After all, they had something that they did not have before: a very personal reason.
THIRTY-TWO
Langley, Virginia Tuesday, 3:44 P.M.
Darrell McCaskey had spent several unproductive hours at the British embassy and then at FBI headquarters. He had been looking for suppressed criminal records pertaining to any of his key players. He was searching, in particular, for someone who might have sold drugs or had a drug habit at one time. Someone who would have known how to inject William Wilson under the tongue.
There was nothing.
Dispirited, McCaskey was en route to Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia, when Maria called to tell him the news about an explosion at Andrews Air Force Base.
“Are there any details?” he asked.
“Only that eyewitnesses reported seeing a glow over the northwest corner of the base.”
“That’s where Op-Center is,” McCaskey said.
“Which is why I phoned,” she told him. “I tried calling Bob Herbert and Paul, but I only get a recording from the phone company saying there is a problem with the number I dialed.”
McCaskey thanked her and tried calling them himself. He got nothing. He phoned the office of Brigadier General Chrysler and was told about the explosion. It appeared to be an electromagnetic pulse weapon. Everyone was still there except for Rodgers. McCaskey decided not to return. If there were a plot against Op-Center, it was best to keep the resources disbursed. If there were a plot against the investigation, McCaskey refused to let this stop him. He had called in a favor with Sarah Hubbard, a friend at the Company’s Central Intelligence Crime and Narcotics Center. McCaskey wanted to see a medical director at the Directorate of Science and Technology. There was an aspect of the murders that troubled him, and he needed answers. Hubbard said that Dr. Scot P. Allan was the man he wanted. She set up the appointment for four P.M.
McCaskey parked and went to the main entrance of the new headquarters building, a commanding white brick facade topped by a high, proud, hemispherical archway. The roof of the enclosed arch was made of panes of bulletproof glass. Compared to this showplace, Op-Center was downright homely. McCaskey went through the security checkpoint, where he was given a color-coded day pass to stick on his lapel. Then he waited for someone to come and get him. The former FBI agent felt a stab in his soul when he saw the sun slanting through the glass. The white stone gleamed, and there was a healthy sense of purpose to the men and women who moved through the corridors beyond. McCaskey thought of Op-Center and how badly the building and its occupants must have been wounded. He was glad, then, that he had not gone right back to Andrews Air Force Base. He needed time to process the fact that his home for the last six years had been invaded and disfigured.
A clean-cut young man arrived promptly to take McCaskey back to Dr. Allan’s office. There was no conversation as the two men made their way along nondescript white corridors. This was the Central Intelligence Agency. People were trained to listen, not to speak.
Dr. Allan’s book-lined office was toward the rear of a wing that included several laboratories, computer centers, and offices. Sports memorabilia was tucked between the volumes and hung on the wall between the diplomas. There were family photos in hand-painted frames, probably made by a daughter or son decades before. Compared to Matt Stoll’s little tech hut, this was Mount Olympus.
Dr. Allan was a powerfully built, outgoing man in his late fifties. He had a long gray imperial beard at the end of a long face, full white eyebrows, and longish gray white hair. His brown eyes were dark with purpose. He looked like Uncle Sam dressed in a white lab coat with red stains on the sleeves. The all-American icon covered with blood.
“It’s toluidine,” the physician apologized, noticing McCaskey’s gaze. “Working on a red dye.” He did not tell him what it was for; this was the CIA. Allan motioned McCaskey to have a seat. He shut the door, then sat behind his desk. “I don’t have a lot of time, Mr. McCaskey, but our mutual acquaintance said this was urgent.”
“Yes, Dr. Allan. Thank you for seeing me.”
“I had no choice,” Allan informed him. “Ms. Hubbard wields a great deal of power here.”
“She does?”
“Your friend controls the block of Redskins tickets.” Allan smiled. “It’s important to stay on her good side.”
“She always had an angle.”
“That is what government service is all about,” Allan remarked. “Access and control. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Sir, I believe that Ms. Hubbard forwarded verification of my security clearance,” McCaskey said.
“She did. She also told me that you were investigating the murder of William Wilson for the NCMC.”
“That’s right,” McCaskey said.
“Speaking frankly, why did you want to see me? Do you suspect that someone here was involved?”
“Not someone who is presently employed here,” McCaskey said.
“Good,” Allan said. “I never discuss coworkers without their knowledge, especially with outsiders.”
“We are part of the same team,” McCaskey reminded him.
Allan just smiled.
“Doctor, I recall reading a top secret white paper about Company assassination policy in the 1960s,” McCaskey went on. “It discussed the twenty-five-year-long moratorium instituted after the failed attempt to kill Fidel Castro using toxins in a cigar and poison in his beard.”
“That is commonly known,” Dr. Allan remarked.
“Yes. But there was a footnote I found interesting. It said that all of the Company’s past and recent chemical attempts on high-value targets involved cyanide-based compounds. I need to know if that is true.”
Dr. Allan suddenly seemed less relaxed. “Mr. McCaskey, the Redskins have a shot at the Super Bowl this year.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I do not want to jeopardize my chances of seeing the game in person. That said, you are poking a finger in extremely sensitive areas.”
“Sir, I know this is a very difficult question—”
“Difficult? You’re asking me to explain what I may or may not do to abet murder,” Dr. Allan said. “That is not a routine question.”
“I appreciate that, but there is some urgency involved. Someone just attacked Op-Center—”
“What do you mean, attacked?” the doctor asked.
“They hit the place with an explosive device of some kind,” McCaskey told him. “I have not been able to talk with my colleagues to get specifics. I’m guessing it relates to this investigation, and I need to find the people who are behind it. Any information you can provide may help.”
Dr. Allan tapped his fingers anxiously on the desk for a few moments. Then he folded his hands. “Mr. McCaskey, I really wish you had not dropped this at my feet.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But there it is.”
“Yes,” Allan said. He thought for another long moment. “Aw, hell. We’re on the same team, Mr. McCaskey, and if you ever try to quote me, I’ll deny everything. I think you are on the wrong trail.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, the lethal injection described in the news accounts of Mr. Wilson’s death. Potassium chloride is not a compound that we use for the purpose you just described.”
“Do not or would not?”
“Both,” Dr. Allan replied. “It just isn’t anywhere on our radar. For the purpose of incapacitating an enemy, potassium chloride is too unpredictable. Individuals have different levels of tolerance. A dose that would kill one person might end up giving another nothing more than an irregular heartbeat.”
“If that’s true, why would someone have used it on William Wilson?” McCaskey asked.
“Three reasons. First, the compound is readily available online. Doctors routinely prescribe is as a counteragent for potassium depletion caused by high blood pressure medications. Finding out who ordered it, and from what national or international source, will be virtually impossible. Second, as y
ou saw, potassium chloride is far more difficult to detect than cyanide. Third, the killer obviously had time to make certain the compound worked.”
“Would you think a military medical technician would be familiar with its use?” McCaskey asked.
“Almost certainly.”
“Do you happen to know, Dr. Allan, where on the human body field agents are told to give lethal injections?”
“In the muscles,” he said.
“Not in veins?”
Allan shook his head.
“Why?”
“Muscle fiber has a very dense network of blood vessels and delivers drugs in just a few minutes,” the physician told him. “The entry point is clearly visible, but that is the trade-off to a quick, efficient injection. That’s another reason I do not believe your killer is a Company alumnus.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Most of the people we send into the field are survivalists,” Allan told him. “They are not scientists or doctors. Techniques are dumbed down as much as possible to give agents as little to worry about as possible. It is easier to inject an individual in the buttocks or thigh than in the arm or a more exotic spot, such as between the toes. An injection in the root of the tongue is relatively precise, not to mention dark and slippery. The person giving it cannot be a novice. In this case, maybe you should look for someone with dental training. The underside of the tongue is an entry point for a number of drugs used in oral surgery.”
“I’ve already done that,” McCaskey said. “Getting back to this question of novices, the Company has used precision assassins in the past. Poison in the tip of a blind man’s cane, formaldehyde on a hero sandwich in a victim’s refrigerator, even the abortive attempts on Castro.”
“Yes, and those efforts against Castro are the reason today’s killings are outsourced,” Allan said. “Assassins can make millions of dollars a hit. Why would they work for salary and an inadequate pension?”
“Patriotism?” McCaskey asked sincerely.
“God and country cannot overcome greed,” Allan replied. “When we engage in field work of this kind, it has to be successful. Often, it also requires plausible deniability, as you know. When we need it super clean, we go into a for-hire mode.”
McCaskey had no more questions. But something the doctor just said did interest him. He stood. Allan also rose.
“Sir, I appreciate your time and counsel,” McCaskey said.
The men shook hands across the desk.
“I am truly sorry it could not be more,” Allan said.
“To the contrary,” McCaskey told him. “This was very helpful, though I have to ask you, Doctor, to satisfy my own curiosity. What is it that drives you? Patriotism or greed?”
“Neither. I’m here for the difference in conjunctions,” Allan replied.
“I don’t follow.”
“I asked myself that very question for years,” Allan told him as they walked toward the door. “I deluded myself into thinking I came to work here out of civic spirit. Then I realized that, at the heart of it, I enjoyed more power than any other physician I know. I have power over life and death. That’s and, Mr. McCaskey. Not or.”
The difference in conjunctions.
McCaskey left the doctor’s office. He was glad to go. The office that had seemed warm and personal when he arrived now had a pall about it, a subtle chill, like the waiting room of a slaughterhouse. Murder was conceived here, plotted with cool, impersonal efficiency.
The young aide was still waiting outside the door to escort McCaskey back to the lobby. They walked in silence. This time, though, McCaskey’s head was filled with noise. There was the sound of his own voice as he cherry-picked what had been said by Link and others. He played out an evolving monologue in his mind as he sifted through the last few days for clues.
He confronted his own shortcomings in his approach to the murder.
Maria always said her husband was naive. In a way, he was. He had always been an idealistic, self-denying G-man, Harry Hairshirt. In this instance maybe they were both right. Any crime could be approached two ways: with facts or with philosophy. McCaskey had been looking mostly at the facts. That was useful but narrow. A good commander could cover his tracks, as the assassin had done, but not his philosophy.
Greed versus patriotism versus power. One or more of those could well be the motive in this case, but to what degree and in what combination?
McCaskey had contemplated possible reasons behind Wilson’s assassination, possibly a warning to investors that they should bank American. Perhaps the truth was much bigger than that.
Mike Rodgers had spent time with these people. The admiral himself was a military man. If Link were behind this, Rodgers might have thoughts about which of those values applied. McCaskey had to get in touch with him and the senator.
There was an out-of-service response from the general’s cell phone, and no answer at his house. That left one place for McCaskey to try.
He slid into his car and headed toward Washington. McCaskey decided not to call Senator Orr’s office but simply to go over. Rodgers might not like it, and the senator might like it even less. McCaskey had only two words for that, words he was prepared to back with his own show of greed and power.
Too bad.
THIRTY-THREE
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 4:10 P.M.
Mike Rodgers knew that he had already made a complete mental break from Op-Center. Since the Monday-morning meeting with Hood about budget cuts, Rodgers had not worried about unfinished NCMC business, about future activities, or about the operational status of his field agents.
After the blast, however, Rodgers suspected something else: that he had also divorced himself from Op-Center emotionally. He felt sad for the team members, who were hardworking and diligent, and for Mac’s family, of course. But the carnage itself had not affected Rodgers. At least, not yet. Perhaps his brain had gone into survival mode. Ignore the pain, deal with the problem. Maybe, though, the blast was an outward expression of what he had already done inside. He had trashed Op-Center in his mind, angrily and violently. He had used a blowtorch to burn the place from every crease in his brain that might have cared. That was how Mike Rodgers had learned to deal with loss. It was cold, but it worked.
That did not mean Rodgers condoned this abhorrent attack. Therein lay the problem for him. If it were executed by a member of the Op-Center staff, the bombing was a repugnant way to manipulate policy. Rodgers did not believe Hood or any of his team were capable of doing that. If the bombing had been committed from without for political reasons, either by a domestic or foreign agency, the perpetrator would be uncovered. Someone would talk. Washington, D.C., had the most fertile grapevines this side of Northern California. Secrets were kept with the same care and sacred diligence as marriage vows.
And if Rodgers found out that anyone associated with Admiral Link or the USF Party had been responsible?
The general did not want to believe that. But if it turned out to be the case, Rodgers would make sure the perpetrators learned that truth and justice could not be suppressed. Not on his watch.
Rodgers did not remain in the parking lot with Paul Hood and the others. He spoke briefly with the base commander and Hood, then borrowed a Jeep to go into Washington. His own car had been one of those destroyed by the pulse. Rodgers felt a chill when he contemplated what had happened here. Electromagnetic pulse weapons were still in their infancy. The bombs were small, with a limited range. The problem developers faced was to generate a sufficiently wide-ranging pulse before the explosive trigger destroyed the weapon itself. But the impasse was nearly beaten, and within a year the Pentagon expected to deploy the first EMP devices. The navy would use the powerful microwave pulses of e-bombs to knock down antiship missiles; the army would pack pulse generators into artillery shells to neutralize the mechanized forces, field headquarters, and telecommunication capabilities of enemy troops; and the air force would load pulse weapons in bombers, fighters, missiles, and
unmanned drones to shut down the infrastructure of enemy cities and take out aircraft. The latter could be particularly devastating. Unlike conventional explosives, which destroyed a plane in the air, an e-bomb would simply shut the engine off and drop the plane, its fuel, and its bombs on whatever was below. An enemy bomber taking off could be used to cripple its own air base. Tactical e-bombs could be fired air-to-air. A single fighter would be able to destroy entire enemy squadrons and their payload. Mini e-bombs, smaller than the one used against Op-Center, could become effective antiterrorist tools. In a properly shielded nuclear power plant, dam, or passenger aircraft, an electromagnetic pulse could be employed to shut down timers and thereby defuse bombs.
Of course, the reverse was also true. E-bombs could be used against American military assets and domestic infrastructure, just as it was today in Op-Center. Nuclear war had never really been an option. An EMP conflict, a war against binary digits, was probably inevitable.
And we may have just fought the first battle against ourselves, Rodgers thought. There was something unpleasantly biblical about that. It was a new world, and not necessarily brave. Combat would be waged via monitors and grids, not face-to-face or vehicle-to-vehicle. Maybe that was better for the psyche, and soldiers would be better adjusted. Post-traumatic stress would be reduced to a level of disappointment equal to losing a video game.
Rodgers wondered whether the senator’s office had already heard what happened. Not that it mattered. A first reaction would not tell him whether or not they had been involved. He was more interested in going there, integrating himself in the activities of the late afternoon, and watching the people. Rodgers would be looking for exchanged glances when something about the attack was mentioned, or whispered phone conversations. Then there was the best information-gathering technique at all: the direct question. What was said was often less revealing than what was not said. His last talk with Paul Hood was evidence of that. The director of Op-Center knew exactly where Rodgers was going but did not offer advice. There was trust, caution, hope, and even gratitude in Hood’s silence.
Call to Treason (2004) Page 22