Murder at the Pentagon Page 14

  Margit agreed, although she wasn’t sure assigning Woosky and Silbert to heron temporary duty reflected quite that level of altruism. Still, she had to acknowledge a certain truth in what Flo said. Military service did imbue you with a sense of camaraderie and common purpose, especially in the field and on the line in war, where lives depended upon it. Wait a minute. In courtrooms, too. The court-martial of Captain Robert Cobol was a war, words and a gavel the weapons, the potential victim in the trenches of confinement and with a rifle aimed at his head.

  While talking with Flo, Margit glanced down at notes she’d taken during her Sunday meeting with Smith. One word had been underlined several times, and a string of question marks followed it. “Insanity????” She asked Cobol’s mother whether Robert had ever demonstrated signs of mental instability.

  Flo hesitated. “No. Robert is a stable young man.”

  Maybe, maybe not, Margit thought. She asked, “Has he ever been treated by a psychiatrist or psychologist?”

  “Treated?” The mother’s laugh was nervous, forced. “Of course not. He did visit one in New York but …”

  Margit sat up and poised a pencil over a blank sheet of paper. “Why?” she asked.

  “Why did he see this psychiatrist?” Flo said.

  “Yes.”

  “Robert told me it was routine. Something to do with his assignment to the CIA.” Another unnatural laugh. “I suppose every officer assigned to that organization has to be checked in some way to make sure they’re stable enough to keep all the secrets. Robert must have been, because he got the assignment.”

  “He went to see this psychiatrist before he was assigned to the CIA?”

  “Yes. Well, maybe not before, but not long after he’d started working there.”

  Margit had read Cobol’s file a number of times. There was no mention of a psychiatrist’s evaluation of Cobol’s suitability to serve at the CIA. She asked, “Do you have any idea what the psychiatrist’s name was?”

  “I don’t recall it. He was in New York City. Hold on a second, please.” She returned a few minutes later. “His name is Dr. Half. Dr. Marcus Half.”

  “Robert wrote it down?”

  “Yes. Major Falk, does this really have to be discussed? I mean, does it have anything to do with defending Robert?”

  Margit was not about to raise the issue of an insanity plea with Cobol’s mother. She said, “At this point, Mrs. Cobol, I don’t know what’s necessary and what isn’t. Now that I have my two assistants, this phase involves gathering information from everyone and anyone who might be able to help us understand what happened. Did Robert tell you what he discussed with Dr. Half?”

  “Of course not. That would be confidential. I remember he laughed about it, though, talked about the ‘crazy shrink’ in New York. I laughed, too—the patient calling the doctor crazy. He only went three or four times. I’m not sure. He acted strange after he came back each time.”

  “Strange?”

  “Quiet. Not strange. Quiet.”

  The call completed, Margit busied herself making lists of things she wanted to accomplish. She had lunch at her desk. By three, a wave of fatigue washed over her. She closed her eyes and thought of Jeff, who was with his boss, Senator Wishengrad, at the first day of public hearings into the tumultuous Middle East.

  Jeff had called her yesterday. In the brief conversation he apologized for fouling up the weekend’s plans, and suggested they try to resurrect them as soon as possible. Then he said he had to run and would call again.

  Her phone rang. Yes, it was Jeff. “I was just thinking about you,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “I was thinking about you, too, which should be evident by this call. Look, Margit, I’ve been acting like an absolute bastard. It’s not because I want to, but because I’m so busy I’ve forgotten how to be nice, especially to a special person in my life.”

  She hadn’t heard any terms of endearment from him for too long, and they were welcome.

  “We just finished today’s session. Remember when you were assigned to defend Cobol and you had to see me, had to spend time with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “The shoe is on the other foot. Can we have a drink, dinner, just talk?”

  The only commitment Margit had made that evening was to a quick dinner and a read-through of military regs that might be applicable to the Cobol case. They could wait. “Let’s do it,” she said cheerily.

  “Great.” He named a romantic restaurant in Virginia. “Let’s get out of this crazy town for an evening. Game?”

  “Absolutely. Pick me up here at the Pentagon?”

  “How about meeting up at my apartment?”

  They set a time, and she hung up feeling happier than she had in a while. She might have been filled with internal resolve that day, but a hand caressing her cheek in a candlelight setting, and a husky voice saying nice things, couldn’t hurt.

  15

  They sat on a small terrace outside Jeff’s bedroom, fingers laced and bare toes touching, watching the sun rise through a mashed-potato sky over the nation’s capital. Jeff had thrown on a pair of gray sweats. Margit wore his bathrobe. Empty coffee cups were on a white plastic-mesh table.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  Her eyes were closed, and she smiled. “Yes, very. We shouldn’t let so much time pass again.”

  “No happier than I am—couldn’t be,” he said. “Feel like some breakfast?”

  She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Don’t have time. I have to get home and change.”

  After she’d dressed in yesterday’s clothing, he asked, “What’s on today’s agenda?”

  “Well, let’s see. I start off meeting with Colonel Bellis. We’re supposed to meet twice a day, first thing in the morning and again in the afternoon. He canceled yesterday’s morning meeting, but we’re on for today. Then I want to check on the progress of Mr. Woosky and Sergeant Silbert. Silbert saw Cobol yesterday afternoon. I’m anxious to see how it went. And I have to set up a meeting between Cobol and Mac Smith, call Christa Wren and arrange to see her, and …”

  “Smith really has agreed to get involved?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that great?”

  “So are you.”

  During dinner at Chardon d’Or in Alexandria, Jeff had started by giving her a play-by-play of the day’s Senate hearing. He imitated witnesses and committee members with a series of sarcastic asides, and had her laughing throughout the early stages of their meal. Then, he’d said, “Enough about me and my day. Fill me in, Margit, on yours. Every bit of it.”

  “I don’t do impressions,” she’d said.

  “No need.”

  And so she gave him a rundown of everything that was happening in her life, which, of course, meant the Cobol case, and told him of Smith’s decision to be an adviser. She’d sensed an initial flash of disapproval from Jeff, but it was fleeting. Instead of second-guessing her—which she’d expected—he’d told her he thought it was a good decision, and asked many questions about what had transpired during her Sunday meeting with their former professor and current friend.

  His unexpected agreement with her decision—in fact, a total lack of a challenge from him the entire night about anything she’d been doing—made for an extremely pleasant dinner.

  “What about Joycelen?” he asked as they stood in his foyer that Thursday morning.

  “What about him?”

  “Have you done much digging into his life?”

  “I assigned Mr. Woosky that task. Whatever clippings he comes up with.”

  “It seems to me you’d want to place more emphasis on Cobol, his background.”

  “Of course. I intend to focus on that myself.”

  “Could be you’re taking on more than you should. That’s what help is for.”

  When Margit didn’t respond and poised to leave, he asked, “What’s new on the homosexual slant?”

  “It’s not true.”

  Foxboro leaned against the wall. “I he
ard a rumor yesterday that Joycelen went both ways.”

  “Who did you hear that from?”

  “Cloakroom gossip. Probably no truth to it.”

  “Probably not.”

  “But, if it is true that Joycelen and Cobol had a personal relationship, it would give Cobol a motive, wouldn’t it? I mean, after all, it’s hard to imagine why an army captain would gun down a leading scientist—unless there was something personal between them.”

  “If there was, it’ll eventually come out,” Margit said.

  She left the apartment carrying with her the lovely aftereffects of an extended, passionate kiss.

  As she drove to Bolling for a quick shower and change of clothing, three cars moved slowly on U.S. 9. They passed the Cape May Ferry and continued until reaching a sign where the road divided. The lead car took the right fork, and the others followed. Soon, they entered a wooded recreation area on the Atlantic Ocean that was part of Cape Henlopen State Park. A small sign indicated they’d entered the Fort Miles recreation area, an off-post military R&R just outside Fort Meade. Forts everywhere, it seems, surrounding D.C.

  They stopped in front of a building that looked like any other small apartment complex in the Washington area. The three uniformed drivers remained behind their wheels as six men emerged from the cars, two from each. Some wore military uniforms; others were in civilian clothing.

  They climbed a short set of steps to the front door where a sign said No VACANCIES. The first man, who was dressed in civilian clothing, pushed through the door and went to a desk where two marine enlisted men snapped to attention. “Secured?” the civilian asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the marines answered in unison.

  A navy commander bounded down a set of stairs behind the desk and stiffened. “Good morning, Mr. Massingill,” he said to DOD’s undersecretary for policy. “Follow me, please.”

  They followed the navy officer up the stairs and down a hallway to its end. He opened a door and stepped back to allow them to enter. When the last man was inside, the navy officer closed the door and took a position against the wall immediately outside the room. Four armed marines stepped into the hallway through another door. Not a word was spoken.

  Apartment 2-G was furnished with military-issue furniture. The men removed their topcoats and tossed them on a couch. In the kitchen fresh-brewed coffee stayed hot in insulated carafes. A tray of pastry was on the counter, flanked by neatly folded paper napkins and plastic utensils.

  The six men fell into a seating arrangement that naturally placed Massingill in a leadership position. “Well, where do we stand?” he asked.

  “Hard to say.” The CIA’s assistant director for foreign policy, Joe Carter, was responding. “We’re evaluating the situation now.”

  “Using what methods?” Massingill asked.

  “Everything we have at our disposal,” Carter replied, “including eyeballing things up close, on the scene.”

  The disgust and anger Massingill felt colored his voice. “Just how long will this investigation, this eyeball analysis, take, Mr. Carter?”

  Carter, a studious man of middle age, whose large horn-rimmed glasses were distinctly old-fashioned, glanced at the others. “We should have a handle on things within a week,” he said.

  “A week,” Massingill repeated flatly. “There were assurances from the very beginning from you, from Mr. Hickey, and from the others in this room that the terms of the agreement would be met without exception.”

  “They’d better be,” Colonel James Bellis said. “You all know that the secretary of defense had grave reservations about this project from the beginning. So did I. I counseled against it based upon the legal ramifications should it go sour, but I was outvoted. Based upon recent events, I’d say those legal ramifications are looking more likely every day. And they’re pretty goddamn serious.”

  “There were safeguards in place,” CIA’s Carter offered. “As far as we know, those safeguards haven’t been violated.”

  “That isn’t the way I read it,” Massingill said. “The murder of that German doesn’t look to me like safeguards are working.”

  “That reflects a business arrangement gone bad,” said Carter. “It has nothing to do with our deal with him. Strictly a private matter.”

  Massingill swiveled left and right in his chair. “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” he said. “We went ahead on the assumption that every detail was worked out, every goddamn t was crossed.” He glared at Carter. “You and your agency assured us that he was the most stable leader in the region. You and your agency assured us that he was in our camp a hundred percent, and that it was his intention to use whatever weapons given him to work for stability and peace in the region. Isn’t that what we were told, Mr. Carter? Didn’t you and your boss tell us that?”

  “And nothing has changed,” said Carter. “We are still of that opinion about him.”

  “Based upon what?”

  “Based upon a long-term and careful analysis of the man, his motives, history, intentions, the overall situation.”

  “The German press is beginning to make something out of Mr. Keller’s murder,” said an air-force major from DOD’s European Sector Analysis Division. “They’re investigating his history as an arms dealer, and are probing for connections with others.”

  “Can they trace him?” Massingill asked. “I mean, all the way back here?”

  Carter shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  “What if they can?” Massingill asked Bellis.

  Bellis was careful and slow in his answer. “Legally, I believe sufficient distance can be put between the active participants and DOD. SecDef is not directly involved, which, you’ll remember, I insisted upon.”

  “But his tacit approval was given,” said Massingill.

  “Depending upon how you view it,” Bellis answered.

  Massingill turned to another uniformed officer in the group, an army bird colonel, Arlie “Specs” Praeger, who commanded the Pentagon division in charge of selling American weaponry to foreign countries. Praeger was a short, muscular man with a beaked nose and steady black eyes. “Are you meeting with Consulnet soon?” Massingill asked.

  “Nothing planned.”

  “I think you’d better.”

  “I’ll set it up as soon as we leave,” Praeger promised.

  On the trip back to the Pentagon Praeger and Bellis shared the car that had taken them to the meeting. It was driven by Bellis’s aide and driver, Lieutenant Max Lanning.

  “Call them off,” Bellis said. “Let’s get the Cobol business behind us before they make any more moves.”

  “How does that stand?” Praeger asked.

  “Under control, but there’s a long way to go. I’m trying to speed it up, but … well, I’ll keep you up-to-date.” Unsaid was the unsettled tension he’d felt in his gut since getting up that morning. He’d thought for years that the biggest problem faced by every busy man was a lack of time to think. Everything these days, it seemed, was reaction rather than reflection. Putting out those proverbial fires, and so many of them. Everyone involved in the meeting from which he’d just emerged could use some quiet think time. Maybe if they’d indulged themselves in it, his advice would have been heeded. Maybe. If. This was not just another little one-alarm blaze to be extinguished; it had all the potential of a raging firestorm.

  16

  Bellis had canceled their regular morning meeting, so Margit began her day by meeting with Woosky and Silbert. She said she wanted to see them separately, citing the tight quarters of her little office as the reason. Somehow, it seemed wise to her to do it that way. Ordinarily, she’d prefer working as a team, but she wasn’t sure this was a team—yet. Woosky, whom she saw first, handed her a manila folder bulging with material.

  Margit smiled. “I didn’t expect so much.”

  “A lot of it is work published by Dr. Joycelen. Plus a bio, some newspaper clips.”

  Margit browsed through the material. “I see what
you mean,” she said. Included in the folder were technical reports issued by DARPA, including a recent one signed by Richard Joycelen on the development of the X-ray laser, the technology behind Project Safekeep. There was also a transcript of testimony given to the House Armed Services Committee’s Subcommittee on Research and Development. It was delivered, for the most part, by DARPA’s director, but significant portions had been provided by Joycelen.

  Margit closed the file. “Looks like I have some reading to do,” she said. The folder was thick with photocopies, thin in content.

  Woosky did not respond.

  She said, “I’d like you to start researching applicable case law.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Silbert had replaced Woosky in the chair across the desk from Margit, she asked, “How did your interview with Cobol go?”

  “Okay, I guess. He’s uptight, isn’t he?”

  Margit cocked her head. “I wouldn’t describe him that way.”

  “Well, he was when I was with him.”

  Margit mentioned her meetings with Cobol. He’d been so placid, so mild-mannered, so accepting. What had changed him? She asked Silbert whether something had taken place to cause this change in behavior.

  Silbert shrugged. “Maybe his mother. She surprised him yesterday with a visit.”

  “She did? I wonder why she didn’t call me.”

  Another shrug from Silbert. “Cobol mentioned it in passing. I was only with him twenty minutes or so. Frankly, I was glad to leave. I started to get uptight, too. I suppose I can’t blame him, being accused of murdering a top techno.”

  “No, we can’t blame him,” Margit said quietly. “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much. He said a doctor had been in to see him that morning.”

  “A doctor?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Major. He rattled on about they kept his mother from visiting him until you stepped in. I asked him the name of his roommate, and it spooked him. He kept asking me what his roommate had to do with any of this. I told him probably nothing, but that you wanted a name. He finally gave it to me.” Silbert slid a piece of paper across the desk. On it was written Brian Maitland.