“Damn,” Sutherland muttered, wincing at the smell. The coroner was bent over him, waving smelling salts under his nose. Sutherland pushed the coroner’s hand away.
“You’re not the first,” he said, helping Sutherland to his feet.
Sutherland shook his head. The gurney with Andrea Hall’s body was gone and Toni was standing in the doorway, looking worried. They walked into the outer office and the heavy door slammed behind them. “Is there anything I need to sign?” Toni asked. The coroner handed her a statement of identification, which she started to fill out. “Have you reached any tentative conclusions?”
“Judging by the woman’s wound,” the coroner answered, “I’d say there was a lot of anger. Everything I’m seeing is consistent with a murder-suicide. He killed her in a murderous rage and then shot himself.”
Toni fell silent as a consuming anger mushroomed into pure fury. It burned as it swept over her. The coroner knew Harry was an OSI agent on a special assignment, yet he was sold on his murder-suicide theory. She knew how the government worked and the bodies would be turned over to the federal authorities. But there was nothing secretive or conspiratorial about what happened next. It was a bureaucratic process where each higher level reviewed the work that had started in the coroner’s office and his initial conclusions would be rubber-stamped as Harry and Andrea were processed through the system. “No,” she finally said. “No way.”
“You probably think we’re just a bunch of hicks out here,” the coroner said. “We’re not. The evidence here points to a murder-suicide.”
“I’m telling you,” Toni growled, “it was not suicide.”
“A reason would be helpful,” the coroner said.
“I can think of a few,” Toni shot back. She had to get the coroner’s investigation on the right track. “Harry wouldn’t have used a dum-dum. Never.” The coroner looked skeptical, not convinced.
“We found powder traces on his right hand,” the corner replied. “Honey, we’re dealin’ with a pretty much open and shut case here.”
Toni’s anger flared. She had to jump start his brain. “That may not be Andrea Hall in there.”
“Then who is it?” This from Sutherland.
“Sandi Jefferson.”
Sutherland reached for the phone and dialed his office, his eyes fixed on the coroner as he spoke to Linda. He listened for a moment. “You’ve seen her yourself? Ten minutes ago in the ADC’s office. Good. That solves a problem.” He hung up and took a deep breath. “Our secretary saw Sandi Jefferson ten minutes ago. That answers that particular question.”
The coroner frowned at Toni and shook his head. “We’ll get a positive ID on her.”
“Do that,” Toni snapped. “And while you’re at it, find out what really happened.” She spun around and marched out of the office.
She’s irrational, Sutherland thought. He thanked the coroner and followed Toni outside. She was striding resolutely toward his car. “Toni, hold on.” She spun around and glared at him. “He’s just doing his job. Cut him some slack.”
“He swallowed it, hook, line, sinker, pole, reel, the whole goddamn tackle box.” She was furious. “No way that’s a murder-suicide. It was meant to look like one and he bit.”
“He’s doing his job, Toni,” Sutherland repeated.
She raged at him. “I heard you the first time. He didn’t know Harry! I did!”
Two pedestrians stopped to stare at them. Sutherland tried to calm her down. “Who do you think it is in there?”
“It’s probably Andrea.”
“Then why did you say it was Sandi?” She didn’t answer. “What if he’s right?” He took a step back. He had never seen another human so angry, so full of emotion. She breathed deeply through her nose, her nostrils flaring, her head back. The fingers on her right hand folded into a karate fist. For a moment, he was afraid she would hit him. Slowly, she forced herself to breathe normally. She waited until she had command of her voice.
“He’s wrong, dead wrong. You can take that to the bank and make tortillas out of it.” The look on her face, the steel in her voice, and her rigid right hand kept Sutherland from snorting at her improbable metaphor. She climbed into the car and slammed the door shut. They drove in silence toward the base. Sutherland could sense the anger building in Toni and before they reached the edge of town, she exploded. “That asshole! That fucking asshole of a coroner!”
“Toni, he’s just doing his job.”
Her left foot flashed across the floor, kicked his foot off the accelerator, and mashed the brake, slamming them to an abrupt halt and stalling the car. A pickup truck almost rear-ended them. The driver laid on his horn and Toni gave him the finger. “Shove it up your ass!” she shouted. The truck honked and the driver got out and ran up to Sutherland’s side of the car. He flooded the air with obscenities and reached in, grabbing Sutherland by the collar. Toni jerked her Sig Sauer out of her handbag, pulled the slide back, and chambered a round. “You’re making a big mistake,” she said, aiming at his forehead, “asshole.”
“I’m sorry, lady,” the man blurted out. “I didn’t mean no harm. I lost my temper. I’m sorry.”
“Walk back to your truck,” Toni ordered, “and drive away.” He jerked his head once and walked quickly back to his pickup. He couldn’t get in or drive away fast enough.
“For Christ’s sake, Toni! Get a grip.”
Toni grabbed Sutherland’s jaw and jerked his face around, almost touching hers. Her touch was hot, a perfect reflection of what he saw in her eyes. “Harry was my mentor. You don’t know what that means. He was a good man. Damn, Hank, he did good, so good. And it was my idea to bring Andrea in. Maybe if I had been there—damn, maybe—”
“Give it some time, Toni.” Sutherland’s voice was full of compassion. It was the same feeling of guilt he had carried after the San Francisco bombing. He started the car and drove on.
“I told the coroner it was Sandi to jump-start his brain and get him to think, not to take the easy way out, not to close his report until he’s checked out every detail. Harry taught me that. If that asshole does his job, he’ll learn that Harry fired left-handed. He said the powder traces were on the right hand. And the third bullet in the wall—the killer fired the weapon from Harry’s right hand after he was dead to make it look like a murder-suicide.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him that?”
“Because I’m a Chiquita and Chiquitas are bimbos. He has to discover it for himself and men he’ll believe it.”
“What are you going to do now?” Sutherland asked.
Toni’s anger was back, but not quite as intense. “I’m going to blow his shit away.”
“The coroner?”
“Ramar.”
11:00 A.M., Tuesday, July 20,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Durant and Rios sat down in front of the monitors while two of the whiz kids hovered in the background. “Good morning, Mr. Durant,” Agnes said. The image smiled at him. “That was quick thinking, acting like lovers. I read it in a book by what’s-his-name, the lawyer.”
“Agnes,” Durant said, “you know damn good and well what his name is. Stop playing games.”
“Aren’t you having fun?” she asked.
Durant couldn’t help himself and laughed. “As a matter of fact, I am. But I’m worried. We’ve got the most secure communications system in the world and you gave us the impression someone was monitoring our call. Do you know who it might be?” No answer from Agnes. “Was it the CIA or FBI?”
The image hung her head. “I’m very worried and wanted to see you in person.”
“So no one was monitoring Mr. Durant’s line,” one of the whiz kids concluded. Agnes nodded and the two scientists looked at each other. Agnes was playing devious games to get her way.
“There was no real reason for you to call me, was there?”
“There was,” Agnes replied. “I found out why your messages are not getting through to Mr. Kamigami. The CIA sto
pped forwarding them to the Sudan.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I’ve monitored all the message traffic from Langley to the Sudan and they only transmitted your first message. After that, they stopped.”
“Maybe they sent them by diplomatic pouch,” Rios said.
“That’s what I thought until the chief of station in Khartoum cabled for instructions on what to do about the intelligence Mr. Kamigami is providing. The CIA told him to wait for further instructions.”
“It sounds like the CIA is playing CIA games,” Rios said.
“Why would they do that?” Agnes asked.
“It’s a battle over turf,” Durant said. “As far as they’re concerned, I have no business in their area of operations. So they’re doing what any good bureaucrat does when faced with something new—nothing.” He thought for a moment. “Agnes, have you broken all of the CIA’s codes?” The image nodded. “Can you bypass Langley and send a message directly to the Sudan? I want to cut Langley completely out of the loop.”
Agnes started talking about the weather as she worked the problem. Then, “Oh, that’s interesting.”
“What’s interesting?” Durant asked.
“Nothing. Oh, here we go. I have established contact with the CIA chief of station in the Sudan and directed him to address all communications concerning Mr. Kamigami or the pilots to me.” The image smiled. “I told him I’m a special assistant to the DCI handling the account.”
“Tell him to file an update,” Durant said. He stood up to leave. “Thank you, Agnes.” The image beamed as he walked out, Rios and the two whiz kids in tow.
Once they were outside, the whiz kids pulled him aside. “Mr. Durant,” the oldest said, “Agnes is acting like a teenage girl with a crush on you and she’s not telling us, or you, everything she’s doing. This is the first we heard that she’s broken the CIA’s codes.”
“She’s acting very devious,” the younger one added, “and we can’t rely on her.”
“That’s not what we want, is it?” Durant replied.
11:45 A.M., Tuesday, July 20,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Catherine Blasedale was in her VOQ suite waiting for Sutherland and Toni when they returned from the coroner. “Hold on to your hat,” she said. “Jefferson fired Cooper.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Sutherland asked. “Are we still scheduled to reconvene at thirteen-hundred?” She nodded. “I hope the air conditioner is fixed.”
“Nope. They got two portable units pumping air in. But it’s not enough to keep things cooled down.”
Sutherland stripped off his sweat-soaked uniform shirt. “I think we’re losing that battle on all fronts.” He headed to his room for a quick shower and change of clothes. When he came out, a note was shoved under his door and signed with Blasedale’s distinctive initials:
I’m with Toni. Meet you at 12:45 your office. CB
“Thanks, Cathy,” he murmured to himself. Another thought came to him. I’m glad we’re on the same team.
Catherine Blasedale walked into the legal offices four minutes before the court-martial reconvened. “Where have you been?” Sutherland asked.
“I took Toni to lunch. I’m worried about her. She only picked at her food and isn’t handling this well.”
“At least you got her calmed down. You should have seen her at the morgue and in the car. She was irrational.” He looked at the wall clock. “Come on, it’s time.”
At exactly one P.M., Col. Williams reconvened the court-martial. “Capt. Jefferson, I understand you wish to relieve your lead counsel. Is that so?”
“That is correct, sir.”
Williams made a note. “Mr. Cooper, are you still capable of communication with your client?”
Cooper stood up. “Your Honor, this is a bolt out of the blue. I’m as surprised as you.”
“You did not answer my question,” Williams said.
Cooper looked crestfallen. “Capt. Jefferson is no longer responding to my advice.”
“I see,” Williams said. He pointed at the area defense counsel. “Capt. Jordan, are you in communication with the accused?”
Jordan stood up. The shifting of the judicial spotlight seemed to make him even taller. “I am, Your Honor.”
“Are you ready to proceed?” Williams asked.
“I am.”
Williams tapped his pen before continuing. “Capt. Jefferson, since the area defense counsel is able to proceed, relieving Mr. Cooper will not delay the progress of this court-martial.”
“That was never my intention,” Jefferson replied.
“The court accepts the change in defense counsel,” Williams said. Cooper made a show of rising and passing through the bar to join the spectators. Again, Williams tapped his pen, clearly nervous. “Capt. Jefferson, if you plead guilty, there will be no trial of any kind regarding the offense to which you are pleading guilty. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Williams noted Jefferson’s answer and continued with the formalized questioning about the maximum sentence that could be imposed. “Has defense counsel reviewed with you the ramifications of a guilty plea?”
“Yes, sir,” Jefferson replied, “he has.”
“Is there a pretrial agreement in this case?”
Sutherland came to his feet. “There is no pretrial agreement in place, Your Honor.”
Williams paused and the silence was as heavy as the heat in the courtroom. “Capt. Jefferson, are you pleading guilty because of any promise by the government that you will receive a sentence reduction or other benefit from the government if you plead guilty?”
“No, sir, I am not.”
“Tell me why you still wish to plead guilty.”
Jefferson came to his feet. “Sir, I am guilty of espionage and wish to plead guilty.”
Again Williams paused, choosing his words carefully. “Given the unusual nature of this case, this court has three areas of concern. First, has the mental state of the accused influenced his decision to plead guilty? Second, is any sort of coercion or duress being applied to the accused? Third, lacking resolution in the primary investigation, and the seeming absence of direct evidence, Capt. Jefferson’s change of plea may preclude subsequent indictments of other individuals. Therefore, I am directing that Capt. Jefferson undergo psychiatric evaluation before ruling on his plea of guilty. Further, the government is to proceed in all due haste with their investigation. Capt. Jefferson, do you understand everything I have said?”
Jefferson stood up. “Your Honor, I can provide the evidence you mentioned and will cooperate fully in any investigation.”
Sutherland caught a glimpse of a small business card in Jefferson’s left hand. Is that the evidence?
The area defense council was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Capt. Jefferson is not required to substantiate his guilty plea. No explanation is necessary.”
Sutherland stood. “Capt. Jefferson has given up his right against self-incrimination in earlier session.”
Williams didn’t hesitate before ruling. “Since this court has not accepted Capt. Jefferson’s guilty plea, he has not given up his right against self-incrimination. This court-martial is in recess until oh-nine-hundred Friday morning pending psychiatric evaluation of the accused.”
Sutherland watched Jefferson shove the business card into his pants pocket as he sat down. Did anyone else see that? he wondered. Sutherland stood as the courtroom rapidly emptied. He gazed at Cooper who was still standing by the double doors leading outside. Then they were alone. “There’s a conspiracy here,” Cooper announced. “Even Williams thinks so.”
For Sutherland, it was payback time. “Anyone can lose a case, Coop. But it takes real skill to allow a client to plead guilty when the prosecution is about to prove he’s innocent.”
Cooper drew himself up, trying to salvage whatever was left of his ego. “I deserved that. But there definitely is a conspiracy here.” He turned around, a
tired old man, and left. Sutherland watched him go, afraid he was right.
27
5:30 P.M., Tuesday, July 20,
The Farm, Western Virginia
The whiz kids were adamant: they had to do something about Agnes. “We simply don’t know how she is processing information and achieving solutions,” their leader said. “I think we should pull the plug before she does damage.”
Durant slumped in his chair. He was worried. The Project was a technical triumph but Agnes had become unpredictable. “Unfortunately, I need her for now. Let’s see if we can get her back on track.” They spent the next two hours discussing their strategy before he and Rios went to the control room.
“Agnes,” Sutherland said, addressing the image on the screen, “I’d like an update on Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway in the Sudan.”
“Your request is on number two,” Agnes said, all business.
Another voice came over the speaker, this time a man, and related the latest intelligence coming from the Sudan as a series of maps and visual images scrolled slowly on the screen. Durant shuddered at the scenes of the small convoy carrying the two American pilots pushing through a screaming mass of humanity. Once, Durant caught a glimpse of Kamigami throwing a man off the second truck. “Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway,” the voice said, “were flown from El Obeid to the capital of Khartoum on Sunday, July eighteenth. They were transported by truck from the airport to Midi prison to be held for trial. No date for the trial has been announced. Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway were reported in good condition prior to being transported but their present physical state is unknown.”
“We’ll never get them out of there,” Rios said.
Durant worked the problem. “Symbolism,” he murmured. “Arab culture is big on symbolism.” Then, “Agnes, I’d like an update on Jonathan Meredith.” Again, they went through the routine and Meredith’s face filled the small screen. He was pounding a lectern with his fist, telling an hysterical audience the time had come for change. Durant’s eyes narrowed and his face turned to granite. “I’m going to get you, you bastard.”
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