Murder at the Pentagon

by Margaret Truman

  “Nice sentiment, but you aren’t working for the ACLU. We have military regulations that say that if you’re a homosexual, you’re out.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. Why are you asking me this?”

  “Because it is possible that Captain Cobol is a homosexual, and that he killed Dr. Joycelen over a purely personal matter between them.”

  “Dr. Joycelen was gay?”

  “I prefer the original meaning of the word. He evidently was bisexual. Now, how do you feel about all of this, Major?”

  She’d become exasperated. She wanted to get out of there, to take a long walk, to think. His questions were premature, and she felt singularly ill equipped to answer them with even a measure of intelligence. She said, “Sir, if I am being assigned to the defense of Captain Cobol, I will have to accept that assignment. I understand that. If Captain Cobol is a homosexual, and if the motive for the murder revolves around that, I will have to deal with that circumstance as any attorney would, in any criminal case. I do not want this assignment. I am not interested in defending Captain Cobol because I am ill equipped, and anyone accused of murder deserves experienced counsel. I respectfully ask you to reconsider your choice.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Major Falk, I will give it some additional consideration. But don’t count on me changing my mind. I’m not famous for it like some presidents and secretaries of defense.”

  She stood. “May I go?”

  “Of course. Look, Major, I’m sorry that we have had our first substantive conversation under these circumstances. I could have done without being given this assignment by SecDef. This is a no-win situation for me … and it probably will be for you … provided I don’t change my mind.” He smiled. “Major Falk, I don’t intend to change my mind. Sorry. You’re it. Give him the best defense you’re capable of, which, I’m confident, will be considerable. I’d like to meet with you Monday morning at eight, here, in this office.”

  He walked her to the door. “Foul up your weekend pretty good?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir, you certainly did.” She couldn’t help but laugh. With all his exterior gruffness, Bellis was a nice man. She liked him, despite the fact that he had truly screwed up her weekend.

  He had a final word before she left. “Let’s keep this between us, Major Falk, at least until an announcement can be made next week.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that, Colonel Bellis.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I intended, the minute I got back to my quarters, to call Mackensie Smith and become a law student again.”

  Bellis laughed. “You want to discuss it with your former law professor? Go right ahead, Major, but keep it at that. The one thing I don’t want is the media to get hold of this until we’ve decided how and when to give it to them.”

  “Understood,” Margit said.

  “Good. By the way, a question off the subject. What do you think of Lieutenant Lanning?”

  “Think of him? He’s a capable young officer.”

  “He’s like a little old lady, a gossipy young man.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. He seems to have your best interests at heart.”

  “Glad to hear it. One thing we don’t need around here is a tale-teller. Thank you for coming in on your leisurely Saturday, Major. I look forward to working with you.”

  She wished she could say the same and, of course, did.

  “Annabel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Margit Falk.”

  “Margit. How are you? Sorry you couldn’t join us for dinner last night. We ended up having pizza at Belmont Kitchen. You might have saved us.”

  “I’m glad now I didn’t join you. It takes two hours in the gym to get rid of a Belmont pizza.”

  “How is Jeff?” Annabel asked.

  “Still off in Wisconsin with Wishengrad. I had a simple weekend planned, but I ended up in a meeting with my boss at the Pentagon.”

  “I hope we aren’t going to war this weekend,” Annabel said.

  Margit laughed. “No, but from my perspective, that might be preferable to what I’ve been handed.” As far as she was concerned, flying night missions over Panama’s jungles, with snipers boring holes in her Blackhawk helicopter, was a less daunting assignment than what she had just been given by Colonel James Bellis.

  “Sounds heavy,” Annabel said.

  “Yes, it is. Is the professor around?”

  A lilting laugh from Annabel. “Somehow, I don’t view him as a professor on weekends. More a grouchy home handyman who hits his thumb too often. Yes, he’s here. He just came back from walking Rufus. Or vice versa. Hold on.”

  “Hello, Margit,” Smith said.

  “I need to talk to you, Mac.”

  “Missed you last night. We had pizza.”

  “I heard. Mac, I need some informal consultation. I’m defending Captain Robert Cobol for the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen.”

  There was silence on the other end. Then Smith said, “Get on over here.”

  7

  Most of Consulnet’s board had trickled into Vienna during that Saturday, although some had arrived the night before. They’d gathered for dinner in a small private dining room at Korso, the elegant restaurant in the Bristol Hotel, on the Kärntner Ring, in which they all were staying.

  They’d dined sumptuously on specialties of the house—some enjoying Schweinsjungfrau, commonly known as “pig’s virgin,” others eschewing pork for fish dishes like Fogosch and Krebse. Two of the eight men stuck to less adventuresome schnitzel. The Dutch member of the group selected an Austrian wine, Gumpoldskirchen, which the others agreed had been a good and tasty choice, although the French representative had muttered something about its fruitiness being carried to a criminal extreme.

  It was almost midnight; dishes had been cleared, and dessert and coffee delivered. Sacher torte was served to all. Most preferred simple black coffee—Schwarzer—with a few opting for a touch of rum in theirs, the Mokka gespritzt version. One of those choosing the alcoholic rendition was an American, Paul Potamos, who sat at the head of the table not by chance, but because he projected a leadership persona. He wasn’t a big man—no more than five feet eight inches tall—nor did he have the Central Casting look of a captain of industry. He was quite bald, and there was a sheen to the swarthy skin atop his head. His parentage was Greek, although he’d been born in the United States. Sixty years old, heir to his family’s shipping company, he’d guided it to even greater success. Business associates, especially those with whom he’d butted heads, considered him arrogant. He preferred to view himself as self-confident, a character trait helped in no small degree by money.

  Potamos yawned and looked at his watch. “Unless there is further business to discuss,” he said, “I suggest we call it a night.”

  “There is further business,” the Brazilian Consulnet representative said.

  “Which is?”

  “Payments. He’s behind, too far behind to ignore.”

  Potamos looked to the German member of the board, Hans Keller, who’d been pleased that Potamos wanted to end the evening. Keller had someone waiting in his room. He knew she wouldn’t leave; she’d been paid for the night. But to waste such pleasurable time was anathema. “How much does he owe, Hans?” Potamos asked.

  Keller, a large, fleshy man whose shirt collar was too small, shrugged. “He paid thirty-three million. He owes another thirty.”

  “Just for the yellowcakes,” said the connoisseur, Sidney Cheval. “Raoul is right. He’s too far in arrears. Thirty million for the yellowcakes alone. Our Japanese supplier is asking questions. Who can blame him?”

  “Other payments?” asked Potamos. “Other debts?”

  Keller laughed, then coughed on smoke from his cigar. “I told you when we entered into this contract that we were asking too little in advance. The vacuum pumps are a good example. Twenty percent as a down payment? Absurd. He hasn’t paid another Ostmark.” Keller was a former East German who hadn’t
needed the Wall to come down to prosper. Germany was all one now; it had always been for him.

  “The lathes and milling machines,” said the Brit at the table, Sanford Sheffield. “And the nickel alloy. If I recall correctly, he put up nothing for those items.”

  “He made a small payment against those invoices,” Keller said. “Very small.”

  Potamos stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, a smile on his small face, “I’m afraid I’m too weary to deal with such high finance. Perhaps tomorrow, if you feel it’s necessary. These are really pennies. I remind you that when Consulnet took on this challenge, it was done with the understanding that shortfalls would be guaranteed.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “I prefer to wait and see to what extent our client decides to ignore his financial obligations. When that is clear, the guarantees will kick in. I think we’re premature in assuming that we’ll encounter a problem being paid for our work. It’s made him, as we say, the talk of the town.” He looked to Keller again. “When will you be meeting with the client again, Hans?”

  “The talk of many towns. The talk of the world. In a few days.”

  “A firm date?”

  “Nothing is ever firm with him.”

  Potamos sighed. “Well, I suggest we wait until you have that meeting. Get together with Walter, establish what is owed, and report back to us after you’ve met with our client. Our next meeting is the end of September, I believe. Where?”

  Raoul Cinsere, the Brazilian, answered. “London.”

  “Good. The financial report will be first on our agenda. Good sleep to all. Are we gathering for lunch tomorrow?”

  Walter Munch said, “At one. At Glacisbeisl. I left directions in your mailboxes.”

  “Splendid,” said Potamos.

  As he left the private dining room with Keller, he asked, “A redhead this time, Hans?”

  Keller blushed and forced a laugh. “Tea. A cousin. Brunette. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

  “How nice seeing family again. Enjoy your reunion.”

  Two waiters started to clean the room in which Consulnet had met. “Important men,” one said.

  The other grunted. “Yes, important men. Expensive rooms and meals, small gratuities. I did better in the coffeehouses.”

  8

  The press conference Tuesday morning in the Pentagon’s main briefing room had been hastily called. Originally, the appointment of Margit as defense counsel to Captain Cobol was to have been announced on Thursday.

  But on Monday, two hours after Margit’s 8 A.M. meeting with Colonel Bellis, the Armed Forces News Division, an office reporting to the assistant secretary of defense for public affairs, received a call from a Washington Post Pentagon reporter. The journalist wanted to confirm whether a Major Falk had, in fact, been assigned to defend Captain Robert Cobol, and wanted permission to speak with her. The duty officer promised to get back to him and immediately contacted Bellis.

  “How the hell did they get this?” Bellis bellowed at three members of his staff who had the misfortune to be within a hundred yards, which included Margit. His hard stare at her made her wonder whether he was assuming that her conversation with Mac Smith had resulted in the leak. She knew it hadn’t. She hadn’t had to impress upon Smith the need to keep it under wraps until the official announcement was made, and she had faith in his discretion.

  Bellis called the officer who’d reported the press inquiry. “Tell that reporter there’ll be a press conference tomorrow morning at ten. Set up that conference. Get the word out to the rest of the vultures, so we get credit for announcing it.”

  He hung up, sat back, and shook his head. “If a leak came out of this office, the person who did it will be a former member of this office.” And of this planet, Margit thought. He dismissed everyone except Margit. When they were alone and his door was closed, he sat on the edge of his desk. “Did you have your discussion with Smith?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Did you tell him the need for secrecy?”

  “Whatever we talked about never left his house. Among other things, he’s a master of discretion.”

  Bellis nodded. “I would tend to have that same confidence, although I know Smith only by reputation. Any ideas who leaked it?”

  Margit shook her head.

  “I meant what I said. If it came out of this office, I’m going to lop off that individual’s head and roll it down the hall like a bowling ball.”

  Margit couldn’t help but smile, and Bellis seemed pleased that she’d found humor in it. He sat behind the desk. “Plans for lunch, Major?”

  “No. I assume any eating today will be done at my desk.”

  “Wrong, Major. Any eating you do today will be done at my desk. We have a lot to go over before tomorrow morning. I suggest you go back to your office and take care of whatever matters are pressing. When you’re free, call Helen and tell her you’re ready to meet with me. I have appointments this afternoon that I’ll cancel, at least those that don’t bear upon this case.” Margit stood. “Ready for a long, tough haul, Major?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “None whatsoever. See you in a couple of hours.”

  Margit canceled appointments for that afternoon. Her final call was to Foxboro at Senator Wishengrad’s office. They’d made a tentative date for a drink and early dinner. “Jeff, I’m not sure what time I’m going to be out of here tonight. Something broke that could tie me up for a while.”

  “Like what?” he asked, sounding distracted.

  “I really can’t discuss it on the phone. In fact, I can’t discuss it at all until tomorrow morning after it’s been announced at a press conference.”

  Now, his attention seemed more focused. “Don’t tease, Margit. It’s annoying. What’s up?”

  She was sorry she’d called, or at least she should have begged off the evening without hinting that something extraordinary was taking place. She said, “I know, it isn’t fair, but my hands are tied. Please understand. If I see that I’ll be able to leave at a decent hour, I’ll call, and we’ll meet as planned.”

  “Call either way,” he said. He sounded angry.

  “If I get a chance.” She hung up and felt unsettled. There had been these minor tugs and strains lately. She chalked them up to the pressure of their jobs, and had recently considered taking a few days’ leave, suggesting to Jeff that he take time off, too, and maybe they’d get away together for an extended weekend. But this was no time to be thinking about leave. She called Helen Matthei, Colonel Bellis’s administrative assistant, and said she was ready to meet. Helen buzzed him, then came back on the line and told Margit to be there in a half hour. It was twelve-thirty. She was suddenly hungry. Would he order in some lunch for them? She hoped so, because she didn’t have time. They may say that no two offices are more than seven minutes apart in the Pentagon, but you couldn’t prove it by her. Going downstairs to the nearest snack bar would take at least fifteen minutes. More if she took a wrong turn.

  “I have two hours before I have to meet with SecDef,” Bellis said to Margit. “That means we have two hours to choreograph the press conference.” Margit wasn’t sure she liked his choice of words.

  Bellis continued. “Aside from making sure that the military justice system is followed to the letter, we have two other things to accomplish. First, the public must be assured that Captain Cobol will be prosecuted to the fullest extent. He’s not only been accused of murder, the victim was a well-known expert in the field of military weapons research. It also happened on military property.” His laugh was sardonic. “The Pentagon, peacekeeping HQ, no less. Second, the public has to be assured that the accused receives the fullest and fairest defense available.” He sighed. “In other words, Major, this had better be a textbook trial on both sides.”

  Margit had formulated a list of questions. Before asking them, however, she said, “In my defense, Colonel, is there any chance of getting something to eat?”

  �
�I’ve always admired pragmatic lawyers. I’ll have Helen order something up. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Chicken salad on whole wheat,” she said. “And coffee.”

  They got back to the topic at hand. “Does Captain Cobol know I’ve been assigned to his defense?” Margit asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Does he accept me as his counsel?”

  “Evidently.”

  “Considering the seriousness of the charge, I would think he might invoke his right to civilian counsel.”

  “As far as I know, he hasn’t asked for that. Sure, he’s entitled. We’ll make sure he understands that it’s one of his rights. How would you feel about being co-counsel?”

  “Fine with me,” Margit said. She’d been hoping it would end up that way. She’d feel considerably more comfortable defending an accused murderer with a savvy civilian criminal attorney at her side.

  She asked where Cobol was being detained.

  “McNair.”

  The army base, Fort Lesley J. McNair, sat on a strip of land south of the U.S. Capitol in the District of Columbia, just across the Anacostia River from the Anacostia Naval Station and Bolling Air Force Base. Its history as a detention center was long and colorful. The oldest active military post in America, it was where, on July 7, 1865, four men were hanged for their conspiracy in the assassination of President Lincoln, and where the body of John Wilkes Booth was secretly buried until removed two years later. These days, its stately grounds housed the National War College, the armed forces’ most prestigious training center for senior military officers.

  “Will I have a chance to talk to Captain Cobol before tomorrow’s press conference?” Margit asked.

  “That was part of the plan when the announcement was to be made—on Thursday. I don’t want to rush you out there. If you’re asked whether you’ve conferred with the accused, say that you will be doing that within the next forty-eight hours.”

  Margit said, “I’ll have to take a close look at what evidence against Cobol Command has accumulated. By the way, who is Command in this case?” She was referring to the concept under the Uniform Code of Military Justice in which the commander in whose jurisdiction a crime has been committed assumes ultimate responsibility for the prosecution and defense of an accused.