Code 13

by Don Brown

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No, ma’am,” Carraway said. “When you came out of the front door, a bus pulled up and we lost visual contact for a second. Next thing we knew, you were in your car and on the road. We followed you as soon as you pulled out.”

  She looked at Frymier. “You didn’t see anything either?”

  “No, ma’am. We were stationed close to each other. I saw what Special Agent Carraway saw.”

  “Wow.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “Not at the moment,” Mark said. “Stay on standby until your shift changes. I want someone following her home this evening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She turned and started walking again. Paul and Mark flanked her on each side. “So, no offense to these guys, but what good are they if they let someone get off a shot and didn’t even see the shooter?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not always uncommon,” Mark said. “Snipers sometimes aren’t seen until long after the fact because they position themselves in obscure places. Sometimes they aren’t seen at all. That’s part of what makes this a dangerous business. And of course, when a sniper uses a silencer, it makes it even harder to know someone’s even gotten a shot off.”

  They kept walking as a cloud passed over the sun, casting an ominous shadow over the great sea of asphalt.

  “Frankly, I don’t like it,” Paul said. “When we’ve got NCIS agents out there and even they can’t stop this, I think this is too much to ask of Caroline.”

  “Nobody’s asking me to do anything, Captain.”

  “I know, but still—”

  “Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

  The parking lot spun like a whirlwind.

  Sharp, burning pain.

  Concentrated.

  Instant.

  Sharp.

  Caroline fell forward. Her head hit the concrete.

  “She’s been shot! Hit the deck!”

  CHAPTER 33

  AIRFLITE CORP

  U.S. DOMESTIC HEADQUARTERS

  OVERLOOKING THE SAVANNAH RIVER

  SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

  TUESDAY, 8:15 A.M.

  Richardson DeKlerk, wearing a blue designer blazer, rocked back in the chair behind his desk, sipped his morning bourbon, and was checking his email when Ivana popped into his office.

  “Excuse me, Richardson,” she said in that luscious Eastern European accent of hers, “but you have a telephone call from Washington, DC.”

  “I hope it’s Bobby Talmadge with some good news about my contract.”

  “Actually, sir, it’s Senator Talmadge’s assistant, a Mr. Mandela. He said you know him. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Urgent? It’s already beyond urgent,” Richardson said, then remembered that taking out his frustration over Talmadge’s lack of action on Ivana would do no good. “Very well, my dear. Put Mr. Mandela through.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richardson picked up the telephone. “Tommy, I’m hoping you’re calling to tell me our junior senator has gotten the proposal from the Navy he needs to bring Project Blue Jay as an up-or-down expenditures bill before Congress.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. DeKlerk, it doesn’t appear that Senator Talmadge will be bringing any more bills before Congress at all.”

  Richardson bottom-upped the last ounce of his morning shot. “What are you talking about, Mandela?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. DeKlerk, the senator shot himself early this morning.”

  “What? Did you say Talmadge shot himself?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What the heck?” Ivana appeared at the door with a bewildered look on her pretty face, obviously curious about the conversation. Richardson poured himself another shot of bourbon, then got up and started walking toward the riverview balcony. “What set him off?” A sip of bourbon.

  “Well, the Washington Post somehow got hold of some of those pictures with the senator and Marla Moreno and wrote a juicy little exposé on the front page. That’s all it took.”

  “Tommy, we weren’t trying to get him to bop himself off, only to pressure him to act on this bill. How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that yet, Mr. DeKlerk. But I’m sure the pictures run by the Post didn’t originate from our camp. Somebody else was trying to get to him. He was three sheets to the wind at the party by the time she jumped on his lap. Anybody could have taken those pictures.”

  DeKlerk cursed. “This presents a problem. I’ve got to make some calls to get this seat filled, and fast. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Hopefully we’ll find someone a little more compliant when we have a legislative request. Gotta go.” He hung up. “Ivana?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get me Joe Don Mack over at the Georgia Political Victory Fund. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And bring another bourbon, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richardson stepped out on the balcony and looked down at the blue waters of the Savannah River. How had something that should be so bloody simple become so bloody complicated?

  Ivana stepped out onto the balcony holding a cordless telephone. “Mr. Mack is on the line, Richardson.”

  “Thank you.” He took the phone. “Joe Don. Have you heard the news about Talmadge?”

  “Yep. Just got a call from the director of the Georgia Republican Party.” Joe Don Mack spoke in an elongated southern drawl. “I’m shocked. What a waste. The Washington Post did a hit piece with him and that hot little Italian chick. Like ole Harry Truman said, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. But this is one heck of a way to get out of the kitchen.”

  Richardson checked his watch. “Look, Joe Don, I don’t have time to hear about Harry Truman. Right now I need to know what the procedure is for finding a replacement for Talmadge.”

  “Well, the governor makes the appointment. Then whoever the governor appoints has to stand for reelection at the same time Bobby would have been up for reelection.”

  “You’ve got a couple of names in mind?”

  “Of course, Richardson. We always have a short list. A couple are from the Georgia State Senate.”

  “Okay, listen, Joe Don. I want you to go to your short list and pick the lackey who’s going to pick up the ball where Talmadge dropped it, and I want you to have a specific conversation with him and tell him what we expect, and tell him that this drone project is vital to the state’s economy, and to his general election chances, and to his health in general. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Good. And then I want you to get this appointment through within forty-eight hours. Tell the governor that Georgia cannot afford to be without a United States senator and that his own chances for reelection or other political aspirations he may have will depend on him acting fast.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no but to it, Joe Don. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “And as far as the Victory Fund goes, I’m prepared to spend whatever amount of money it takes, but only if you make it happen.”

  “We’ll make it happen. I’ll get the governor on the line—personally—and tell him how much this means to you and to the state of Georgia. We know how important AirFlite is to the Victory Fund. We won’t let you down.”

  NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY

  BROOKLYN NAVY YARD WAREHOUSE

  OVERLOOKING THE EAST RIVER

  KAY AVENUE

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  10:15 A.M.

  The last time he stood on this concrete floor in this cavernous warehouse, a dead body had been sprawled on the floor, oozing blood from a bullet hole to the temple, compliments of the long-barreled revolver of the “big guy” himself, the still-too-meddlesome godfather of the family, Sal D’Agostino.

  But the company’s cleaning crew had done a marvelous job spicking-and-spanning th
e place, Phil thought, taking a drag from his cigarette.

  “Phil!” Sal shouted, barreling like a bouncing bear across the warehouse. “Hey, looks like all the blood and guts got scrubbed up good.” He laughed. “Unless we decide to take out one of these limp-wimp, congressman-senator types.” He laughed at himself again. “Hey, come give your favorite uncle a little affection, will ya?” The big guy held out his arms in a gimme-a-bear-hug gesture and wrapped them around Phil.

  “How are you today, Uncle?”

  “Great! Now that I’ve seen my favorite nephew.”

  “I’m your only nephew, Uncle Sal. That’s the only reason I’m now running the family business.”

  “You’d be my favorite nephew even if I had a hundred nephews,” Sal said. “Give me one of those, will ya?” Sal snatched the cigarette before Phil could even say “Sure thing,” lit it, and started talking again. “So, are our two Washington lover boys almost here?”

  “Joey just called. They’re at the gate now.”

  “Good.” Sal released a smoke ring. “Tell ya what. Let’s go over and wait for ’em in the side office. Call Joey and tell him to bring those boys in to us as soon as they get out of the car.”

  “You bet.” Phil punched the speed dial and relayed Sal’s instructions.

  They walked across the concrete door to an industrial-looking office with a plain wooden desk, several plain wooden chairs, and a few filing cabinets.

  Mostly the office was used for foremen to sign off on receipts of inventory—catches—brought in from the fishing boats. Big Sal sat behind the desk and kicked up his feet. “So how’s my boy Vinnie?”

  “Still in Washington. So far, so good, I guess.”

  “The boy might get used to the lifestyle, Phil. Maybe we could buy him a congressional seat! That way we could get stuff done more efficiently.” Sal doubled over, cackling at himself. The notion of Vinnie in Congress struck a funny nerve even with Phil.

  “You got me on that one, Uncle.”

  Phil’s phone rang. “It’s Joey.” He tried containing his laughter. “Yeah, Joey?”

  “We’re here, boss.”

  “Bring ’em in.”

  A moment later, Joey rounded the corner wearing a black T-shirt, his big, tattooed biceps naturally flexing. The two weasels from Washington walked in behind him, all decked out in their pinstripe-suit congressional attire, the senator in blue and the congressman in gray, and both looking rather unhappy.

  “Senator! Congressman!” Sal bellowed. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  “Glad to be of service.” Rodino plastered a fake smile on his face.

  “Joey, round up some chairs for our distinguished guests.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After all, it ain’t often that we get visited by such . . . by such . . . what am I trying to say, nephew? Help me out.”

  “By such distinguished members of Congress?”

  “No. That ain’t it. It’s more than that. What am I—” A sudden look of recognition. “Yes. It ain’t often that we’re in the esteemed presence of such esteemed political royalty! It’s like having the king and queen of England in our presence.” A cackling laugh. “Although I must ask, under the circumstances, which one of you plays the queen?”

  The congressman snapped like an angry queen bee. “Do I detect a homophobic tone in that question?”

  “A homo what-ic?” Sal was having fun toying with Milk and Rodino.

  “You know,” the congressman said, “England doesn’t have a king.”

  Joey reentered the room. “Here are your chairs, Sal.”

  “Ah. Set ’em there, Joey. One for the king and one for the queen.”

  “What, boss?”

  “Just set the chairs there, Joey. Maybe they’re both the queen type.”

  Rodino and Milk exchanged angry glares with each other.

  “Well.” Big Sal spoke again. “I hear you gentlemen may have lost a colleague this morning. Sorry for your professional loss.” Sal chuckled.

  “Are you referring to Talmadge?” Milk asked.

  Sal laughed harder. “Forgive me. The thought of more than one Washington maggot getting wiped out on a single day got me excited.” More chuckling. “Of course I’m talking about Talmadge.”

  Rodino responded. “Talmadge was a right-winger. But you don’t want to see that happen to anybody.” Milk cast his eyes to the side.

  “Maybe the moral of the story ought to be that it doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of the family when it comes to federal legislation that the family’s interested in.”

  Milk looked at Big Sal. “What does that mean?” He sounded like an irritated female cat.

  Phil spoke. “I think Sal means Talmadge was pushing for this drone project pretty hard. Not a smart move.”

  “So what did you do?” Milk snapped. “Just kill him?”

  “Hey!” Sal held up his hands in a don’t-shoot surrender gesture. Then he pulled out his shiny, long-barreled revolver, holding the barrel straight up into the air.

  Milk jumped back, horrified, which made the sight worth the price of admission. “I—I—”

  “Easy. Easy there, Congressman.” Sal made no effort to hide his delight at watching Rodino’s lover boy twisting on his seat. “You should know the family don’t kill nobody.” Sal formed his mouth in an O shape, as if about to blow smoke rings. But instead he blew a gust of breath on the gun and then wiped the barrel with a rag.

  Milk jumped back again with another look of horror on his face.

  Big Sal snickered. “I wouldn’t hurt nobody with this gun, Congressman,” Sal lied. “We just sometimes arrange for certain types of publicity to help nudge you political types along.”

  More confused looks, and Sal laid the gun down on the desk.

  “What Sal means,” Phil said, “is that Talmadge was pushing too hard on the other side. We have contacts everywhere. Lobbyists. Congressional staffs. You name it. One of our contacts turned over some fascinating photographs of the good senator, and we determined that it would be best if the senator turned his attention to something other than this drone project. Our friends at the Washington Post were happy to oblige.” Phil allowed himself a grin. Silence.

  “Okay,” Rodino said. “So I’m confused.”

  “So what is it you might be confused about, Senator?” Sal asked.

  “Well, the bill hasn’t passed. Now its principal proponent, Bobby Talmadge, is dead. And Talmadge was pushing it because it would have brought a ton of jobs to Georgia. Mackey and I are good Democrats”—he looked over at Milk, who nodded in agreement—“and we’ve already been working behind the scenes against it. If you’ve brought us up here to tell us to oppose this thing, I’m not sure what more we can do, Mr. D’Agostino.”

  “Joey?”

  “Yes, Mr. D.”

  “Bring shots of bourbon for everybody, will ya?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. D.”

  Sal looked at Rodino, then at Milk. “What I want, gentlemen, is assurance that this thing is dead on arrival. And I haven’t gotten that yet.”

  Joey returned with two bottles of Evan Williams bourbon and four whiskey glasses. He poured the glasses full, and Sal took a sip before continuing.

  “I know you can’t stop some right-winger from introducing this legislation. But I want a legal opinion that this project is illegal, and I want that opinion from the Navy, before this bill ever sees the light of day. And I want it now.” He smiled and looked at the political scum. “Care for a drink?”

  Milk spoke again with the shrillness of a squealing hyena that got on Phil’s nerves. “Look, Mr. D’Agostino, I understand that you have been a big contributor to Senator Rodino’s campaign, and also to various Democratic Party causes. And for all that, you’re to be commended. But my question is this.” Milk paused, glanced at Rodino, then back at Sal. “What exactly do you want?”

  With a slight smile, Sal seemed to ignore the question. “Give me a second, will ya?”


  He extracted a large cigar, lit it, took a drag on it, and blew smoke at the two men.

  “You know, I like you, Milk.” Another smoke cloud. “But don’t get too excited. Know what I like about you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, I think the real question here is, what does the senator want?”

  “What do you mean?” Rodino asked.

  “You want to be president, don’t you, Senator? At least that’s what I’ve read in the paper.”

  Rodino’s face reddened. Veins popped out in his neck. “Even if that were true, what’s that got to do with anything?”

  When Sal grinned, he set off two deep grooves on his bald forehead. Like his bald head was flashing three evil smiles, one below the nose and two above his eyebrows, giving him the sinister look of the Joker in the Batman comics. Except Sal looked more like a three-hundred-pound Joker. Right now, both Rodino and Milk were on the squirming end of Sal’s famous glazed-over, crazy look.

  “Well, you know . . .” He puffed again on his big stogie, then chomped it in his mouth and, with his finger, powerfully flicked the barrel of the .357 revolver. The gun spun round and round on the desk, as if in a game of Russian roulette. The liberal lover boys jumped again, drawing another chuckle from Sal.

  Sal removed the cigar from his mouth. “As I was about to say, we here at the New York Concrete & Seafood Company are quite peaceful. We are a peaceful company and a peaceful family. But”—he wagged his index finger in the air—“I must say that we do believe in the Fourth Amendment right to freedom of the press.”

  Milk’s eyes seethed. “It’s the First Amendment that gives freedom of the press. And just what are you getting at?”

  “Well, now. Gentlemen!” Sal said. “It appears that we do have a constitutional scholar in our midst.” He leered at Milk, and his voice trembled with anger. “Let me tell you this, Mr. Constitutional Scholar. This old guy might sometimes get the First Amendment mixed up with the Fourth Amendment, but let me assure you of this.” He picked up the long-barreled revolver. The two politicians flinched. “I always make sure I understand the Second Amendment.”

  Silence.

  He set the gun down on the desk.

  “But we here at NYC&S believe in the First Amendment freedom of the press. And if some well-known public newspaper, say the New York Times or the Washington Post, wanted to, you know, post certain pictures . . . I mean, who are we to object?” Sal threw up his hands and shrugged.