Murder at the Pentagon Page 8

  “We’ve been told that the murder weapon belonged to Captain Cobol, that there is no doubt about that. How do you intend to handle that piece of incriminating evidence, Major Falk?”

  “That particular allegation, along with others, will be dealt with at the appropriate time and, as Colonel Bellis has said, in an appropriate tribunal. Now that I have been assigned to the defense of Captain Cobol, it would be unprofessional to discuss specific aspects of his defense.”

  “Do you feel that being a woman played any role in being chosen to defend Captain Cobol, considering the alleged personal spin that’s been put on this case?”

  “No comment,” said Margit.

  Other questions were asked in flurries, some worthy of response, others pushed aside by Bellis. Eventually, after glancing at his watch, he announced the conference was over and left the room with Detienne and Margit. Once in the sanctity of a small room behind the podium, Bellis said to her, “You did nicely, Major. You handled yourself well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve arranged with the authorities at McNair to have you meet with Cobol at four this afternoon.”

  It struck Margit that it was presumptuous of Bellis to arrange such a meeting without first conferring with her. Now that she was defense counsel, it should be up to her to set schedules, to determine where and when such meetings occurred. She didn’t express those feelings, however. In this festival, there wouldn’t always be time for the niceties. Actually, she was pleased that she would get to meet her client that day. It was the first, and potentially most painful, step she would have to take as she embarked on a course she never would have dreamed a week ago would be hers to navigate.

  As the press conference at the Pentagon was taking place, Senator Henry “Hank” Wishengrad called to order a special closed-door hearing of the Senate Armed Services Committee in the stately, old-fashioned Senate Hearing Room in the Russell Building. Wishengrad sat in the chairman’s position at the raised table. Flanking him were other members of the committee. Seated directly behind him were Jeff Foxboro and a young woman also on the senator’s staff.

  In front of the senators was a long witness table at which four men sat. They had not been subpoenaed to appear; their presence was voluntary. The meeting had been called by Wishengrad in the hope that these four, all experts, would shed some needed light on the recent events in the Middle East, particularly as applied to the intense pressure by the military to obtain billions more for the defense budget.

  Facing Wishengrad, from left to right, the four were director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Thomas Hickey; the staff coordinator for the Nuclear Weapons Council Standing Committee (NWCSC), Colonel Paul Burt; Bruce Massingill, DOD’s undersecretary for policy; and the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Walker Getlin. Familiar faces to Wishengrad because they’d testified before his committee in the past. Of the four, he personally disliked only one, the civilian Massingill, the Pentagon’s undersecretary for policy. It wasn’t his abrasive, curt personality that bothered the senator as much as the evident power he wielded, and the blatant pleasure he took in exercising it. Massingill’s office was unofficially called, in Congress and in the White House, “the Little State Department.” Much to the chagrin of Warren Smith, the administration’s “real” secretary of state, Massingill often conducted matters of state under a cloak of Pentagon security that ran contrary to the long-term programs and goals of State itself. That the Pentagon engaged in numerous and far-reaching covert operations, with its “black budgets” and secret joint operations with the CIA, was no secret to anyone within the Beltway. It was, Hank Wishengrad often thought, like two separate governments—the military with its seemingly unlimited funds and penchant for taking action anywhere on the globe without conferring with other elements of the administration and Congress, and the civilian, elected element of government, too often kept in the dark about such things and, when driven to probe, often rebuffed under the claim of national-security considerations.

  Wishengrad adjusted his microphone, cleared his throat, and said, “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m sure I speak for my colleagues on the committee when I thank you for taking your valuable time to share your knowledge and insight with us. As you know, recent events in the Middle East have pressed upon this committee the need to quickly and thoroughly reevaluate in the coming days levels of defense spending.

  “It is not, of course, defense spending. It is the spending of tax dollars earned and sent to us here in Washington by our citizenry. It is the people’s spending—or, to be more precise, spending done for them and in their names.

  “We have had testimony behind these closed doors from a number of people, all of them dedicated to the preservation of this nation’s security, yet many of them disagreeing on the extent needed for an enhanced military capability. Frankly, I personally have heard so many conflicting opinions that I walked into this room this morning hoping, for purely selfish reasons, that a few hours spent with you would shine a welcome light of reason, honesty, and good old-fashioned common sense on this situation.”

  Wishengrad asked each committee member if he or she (Martha Carlisle was on the committee) had any preliminary comments. A few did, but they kept them short. The absence this day in the room of C-Span’s live television cameras brought about a welcome brevity on the part of the politicians seated at the raised table.

  Two of the witnesses—NWCSC’s Colonel Burt, and JCS’s General Getlin, delivered prepared statements. No surprises, nor had Wishengrad expected any. The four witnesses represented the military side of the debate, including the CIA’s Hickey, who although not a member of the military always made it obvious that his sentiments were with it.

  After the opening statements Wishengrad was the first to question by virtue of his position as chairman. “Let me be up-front with you gentlemen about the thing that has me most puzzled. When the military budget was last brought before this committee and serious debate took place about it, the consensus seemed to be that things were in pretty good shape around the world. Don’t get me wrong. You gentlemen, and others representing DOD, presented a strong, persuasive case for not letting down our guard despite relative peace in the world. What I especially remember was the testimony concerning the state of relations in the Middle East. I went back over transcripts from those hearings, and what I keep reading is a conviction, based upon our intelligence gathering, that none of the Arab states were within five years of developing nuclear capability. You gentlemen, and others, have repeatedly pointed out that many of the nations in that region were actively seeking the ability to manufacture such weapons, but that because of a combination of circumstances, it would be many years before they would succeed. Now, just such a nuclear device has been detonated. My question is: How could we have been so wrong? What happened to allow this Arab leader to suddenly devise, manufacture, and otherwise put together all the complex ingredients to make a bomb?”

  Each witness presented theories to answer Wishengrad’s question, but it was CIA director Hickey who offered what Wishengrad considered the most reasonable explanation. “Senator Wishengrad, our previous intelligence reports were accurate. When they were submitted, no leader of any Arab nation was within five years of developing the internal capability to produce a nuclear device.”

  Wishengrad raised his large eyebrows. “And?”

  “What we are convinced has happened is that an arms dealer, more likely a consortium of arms dealers, handed such a device to him on the proverbial silver platter. After all, if you’re given a pie, there’s no need to whip one up in the kitchen.”

  Wishengrad was not a fan of metaphors, but this one made certain sense. The other witnesses elaborated on what Hickey had said until committee member Senator Martha Carlisle asked, “Are we so ineffective in our overseas intelligence-gathering capabilities that we are not able to discern which arms dealers might be engaged in such activity?”

  “Far from it,” said Hickey. “O
ver the past dozen years we’ve identified and curtailed more than two hundred such operations. We work in extremely close concert with intelligence organizations from other governments. The German authorities are currently investigating more than twenty German firms suspected of attempting to feed Middle Eastern nations the various components necessary to develop a bomb. We’ve successfully shut down arms dealers in Brazil, Switzerland, and Japan.”

  “That’s impressive, Mr. Hickey,” said Senator Carlisle, “but it doesn’t address the scenario you brought up earlier. If an arms dealer, or group of them, has handed over a bomb, intercepting and shutting down those others seems academic to me.”

  General Getlin, vice chairman of the JCS, broke in. “I’ve been sitting here thinking exactly the same thing, Senator Carlisle. It is all academic now that he has demonstrated the bomb for the world to see. Of course, we should keep looking to identify those dealers who seek to do business with unprincipled nations, but the fact is, the bomb is there. We’ve all seen the video of it a hundred times or more. I get the feeling that what’s being attempted here is to close the proverbial barn door after the horse has blown up in our faces. The bomb is reality. It completely upsets the balance of power in the Middle East, and threatens to have severe impact upon the rest of the world, including this nation. I respectfully submit that this is not the time to second-guess how it happened. Instead, we need to have reinstated immediately that money that was cut from the defense budget last year, and to add to it.”

  They talked for another hour, chewing on the same sour food, Wishengrad and some of his colleagues pressing the need to know how the Arab leader obtained the bomb, the witnesses at the table dismissing that as a wasted exercise and pushing for funds to ensure a strong counter to the threat.

  It was Bruce Massingill, undersecretary for policy at the Pentagon, who made the final statement from the witness table. “I certainly recognize the need for this committee and for all of Congress to gain a better understanding about why this unsettling event has happened. But while this process drags on, each day brings us closer to the use of a second or third bomb in that region that could render it, and eventually the rest of the world, unrecognizable as we know it today. I appreciate the efforts of the secretary of state and others in the administration to seek some political negotiation, but I suggest that while the State Department fiddles, Rome will most certainly burn. Or explode! By Rome, of course, I mean Israel. Or Egypt. Or Cleveland—or the District of Columbia.”

  Wishengrad was glad the hearing was over. Massingill’s final comment stuck in his throat like a large vitamin pill that didn’t wash down. He’d intended to hold a staff meeting immediately following the hearing but canceled it.

  “Not feeling well, Senator?” Foxboro asked after they’d returned to their offices.

  “I’ve felt better, Jeff,” Wishengrad responded. “I suppose what’s really bothering me is that they make sense. That son of a bitch with a rag around his head has the bomb in his hands, and we have to do something about it. Sorry to sound anti-Arab. I’m not, as you know, but I sure as hell am anti-nuke. I think I’ll take a twenty-minute catnap. I have a headache.”

  10

  “You were great, Major,” Max Lanning said when Margit returned from the press conference. She had the feeling he’d been lurking in the hall for her arrival.

  “Thank you,” she said. Jay Kraft was hunched at his desk over a thick file. He didn’t acknowledge her arrival, nor did Margit extend her usual morning greeting.

  She sat behind her desk and glanced up at Lanning. Her raised eyebrows asked, “Well? What?”

  “I’ve been assigned as your driver for the rest of the day, Major Falk,” Lanning said, a pleased smile on his face.

  “My driver? I didn’t know I had a driver. I didn’t know I had a car.”

  “Those are my orders,” said Lanning. “I was told you’re going to Fort McNair this afternoon at four.”

  Someone else who knew about the meeting with Cobol, maybe before she did? She’d bring that up the next time she met with Bellis.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’d like to leave in plenty of time.”

  “I’m at your disposal all day,” Lanning said.

  “I won’t need you until I go to McNair. We’ll leave at three.”

  Her attempt to make good use of her time before heading for McNair was thwarted by a succession of phone calls. Some of the press, including a few in the downstairs pressroom, had bypassed the Information Office and reached her directly. After three such interruptions, she called the Armed Forces News Division and requested that something be done about it. Within an hour a new telephone with a private number had been installed on her desk. Simultaneously, the building’s telephone command center, which links the Pentagon’s offices through 100,000 miles of telephone cable, handling over 200,000 calls each day, arranged for Margit’s publicly listed number to be routed directly to AFND.

  At three that afternoon Margit got in the backseat of a blue air-force four-door Ford with DOD markings on its doors. As Lanning headed for McNair, her thoughts hopscotched, and she struggled to focus upon a list of questions she’d scribbled on a yellow legal pad. The first was not on the pad. Who was Cobol, and what was he like?

  They reached a dead end on P Street, turned left, then took an immediate right through the main gate. Margit put the pad back in her briefcase, drew a deep breath, and said to Lanning, “Building Forty-One. I’m to check in with Trial Defense Service.”

  Lanning jumped out of the car and came around to open the door for her, but she was quicker. She had the feeling he wanted to escort her inside. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I have no idea how long I’ll be with Captain Cobol. Please stand by here.”

  Twenty minutes later, at precisely four o’clock, Margit was ushered into a large, tastefully decorated and furnished office within Trial Defense Service. “Am I meeting Captain Cobol in here?” she asked her escort.

  “Yes, Major Falk.”

  “This is someone’s office,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I assumed I would meet my client where he’s being detained.”

  “We thought you and your client would appreciate more comfortable surroundings.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t make the decision, Major.”

  Margit went to the window and looked out. Parked in front was a military police van surrounded by six armed soldiers. The rear doors opened, and a manacled prisoner was helped down. He wore green fatigues and black slippers. Following him out of the vehicle were two more armed soldiers. The prisoner looked up at the building; although Margit knew he couldn’t see her, she felt his eyes.

  Captain Robert Cobol.

  Her client.

  The officer who’d brought her to the office pointed to a couch in the corner. A glass-topped coffee table in front of it was flanked by two lemon-yellow wing-back upholstered chairs. “We thought you and Captain Cobol might be most comfortable over there, Major Falk.”

  Margit looked at the desk, then to other parts of the large room. “That will be fine,” she said.

  A minute later there was a sharp rap on the door. “Come in,” the officer from Trial Defense said. The door opened, and military policemen stepped aside to allow Cobol to enter. He stood passively, his arms secured behind his back, and Margit took the opportunity to study him. She’d seen photographs of Cobol in his file, but here he looked different. In pictures, he was a handsome young man; his records indicated he was thirty-one; in person, he looked ten years older. He had the disheveled, unkempt look of someone who’d been in confinement, although Margit wondered why that should be. Military prisoners are expected to maintain a daily standard of discipline, including attention to their appearance. Why not Cobol?

  His face was squarer and heavier than she had seen in the photos. Remnants of teenage acne pitted his cheeks. His features didn’t seem to go together. His nose was square and somewhat flat, like a prizefighter�
�s, yet his mouth was thin and delicate. His posture was noncombative, not aggressive, docile—someone resigned to whatever would come next.

  Margit crossed the short distance between them and extended her hand. “Major Margit Falk, United States Air Force. I’ve been assigned as your counsel.”

  Cobol glanced down at her hand, which was the only one there. His were secured behind his back. A small smile came to his lips. Margit, too, looked at her solo hand and laughed, then said to one of the guards, “Please remove the handcuffs.” The guard glanced at the Trial Defense officer, who shook his head.

  “Captain, if I am to confer with my client, I do not wish to do it with him in that uncomfortable position.”

  The captain replied, “Major Falk, considering the nature of the crime Captain Cobol is charged with, I think …”

  “I understand your concerns, Captain, but I insist upon this. You have enough military police around here to ensure that should Captain Cobol decide to do something foolish, he wouldn’t get very far.” She snapped her head in Cobol’s direction: “You wouldn’t do anything foolish, would you?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, surprised that he’d been asked.

  “Please, Captain,” Margit said.

  When Cobol’s handcuffs were removed, he slowly brought his hands to the front, stared at them, rubbed each wrist.

  Margit said, “I’d like to get started.” Before there was a reply, she said to Cobol, “Please sit over there in one of those chairs.” To her escort: “Thank you for your courtesy.”

  “The security detail will be right outside the door, Major Falk,” he said.

  “Good.”

  When they were alone, she sat on the couch, opened her briefcase, and placed two legal pads on the glass table, one with her questions, the other blank. She withdrew a pen from the case, uncapped it, looked at Cobol, and said, “You’re accused of having murdered Dr. Richard Joycelen.”