Murder at the Pentagon

by Margaret Truman

  “I don’t like that my own people consider me so untrustworthy that they follow me day and night.”

  “It doesn’t matter a hill a’ beans what your feelings are about it,” Bellis said. “It was considered operationally necessary.”

  “And who made that determination?” Margit asked.

  “To be truthful? I don’t know. But it sure as hell came from above me.”

  She said, “Sir, you asked before why I feel this commitment to clear Cobol’s name. I know it isn’t in my job description to do that, but I promised Cobol’s family that I would do whatever I could to give them some dignity and peace. I can’t walk away from that commitment. And by the way, Colonel, I don’t buy for a second that Cobol hanged himself.”

  Bellis stood and stretched, then yawned. He went to a corner cabinet, opened a small refrigerator, and took out a bottle of diet soda. “You, Major?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “No, thank you.”

  He returned to his chair. “Have you exhausted your list of accusations?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve also decided that I was chosen to defend Cobol because I was considered expendable. Because I’m a woman. Because I wouldn’t make waves.”

  “If I did assign you to the case for those reasons, I sure was wrong.” He checked the clock again. “It’s six-thirty,” he said. “We have until nine. Got any more to say?”

  Margit’s brow furrowed. “Until nine?”

  “The people I met with today told me to resolve this matter with you before the day was over. I told them I didn’t think I could, because Major Margit Falk has what I perceive to be an ingrained stubborn streak.”

  She shrugged and avoided his eyes. “If I do, it’s never caused me to balk at an order.”

  “A first time for everything,” he said. “I am ordering you to drop any further inquiry into Joycelen and Cobol.”

  She bit her lip. “Sir, I respectfully tell you that I cannot do that.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “You knew that would be my answer.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  What happens at nine? she wondered. She asked.

  “I told my colleagues that I was meeting with you at six, and would issue a direct order to drop what you’re doing. But because I didn’t have any faith you’d accept that order—and, by the way, you do realize that by not obeying it, you face a dishonorable discharge for insubordination?”

  The words hurt but came as no surprise. She nodded.

  “I told them you’d probably refuse to follow my order, even if it meant your commission and career. I told them that if it came to that, the only thing it would accomplish would be to turn you into one angry civilian lady who’d go public with her accusations, get plenty of press, and occupy everybody’s time trying to refute your claims. I suggested that if my suspicions were correct, they meet with you tonight. It’s scheduled for nine. I suggest you attend.”

  “Is that ‘suggest’ as in ‘order’?” Margit asked.

  “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  “I’ll be there,” Margit said.

  “Quarter of nine. Right here. Before you leave this office, is there anything else you plan to vent? I hate surprises.”

  Margit hesitated, but not long. She’d gone this far; might as well go the distance.

  “Dr. Joycelen was murdered because he was a whistle-blower to Senator Wishengrad’s committee. He was selling information about Project Safekeep.”

  “So I understand. Paid?”

  “Yes, sir. But I was told something else, something much more important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was told—and I prefer to keep the source to myself—that the nuclear weapon tested in the Middle East was provided by us.”

  Bellis’s face didn’t change. He said flatly “identify the source of this allegation.”

  Margit ignored him. “Dr. Joycelen, I was told, had started to provide information to the Wishengrad committee about that charge.”

  Bellis came around the desk, stood over her, and said, “I think our nine o’clock meeting has just moved from important to crucial.” He walked to the center of the room and stood with his back to her, hands on his hips, obviously deep in thought. When he faced her, he said, “Every bit of common sense, every ounce of my training, tells me to place you under house arrest. But another side says that won’t be necessary, that you’ll be back in this office at quarter of nine. Which side should I go with?”

  The words “house arrest” jarred her. She seemed to be making a habit of this lately—forging ahead, aware of the potential consequences. Unable to put on the brakes. She’d stepped over the line. No, leaped over it was more accurate. But facing house arrest? Dishonorable discharge for insubordination? How could this happen to her? Bellis was waiting for an answer. “I don’t need to be placed under house arrest,” she said. “I’ll be here.”

  He fastened his top shirt button and pulled his tie neatly up to his neck. He opened the door. Margit thought of many more things to say but said none of them. He closed the door behind her with symbolic force.

  Margit went to her empty office and slumped behind her desk. A flyer on it caught her eye. There was a DACWITS meeting at seven in the auditorium that she’d planned to attend. Might as well, she thought. It was more palatable than sitting alone until her scheduled execution.

  As she entered the auditorium where hundreds of uniformed women had gathered, she wondered whether she’d be able to concentrate on the evening’s agenda. That didn’t prove to be a problem. The group was addressed by Representative Pat Schroeder, the Democratic congresswoman from Colorado who’d co-sponsored a bill some time back to amend the forty-year-plus exclusion statutes prohibiting women from serving in combat roles. The Senate, too, had looked favorably upon such a bill. But the Bush administration had referred the notion to the inevitable committee, in this case a “blue-ribbon presidential panel” that was to ponder it and report its findings some time in 1993—or 2003—or beyond.

  “The fact is,” Schroeder said, “the military cannot do without its women, and that means in every conceivable role, without consideration of gender. In 1968 there were only forty thousand women in the armed forces. Today, that number is well over a quarter of a million, and it’s growing rapidly. You’re well aware of the hypocrisy inherent in the statute that prohibits you from going into combat. Many of you have already been in combat—even if it was called something else.”

  The audience applauded.

  She continued. “You put your lives on the line in the Persian Gulf, and you gave your lives. Now, because of the threat of nuclear war in that region, it appears that you will again be called to serve side by side with your male colleagues, and you will do it with the same honor and excellence you’ve demonstrated in the past. I was extremely proud to have co-authored a crucial bill with Representative Beverly Byron, and potentially to have been able to play some small part in bringing about full equality for women who have helped defend this country’s Constitution since its inception.”

  The applause was louder. Many rose to their feet.

  Schroeder concluded her remarks by running down laws of other nations regarding women not only in combat, but in the military service itself. She mentioned Italy and Spain, which totally exclude women from military service. In Germany a handful of women are restricted to service in healthcare services. Canada and Denmark train women as fighter pilots; the British have moved in the direction taken by the Schroeder-Byron bill; and Israel conscripts women into its military forces and assigns them to combat units, but withdraws them if those units are sent into battle.

  “Thank you for allowing me to be here this evening. The tireless work of this organization has proved instrumental in reaching the goal of allowing women to fight shoulder to shoulder with men. You are to be congratulated.”

  Margit was, at once, stirred and saddened by what she’d heard. She believed in what the bill represented, and was especiall
y proud of the air force, the only service that had openly embraced the notion of women in combat during recent hearings. At the same time, she was achingly aware that she stood on the threshold of losing a career to which she’d been dedicated for so many years.

  She checked her watch: eight-thirty. Time to return to Bellis’s office and face the music. Music? Face the enemy? She was sorely tempted to call Mac Smith and ask his advice. Show up? Walk away? No. It was beyond his kind of help. This was now her show, and the show must—would—go on. No esoteric legal issues involved. She was an air-force officer and had been called upon the carpet for disobeying orders, as tacit as they might have been.

  She sat in Bellis’s empty reception area. He walked in at ten to nine and disappeared into his office. He emerged moments later. “Let’s go,” he said.

  She fell in step, staying to his left and slightly behind as her lesser rank dictated. She wished her heels didn’t make so much noise on the bare floor as they headed for the second floor of E ring, where the Joint Chiefs’ suites were located. It was carpeted there, and quiet. Lights in the hallway had been lowered as an energy-conservation measure. A few people were still at work, but compared to the usual hustle-bustle of the Pentagon, the hall had a surrealistic, almost dreamlike, quality.

  They stopped in front of a door on which a sign read BRUCE A. MASSINGILL, UNDERSECRETARY FOR POLICY. “Wait here,” Bellis said. He knocked, heard “Come in,” and went through the door, leaving Margit alone. He was gone for what seemed to her a long time. Then the door opened, and Bellis said, “Come in, Major.”

  A captain and a bird colonel sat at desks in the reception area. The captain stood, went to a door and knocked, opened it slightly, and poked his head inside. “They’re here, sir,” he said. Without another word he pushed the door fully open and stood at attention as Bellis, followed by Margit, entered the undersecretary’s private conference room.

  The lights in the large room were even lower than in the hallway. Seated at the far end of a highly polished and very long cherrywood table was Undersecretary Massingill. She’d seen many pictures of him and had heard about his considerable power, as well as his overt enjoyment in exercising it.

  He looked small at that distance. Gray hair was cropped close to his temples; he wore a dark suit and tie. A V of white shirt showed. His nondescript face was deadpan. Flanking him were three officers. Margit was introduced to two of them—General Walker Getlin, vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs; and Joseph Carter, the CIA’s assistant director for foreign policy. She indicated that she needed no introduction to Major Anthony Mucci.

  “Sit down,” Massingill said, indicating chairs on either side of the table. Margit took one next to Carter; Bellis sat across from her. “Nice of you to come here at this late hour,” Massingill said. The kindness inherent in his words surprised her. She didn’t expect it because of his reputation, and because of the circumstances.

  “It is my understanding, Major Falk, that Colonel Bellis has been direct with you today about our displeasure with actions you have taken of late. He has ordered you to cease taking those actions. Am I correct?”

  Margit cleared her throat. “Yes, sir, that is correct.”

  “It is now my understanding that you have informed Colonel Bellis that you do not intend to obey his order. Am I correct again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m certain you’re aware, Major Falk, that the military service cannot, and will not, tolerate such insubordination.”

  Margit nodded.

  “Perhaps you can explain why you would take what has been an outstanding career in the United States Air Force and place it in such jeopardy.”

  Margit drew a deep breath and looked at Bellis, then down at her hands, which rested on the table. She wasn’t sure she was up to trying to explain once again her motivation to clear Cobol’s name. She’d already made different versions of the speech to Foxboro, Mac and Annabel Smith, Bill Monroney, and, only hours earlier, to Bellis.

  “Major Falk,” Massingill said. “I asked you a question.”

  “Sir, I believe Colonel Bellis has told you why I have placed myself in this position. I did it knowingly, and accept full responsibility. I never asked to be involved in the murder of Dr. Joycelen, but I was by being assigned to defend his accused murderer, Captain Robert Cobol. I asked not to be given that assignment but was overruled by Colonel Bellis. I followed his order despite my serious reservations. As a result, and because I was determined to do the best possible job as a defense attorney, I came to know a young man, a good soldier, a decent person, and that young man’s mother. I came to believe that Captain Cobol did not kill Dr. Joycelen. I do not waver in that belief, even at this moment. I also do not believe that Captain Cobol hanged himself. He was terminated to protect someone, or something, that was responsible for Joycelen’s death. Cobol’s mother lives with the nightmare that her dead son went to his grave accused of murdering a leading U.S. scientist. I don’t know whether, if I were a mother, I could live with that. I’ve had to live with watching my father be unfairly forced to leave the service because someone lied and a superior officer carried a grudge.

  “I am, and have always been, a proud and committed officer. My record reflects that. I believe orders are to be followed, unless, of course, they are illegal. In this case, the order to stop probing what happened with Joycelen and Cobol is not in and of itself illegal. But the accusation against Cobol is certainly, if I am correct in my thesis, illegal. Murder always has been.”

  The room was eerily silent. The men stared at her. In that quiet moment a question hit her. Here she was, sitting with some of the top brass in the American military establishment, who presumably were there to inflict the ultimate punishment, her dishonorable discharge from the service. But if that were to be the outcome, why do it here, at nine o’clock at night, in the presence of such powerful men?

  General Getlin, the Joint Chiefs’ vice chairman, said, “It is my understanding that you are aware that Dr. Joycelen was providing information to the senator from Wisconsin and his staff that would seriously jeopardize our ability to develop a vitally important weapons system, Project Safekeep.”

  “Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” Margit replied. “I am also aware that it is said to be vital.”

  The CIA’s Joe Carter spoke. “Colonel Bellis informs us that someone has filled you with the absurd notion that this country, this government, this administration, has provided a nuclear weapon to a madman, with the goal of achieving an increased military budget.”

  Margit had hoped that wouldn’t come up; she was sorry she’d mentioned it to Bellis. She stood. “Sir, I have been told that Dr. Joycelen not only sold information detrimental to Project Safekeep, he was in the process of providing information to that same senator about the very accusation you’ve just raised. I don’t know whether that’s true or not. If it is, it renders my crusade, as you call it, on behalf of Robert Cobol’s name insignificant. If it is true, it is not what my country, my government, or my military service is supposed to represent. That, like a murder, is also illegal.”

  Margit saw in the room’s dim light a thin smile form on Massingill’s face. He raised his head and took her in with downcast eyes. His smile did not provide warmth. Instead, it sent a beam of frost in her direction. He said, “Major Falk, we are not here tonight to punish you for your indiscretions. We don’t like losing good officers, and it is our policy—my policy—to go that extra yard to see that good officers like you are retained. But sometimes even a well-meaning officer becomes mired down in false information and ill-advised causes. I believe it is our obligation to correct such false information, and the assumptions that naturally follow. Do you understand me?”

  What Margit understood was what Bellis had said earlier—that if she were drummed out of the service, she would become a civilian loose cannon, capable of, at least, complicating the lives of the men in the room, and others. She also thought of Cobol breaking Reg 1332, and being told he
would not be punished because the service did not want to lose a “good officer.”

  She said, “Sir, I would be pleased and relieved to have it shown to me that I’m wrong. I wish none of this had ever happened, and that it would just go away. If you accomplish what you have just stated, I will be grateful. It would mean I could return to my duties with renewed commitment and dedication.”

  “Please sit down,” Massingill said. He nodded at Mucci, who went behind Massingill and slid open doors that were part of the wall, exposing a large television monitor. He turned it on, and did the same with a VCR. He took a videotape from a briefcase that had been on the table in front of him, inserted it in the VCR, used dimmers to bring down the lights to a dull copper glow, and pressed Play on the VCR.

  Margit wondered whether she was about to see another tape of the nuclear-weapons test in the Middle East. But the monitor’s screen came to life, and a scene that had been recorded from a high angle played out for her eyes.

  A man stood next to the purple water fountain in the basement of the Pentagon. He checked his watch, mumbled something under his breath. Joycelen! It was Richard Joycelen.

  The camera continued to relentlessly record what was happening. He—Joycelen—checked his watch again. Then, footsteps. Another look at his watch. A second man entered the scene. He pointed a gun at Joycelen. Neither man said anything. The second man fired. The bullet shattered Joycelen’s eyeglasses and pulled skin and bone into the gaping hole it had created between his eyes. A word formed on Joycelen’s lips but was never sounded. The scientist slumped to the floor, his back riding down the purple fountain, his face washed in a grotesque, velvety red.

  The screen went black. Mucci removed the tape, returned it to his briefcase, and turned up the lights to their previous level. The men in the room observed Margit’s reaction, like physicians peering down on an exotic operation in a medical arena. They saw her begin to tremble, eyes wide, horror frozen on her face.