The Minotaur

by Stephen Coonts

  Dunedin examined it for a moment, turning the pages slowly. He glanced up at Camacho several times, but each time his eyes quickly returned to the pages before him. Without comment, he slowly closed the book and passed it across the table to Captain Grafton.

  “A, B, C…who are these people?”

  “The letters stand for people that Henry wanted information about. Some of the information was supplied by psychotherapists, some by police agencies, some by people in government in sensitive positions who talked out of school. One of those letters apparently stands for Callie Grafton. I believe she was seeing a psychologist, wasn’t she, Captain?”

  Jake Grafton began ripping pages from the notebook. A handful at a time, he deposited them in the classified burn bag by Dunedin’s desk.

  As he watched, Camacho continued. “Henry was very worried about the Minotaur. He feared the unknown. So he did what he could to protect his trust. It’s hard to condemn him.”

  “These little pieces of the cloth that you let us see, they’re tantalizing.” The admiral leaned back in his chair and made a tent of his fingers.

  That comment drew no response from the agents. Dreyfus examined his fingernails as Camacho watched Grafton complete his job of destruction.

  “Why did this Soviet agent approach Judy?” the admiral asked. “Why did he single him out?”

  “I told him about the commander’s troubles,” Camacho replied.

  “You told him?” The admiral’s eyes widened. “Good God! Who are you working for, anyway?”

  “I’m on your side, Admiral.”

  “Hallelujah! I hate to think of the mess we’d be in if you weren’t.”

  “Why my wife?” Jake asked.

  “You’d been given guardianship of the holy grail, Athena. You, a captain. Smoke Judy worked for you. Admiral Henry knew Judy was a bad apple, and he knew I knew.”

  “It’s a wonder he slept nights,” Dunedin muttered.

  “Are you saying he didn’t trust me?” Jake said doggedly.

  “Tyler Henry didn’t trust anyone. He didn’t just cut the cards; he insisted on shuffling every time. But I don’t think it was you he was really worried about. It was me. He didn’t want you corrupted by me.”

  “Say again?”

  “He thought I might recruit you, so he was looking for clues in the only place he could.” Camacho stood. Dreyfus got to his feet a second later. “Gentlemen, that’s the crop. That’s all you get”

  “Not so fast, Camacho,” the admiral said, pointing toward the chairs. “You can hike when I finish this interview. I have a few more questions to ask, and so you sit right there and I’ll do the asking.”

  Camacho obeyed. Dreyfus remained erect. “You can wait outside,” the admiral said.

  “He can stay,” Camacho said. Dreyfus sat.

  “Who approved this operation?”

  “My superiors.”

  “Who are?”

  “The Assistant Director and the Director. And the committee.”

  “What I want to know is this: who gave you the green light to screw around with the U.S. Navy? As if we didn’t have enough troubles.”

  “My superiors.”

  “I want names, mister! I want to know the names of the idiots who authorized a covert operation that resulted in the death of a vice admiral and jeopardized congressional approval of the A-12. I want some ass! The CNO is going to want blood. George Ludlow, Royce Caplinger, if they don’t know about this—”

  “Ask them. Any more questions?”

  “Ludlow? Caplinger? They knew?”

  “The people who have to know, know. You said those names; I didn’t. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve said all I can say and I have work to do.” Dreyfus reached the door before Camacho got completely out of his chair.

  “The FBI Director better be there pouring oil on the water when I get to those hearings, Camacho,” Jake said.

  “And if he isn’t?” Dreyfus asked with exaggerated politeness.

  “Then you’d better be there with a warrant if you want me to keep quiet. I have this nasty little habit of answering questions by telling the truth.”

  Camacho just nodded and strolled for the door, which Dreyfus opened and held. “Thank you both,” he told the naval officers, then stepped through.

  When the door was shut behind them, Dunedin said, “Too bad we don’t know any truth to answer questions with.”

  “We know a little.”

  “You’ve still got a lot to learn, Jake. Truth isn’t something you can extrapolate from a tiny piece. And believe me, those two have given us the tiniest piece they could. If it was a piece of the truth at all, which is debatable.”

  On Monday morning Jake signed his report, which recommended the TRX prototype as the plane the navy should buy, and hand-carried it to Admiral Dunedin’s office. The admiral flipped through it to see that the changes he wanted were made, then he signed the prepared endorsement. From there Jake carried it over to the program coordinator’s office. Commander Rob Knight was tapping a letter on his word processor when Jake came in.

  “This is it, huh?”

  “Yep.” Jake pulled up a chair. Knight reviewed the changes, then signed the routing slip. “Congratulations. Another milestone passed.”

  “Think we’ll get this plane?”

  “Looks good. Looks good.” Knight grinned. He spent a large portion of his time talking to congressional staffers on behalf of the CNO’s office. “They know we need it. They know it’s a good buy.The only really iffy thing is the choice of prototypes. Duquesne knows this is coming and he’s loading his guns.”

  “What’s he going to come at me with?”

  “I’ll know more by tomorrow. I’ll be over at nine with a guy from the Office of Legislative Affairs to brief you on expected questions, suggested answers, how to keep your cool—all the good stuff. You’ll be testifying with Admiral Dunedin and he’ll go first But you’re the guy they’ll try to rip. You originated the recommendation. If they can get you to admit you’re an incompetent, lying idiot, then Dunedin, CNO, SECNAV, SECDEF, they all have to reconsider. So wear your steel underwear.”

  Jake’s next stop was CNO’s office. He had to talk to the executive assistant—the EA—and wait an hour, but with the CNO’s blessing on his document, he walked it down to the Secretary of the Navy’s office. After the obligatory half hour wait while the EA reviewed the document, Ludlow invited him in.

  “How close is this to the draft I saw?”

  “Pretty close, sir. Vice Admiral Dunedin and CNO wanted some changes, and they’re incorporated.”

  “Are you prepared to defend this report on the Hill?”

  “Yessir.”

  Ludlow quizzed him for an hour on the technical aspects of the report. Apparently satisfied, he accompanied Jake to the door. “Just don’t get cute with the elected ones. Be open, aboveboard, a good little sailor.”

  Smoke Judy changed into his running clothes and stowed his rags behind a Dumpster in a Georgetown alley. God, he smelled ripe. But what the hell—they sold this stink in a bottle now, didn’t they? He would probably have women crawling all over him. Everyone would think he just ran five miles and dropped by for a tall, cool Perrier. Just as trendy as a pair of Gucci shoes.

  He walked the four blocks to the bar carrying the gym bag in his right hand. The place was packed, just like last week. If anyone noticed his aroma, they didn’t show it.

  He made his way through the crowd and into the men’s room, where he washed his face and neck and arms as thoroughly as possible. He even used a paper towel on his armpits without taking his shirt off.

  Whew! He felt better.

  He stepped out of the men’s room and stood looking. A twoperson booth opened up at the back of the room, so he immediately slipped into it. Holding the gym bag under the table, he extracted the pistol from the bag and laid it on his lap.

  The waitress didn’t give his four-day beard a second glance. “Gimme a Bud.”

&nbs
p; He drank the first one quickly, then nursed the second. Twenty minutes passed, then thirty.

  What if Albright doesn’t show?

  Judy got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The beer felt like it was going to come up. He stared at the door, scrutinizing every face.

  When Albright came in, Judy almost shouted.

  He walked the length of the room and slid into the booth. Only then did Judy realize his hands were empty.

  “Jesus,” Albright said. “You look bad.”

  “Had a little trouble.”

  “I guess you did. I read about it. Dealing, are you?”

  “A crock.”

  “Yeah.” Albright ordered a Corona. He sat looking around.

  “Where’d you spend the weekend?”

  “In an alley.”

  “Smart.”

  “They haven’t caught me yet.”

  “You wired?”

  “What?”

  “Are you wearing a wire?”

  “Hell no. Where’s the fucking money?”

  “You got it?”

  “Yeah, right here. You wanta see it?”

  “Okay. Show me.”

  Judy passed him the gym bag. “The side pocket. Look but don’t take it out.” Albright did as requested.

  “So, you got it?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “What it looks like, my friend, is a five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy disk, which could have anything under the sun on it. It could even be empty. You didn’t think I was just going to take it on faith that you’re an honorable gentleman and hand you all that lettuce, did you?”

  “Something like that.”

  The Corona came. Albright took his time squeezing the lime slice and dropping it down the neck of the bottle. “Your good health,” he said, and took a sip.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where is what?”

  “The bread, asshole.”

  “Out in my car.”

  “You want the disk, you go get it.”

  “I need to see what’s on the disk first. What say we both go out there and I’ll check the disk on my laptop. I brought it along, just in case.”

  “Uh-uh. No money, no disk.”

  “You make me very suspicious, my friend. Your refusal to come outside indicates there is a very good possibility you are wearing a wire. The possibility is even higher that the file I want is not on this disk.” Albright grinned. “You see how it is.”

  “What I see is this: I’ve got it and you aren’t leaving here with it until I see the money.”

  “When did you copy this disk?”

  “Friday afternoon.”

  “When did the admiral come by?”

  “About ten minutes later.”

  Albright looked at the faces around him, then turned back to Judy. “Even if you think you have the file—I will grant you your good faith—I doubt seriously if it is the information I want. Not on Friday afternoon, with NIS and the FBI just ten minutes away. They were waiting for you. It was a trap.”

  “I got the file,” Judy insisted.

  “No. I think not.” Albright started to slide out of the booth. Something hard hit his leg, and he stopped.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I don’t know what you think. Use your hand, gently, and feel.”

  Albright did so. “I see.”

  “Turn back around. Face me.”

  Albright obeyed. He took another sip of beer. “Now what?”

  “Now I want that money.”

  “How do you propose to get it?”

  “You had better think of something I like real fucking quick or you aren’t walking out of here. I’m going to blow your cock off with the first one, then I’m going to put one right in your solar plexus. Who knows, an ambulance could get here so fast you might live. But you’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life and you’re going to do all your peeing sitting down.”

  Albright wasn’t fazed. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “You do the suggestions. You have one minute.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I got nothing to lose, Albright. I will pull this trigger. Believe it!”

  “You’ll be caught.”

  “Probably, but they’re going to try me for killing a vice admiral, not for blowing the cock off a commie spy. Who knows, with you on my record, I may get probation. You got forty seconds.”

  “Who knows. Indeed, who knows.” Albright considered.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Quiet. I’m thinking.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Look to your left. Against the bar. There is a man there wearing a UCLA sweatshirt. Look at his hand.”

  Warily, Smoke glanced left, then back at Albright. The man across the booth was watching him with an amused look. Judy looked again. The man at the bar had a pistol, and it was pointed straight at him.

  “I didn’t come alone. You pull that trigger and he will kill you before you pull it again.”

  In spite of himself, Judy looked again. It sure looked like a real pistol, an automatic, held low, shielded by the body of the man beside him. The gunman was looking straight into his eyes.

  “So,” said Harlan Albright. “Here is how it will be. You will put your gun back in the gym bag. We will walk out to my car—oh yes, I do have a car. We will put the disk in the laptop and check it. If indeed it contains the Athena file, I will give you the money. If not, we’ll shake hands, and you’ll go your way, I mine.”

  “I oughta just shoot you, here and now.”

  “As you say, I may live. You most certainly won’t. Your choice.”

  “I’m busted. I got nothing. They—” He swallowed hard. Tears were obstructing his vision. “They emptied the file. It was a setup. Nothing there but the title pages of thirty documents, each document just one page. Honest. I got what you wanted to buy. I’m desperate! I need the money.”

  Albright nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “C’mon, mister,” he pleaded. “I’ll do you a deal. The title pages must be worth something. I got fifteen bucks to my name. That’s it! Fifteen lousy bucks.” He was sobbing.

  “I think not.” Albright looked around. Spectators were watching Judy. It was past time to go. Albright took out his wallet and tossed all the currency he had on the table. “There’s something over a hundred and forty there. You take it.”

  Judy seized the bills. He scooped them up with his left hand, then fumbled below the table with the gun. “I need the gym bag. Here”—he held out the disk. “You take it. I don’t want it.”

  “Good luck,” Albright said, and then rose and walked toward the entrance, leaving Judy holding the disk and staring after him. When Albright was through the door, the gunman on Smoke’s left followed him.

  Judy lowered his head to the table.

  “Mister,” he heard someone saying. “Mister, you’re going to have to leave. Please, mister,” urged the hard, insistent voice, “you can’t stay here.”

  28

  Senator Duquesne has a copy of your service record.”

  “What? How’d he get that?”

  Commander Rob Knight shrugged. “God only knows, and he won’t tell. What’s in your service record that would do him any good?”

  “I don’t know,” Jake Grafton said.

  “He may not use any part of it. Probably won’t. But he told some colleague’s aide, figuring you’d hear about it and get worried.”

  “What a guy.”

  “This is major-league hardball, Grafton. And he’s got that crackpot Samuel Dodgers scheduled to testify before you get on the stand, after SECDEF and Dunedin finish.”

  “He’s playing Russian roulette. Dodgers is a genius with the personality of a warthog.”

  “His strategy, apparently, is to get the A-12 defeated. The story I hear from a couple aides is that Athena is such a revolutionary new technology, it needs to be produced and evaluated before the navy buys any stealth airplanes—i.e., neith
er prototype will be purchased. Then Consolidated can participate in another competition for a more conventional design that makes full use of Athena’s capabilities. The argument is that a more conventional airplane that uses Athena exclusively for stealth protection will save the government several billions.”

  “Is he going to try this out on Caplinger?”

  “Nope. He’s going to let Caplinger and Dunedin testify, then wring the juice out of Dodgers and dump it all in your lap in the hope you’ll blow it.”

  “Has he got the votes?”

  “Not yet. There are enough fence sitters so that the issue is very much up in the air. We had the A-12 sold to the Senate and the House committees until Athena came along, but with the headlines lately—and the budget deficit—any way they can save money looks better and better.”

  Jake knew the headlines Knight was referring to. The Soviets under Mikhail Gorbachev had renounced world domination, and the aftershocks were being felt in capitals around the world. Gorbachev was well on his way to becoming the most popular and overexposed human on the planet, eclipsing rock stars, athletes, and, in some places, even God. The Cold War was over, according to some commentators and politicians with their own agendas. True or not, the perception of great change taking place in the “evil empire” had profound consequences for the foreign and domestic policy of every Western democracy, and none more so than the United States.

  The two officers spent the morning going over the cost projections of the A-12, which were based on an optimum purchase schedule. Any proposal that kept the A-6 in service for more years than already planned would also have to include the escalating costs of maintaining and repairing this aging airframe. These costs were also calculated. Finally, any new proposal for another design would incur huge upfront costs, as the A-12 program had, and to kill the A-12 now would mean all the money spent to date would be wasted.