(2012) Political Suicide

by Michael Palmer

  “Maybe I should chug a cup of that ruby juice before I do.”

  “For our mission. For valor. For justice. For our country. For God. For Mantis. That’s the oath we swear every day before we down the shit. Well, my friend, you were dumb, but you done good. Real good. Now it’s time we nail the bastard.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Papa Steve moved closer. “We’re going to get the murder weapon,” he said.

  Lou aspirated hot sauce and began gagging.

  “Ice water. Drink the ice water.”

  It took two minutes before Lou could speak. “Now I understand the label on that stuff,” he said. “So, where do you think we’re going to find the murder weapon?”

  “Wyatt Brody’s gun case.”

  “Clearly you know something I don’t. What makes you think the murder weapon is there?”

  “Because of that ballistics report you faxed me,” Papa Steve said.

  “Explain.”

  “According to that report, the gun that killed Elias is a .45 ACP that fires slugs which have a six left rifling mark.”

  “So?”

  “So Brody has a few .45-caliber pistols in his gun collection, but only one that fires a slug with that rifling mark. I took an inventory of all of Brody’s .45-calibers and ran it by a friend of mine who knows a lot about guns.”

  “You’ve got a lot of helpful friends,” Lou said.

  “I’ve saved a lot of people’s lives by not letting them get blown up,” Papa Steve replied, “and some others by blowing up people who had it in for them. Anyway, according to my source, the only match in Brody’s collection is a Colt/U.S. Army 1911 .45 ACP five-inch-barrel military pistol. Nice antique weapon. Retails for about two grand on the open market. You and I think Brody is our shooter, but now I know which weapon he used to do the killing. We get that gun, we run the ballistics test again, and we’ve basically got ourselves a murder weapon tied to the owner.”

  Good as Papa Steve’s cooking was, Lou lost his appetite. The notion of returning to the Mantis base held all the appeal of taking Matador for a walk.

  “I’ve been inside Brody’s office, remember?” Lou said. “Assuming we can even sneak onto the base, his gun case probably has some seriously sophisticated locks. Let me guess—you have a friend who knows how to pick locks?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Papa Steve said. “But first she’s got to break herself out of jail. If push comes to shove, I can run a diversion and whip up a little something that will blow the office lock and then the display case. But it will reduce the operation to a snatch, grab, and run, and in addition to seven hundred soldiers, there are bound to be alarms.”

  “Well, I do know someone,” Lou said, “but I’m worried it’s going to be too dangerous.”

  “You stumbled into this quagmire, Lou,” Papa Steve said. “If you want to get out of it and help your doctor pal, as I believe you do, then we’ve got to go on the offensive and take some risks. How good is your contact at B and E?”

  “Cap is good at almost everything he does.”

  “Then bring him on board. It’s great that Sarah is going after Hogarth. Power to her. But we can’t trust that she’ll get him to flip on Brody. We’ve got to have more evidence.”

  “The gun case,” Lou said.

  “I’m working on an idea and some diversions that will help get us inside.”

  “Terrific.”

  “So what do you say? Are you with me?”

  Don’t go poking sticks at any hornets’ nests.

  Sarah’s warning resonated. Stealing a major piece of evidence was bound to sit poorly with her, and might well trigger some sort of arcane courtroom battle. Not stealing it, or delaying, risked a completely different set of problems, including Wyatt Brody’s becoming wary of being a suspect in Elias Colston’s murder, and simply deep-sixing the gun in one of the Mantis base’s many lakes and bogs.

  “Well?” Papa Steve asked.

  Lou resumed poking at his meal. Cap would say yes in a heartbeat to doing his part with the locks, despite the risk. Everything would depend on him and on Steve Papavassiliou’s plan. Lou’s embryonic relationship with Sarah might not survive, but then again, if it did, it would be so much the stronger.

  And finally, of course, following orders had never been one of his strong suits.

  “I’m in,” Lou said.

  “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. We go on Tuesday. That gives us four days. Details to follow.”

  The marine set his hands flat on the table, and Lou covered them with his own.

  “Tell me something,” Lou asked as he stood to go, “does the name James Styles mean anything to you?”

  Papa Steve thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Lou said. “Just a name I came across while I was searching through Elias’s desk.”

  CHAPTER 39

  La Cucina Dolce smelled of tomato sauce and aromatic Italian spices. Sarah took in the ambiance of the casually elegant restaurant, feeling as though she had just been teleported to Tuscany. The distinctive voice of Andrea Bocelli, played at the perfect volume, provided an authentic dining soundtrack. The walls were adorned with landscapes in gilded frames, and the ebony tables were set with crystal, silver, and bone china.

  The restaurant’s maître d’, jet pomaded hair with sophisticated touches of gray, escorted Sarah to a private dining room, unoccupied except for one corner table. Secretary of Defense Spencer Hogarth, his back to the wall, nodded vaguely in her direction and returned to his meal as one of his three-man security detail helped her off with her coat. Another slid a wand from a black leather case and waved it around her body like a philharmonic maestro.

  Recording devices.

  None found.

  In anticipation of being frisked, Sarah wore tan slacks and a tight-fitting black sweater accented only with a single strand of pearls. No pockets. The men took a position just outside the door while the maître d’ escorted her to Hogarth’s table.

  The secretary motioned with a nod to seat her catty-cornered from him. “My dinner just arrived. Would you care for anything to eat or drink?”

  He gestured toward a plate of seafood linguine, alongside tomato bruschetta, an antipasto appetizer, and a porcelain dish piled with olives of varying sizes and colors. Sarah, who never felt intimated by any judge or high-profile client, found her throat had gone dry in Hogarth’s presence. She had seen the man on television so many times that to see him in person crossed the threshold of surreal.

  “We should keep this to business,” she said.

  “At least enjoy a glass of wine with me.”

  Hogarth filled the glass in front of Sarah from a half-empty bottle. She inspected the wine and took a sip. There was no worry about Hogarth trying to poison her—at least not until he knew what she had come here to tell him.

  “I’m no more than an amateur,” she said, “but this is very nice.”

  “It should be,” Hogarth replied. “It’s a Monfortino, 1997.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Sarah said. “I sure hope that’s not our tax dollars at work.”

  Hogarth responded with a tight, humorless smile. “If you know anything about me, then you know I’ve made my own money. Plenty of it.”

  “Well, if you know anything about me,” Sarah said, “then you know I’m the lawyer for Gary McHugh, who’s currently in jail for murdering Elias Colston. You may also know that Dr. McHugh is innocent. I’m about to get the charges against him dropped, and one of those who will be moved up the list to chief suspect is you.”

  Hogarth’s expression darkened, then quickly responded to a sip of wine. He took a forkful of his linguine, and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin, taking no obvious pleasure from the food.

  “I agreed to meet with you, Ms. Cooper, because Elias Colston was a dear personal friend of mine. I want to be of any service I can to help bring his murderer t
o justice. But I must confess I had no idea you were here to levy threats and allegations against me. If I had known that, I would have poured you a glass of less expensive wine.”

  “I’m not certain I would have known the difference. Secretary Hogarth, you can be of service and help to honor the memory of your friend if you tell me the truth. Did you kill Elias Colston?”

  Hogarth huffed. “What are you talking about? What possible motive could I have for killing an old friend? Over recent years we’ve had our disagreements over his views on military allocations, but we debate those differences, we don’t start shooting over them.”

  “Does the name Reddy Creek mean anything to you?” Sarah gave Hogarth an enigmatic smile and took a healthy swallow of his expensive wine.

  “Reddy Creek is a place,” Hogarth said, “a town in North Carolina, I believe.”

  “It’s also the name of one of your armories.”

  A spark of anger flared in Hogarth’s eyes. He snapped his fingers, and a waiter standing just outside the doorway came rushing over. “The linguine tastes terrible tonight,” Hogarth said, pushing the plate aside. “Tell Joseph to prepare it properly or tell him he can find another place to work.”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary. Right away, sir.”

  Sarah observed the exchange with keen interest. “You enjoy controlling people, don’t you?”

  “I’m lifetime military. I enjoy when things are done properly, like my meals. What I don’t enjoy is having some snot-nosed pretty-girl lawyer show up at my restaurant, where I like to conduct my personal business affairs, and fling unsubstantiated allegations at me.”

  Sarah was unruffled. “I can assure you, my allegations are anything but unsubstantiated.”

  “Enlighten me, then. Tell me what motive I would have for murdering my friend. And don’t tell me it’s because of his stand on military spending.”

  “The motive is that you’ve been feeding information to Wyatt Brody on gun shipments to various armories along the East Coast. His men then go ahead and steal the weapons while someone on the inside, someone with allegiance to you, covers up the thefts.”

  “To what end?”

  “The weapons are being used to fund an illegal drug trade that somehow benefits your Mantis Corps. How does that motive sound to you?”

  “It sounds like something you could never prove,” Hogarth said.

  “Does proof really matter?” Sarah asked. “I mean, your political ambitions are not exactly a closely guarded secret. I hear vice president. I hear secretary of state. I think one whiff of this scandal will be enough to derail your political career forever.”

  “What do you want, Ms. Cooper?”

  “I want your help in bringing down Wyatt Brody. That’s what Elias Colston tried to do, and it cost him his life. I think Brody is the triggerman, and you’re close enough to Brody to help us get him.”

  “Elias proved that going after Mantis is not a popular action. It nearly cost him his reelection.”

  “Maybe it’s political suicide for you to help me, Mr. Secretary, but I think your other option is far less desirable.”

  “This is all bullshit!” Hogarth exclaimed, his cheeks reddening.

  His security detail started into the room, but he calmed them with a raised hand. Control. Everything about Spencer Hogarth revolved around control, and Sarah was prepared to turn that penchant into weakness.

  “In the courtroom, we call it evidence,” she said.

  “You have nothing,” Hogarth said, jabbing an accusatory finger across the table at Sarah. “You think you can come in here and threaten me? Nobody threatens me, young lady, especially lawyers without any proof.”

  At that moment, the maître d’ appeared in the doorway, escorting Edith Harmon on his arm. She was wearing dark glasses. The security team started after them, but Hogarth again stopped them with a gesture.

  “Over here,” Sarah said.

  Edith crossed to the table using her folding cane. “Do you mind if I sit down?” she said to Hogarth as if she were looking directly into his eyes.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “This is my friend Edith Harmon,” Sarah said, studying Hogarth’s expression for any glimmer of recognition. There was not a flicker.

  Edith took the seat next to Sarah. The two women had become fast friends, and Sarah felt emboldened by Edith’s presence. It was remarkably brave for her to confront the man who both women believed held some responsibility for Edith’s blindness.

  “I have the invoices,” Edith said flatly.

  Hogarth shook his head derisively.

  “She can’t see your body language,” Sarah said. “She has no idea that you’re pretending not to know what she’s talking about.”

  “I don’t know how you induced battalion supply sergeants to cooperate,” Edith went on, “extortion or maybe just a little bribe. But I do know that we have the identity of at least one man behind the forged invoices.”

  “What on earth is this woman talking about?” Hogarth said to Sarah.

  She had defended enough criminals to know when one of her clients was lying, and Hogarth had just tipped his hand.

  “She’s talking about the invoices you had doctored,” Sarah said. “The inventory at the armory needs to match the number of weapons shipped there from the manufacturer. If there are fewer weapons than the invoices say should be on hand, questions will get asked by the agency assigned to audit the account. But if the invoices are doctored, then Brody or whoever can divert a not suspiciously large number of weapons, and nobody would even know to ask.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Hogarth said. “Get out, both of you.”

  “So, on a prearranged night and time,” Edith said, “at a specific armory where a guard is paid off, there’s a theft. Only at one armory—the one at Reddy Creek, there’s a screwup. Maybe a guard gets sick and the rotation gets changed. Maybe he forgets that this was to be the night some guys were coming by to pick up a truckload of weapons. So, a poor fellow named Mike Fitz gets caught in the middle and does his job, and two men with Mantis tattoos on their forearms get killed, and he ends up getting murdered.”

  “Ridiculous! I don’t need to take this sort of abuse from the likes of you.”

  “By ‘likes of you,’” Edith replied in a calm voice, “are you referring to me? A blind woman? A woman whose life you helped to destroy because I was seeking the truth? A woman who just so happens to be an investigative reporter with a lot of useful connections, including Mike Fitz. A woman who obtained the original invoices from the gun manufacturer who supplies Reddy Creek? For all your power and privilege, Mr. Secretary, you don’t know the half of what a woman like me can do to you.”

  A contemplative look washed across Hogarth’s face. Resigned, Sarah thought. He’s going to cave.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked finally.

  “Mr. Secretary, if you want any hope of salvaging your political career, we need you to wear a wire and get Wyatt Brody to confess to Congressman Colston’s murder.” Sarah stood up from the table and dropped her business card in front of Hogarth. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to make up your mind. If I don’t hear from you by then, we go public with our information.”

  The waiter returned to the table with a freshly prepared plate of linguine nettuno. “The chef assures me this will meet with your very discerning tastes, Mr. Secretary,” he said. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, pointing to the open bottle of expensive wine. “We’ll take two of those, please. To go.”

  CHAPTER 40

  From the moment Papa Steve first shared the elements of his plan to break into Mantis headquarters, Lou had felt uneasy, but at this moment, he was more concerned than ever. The plan’s timetable had been changed, and everything had been pushed up by two days. To Cap’s dismay, the alteration meant less time to dust off his lock-picking skills.

  Deviating from his own rules, Papa Steve had called Lou t
o break the news. “We’re going on Sunday,” he had said, “not Tuesday.”

  “Sunday? Why so soon?”

  “Can’t tell you over the phone. You still in?”

  “I’m in. I’m in.”

  “And your pal?”

  “In. I’m sure of it. I just have an aversion to change.”

  “Just meet me at the place, and I’ll explain everything.”

  The place, transmitted to Lou in another under-the-door menu, was twenty miles southeast of the Mantis base, near the town of Dudley. Lou and Cap waited in the woods on the side of a rutted dirt road by a sequential Barbasol shaving cream sign. They were in a part of town devoid of houses, businesses, or much traffic. The bright sun, cast against a cloudless sky, did little to warm the morning.

  Even though Cap was wearing gloves, a jacket, and fleece, he needed to dance his trademark boxing moves to keep warm. “Bahamian blood has a high freezing point,” he said. “Why couldn’t this buddy of yours have just met us at the motel?”

  “He’s quirky—cautious drifting toward paranoid.”

  “Great. So long as he hasn’t crossed over the invisible line.”

  Following the plan, Lou left his car at a motel he rented for two days in Dudley, and he and Cap walked half a mile out of town to the rendezvous point.

  “I guess this is why he wanted us to dress warm,” Lou said.

  He pushed back the sleeve of his parka to check his Mickey Mouse watch. Papa Steve was due now, but in what mode of transportation Lou could only guess. Plane? Helicopter? ATV? There were fields around that made any of them possible.

  Cap exhaled a weighty breath, sending up a cloud of vapor. “Man, Welcome, I haven’t had nerves like this since my last prizefight.”

  “We can still back out,” Lou said. “I’ll tell Papa Steve we didn’t have enough time to plan. Look, Cap, I don’t want you getting hurt or worse because of me.”

  Cap just laughed. “You think after what you told me about your last visit to that base, I’m going to let your sorry white ass go back inside there without me? I thought about trying to talk you out of this little escapade, but I know better. You’ve got your mind made up, and I’ve got your back.”