“What else?” Margit asked.
“I got the name of that Major Reich you wanted.” Another slip of paper came at Margit: Major Wayne Reich.
“Follow up,” Margit said. “Locate him and see if you can arrange an interview.”
“Shall do,” Silbert said smartly. “Want me to contact Brian Maitland?”
“Not yet,” Margit said. “How was Cobol when you left him?”
“The same as when I arrived. Anxious.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I’d like you to begin interviewing those who were on duty in the Pentagon the morning of Joycelen’s murder. Get ahold of the duty roster. After that, let’s try to identify those people who attended the picnic, who knew Joycelen, and who had access to the building.”
The moment Silbert left, Margit called Mac Smith. “What day would be good for you to visit my client?” she asked.
“Monday looks good,” he replied.
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Afternoon, if possible.”
“I’ll make it possible.”
“How’s it going, Margit?”
“I don’t know. My investigator visited Cobol yesterday and said he was in an agitated state. Hard to believe. Whenever I’ve been with him, he’s been the picture of tranquillity.”
“I have Monday written down,” said Smith. “What does your weekend look like?”
“Work.”
“Well, if you feel like taking a break, give me a call.”
“Sounds appealing. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Her phone rang minutes later. It was Jeff. “I miss you,” he said.
“That’s the nicest news of the day. I haven’t had a chance to miss anyone this morning, but now that you mention it, I do. Miss you, I mean.”
“Good. Up for dinner tonight?”
“I don’t think so, but thanks. I’m facing reams of reading. Even harder, thinking. Maybe I’d better hunker down and do with a quick sandwich.”
“Sounds dull to me,” he said.
“If it sounds dull to you, imagine what it is to me. Tomorrow?”
“Sure. I’ll call you tonight.”
Margit closed her door and read the material Woosky had delivered about Joycelen. The picture that emerged was as advertised, a fascinating, brilliant, and also enigmatic man.
He was fifty-eight when he was killed. Had he lived another week, he would have been fifty-nine. He was born in Argentina to British parents; his father had been an engineer sent there by the British company for whom he worked.
Joycelen attended a church-run school in Argentina until he was eight. Then his parents sent him back home to England, where he attended boarding schools.
After having established himself in England as a young man with a future in the physical sciences, Joycelen was accepted at MIT. His undergraduate years there were outstanding, and he received a fellowship to Stanford, where he obtained his advanced degrees in physics. His dissertation was in what was then the infant field of laser energy. After stints at two private research centers in California, he was offered a position in Washington with the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency. DARPA was a key spot, a center for cutting-edge technology, a high-energy place.
Indeed, charged with the mission of using high-energy lasers to develop advanced weapons systems—and basking in seemingly unlimited budgets authorized by Congress for a time—Joycelen had risen to preeminence within the esoteric scientific realms of national defense and its insatiable needs.
DARPA had been created by President Eisenhower in 1958 in response to the challenge posed by the Soviets’ launch of Sputnik. Organized as a separate agency under the Office of Secretary of Defense, and reporting to the undersecretary of defense for acquisition, it quickly became the central research-and-development organization for DOD.
Known informally as the “venture capitalists of the Defense Department,” DARPA did no research itself. Its 125 employees, working out of the brown glass-and-concrete Architects Building on Wilson Boulevard in Rosslyn, Virginia, contracted out all research and development to private-sector laboratories and research centers, and to American companies.
One clipping in the file was of special interest to Margit. It quoted extensively from Jeff Foxboro’s boss, Senator Hank Wishengrad, whose criticism of the Department of Defense was well known. Wishengrad had started pushing for DARPA to devote a portion of its research energies and dollars to technology that could be converted into civilian industry. It was his contention that for the nation’s leading military-scientific think tank to focus only upon armament needs was to shortchange the nation by diverting funds that could make American industry more competitive in the world economic arena. Joycelen, to Margit’s surprise, while not siding with the senator, indicated in some of his quotes that he could see the future wisdom of slowly shifting funds from military to civilian objectives. He cited research currently being done on high-energy lasers that, while potentially the basis for weapons systems such as Project Safekeep, had even greater potential in the development of esoteric civilian products.
The article, written four months before the detonation of the nuclear device in the Middle East, spoke of recent cutbacks in funding for DARPA, which paralleled the substantial cuts mandated by Congress for all areas of the military establishment. The most vitriolic attacks upon these budget cuts came from the Pentagon’s undersecretary for policy, Bruce Massingill: “This nation is being lulled into a defenseless posture by our enemies. When the shortsighted members of Congress come to their senses, every citizen can only hope and pray that it isn’t too late.”
Margit closed the folder and thought of the conversation at Mac and Annabel’s house when Jeff had inadvertently displayed more knowledge of Dr. Richard Joycelen than he’d been willing to admit. Of course he knew more about the man. From what Margit had just read, there had been a running dialogue between Wishengrad’s staff and Joycelen.
Her thoughts shifted to Cobol and what she’d been told by Silbert. She picked up the phone, dialed Trial Defense Services at McNair, and was put through to its commanding officer, Major Jenko. “This is Major Margit Falk, Captain Cobol’s defense counsel. I understand he received medical attention yesterday.”
“That’s right.” Jenko’s tone said that he was not the most pleasant of individuals.
“May I ask what brought that about?” she said.
“He wasn’t feeling well.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“No, I can’t be more specific,” said Jenko. “He said he wasn’t feeling well and wanted to see a doctor. We accommodated him.”
“May I have the name of the doctor?”
There was a deep, pained sigh from Jenko. “I don’t know what his name was. Med sent somebody over.”
Margit’s tone now matched his. “Would you please obtain the name of the physician who treated my client and get back to me.” She gave him her Pentagon extension and hung up.
Jenko did not return Margit’s call that afternoon. She was annoyed, but decided to give him until noon the following day to provide the physician’s name.
As she sat in her BOQ room and read case law provided her by Woosky, two men were dining well at the Tivoli Restaurant in Rosslyn. Arlie Praeger, the Pentagon’s chief of overseas weapons sales, sat with Consulnet’s leader, Paul Potamos, at a secluded table. They’d started with melon topped with thinly sliced Citterio ham, progressed to a Bibb lettuce salad with house dressing, and Potamos was now finishing calamari alla Livornese and a veal cutlet garnished only with lemon wedges, Specs Praeger a mammoth bowl of linguine Alfredo.
An empty bottle of white wine sat on the table.
They waived dessert; cappuccino for one, regular coffee for the other.
“As I said earlier, politics is not my concern,” Potamos said.
Praeger laughed. “It shouldn’t be mine, either, but that isn’t realistic. None of us operates in a political vacuum, except for a few people who have a vacuum where
their brains should be.”
Potamos saw nothing funny in what was being discussed. He toyed with a demitasse spoon and kept his eyes on it as he said, “We provided the services as promised. Frankly, it was more difficult than any of us imagined. This was not business as usual, Arlie. This wasn’t simply a matter of selling a piece of hardware. It took coordination with a dozen sources.”
“I understand the difficulties you faced, Paul, but the compensation more than made up for it.” When Potamos did not reply, Praeger added, “Right?”
Potamos, his eyes focused on the small silver spoon that he twirled between his fingers, offered one of his few smiles. “Compensation is never adequate if it isn’t paid. We’re not getting paid.”
“I understand. I’m sorry about it, but this is not the time to press for payment. It’s politically unsound.”
Potamos dropped the spoon to the table. “And, as I’ve been pointing out to you all evening, Arlie, politics don’t interest me. One of my people has lost his life because of politics.”
“Unfortunate what happened to Mr. Keller,” said Praeger. “But that’s the point I’m trying to make. His death is focusing attention upon this project. The one thing it can’t stand at this juncture is attention from any sector. It’s my belief—and I’m confident I reflect the views of my superiors—that if everyone sits back and cools it, if you will, things will calm down and everyone’s needs will be met, including your getting paid.”
“Please, Arlie, don’t patronize me. Consulnet isn’t in the business of providing public service. It is a for-profit organization.” Praeger started to say something, but Potamos raised his hand. “And, let me add, we are not concerned with saving anybody’s political hide.”
“Even if those people whose hides you claim not to care about can ultimately put you out of business?”
“Exactly,” Potamos said.
Praeger, who’d maintained a determinedly cheerful disposition throughout the meal, angrily looked away in search of their waiter. He caught the man’s eye and wrote in the air to call for the check. When it arrived, Potamos grabbed it. “I insist,” he said.
“I won’t argue,” said Praeger. “This check isn’t the issue. Think about what I’ve said. Think about bigger checks. Pull back. Let time pass. Then go after your money. We’ve backed you every inch of the way, and we’ll continue to do so.”
“Including making up our losses?”
“If necessary. The stakes are big for us, too. You might lose money. We stand to lose a government.”
And, Potamos thought later, getting into the car, jobs, careers, reputations, and life outside of jail.
17
“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” Bellis said to Margit during their Friday morning meeting.
“It took a while to get into gear,” she said, “but I think we’re making progress. The two people assigned to me seem capable.”
Bellis, who’d been sitting back, fingers forming a tent on his chest, came forward and put his elbows on the desk. “What’s next?” he asked.
Margit hadn’t told him that Smith had agreed to join the defense. She was hesitant about bringing it up because, to be honest with herself, she was afraid of Bellis’s reaction. He hadn’t been pleased when the notion of civilian counsel had initially been raised. Should she have officially cleared Smith’s involvement with Bellis before going ahead?
Too late for that now.
She said, “The Cobol family wishes to have civilian counsel work with me. I spoke with Mackensie Smith. He’s agreed to come into the case.”
Bellis’s reaction: “I see.”
“Smith is meeting with Cobol on Monday.”
“Do you think that visit is necessary?”
“Yes, sir, I do. If he’s to play a role, he ought to know the accused.”
Bellis leaned back again and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked hard at her. “Why Smith? This city is crawling with trial lawyers, good criminal attorneys, many who’ve been involved before as civilian counsel in court-martials. Does Smith have any background in military law?”
“No, sir, he doesn’t, but as you know, he was, among other things, one of Washington’s leading criminal attorneys. He was also my professor. I feel comfortable with him. The Cobol family is pleased with the choice.”
“You could have done better.”
“In my choice of co-counsel?”
“Yes. Smith has been out of the active practice of law for many years. He’s a professor.”
“And one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever met.”
“Brilliant in an academic sense.”
“I thought a lot about it, Colonel Bellis, and decided that he was the best choice. I respect your opinion, of course, but unless you have a tangible reason to order me not to work with him, I would like to proceed.”
Bellis said, “I may have tangible reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Not this morning.” He looked at his watch and stood. “We’ll discuss it later. I’ll be out of the building most of the day, but I’ll be back by five. We’ll meet then.”
Margit returned to her office and pondered her day. She’d called Joycelen’s fiancée, Christa Wren, and had made an appointment to see her at noon. She’d also got hold of Cobol’s roommate, Brian Maitland, who worked as a night bartender at Sign of the Whale Bar and Restaurant, a popular M Street mating ground for big D.C. talkers with small foreign cars. He’d agreed to meet her at five o’clock; his shift started at six.
Had she told Bellis about these appointments, he would have questioned why she wasn’t using Sergeant Silbert for that task. The honest answer would have to have been that she’d developed a kinship with Cobol and his mother, and had a need—that’s all it was, a need—to become more involved with them, perhaps not in a tangible sense, but certainly psychologically. She wanted to meet the young man with whom Cobol had lived prior to the murder, and needed—yes, needed—to sit face-to-face with the woman who was to have become Joycelen’s third wife.
Before leaving, she took a call from Major Jenko at McNair Trial Defense Service. He gave her the name of a medical corpsman who’d visited Cobol. When Margit asked again whether Jenko knew what medical services had been provided, she was told, “I suggest you call the medic.”
She was on her way out the door when Silbert came up the hall. “I ran down Major Reich for you,” he said.
“Good. Where is he?”
“That’s the problem. He’s on special duty.”
Margit looked at him quizzically. “Okay, so he’s on special duty. Where?”
“Not available. He’s operating under some kind of cover. No information to anyone. Strictly need-to-know.”
Margit’s exasperation was written on her face. “I just want to speak with him, however briefly. There’s an officer accused of murder here, and I’ve been given the lousy job of defending him. I need to see the officer who was his boss in a critical situation. Who told you his whereabouts can’t be revealed?”
“Special Ops at the Company.”
“Leave me the name of the person you spoke with,” Margit said. “I’m running late, but I’ll follow up when I get back.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The Christa Wren who answered her door looked different to Margit from the seductive woman with whom she’d chatted at the picnic. There were purple puffy pouches under her eyes, and the blond curls lay flat upon her head. She looked considerably older than she had at the picnic; maybe it was lighting, maybe a lack of makeup, more likely the lingering effects of having lost a fiancée. Lots of things, Margit thought. Maybe she was just older, too, living years in a couple of weeks.
Margit was led to the living room, where a tray of finger sandwiches and coffee cups was placed on a large glass-and-chrome coffee table in front of an eight-foot-long white silk couch. Another woman was there. “This is my friend Peg Johnson,” Christa said.
“Hello,” Margit said. She gestured
at the table. “You shouldn’t have gone to this trouble.”
“I have to eat. You have to eat. We may as well combine talk and food. Drink?”
“No, thank you,” Margit answered.
“Well, I’m ready,” she said. “I’m not on duty. You, Peg?”
“No.”
She returned from the table with a large glass filled with ice and brimming with a white liquid. Her powder-blue pants suit had a stain on its bosom. Her feet were encased in scuffed leather slippers. All in all, Margit saw a woman who wasn’t doing very well.
Margit joined Peggy Johnson on the couch while Christa Wren paced the room, drink in hand. Margit had formulated questions to ask, but Christa immediately launched into a monologue.
“I didn’t think it would be this bad. I mean, that I would miss him so much. It all happened so fast. Poof! One minute with me, the next minute gone forever.” She continued to walk as she talked. “Maybe it would be easier if we had been married.” She stopped and looked at Margit. “Do you know what I mean when I say that? Maybe I’d have some official status. I’d be his widow if we’d been married. What am I? His girlfriend. I didn’t even have a ring, because we didn’t get around to that.” She resumed her pacing. “They call me his fiancée in the papers. That’s nice. We were planning to be married. No doubt about that, but there wasn’t even a ring to prove it.” Her eyes filled, and she excused herself.
The moment she was gone, Peg Johnson turned to Margit. “She’s really busted up about this. But frankly, I don’t think she lost much.”
The harshness of the words stung Margit. “I can’t imagine why you would say that,” she replied.
Peg said, “He was a bastard, an out-and-out bastard. Treated her like dirt, walked all over her every chance he got. When I watched them together, all I could think of was that my friend here, who I always thought had a backbone, had a spine of jelly when it came to Joycelen.”
“Does she know you feel that way?” Margit asked.
“Sure, but it doesn’t matter. All her friends saw the same thing, told her she was crazy to get involved with him. He had that air of superiority, always looking down his nose at everything and everybody, especially her. I used to think of Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller. You know what I’m saying? The actress and the playwright?” Margit confirmed that she knew the reference. “I always imagined their relationship was the same way, the dumb blonde and the brilliant artist. Spare me that. She deserved better.”
Murder at the Pentagon Page 15