Treason

by Don Brown

  He inched toward the toll booth.

  Indeed, the United States Navy controlled some of the most beautiful and most expensive real estate in the country.

  One such place was the Naval Air Station at North Island, located at the tip of Coronado, just across the bay from San Diego. Zack remembered how he had spent his first night in San Diego at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters at NASNI, but was unable to find permanent housing on the base there, and certainly could not afford to locate in the quaint, ritzy Coronado where nothing sold for less than a million dollars.

  Exactly where he was headed right now.

  He flicked the correct change into the collection bucket and drove through the toll booth. The Landrieu family fortune. Probably some sort of trust set up for the grandchildren. It had come from oil, he had learned in his research. Marianne’s great-grandfather had mustered the resources to drill in the Gulf of Mexico. The result: black gold.

  He pulled up in front of the upscale address she had given him on Isabella Avenue, just off Ocean Boulevard. He got out of the car and walked through the picket gate, up the brick walkway flanked by two manicured spots of plush lawn, to the portico of the white stucco house. The house wasn’t palatial, but it was ritzy. And worth at least a million bucks for this view of the Pacific.

  He pressed the doorbell, trying to dispel the feeling of uneasiness that had plagued him since they made the date.

  “Hi, Zack.” Ensign Marianne Landrieu greeted him from the doorway. She seemed as troubled as he did, and he wondered if she was having second thoughts.

  “Ready?” Zack smiled nervously, wrestling with his chivalrous desire to help Marianne and his equally strong determination not to cross the bounds of propriety.

  “Very much so,” she said. But still, she seemed nervous.

  The car moved down Isabella Avenue, directly toward the Pacific, then left down Ocean Boulevard, parallel to the beach, before turning left again, heading east. A moment later, they crested the Coronado Bridge, and the magnificent view of downtown San Diego spread before them in a panoramic display.

  They drove north up Interstate 5, passing downtown San Diego and then Mission Bay, before Marianne spoke. “Thanks again for doing this. Just getting out and seeing some scenery is doing me some good.” But her actions didn’t match her words; she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  I’m going to bury the animal who attacked this girl. He fought to keep his voice professional, slightly impersonal. He glanced toward her.

  “Air conditioner too cold?”

  “No,” she said softly. “But opening the sunroof might be nice.”

  Zack pressed a button, which slid back the car’s sunroof and lowered the side windows. The warm, early evening Pacific breeze hit his face and lifted Marianne’s blond hair from her neck.

  Zack steered the Mercedes off the Interstate at the La Jolla exit, then into a parking spot off the street about two hundred yards north of the cliffs overlooking La Jolla cove.

  “If we hurry, we can catch the sun setting over the Pacific.” He shot her a quizzical look to see if she was up to it. Her smile gave him her answer.

  A few minutes later, they walked briskly up the sidewalk along Coast Boulevard toward the Ellen Scripps Browning Park, where people had gathered on the lawn, throwing Frisbees, talking, or playing with their dogs. Behind the park, Zack saw the shops, restaurants, and fashionable homes and condos of downtown La Jolla.

  They walked to the edge of the cliff. The ocean was about a hundred feet below, crashing into the rocky crevices at the bottom of the cliffs. To their right, the cliffs extended in a peaceful curve for several miles, above the cove where the water lapped against the rocky shores.

  The real beauty of the place lay to the west, toward the sea, where the sun—a big, orange, glowing beach ball—was sinking slowly into the horizon. The lower it sank, the wider it seemed, casting a narrow orange carpet across the grayish-blue water from the horizon to the rocky shores below. They watched for a few minutes, saying nothing. No words could add to its beauty.

  “Breathtaking,” Marianne said finally. “I’ve been over here several times, but never at sunset.” She drew in a deep breath, her expression unreadable.

  “We’d better head across the street,” he said after a moment. “I made reservations, but I hear this place can get crowded.”

  She inclined her head, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  “I will follow your lead, Lieutenant.”

  He led her back through the park and then across the street to the new French restaurant called La Vue de la Mer.

  A middle-aged, dark-haired man with a pencil-thin moustache stood at the entrance. “Reservations, monsieur?” His French accent almost sounded legitimate.

  “My name is Brewer. I have reservations for eight o’clock.”

  “Hmmm.” He flipped a couple of pages in his red-bound leather reservations booklet, raising and lowering his thick eyebrows in a studious manner. “Ah, yes. Lieutenant Brewer.” He rested his index finger on one of the pages. “While we pride ourselves on punctuality, the manager requests that I convey our apologies.” He looked up. “We are running half an hour behind tonight. But as a token of our appreciation for your patronage, he has asked that I escort you to our bar, where you will be served complimentary cocktails of your choice as your table is readied.”

  Zack glanced at Marianne. “Is that okay with you?”

  “I’m starting to like this place already,” she said.

  Zack nodded to the pseudo Frenchman. “Okay. After you.”

  “Bien sur, monsieur. Venez avec moi.”

  Zack took Marianne’s arm as they followed the host to the bar, where they were seated at a high, round table for two.

  A waiter in a white dinner jacket and black pants appeared almost as they were seated. “Welcome to La Vue de la Mer, Lieutenant Brewer. What complimentary cocktail may we offer the lady tonight?”

  “Pinot noir, please.” Marianne said.

  “May I recommend our manager’s special for the evening, vintage 1993, imported from our winery in Monte Carlo?”

  “Sounds great.” Marianne smiled at the waiter, then at Zack.

  “Bien sur. And for you, monsieur?”

  “Ginger ale,” Zack said and adjusted his collar. He was growing uncomfortable with the new Marianne who seemed to be emerging. He thought back to the report, the accusations that she had been drinking the night of the assault.

  “You’re not going to order a drink?” Marianne’s voice seemed to hold a hint of disappointment. Or was it his imagination?

  “You go ahead,” he said. “But I don’t drink and drive—”

  “Lieutenant Brewer!” He was interrupted by an all-too-familiar voice from behind.

  He turned to see Lieutenant Diane Colcernian striding toward him.

  She was followed by a sophisticated middle-aged man whom Zack remembered as her friend Pierre Rochembeau.

  “Diane. What a surprise to see you here.”

  She smiled at him, then glanced at the woman at his side. Her eyes widened before she looked back to Zack.

  “A pleasure, mademoiselle.” Pierre gave Marianne a slight bow and lifted her hand to his lips. Zack noticed she didn’t pull back. Quite the contrary. She seemed to enjoy his attention.

  “Do you work here?” Marianne asked.

  Pierre chuckled. “No, but I really am French. I live in New York and am here visiting my friend Diane. I am Pierre Rochembeau. And you are . . . ?”

  “Marianne Landrieu. I’m a naval officer.”

  Diane’s earlier expression of surprise gave way to disapproval. She leaned toward Zack as Pierre and Marianne chatted. “Dating our clients now,” she whispered, “are we, Lieutenant?”

  “Marianne is not my client,” Zack whispered back. “And this is not a date. She needs a friend. That’s it.” He paused. “Besides, you know as well as I do that fraternization applies to officer-enlisted relationship
s.” He shot her a sarcastic grin.

  Diane looked pointedly across the table at Marianne and Pierre. For a moment, she said nothing as Marianne spoke to Pierre, obviously enjoying herself. Diane then refocused on Zack. “She does seem to have a way with men,” she said, her back now turned to the other couple, “wouldn’t you say?”

  “And your meaning is . . . ?”

  “Don’t get yourself falsely accused tonight, Lieutenant. You may wind up needing my services.”

  “I don’t think so, Diane. Of that you can be certain.”

  “Hmmm.” She shot him a devilish grin. “Never say never, Lieutenant.”

  Before he could answer, Pierre’s accented voice broke in. “It was a pleasure meeting you, mademoiselle. But I see that our table is ready.”

  Pierre met Zack’s gaze. “It was good to see you again, Lieutenant Brewer.”

  “You too, Pierre,” Zack said.

  “You know them?” Marianne asked as Pierre escorted Diane away from their table.

  “Yes.” He nodded, then waited to go on as the waiter brought a tray with their drinks.

  “She’s a JAG officer. I’ve known them both since Justice School.”

  “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

  “Diane.” And she wants to cut your heart out. But I’m not going to spoil your night by telling you who she is.

  “Lieutenant Brewer, your table is ready, sir.”

  Zack looked up as the host stepped to their table. He breathed a sigh of relief as he scooted back his chair and reached for Marianne’s hand.

  “Shall we?”

  Saved by the waiter.

  CHAPTER 15

  Residential quarters, officers’ housing

  U.S. Naval Station

  Norfolk, Virginia

  2330 hours (EST)

  Captain David Guy had served in the JAG Corps for twenty-five years. As the new JAG officer for COMNAVAIRLANT, he had expected a low-key final tour in this, his last assignment before retirement. He was one of only a handful of officers with the personal phone number of the commander of all United States Naval Air Forces in the Atlantic Fleet, but he never really expected to have to use that number.

  And especially not at 2330 hours.

  But when the station branch of the NCIS called him at home thirty minutes earlier, the information passed along was too hot to sit on. The admiral had to be immediately apprised, even at this late hour.

  David checked his Palm Pilot, found the admiral’s number, and then dialed a code on the phone that would scramble the call in the unlikely event someone was listening in. Then he dialed the home number for COMNAVAIRLANT.

  “Hello?” It was a sleepy-sounding woman’s voice.

  “Mrs. Gibson?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Captain David Guy. Is the admiral available?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and I apologize for the hour. But this is urgent.”

  “Hang on.” In the background he heard her muffled voice. “Danny. There’s some captain on the phone for you.”

  “Admiral Gibson here.”

  “Sir, this is Captain Guy. I apologize for calling this late, but we’ve got an urgent situation.”

  “It better be. What’s up, Captain?”

  “Sir, it’s about the Super Hornet that went down over Lake Phelps.”

  “What about it?”

  “Sir, I just got a call from Harry Kilnap, the SAC—special agent in charge—of our local NCIS office. Sir, they’ve recovered remnants of plastic explosives in the plane’s wreckage.”

  “C-4?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what he thinks.”

  David heard the admiral swear under his breath.

  “You did the right thing by calling, Captain. Listen, I want you to contact my staff. Have them meet me in my office in one hour. See if Mr. Kilnap can come too. See you then.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  La Vue de la Mer restaurant

  Village of La Jolla

  San Diego

  2145 hours (PST)

  Diane sat alone at the window table—the best in the house—that Pierre had reserved for them. A moment ago he had excused himself to make a telephone call. She suspected he had something up his sleeve. All evening he’d had an intriguing gleam in his eye, a lightness in his step, she hadn’t seen in years. Telephone call? He usually kept his work and relaxation separate. She wondered what he was up to.

  She settled back and took in the casually elegant dining room. The subdued lighting drew attention to the flickering candles sitting atop the burgundy tablecloths. Fresh flowers, soft violin music, and the clinking of crystal goblets: it was a romantic setting indeed.

  But it wasn’t romance she was considering. Zack and his date were foremost in her mind. She almost laughed as she contemplated the legal skewering she would deliver, with pleasure, in just a few days. A good old-fashioned Carolina barbeque featuring roasted Brewer, topped with Landrieu sauce.

  “You seem happy tonight, madam.” It was a debonair-looking waiter dressed in black and white. He placed a crystal goblet of white wine to the side of her gold-rimmed plate, then set an identical goblet beside Pierre’s plate.

  “Champagne?” She wondered again about what Pierre might be celebrating.

  The server smiled. “Chardonnay. From our vintage collection.”

  “My friend knows how to pick the finest.” She gestured to the empty chair.

  The waiter raised a brow. “It comes with the compliments of your professional colleague. He sends his best wishes to you and your companion for an enjoyable evening.”

  “My professional colleague?” She lifted the glass to her lips.

  “Yes. The Naval officer who is also dining with us tonight. I believe you spoke with him earlier.”

  Diane almost choked.

  “Is everything all right, madam? You are not pleased with the wine?”

  She touched her cloth napkin to her lips. “Yes. Yes, the wine is delicious.”

  “Good. Then shall I deliver a message to the gentleman for you?”

  Diane took another sip. It was fabulous. She could only imagine the cost of this vintage wine. It had taken her all of a nanosecond to figure out his motive. He was out to distract her. Gain a psychological advantage at trial by feigning friendship.

  She smothered a smile. If he wanted to waste his money on the most expensive wine in the house, fine. She wasn’t distracted. If anything, she was more determined than ever to beat Zachary Brewer.

  She held the goblet to the light, admiring its pale gold color . . . and remembering the lieutenant’s penchant for dirty tricks.

  “Yes,” she said with a grin. “Send the lieutenant my compliments, and tell him that I relish the prospects of our upcoming professional engagement.”

  “Bien sur, madam.”

  She glanced at her watch, worrying about Pierre. He worked too hard, still as involved as ever with Femme du Monde, though at his age, she’d hoped he’d be slowing down. He had stuck by her side all these years, while she was at UVA, then in law school, then at the Justice School, and now in San Diego.

  He had been good to her. And she appreciated his friendship. Did he want more? He’d told her jokingly so dozens of times. What if one of these times, he was serious? What about tonight—spring in his step, sparkle in his eye? What if he made her an offer she couldn’t refuse? He was wealthy beyond her imagination, handsome in a debonair and sophisticated way, and she loved being with him.

  But did she love Pierre?

  She checked her watch, sighing. She was letting her imagination run away from her. Pierre probably did have a business call to make.

  The light from the table’s single candle caught the crystal in her goblet, turning the wine to the color of liquid gold. She picked up the glass and turned it, her thoughts on Zack Brewer.

  One thing she found strangely attractive about him, aside from his innate trial skills and his devilishly cute d
imple, was that he was not intimidated by her. If not for their bad blood at the Justice School, she might even consider . . .

  She caught herself and almost laughed.

  She and Brewer? Never.

  “Sorry for the delay, my dear.” Pierre stood by the table with a dozen roses in his hand. “I noticed a flower vendor across the street as we were walking here. And tonight is the perfect occasion to present these lovely flowers to a lovely lady.”

  “A perfect occasion?” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper, and a nagging worry clutched at her insides. She took the bouquet, careful not to prick her fingers with the thorns.

  He sat in his chair and, leaning forward expectantly, met her gaze. His affection was clear. “I see you’ve already ordered wine.” He smiled his approval, but before she could explain, he went on. “I propose a toast. May it be a night we always remember.” He lifted his glass.

  She raised her goblet toward Pierre’s, aware that it had been compliments of Zachary Brewer. A moment later, their glasses met with a soft ring.

  CHAPTER 16

  COMNAVAIRLANT headquarters

  U.S. Naval Station

  Norfolk, Virginia

  0100 hours (EST)

  Captain David Guy, along with eight other senior officers in working khaki uniforms, filed into the conference room at COMNAVAIRLANT headquarters. It was just after midnight, eastern time, and David noticed some of the men rubbing their eyes under the fluorescent lights.

  David followed the fresh aroma of coffee brewing in the stainless-steel pot in the corner of the room. As he took a swig of the hot, black liquid, Special Agent Harry Kilnap, the gray-haired, gray-mustached special agent in charge of the local branch of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, walked into the room, nodded to the senior officers on the admiral’s staff, and took a seat at the conference table.

  The physical readiness requirements that applied to the officers’ corps were not applicable to the civilian members of the NCIS. Kilnap’s beer gut, accentuated by the white polyester golf shirt stretched over his bulging midsection, was evidence of this.