Code 13

by Don Brown

  Rodino stood, wearing a permanent scowl, and pulled his arm away when Giuseppe came in and touched him.

  Vinnie turned back to his computer, eager to get back to his message to Buffy. If he got lucky, maybe even tonight . . .

  “Excuse me, boss.”

  “What is it now?”

  “One of the programmers needs to see you.”

  “About what?”

  “About the drone project.”

  Vinnie took another glance at the profile picture of the hot-looking flight attendant, then looked up at Giuseppe. “Send the senator on his way, then send the guy in.”

  Rodino left with Giuseppe under no further protest.

  The programmer, a wimpish-looking figure wearing a short-sleeved shirt and black plastic-rimmed glasses, looked like a character from Invasion of the Nerd Snatchers as he walked into the office.

  “Mr. Torrenzano,” the nerd-man started, “I’m Marvin Dorn. I’m one of the new IP associates from Georgetown. There’s something I need to speak with you about.”

  “I’m in the middle of something important. Spit it out.”

  “Well, sir, this morning the Navy held a press conference and announced that this Lieutenant Commander McCormick is being assigned to finish working on the part of the project MacDonald and Simmons were working on.”

  “We thought it would be one of the officers at Code 13,” Vinnie said. “But I’m surprised she’s the one. She’s one of the two women MacDonald was having a fling with.”

  “Agreed, sir,” the nerd said. “But not only that, not long after the press conference, we monitored Commander McCormick’s email. And there’s something I think you should see.” The weasel handed a sheet of paper to Vinnie. “This is an email McCormick sent to her commanding officer, Captain David Guy.”

  Vinnie took the email and read it.

  “What the heck is this supposed to mean?”

  “Which part, sir?”

  “The part where she says, ‘Based on my preliminary review of LCDR MacDonald’s work, the undersigned will finish and complete both legal opinions, acknowledging that each legal opinion contains conclusions contradictory to the other, and will, based on additional legal research, submit one or the other to the Secretary of the Navy’?”

  “I don’t know what it means,” the computer geek said. “But it sounds like she may be thinking about writing an opinion that cuts against our position, which is why I thought you might want to see it.”

  Vinnie pounded his fist on the desk. “Dang it!” He unleashed a string of profanity. “And I thought we about had this problem under control.”

  The geek stood there nonresponsively, staring blankly like a dead fish lying on a bed of crushed ice at the fish market.

  “Okay, thanks, Miller. That will be all.”

  “Marvin.”

  “Say again?”

  “My name is Marvin. Marvin Dorn.”

  “Okay, whatever. Thanks. Look, I need to make a phone call. If you don’t mind, just step out and close the door. Maybe go back to your computer or something. I’ll let you know when I need you again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Miller . . . or Marvin . . . or whatever his name was, walked out of the office and closed the door behind him, as instructed.

  Vinnie turned around and crossed his arms. Buffy would have to wait. Besides, there were a million Buffys out there who would swoon over the family money and power and do whatever he wanted them to do.

  Right now, he had bigger problems.

  Phil wasn’t going to like this.

  Neither would Big Sal, if it percolated up that far.

  This would need to be nipped in the bud, and sooner rather than later.

  Oh well. May as well get this over with. He pulled out his cell phone, went to the stored numbers, and hit autodial.

  The phone rang once . . . twice . . . then an answer.

  “Yo. Phil. This is Vinnie.”

  “I know who you are. You get everything set with Chuckie and his Milk boy? Like Sal wanted?”

  “Yo. Just took care of it. But listen. Phil. We got us another problem.”

  “What did you screw up this time, Vinnie?”

  “I ain’t screwed up nothin’, Phil.”

  “Then who screwed what up?”

  “The Navy put this woman JAG officer on the case. Looks like she might write an opinion against us.”

  Silence.

  “Phil. You there?”

  “Yes. I’m here. But we sent you down there for a reason. And that’s to kill this contract. Big Sal’s already on my back, and if you don’t perform, you ain’t gonna be there much longer, or anywhere else, for that matter. If this new Navy lady or whoever gives us a problem, I want you to take care of it. Ya got it?”

  “Got it, Phil. Loud and clear.”

  CHAPTER 27

  ELIZABETH ON 37TH

  105 EAST 37TH STREET

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  MONDAY EVENING

  The quaint, romantic restaurant, occupying an elegant two-story mansion built in the early 1900s, sat inconspicuously in Savannah’s Thomas Square Streetcar neighborhood.

  The five-star Elizabeth on 37th, considered by many to be the finest among all of Savannah’s exquisite dining establishments, was a favorite of AirFlite CEO Richardson DeKlerk.

  At Richardson’s direction, AirFlite had reserved the place many times, including for the company’s Christmas party, New Year’s Eve party, and Fourth of July bash. He had also reserved the place for annual board meetings and had hosted numerous dignitaries here.

  With the money AirFlite had spent, the company almost had a snap-the-finger relationship with the exquisite dining venue, with Richardson having standing priority to reserve the restaurant almost anytime he wanted, for any reason he wanted.

  Elizabeth on 37th also served as his venue of choice whenever he decided it was time to take home some hot blonde for the first time, since the restaurant staff would be tipped more than enough to give them incentive to keep their collective mouth shut. He had reserved the place tonight and was sipping wine alone with his latest fixation in the elegance of the exquisite dining room, gazing into the sparkling blue eyes of his irresistibly sensual, smiling, and very much married Eastern European secretary.

  He reached across the table, and when her hand touched his, he felt an instant spark. So when his phone rang in his pocket, he decided to ignore it, for their burgeoning affair remained in the electric stage. Of course, he knew in the back of his mind, from the many affairs he had experienced before, that eventually the electricity would morph back into a dull thud, like the magic of Cinderella’s coach morphing back into a pumpkin surrounded by rats at midnight.

  That stage would come, he knew from experience. And when it arrived, because she was his secretary, he would need to take special measures in dealing with it.

  He wouldn’t fire her. He might have to take harsher measures than a mere job termination if she went ape-ballistic on him once he eventually ended it.

  But he hoped drastic measures wouldn’t be necessary.

  Perhaps he would resolve the post-affair awkwardness by transferring her to another department, or perhaps even to one of AirFlite’s satellite locations on the West Coast.

  Of course, if she talked, threatened him, or tried to cause trouble, he would deal with all that too. Hers would be a scenario in which she could not win.

  But for the time being, until that time came, they would both enjoy the mutual exhilaration and excitement that ignited each time their hands touched or whenever their legs brushed together.

  He caught a whiff of her perfume, and it proved so intoxicating that he ignored the phone when it rang a second time. She had taken the time to make herself hopelessly attractive for the occasion in every way, from her perfume, to her little black dress with simple white pearls, to the luscious, subtle pink color of her lipstick. So ignoring the last ring and letting it go to voicemail, he instead leaned into her. The
ir lips met. He reached behind her head and, feeling her hair, pulled her face in closer to his.

  When their kiss ended a moment later, she giggled and gazed at him. “You are such a naughty boss to send my husband to South Africa for two weeks.”

  He laughed. “You look so heartbroken, my dear Ivana.”

  She smiled, and her hand felt his face.

  “I wanted to suggest that you might extend his two weeks to two months.”

  “Only two months?”

  She unleashed a naughty little laugh and grinned. “You are a bad man, Richardson DeKlerk.”

  “Thank you for the compliment.”

  As he started to kiss her again, his phone rang again.

  He pulled away from her and cursed. “Excuse me, my dear.”

  “Don’t stop kissing me, Richardson.”

  “This must be important. Hang on.” He turned his shoulders from her and pulled the phone from his pocket. A 202 area code, a Washington, DC, number he didn’t recognize.

  He answered the phone. “DeKlerk here.”

  “Mr. DeKlerk, this is Tommy Mandela. Senator Talmadge’s chief of staff.”

  “Tommy. Why are you calling me from a number I don’t recognize?”

  “I apologize, sir. It’s a security measure. Under the circumstances, we use a computer-generated scrambler to change the numbers around to deter eavesdropping and surveillance. We never know who’s listening, and frankly, we can’t afford to take any chances. Anyway, you asked me to keep you informed, and the caller ID block got triggered. So I used the scrambler.”

  Richardson looked over at Ivana, who sipped her wine and gave him a come-hither look.

  He winked at her, smiled, and then looked away.

  “Very well. I suppose under the circumstances that’s acceptable. Now, why are you calling? Hopefully to tell me that our good senator has done his job and gotten us a vote lined up to approve this drone contract.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, the senator still hasn’t been able to make that happen. He’s requested a meeting with Senator Fowler, but that hasn’t materialized yet.”

  “Unacceptable!”

  “I agree, sir. But I do know he’s trying.”

  “We didn’t get him elected to try, Tommy. We got him elected to deliver. There’s too much money at stake for this contract to get bottled up in Congress. Now, I’m paying you a lot of money to make sure he does what we need him to do, and I expect you to deliver.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does Talmadge know you’re calling?”

  “No, sir. I wanted to check with you first about something.”

  “Does it have to do with the drone contract?”

  “Yes, sir. Potentially it does.”

  “Don’t tell me more delays.”

  “Potentially, sir.”

  Richardson felt the steam coming from his ears. He got up and walked away from the table.

  “What do you mean, potentially?”

  “Sir, the Navy reassigned the legal opinion to another JAG officer, a Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick. We started routine surveillance of her email. It looks like she may be wavering on writing the correct opinion letter. We’ve also learned there may be another seventy-two-hour delay, and we don’t know which way the opinion will break.”

  Richardson cursed under his breath. “So what you’re telling me is that we’ve just replaced one problem with another, that we’ve got another rogue JAG officer we can’t count on to deliver?”

  “That appears to be the case, unfortunately.”

  He had to be careful about what Ivana heard. He nodded at her, held up his hand, mouthed, “I’ll be right back,” and stepped out of the dining room.

  “Okay. I don’t care how you do it. But take care of this problem. Now. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And one other thing. I’ve lost patience with Bobby Talmadge. He has not delivered on what he was hired to do, and now we are back to square one. Once you take care of this problem, you tell Talmadge that if the Navy appoints yet another JAG officer who might have any inclination to opine that this contract is anything other than legal, then his political career will be over. In fact, you can tell him I’ve already put in a call to Joe Don Mack at the Georgia Political Victory Fund, and we are ready to designate Talmadge’s replacement if he isn’t going to deliver. Are we clear on that?”

  “Perfectly, Mr. DeKlerk.”

  “Excellent. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some unfinished business I must attend to.”

  CHAPTER 28

  OUTSIDE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE

  NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS

  OXFORD HUNT

  WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

  TUESDAY, 6:00 A.M.

  The single-shot Remington Model 700P light tactical rifle lay in the backseat of the car, which was parked in a cul-de-sac across the street and catty-corner from the target’s residence.

  One of the best things about this rifle was its short barrel of only twenty inches, which made it ideal to carry out an assassination in tighter quarters, say from the inside of a car. But also, when firing a single .223 bolt-action round, the light recoil made the weapon easy to handle.

  The shooter glanced at a photo of his target.

  Female.

  Blonde.

  Blue eyes.

  Expected to emerge in a white female naval officer’s uniform with a white skirt.

  What a waste.

  But hey, business was business. And there were other good-looking women in the world. Sometimes you had to waste something good to get to something better.

  From this distance, the shot would have to be just right. He knew that. But the 700P was accurate enough to pull this off, even at this distance, if the babe didn’t move too fast and he could nail her at a good angle.

  But even if he didn’t get the angle he wanted, hey, it wasn’t like this was his only opportunity. If he didn’t get her today, he would get her eventually.

  He tightened the silencer on the end of the barrel.

  Check.

  He then removed a single NATO-round .223-caliber bullet, held it up against the morning light, and studied it for a second, then brought the round to his lips and kissed it for good luck. Kissing the bullet was a ritual he had started years ago, after his first kill.

  The idea of a pre-execution ritual with a bullet came from a story he had read about General John “Black Jack” Pershing, who in the early 1900s was dealing with the problem of Muslim extremism in the Philippines.

  Shortly before World War I, there were a number of terrorist attacks against the United States and its interests by Muslim extremists. Some things never change.

  Pershing knew Muslims detested pork because they believed pigs were filthy animals. Some of them refused to eat pork, while others wouldn’t even touch pigs at all, nor any of their by-products. To Muslims, eating or touching a pig, its meat, its blood, and so on, was to be instantly barred from paradise and doomed to hell.

  So to set an example against Islamic extremism, and to set an example for the Islamists as to what could happen to them if they kept up their terrorist tactics, General Pershing captured fifty of the terrorists and had them tied to posts execution style. He then had his men bring in two pigs and slaughter them in front of the now-horrified Muslim terrorists.

  The soldiers then soaked their bullets in pigs’ blood and proceeded to execute forty-nine of the terrorists by firing squad. Then they dug a big hole, dumped in the terrorists’ bodies, and covered them in pig blood, entrails, and so on.

  They let the fiftieth man go. And for about the next forty-two years, there was not a single attack by a Muslim fanatic anywhere in the world.

  And so the personal bullet routine had been inspired by Pershing himself. The way Pershing had handled that situation was epic. If one planned to kill with a bullet, then it was fitting that the bullet be anointed.

  And so
, over the years, the actions of the man called Black Jack had inspired his own pre-hit ritual. The best assassin should bond, spiritually, with the death bullet. For an assassination to occur with honor, the bullet and the shooter must become one.

  In a strange way, the sensation of the cold casing against his lips felt like a worship experience and brought an electrical surge through his body.

  It was as if he and the bullet were one.

  Yes! They were one!

  He chambered the bullet into the rifle.

  He rechecked the silencer to make sure it was secure. He couldn’t take the chance that the rifle shot would crack the air. The car’s engine would remain running for a quick getaway.

  Sitting with the rifle in the driver’s side, but pointing the gun across the interior of the car and out of the passenger’s side, he hoped the barrel wouldn’t be noticeable. That, plus the silencer muffling the shot, should allow him to accomplish the deed without much attention—if he could get off a good shot.

  He held up the rifle, looked through the scope, and brought the crosshairs onto her front door.

  All he could do now was sit . . . and wait.

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK’S TOWNHOUSE

  NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS

  OXFORD HUNT

  WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

  TUESDAY, 6:05 A.M.

  Caroline stood in front of the mirror in her bathroom, in her summer white uniform, checking the alignment of her medals and ribbons above the blouse pocket. She took a moment to adjust the alignment of her Navy Commendation Medal and her Navy Achievement Medal, then stood back.

  In her mind, she knew her uniform was shipshape. But she also wondered, would this be the last day of her life? Yes, the NCIS agents were out there . . . somewhere. Yesterday she saw their cars. Today she hadn’t stepped out to look. Stepping outside to look could be too dangerous. For in order to set the trap, to bait the rat to get close enough to come for the cheese, they could only be so close, making her decision to play the role of the bait a very dangerous proposition. Hopefully the rat would show and they would kill the killer before he killed her.