Code 13

by Don Brown

  But now, with the murder of the JAG officer, things became even less certain.

  What if his staff was involved in the shooting of the JAG officer?

  He’d asked himself this question a dozen times over the last few days. And truly, he didn’t want to know the answer to the question.

  Yes, he had told Tommy Mandela to “take care of the problem,” with the “problem” being, of course, the uncertainty as to which way the opinion would break.

  “Back-channel sources,” in the words of Tommy Mandela—and Talmadge didn’t want the details about that—had intercepted some emails and other messages signaling that MacDonald could break either way in his opinion.

  Bobby’s money-backer constituents couldn’t risk that MacDonald might, at the end of the day, author a legal opinion that could undermine the project, or undermine a part of the project. So Bobby had told Mandela to “take care of the problem” and left it at that.

  What if the revelation of this tryst led to an indictment for conspiracy to commit murder?

  How had things gotten so out of control? Why had he not had the strength to hold on to his morals? Since his election, things had happened quickly for him.

  Marla Moreno wasn’t the first opportunity to fall in his lap. From the moment of his election to the senate, women had thrown themselves at him in droves.

  He began to heave, certain that he was about to vomit on his desk.

  Another thought hit him. Was his own chief of staff involved in this? Had Tommy Mandela been planted in his staff by the GPVF or by DeKlerk?

  Who could he trust?

  He had lost all hope. He had lost all trust. And what had happened to his joy? Where was his boyhood joy? Joy at the simplest things, like his grandfather taking him deep-sea fishing at Hilton Head, or the times spent duck hunting in the lowland marshes of the Georgia and South Carolina coasts?

  It was all for naught. He would never recover the simple pleasures in life he once had known.

  U.S. Senator Bobby Talmadge, in all his glory and splendor, and wielding the power and influence that few people would ever attain, felt like he had struck a deal with the devil as his price for it all. Indeed, perhaps he had done just that.

  He opened his right bottom drawer.

  The long silver barrel of the Taurus .357 revolver glistened in the light from the lamp on his desk.

  He picked up the gun, closed his eyes, and jammed the barrel against his temple.

  As a professing Christian, he knew intellectually that suicide was wrong. But what he had done was even more wrong. What choice did he have? Once those photos came out, if they came out, his marriage would be over, his career finished, his name scorned and ridiculed, and very likely he would be indicted, probably for conspiracy to commit murder of a U.S. Naval officer.

  There was no hope, no way out.

  His mind raced in uncontrollable fury. He took a deep breath, uttered a quick, final prayer—“Forgive me, God”—and pulled the trigger.

  The revolver responded with a single click.

  Bobby cursed. He had forgotten to load the gun.

  He laid it down on his desk, reached to the right bottom drawer, pushed some papers around, and found the box of .357 hollow points he’d had shipped in from Atlanta.

  He popped open the chamber, pulled out a single bullet, kissed it, and slid it into the first cylinder. This revolver was a seven-shooter, unlike most six-shooters, and the senator loaded every bullet into place.

  He needed only one bullet, but there was no point in risking a misfire.

  He put the gun in his mouth this time, but something told him a head shot would seem more ceremonious, in fact more courageous.

  He brought the barrel back to his temple and again asked God to forgive him.

  Something white appeared in the air in front of his desk.

  “What?”

  A message chirped on his cell phone.

  Whatever appeared was gone.

  Was he going crazy?

  He picked up the cell phone. A text.

  Hi, Daddy!

  Whatcha doing?

  Wanna grab a late dinner tonight?

  Love you!

  Marybeth

  “Oh crap.”

  He pulled the gun down.

  Whatever he’d seen . . . Were his eyes playing tricks on him? There was no other explanation. He must be going mad!

  Ah yes . . . the text . . .

  He read the text again, then looked at the gun.

  Maybe later.

  Not now.

  Maybe underneath it all, in some way, his kids still needed him.

  He slipped the gun into the lower right drawer. Maybe later. The envelope with the pictures of Marla went into the same drawer.

  He returned the text.

  Sure Sweet Girl,

  I’ll call you when I leave the office.

  He pressed the Send button and breathed out a sigh of relief, which did nothing to ease the turmoil in his stomach and chest and throat.

  But he would fight a little longer. Perhaps he could deal with it in a way to minimize damage.

  He hit the intercom on his desk.

  “Maryanne?”

  “Yes, Senator?”

  “Send Tommy back in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A second later, Tommy reentered Bobby’s office. “Are you okay, boss?” Bobby studied Mandela’s face. Did Mandela know what the envelope contained? Bobby thought for a second about confronting him. But if Mandela didn’t know, confronting him would simply give it away, and Bobby needed to play this close to the vest.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, though nothing was fine. “Just communicating with my daughter about dinner. That’s all.” A half-truth following the lie. “Look, Tommy, we’ve got some powerful people breathing down my neck who want this contract out of the Pentagon and on the floor of Congress for a vote. So here’s what I want you to do. I want a bill drafted, and I want it drafted by Monday, approving expenditures for Operation Blue Jay.

  “Once it’s drafted, I want you to send a draft copy to Richardson DeKlerk at AirFlite, and then I want it introduced on the floor of the senate. We’ll send a copy over to Congressman Jones’s office and encourage them to introduce a concurrent bill containing the same language in the House. I want you to call in my legislative staff and get on this. Now! Is that clear? We’ve got to deliver, or the results will be disastrous. All around. Do you understand me?”

  Mandela responded with an evil-looking grin. “I understand more than you know, Senator.”

  LA MADELEINE COUNTRY FRENCH CAFÉ

  500 KING STREET

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Caroline decided putting on her designer shades not only would block the bright early-morning rays from the sun but also might serve as a bit of a disguise to prevent her from being recognized.

  Paul Kriete had been a perfect gentleman last night. He hadn’t bothered her in the least, nor been suggestive that she had come to his apartment for anything other than chivalrous protection. For this she was grateful.

  But, of course, hiding in the shelter of Paul’s apartment-nest might work for a night or two, but she couldn’t hide under his protective wing forever.

  “So how well did you sleep last night?” Captain Kriete asked as he turned into the parking lot of la Madeleine.

  “I had some trouble getting to sleep at first, but after an hour or so, I slept like a baby. Thank you.”

  “You should have slept in my bed and let me take the sofa.” He parked his blue Suburban in a space just in front of the restaurant. “Tonight I’m going to insist on that.”

  “I don’t know, sir. You can’t be my personal bodyguard forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Hang on. I’ll get your door for you. We’ll talk about this later.”

  He got out, walked behind the Suburban, came up to the passenger side, and opened the doo
r for her.

  “Thank you.” She stepped out of the SUV just as a red Mercedes pulled into the parking space right beside them.

  “You ready?” He closed her door and hit his remote clicker, causing the SUV to beep once as the doors locked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He rested his hand in the middle of her back and rushed her at a brisk pace toward the front door of the restaurant.

  How strange, she thought as they walked across the asphalt, that she didn’t object to the feel of his hand touching her back. Not that she felt some sort of electricity or magical romantic magnetism—especially not so soon after P.J.’s death.

  But the touch of his hand exuded a firm certainty, a sense of security and safety. What else could she expect from a strong, confident man who had commanded a U.S. Navy warship? She would never admit this to him, but right now, with her head spinning and her emotions swirling, Paul Kriete’s masculine strength was exactly what she needed.

  “Here ya go.” He opened the door for her just as a light breeze brought the scent of his cologne, distracting her in a way she had not expected.

  “There they are.” She pointed across the restaurant. Victoria and Mark sat in the far corner, both waving at Caroline and Paul. They walked over to the table, and Victoria and Mark stood as they approached.

  “Everybody okay?” Mark asked, waiting for them to sit.

  “We’re here,” Paul said as a server approached.

  “Sir? Ma’am? Would you like coffee?”

  “Yes, cream and sugar,” Caroline said.

  “Black,” Paul said.

  “Be right back.”

  “So did you find out anything?” Paul asked.

  “Our computer forensics folks were able to trace Commander MacDonald’s emails, both personal and business.” Mark sipped his coffee. “Here’s what we know. P.J. wrote two legal opinions: one saying the proposed project is legal in its entirety, and one concluding that the project as proposed is not legal because of posse comitatus and Fourth Amendment issues.

  “The email he sent to Simmons concluded that the project was legal, and he said he planned to send the second opinion to Simmons later, but he only sent the opinion that would have legally cleared the project for passage by Congress.”

  “Your coffee?”

  Caroline looked up. The server stood there holding a silver tray with two coffee cups, milk, and sugar. She and Paul both thanked her and she left.

  “Let me see if I can get this straight,” Caroline said. “The opinion P.J. sent to Ross Simmons would have green-lighted the project legally?”

  “That’s right, Commander,” Mark said.

  “So it’s a reasonable deduction that whoever killed Ross and stole his computer didn’t want that opinion to get out in the public domain or to wind up on the Secretary of the Navy’s desk?”

  “I think you’re all over it, Commander.” Mark again.

  Silence.

  Glances were exchanged.

  Paul spoke. “So it’s reasonable to assume that the AirFlite folks wouldn’t be suspects here?”

  “Maybe,” Mark said. “Maybe not.”

  “Why maybe not?”

  Victoria responded, “Can I take that?”

  “Sure,” Mark said. “This is a brainstorming session.”

  “Maybe not,” Victoria continued, “because P.J. said in his email that he was getting ready to send the opposite opinion—that the arrangement is illegal—and it’s possible that someone wanted to ensure that Ross Simmons didn’t search P.J.’s computer at the Pentagon for the opinion that cut in the other direction.”

  “Agreed,” Mark said. “We can’t yet rule out either side.”

  “I see your point,” Paul said with a tinge of disappointment in his voice.

  More silence.

  “One thing is for sure,” Caroline said.

  “What’s that?” Victoria asked.

  “Well, it seems to me that whoever is assigned to write this opinion is going to have a target on her back.”

  Paul spoke up. “You mean a target on his back. Captain Guy hasn’t reassigned this to another officer, has he?”

  “Not yet,” Caroline said.

  “I don’t know if I like the sound of this,” Paul said.

  “Whether we like the sound of it or not,” Mark said, “Caroline’s right. Both officers, Commander MacDonald and Lieutenant Ross, had one thing in common. They both had access to this legal opinion. P.J. wrote the opinion, and Ross later had it in his possession. The opinion became a dangerous hot potato. Whoever killed Ross didn’t want it to see the light of day.”

  Caroline locked eyes with Mark.

  Paul spoke up again. “It seems like for the safety of the officers of Code 13, maybe this job should be assigned to another legal team.”

  Caroline spoke up. “Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”

  “What are you saying, Caroline?” Mark asked.

  “I’m saying if we’re going to catch whoever killed these guys, we’re going to have to bait the killer.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Paul said. “And I’m not sure I want to follow you.”

  “What do you have in mind when you say ‘bait the killer’?” Victoria asked.

  Caroline looked at Paul, who cut his eyes at her. But his disapproving look would not deter her defiance toward the worthless maggots who killed the man she loved. She would do this, or at least try to do it, for him.

  “I’d like to know too,” Mark said. “What do you mean by ‘bait the killer’?”

  “What I mean is this. I’m going to go to Captain Guy and see if he will appoint me to finish writing the opinion—”

  “No!” Paul interrupted.

  “Yes!” Caroline shot back. “And not only that, I’m going to ask if we can do some sort of press release so the public will know.”

  “I can’t let you do that!” Paul said.

  “Sir, with respect, I’m not in your chain of command. It’s not your choice.”

  “That puts too big of a target on your back.”

  “That’s the idea, sir,” Caroline said. “Draw the rats to the cheese and then kill the rats. Of course, I think we would need NCIS’s cooperation to make this work.” She cast a glance at Romanov. “Mark?”

  All eyes turned to Mark. He waited a couple of seconds to answer. “The captain’s right, Caroline. You’d have a huge target on your back. NCIS could try to protect you, and we would try. But any bait-and-trap plan can be highly dangerous, and there are no guarantees.”

  “Why can’t we find some other officer for this?” Paul said.

  “No!” Caroline snapped, then felt sorry for her tone. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. No. This has to be me. I have a personal interest vested in this. I want to do this. If I get killed, I get killed.”

  Mark looked at Paul. “Looks like she’s made up her mind, Captain.”

  “Just because she thinks she’s made up her mind doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Caroline insisted, “It’s not a matter of thinking I’ve made up my mind. I have made up my mind. I want to nab this piece of trash who killed P.J., and Ross too. And if that means putting my life in danger, then so be it. I don’t care!”

  She could feel their stares boring into her. And somewhere in the background, she heard the low rumble of conversation and the occasional clanking of utensils. She had stated her position, and that would be that.

  “Wow.” Mark broke the silence.

  “Excuse me, sir.” The server had returned. “You ordered a variety pack of bagels?”

  “Ah yes,” Mark said. “Just put them down there. And we’re fine for the time being.”

  “Yes, sir.” The server stepped away.

  “I took the liberty of ordering these before you arrived.”

  “Thanks, Mark,” Paul said.

  “So, Caroline,” Victoria said. “I admire you for your determination and your bravery, but don’t you thin
k Captain Guy might have something to say about this? What if he selects someone else to write it?”

  Caroline looked over at the woman who just one week or so ago had appeared to be her newfound rival for P.J.’s affection. “Look, Victoria, that opinion letter needs to be written. Code 13 is the one department within JAG tasked with researching and writing these legal opinions. Now whoever gets the job will be a target. I might be new to the party, but with respect, I outrank you, I outranked Ross Simmons, I’ve got a personal interest in this, and I’m willing to take the risk.

  “Plus, this isn’t just a legal opinion anymore. It’s also a sting operation.” She looked at Mark. “Hopefully I’ll get some help from NCIS in persuading Captain Guy to let me go forward with this.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mark said.

  “You are exactly who I’m looking at, Special Agent Romanov. Now, I want you to man up, talk to Captain Guy, and let’s get this done!”

  Mark just shook his head. “Your courage and determination are astounding, Commander.”

  Caroline bit into a chocolate-chip bagel, then washed it down with coffee. “Don’t know about courage and determination.” She looked at Paul, who shook his head. “Maybe more like anger and determination.” She shifted her gaze from Paul to Mark. “So, Special Agent Romanov, you dodged my question. I’ll try this again. You are going to help coordinate this, aren’t you?”

  Mark looked at Paul, then at Caroline. “At the risk of Captain Kriete launching a drone strike against me,” he said hesitantly, “yes, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  Paul cursed. “This is so unnecessary.”

  “P.J.’s murder was unnecessary,” Caroline replied. “What is the specific game plan, Mark?” she asked.

  “Well, first we’ve got to get Captain Guy to go along with it, to assign the project to Caroline. Then we’ve got to find a way to leak this out to set the trap. I’ll see if we can leak it at the Pentagon’s daily press briefing tomorrow afternoon. Then we’ve got to keep an NCIS tail on Commander McCormick and hope we nail the bad guys before . . .” He looked at Caroline.