by Clancy, Tom
Kat frowned.
“Who cares if we are linked to Wilson?” Kendra continued. “I see that as a good thing. Wilson’s ideas were very bad for America. The USF is good for America.”
“But we’ll be linked to his death, not his ideas,” Kat said. “We’ll be seen as vultures, opportunists.”
“Just having the senator on one of those shows will be perceived that way, won’t it?” Kendra asked.
“Not necessarily. The senator will be seen as a diplomat. He can say things like, ‘Mr. Wilson and I had a different worldview, but his contribution to technology was invaluable,’ or, ‘Mr. Wilson was embarked on a path I opposed. His genius was in other areas.’ You start with the negative to make an impact, then sugarcoat it so you seem magnanimous.”
“I am magnanimous,” Orr teased.
The women laughed. It was true. Orr was a politician. Typically, that was not a good fit with idealism or philanthropy. All a philanthropist had to do was convince himself that something was worthwhile and make it happen. An elected official had to convince others, and there was often a considerable gulf between conscience and compromise. A man like Franklin Roosevelt may have felt it was the right thing to free Europe from Hitler. But he needed Pearl Harbor to make that happen. John Kennedy may have thought it was a good idea to send people to the moon, but he needed the threat of a Soviet space platform to get the funding. Fortunately, the senator cared more about getting his message across than about winning the White House.
“I agree with Kat,” Orr said. “I don’t want to dance too enthusiastically on the man’s grave. But I do like Kendra’s idea of making some kind of announcement as soon as possible. Kat, what USF personnel are we looking at today?”
“Just two,” Kat said. “A military adviser and an economic guru.”
“The military adviser is General Rodgers, the deputy director of Op-Center?” Orr asked.
“That’s correct, Senator.”
“He took our boys into North Korea, India, Russia, the Middle East to stop things from blowing up,” Orr said. “That’s good. It would make a good counterpoint to what Wilson stood for. Kat, would you give him a call and find out what he thought about the party, see if there’s anything we’ll need to show him or tell him to make him more comfortable?”
Kat said she would do that at once.
The media portion of the meeting was over, and Kat left the senator with Kendra. She returned to her office, pausing only to make sure the other staffers did not discuss William Wilson with the media. Orr’s personal staff of three men and four women were pretty sharp. Kat did not think they would have done that. But the D.C. press corps was smart, too. They had back-door ways of asking questions. “I’m not at liberty to say” could be written as “soand-so refused to comment,” which suggested that there was something to hide. For Orr’s staff, the correct response to all questions about Wilson was, “Would you like to talk to Ms. Lockley?”
Throughout the morning, several people had wanted to talk to Ms. Lockley. She would call back later and tell them that the senator had nothing to add to the statement he had made that morning. Right now she needed to talk to Mike Rodgers. She called his cell phone and introduced herself. The general seemed happy to hear from her.
“Are the senator and I still on for this afternoon?” he asked.
“Absolutely, General Rodgers. The senator is looking forward to it. In fact, he wanted me to call and find out if you need anything. Additional information, a brand of cigar, a favorite beverage.”
“Actually, there are just two things I want,” Rodgers told her.
“What are they?” Kat asked.
“I want to meet a man with vision and the courage to see that vision through,” Rodgers said.
“You will definitely find that.”
“I believe I will,” Rodgers said. “I have read about the senator, and I admire the values for which he stands. The other thing I want to find is a man who is willing to listen to the people around him.”
“General, I just came from a meeting with the senator. I assure you, he listens and he hears.”
“Then I look forward to meeting with him, and hopefully to working with him,” Rodgers replied.
“May I ask a somewhat personal question, General?”
“Sure.”
“Are you eager to make a move at this time?”
“If it’s the right one,” Rodgers told her.
“I’m glad to hear that, sir,” Kat told him. “We all look forward to seeing you again.”
The woman hung up and relayed the information to Senator Orr. He was glad to hear how the general felt.
“He sounds like our kind of fighter,” Orr said.
Kat was glad to hear the senator excited. In a day that offered their first major challenge on the national stage, it was reassuring to find a potential ally.
Now it was time to call back the rest of the reporters who wanted to talk to the senator. First, however, she made another call. One that was more important to her.
She phoned the Green Pantry and ordered a turkey club sandwich.
ELEVEN
Washington, D. C. Monday, 12: 53 P.M.
On the way back to Op-Center, McCaskey stopped at a gas station market for lunch. He got a hot dog and a Mountain Dew. As he stood outside eating, he glanced at a rack of newspapers. The headlines of the Washington Post, USA Today, and a handful of foreign papers were all about the untimely death of William Wilson.
When he was with the FBI, McCaskey attended a class in ATT—antiterrorist tactics. The teacher, psychologist Vic Witherman, was an expert in what he called countdown profiling. Witherman maintained that it was possible to spot a terrorist who was within minutes of launching an attack. There was a dark brightness in their eyes, undistracted purpose in their step, a confident boast in the way they held their head and shoulders. It was the posture of a demigod.
“It comes from three things,” Witherman had said. “One, of course, is adrenaline. Two is the fact that they are out of hiding for the first time in months, maybe even years. But three is the most significant of all. They possess what no one else has: knowledge of the future.”
McCaskey was struck by that observation. But today was the first time he had ever experienced something similar. If he was right, he knew what tomorrow’s headlines would read.
McCaskey’s cell phone beeped as he was getting back into the car. It was Dr. Hennepin.
“It took exactly fifteen minutes for the laboratory to find something that did not belong in a man’s mouth,” she said. “Traces of potassium chloride.”
“Which is used for what?” McCaskey asked.
“Executing criminals by lethal injection,” the medical examiner told him. “It stops the heart.”
“Is there any way our subject could have acquired that substance naturally?” McCaskey asked. He was careful not to use William Wilson’s name, since this was not a secure line.
“Only if he had been eating dog food and certain brands of weight loss bars and dietary supplements,” she said. “I did not find anything in the contents of his stomach that indicated he had eaten any of the above. Moreover, in the case of the bars and supplements, potassium chloride would have been detected in conjunction with potassium citrate or potassium phosphate.”
“The sample you found was pure.”
“Yes,” she said.
“So he was murdered.”
“Unless it was self-inflicted.”
“Which does not seem likely,” McCaskey said. “Who has to be informed about this?”
“I have to send a report to the Metro Police superintendent of detectives and a copy to the MP forensics office,” she replied.
“When?”
“As soon as I can write it up,” the doctor told him. “They should have it within an hour.”
“Can you write slowly?” McCaskey asked. “I have to get back to my office and give Scotland Yard a heads-up. There may be individuals they want watched
before the information becomes somewhat public.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll have them run tests for other coronary inhibitors. That should take an extra hour.”
“Thanks, Dr. Hennepin,” McCaskey said. “Will you be able to forward a copy to me?”
“Sure.”
McCaskey thanked her again.
Op-Center’s top policeman was already on the road before the conversation ended. He did not want to call Op-Center or Scotland Yard from the secure cell phone in the car. He was not thinking about the empowerment he gained by possessing foreknowledge. Right now, the former FBI agent was thinking about everything that would have to be done to find the individual who had gone to William Wilson’s room and apparently assassinated him.
Upon arriving at Op-Center, McCaskey went directly to his office, shut the door, and called George Daily. The detective superintendent was less surprised than McCaskey had expected.
“It’s more credible, frankly, than hearing that he died of heart failure,” the British investigator remarked.
“I’m going to meet with Director Hood as soon as he’s free,” McCaskey said. “Do you want to approach the Metropolitan Police, or would you prefer that we work on your behalf?”
“We’d best do both,” Daily told him. “When the press gets hold of this, we will be pressured to take a direct hand. In the meantime, it would help enormously if you would earmark areas that we will need to examine. Local police can be very territorial about their sources and the interrogation process.”
“I’ll make sure you are represented, Detective Superintendent,” McCaskey promised.
“How long do we have until this news becomes public fodder?” the Englishman asked.
“The medical examiner is going to forward her updated report in about ninety minutes,” McCaskey said. “Fifteen minutes after that, most of Washington will have heard the news.”
Daily sighed audibly. “You know, it used to be panem et circensis, bread and circuses, that kept the populace happy. Now it is cell phones and the Internet. They allow us to savor the blood and pain of others in real time.”
“Not everyone does that,” McCaskey said.
“Indeed we do,” Daily declared. “Some of us don’t enjoy it, I’ll grant you, but most do. Recidivism, it seems, is not just for criminals. Society itself has retreated to barbarism.”
The harshness of the condemnation surprised McCaskey. He did not want to believe that the majority of people were rubberneckers at best and moral savages at worst, that they were no different than killers or molesters who could not be rehabilitated. He had always felt that society was basically sound, that it needed only occasional tweaks from people like himself and Daily to stay on course.
This was not, however, the time to debate philosophy. McCaskey rang Bugs Benet to find out if the boss was free. He was. McCaskey said he would be right over.
As the former FBI agent hurried along the corridor, he realized there was an aspect to foreknowledge that Vic Witherman had missed. Terrorism was easy. All it took was a moment of angry resolve to tear things down. Keeping things together required courage and commitment.
Humanism. That was difficult.
TWELVE
Washington, D.C. Monday, 1: 44 P.M.
Paul Hood called around to find out if the department heads in nonclassified areas needed an intern. They did not. Lowell Coffey said he would be happy to work with a legal trainee. Frankie Hunt did not fit that profile. Kevin Custer in Electronic Communications said he would take on someone with interest in the field. Otherwise, it was a waste of everyone’s time. Other division leaders said more or less the same thing. Hood could have pushed them, but he did not. As he made the calls, he had already decided he did not want the kid working at Op-Center. Someone who helped a friend was “a nice man.” Someone who helped his former wife was “a man with guilt.” Someone who helped the lover of their former wife was not a man at all.
Working behind the scenes at Op-Center instead of in the light at Los Angeles City Hall had tempered Hood’s healthy but modest narcissism somewhat. But it had not quite turned him into a masochist. Sharon, on the other hand, was mossy with fresh self-interest and vanity. She felt her former husband owed her time, effort, and attention, and she was determined to collect.
Hood would wait a few hours before calling Sharon. That would make it seem as if he had made more of an effort than he had. At least he did not have a lot of time to think about it. Hood had spent a lot of time with CFO Ed Colahan working on the budget cuts. There was not a division of Op-Center that would be unaffected. Matt Stoll’s computer division would lose six of its twelve employees, Herbert would lose one of his six intel analysts, and the field force Mike Rodgers had assembled would be eliminated. Operatives like David Battat and Aideen Marley would be recruited on a case-by-case basis. Lowell’s fourperson legal office would be cut to three. Custer would have to release one of his four electronics surveillance people. The night staff would also be reduced. Each time Hood okayed a cut, he knew he was not only affecting an employee but national security. Op-Center had established a singular way of working. Homeland Security could not simply reassign those tasks to the FBI or CIA; Hood and his people had the trust of agents at Interpol, at the Russian Op-Center, at other agencies around the world. Time, personnel, and funds were required to maintain the quid pro quo nature of those valuable relationships. The cuts were going to impact that severely.
Darrell McCaskey walked in just as Colahan was leaving with his laptop.
“How are you holding up, Paul?” McCaskey asked. He shut the door behind him as the CFO left.
“When I was mayor, I had to cut billions from the Los Angeles city budget,” Hood said. “That was politically painful but faceless. Each stroke of a key today was someone I know.” Hood sat back. McCaskey looked preoccupied. “You heard about Mike Rodgers?”
“Yeah. Bob was so mad he nearly ran me over.”
“I haven’t heard from him yet,” Hood said.
“He’s laying low till he cools off,” McCaskey said. “He should be in to see you some time next week.”
Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“Ironically, you’re going to need to loan me out for a couple of days.”
“What’s up?”
“I think William Wilson was murdered.”
Hood’s smile evaporated. “Jesus.”
“Yeah. This is going to be a big one.”
“How did you get involved?”
“Scotland Yard asked me to bird-dog the autopsy,” McCaskey said. “I went to the Georgetown medical center and had a look at the body. The ME missed an injection in the root of the tongue. We sent a skin sample to the lab. There was a concentrated trace of potassium chloride, a drug that can be used to stop the heart.”
“That’s damned impressive, Darrell.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you informed the Yard?” Hood asked.
“I did,” McCaskey said. “They’re going to work through the British embassy to get their own people involved. Until then, they asked if I would be their point man on the investigation.”
“What are we looking at, time-wise?”
“Three or four days,” McCaskey told him.
“That’s when media attention will be at a saturation peak,” Hood said.
“I know. The good news is, public attention got us more money after the North Korean incident,” McCaskey said.
“That was a very different time, when Congress regarded the old institutions as tired, not blue-chip solid,” Hood said. “This is going to be a big, public investigation. If Op-Center is on the news every night, the CIOC may see that as a ploy for fund retrocession.”
“Please. The CIOC can’t be that naive.”
“Not naive, Darrell. Suspicious.”
“Of what? They know we have to help other agencies if we want their assistance,” McCaskey said.
“You’re assuming that we’re supposed to survi
ve,” Hood said. “The CIOC and our older brothers may have other plans.”
“Staggered dismantling,” McCaskey said.
“It’s possible,” Hood said.
“Okay,” McCaskey said. “Assume the other agencies are leaning on the CIOC to cut us back—”
“I don’t have to assume that,” Hood told him. “They are. Senator Debenport told me.”
“In that case, we should not get locked into a siege mentality,” McCaskey said. “We should lean back, put our assets in peoples’ faces. Senator Debenport will probably be thrilled to take a corner of the spotlight. What politician wouldn’t want to be seen as a crusading crime buster?”
“He’ll say ‘Cheese’ and maximize the benefits of that exposure,” Hood agreed. “And when the lights go off, he’ll turn to me and say—prodded hard by the other agencies—that there is obviously too much fat on Op-Center’s bones. He may ask for additional reductions.”
“The electorate wouldn’t stand for that, especially if we’re working on a high-profile case.”
“The voters might surprise you,” Hood said. “They want to know that government agencies are doing their jobs. Our job is crisis management. Finding the killer is a Metropolitan Police matter, not a hostage situation or terrorist threat. Voters also don’t like it when the rich get special attention. Finding the killer of a European multibillionaire who was trying to take money from American banks, and jobs from our shores, is not as important as making sure landmarks and airports are secure.”
“I can’t believe our society has gotten that selfabsorbed,” McCaskey said. “I refuse to believe it.”
“Oh, we have,” Hood assured him. “We once saw endless possibility and opportunity in all directions except down. That was the American definition of beauty. Do you know what happens to the narcissist who stops feeling beautiful?”
“Yeah. He gets botox treatments.”
“No,” Hood said. “He gets scared that he’s going to lose everything else.”
“He does that, or America does that?”
“Both, I suppose,” Hood replied.
McCaskey looked a little sad. Hood did not like where this was going. The next visit would be from Liz Gordon, who would chat and probe and try to determine if he were acting out.