Markel’s reaction was instantaneous. His anger switched to theon position, and his face turned bright red. Sessler made a sputtering noise, and Johnson shot forward in his chair. They erupted in a chorus of indignation, led by Markel’s outraged baritone:
“You son of a bitch. I’m going to have your ass. You hear me? Yourass. ”
“You’re way out of line, Collins. You can’t talk that way to the vice chairman.”
“Jesus, who the fuck do you think you are?”
The three four-stars continued railing at me. It was a crazy scene. Confronted by their raw anger, I had to keep reminding myself that I was a civilian. That they really couldn’t hurt me.
As the protests died off, I announced loudly, “So you all signed on to terrorize General Garber’s widow?”
Shocked looks from Sessler and Johnson. Markel continued to fixate on me with hate. He snarled, “Don’t listen to him. What he’s suggesting is preposterous. He’s trying to confuse the issue. He clearly doesn’t know—”
Sessler was already addressing me. He demanded, “What the hell are you talking about, Collins? Who terrorized Mrs. Garber?”
I said, “You really don’t know, sir?”
“Of course not.”
Markel said again, “Don’t listen to him. He’s lying. This interview is finished, Collins.”
I talked over him, saying, “Colonel Stefanski paid a visit to Mrs. Garber this morning. Scared the hell out of her. I understand she’s afraid for her life.”
“My God.” Sessler and Johnson both looked at Markel. Johnson said, “Dave, weagreed . You promised that no one would—”
“Shut up, Mark,” Markel said, his voice thick.
“No. I won’t stand for it. You went too far. For chrissakes, isn’t it enough that her husband is—”
“I said, shut up!”
Johnson fell silent, his teeth clenched. Sessler sat there, looking at Markel with open disgust.
Markel spun to me, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. You hear me? It won’t work.Now get out of here. ”
I nodded to the other generals and pocketed my notepad. As I rose to leave, I remembered I still had a card left in my hand.
I tossed it on the table now.
30
Looking down on General Markel, I said, “Sir, we know who really killed General Garber.”
He blinked, thrown either by the statement or the fact that I’d dared to speak. He recovered, saying, “You’re bluffing. You don’t know a damn thing.”
“We have evidence that incriminates Colonel Weller, sir.”
This time he showed no reaction. Neither did the other generals. I waited for them to ask me what I had against Weller, but they never did.
Which meant they already knew.
“You’re pissing in the wind, Collins,” Markel said. “You’ll never be able to make a case against Colonel Weller, and you know it.”
“Probably not, sir. I was just wondering whose idea it was for her to plant the evidence.”
Again there was no response. I looked to Sessler and Johnson. They avoided my gaze. Honorable men, I thought.
“Get the fuck out of here, Collins,” Markel said again.
• • •
In the corridor outside, I retrieved my cell phone and made a quick call to Martha. She rarely swore, but she did so now. She was understandably furious, having learned from Andy that Simon had been the one who had taken the evidence.
“The bastard just stood there, letting me think it was my people. You know what I was going through. So help me, if I thought it’d do any good, I’d report his ass.”
“You’d be wasting your time.”
“I know, but—Son of a bitch.”
She was seething. I gave her a few moments, then said, “Let me know when you’re through.”
“Don’t start with me, Marty.”
“Simon realizes he’s screwed you over. He’ll make amends.”
“You bet he will.” She paused. “He still handing out tickets to his sky box at FedEx Field—”
“Yeah.”
“I want four. Against the Cowboys.”
I had to smile. Martha was a fanatical Redskins fan. “You got it.”
“The Eagles and Giants, too.And valet parking passes.”
“Sure. Anything. Martha, I need a quick favor—”
After I told her, I could almost picture her rolling her eyes. She said grumpily, “Hang on.”
She came back less than a minute later. “I got Sergeant Keele here. He says Andy got a call a few minutes ago and took off.”
“Took off? Where?”
She relayed the question. To me: “All he knows is Andy left the hangar in a big hurry.”
Good enough. “Thanks, Martha.”
“Uh-huh. And Marty—”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Simon I still think he’s an asshole.”
I tried Andy’s cell phone, but he never answered. I hung up without leaving a message, then strolled into the outer office and looked around. I found Colonel Stefanski sitting at a desk in the far corner, talking on a phone.
I came up behind him, listened for a moment, then said, “Say hi to Andy.”
He turned around, startled. I gave him a little smile.
He rose menacingly to his feet and thrust his Saran Wrapped face close to mine. “Listen, smartass—”
By then I was already walking away.
As I headed down the hall toward General Garber’s office, I checked my voice-mail messages. There were two; both from Charlie Hinkle. The first asked me to call him, and the second said he’d passed some of the passwords to Amanda.
I frowned; someone was calling out to me.
Turning, I spotted the navy captain whom I’d spoken to earlier hurrying up to me. “General Sessler would like to talk to you, Collins.”
“He tell you why?”
He gave me a funny look. He was right; it was a stupid question. “Lead the way.”
But instead of escorting me to the stairs that would take me up to the army chief’s third-floor office, we about-faced and went down a few doors to Markel’s office.
I said, “I thought I was supposed to meet with General Sessler.”
We entered another anteroom with corridors on either side. More portraits hung on the walls, this time depicting recent vice chairmen of the Joint Chiefs. Markel’s two executive officers, an air force colonel and an army onestar, were at their desks, tapping on keyboards. To their left sat the white-haired secretary I’d spoken to earlier. I’d been off by ten years; she was closer to seventy than eighty, and had an uncanny resemblance to Barbara Bush. The three of them glanced at the captain and me without curiosity or comment, confirming we’d been expected.
We followed the left corridor, passed a small admin room where a copy machine was buzzing away, and stepped into a spacious office dominated by an enormous portrait that covered the center of one wall. Its sheer size made you stop and look.
I found the painting’s subject curious. Instead of some famous general, the face peering back at me was of a young, dark-haired soldier wearing a blue uniform with a single gold star on the collar. I asked the captain who he was.
“William Travis.”
The name was vaguely familiar.
“The commander of the Alamo.”
“Right.” I remembered now. “The guy who drew a line in the sand and said anyone who wanted to stay should step across it. Markel a Texan? No?”
He was shaking his head. “General Markel admired Travis’s balls. Markel believes soldiers should never surrender.”
“Death before dishonor.”
“You got it,” he said. “A lot of people knock Markel for his John Wayne act, but hey, the guy puts his money where his mouth his. When he first got to ’Nam, his patrol was ambushed by the VC, and most of the survivors got the hell out of Dodge. But not Markel. Word was he single-handedly held off the VC un
til reinforcements arrived.”
“Sounds like you’re an admirer, Captain.”
He shrugged. “Hell, I suppose you’ve got to be. Most people pay lip service to all the stuff about duty, honor, country. But man, helives it. You know what he says his biggest regret is? You’ll never guess in a million years—”
I shook my head.
“Not dying in combat. He says that’s the only way for a warrior to go. How’s that grab you? Talk about one intense son of a bitch.”
“I’m not sure it’d be healthy serving under him in combat.”
He laughed. “I’m no hero either. I got two kids I want to see grow up.” He waved me to the sitting area. “I’d better be getting back. You’re looking at the guy who’s in charge of putting together Secretary Churchfield’s talking paper for tonight’s press conference.”
“She’s giving a press conference?”
“Yeah. Right after the president’s speech. She’s discussing the Iraq deployment. I’ve already sent the secretary seven drafts.Seven . And now I’ve got to crank out number eight.” He shook his head gloomily. “Never should have majored in English. Two months more of this paperwork chickenshit, then it’s back to the real navy.”
I nodded sympathetically. While a Pentagon tour was essential for promotion to the upper echelons of the military, no self-respecting officer actually enjoyed it.
“Anyway,” the captain said, “General Sessler should be along in a few minutes, but you know how it is when they get that fourth star. It’s like they suddenly forget how to tell time.”
As he hurried off, a female sergeant with a dimpled smile appeared, asked if I wanted anything to drink. I said no.
After she left, I took a moment to survey the room. It wasn’t the size of a Fortune 500 exec’s office, but it was close. In addition to the sitting area, which included a couch, a loveseat, and a couple of armchairs, there was a circular conference table and an ornately carved desk the size of a pool table. A matching hutch topped by a computer sat directly behind it, framed by a bookshelf and a steel safe. A glassed-in curio cabinet occupied one corner, and a big-screen TV another.
Not that I was paying all that much attention to the furnishings. What really tweaked my interest was a wall display that consisted of a dozen or so black-and-white photographs arrayed around a rifle enclosed in a wood-and-glass case. The rifle was obviously the one Markel had used as a sniper, and the photos all depicted haggard men in dirty fatigues, taken against a jungle background. There was something oddly reverential about the display.
I went over to the rifle. It was the military version of a Remington single-shot, bolt-action .308. I was familiar with it because I had a similar one at home, though I used mine to hunt deer, not men. A brass plaque affixed to the bottom edge of the case read simply “134.” There was no further explanation, which was understandable. In the politically correct atmosphere that defined present-day America, it would be considered bad form to have a senior general highlight his prowess as a killer.
The enormity of the number was both awe-inspiring and chilling.
One hundred and thirty-four confirmed kills.
By one man.
And I’d pissed him off.
I sighed, tried to think happier thoughts, and focused on the photographs. Almost all were group shots. I scanned them, trying to pick out General Markel. It wasn’t easy. Most of the photographs were small, five-by-sevens, and had been taken at a distance. There was also a sameness to the men’s gaunt, unshaven faces and their vacant, world-weary expressions. These were warriors, men whose faces reflected the horrors of combat.
Below each photograph was a silver plaque engraved with a date, a unit designation—some with more than one—and a Vietnamese location, but no names of the soldiers portrayed.
I finally identified Markel in the third picture, which was larger than the rest. It showed two sergeants, standing arm in arm, each with a rifle slung over his shoulder, grinning broadly into the camera. Both were proudly holding up what appeared to be a necklace of shriveled flowers. But of course they weren’t flowers.
They were ears.
A lot of ears.
My eyes went to the man on the left, a tall, lanky soldier with blond hair and ruggedly handsome features. I shifted my gaze. A shorter man, equally thin, with wavy dark hair. I studied him. There was a resemblance, but the sergeant’s stripes threw me.
I looked back to the first two photos. This man was there. I also spotted him in the rest of the pictures and finally concluded he had to be General Markel.
I was about to turn away from the last photo when I froze. It was a wide-angle shot of close to twenty men. They looked like hell. Their faces were filthy, their uniforms ragged and torn. Most were sitting or kneeling, and a number had obviously been wounded, their bandages visible. In the distance behind them, I could see a blackened hillside and the prone shapes of corpses.
What held my attention was the face of a soldier at the right edge of the picture. He’d stood out because he was heavier than the rest. Much heavier.
I stared at his face, but the image was too grainy for me to be sure. Still, I had the feeling, the sense that—
And then I saw another face that seemed familiar.
I slowly shook my head at a growing realization. If two of them were there…
I leaned close and began studying every face.
There he was. The third man. This time his face was clearer, and I was certain of his identity.
I stood back, trying to understand. This was a coincidence I hadn’t anticipated. Still, did it really mean anything? So what if they’d all fought in Vietnam together? How could that have anything to do with—
I stiffened. I was looking at the silver plaque, focusing on the name of the place where the photograph had been taken. My eyes darted to the other pictures. Most of the names were different. But two were identical to the location in the large group photo. I thought back to Sergeant Blake’s words as she tried to recall the name of the person General Garber had been fearful of:
It was an Asian name.
It could have been Chinese.
I began to tremble. My God, I’d only assumed that—
Voices from the hallway outside. Then loudly: “See that we’re not disturbed, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir.”
When General Sessler walked in, I was sitting in a chair.
31
General Sessler entered the office and closed the door.
As I started to rise, he gestured me to remain seated. He said sarcastically, “At least you have some respect for rank, Collins.”
I didn’t reply. My pulse was still racing, and I was working to appear calm.
Sessler slid his small frame into the armchair beside me and contemplated me through his Coke-bottle bottoms. “Quite a little display you put on in there. You shook up General Markel. Not an easy thing to do.” He added, “Or smart.”
“Did he kill General Garber, sir?”
His face darkened. “I didn’t call you here to answer questions. I want to give you some advice, hoping you’ll come to your senses.”
Here comes the sermon.I said, “In other words, you want me to back off, sir.”
“You better believe it. You have no idea what you’re dealing with. If you did, there wouldn’t be any question. You’d never pursue this thing. You couldn’t.”
“General, I’m aware of the political considerations—”
“For God’s sake, man, think about what you’re doing. The damage you’ll cause. We’re about to attack Iraq. This time it won’t be as clean as the Gulf War. Saddam knows we’re coming after him. He’s got nothing to lose by using chemical and biological weapons. We’re talking casualties, a lot of casualties. And that’s only part of the problem. The second we attack, the Muslim world will be up in arms. They don’t give a damn that our actions are justified or that we lost three thousand innocent Americans on 9-11. All they care about is that the great Satan is atta
cking one of their own. Terrorist recruiting will triple overnight. That means this fucking war—”
“General—”
“—will last for years.Years . Public opinion is a fickle thing. Right now, the American people are solidly behind the war. It’s crucial that they continue to support us when the body bags start coming home. They need to have faith in the integrity of the military leadership—”
“General, there’s been a murder. I’m a cop. It’s my duty to—”
“You’re an American.” He jabbed a finger accusingly at my chest. “Or is that something you’ve forgotten?”
My jaw tightened. I was trying to keep my cool, but he was getting to me. I coldly told him he had no right to question my loyalty.
He snorted harshly. “Don’t I? You know what’s at stake, and yet you persist in pursuing this matter. In my book, that makes you nothing but a—The hell you going?”
I was out of my chair. General officer or not, I didn’t have to listen to this. I turned my back on him and started toward the door.
He grabbed my arm and held it in a bony grip. “Sit down, Collins. That’s an order.”
I looked down at his hand. “Sir, technically, that’s assault.”
Our eyes met, and he slowly loosened his grip. “Sit down,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”
I didn’t move.
“Collins,” he said, sounding tired, “I took an oath to protect this country. I’ve spent most of my life trying to do just that. If I came on too strong, that’s too fucking bad. I’ve earned the right. Two Purple Hearts and four stars say I’ve earned the right. Now sit the fuck down. I haven’t got much time.”
I hesitated, then eased down.
Sessler’s spoke in low tones, but with an undercurrent of emotion. “There’s a lot more to this than you could possibly conceive. The political concerns are only a part of the equation. You keep pushing, people are going to get hurt. People who don’t deserve it. You’ll destroy reputations…and worse.”
I caught the implication. “Sir, are you saying this wasn’t an accidental killing?”
He hesitated, as if searching for a word. “Itwas an accident. Maybe not technically, but that’s what it was. No one intended it to happen, it just did. If you want to hold someone responsible, there’s only one person. General Garber.He is the one who is ultimately responsible for what happened.He is the one who brought this upon himself.” He grimaced in disgust. “Jesus, the man really was one sick son of a bitch.”
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