Forty minutes later she returned to the interview room where mother and son were seated close to each other. “Should I make myself scarce again?” Margit asked pleasantly.
“No, please, come and sit,” Robert said. He stood and came to attention, a positive sign to Margit. Perhaps he was returning to the more normal aspects of military routine.
“Anything you’d like to share with me?” Margit asked. Robert smiled at his mother, who said, “I believe Robert. He didn’t kill that Dr. Joycelen.” When Margit didn’t respond, Mrs. Cobol asked, “Do you believe him?”
Margit could have done without the question. The truth was, she didn’t know what she believed, only that if she was to mount a credible defense for him, she would have to, at least, not believe that he did murder Richard Joycelen. She looked into the soft, blinking, questioning eyes of Flo Cobol and said, “No, I do not believe Robert killed Dr. Joycelen, and I am committed to defending him with every resource available to me.”
“Thank you, Major Falk.”
Margit paused before saying what she’d been thinking for the past twenty-four hours. “I believe it would benefit you, Robert, to bring in civilian counsel to work with me.”
Mother and son stared at her.
“I consider myself a good attorney. My training was excellent, and I have a solid understanding of military law. But defending an accused murderer in any milieu, civilian or military, not only demands knowledge that is gained from years of experience, the ramifications are immense. Your life is at stake. I’m not suggesting I don’t want to defend you. I’ve made a commitment to do the best job I can. But I think you deserve more than that. Would you consider hiring a civilian attorney to work with me?”
During Margit’s previous visit with Cobol, he seemed not to care about the quality of his defense, was resigned to whatever happened. This day he demonstrated more of an interest in his fate. “I have faith in you, Major Falk, and I’ll go along with any suggestion you make. If you feel having a civilian attorney involved makes sense, let’s do it.”
“Will that cost a lot of money?” Flo Cobol asked.
“I don’t know how much. Good attorneys are expensive, but I have an idea. My professor at George Washington University was a gentleman named Mackensie Smith. Before becoming a professor, he was a brilliant and successful trial lawyer in Washington. I’m not suggesting that he would be an active co-counsel on a full-time basis, but I would enjoy being able to draw upon his wisdom and experience during the trial. Obviously, he would have to be paid for his time and expertise, but he is not a man consumed by money. I may have acted prematurely by broaching the subject with him at dinner last night. Whether he would agree to help us is conjecture, but I’d like your permission to pursue it.”
“I don’t have much money,” Flo Cobol said. “My husband didn’t believe in life insurance, and I don’t have much in my bank account. But I’ll do anything to help Robert. I could sell the house, or take another mortgage on it.”
“I don’t think we’re talking about selling houses, Mrs. Cobol. At least not yet.”
Margit convinced Flo Cobol to stay overnight. She booked a room for her at Bolling’s Officer Guest Quarters, and arranged for her to visit her son again the next morning, Saturday of the Labor Day weekend.
They had dinner at the Officers’ Club, where, surprisingly, Flo relaxed. She could be funny, Margit found, her unsophisticated remarks humorous not because they lacked sophistication but because they were genuine—direct and honest and, therefore, often amusing.
Later they sat in Flo’s room, where Margit encouraged her to open up about her son, this army captain who had become—certainly not by choice—her client, and whose life had ended up in her hands.
As Margit and Flo talked—it was eight o’clock in the evening in Washington—Consulnet’s Hans Keller left a private club to which he’d been taken by his Arab host. A woman was on his arm, and she helped steady him. It was 4:10 in the morning; Hans had had a lot to drink, courtesy of his host, and of the club owner who preferred to consider the country’s ban on alcoholic beverages to be for other, less enlightened citizens.
The woman with Keller was half-Italian, half-Lebanese, slender but with ample hips and bosom.
Keller stumbled into the backseat of a black four-door Mercedes parked at the curb. His nubile companion joined him. Keller instructed the driver to take them to his hotel, a glass-and-steel structure that was part of an American chain.
Keller was anxious to get there. Discussions with his host had not gone well. Alcohol, food, cigarettes, happy talk, and the stroking of his thigh had substituted for substance. He was tired, disgruntled, and looked forward to going to bed with the lovely creature seated next to him. Not that he was in any shape to take full advantage of her. That could happen in the morning—late morning; she was his as long as he was in the city.
Even at that hour, the narrow streets of the business sector were clogged, and the Mercedes moved through them at a snail’s pace.
Keller shook his head to stay awake. Her hand was on his leg. She giggled and touched his cheek. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her lips from him. “Not now,” she said. “Soon.”
He looked out the window and dimly realized they were heading in a direction away from the hotel. He could see it in the distance, its rooftop neon sign glaring through clouds that had descended upon the city. He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Wrong road, wrong way,” he grumbled, pointing in the direction of the hotel. “Over there. Go there.”
The driver nodded and made a turn, then accelerated and sped down a street that led directly to a deserted waterfront. The car came to an abrupt stop.
“What the hell are you doing?” Keller shouted. “Nackter wilder!” he snarled in German. Moron!
His question was answered by both rear doors opening simultaneously. “Wait,” Keller said, looking at faces staring in at him through the open doors. The woman quickly slid across the seat and got out. A man took her place next to Keller.
“What do you want?” Keller asked.
From the other door a hand grabbed his collar.
“No, please.”
The man beside him pulled a long, curved dagger from his belt and thrust it between the ribs on Keller’s right side. He gasped, and his hand went to where it had entered. When he pulled his hand up to look at it, it was wet and red. The pain. Keller’s mouth twisted into a circle; a beached fish gasping for air, he pitched forward. The man leaning in the door behind him flipped a thin metal wire over Keller’s head and twisted it, the metal slicing through the thick folds of skin covering Keller’s throat as though it were a knife. His eyes bulged. Then his head jerked. It was over.
“… I think Robert joined the army to satisfy his father,” Flo Cobol said to Margit as they sat in Flo’s comfortable guest room. There was nothing amusing in her manner now. “My husband was always concerned about Robert, thought he wasn’t as manly as some of the other boys. Robert joined the army and went through all that difficult training. When he was commissioned, my husband was prouder than I’ve ever seen him. He beamed, Major Falk. He kept slapping Robert on the back and hugging him.
“Then my husband died. It was only six or eight months after Robert was commissioned. That was when Robert told me …”
Awkward silence.
“That he was homosexual?”
Flo nodded. “He’d known about it since high school but was afraid to admit it, even to himself. Of course, he was always easily influenced. That’s why it happened. At least, that’s what I believe. He started to spend time with them, and he became one of them. I know that’s the way those things happen. Some boys are strong. They don’t listen to their friends. Unless their friends have the right values. Robert … was with the wrong people, and they influenced him. Don’t misunderstand, Major Falk. I don’t think poorly of all of them. Everyone is different. We should respect that. But when it’s your own son …
“He
would never have told his father. He told me that he was proud to be an officer, and that he didn’t see any reason why his personal life should matter as long as he did a good job for his country.”
“The military has strict regulations against homosexuals,” Margit said.
“I heard that, I told him that. I told him that he would probably end up in a lot of trouble unless he changed, but he said he was convinced he could live his private life quietly, and that no one in the military would ever know what he was. I don’t consider Robert’s views on sex to be normal, but I love him. I’m very proud of him.”
Margit asked, “Did he ever mention a Major Reich?”
Flo wrinkled her face. “I don’t think so.”
“Did others know that he was a homosexual?”
Another thoughtful pause. “Close friends, maybe.”
“Will you give me a list of his close friends?”
“Oh, Major Falk, I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
“I don’t intend to get them in trouble, Mrs. Cobol. I just have this need to understand Robert. He is, after all, accused of murder, and I’m supposed to save his life. I need to know who else was in his life—and who might have wanted to put him in this position.”
“I’m sorry,” Cobol’s mother said. “I’ll cooperate with you any way I can.”
“Good.” Margit stood and straightened her skirt. “Have a good night’s sleep, Mrs. Cobol. There is a long way to go, and I’m going to need you with me all the way.”
Flo leaned forward, her knees spread beneath the fabric of her inexpensive dress. “Please don’t let him die,” she said.
13
Margit woke up Saturday morning and saw her picture in the Washington Times.
When she and Flo Cobol had arrived at McNair the previous day, a few press people slouched outside the detention building. By the time they recognized who’d arrived, the women were inside.
When Margit and Flo left the building, however, the press was at the ready. Margit said only “No comment” in response to their questions, and assumed that would be the end of it. But there had been a still photographer in the group, and the photo he took of the two women was on page 6. A short accompanying article pointed out it was the first time the accused’s mother had visited her son. From the way it was written, a reader would assume that Flo Cobol hadn’t been interested in visiting him earlier. That spin on fact rankled Margit as she breakfasted in the Bolling commissary on juice, toast, and coffee.
The article concluded with a thumbnail sketch of air-force major Margit Falk, defense counsel to the accused. It had been based on a handout prepared by the Armed Forces News Division, and said little more than what Margit would be expected to divulge as a prisoner of war. It briefly touched upon her military career, indicated she was a graduate of George Washington University, and mentioned she was flight-rated.
Margit closed the paper and finished her coffee. In the turmoil of being named Cobol’s counsel, she’d almost forgotten that she was, indeed, a chopper pilot. She had two weeks before she had to put in flying time to maintain active flight status, but the thought that morning of spending a couple of hours in the air was suddenly appealing. To get up and away from it all. She glanced at her watch; she was to meet Flo Cobol in fifteen minutes and drive her to McNair, then take her to the airport for a flight home.
This was the weekend she and Jeff had agreed to grant themselves. He had to work all day at Wishengrad’s office, but they’d made plans for dinner and to spend the night and Sunday together.
She hurried back to her room and called Flight Scheduling at nearby Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland. Although the military helicopter role now rested primarily with the army, there were enough chopper-rated pilots in the air force to justify maintaining a small fleet at Andrews.
“Any chance of booking time this afternoon?” Margit asked.
“Sixteen hundred hours okay, Major?”
“Sounds good. Put me down for an hour.” That would leave time to get back to the BOQ, shower, pack what she needed for overnight, and meet Jeff for dinner.
“You’ve got chopper four-two-three at sixteen hundred hours.”
“Nice number,” Margit said. “Thanks.”
Flo’s mood wasn’t upbeat when she emerged from the second meeting with her son. She said little during the ride to the airport. As she was about to leave Margit’s car at National, she said, “It’s good my husband isn’t here to see this.”
“I’ll do everything I can for Robert, Mrs. Cobol.”
“I know you will, although I have a feeling nothing will help. He feels the same way.”
“It’s natural to be pessimistic at this stage. Did you talk to him again about bringing in Mr. Smith?”
“Yes. We agree you should do what you think is right. I’ll find the money.”
“Let’s not worry about money now. I’ll talk to Mac Smith this weekend and see if he’s willing, if only in an advisory capacity.” That Smith would have an official role, as defined by taking a fee, was important to Margit, because she felt awkward asking for his advice purely on friendship. If he would accept a fee, she would feel less guilty in disrupting his comfortable and quiet lifestyle.
She called Smith from her BOQ but reached his answering machine. She left a message that she would be home until three, and that if she didn’t hear from the machine’s owner by then, she’d call again during the weekend. She busied herself with household chores for an hour, then called Wishengrad’s office.
“I was just about to call you,” Jeff said.
“Happy I’m able to keep down your phone budget. Bigger than the army’s, I hear. How’s it going?”
“Terrible. They’ve pushed up the date for public hearings on the Middle East. Looks like they’ll start next Wednesday, instead of a week from.”
Margit knew what was coming.
“Margit,” Jeff said, “I know I’ll be here until some ungodly hour tonight, and the senator has called a staff meeting for eight tomorrow morning. I just don’t see how we can get together this weekend.”
Margit tried to muffle her disappointment. She was well aware that her recent schedule had made it difficult for them to spend time together; she couldn’t be critical of similar pressures on him. “I understand,” she said.
“We’ll do it another weekend,” he said. “Soon.”
When their conversation was ended, her disappointment turned to anger. She wanted to believe that he was as disappointed as she was, but his tone didn’t deliver that message. Her reaction was probably based upon an erroneous evaluation of what he’d said—and how he’d said it—but she couldn’t shake it. It stayed in her stomach, a tightly knotted muscle she was unable to unravel.
By the time she changed into her olive drab flight suit and gleaming black flight boots and had perused her flight bag to make sure it contained everything she needed, the day’s cloudy beginnings had cleared; the sun was strong. Her spirits, too, had cleared, and, corny as it was, she hummed “Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder” while she drove her shiny red Honda down the Anacostia Freeway to Route 95, also known as the Capital Beltway, and took it to Exit 9, which led to the main gate of the air base known as the “Aerial Gateway to the Nation’s Capital.” Its enhanced military security made it the airdrome of choice for dignitaries arriving in the United States whose safety was an issue. Those whose stature was not sufficiently high to invite bodily harm were welcomed at National and Dulles.
Her destination on the forty-two-hundred-acre base was a small section of the flight center at which the helicopter fleet was tied down. She pulled into a parking area reserved for flight personnel and entered the Ops Office. A dozen pilots milled about, some checking out after having flown, others filing flight plans, receiving weather briefings, and reading flight-reg updates and NOTAMs—Notices to Airmen.
“Just filling squares for an hour,” she told the enlisted man behind the busy desk, indicating a flight plan in which
prescribed maneuvers would be practiced to meet requirements.
“Fat day,” he responded, sliding forms across plastic that covered area charts. Margit happily agreed. The weather was splendid.
Twenty minutes later she was cleared for an hour’s solo time in a UH-1H model Huey, powered by twin PT6 turboshaft engines, a vintage army utility helicopter that had been transferred to the air force. In its attack mode, slung with an M-5 40-mm grenade launcher, rocket pods, and M-3 forty-eight shot rocket packs, it was known in battle as a gunship because of its heavy, bulky armament hanging below. In its stripped version, the version Margit would fly that day, it was known as a “slick.” In war, slicks carried people, not guns.
She’d trained on the Huey, transitioned to the Blackhawk, which she’d flown in Panama, but now spent most of her time in Hueys of various configurations. They were the workhorses of the military helicopter fleet, drab, conventional, “utility aircraft,” hardly the stuff writers of romantic military history dwelled upon. But they’d done the job in Korea and Vietnam, Iraq and Kuwait, transporting troops, carrying the wounded back in hospital versions, attacking enemy installations, scouting the front lines, all of it.
She went to the flight line where the Huey assigned to her—AF 66423—was waiting. It sat on the Tarmac like a brooding Buddha, squat and innocuous, its main rotor blades drooping from the rotor shaft like weary, spent arms. Although it now belonged to the air force, it remained in its Vietnam camouflage markings of gray and olive drab.
A line-maintenance sergeant tossed Margit a casual salute and continued to move around the helicopter.
“Ready to go?” Margit asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She thought of her father. Was this young sergeant as good as he’d been? Margit’s father had been the best. She’d heard it said many times that you took off with confidence in any plane Sergeant Fred Falk had maintained.
But that reputation hadn’t been good enough to spare him the agony he was put through at the end of his career, a career that concluded prematurely, because someone had lied and had been believed.
Murder at the Pentagon Page 11