He scanned a list of calls to be returned, picked up the phone, and dialed an extension within headquarters. “Detective lounge,” a voice said.
“This is Languth. Morrissey there?”
“Yeah, hold on.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah. How’d it go?”
“I got back a half-hour ago. He went to the Florida Avenue Grill and met a male Caucasian, about twenty, dark complexion, medium height, dressed in jeans and a torn red sweater.”
“And?”
“They sat in a booth and had breakfast. The guy he met gave him a large manila envelope. Potamos looked at its contents, replaced them in the envelope, and they went to the parking lot.”
“Potamos keep the envelope?”
“Yeah. They got in separate cars and split.”
“What about last night?”
“Yeah, let’s see. Okay, I picked him up at his condo. He went to Blues Alley, had a beer at the bar, then left with the piano player, a Caucasian female named… ah, Roseann Blackburn. They took a walk down by the canal, talked for approximately ten minutes, then returned to the club. She played another set while Potamos split, returning directly to his apartment. He took an envelope from the trunk of his car before entering the building.”
“A different envelope?”
“Sure, this was before he had breakfast at the Florida. He left his apartment at approximately three-thirty A.M. and drove to a small building on upper Wisconsin, near the cathedral, Glover Park, I guess. I checked the doorbells… there’s an R. Blackburn living there. He left there at approximately seven-thirty and went to the Florida.”
“Okay, Sean,” Languth said. “I need somebody on him tonight, too.”
“I’ll catch it, I guess.”
“Hey, Sean, what about the envelope?”
“Which one?”
“The one he took from his trunk last night. He have it with him when he went to Glover Park?”
“He carried something, but I’m not sure it was the same envelope.”
“He come out of there with it this morning?”
“Not sure, Pete. I don’t think he was carrying anything when he went into the diner.”
“Tell whoever’s on tonight to look out for envelopes. Okay?”
“Yup.”
Languth had been making notes while Morrissey recounted Potamos’s movements of the night before. One of them was “Met Anthony Fiamma at Florida Avenue Grill.”
He dialed a number and allowed it to ring a long time. Finally, a male voice answered.
“This is Languth. You called?”
“Yeah. I wondered when I get paid.”
“I’ll stop by. You working tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe tonight.”
“Good. It was helpful?”
“Yeah. Take it easy.”
He hung up on the young waiter from Martin’s Tavern, who was one of many waiters around town on retainer to the MPD. All they had to do was report any unusual happenings, or the presence of people in their restaurants who might be of interest to the police. Their input, added to the information gathered from bugs on selected pay phones, considerably expanded the knowledge gained from direct police work.
Establishing the system hadn’t been easy. There had been considerable opposition within the MPD’s hierarchy to this spying on random citizens who happened to frequent the wrong restaurant at the wrong time, or who used the wrong pay phone. Advocates of it had used the New York City experience—where entire banks of pay phones in such major terminals as Pennsylvania Station were hooked into a communications center deep in the terminal’s sublevels—to help them make their case. Eventually, with support from the FBI and even the CIA, the system was put in place.
Little of importance had come out of it, mostly recordings of homosexual liaisons being arranged, conversations about politics that were incorporated into files on selected individuals, only occasionally a discussion of a crime to be committed that gave the police a leg up on the criminals. When a homosexual identified himself or herself during a call, and that person worked for the government, the information was shared with the FBI and the CIA. One day, it was reasoned, the network would uncover the makings of a major crime or terrorist plot, and that would justify everything. In the meantime, the huge reels of recording tape rolled on, and the waiters and waitresses kept their eyes open for someone from the most-wanted list, and their ears open for a dinner-table crime conference.
Languth’s final call before lunch was to Detroit. The conversation was brief, ending with Languth saying “And that’s what I pay you for, goddamn it. Just keep after it. I don’t care if it takes twenty years.”
| Chapter Eighteen |
John Frolich’s Senate limousine glided along the Baltimore–Washington Parkway at eighty miles an hour until slowing down to take the Fort Meade exit. Frolich, who’d been studying papers in the rear, looked through tinted glass at the top of the nine-story concrete National Security Agency Building.
A team of security guards at the gate confirmed Frolich’s identity, searched the trunk and interior of the limo, handed the driver a pass, and directed him to an entrance at the rear of the building where two young men in dark suits were waiting. “I’ll be an hour,” Frolich told his driver as he followed the men past more guards and into the building. Another guard, seated behind a console, pressed a button and what had appeared to be a stainless-steel wall slid open, exposing a long corridor with dark blue carpeting. The walls were white and bare.
There was no conversation as Frolich and the men walked the length of the hall and stopped in front of an elevator with blue doors. The doors opened and the men stepped aside for Frolich to enter. “They’re upstairs, senator,” one of them said.
There were no buttons to push and Frolich waited until the elevator had completed its swift journey to the ninth floor. The doors opened and a tall, erect, craggy-faced air-force general extended his hand. “Senator, good to see you again,” he said.
“Same here, general,” Frolich said.
“Come on, they’re inside.”
They went into a large conference room. Beige drapes covered every wall. Behind the drapes were lights that gave the impression of sunshine, but Frolich knew there were no windows in the room. Its walls were thick and constructed of special materials designed to keep all sound within it, even if powerful microphones were directed at it from distant exterior points. The center of the room was taken up by a large, oval walnut table. Blank yellow legal pads, empty glasses, sharpened pencils, and a folder were neatly placed in front of each chair. A leather-covered carafe held chilled water. Recessed fixtures directed pools of light down to the table.
The moment Frolich followed the general into the room, two uniformed men appeared and closed the door behind them. Frolich looked across the room at the other two people in it and said, “Gentlemen.”
One of the men crossed the room with his characteristic energy and shook Frolich’s hand. Wade Poesser was the president’s national-security adviser. He was short and stocky and fond of vested suits that displayed his Harvard Phi Beta Kappa key and chain. He’d never struck Frolich as being the Harvard type, not with his thick southern accent and tendency to slip into folksy metaphors. He’d quickly acquired a reputation for level-headed thinking, cordiality, and for being closer to the president than almost any other national-security adviser in recent memory.
“How you holdin’ up, John?” Poesser asked.
“All right, Wade, considering.”
The other man across the room hadn’t made a move toward Frolich, so Frolich nodded and said, “Hello Geof.”
Geof Krindler returned the greeting. He was much taller than Frolich, wire-thin and with bushy white hair that appeared to have been shaped into an Afro. A crisp tan bush jacket covered a brown silk turtleneck. A medal given him at an international dinner for intelligence experts lay against his chest on the end of a gold chain. Krindler, an acknowledged
expert in intelligence gathering and counterintelligence, was an American but at home in countries around the world. He’d never been an employee of any U.S. intelligence agency but had been supplying advice on a contract basis during the past three administrations, including the one in power. He was smug, aloof, unabashedly egotistical, and openly scornful of elected officials. He especially disliked Senator John Frolich and didn’t try to disguise it.
“Senator,” Krindler said, allowing Frolich to come to him and offer his hand. “Sorry about the tragedy in your family.” He had a trace of a British accent.
“Thank you, Geof. I’m afraid that old saying about life being what happens when you’re making other plans is true.”
“Would anyone like something before we begin?” the general asked. His name was Mike Mulchinski, much decorated, a veteran of the NATO command in Europe, now air-force liaison to the National Security Agency.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Frolich said. “Scotch, water.”
Poesser ordered bourbon. The others declined alcohol; Krindler asked for fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Mulchinski opened a small door on one wall, removed a telephone, and placed the order. It arrived within minutes from a kitchen down the hall.
“Good health,” Poesser said as he took a seat at the table. The others joined him.
“Well,” Krindler said, slowly moving his eyes from person to person, “does anyone have any brilliant ideas about how to proceed?” He came to rest on Frolich.
Mulchinski said in a raspy voice, “I don’t see why all this delay is necessary. Hell, we’re talking about the security of this country. Allowing a small group of private citizens to dictate security policy is asinine.”
“It isn’t that, Mike,” Poesser said, “it’s a question of keeping this project secret. The president considers this crucial. The Soviets must not learn of it.”
Krindler, who’d folded himself back into his chair, said, “I agree with the general. The Russians have taken advantage of the land our Senate and House saw fit to give them and are using every conceivable electronic device to spy on us. That’s no secret. The public is aware of it and doesn’t like it and wants us to do something. As far as I’m concerned, we should move openly and quickly, finish construction and get our gear in place.”
Poesser sighed and, with a lilting deliberation, his southern heritage adding an aura of backwoods wisdom to his words, said, “There are far greater considerations here than pleasing the public. Wouldn’t you agree, senator?”
Frolich nodded. “Absolutely.” He looked at Krindler. “We’re currently in the midst of extremely delicate negotiations with the Russians on a variety of issues, including further talks on arms reductions. The president is considering a summit in the fall. No, the approach here can’t be to barge ahead. It has to be handled with delicacy and restraint.”
Mulchinski said, “And in the meantime they train their microphones on every official building in Washington, including the White House and the Pentagon. They keep right on raising hell with our transmissions, and we sit like helpless wimps in our own country, our own nation’s capital. Sorry, senator, but this thing has gotten out of hand.”
“It’s being worked on,” Frolich said.
“The president will want specifics here,” said Poesser.
Frolich hesitated. “Certain steps are being taken that should turn things around very soon. I’m sorry, but I really can’t be more specific than that. I don’t think the president would care to know the details.”
“A timetable?” Mulchinski asked.
A shrug from Frolich. “A month at the most, two weeks at the least.” He checked his watch. “I don’t think we’ll have need to meet again,” he said. “Thank you. Each of you can report back to your superiors that the situation is well in hand.”
Frolich started to get up, but Krindler stopped him with, “Senator, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“You and Mr. Poesser claim we have to go slowly in order to keep the project secret, but there have already been serious threats to that secrecy.”
“I don’t think we have to get into that now,” Poesser said, getting up and placing his hand on Frolich’s shoulder.
“I think we do,” Krindler said, his avian face cold and challenging.
“What’s your point?” Frolich asked, meeting Krindler’s eyes across the table.
“That unless we’ve taken care of every possible source of leaks, we should stop the charade and just do it!”
“Continue.”
“You say we should tell our superiors that all is well. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Poesser asked.
“Because it isn’t, and I think the senator knows what I mean.”
Frolich laughed and shook his head. “No, Geof, the senator doesn’t know what you mean, although he can guess, and what he comes up with makes the senator very angry.”
Without another word, Frolich left the table and went to the hall, followed closely by Poesser, who again put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you, John. You know those contract CIA types, little boys playing cops and robbers, right down to his bush jacket and medal.” He laughed. “Damn, he must think he’s back in Angola riling up the natives for revolt. Ignore him and do what you said you would, get this project back on track. I intend to tell the president that with John Frolich at the helm, there’s not a damn thing to fret about. He believes in you, you know, John. He’s damned pleased to have John Frolich watching over national security up on the Hill. Just ignore the great white hunter in there.”
The elevator arrived as Frolich said, “I wish I could, but he’s made that impossible. Well, it doesn’t matter, Wade. My best to the president, and thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“How’s Marshall Jenkins?”
“Fine. He’s taking care of his responsibilities in this quite nicely.”
Frolich started to step into the elevator, but Poesser grabbed his arm. “John, can he be trusted?”
It was an incredulous laugh. “Of course. Do you think we would have involved him if he couldn’t be?”
“I know, I know, but the president… well, you do know that Jenkins’s wife is German.”
Frolich stared at him.
“Not that that’s of terrible import, but in something as sensitive as this, you consider every aspect. At least, a prudent man should.”
“There’s no problem with Marshall or his wife, Wade.”
“That’s good to hear. She’s quite a woman, evidently. Gets around. Beautiful. He’s a lucky man. Any man who gets close to her is lucky, I suppose.”
“Goodbye, Wade. We’ll be in touch.”
| Chapter Nineteen |
The Press Club was building to its usual Friday peak when Potamos walked in for lunch. The card games were in progress, the serious drinkers (as opposed to the merely heavy drinkers) had staked out their spots at the bar. In general, TGIF looseness was in full swing and would continue late into the evening.
Potamos found room at the bar and ordered a double scotch with a splash of soda. His fatigue began to lift as he tuned in to conversations around him and enjoyed the taste of the scotch and the cool, pleasant sensation in his throat. His throat had been scratchy. His diagnosis: not enough sleep and too much talk. Gardello had him on a succession of stories, each of which demanded extensive interviewing. He missed Roseann, was tempted a hundred times to stop in where she was appearing, or to call her. “Admirable,” he told himself each time he resisted the temptation. “Don’t upset her, don’t push.” Even though pushing her was very much on his mind. He was crazy about her. She was right—he’d take the dive again anytime he thought there was a possibility of it with her.
A round little man with gray fringe over his ears, a drooping gray moustache, and half-glasses on the tip of his nose waved from the far end of the bar for Potamos to join him. Potamos returned the greeting an
d looked away. “Hey, Joe, come here,” the man called.
Potamos took his glass and headed for where Marvin Goldson sat. Goldson was a regular at the club, especially on Friday, the day after his weekly newspaper, the Georgetown Eye, was published. The Eye had carved a niche in Washington journalism since Goldson took it over six years ago after having spent twenty years as a rewrite man in UPI’s Washington bureau. Until that time it had been nothing more than a conduit for Georgetown social notes, weddings, parties, and press releases from area businesses. Goldson had gradually introduced real news to its pages, including investigative pieces. Owning a newspaper had been Goldson’s lifelong dream, and he carried his title of owner and publisher with a certain flair. Owning Time magazine wouldn’t have given him as much satisfaction.
“How’re you, Marv?” Potamos asked, slipping onto a stool just vacated by a young TV reporter who’d recently joined the club.
“Splendid, Joseph,” Goldson said, laughing and slapping Potamos on the back. “Couldn’t be better. You?”
“I could be better, but all things considered, I could be worse. I got up this morning, took a breath, and everything worked. Can’t ask for more than that.”
“Indeed not,” said Goldson. “Jose, fill up my friend here,” he told the bartender. Potamos started to protest, then decided why not? It was Friday. It’d been a lousy week. He deserved it.
“So, Joseph, what’s new in big-time journalism?”
Potamos joined his laughter. “Big-time? You’re big-time, Marv. You own the thing.”
Goldson didn’t argue. He ordered another beer and devoured a shrimp. “Want one, Joe?” Potamos ate a shrimp. Goldson told him a couple of new ethnic jokes and asked how Potamos’s buddy, George Bowen, was.
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