Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  “The service record,” Kat said.

  “This is a scary town,” Howell said. “You both know that. I did not want to end up a small-town sheriff somewhere, and I hoped—no, I prayed—that Darrell McCaskey could smoke these boys out.”

  “He still can,” Rodgers said. “Ms. Lockley isn’t pressing charges. Let him go. Help him.”

  “How?”

  “That depends. Did you get the sense that these crimes were part of a larger operation?”

  “Probably,” Howell said. “They told me I would be informed when my ‘interface,’ as they put it, was no longer required. I received no such notification.”

  “So more killings may be planned,” Rodgers said. “Detective, are you able to contact them?”

  “No. I don’t even know who I was talking to. Their ID was blocked.”

  “It was someone who had access to your service record,” Rodgers said.

  “Correct.”

  “So that means it could have been Link,” Rodgers said. He did not think the admiral was the point man, however. That would be too risky. “When was the last time you spoke with this person?”

  “Just now,” Howell said. “He wanted to know if anyone had been asking about the case.”

  “How recently is ‘just now’?” Rodgers asked.

  “Right before you called,” Howell said. “I hung up on him to talk to you.”

  Rodgers felt a chill. It was not fear. It was like an electrical current flowing along his neck as his brain started making connections. He wished that he had a firearm. Or an EM bomb, something that would shut everything down until he could have a thorough look around.

  “Detective, did you tell the man that we were on the other line?” Rodgers asked.

  “Yes,” Howell replied. “He asked.”

  “All right. I need two favors, Detective,” Rodgers said. “I need you to release the McCaskeys.”

  “I cannot do that without the proper documents,” Howell said. “I will fax them to Ms. Lockley—”

  “There is no time for that,” Rodgers protested. “Come on, Detective. You know they are not criminals. Call it a false arrest and let them go. Say they had permission to be on the premises.”

  “They did,” Kat said impulsively. “I said it was okay.”

  “All right,” Howell said. “What is the second favor?”

  “If your guy calls back, try to find out who he is,” Rodgers said. He started moving toward the door. “Let Darrell know.”

  “I will,” Howell said.

  “Thanks. Talk to you later.”

  Kat terminated the call as Rodgers jogged along the short entranceway. He stopped by the front door and listened. He heard nothing. Kat had followed. She stood at the other end of the small hallway.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I want you to stay here,” Rodgers said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going out, and there may be trouble,” Rodgers said. “If there is, I need someone who can bail me out.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I have no idea,” Rodgers said as he cracked the door. “But there is one thing I do know. What happened in Washington was just the preliminary. The big show is going to be here.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 4:42 P.M.

  There is an impunity that comes with being once-removed from danger. A lock on the door. A police officer on the beat. A man of influence standing between you and those who want to hurt you.

  In each case, it is an illusion. Darrell McCaskey knew that from his years at the FBI. He was betting that the young and inexperienced Lucy O’Connor did not. Before the afternoon was over, she would.

  McCaskey and his wife had been released from the holding cell at the First District Substation. Detective Howell personally drove them to their car, which had been taken to the DMV impound lot at 65 K Street NE. The detective called ahead to have it released and waiting.

  Howell was surprisingly forthcoming about what had happened. McCaskey felt as though he had suddenly been drafted as father confessor. Not that he minded, as long as he did not have to keep any of the intelligence a secret.

  McCaskey did not judge the man. Fear and self-preservation always colored people’s reactions. On the FBI he had seen countless crimes of passion that were conceived, executed, and regretted within the space of five minutes. That did not absolve the perpetrator, but McCaskey understood the drive.

  McCaskey was sitting beside his wife in the backseat of Howell’s car. When the detective was finished, McCaskey asked him what he expected in exchange for his cooperation.

  “A way back out,” Howell said plaintively.

  “That may not be so easy. When we get these people, you know they will finger you,” McCaskey pointed out.

  “I know they’ll try,” the detective said. “I’ve been thinking. I can pretty much cover my own actions. If you two will say that I was working undercover and feeding you information from the start, that will neutralize their charges.”

  “When you cornered us in the apartment, you did not give us the option to explain things to you,” Maria said angrily.

  “They had me on a leash,” Howell said. “I’m sorry.”

  “If General Rodgers did not call, we would be standing in front of your district attorney right now instead of driving to our car,” she went on.

  “I would have found a way to make this go away,” Howell said.

  “You say that as if it is an upset stomach,” Maria said. “This would have been with us the rest of our lives.”

  “Yes, but in fairness, you did enter the woman’s apartment unlawfully.”

  “We picked a lock to get a leg-up on something big and ugly,” McCaskey interjected. “On the Richter scale of crimes, that is one point zero.”

  “Look, I already said I screwed up,” Howell told him. “Hell, I screwed up in the military, too, which is what got me in this fix. What I did then wasn’t even a crime. The tribunal made it one to give some punk kid absolution for feeling guilty about consensual sex.”

  “A punk kid,” Maria said. “You mean a boy? A man?”

  Howell nodded as they pulled up to the lot. “I took the hit for him because I knew what he was going through. I cared about him. I could have appealed the decision, but I didn’t. Then these bastards dig it out and throw it back at me. I felt—only for a moment, but that was long enough—that I had earned myself a free pass for one future misdeed. This one. If I thought it would grow into what it did, I would never have agreed to help them. It was wrong. If you help me, I can make amends through continued public service. I’ve done a damn good job till now. If not, I’ll atone in prison, which doesn’t help anyone.” He looked back at McCaskey. “The blue line, Darrell. Stick with me on this one. Please.”

  McCaskey opened the door and stepped out. He walked around to the driver’s side. Howell rolled down the window.

  “If I did what you asked, I would not be able to look Mac McCallie’s widow in the eyes,” McCaskey told him. “I will fight for you, Detective, I promise. But I will not lie for you.”

  Howell’s face flushed, but he did not reply. He simply rolled up the window and drove away.

  Maria took her husband’s hand. “You did the right thing,” she said. “I am proud of you.”

  “Boy, I wish that made it all better.” He sighed. He watched the detective’s car as it turned the corner.

  As afraid as Howell had been when he made that decision, McCaskey imagined it faded to insignificance beside the fear and loneliness he was feeling now. He wished there had been another way out. Maybe he should have bucked it up to Paul.

  “Or maybe he should have behaved himself,” Maria said.

  “What?”

  “I know you,” Maria said. “You are standing there wishing this all could have been different. Detective Howell made his choices. People died. He has to live with the consequences.”

  �
�I know,” McCaskey said. “You know, I love what I do, but I there are times I hate what I have to do.”

  Maria gripped his hand more tightly and gave him a quick, reassuring smile.

  The couple went and got their car. They nosed into the thickening traffic of rush hour.

  There was little McCaskey could do for Robert Howell but, ironically, there was still one thing he could do for Mac McCallie. And McCaskey intended to do it.

  He would find and punish the people who put this tragedy in motion.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  San Diego, California Wednesday, 2:02 P.M.

  No sooner had Rodgers entered the hallway than Kat ran after him.

  “General, I have work to do,” she said. “I can’t stay here.”

  “You have to,” he said. “I don’t know who is at risk and, more important, by helping someone, you may be an accessory to a criminal conspiracy.”

  “I cannot believe the senator is behind this.”

  “You cannot prove he is not,” Rodgers said. “Please. I don’t have time to debate this. I need to do some checking.”

  “I’ll wait an hour,” she said. “No more.”

  Rodgers did not answer. For all he knew, Kat Lockley would leave the room as soon as he was out of sight. Rodgers did not know whether she was truly blameless or just feigning innocence. Before heading downstairs, he stopped and pounded on Eric Stone’s door. There was no answer. He did not know where the convention manager was or what he might be planning. There was a lot Rodgers did not know. Too damn much, in fact.

  Rodgers took the stairs to the lobby. That was not a consideration for personal security. If McCaskey called, Rodgers did not want to be standing hip-to-hip with nosy USF delegates.

  The general reached the courtyard, which was encircled by tall, slender palm trees and brilliantly lit by a peach-colored sun. People were moving in all directions, and cars were stacked two deep in the sweeping entranceway. This was not the way to find Eric Stone. He went back inside to the registration desk and asked if anyone there had seen him. They said they had not. Rodgers did not believe they would have been told to lie. Stone had not come this way. He thought of checking the hotel security camera but decided that knowing where Stone had been was not going to help him right now. Rodgers had to find out where Stone was going.

  Rodgers went back outside. He looked over at the convention center. It was probably a circus by now, with conventioneers arriving for free lunch followed by the opening speeches. Mobile media vans were outside, recording the event. It might be possible to use their multiple camera feeds to try to spot Stone. Since it was all Rodgers had, he decided to give it a try.

  “General?”

  Someone was standing behind him. He turned. It was Stone. He was holding a walkie-talkie and wearing a smile. Faint but sharp-edged voices crackled from the handheld device, the cross-talk of convention workers.

  There was a move in the chaos gambit, Rodgers thought. An unexpected move that took control of the board. What Rodgers did not know was whether it was the luck of a novice or the seasoned improvisational skills of a professional.

  “I understand you were looking for me?” Stone said, smiling.

  “I was,” Rodgers said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Rodgers looked around. “First of all, how did you know where I was?” the general asked. He was trying to spot the nearest surveillance camera or a tail.

  “General, there was nothing conspiratorial.” Stone laughed. “The desk supervisor said you went this way. I knew what you were wearing and got lucky.”

  Rodgers did not buy that. One of the hundreds of people surrounding them could have been watching him. Perhaps someone in a hotel window.

  “So what is it you wanted?” Stone pressed.

  Rodgers regarded the younger man. He looked at his posture, at his expression, at his hands. “I spoke with Detective Howell of the Metro Police in D.C.,” Rodgers informed him. “He told me he is being blackmailed by someone in your camp. I want to know who and why.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Stone said. “The detective bungled an investigation. He needed someone to blame. He picked us. Maybe someone is putting him up to it; maybe he has a personal vendetta. All I can tell you is that he is wasting our time. Now, if that is all you need to know—”

  “No, there’s more. I want to know what the endgame is.”

  “To elect a president,” Stone replied. He frowned and looked around. “Where is Kat, by the way? Did you see her?”

  “I saw her.”

  “She’s supposed to be with reporters, talking about the campaign.”

  “She’s taking some personal time,” Rodgers said. He moved closer. “Talk to me, dammit.”

  “I am.”

  “No. You’re playing. There’s smug in your smile, in your eyes, but you’re still lying to me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tension displacement. When you’re wound tight, it has to come out somewhere. Your fingertips are white. You’re squeezing that walkie-talkie like it’s a rubber stress ball. The pressure of all those steaks, is that what it is?”

  “Yes, General. Look, I’ll have to talk to you some other time—”

  “You will talk now,” Rodgers said.

  “What you’re doing makes no sense, do you realize that?” Stone protested. “Think about it. If I were guilty of a terrible crime, would I stand here and confess to you? Do you think you’re that good a bully?”

  “I can be,” Rodgers said.

  “Security would have your face pressed to the asphalt in about ten seconds,” Stone assured him. “And I would have you incarcerated for assault, with no sad sack detective to bail you out.”

  Rodgers’s gaze sharpened. “How did you know that?”

  “What?”

  “That Howell let the McCaskeys go.”

  “I didn’t,” Stone said.

  It hit Rodgers a moment before he heard it. Voices were shouting from the walkie-talkie, inarticulate in their shrill and overlapping communiqués.

  Stone raised the unit. “This is Stone. What’s going on?”

  “Something happened,” someone said.

  “What?”

  “The admiral,” the speaker said. His voice was hesitant, uneasy. “He left the hotel from the back exit, but he never made it to the convention center.”

  “It’s only a mile!” Stone said. “Have you called the driver?” he asked as he reached for his own cell phone.

  “We did. There’s no answer. The admiral doesn’t answer his phone, either.”

  “Is security on this?”

  “They called 911 and asked for an aerial search to see if they can find the limousine.”

  “Tell security I’ll be right there,” Stone said angrily. He speed-dialed a number as he started jogging back toward the hotel.

  Rodgers followed, also running.

  “Kat, it’s Eric,” he said after a moment. “Something has happened. I need you to get downstairs and run the press.”

  The men entered the lobby. Word of a possible abduction was spreading. People had stopped whatever they were doing and were looking around, asking anyone with a Staff badge for information. Stone ignored them all as he rushed by. The men walked past the elevators to a corridor lined with shops. The rear entrance was at the end of the carpeted hallway.

  As Stone briefed Kat, Rodgers examined the feeling he had experienced just before the walkie-talkie came to life. A sense that had suddenly changed Rodgers’s perception of what he thought was beginner’s luck, a chaos gambit.

  He no longer believed that Stone was an amateur. Neither was his boss, whoever that was. Someone had profiled Rodgers. They had understood exactly how the general would act and react to everything they did. Stone knew that Rodgers would seek him out in San Diego. He knew that, after their first talk, after McCaskey’s arrest, Rodgers would tell Kat to stay out of the way for a while. Stone also knew that when he finally presented himself to Rodg
ers, the general would push for information.

  In short, the son of a bitch Stone had been stalling him.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 5:47 P.M.

  The sun was sinking low, and there was a chill in the air. The odor of diesel fuel wafted thinly from the aircraft at the base. It reminded Herbert of when he and his wife, Yvonne, used to be at a military airfield in some foreign land, waiting to be airlifted to or from a mission for the Company.

  The light, the smell, the taste of the air reminded him in particular of the field at the U.S. air base in Ramstein, Germany. That was where he and Yvonne had their last meal before heading to Beirut, where she died and he lost the use of his legs. They had gone to the base commissary, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and coffees, and took a card table onto the field. It was a little too windy for candles, so they used a menorah the quartermaster had in storage. It was the best grilled cheese and coleslaw Herbert ever had. Yvonne never looked more beautiful and heroic to him. What a role model she had been. Always pushing him and herself to do a better job. She was convinced that whatever they did in Lebanon could help to bring peace to the region.

  It did, to the nearly three hundred U.S. troops who died in the embassy bombing. Including Yvonne.

  It was difficult for Herbert not to crash, burn, and smoulder for hours whenever that day came upon him—typically by surprise, like a mugger. It could be a song Yvonne might have been listening to on the trip over. It could be a feeling in the air, like now. Even the smell of grilled cheese took him back. All Herbert could do was swallow the awful lump, concentrate on what he was doing, and get the hell out of that bittersweet place. Yesterday’s EM explosion made the feeling even more immediate.

  Stopping bad guys usually worked. That was what Herbert was trying to do now. The problem at the moment was not just wrestling down memories of Yvonne but fighting off the desire to hurt Paul Hood. As his grandfather used to put it back in Mississippi, he wished he could “sock him in the snot box and shake loose some intelligence.” The firing of Mike Rodgers offended him like nothing else in the past quarter century. When this was over, Herbert would have to decide if he could still work with the man. The way he was feeling, maybe he and Mike should open their own version of Murder, Inc. Something like, Revenge, Inc. He even had the slogan. “You pay, then they pay.” That would give them both a chance to act out in grand style.