“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And before you left the Navy, you had achieved the rank of captain. Am I right there, Sandy?”
“Yes, Senator”
“That’s whatequivalent to a colonel in the army?”
“Exactly, Senator.”
“Well, I would say you are ideally suited, ideally suited, I say, to provide special consultin’ services to our committee. I’d like you to see, Meredith Donaldson, my chief of staffsee my secretary on the way out and she will let you know where to find Meredithand she’ll go over with you what we’ve got and where we’re goin’. Ask Merry to call me about our contract with you and what you will be doin’ for us. How’s that suit you, Dr. Campbell?”
“That will work just fine, Senator.”
“And you will, of course, let me know if you dig up any bones with some meat left on them, sonwe’re on the same page with that, aren’t we? I don’t want any loose cannons right now.”
“Absolutely, Senator.”
“Then I guess this meetin’ is over.”
115
Colonel Tomlinson received a phone call at 8:00 p.m. General Slaider needed to meet with him and wanted it to be a private meeting at a small farm Slaider owned off Old Dominion Drive, just outside of McLean in Virginia. It would be a relatively short drive for Tomlinson, who lived in Arlington, to get to the farm by 9:00 p.m. Tomlinson called for his car, informed his wife of the need to leave for a while, and finished reading the newspaper until his driver arrived.
The ride to the farm was uneventful. During the day, Tomlinson would have enjoyed the ride. Old Dominion Drive was a typical small Virginia road, tree-lined in portions or flanked with gently rolling hills and wide meadows. Cows would be grazing peacefully in those meadows. At night there would be nothing to see, so he rested his eyes while the car sped along. It took less than forty minutes for him to arrive at the farm. General Slaider, hearing the car drive up the gravel path, had opened the door and was waiting to greet his adjutant.
The colonel’s driver moved his car to the garage, where he found the general’s driver waiting with the general’s car. Both drivers carried sidearms. The two drivers shook hands and, chatting, walked into the garage to sit at the table set up there with provisions for a snack and light beverages while they waited.
Special Agent London left his car back on the road, parked in the brush out of sight. He walked from the road to the trees just beyond the lawn surrounding the farmhouse. With his binoculars he could see the colonel and the general sitting in the living room, talking and frequently hunched over as if looking at documents together. From time to time, one or the other of the men took a sip from a glass of wine.
London noted the position of the garage and went there to check it out. He saw the two men waiting for the meeting to be over and decided they would not leave the garage until they were called. London next moved quickly to the side of the farmhouse where the dining room was located. He looked inside and saw no one. He continued around the perimeter of the house and the first floor, at least, appeared to be occupied by no one except for the general and the colonel. He could not be sure of the upstairs.
Just then the two men rose and moved to the stairs leading to the second floor and both men went up, the general leading the way. Special Agent London was not sure what he was witnessing here and was not sure whether he wanted to know. He thought about entering the first floor to place a hearing device but changed his mind. He did not know how the building was protected, but almost certainly there would be intrusion detectors and did not want to risk tripping any of them. He backed away into the cover of the surrounding trees again, deciding to wait and watch. A light was now on in one of the upper floor bedrooms.
After about an hour, Special Agent London heard a rustling sound coming from behind him and to the left, about twenty yards away. It was not unusual to hear animals moving about, especially at night, but he remained alert. Then he heard it again, closer. He hunched down, putting as much cover between him and the noise as he could manage. The sound appeared again, just the crackle of something moving over dried leaves and twigs. Then it stopped again. The next time he heard it, it was distinctly moving toward the farmhouse.
A thunderstorm had developed perhaps ten kilometers away, and the bolts of lightning lit up the night from time to time.
London was now certain the sound was not caused by an animal. He saw a shadowy figure, dark and hunched, moving quickly and quietly toward the farmhouse. The figure moved stealthily along the exterior, much as he had done earlier, checking window by window. London lost sight of the stranger when he moved to the rear of the farmhouse. He was out of sight for about ten minutes when he reappeared on the opposite side. London watched as the figure approached the front door and pause, as he himself had done earlier. This time, however, the shadowing figure opened the front door slowly, evidently listening for some reaction from his intrusion. By degrees the door was opened and the figure slipped inside.
Special Agent London was torn as to what to do. No alarm. That surprised London. Should he intervene to protect the general or watch and wait to see what played out here? He decided to wait and watch. The storm in the distance was moving elsewhere. The moon was just rising and it made it easier now to distinguish objects. He might get a look at this guy when he emerged. On the other hand, the moonlight made his own movements more visible. He remained still. The air was still and cool, and the coolness amplified every sound.
The windows on the second floor were open and London could vaguely hear the sound of two voices in calm conversation. Slaider and Tomlinson. He was too far to make the words out distinctly, but they seemed to be merely ordinary conversation. Nothing unusual there so far. Except for another sound. He was not able to identify it. It was a kind of mechanical sound. No, he thought. Not mechanical. Something familiar. He just could not place it. Not human. Radio static, he decided. He also saw the characteristic glow of a telescreen in the now-darkened upstairs room Tomlinson and Slaider had entered. Perhaps it was something from a TV program he was hearing. No, it was a the characteristic sound of a communications receiver.
The minutes ticked by since the unknown figure had entered the farmhouse. London decided he could wait no longer. This uninvited guest was obviously up to no good and it was his duty to intervene somehow, Slaider or no Slaider. So, cautiously London approached the farmhouse. At least now he knew there was no security device on the front door or it had been disabled. He pushed the door open slowly and entered a small carpeted foyer and hallway. Off the foyer to the left was the living room. The dining room and kitchen were off the hallway on the right side. Only the living room lights were lit, so he quickly moved beyond it to the stairs at the end of the hallway.
His first step onto the stairs produced a small squeaking sound. He quickly moved his foot to the edge of the stair where the riser would provide more support and hopefully no sound. He brought his other foot up to the opposite edge of the stair and was pleased by the silence. In this way he slowly moved to the top of the stairs. By now he had drawn his modified Glock 34 service pistol. It was a competition model with the longer barrel for greater accuracy and used 10 mm ammunition instead of the standard 9 mm. He wanted the extrastopping power. He stood motionless, trying to map in his mind what the layout of the rooms was, the placement of Slaider and Tomlinson, and where the third man might be. He wished he had his 0.40 Beretta PX4 for close work, but it is what it is, he thought.
All the second-floor doors appeared to be closed and the upstairs hallway lights were out. London waited patiently, trying to hear rather than see his quarry. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. So he remained absolutely still. The man had to be up here somewhere. London tried to steady his heartbeat, but dared not let out a stream of breath. Silently, he cleared his lungs, removing the tension with the expelled air.
In a sudden explosion of action, a door was thrown open and the figure he sought flew into the room. At the instant th
e door opened, a burst of light hit the stranger, illuminating a large man in dark clothing. His face had been thoroughly blackened and his hair was covered by a dark baseball hat, the brim of which threw his face, even though already blackened, further into shadow.
London responded without thinking, as he was trained to do in such circumstances, by moving quickly to protect men for whom it was his duty to protect. He charged into the room seconds behind the intruder. A flash of light went off and then another and another. London yelled, “FBI. Stop where you are and let me see your hands.” For an instant he saw the two startled men and then the intruder turned and locked eyes with his. Then he went down as the man struck him quickly and powerfully, once in the solar plexus and once in the face. London never saw the blow coming and struck the floor heavily, unconscious before he hit the ground.
When Special Agent London regained consciousness, he was still lying on the floor where he fell, but with a cold, damp cloth on his forehead. Colonel Tomlinson was standing over him. His driver was off to the side. General Slaider was nowhere to be seen. Slowly London’s eyes began to focus again and the roaring buzz in his brain quieted slowly to the small hiss of leaking gas.
With Tomlinson’s help he was able to raise himself up.
“The general?” he asked.
“Left a few moments ago. We thought it best,” Colonel Tomlinson said.
“Whew. That guy had a fist like a sledgehammer,” London said. “Any chance you recognized him?”
“No. I don’t know who startled us most. Him or you? It’s a pleasure to meet you, Special Agent London. I hope you don’t mind. We found your identification in your wallet.”
London looked around the room as Tomlinson was talking and saw a very well-equipped communication center. The glow coming from the room was not from a telescreen player but from the computer monitors in the room.
“Here, have a drink of this,” Tomlinson said as he handed glass with what smelled to London like whiskey. London took it and downed it quickly. “Thanks,” he said, appreciating the smoothness of the drink.
“This joker took several pictures, I believe. Is this anything we should be concerned about? About the room I mean. Clearly there is some very sophisticated equipment here,” London asked.
“Special Agent London, I think we can both assume the pictures were not meant to be of the room and its equipment, but rather of the general and me and our equipment.” Tomlinson smiled as he said this, amused by his play on words. “I have been with the general for a very long time, and people who are of a mind for such things make certain assumptions about our relationship. False assumptions, of course, but hope dies slowly in some people’s hearts. It’s my guess this joker was hired to get incriminating evidence on us. I have to say it was a pretty bold move. Never had one quite like it before. The lightning must have damaged the security system. Don’t know why the backup power didn’t kick in. Nothing ever works right, eh?” Tomlinson said.
London was about to say something when Tomlinson interrupted before he could respond.
“By the way, Special Agent London, why are you here?” Tomlinson asked. “I would say that at the moment, you are the bigger mystery. How is it you were here to dash to our rescue, so to speak?”
“Colonel, I was acting with regard to an ongoing investigation. I am not free to discuss that investigation with you. Sorry, sir.”
London gingerly tapped his head with the wet cloth where it had hit the ground. “I guess I’ll have a good bump there by morning.”
Getting up completely now, London moved to sit on one of the chairs in the room. Once he was comfortably seated, he asked Tomlinson “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Colonel?”
“Are they part of that unnamed investigation?” Tomlinson asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“So this would be official business?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, fire away,” Tomlinson said.
Special Agent London took out his pad and pen. “Did you get a good look at the intruder, sir?” London asked.
“No, it happened pretty fast and his face was blacked, plus the light from the flash was pretty blinding. Sono. I did not get a good look.”
“Was there anything about his bearing or movements that suggested someone you might know?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea who the intruder might be or who he might be working for?” London asked.
“Special Agent London, I think we can agree I have no idea who that man was. I can speculate and dream up lots of possibilities, but none of that would have any factual foundation, so let’s move on,” Tomlinson answered. “I’ve never been fond of sentences beginning with ‘it might have been.’”
“Of course, Colonel. Have there been any other events similar to this? Any other breaches of security? Uninvited guests? Anything like this in the past?”
“How past is past?” Tomlinson asked.
“The recent past, sir.”
“No, nothing like this.”
“Why did General Slaider leave tonight before I was able to speak with him or before he could be assured of my condition?”
“He left because I assured him you had just taken a hard one to the jaw but that you were in no serious danger. And because of the security breach, we both felt the location was temporarily not safe for him.”
“Safe from what, Colonel?” London asked.
“Safe from anything. General Slaider is a public figure at the center of numerous controversial issues. One never knows who might do what? When in doubt, move quickly to a new location. It’s a pretty good rule.”
“I see. One more question, Colonel. I understand General Slaider was out of the country recently. Can you tell where he went and why?”
“General Slaider was not out of the country,” Colonel Tomlinson replied.
“Colonel, I have very reliable information that General Slaider was in the Far East recently.”
“You are mistaken, Special Agent London.”
“You’re telling me that General Slaider did not fly to Taiwan recently?”
“I know of no such trip.”
London wrote this carefully in his notebook.
“I would like to find out if the security system here failed or was disabled. Can you call my office with the name of the person in charge of investigating that matter for you? By tomorrow?” London handed the Colonel his card. You can use the top phone number.” Writing in his pad, Special Agent London thought of another question. “Where is General Slaider now?” he asked.
“I believe he returned to his home.”
Special Agent London closed his notebook. “Okay, I guess that’s it for now. Have the local police been notified of the trespass?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to notify them?”
Tomlinson took a moment to think about this. “No.”
“Well, thanks for the wet towel. I’ll expect that phone call tomorrow.” London shook hands with Colonel Tomlinson and left the house.
116
James Marshall was back in Dick Scully’s office the next morning. He needed to get Scully to agree to his doing one more article on Arthur Cranshaw and his dream.
“Dick, I know what you said. I know that I’m off this story, that you gave it to Rosen. The story is over my head. I get it. But this is one last technical interview with Cranshaw. I spoke with Sylvia last night and she said he specifically asked for me to meet with him—that he had an exclusive for me, us, uh . . . the paper. It sounded big. Sylvia did not even know what he wanted to tell me, but she said it had to be big from the way Cranshaw was so insistent and that it had to be me. She said Samuel Berman would be at the meeting as well, and the new director of operations.”
Scully did not like this. He didn’t like deciding on a course of action and immediately having to alter plans. He didn’t trust these people, and he had every faith in Marshall’s ability to be duped—especially by that young lady
he was so fond of.
“Why didn’t Cranshaw call me or for that matter, you, directly? I don’t like it. It smells like more of their self-serving bullshit they’ve already handed you in the past,” Scully said, crushing his cigarette out, only half-smoked. “I’ll have Rosen call and set up an appointment with Cranshaw. I make the reporter assignments around here, not Cranshaw.”
“Dick, I’m not trying to be argumentative, but Sylvia said he wants me—specifically.”
“We’ll see about that.” He pressed a button on his desk. “Send Rosen in here—now!”
James Marshall sat silently waiting for the arrival of his colleague. After a few moments, there was a knock on Scully’s door.
“Enter!” Scully said.
Bill Rosen entered the room. He was of medium height, medium build, had short, salt and pepper hair, wore wire-frame glasses, and had the unkempt, wrinkled clothing of a two-bit detective returning from an all-night stakeout. Or, perhaps more charitably, a carefully aged cheese. His eyes were bright and sharp and observant, and Marshall knew him to be a talented investigative reporter with a no-nonsense writing style right out of Joe Friday’s handbook. “Just the facts, ma’am.”
He acknowledged Marshall’s presence with a nod and a smile and then he turned to Scully.
“You wanted to see me, Dick?” he asked.
He quickly explained to Rosen what Marshall had told him. Scully was silent for a moment thinking. Then he evidently decided on his course of action.
“This is what I want you to do. Bill, you call Cranshaw. Tell him you will be doing the interview and that Marshall will be coming along as your technical advisor. If he doesn’t go for that, tell him that you’re just following orders. You can tell him that it’s either this way or no way with this newspaper, that Dick Scully was adamant about this. Do you understand?”
“I get it, boss. However you want to play this,” Rosen said.
Turning to Marshall, Scully said “Are you clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get going, both of you. That’s all.”
On Deception Watch Page 48