not dispute that. But he was not ready to agree that the goal was more honorable than what it might take to get there: going to war against an old friend.

  SEVENTEEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 7:22 P.M.

  It was not supposed to happen the way it did. The death of William Wilson was supposed to be news for a day or two and then go away. It was supposed to be recorded as a heart attack, not a homicide. Now it was not going to go away, and she had to change the focus.

  She dressed the same as last time, only this time she wore a scarf instead of a wide-brimmed hat. And big, dark sunglasses, pure Audrey Hepburn. All the fashionable people wore them at night. She went to another fashionable hotel, the Monarch on M Street NW, in the upscale West End district. She sat by a courtyard fountain, her back to the hotel, her feet on the ground, her purse and a package of Kleenex in her lap. She thought of the death of her father, something that always brought tears. She wept into one Kleenex and then another for practice. Then she stopped crying and waited. She told herself not to worry, everything was going to go down perfectly.

  A white stretch limousine pulled up. A couple got out. She ignored them. They ignored her. A few minutes later, a cab arrived and two men emerged. One of them attempted to talk to her. He was a lobbyist for the recording industry. Close, but not worth the effort. She did not cry. She did not continue the conversation.

  The third limousine was a black stretch. A gray-haired gentleman emerged with a young aide. The older man was about sixty and dressed in Armani. He was wearing a wedding band and a deep tan. He obviously lived in a sunny climate. He was tall and trim and apparently worked out.

  She started to sob. With a glance her way and a tug on his cuff links, the older man excused himself from the younger man and walked over.

  “Is there something wrong, miss?” he asked.

  Southern accent. Deep south. He touched her shoulder. She looked at his hand and then at him. The hand appeared soft, except for chafing around the crook of the thumb. From a golf glove and too-hard grip, she imagined. There were three clear one-carat diamonds in the cuff link and a Rolex on his wrist.

  “Thank you, but I—I don’t want to trouble you,” she said.

  “It’s no trouble to stop a pretty girl’s tears,” he replied.

  She smiled up at him. “You’re sweet. But really, I’ll be all right just as soon as I find someone to teach my husband a lesson.”

  “Where I come from, looking after the honor of a lady is not only a duty, it is a privilege,” the man said. “May I ask what the problem is? Perhaps I can help.”

  “I was here to meet a friend for drinks,” she
said. “I was sitting here, and he came in with one of his coworkers. He was all over her. He was supposed to be at a conference. He did not even see me.” She started sobbing again.

  The man handed her his handkerchief. It was monogrammed. “May I ask your name?” he said.

  “Bonnie,” she said.

  “How utterly charming,” he said. “I am Robert Lawless. Bob to my friends. If you like, we can talk about this further.”

  “Mr. Lawless—”

  “Bob,” he said softly.

  “Bob,” she said, “I appreciate your kindness, but I think I’ll just sit here a while and then go home.”

  “To a scoundrel?”

  “For now,” she said. “I will see about having him relocated in the morning.”

  “I am not without connections here,” Bob said, patting her shoulder. “Perhaps I can help. If you’d like, we can still have that drink.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No! He’s still here, and I don’t want to see him again—”

  “In my suite, then, if you like,” Bob said. “I will be a gentleman.”

  The woman dabbed her eyes and looked into his. “Well . . . I don’t feel like going home, and it is chilly.”

  “That is to be expected when you sit beside a fountain,” he pointed out with a smile. “Your shoulder is damp with spray. We can set your coat out to dry.”

  She smiled back. “All right, Mr. Lawless—Bob. Thank you. I would be delighted to join you for a drink.”

  Bob walked back to his aide and finished up their conversation. He sent the young man off in the limousine, then returned. He offered her his arm. She put on sunglasses—to hide her bloodshot eyes, she said—then took it. Less than two minutes later they were in his penthouse suite.

  They sat in the living room, and he poured drinks from the minibar. He removed her damp jacket for her. He sat on a separate chair, though he did move it over to be close. She asked what he did. He said he was one of the largest commercial real estate brokers in the Carolinas. He told her he spent a great deal of time in Washington lobbying for tax incentives so that companies would stay in the United States instead of moving to Mexico or the Far East.

  She felt bad. Bob Lawless was her kind of guy, except for the fact that he obviously had a wife and did not care. But she was here, and they needed this kill.

  He had moved in closer while he was speaking and fixed her with his pale blue eyes. She responded to his “gentlemanly” advance by crying and then taking his hand for support and allowing him to put his arm around her. He kissed her damp cheek. She turned and hugged his neck and put her hands behind his head. She let her fingers loose in his longish hair, and he began kissing her neck. Without breaking their connection, she slid from her chair and bent over him, still holding him tight.

  He was sitting and she was standing. She put her lips gently against his ear and continued to kiss it while she released her embrace and moved around him.

  “You are a wonderful man, Bob Lawless,” the woman whispered as she shifted behind him.

  “And you are a beautiful woman,” he replied. “One who should never know this kind of pain.”

  “You are so sweet, so gentle.”

  She sniffled hard to show that her tears were coming to an end. Then she eased her right arm around his throat. She slid her fingertips gently along his throat to the left, so that her forearm went across the front.

  “Your neck, your shoulders, they’re so strong,” she said.

  “That comes from a lot of golf and tennis,” he told her. “I also work out with a trainer.”

  “It shows,” she said. Her eyes ranged over his torso. “Broad shoulders, graceful motion, strong hands.”

  Her fingers moved to his ear. A moment later, his chin was near the crook of her arm.

  “I like outdoor games,” she said. “Indoor, too.”

  “Oh? What kind?” he asked slyly.

  Suddenly, the woman pulled her forearm back toward her, hard. Before Bob could react, she put her left hand against the left side of his face and pushed to the right. That drove his throat deeper into the wedge of her elbow.

  This particular choke hold blocked the air supply instantly and completely. It also cut off the flow of blood to the brain. Unconsciousness typically came in less than ten seconds. That was not even enough time for the skin of the neck to bruise.

  Bob Lawless gasped silently while tugging and then clawing desperately at her arm. He kicked out with his un-scuffed Ferragamos as the seconds lengthened. The shiny black shoes moved like windshield wipers, in and out, in and out, before falling to the plush plum carpet. An instant later, Bob’s shoulders drooped, his arms went slack, and his head rolled to the right.

  Cautiously, the woman relaxed her hold. Bob’s head dropped forward, his breathing barely audible.

  “What kind of games do I like?” the woman said. “The kind where I make the rules.”

  The woman went to a lamp and angled the shade so the light hit Bob in the face. Then she retrieved her purse from a nearby coffee table. She removed the syringe and the handkerchief he had given her. She used the cloth to grip his tongue, raising it and working the needle underneath She poked the tip into the large vein at the root and injected ten milliliters of potassium chloride. Then she stepped back. She watched, listened as his respiration went from shallow to none.

  She tucked the handkerchief and syringe in her purse, retrieved her jacket, then undid one of the buttons of Bob’s shirt. She slid her right hand inside and felt his chest. There was no heartbeat. She stood back.

  “Sorry, Bob,” she said. “But at least you died advancing a cause you believed in.”

  Bob had removed her scarf. She used it to wipe fingerprints from the solid surfaces she had touched—the drinking glass and the wooden armrests of the chair. Then she slipped it back on her head. The woman removed a pair of white gloves from her purse and put them on, along with her sunglasses. She left the room and returned to the elevator, careful to keep her face downturned. All that the cameras in the elevator would see was her jacket and the top of her head.

  Just like the night before.

  Hopefully, no more killings remained.

  EIGHTEEN

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 8:30 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey came by to see Rodgers after the meeting with Hood. He invited Rodgers for a drink but the general declined. He said he needed to be alone, to think about the job offer from the senator. In fact, Rodgers did not feel like socializing with anyone from Op-Center. It was nothing personal, but the odor of disloyalty hung about the place and its people. Rodgers hoped it would pass. He liked McCaskey and Bob Herbert. But he needed to get away from it now. He spent a few hours cleaning his office, deleting personal files from his computer, and storing them on disks.

  He reached his ranch-style home in Bethesda, Maryland, at seven-thirty. He removed his jacket and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. Then he poured a drink and sat down at the small dining room table. As he went through the mail, he sipped the small “medicinal dose” of Southern Comfort, as his grandfather used to call it. It was exactly what he needed to heal his wounded soul.

  The mail was all catalogues and bills, no letters. Not that Rodgers was surprised. He could not remember the last letter he received. He remembered what it meant to get letters in Vietnam, to read words that had made a journey from hand to hand. It was immediate and intimate, like looking over someone’s shoulder as they gave something of themselves. Opening an envelope that contained an offer for a 0 percent credit card or discount coupons from the local strip mall did not have the same effect.

  Then something nearly as good happened. Rodgers got a call from Kat Lockley. She was not calling about business.

  “I’m sorry I did not get to see you before,” she said. “It was a very press-intensive day. And it’s not over. We’ve got Nightline coming up.”

  “I understand completely,” he said. “Are you going with the senator to the Nightline bro
adcast?”

  “Actually, I’m not. I had a meeting outside the office about the convention. He went with his attorney, David Rico. Dave had some concern about what Koppel might ask and wanted some ground rules about the homicide.”

  “Understandable.”

  “So, since I’m free, and since it looks like we’re going to be working together, I was wondering if you felt like grabbing dinner or a snack or a drink,” she said.

  “Actually, dinner is a good idea,” he replied. “I didn’t have time for lunch. Where are you?”

  “In my car, on Delaware Avenue.”

  Rodgers thought for a moment. “How about Equinox, 818 Connecticut Avenue NW?”

  “Perfect,” she said. “American cuisine.”

  “That’s why I suggested it,” Rodgers said. “I’ll be there in thirty-five or forty minutes.”

  “I’ll be at the bar with a vodka martini,” she said. “By the time you get there, it will be my second.”

  “I hear that,” Rodgers said.

  He hung up, left his own unfinished glass in the sink, snatched his jacket from the sofa, and headed out. The call from Kat was more healing than the Southern Comfort. It was reassuring to feel part of a team, especially when a woman was right there in the huddle. It occurred to him that he did not even know if she was married, engaged, dating, or straight. Right now, the camaraderie was more important.

  The roads to D.C. were lightly trafficked, and Connecticut Avenue NW was virtually empty. Rodgers made the drive in a half-hour flat. The dark bar was crowded with staffers from the White House, which was nearby, along with a cross section of Washington power brokers. Kat was at the end of the bar, talking to a slender, very attractive woman. The woman was holding a small beaded purse in her left hand and a glass of red wine in her right.

  “Mike, I’d like you to meet Lucy O’Connor,” Kat said as he approached. It was loud in the bar, and Kat had to shout to be heard. No wonder nothing ever stayed a secret in Washington.

  The woman put her drink on the bar. “Delighted,” she said as she shook Rodgers’s hand.

  “Lucy writes about the Hill for the American Spectator and has a syndicated radio show,” Kat said. “How many markets now?”