by Tom Clancy
“So you don’t know who might have left to visit him.”
“Or if anyone did,” Tymore pointed out. “I have someone looking into the local escort services. One of the girls might have been paylaid en route and an assassin put in her place.”
“Paylaid,” McCaskey repeated. That was a new one. “You think the escort might have been given a couple hundred bucks to have a cup of joe instead of visiting her client.”
“Right.”
“Did Wilson have a history of calling escort services?”
“Apparently,” Tymore replied. “It was his way of keeping gold diggers out of his bed.”
“What about last night?” McCaskey asked. “Do you recall which women he talked to?”
“He chatted briefly with Kendra and then Kat Lockley, who are on the senator’s staff,” he said. “He also talked with two congresswomen and a senator, Ken Link’s daughter Jeanne, Wendy Fayette from the New York Times, and one of the waitresses. She’s been cleared, though. She was still on cleanup detail when the woman arrived at the hotel. Now I have a question for you, Mr. McCaskey.”
“Okay.”
“What was General Rodgers doing there?”
“I don’t know,” McCaskey said. “That was a surprise to me. Why don’t you ask Kendra?”
“I did. She wouldn’t tell me. My guess is they want him to be involved in the USF Party in some capacity. Is that possible?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” McCaskey told him. “Off the record, I think he’s looking to move on.”
McCaskey felt a little deceitful not telling Tymore what he knew. But it was up to Rodgers or Hood to talk about the general’s departure, not him. Trust was important, but it was trumped by loyalty.
“Now you tell me, Mr. McCaskey,” Tymore said. “Why is Op-Center interested in this?”
“We are involved at the request of Scotland Yard,” McCaskey told him. “It’s a common reciprocal arrangement among international agencies.”
“Why you and not the Metropolitan Police or the FBI?” Tymore asked.
“I know the Yard people from my years with the FBI,” McCaskey replied. “It was just a favor. We did not expect to find anything.”
“Can I quote you?”
“You can quote an unnamed source at Op-Center,” McCaskey said.
Tymore agreed.
McCaskey obtained the phone numbers Tymore had collected. Though the reporter had already called the women who had talked to Wilson, McCaskey wanted to speak with them himself. They all denied having gone to see the billionaire, of course, though maybe they would tell McCaskey things they were unwilling to tell the press.
Rodgers phoned before McCaskey was able to place the first call. The general had just returned to Op-Center and was about to see Paul Hood. He asked McCaskey to join them.
“Sure,” McCaskey said. “What’s up?”
“Paul said you’re running the Wilson investigation,” Rodgers said.
“Right—”
“I want to talk about it,” Rodgers said abruptly. “It could be a minefield.”
Rodgers did not elaborate. McCaskey could not tell whether that had been a warning or a threat. He headed to Hood’s office to find out.
Rodgers arrived moments ahead of McCaskey. Ron Plummer was just leaving. The silence exchanged by Rodgers and his replacement was actually heightened by the way they acknowledged each other, with a clipped first-name greeting and nothing more. The soldier and the diplomat never had much in common, but they had always gotten along. This was sad, but what made it worse was that McCaskey expected things were about to deteriorate.
“Ron did not want the job,” Hood said to Rodgers as McCaskey shut the door. “I just wanted you to know that.”
“Did he accept it?” Rodgers asked.
“For the good of Op-Center, yes,” Hood said.
“Of course. We’re all so damn selfless,” Rodgers said. He folded his arms tightly and looked at McCaskey. Both men had remained standing. “Who are you working for now? The Yard?”
“Don’t climb on my back, Mike,” McCaskey said. “You know the drill. We help each other.”
“We do?” Rodgers looked around. “I must have missed the lifeline you guys threw me.”
This was a different Mike Rodgers than Darrell McCaskey had encountered that morning. Obviously, Rodgers had had time to think about what happened and was not very happy.
“Mike, those were my calls,” Hood said. “Where to cut, who to shuffle, and who to help. If you want to vent, do it to me.”
“It’s not that clean, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I’ve been offered a position with Senator Orr’s new political party. The way this investigation is being handled could hurt us. And you.”
“I don’t understand,” McCaskey said.
“People are going to regard your involvement as opportunistic,” Rodgers told them. “Op-Center gets downsized, the director redefines its mission in a very public way, the cuts get restored.”
“I hope you don’t believe that,” Hood said.
“I don’t, but there are people who will,” Rodgers said. “They may try to hit you again.”
“So this is your lifeline to us?” McCaskey asked.
“Partly,” Rodgers said. “I also want to protect the senator. The Wilson death is already big news. The Metro Police are on it. People expect that. I’m worried that when they find out Op-Center is also involved, we’ll start hearing about international conspiracies.”
“And you think that our involvement will kick things to another level,” McCaskey said.
“Exactly,” Rodgers said. “It will bring even more unwanted attention to the senator and his cause.”
McCaskey saw Rodgers’s point. The murder was already crime news and business news. This would make it spy news.
“Mike, what’s the senator’s take on Wilson’s death?” McCaskey asked.
Rodgers pinned him to the wall with a look. “Are you asking as part of the investigation?”
“Nothing we talk about leaves this office,” McCaskey replied sharply.
“The senator had no beef with the man,” Rodgers said. “He didn’t like his banking plans but was going to fight those politically.”
“Does he think someone at the party may have been responsible?” McCaskey pressed.
“I really don’t know,” Rodgers said. “I didn’t see anything unusual while I was there.”
“I didn’t realize you were there,” Hood said. He seemed genuinely surprised.
“They asked me over for a meet and greet, and then made the job offer,” Rodgers said.
“Now I see why you’re uncomfortable about this,” Hood said. “You’d be a great asset to any team.”
“But we can’t just drop this.”
“Why? It’s a police matter.”
“We’ll be sharing information with the Metro Police, and we can shift the bulk of our load to them over the next few days. Hell, we have to do that. Darrell is needed elsewhere. But Scotland Yard asked for our help. Darrell found the evidence. For better or worse, we have to show London and the world some follow-through.”
“Or else?”
“Key alliances may be hurt, and we can’t afford that now,” Hood said. “We’re going to need to outsource more foreign recon than before.”
“You should also realize that the deeper you get, the more difficult it will be to ease out,” Rodgers said. “There will be a turf war with the police, and then you’ll have to see this through or come off looking weak. People will wonder why you were involved in the first place. They won’t get the quid pro quo side of our business. They’ll think you were grandstanding.”
“Perhaps,” Hood said. “I’m hoping there’s a middle ground and that we can find it.”
“You know, there might be a way to satisfy everyone with a minimum of fuss,” McCaskey said. “Mike, how receptive do you think Senator Orr would be to meeting with me?”
“I don’t know. To what end?”
“To show his goodwill. An interview would acknowledge Op-Center’s role in this investigation. That could be our big, public flourish. It would allow me to tell the press and Scotland Yard that I met the man, found him blameless — I presume — and would like to hand this investigation to the police, where it belongs. We can still be the Yard’s eyes and ears but from a distance.”
“I don’t know if the senator would have a problem with that, but his associate Admiral Link might,” Rodgers said.
“Why?” Hood asked.
“He has openly wondered if this whole thing is a ploy to get our — I mean your — budget cuts restored,” Rodgers said. “He might see this as a way for Op-Center to get attention.”
“Is Link running the show?” Hood asked.
“No,” Rodgers said. “But he was at the Company for years, and I would not want to invoke retaliation needlessly.”
“If Link has it in for us, visiting the senator probably won’t change things,” McCaskey said.
“It might,” Rodgers said. “He does not seem to be the kind of man who likes to be cornered.”
“Who does?” McCaskey asked.
“My point is, Link has the influence and resources to get uncornered,” Rodgers said.
“That’s a potential problem,” Hood admitted. “But we’re in this thing now, and that’s a real problem.”
“How do you position it so that Senator Orr doesn’t appear to be a suspect?” Rodgers asked.
“I’m not going over there to find out what he did, only what he might have seen and heard,” McCaskey said. “We can even say he asked for the meeting. That would make him seem eager to cooperate.”
Rodgers considered the proposal. “I’ll call him,” he said after a moment. “Kat told me that Senator Orr is going to do Nightline. That may be a good platform to announce something like this.”
“It would help everyone,” McCaskey agreed.
The general excused himself. Hood and McCaskey exhaled.
“That was… strange,” McCaskey said, after searching for a better word but not finding one.
“Yeah.”
“I guess we’re the enemy now.”
“I didn’t get that,” Hood said.
“Oh? I heard a serious threat with Ken Link’s name attached.”
“That was an advisory,” Hood said. “Mike is hurting, but he’s looking out for Op-Center. My head is the only one that might interest him.”
The men discussed other Op-Center business until Rodgers returned. He looked like a catcher who disagreed with an ump’s call but knew better than to say so.
“I just had a conference call with Senator Orr and Admiral Link,” Rodgers said. He regarded Hood. “The senator has declined to see Darrell but said he would meet with you as a courtesy.”
“As a courtesy?” Hood declared.
“This is a criminal investigation, not a press conference,” McCaskey said.
“The senator does not want to give the impression that he is being interrogated,” Rodgers replied. “He told me he will gladly answer Paul’s questions about the case but insisted that he does not have much to say.”
“Right. And when I go there, this immediately becomes more about us than about him,” Hood said. “It looks like I’m making a personal headline grab, which will call into question our motives — which Link has already done — and undermine everything Op-Center has or will contribute to the investigation.”
“Mike, I just don’t get it,” McCaskey said. “I damn near agreed to exonerate the senator and back away. Why wouldn’t he want that?”
“My guess is he isn’t guilty of anything,” Rodgers said.
Hood rested his elbows on his desk. He dug his palms into his eyes. “I think it was Twain who said that when all else fails, do what’s right.” He looked up. “Gentlemen, we were justified getting into this, and we have a valid reason to see it through. Mike, please thank the senator for us and tell him we hope it won’t be necessary to accept his generous offer when the investigation is further along.”
Rodgers did not respond. He looked at McCaskey, gave him a half-smile, and left the office.
“Not ‘strange,’” McCaskey said when Rodgers was gone. “That was disturbing. How did we end up on different sides of the barricade?”
“I’m not even sure how the barricade got there,” Hood said.
“I swear, I should have just ignored the goddamn wound under Wilson’s tongue,” McCaskey said.
“No!” Hood replied, a hint of anger in his voice. “That would have been a lot worse than disturbing, Darrell. When it becomes wrong to seek justice, we should all turn in our suits.”
Darrell could not dispute that. But he was not ready to agree that the goal was more honorable than what it might take to get there: going to war against an old friend.
SEVENTEEN
Washington, D.C.
Monday, 7:22 P.M.
It was not supposed to happen the way it did. The death of William Wilson was supposed to be news for a day or two and then go away. It was supposed to be recorded as a heart attack, not a homicide. Now it was not going to go away, and she had to change the focus.
She dressed the same as last time, only this time she wore a scarf instead of a wide-brimmed hat. And big, dark sunglasses, pure Audrey Hepburn. All the fashionable people wore them at night. She went to another fashionable hotel, the Monarch on M Street NW, in the upscale West End district. She sat by a courtyard fountain, her back to the hotel, her feet on the ground, her purse and a package of Kleenex in her lap. She thought of the death of her father, something that always brought tears. She wept into one Kleenex and then another for practice. Then she stopped crying and waited. She told herself not to worry, everything was going to go down perfectly.
A white stretch limousine pulled up. A couple got out. She ignored them. They ignored her. A few minutes later, a cab arrived and two men emerged. One of them attempted to talk to her. He was a lobbyist for the recording industry. Close, but not worth the effort. She did not cry. She did not continue the conversation.
The third limousine was a black stretch. A gray-haired gentleman emerged with a young aide. The older man was about sixty and dressed in Armani. He was wearing a wedding band and a deep tan. He obviously lived in a sunny climate. He was tall and trim and apparently worked out.
She started to sob. With a glance her way and a tug on his cuff links, the older man excused himself from the younger man and walked over.
“Is there something wrong, miss?” he asked.
Southern accent. Deep south. He touched her shoulder. She looked at his hand and then at him. The hand appeared soft, except for chafing around the crook of the thumb. From a golf glove and too-hard grip, she imagined. There were three clear one-carat diamonds in the cuff link and a Rolex on his wrist.
“Thank you, but I–I don’t want to trouble you,” she said.
“It’s no trouble to stop a pretty girl’s tears,” he replied.
She smiled up at him. “You’re sweet. But really, I’ll be all right just as soon as I find someone to teach my husband a lesson.”
“Where I come from, looking after the honor of a lady is not only a duty, it is a privilege,” the man said. “May I ask what the problem is? Perhaps I can help.”
“I was here to meet a friend for drinks,” she said. “I was sitting here, and he came in with one of his coworkers. He was all over her. He was supposed to be at a conference. He did not even see me.” She started sobbing again.
The man handed her his handkerchief. It was monogrammed. “May I ask your name?” he said.
“Bonnie,” she said.
“How utterly charming,” he said. “I am Robert Lawless. Bob to my friends. If you like, we can talk about this further.”
“Mr. Lawless—”
“Bob,” he said softly.
“Bob,” she said, “I appreciate your kindness, but I think I’ll just sit here a while and then go home.”
“To a scoundrel?”
“For now,” she said. “I will see about having him relocated in the morning.”
“I am not without connections here,” Bob said, patting her shoulder. “Perhaps I can help. If you’d like, we can still have that drink.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No! He’s still here, and I don’t want to see him again—”
“In my suite, then, if you like,” Bob said. “I will be a gentleman.”
The woman dabbed her eyes and looked into his. “Well… I don’t feel like going home, and it is chilly.”
“That is to be expected when you sit beside a fountain,” he pointed out with a smile. “Your shoulder is damp with spray. We can set your coat out to dry.”
She smiled back. “All right, Mr. Lawless — Bob. Thank you. I would be delighted to join you for a drink.”
Bob walked back to his aide and finished up their conversation. He sent the young man off in the limousine, then returned. He offered her his arm. She put on sunglasses — to hide her bloodshot eyes, she said — then took it. Less than two minutes later they were in his penthouse suite.
They sat in the living room, and he poured drinks from the minibar. He removed her damp jacket for her. He sat on a separate chair, though he did move it over to be close. She asked what he did. He said he was one of the largest commercial real estate brokers in the Carolinas. He told her he spent a great deal of time in Washington lobbying for tax incentives so that companies would stay in the United States instead of moving to Mexico or the Far East.
She felt bad. Bob Lawless was her kind of guy, except for the fact that he obviously had a wife and did not care. But she was here, and they needed this kill.
He had moved in closer while he was speaking and fixed her with his pale blue eyes. She responded to his “gentlemanly” advance by crying and then taking his hand for support and allowing him to put his arm around her. He kissed her damp cheek. She turned and hugged his neck and put her hands behind his head. She let her fingers loose in his longish hair, and he began kissing her neck. Without breaking their connection, she slid from her chair and bent over him, still holding him tight.