Code 13

by Don Brown

  “Okay,” Victoria said. “ ‘Richardson’s company, AirFlite, is known for having secured several substantial contracts with various military groups around the globe. Most recently, the company was awarded a contract with the United States Navy for the deployment of one hundred thousand drones, to be deployed along the east and west coasts of the United States and the Gulf of Mexico.

  “ ‘The contract, however, is contingent upon approval by the United States Congress and has sparked some controversy as to the legality of the arrangement. It is believed that the legality of the contract is currently under review by the U.S. Navy JAG.

  “ ‘If approved, some military analysts say Project Blue Jay would be the largest military contract awarded to a single defense contractor in history.’ ”

  Glances were exchanged around the table. Mark spoke up. “It also looks like we have someone who would be highly motivated to influence the outcome of the legal opinion.”

  “But here’s what doesn’t make sense,” Paul said. “First, AirFlite, or whoever did this, would have to know who was writing the legal opinion, and that wouldn’t be known outside of the JAG Corps.”

  “Captain,” Mark said, “money can get you that information.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that. But even if these officers’ names were leaked out, I don’t see how they’d become a target unless somebody thought they were going to write an opinion that might influence the contract in a direction opposite of what the assassin wanted.”

  “That makes sense, Captain,” Mark said. “So that brings us to the question, which way was P.J. leaning on this position paper? Because whichever way he was leaning, that could give us a clue as to who wanted him alive and who wanted him dead. We need to go back and take a look at the attachment to the email Caroline just showed us. Caroline, can you pull it up on your phone?”

  “Hang on.” She got it from her purse, swiped the screen, and went into her email. “Here it is.”

  “Would you read it?”

  “Sure.” She felt her heart pounding as she started reading the email.

  LCDR McCormick,

  I met you the day you first visited Code 13. I was working with P.J. on several projects. He gave me your personal email address and asked me to contact you if something happened to him. He didn’t want me contacting you on government email.

  Captain Guy assigned the Blue Jay project to P.J., and P.J. emailed me a draft opinion that he completed the night before he died. He wanted me to show it to you if something happened, but not at the Pentagon.

  My address is 4024 Lafayette Drive, Alexandria. My cell is 704-555-3141, but it’s best not to call me to avoid anyone who might be monitoring. Can you come as soon as you get back from P.J.’s funeral? It’s important.

  Very respectfully,

  R. D. Simmons

  LT, JAGC, USNR

  “Was there an attachment to it? With the legal opinion?” Mark asked.

  “No,” Caroline said. “Just this email that said Ross had the opinion.”

  “I can’t believe that idiot police captain didn’t even ask why you were there so he’d know about this,” Victoria said, but then looked sheepish. “Well, I guess we didn’t ask you either, although I wondered if you were simply checking up on Ross because he’d been missing from the funeral.”

  “One of the many reasons NCIS is involved,” Mark said, “is that local law enforcement misses more than they catch, and they, by the way, didn’t have any emotional attachment to Ross. Give me a second to look at this.”

  All eyes turned to Mark.

  “So,” Mark began, “P.J. emails an opinion to Simmons, and it’s a draft of the opinion about the legality of the drone contract. I mean, what else can it be? Everybody agree?”

  All three nodded.

  “Okay, and then he’s careful to use his personal email, instead of the Code 13 email, because he’s afraid someone may be monitoring his Code 13 email at the Pentagon,” Mark said.

  “It looks like somebody was monitoring his personal email as well,” Paul said, “which likely is why the killer arrived on the scene. Because they wanted to see or control whatever opinion was attached to that email.”

  “Precisely,” Mark said.

  “How do we know this isn’t a coincidental random act of violence?” Victoria asked.

  “Because the strong linkage in subject matter between Ross’s murder and P.J.’s murder makes that theory, the random act of violence theory, almost impossible to believe,” Mark said.

  “Not only that,” Caroline added, “but when I found Ross’s body, he was slumped over onto his computer desk, and there was a keyboard and a monitor but no computer.”

  Mark spoke up. “Because whoever shot the lieutenant wanted to make sure any opinion that had been downloaded was physically removed from his house.”

  “Makes sense,” Paul said.

  “Not only that,” Mark said, “but if whoever did this was monitoring P.J.’s personal email traffic, that means they knew who he was, knew what he was doing, and probably were monitoring his government email at the Pentagon.”

  “Could they do that?” Victoria asked.

  “In a heartbeat, if they have enough money to hire the right kind of hackers,” Mark said. “Fighting enemy hackers and maintaining cybersecurity are some of the main tasks NCIS agents are involved with.”

  “Sounds like the killer was well financed and well connected,” Paul said.

  “Precisely,” Mark said. “And there’s one other thing we have to be concerned about.” He looked at Caroline.

  “What’s that?” Paul asked.

  “Lieutenant Commander McCormick here has been specifically identified. That puts you on the radar screen, Caroline.” He kept his eyes on her. “They don’t know what you know. For all they know, you may have been given a copy of P.J.’s opinion. I’m afraid that makes you a target.”

  Caroline’s stomach knotted.

  Mark continued, “I’m going to have to recommend some sort of security detail for you.”

  “I don’t want a security detail.”

  “You may not have a choice.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Paul said. “Tonight you’re coming home with me.”

  “Paul—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll be a gentleman. But until Mark can look into this more, I’d be crazy to let you go back to that townhouse.”

  “I think the captain’s suggestion is prudent,” Mark said.

  “I’ll think about it,” Caroline huffed. “But in the meantime, how are we gonna catch these people?”

  “Okay,” Mark said. “Here’s what we’re going to do short term. First, I’m going to have some of my guys in NCIS computer forensics check into P.J.’s email traffic, both his official email traffic at Code 13 and his private email. I want to know what P.J. sent to Ross Simmons, and I want to figure out what’s on that stolen computer. My hunch is that P.J. sent a draft opinion that rubbed somebody the wrong way, and that somebody intercepted the email and didn’t want that opinion to get sent or to ever get out in the public.”

  “I’ve got a feeling you’re right about that,” Paul said.

  “How can I help?” Victoria asked.

  “Tell ya what,” Paul said. “Since you’ve already pulled up some information on this Richardson DeKlerk character, why don’t you start with an informal background on him? You know, a printed dossier of public stuff on the net from Dunn & Bradstreet, Wiki, stock holdings he may have, a list of former spouses, business associates. Just get us some names and issues that we can follow up on. I want to know everything I can about DeKlerk and his associates. That would be a good start.”

  “Will do,” Victoria said. “How soon do you need it?”

  “Sooner rather than later. How about 8:00 a.m.?”

  Victoria looked at her watch.

  “In fact,” Mark said, “I hate to break up the party, and I know we all just got here, but how w
ould y’all feel if we break now and get to work, and then reconvene at 8:00 a.m. at la Madeleine over on King Street in Alexandria. I can get the tab for the drinks, but I want to jump on this before the killers get too far away. Is that okay?”

  Caroline looked at Paul, who nodded at her. She spoke up. “If it takes cutting dinner short to get these animals, I say let’s do it. What can I do to help?”

  “Here’s what you can do to help. For tonight, go home with Captain Kriete and stay safe.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Paul added.

  “Then let’s reconvene in the morning and see what we have.”

  Paul looked at her. “Are you going to be okay with that?”

  She hesitated, then decided that spending the night on Paul Kriete’s sofa might be just what the doctor ordered.

  CHAPTER 23

  DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING

  UNITED STATES CAPITOL

  OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)

  WASHINGTON, DC

  SATURDAY EVENING

  At times, serving as a member of the United States Senate, even serving as a junior member of the senate, proved to be the world’s most glamorous job. At other times, however, when under pressure for high-money constituents who expected a junior senator to play the role of miracle worker, the job felt like a thankless sentence to permanent purgatory.

  And tonight, sitting in his office with only a skeleton crew present, Senator Bobby Talmadge had decided that today had been more gut-wrenching than blissful.

  At issue was how to get the massive Blue Jay contract out of the bowels of the Pentagon and onto the floor of Congress for passage. Not only were thousands of jobs for his home state of Georgia hanging in the balance, but his biggest financial contributors, the Georgia Political Victory Fund and AirFlite CEO Richardson DeKlerk, had been breathing down his neck with threats to support another candidate if he didn’t deliver.

  The matter had been complicated by the shooting of the JAG officer assigned to write the internal legal memo on the project. Bobby Talmadge didn’t know what had happened with the JAG officer, and frankly, he didn’t want to know.

  In politics, as Tommy Mandela had indicated, they called that plausible deniability.

  “Okay, boss. We’ve got some movement on your meeting with Senator Fowler.”

  Bobby looked up. Tommy walked into his office holding a legal pad.

  “When?”

  “In two days.”

  “What? Two days? Tommy, you know I can’t wait two days.”

  “I understand, boss. But not only is this Saturday, but Fowler’s in New Orleans and won’t be back in Washington until then. His staff didn’t offer a phone conference, but they’re insistent he’s not available until then.”

  “Well then, how about if we just fly down to New Orleans? My political future depends on this legislation, Tommy.”

  “I already floated that idea—of us going to Louisiana—but Fowler’s staff insists he’s out-of-pocket until Tuesday.”

  “Out-of-pocket.” Talmadge cursed. “What’s her name?”

  “You said it, boss. I didn’t.”

  “Crap.” He folded his arms, twirled around in his chair away from Mandela, and looked out the window at the lights of the capital city.

  “Excuse me, Senator.” A woman’s voice.

  Bobby turned around again. His secretary, Maryanne, stood at the door.

  “Whatcha got, Maryanne?”

  “Sir, we just received a package.”

  “A package?”

  “Actually, an envelope.”

  “From who?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. But the senate courier hand-delivered it. It’s marked confidential.”

  Talmadge looked at Mandela. “Maybe something positive from Fowler’s staff?”

  “Could be, sir.”

  “Let me see it, Maryanne.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She handed the senator a large yellow envelope, delivered by the U.S. Senate Courier Service. It was addressed to U.S. Senator Robert Talmadge, Personal & Confidential, with no return address.

  Bobby opened the envelope and fished out a sheet of white paper with a handwritten note on it. He reached for his reading glasses.

  Dear Senator Talmadge,

  Here are some pictures I thought you might enjoy. There is a school of thought that these snapshots might motivate you to help get the Blue Jay legislation out of the hands of the Navy and passed by Congress.

  We hear you might have an opponent in the next Republican primary. How interesting.

  But of course, if the Blue Jay legislation passes in Congress in the next week, there’s no reason for these little masterpieces to fall into the hands of either your primary opponent or your liberal Democrat opponent in the upcoming election!

  Anyway, thought the glossy 8×10s would evoke some fond memories! Maybe Mrs. Talmadge will like these too?

  Enjoy!

  A Friend

  Bobby’s heart pounded with a furious rage against the inside wall of his chest. His fingertips felt the glossy photographic finish of several photos.

  Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and the pit of his stomach felt like a sandbag had been dropped into it.

  “Uh, Tommy, Maryanne, give me a second, will you?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Sure.”

  He waited as his secretary and chief of staff stepped out of the office. They had learned that “Give me a second” was Bobby’s polite way of saying, “Get the heck out of my office, and now.”

  “Dear Lord, no.”

  The first photo brought more cold sweat to his forehead. His hands shook as he stared at it.

  The invitation to the Christmas party at the oil-and-gas lobbyist’s home in Arlington had come at a time when Molly Sue McGovern Talmadge, who as a former Miss Georgia was a looker in her own right, had flown home to Savannah for a few days to take care of some personal business. Bobby’s vote was crucial for the approval of a pipeline along the Savannah River near Augusta, and some old-money property owners and environ-wackos had opposed it.

  That night he met for the first time twenty-seven-year-old Marla Moreno, the red-hot Italian model. Their meeting was no accident. They all had sipped liquor and watched a brief runway show put on by Marla in the lobbyist’s home. She worked the runway with mesmerizing skill, grace, and beauty.

  At first he thought her eyes noticed him as she worked the room. But he decided it was his imagination. Then, when she modeled her final outfit, a little red “Santa’s helper” number to capture the festive mood of the season, perhaps it was the liquor talking, but he was sure she was making eyes at him.

  And he didn’t mind that. She accepted applause, and then, when the band struck up a mix of big band and yuletide music to start the party, he turned around.

  There she stood. Smiling.

  “Excuse me, Senator Talmadge, but I’m an admirer of your work, and I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  That was all it took.

  The first photograph documented what happened about fifteen minutes later, when she sat on his lap on the end of a sofa, showing lots of leg, provoking a delighted smile on his face as she nuzzled her nose into his neck. But if the first photograph wasn’t bad enough, the second was a killer.

  The cameras had obviously been prepositioned in multiple hiding places in the bedroom before she coaxed him under the sheets.

  Now, sitting there staring at photographic evidence of the night he so foolishly compromised himself, thoughts of suicide danced through his head. Not only did the oil-and-gas lobbyist now own him forever, for he would always have to vote the way they told him to vote, but whoever possessed these photographs owned him too.

  He couldn’t bear to look at the third photograph. But when a morbid curiosity overcame him, he saw that it was as bad as the second, showing them embracing, compromised in multiple ways in the bedroom after the act.

  The encounter had been ecstasy, at least for
the time that the alcohol still controlled his faculties. But later that night, back at his apartment, he lay alone in his bed. The liquor’s effects began to subside, yielding to the reality of his moral downfall, and an internal hell on earth besieged every inch of his body. The space from the pit of his stomach running all the way up to his heart and then his throat felt like someone was twisting his organs.

  Why?

  Why had he done this?

  It haunted him in the dark of night. All the times he had condemned the political womanizers of the world, the Bill Clintons and the Johnny Edwardses and the Teddy Kennedys and the Mark Sanfords. He had often declared self-sanctimoniously, even to his wife, that he was “not like them.”

  And now he had fallen from his high-and-mighty pedestal and, like them, entered into a world of moral sewerdom.

  He was a tortured man that night, alone in his bed, two days before Molly Sue would return. Unable to sleep, he called out into the night, quoting the God-man he professed to follow: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

  Rolling and twisting in the bed, he felt every bit the forsaken man, as if God had withdrawn himself from him.

  Oh, he had known all about sin, at least in theory. Most Southern Baptists do. And as a deacon and a Sunday school teacher back at his home church in Augusta, he had talked the talk and talked a good game.

  So far his secret fall from purity had cost him only one vote—in favor of a pipeline he probably would have voted for anyway—and a ton of sleepless and restless nights in the three months since it happened.

  But now this.

  Now his sins were coming home to roost.

  Now, sitting alone in the inner sanctums of his palatial office, with his chief of staff and his secretary waiting outside for him to call them back in, he experienced every physical flashback he had felt that night in the aftermath of his dalliance with the hot young model.

  They had him where they wanted him.

  DeKlerk.

  DeKlerk was responsible for this. From start to finish. His lawyers knew every lobbyist in Washington. All Jack Patterson had to do was make a call to the oil-and-gas lobbyist, who made a call to Marla Moreno and offered her enough cash, and they had him where they wanted him. And he’d fallen for it like a rat tempted with a huge glob of sharp cheddar cheese.