Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  For now, though, he had to find out what he could about Lucy O’Connor. Darrell had called to say that he and Maria were headed to her apartment. If she was not there—and McCaskey did not expect her to be—he needed to know where she could have gone.

  “There is one thing about her you should know,” Herbert told him.

  “What is that?” McCaskey asked.

  “She was busted while she was a student at Carnegie-Mellon,” Herbert informed him.

  “For what?”

  “Riding the horse,” Herbert said.

  “Lucy was a heroin addict?”

  “That’s what the Pittsburgh PD records say,” Herbert said. “Did six months in the pokey, where she went through rehab.”

  “Impossible. That would have showed up on her background check,” McCaskey said. “She never would have been allowed near Congress.”

  “Unless someone had the file buried and told her one day there would be payback,” Herbert said. “A real-life Don Corleone.”

  “Orr or Link,” McCaskey said. “So how did you find the record?”

  “I didn’t,” Herbert said. “Routine check of her college years turned up a bust at the frat house where Lucy lived. Her name wasn’t mentioned. I called one of the kids who did time. She said, hell, yeah, Lucy was with her in the clink.”

  “She would have known how to give the injections,” McCaskey said. “That’s one more reason to believe she is the killer.”

  “Most likely. You’re an aspiring journalist who screwed up, someone rescues you, gives you all kinds of access—there are people who would kill to protect that,” Herbert said. “There are people who have killed for less.”

  “True, though I’m not going to sign on to that until I talk to the woman,” McCaskey said.

  “I agree.”

  “Speaking of which, if we don’t find her at home, you have any suggestions where we should try next?” McCaskey asked.

  “I sent Stephen Viens over to the NRO,” Herbert said. “He’s got an hour on the Auto-Search program in the Domestic Surveillance Platform.”

  The DSP was a new Homeland Security satellite. It was located in a geostationary orbit and kept pointed on the metro D.C. area. It had the ability to pinpoint cars by shape, weight, and the specific configuration of the dashboard electronics. Once spotted, the onboard camera could zoom in to read the license number. If suspicious individuals were seen getting into a particular vehicle or renting a specific car, the DSP could find and track them with relative ease.

  “How did Viens swing time on that?” McCaskey asked. “The DSP is Homeland’s baby.”

  “All I know is that Paul made a call,” Herbert told him. “He got us the hour.”

  “Impressive,” McCaskey said.

  “I guess someone figured they owed us one or else felt sorry for us,” Herbert said. “Anyway, Ms. O’Connor drives a red Mustang convertible. If she is on the road, we will find her.”

  As Herbert was talking with McCaskey, he got an instant message on his borrowed laptop.

  Viens1: We have your car. It is just crossing the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge headed west.

  “Darrell, we’ve got your perp,” Herbert said. “She’s on 95 crossing the river. She could be headed to the airport.” The irony of Lucy O’Connor being on a bridge named W. Wilson was not lost on him.

  “We’re on 395 east now,” McCaskey said. “I’ll turn and go for an intercept. Can Viens stay with her?”

  Herbert forwarded the question to Viens, who wrote back that the NRO’s Homeland Security liaison, Lauren Tartags, said he could take the time, barring a crisis. Herbert told Viens to thank Ms. Tartags for her generosity. Op-Center’s imaging expert wrote back:

  Viens1: It’s not kindness. She says she has no choice.

  That was odd, but Herbert did not worry about it now. The intelligence chief told McCaskey to remain on the line. He said he would forward any new information immediately.

  Through the open line Herbert could hear McCaskey and his wife conferring. The mutual respect he heard in the exchange made him smile. Maria was a tough, swashbuckling, headstrong, old-school law officer. She was the kind of cop who did not knock on doors but kicked them in. She was a perfect counterbalance to the more meticulous McCaskey.

  He was happy for them. And he envied them.

  Despite receiving data from the new satellite, Herbert felt as if he were back in the technological Stone Age. Before the electromagnetic blast, he would have been sitting in his office looking at the images being forwarded directly from the DSP. He could do that in the Tank, but that would mean hanging with Paul Hood. That was something he did not want to do right now.

  Especially when he could still do his work out here and let the mechanized odor of the parking lot transport him to another time and place. To a point in his life when he had the best team a man could have, a wife who was his devoted personal and professional partner.

  Maybe that was why Paul Hood did not understand the bad judgment call he had made. He never had an Yvonne in his life. He did not understand the meaning of partnership. Maybe that was why Herbert had judged Hood so harshly. Because he did have that perspective.

  And here, in the breezy quiet, where memories took form in the dark shadows beside the buildings, he had her still.

  FORTY-NINE

  Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:06 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey never thought he would be grateful for rush hour.

  The highway was clogged in both directions as he picked his way through the slow-moving traffic. Herbert kept him posted on Lucy’s progress. The two cars were converging, albeit slowly. As a precaution, McCaskey called Detective Howell to have someone go to Lucy’s apartment. He wanted to make certain she was not there, that the person in the car was not a decoy. Howell dispatched a squad car without comment. His emotional neutrality was not surprising. It would not have served his cause to challenge the request or to attach it to demands or guarantees. The detective was still a professional.

  As McCaskey got onto 95 heading east, he was informed that Lucy’s apartment was empty. She was almost certainly in the car. A minute later, Herbert came back on the line.

  “You’re about two klicks shy of her position,” he said. “If I can make a suggestion, she has no more exits between where she is and your current position. You can get out of the car and cross the guardrail north of Springfield—”

  “I know the place,” McCaskey said. “I can see it ahead.”

  The car was moving a little less than twenty-five miles an hour. He looked into the oncoming traffic as he hooked the phone on his belt. He left the line open.

  “Maria, I’m going to intercept Ms. O’Connor and get her to pull over,” McCaskey said. “We’ll wait for you on the shoulder. I need you to get off at the next exit and swing around.”

  “You are assuming she’ll stop,” Maria said.

  “She will,” her husband said. “If she doesn’t brake willingly, I’ll stop the car in front of her.”

  “What if she’s armed?” Maria asked.

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut tight,” he replied.

  Maria frowned disapprovingly. “With a gun, not a hypodermic.”

  “I’ll watch myself,” McCaskey assured her. “Crossing the highway will be the tough part.”

  McCaskey did not usually crack wise in situations like this. Something about Maria’s gravity had touched and amused him. This was not like Madrid, where they had been former lovers as well as grumpy and reluctant allies. This was not even like the stakeout for Ed March on Monday morning. This was the first case they had worked together since getting married. Maria was showing concern. He had wanted to try to minimize that.

  He kissed her cheek as he put the car in park and opened the door. Maria maneuvered herself over the armrests and took the wheel. McCaskey ran in front of the car and waved an arm as he scooted across two lanes of traffic. Cars braked and horns whined. He swore as he reached the guardrail. The Mustang was ab
out five hundred yards ahead, in the passing lane. He saw the passenger’s side. She was traveling about twenty miles an hour, then suddenly stopped. McCaskey hoped that Lucy had not heard the commotion and saw someone coming toward her. He did not want her trying to get away on foot. She would have a considerable head start.

  “Darrell, can you hear me?”

  McCaskey snatched the phone. “Yeah, Bob!”

  “We’re getting a thermal spike from the DSP,” he said.

  “Meaning?” McCaskey asked just as he heard horns in the oncoming lane. Cars around the Mustang were stopping. “Never mind,” he said. “I can see it. She torched the damn thing!”

  “What?”

  “There’s smoke coming from the closed windows!” McCaskey said. “She must have snuck out when the car stopped. Can you get a visual on her?”

  “No,” Herbert said. “We’ve got cloud cover on the natural-light camera.”

  “All right. Call 911. I’ve got to find her.”

  McCaskey started running. People who could not maneuver away from the Mustang were leaving their cars and hurrying away on foot. A man in a Ram 1500 had pulled off on the shoulder, five car lengths back. He was rushing over with a fire extinguisher. Just then, McCaskey saw red lights flash behind him. He turned and saw Maria standing on the roof of their car. She was tossing road flares, trying to get his attention. His wife must have noticed the smoke and stopped. She was gesturing toward the Ram. Through the smoke McCaskey could just make out someone climbing into the cab. That had to be Lucy. The Ram had a 5.7-liter HEMI Magnum engine. It was a truck with cojónes. The vehicle would take the driver through cars and off road with no trouble.

  Flames curled from the tops of the windows of the Mustang. The Ram driver hit it with a blast from the fire extinguisher. As he did, the windshield cracked from the heat, the spiderweb pattern shooting out from the center. A fire started with a cigarette lighter and whatever was lying around should not have gotten so hot so fast. She must have used an accelerant—

  She was going to the airport, McCaskey realized. She had sprayed the contents of an aerosol can, hairspray or deodorant, in carry-on luggage.

  McCaskey jumped the rail and grabbed the man about the waist and pushed him down just as the can itself exploded. It blew out the fragmented windshield and sent a small fireball rolling across the hood. Pieces of singed black Tumi luggage floated on the smoke like black snow. Former junkies might not be slick, but they knew household chemicals. They also knew how to distract the law.

  McCaskey rose from the asphalt. “You all right?” he asked the other man.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  McCaskey was bruised but intact. He jumped around the front of the burning automobile. The Ram was coming toward them, along the shoulder. He tried to get in the back of the pickup as it passed, but he missed it.

  Maria did not.

  His wife had gotten back into the car and jabbed her way through traffic. When she was just a few yards from the oncoming Ram, she drove the car hard into the guardrail. The metal did not break, but it bulged just enough to clip the fender of the Ram, tearing it free on the passenger’s side. The chrome dug into the spinning front tire. At the same time, Maria accelerated against the guardrail, bending it more and locking the fender into the tire.

  The Ram’s 345-horsepower engine screamed as the driver tried to push through the impasse. Before she could succeed, McCaskey was at the driver’s side door. He yanked it open and looked up at the face of desperation. He saw a woman who was crying so hard there was as much sweat along her scalp as there were tears on her cheeks. She was a woman so far over her pay grade that she was trembling all over, everywhere but her hands. Her fingers were bone white and locked around the steering wheel. She looked down at McCaskey.

  “It wasn’t going to be like this,” she said, her voice an unsteady whisper. She looked back out the front window.

  McCaskey climbed onto the step. He reached past her and turned off the ignition. With fire engines screaming behind him, it was difficult to hear. He leaned close. “What was not going to be like this?” he asked.

  “They told me I would get exclusives,” Lucy said. “That’s all I wanted.”

  “Who said that?”

  She did not appear to hear. “They said I was putting him to sleep. They said that was what they wanted. They wanted me to mess up his room, make it look as if he had partied hard. They said he would be discredited.”

  “Wilson, you mean,” McCaskey said.

  Lucy did not answer. McCaskey turned her face gently toward him. “You gave William Wilson the injection.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you would have exclusive access to stories?”

  She looked into his eyes. “They told me he wouldn’t be hurt. Not like Meyers.”

  “Who is Meyers?” McCaskey asked.

  “Richard Meyers. He was my boyfriend. We were on the beach three years ago in Corpus Christi. I gave him a speedball. He died.”

  “They knew about this?” McCaskey asked.

  “I ran.”

  “They found out?” McCaskey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So there was blackmail,” McCaskey asked.

  Lucy nodded once.

  The young woman, a junkie, had been in Texas. Someone must have found out and kept that information for future use. For blackmail. These guys must have been building their plan, their operation, for some time. “What about Mr. Lawless?”

  “I did that, too,” Lucy replied. “I had to. They said they would turn me in if I didn’t. And then I had to put the dress in Kat’s apartment.” Lucy started to cry. “I didn’t want to hurt Kat. I like her.”

  “Who told you to do all that?” McCaskey asked.

  “She told me I would have to write only good things about them or I would go to prison for murder,” Lucy said. “I got stuck. I didn’t know how to get out.”

  “Lucy, who did you speak with? Admiral Link? Senator Orr? Someone who works for one of them?”

  “A woman.”

  “Do you know which woman?”

  “No,” Lucy said.

  “What number did she call?”

  “My cell phone,” Lucy said.

  “Okay,” McCaskey said. “Now I want you to stay here. Someone will come for you. You have to believe I’m going to try to help you, all right?”

  “All right,” she said blankly.

  McCaskey gave her a reassuring pat on the back of her tense hand. Then he stepped back onto the highway. The police were making their way through traffic. Maria was standing there. Behind her, the airbag of the car had inflated.

  “Nice move,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  McCaskey kissed his wife on the forehead and reached for his cell phone. It was gone. Poor Bob was probably mad with concern and madder with confusion. McCaskey hurried ahead. He needed to get a phone so he could call the intelligence chief. He showed one of the police officers his Op-Center ID. The man loaned him his phone. McCaskey said he would return it later.

  McCaskey did not call Bob Herbert’s phone because the line was probably still open. Instead, he called the Tank. Bugs Benet answered. He asked Hood’s assistant to have Herbert find out who called Lucy O’Connor’s cell phone within a half hour of the murder of William Wilson.

  “Will do,” Bugs said. “How can we reach you?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Keep an ear to the ground for Mike.” McCaskey wasn’t being heroic, just practical. He had a feeling that whether he was about to resign or not, Mike Rodgers was the one who would have to carry this ball in for the touchdown.

  FIFTY

  San Diego, California Wednesday, 3:45 P.M.

  Inevitably, out of chaos comes order. The only two questions are when and at what cost?

  Chaos evolved quickly in the hotel lobby, as it always does. One convention-goer carried it to three who carried it to nine. When chaos spreads,
Mike Rodgers knew that the most important thing was not to try to contain it. Security had called the police, and reinforcements were on the way. Their presence would emphasize what was already an extraordinary situation and remove whatever remained of normalcy. That would merely put the same amount of tumult in a more confined space. And chaos tended to leap whatever firebreaks were placed around it. The task at hand was to eliminate the cause, not to contain the result.

  The cause was shock about the apparent abduction of Admiral Kenneth Link and uncertainty about who did it or why. Mike Rodgers wanted to get on the problem right away. And not just to help eliminate the panic. Apparently, this was related to whatever the hell had started in Washington just four days ago.

  Rodgers walked over to a relatively quiet corner near the magazine stand. He called the office of General Jack Breen at Pendleton. Breen said it was good to hear from his old friend.

  “Where are you?” the marine general asked.

  “San Diego,” Rodgers replied.

  “San Diego? I hear there’s noise in that area. Yours?”

  “Indirectly,” Rodgers said. “Jack, I need air recon ASAP. Something with eyes and teeth. We believe Admiral Kenneth Link has been kidnapped from the hotel here.”

  “Details?”

  “He was in a limo, that’s all I know. I don’t know what kind. I wouldn’t trust anyone to give me the right information anyway,” Rodgers said.

  “I’m requisitioning an Apache on the e-command link as we speak,” Breen said. “Do you think there will be a ransom request or is this a GAT?”

  GAT was grab and terminate. It was a military adaptation of the Mafia acronym SAW, snatch and whack.