Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  Then again, Hood thought, the way you’ve been handling crises lately, maybe you should give the kid your keys to the kingdom. He could not do a worse job. He wondered what would happen if they turned over every aspect of government to newcomers for just a day or two. Would that bring their best or worst instincts to the fore? Would power destroy their innocence, or would they know, intuitively, to handle it with extreme care? Would they crush lives and careers simply because they could, because it was more convenient, more expedient than open debate, or would their angel natures guide them to higher ground?

  Hood called Frankie, who said he could be available that night. Hood said the next morning would be fine. Frankie Hunt sounded wildly enthusiastic. He did not ask if there was any danger. He even addressed his new boss as “sir.” Maybe Hood would not have to work as hard as he anticipated not to hold the “sins” of the father against the young man.

  McCaskey came to see Hood while he was still on the phone with Frankie. Hood motioned him in. The FBI liaison had obviously taken a tour of the facility. He had been putting a lot of hours into the case and looked drawn. Now he looked a rung above beaten.

  “By my soul, Paul, I do not want to find out that Americans did this to Americans,” McCaskey said. “We don’t make war on one another. Not anymore.”

  “Sure we do. We chew each other up with politics every day of every week,” Hood said.

  “Someone died here,” McCaskey said. “That’s different.”

  “I know, and I don’t want to minimize that,” Hood said. “But I’ve just been sitting here thinking how everyone in this town is a killer. Every damn one of us. We just don’t use that word. We call it politics.”

  “Forgive me, Paul, but nuts to that,” McCaskey said. “I believe that we’re the good guys, Op-Center and most Americans. Our response mechanisms get triggered when something is wrong.”

  “Wrong by what yardstick?”

  “This one,” McCaskey replied, touching the left side of his chest.

  Hood looked wistfully at McCaskey. He had not intended to discuss the new situation with his staff just yet. But maybe it was time. He shut the door of the Tank and returned to the conference table. He sat beside McCaskey.

  “What if I told you that Op-Center’s triggers had changed?” Hood asked.

  “Changed how?”

  “What if the only way the National Crisis Management Center can survive is by catering to partisan interests? By handling crises as before, but also by executing domestic black-ops activities?”

  “Paul, what the hell are you talking about?” McCaskey asked. “What else happened that I don’t know about?”

  “We were hit with a different kind of bombshell,” Hood told him. “It seems the president and Senator Debenport have decided that the USF represents a threat to this nation. They have requested that we use Op-Center and this investigation to stop Senator Orr.”

  “Are they insane?” McCaskey yelled. “This isn’t the 1950s. I’d rather shut the door than—”

  “Than do what, Darrell?” Hood asked. “Spy on Americans ? The FBI and CIA do it all the time.”

  “With one difference,” McCaskey said. “Reasonable suspicion. We cannot use the investigation to impede a Constitutionally protected process.”

  “The problem is, we can,” Hood replied. “It’s a legitimate investigation—”

  “Of a homicide. What you are suggesting is a completely different beast. It isn’t ethical, Paul.”

  “Tell me which is the greater morality,” Hood asked. “Do we let ourselves get squeezed a little so we can continue doing good in other areas? Or do we put up a Going Out of Business sign with our pride intact, allowing God knows how many crises to slip by Homeland Security?”

  “That’s an old argument, Paul. Does a commander sacrifice one life to save ten? What do you do for the greatest good?”

  “It’s an old argument because there is no clear-cut answer,” Hood said.

  “Sure there is. If you have to think about something in order to justify it, the thing is probably wrong.”

  “No,” Hood insisted. “Sometimes you have to think about things because your initial instinct is to run. That’s fear, not courage.”

  “That’s rationalization.”

  “That’s reality,” Hood countered. “A reality in which Americans do fight Americans, whether we like it or not. Tell me, where does Darrell McCaskey end up if he walks out of here or the CIOC shuts us down? Back at the Bureau ? At the Company, where national security is the meal and morality is the garnish? All you would be doing somewhere else is losing yourself in the system. The corruption would still be there. You just would not be able to see it.”

  McCaskey said nothing.

  “We had it good,” Hood said. “Maybe too good to last.”

  “We could tell them no.”

  “Sure. And do you think Debenport would get us funding to replace the equipment we lost?”

  McCaskey just stared at his old friend. “I hear what you’re saying, Paul, but—forgive me—it still sounds like sophistry. I’m disappointed the president even put you in this position, after all you’ve done for him.”

  “He has his bosses, too. Every job has you shovel some shit. In this case, at least, we can still do our job. Maybe even better than before, because more money will be available to us.”

  “At what price, though?” McCaskey asked.

  “Compromise,” Hood said.

  McCaskey shook his head. “I don’t think I can go along with this.”

  “That’s your choice,” Hood said. He was sad but not surprised to hear that. “But it explains what I said before about dying. When I was at the White House this morning, I listened to Senator Debenport’s bloody damn deal. I left, I had a long think, and I made my choice. But it cost me, Darrell. A part of my soul died before that electromagnetic pulse bomb was even detonated.”

  McCaskey looked as though his grip on the last rung had slipped. This was not how he had planned his life, how he ran his life.

  “May I make a suggestion?” Hood asked.

  “Please.”

  “Continue the work you were doing for the reasons you were doing it. We can worry about the rest of it later.”

  “Self-deception,” McCaskey said.

  “Will you feel better if a killer and possibly a bomber gets away?” Hood asked with uncharitable bluntness.

  “That’s a helluva choice,” McCaskey said, his voice low, his eyes flat.

  “Maybe it’s just old age, but I can’t remember a time when options were easy or clear.”

  McCaskey nodded gravely. “We agree on that, at least.”

  “I’ll take it,” Hood said with the hint of a smile.

  “What I do not understand is how the hell we got here, Paul. Mike is gone, the building has been gutted, our integrity is no longer impervious. Even you would have to admit that.”

  “I do,” Hood replied sadly.

  Integrity had always been the center’s hallmark. Integrity had also been Paul Hood’s personal hallmark. Now, even if he draped an albatross around his neck and preached virtue like the Ancient Mariner, Hood would never have that quality again. What upset him more than the deal with Debenport was the fact that he had not seen this coming. He thought he was smarter than that.

  “I’ll have to get back to you on how we got here,” Hood said. “Right now, I’m more concerned about where we are going and who is coming along. Can I count on you?”

  “I’ll finish what I started,” McCaskey said.

  “That’s all I need. Thanks.”

  McCaskey headed toward the door. “I told Mike I would wait to hear from him before leaning any more on Orr and Link,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to see if the Metro Police have anything. They’ve been concentrating their efforts on the second murder.”

  Hood nodded. “Thanks again,” he added.

  “Sure,” McCaskey said.

  The former FBI agent left, and Hood w
as alone once more. Alone in the Tank, the brain of Op-Center encased in its electromagnetically protected skull. Alone while his staff struggled to put the other organs together again. There was one, however, that Hood wondered if they would ever be able to retrieve. The one they needed almost as much as the brain: the heart.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Washington, D. C. Tuesday, 6: 31 P.M.

  Darrell McCaskey picked up two things on his way to the Metro Police. The first was a cheeseburger. The second was his wife.

  Maria had not asked to be involved in the investigation. But McCaskey knew she enjoyed getting her hands dirty, and in his mind this was as dirty as things got. Politics and murder. As old as Genesis. McCaskey did not tell her about Hood’s conversation with Debenport. It was important that he convey the information objectively. He wanted her opinion, not her reaction to his own upset.

  The murders were being investigated by the Metro Police First District Substation at 500 E Street SW. Lieutenant Robert Howell was leading the Focused Mission Unit, which consisted of four sergeants on loan from homicide.

  McCaskey had phoned ahead. Howell said he would still be at the stationhouse when they arrived. He greeted the McCaskeys in his small, clean, second-floor office. The men had spoken on the phone the day before, after District Commander Charlie Alterman agreed to let Op-Center run the Wilson investigation. That meant Howell got to keep the case, which otherwise would have shifted from FMU to Homicide. The murder of Lawless was added to the FMU “dig,” as they referred to forensics investigations, since the team had already been fielded.

  There were photos of his parents and himself and framed diplomas from the Florida State University School of Criminology on the office wall. McCaskey was not surprised. The thirty-something lieutenant looked like a “college cop,” as they used to call them in the FBI. He was a lean, clean-cut, tightly wound man with short red hair and deep-set eyes. His voice had the hint of a Southern accent. His white shirt was heavily starched so it did not wrinkle. Wrinkles suggested perspiration, and perspiration suggested worry or insecurity. Those were conditions that schooled detectives were taught to avoid. Howell did not sit until Maria had been seated. He was polite. That did not mean he would be cooperative. McCaskey had made his team look foolish and also had stolen their assignment.

  As the men sat, Howell expressed both concern and genuine outrage about what happened at Op-Center.

  “Officially or not, our resources are at your disposal,” Howell said.

  The detective’s words gave McCaskey a whisper of hope. Men with vastly different interests could still find common ground in their response to horrific acts. Maybe the rest of what they did—the jockeying and the politics, the bargains made and assurances broken—was just not important enough to worry about.

  “I very much appreciate your offer,” McCaskey said. “Actually, I came by because I did not want you to think the attack has slowed our work on the Wilson case. It was based mostly on fieldwork, which is ongoing.”

  “Have you made progress?”

  “Possibly,” McCaskey said. “I’ll be checking with one of my operatives in a few hours.” He did not want to tell the detective about Mike Rodgers’s full-court press against Orr’s team. The job of the Metro Police was to protect and serve. The reality was they protected and served government heavyweights with special care. Their budget came from Congress. They would not appreciate Op-Center’s more intrusive methods. “Do you have anything to freshen the mix?”

  “We have what may be a nail polish and fiber sample from the second crime scene,” Howell told him. “But that does not help because, first, Lawless may have picked those up somewhere else and, second, we do not have a suspect.”

  “Meaning there is nothing to compare it to,” McCaskey said. “Where did you recover it?”

  “From Lawless’s silver-link watch band,” Howell said. “It may have snagged the hem of her sleeve or lapel when he tried to defend himself.”

  “Do you have the specs?”

  Howell nodded and went to his computer. He brought up the laboratory data. “The nail polish is a silky beige manufactured by a Chicago firm, Niles Polish. It’s sold in shops nationwide, so it’s unlikely we’ll find the buyer. We cross-referenced charge card purchases with Senator Orr’s guest list, but that turned up nothing.”

  “She probably paid cash,” McCaskey said.

  “That, and she could have done so anywhere in the country. As for the fiber, that is satin, navy blue, just like the dress we saw in the security camera video. The dye was manufactured by the Fuchun River Chemical Corporation of China, which does not tell us anything about the garment itself.”

  “One of those things did not come from the killer,” Maria said. “Unless she has a terrible fashion sense.”

  “That was our conclusion,” Howell said. “Mr. Lawless might have picked up the nail polish from a handshake or making a purchase. Hypodermic needles are easy enough to come by. We have been looking into individuals who would be qualified to have given both victims an injection. But there are over three hundred female dentists and hygienists alone in the metropolitan region. Then there are literally thousands of other medical doctors, nurses, even veterinarians. Besides, the killer might not even be from this area.”

  “I believe she is,” McCaskey said. “I’m convinced the murder of Robert Lawless was organized quickly to cover our discovery that William Wilson was murdered. If that’s true, then the assassin was still in the neighborhood.”

  “Reasonable,” Howell said. The detective turned his pale poker face from the computer monitor. “Does the possible progress you mentioned a minute ago have to do with Senator Orr?”

  “We would like to clear the senator if we can,” McCaskey answered.

  “Does that mean he or someone in his office is a suspect ?” Howell pressed.

  “No,” McCaskey replied. If he had said yes, Howell would have informed the detectives on his team, and they would have told others. McCaskey did not want to be responsible for starting rumors. “Detective, I don’t want to keep you from your dinner plans or family any longer than I have to. Are there any leads besides the nail polish and satin fiber?”

  Howell shook his head. “I have to admit it has been tough getting off Go on this one. The security camera images have not helped, no eyewitnesses have come forward to tell us about the killer’s movements, and our profiler has not found a hook to hang a psychological sketch.”

  “Did the medical examiner find anything unusual about Lawless’s body?” McCaskey asked.

  “Nothing,” Howell said. “He died exactly as Wilson did.”

  “Was any hair recovered from either scene?” Maria asked.

  “Plenty,” the detective told her. “Blonde, brunette, black, red, white, even green. Hotel rooms are cleaned but not that thoroughly. We have thirty-seven different strands. Six of those match the housekeeping staff. We are checking with previous guests in the room. That will take time. If our killer was wearing a wig, that may make her untraceable.”

  As the detective was speaking, McCaskey suddenly flashed on something that made him want to kick himself. Hard. “Actually, Detective, now that I think of it, there is something the Metro Police could do for me. Do you have a computer I could borrow for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. You can use mine,” Howell said. He swung toward the keyboard. “Is there something I can look up for you?”

  “Thanks, but I need to do this myself,” McCaskey said. “Op-Center security.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ll lock up, if you want to leave—”

  “I can’t do that,” Howell said. “We have security procedures. But I will step outside.”

  “Thanks. I should only be five minutes or so.”

  The detective left without shutting the door. McCaskey went behind his desk.

  “Shall I close it?” Maria asked, indicating the door.

  “No,” her husband replied. He typed in the address of the Op-Center
web site which was backed up in a secure Tank. Thanks to software designed by Stoll, any subsequent addresses he typed into this remote keyboard would be unrecorded. He went to the District of Columbia personnel files. These were accessible to intelligence agencies in order to do quick security checks in the event of a crisis.

  Maria stood behind him. “What was so important it had to be done now?” she asked.

  “There is one woman I overlooked. Minnie Hennepin, the medical examiner. She would know how to give an injection and she would be in a position to overlook the puncture wound.”

  “She could also be an incompetent who got her highpaying job through—what is the word?”

  “Patronage,” McCaskey said. “That is certainly possible. We may know more after checking her background.” He accessed the medical examiner’s file and read her curriculum vitae. “Red flag number one,” he said. “She graduated from the University of Texas Medical School.”

  “So did thousands of other men and women,” Maria said. “That does not mean anything.”

  “Do me a favor, hon? Don’t play devil’s advocate right now,” McCaskey said as sweetly as possible.

  “Why? You told me you needed extra eyes and another brain working on this problem.”

  “I do. But that doesn’t mean shooting down everything I say.”

  “That was not everything. It was one thing.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m sorry. Let’s just drop it.”

  “If I say something contrary, will you think I am covering for her? Will I become a suspect then?”

  “Don’t be extreme,” McCaskey said, looking back at his wife. “I was just thinking out loud. I don’t want to hit a speed bump every time I open my mouth. Look, just forget I said anything.”

  “You are the one being extreme. I was simply pointing out that coming from Texas may be a false blip. Each of Senator Orr’s senior staff members comes from a state of the union. Would they all be flags as well?”