House Divided (32 page)

“Good morning. This is Mrs. Cleary.”

“Hi, Mrs. Cleary. My name’s Joe DeMarco, and I need to see General Bradford right away. He’ll want to see me.”

“Mr. DeMarco, I don’t know who you are or how you got this number, but you don’t simply call up and expect to get on the general’s schedule.”

“Mrs. Cleary, I know the general has nothing scheduled for the next hour. His calendar, the one you have in the computer on your desk, says he’s dining alone today and working on some speech he’s giving at Fort Hood next week.”

“How do you know—”

“Mrs. Cleary, please tell General Bradford I want to talk to him about Paul Russo. Trust me, ma’am, he’ll know who I’m talking about and he’ll want to see me. Tell him if he doesn’t see me, my next stop is
The Washington Post
.”

The phone was silent for a moment.

“Please hold, Mr. DeMarco.”

The lady had wonderful manners, and less than two minutes later she was back on the line. “Mr. DeMarco, where are you?”

“Right here at the Pentagon.”

“Very well. Go to the security checkpoint at the main entrance. Someone will meet you and escort you to the general’s office.”

Two Pentagon cops in black fatigues walked DeMarco down the wide hallways of the building. DeMarco had never been in the Pentagon before and was awed by the size of the place, not to mention all the brass walking around. He’d never seen so many generals and admirals in one spot. He was taken to a small room where he was met by two other security guys wearing suits. They ordered him to empty his pockets and to take off his suit coat, belt, and shoes. He removed his wallet, dumped all his spare change into a bowl, and handed the security guys his cell phone and a small digital recorder.

“Take off your watch, too,” one of the men said.

As DeMarco removed his watch, he looked at the time. He needed to be in Bradford’s office in ten minutes. In ten minutes the listening devices sewn into his suit would be activated.

While one of the men was giving him an embarrassingly thorough frisk, the other one examined his belt, shoes, and suit coat. He ran his hands all over the coat to make sure nothing was sewn inside the lining. He tried to twist the heels off DeMarco’s new shoes, but they remained in place. He then took a little circular patch of cotton and rubbed it all over everything: suit, belt, and shoes. And DeMarco’s hands. DeMarco assumed the cotton swab was like the type they used at the airport to see if you have explosives in your luggage. Two other electronic gizmos were then passed over him. He guessed one was looking for recording devices as Dillon had told him, but he didn’t know what the other gizmo did.

Apparently satisfied, they told him he could put his shoes, belt, and coat back on, but that he wouldn’t be permitted to enter Bradford’s office with his watch, his cell phone—or the recorder.

“Uh,” DeMarco said, “I don’t care about the phone or the watch, but I have to take the recorder to the general.”

“No, sir,” one of the security men said.

“I’d suggest you call General Bradford,” DeMarco said. “Tell him that what’s on that recorder concerns General Martin Breed and you won’t let me bring it to him.”

The man gave DeMarco a steely-eyed stare then left the office. Two minutes later he was back and said, “The general says you may bring the recorder with you but we need to examine it first.”

“Sure,” DeMarco said. “By the way, what time is it?”

The security guy ignored him.

Shit. Without his watch, he couldn’t know the exact time but he was pretty sure the recording equipment in the suit coat would activate in a couple more minutes. He hoped they didn’t take too long looking at the recorder. They didn’t. A young guy came into the room, took the recorder apart, looked at it, poked at it, and put it back together in plenty of time. These guys were good.

DeMarco, like every other TV-watching American, had seen and heard General Charles Bradford before. He was familiar with the boot-camp haircut, the eagle’s beak, the rumbling voice that sounded wise and fatherly when he spoke to the public—and he was definitely intimidated.

Charles Bradford was a man who had spent most of his life in an arena that DeMarco couldn’t even imagine, must less compete in. He dealt with the president, senators, and cabinet members on a daily basis and, judging by the number of stars on his shoulders and the medals on his uniform, he was exceptional at what he did. And not only that, the guy
looked
like a general; he made DeMarco—who had never been in the military—want to stand at attention and salute. Yeah, he was intimidated—and if he hadn’t been, Bradford’s opening salvo would have ensured that he was.

“Well, DeMarco,” Bradford said, “I’m not exactly sure why I’m meeting with you. I don’t know anyone named Russo, but when you said something about going to the
Post,
I decided to listen to what you had to say. But unless you’re a very stupid man, I’m sure you understand that threatening me is not a wise thing to do. You’re probably going straight from this office to a federal lockup.”

“Sir,” DeMarco said—he couldn’t help but call him sir—“I’d just like you to listen to two recordings. May I play them please?”

Bradford nodded his head, his pale eyes boring into DeMarco’s. Bradford’s eyes had as much warmth as the point of an ice pick.

When the radio intercept of Paul Russo being killed was finished, Bradford frowned and said, “I have no idea what all that was about, all that carrier and messenger nonsense.”

DeMarco didn’t bother to respond to Bradford’s denial. All he said was, “Now I’ll play the second recording, the one made by General Breed before he died.”

DeMarco saw it: Bradford’s eyes widened in surprise, just for an instant, and he rocked back in his chair. The fact that DeMarco had in his possession a recording made by Breed not only surprised Bradford, it hit him hard.

DeMarco tapped the play button on the recorder, and the voice of a dead general filled the room.

Thomas, this is about things I did for Charles during my career. I know when you hear this you’re going to be disappointed in me
.

Bradford listened to the recording without any further evidence of emotion. He just sat, his face impassive, his eyes hooded, his big hands steepled under his chin. When DeMarco hit the stop button, Bradford didn’t say anything for a moment.

“DeMarco, it seems to me that you didn’t think this blackmail scheme through very well.”

“General, I’m not trying to black—”

“That first recording, the one with all the messenger-carrier stuff, there’s nothing on it that makes it clear what those men were talking about, much less any connection to me. Regarding the recording you
claim
is General Breed speaking—and by the way, I think you’re despicable for trying to soil Martin’s name—the recording doesn’t mention me by name, it only refers to someone named Charles.”

“You’re the Charles he’s referring to,” DeMarco said.

“Really?” Bradford said. “Do you know there’s a General Charles Paulson, the four-star at CENTCOM, and that Martin once worked for him? And I’m sure you know Congressman Charles Mallory. He sits on the House Appropriations Committee, and he and Martin attended West Point together. And do you know Charles … Oh, never mind. I think I’ve made my point.”

“Sir,” DeMarco said, “you can save all that for your court-martial.”

Bradford’s face reddened at DeMarco’s impertinence and he put his hands on the edge of his desk to stand up, but before he could, DeMarco continued, “There’s something else you need to know. The man speaking on the first recording, the one controlling the operation, is a man named John Levy. Levy works for you, and a couple of nights ago he tried to kill me at a park in Falls Church. Several people saw him shoot me in the back and the only reason I’m not dead is because I wore a vest. What I’m saying is that Levy is finished. He’ll be arrested for Paul Russo’s murder and for attempted murder, and when he’s arrested, he’ll admit he was working for you.”

“Who are
you
working for, DeMarco?”

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that other people know the same things I know. The recordings you heard are copies of the originals.”

“Then why don’t you go to the media with all this? Why haven’t you told those fools in Congress? And why haven’t you arrested this man Levy?”

“Because exposing you would be bad for the country, sir. We don’t want the rest of the world to know an American general controls a group of assassins and runs around killing whoever he thinks represents a threat.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Bradford snapped. “People like you—” But then he stopped. “What do you want?”

“We want you to resign, sir.”

“Resign? Why you
pissant
. If you think I’ll give into this sort of blackmail—”

“Sir, these recording are authentic. And I don’t care if there are a million guys named Charles, you’re the Charles on General Breed’s tape.” DeMarco stood up. “I’m leaving now, but if I don’t read in tomorrow’s paper that you’re resigning, Levy will be arrested and made to confess. And then everything we have will go to the media and the fools in Congress you mentioned. We don’t want to do that, but we will.”

DeMarco didn’t think Bradford was going to let him leave. He figured the security guys who had frisked him were going to slap handcuffs on his wrists and toss him into a cell in the basement of the Pentagon. Fortunately, they didn’t.

As he was leaving Bradford’s office, he looked down at the button lying under the chair where he’d been sitting.

DeMarco walked slowly through the Pentagon parking lot and got into his car, but he didn’t start the engine. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. And he wondered, although at this point it was the least of his problems, if he’d committed a crime by planting an NSA eavesdropping device in Bradford’s office. Probably.

“You did a good job, Joe.”

DeMarco jerked like he’d been goosed. That damn Dillon had rigged up a speaker in the car so he could talk to DeMarco.

“So what are you going to do when Bradford doesn’t resign?” DeMarco said.

Dillon didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, “I’d like you to return to the safe house in Maryland, Joe. Do you know how to get there?”

“Yeah,” DeMarco said, but he was wondering what would happen if he just made a run for it. But then he thought: a run to where? Where could he run to that Dillon couldn’t find him? His next thought was that maybe the safe house was actually the best place for him to be. Bradford had tried to kill him once and now that he’d stuck his finger directly into the man’s eye, there was a good chance he might try to kill him again.

“Good,” Dillon said. “Then drive back to the safe house. I want you off the street.”

DeMarco crossed the Key Bridge into the District and then wound his way to New York Avenue. It would have been faster to take the beltway back to the safe house, but he wasn’t in any rush. As he drove, he wondered how many people were following him. A whole bunch, would be his guess. Alice and her NSA pals, and maybe a few of Bradford’s people had joined the procession. The whole time he was driving, one question occupied his brain: What the hell was Dillon
really
doing?

There was no way Bradford was going to resign. Just five minutes with the guy, and DeMarco could tell. Bradford was going to fight back, somehow, someway.

But what the hell was Dillon up to? About the only thing Dillon had told him that he believed was that Dillon didn’t want to expose Bradford, and DeMarco believed this for one simple reason: for the old spy to expose Bradford, he’d have to expose himself. But Dillon
had
to know Bradford wasn’t going to resign. All Dillon had done by playing the recordings for Bradford was tip his hand. Bradford now knew everything Dillon knew.

So what was Dillon doing?

DeMarco didn’t have a clue.

As DeMarco continued to drive toward Maryland, random thoughts bounced around inside his brain. He wondered how Mahoney was faring. Had it not been for Dillon, he would have called Mary Pat again to ask, but he didn’t want to do that now. If he called, Dillon would know and then he might figure out DeMarco’s real relationship to Mahoney and find a way to exploit the situation. And what was the point of calling? Hell, Mahoney was going to be all right. Nothing could kill the bastard. In a day or two, he’d be sitting up in his hospital bed eyeing the derriere of every passing nurse.

He thought for a moment about his kitchen; he’d missed the appointment with the contractor who was supposed to give him a repair estimate. Assuming he lived through this thing with Dillon and Bradford, he still had a fight with his insurance company to look forward to.

He also wondered how much danger Angela was in. He hadn’t liked the idea of her being sent to Afghanistan in the first place, but he hadn’t been too worried about her because he figured she was probably sitting in the U.S. embassy in Kabul being guarded by a battalion of marines. But now, thanks to Dillon, he knew she wasn’t in Kabul; she was playing spy games on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. He wished she’d quit her damn job and take up an occupation that was safe, sane, and normal—and one where she could be with him every night. He also wondered if Bradford knew he was dating Angela and, if he knew, whether Bradford would hold that over his head as Dillon had done.

Then, thinking about women who put their careers ahead of their personal lives, he wondered about Diane Carlucci. Had she given him up to the NSA to protect her FBI career, or did Dillon force her in some way? Whatever the case, he wondered if he’d be hearing from her in the future. It seemed unlikely.

He hit a red light—and noticed a liquor store on one corner. That’s what he needed: a drink. There was no booze at the safe house and DeMarco was a man who liked a martini in the evening, and sometimes more than one. He thought of saying out loud:
I want a bottle of vodka waiting for me when I get back to the safe house,
like he was ordering from room service. He knew if he spoke inside the car a gaggle of NSA spooks would hear him, including Alice, who was following him. And then he thought: Why not? All they could do was tell him no.