Murder at the Pentagon (28 page)

“I suppose everything was kosher,” Smith said. “Good night, Ross.”

“Good night.”

Back inside the house, Smith wrote down the plate number. “I want Tony to run down who owns that car first thing in the morning.”

“She’s in danger, isn’t she?” Annabel said.

“All I know is that when people follow you, they aren’t handing out winning sweepstakes tickets. Feel like a ride?”

“Where?”

“Bolling. I’ll get the car. You call Margit. You’ll get her machine. Tell her someone followed her from the house, and to be on the lookout for trouble. Tell her we’re on our way.”

“You’re frightening me, Mac.”

“Not my intention. But we should be concerned.”

Annabel was waiting at the curb when Mac pulled up after retrieving the car from a rented garage down the street. They said nothing as they headed for the base, where they were stopped by a spit-and-polish young airman and a gate that was lowered.

“Can I help you, sir?” the airman asked.

“Yes,” said Smith. “We’re here to visit Major Margit Falk.”

“Is she expecting you, sir?”

“No. But she’ll be happy to see us.”

“Excuse me, sir.” He returned to the small booth, consulted a base directory, and dialed a number. After a brief
conversation, he returned to Smith’s car and said, “Major Falk is in BOQ Thirteen Hundred.” He directed Smith to the building, stepped back, pushed a button that raised the gate, and stood at attention as the car proceeded beneath it.

Mac and Annabel turned a corner. BOQ 1300 was directly in front of them. As they aproached, they saw two different things. Annabel spotted Margit, who stood on the steps outside the main door. Mac saw the green—or gray—sedan that had been parked on his street an hour earlier. It was metallic blue, and was at the curb across from Margit’s building.

Smith headed directly for it.

“There’s Margit,” Annabel said.

“And there’s the car,” he said gruffly.

He pulled up next to it and overtly peered at its occupants. They stared back.

“Mac, please,” Annabel said.

“How’d they get in here?” her husband asked. He answered his own question. “They belong here.” He made a U-turn and pulled up to where Margit waited. The other car drove away slowly.

“Mac, Annabel,” Margit said through Smith’s open window. “Why are you here?”

“That car,” Smith said.

Margit looked at the metallic-blue sedan as its red tail-lights bled around a corner and disappeared. “What about it?” she asked.

“They followed you.”

“Followed me?”

“Yes. They waited in front of our house until you left. Then they fell in behind you.”

“I … are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll have Tony Buffolino check out the plate in the morning.”

Margit’s laugh was nervous, disbelieving.

“You okay?” Smith asked.

“Yes. Fine.”

“Did you get Annabel’s message?”

“What message?”

“I left it on your answering machine,” Annabel said, leaning across her husband.

“I didn’t listen to messages.”

“Margit, why is someone following you?” Smith asked.

“Are they? I don’t know why anyone would.”

“We’re worried about you.”

“I appreciate that but … want to come up? I’ll make coffee.”

“Thanks, no,” Smith said. “We just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine. I really appreciate your coming here. Thank you. But I’m fine.”

“Keep your eyes open,” said Smith.

“I will. You’re both very special people.” She kissed Smith on the cheek and grasped Annabel’s hand. “Go to bed. Tomorrow is almost here.”

As Mac and Annabel drove home, Mac said, “Sorry to drag you out.”

“You didn’t drag me anywhere. That car. It was the same one?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, although I’m brimming over with speculation. I know one thing for certain, though.”

“What’s that?”

“That Margit is about to take on the most powerful bureaucracy in the world, the United States military.”

“And so are you.”

He didn’t reply.

“Margit? Jeff.”

“Good morning,” she said.

“I acted like a jerk. Forgive me?”

She glanced at Jay Kraft, who was reading that morning’s
Early Bird
. “We have to talk,” she said.

“I know. I keep reading your note. You said you were willing to hold to our date for Saturday.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How about dinner tonight? Someplace quiet where we can have a nice, easy conversation.”

“I can’t. I have plans.”

“So soon?” His conciliatory tone had gone flat.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Somebody else already?”

“I have to go. I have work to do.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. I didn’t mean that. How about Friday night?”

“Will call you. Home tonight?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Around eleven.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Their plans for Saturday involved a dinner-dance at Andrews Air Force Base’s Officers’ Club, a joint-service social affair sponsored by SecDef’s Directorate of Defense Research and Engineering. A “morale booster” was the way it was described around the Pentagon. Margit had looked forward to it, especially when Jeff had made a point of clearing his schedule in order to accompany her. Now, it did not hold the same appeal, although she was committed to going. You carefully selected what military social events to skip. The invitation had called for an RSVP, but it had the ring of a command performance.

“Good morning, Majors,” Max Lanning said from the doorway.

Kraft uttered his predictable grunt. Margit went into the hallway with Lanning and shut the door behind her. “Did you find out anything about that duty roster?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“And? Who put Captain Cobol on it that Saturday morning?”

“I had trouble finding out because a copy of that day’s roster isn’t available.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. They routinely file them, but that one is missing.”

“You didn’t find out anything,” she said.

“Negative,” Lanning said. He smiled. “I asked around. I have a couple of civilian friends there, and …”

Her expression invited more.

“It was a major in T and E.”

“Major who?”

“A Major Mucci. Major Anthony Mucci.”

Monroney’s aide.

“Thanks,” Margit said. “This will help me wrap up my final report.”

“Glad I could help. If you want me to find out anything else, just let me know.”

“What about my bet?” she asked.

“Bet?”

“HP-5.”

“Oh, that.” He was whispering. “You both lose,” he said.

“We do?”

“Right. That’s a top-secret code. CIA.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“But you don’t know what it means.”

“No, and I don’t want to. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Max. I didn’t mean to ask you to look into something top secret.”

“I know that. I guess I lose my half of your win.”

“Looks like it. Thanks again for checking on the duty roster. I owe you.”

When she was again seated at her desk, Kraft asked, “What’s the kid got, a thing for you?”

Margit glared at him. “We happen to be friends.”

“You should think twice about being friends with lieutenants, especially
that
lieutenant.”

“Why especially
that
lieutenant?”

“Because his mind is on vacation, but his mouth works overtime.”

Security at the Dirksen Senate Office Building had been beefed up for the arrival that afternoon of Ari Ben Elaha, Israel’s ambassador to the United States, who was to meet with Senator Hank Wishengrad. Elaha was escorted by a cadre of American military, supplemented by his own armed escorts.

They met in Wishengrad’s private conference room, a large, sparsely furnished space in which an oval antique dining-room table occupied the center. Six chairs lined each side. Wishengrad, two committee colleagues, and Jeff Foxboro and another staff member took one side. Elaha, an official translator—who was seldom needed because Elaha spoke perfect English—and an aide faced them.

Elaha had been lobbying key administration and congressional leaders for the past two weeks. This meeting, he knew, was crucial to his mission. Wishengrad’s chairmanship of the Senate committee was a position of indisputable power—especially if you were looking for weapons money.

After a few initial pleasantries Elaha said, “As you know, Senator, I have been meeting with key members of President Beardsley’s staff, the National Security Council, and representatives of your Central Intelligence Agency.”

Wishengrad smiled. “I am aware, Mr. Ambassador, of those meetings. I hear they went well.”

No smile added additional creases to Elaha’s avuncular, tan, deeply etched face. “Yes, they have gone quite well,” he said. “It is my hope, of course, that this meeting will be as fruitful.”

Wishengrad visually involved his colleagues before saying, “We’ve been reviewing the statements made by your ambassador to the UN, and the formal written requests you’ve submitted. You’re aware, of course, that I’ve spent years fighting to cut down on the sale of weapons to other countries, including Israel.”

“And you’ve been successful,” said Elaha, “much to our chagrin. But despite the stance you’ve taken in the past, I’m confident that the recent shift in events in our region will create a new and compelling reason to modify your view.”

Wishengrad leaned back and pushed his glasses up on his head. “Modify, maybe. Totally change? No chance of that, Mr. Ambassador. Don’t get me wrong. It’s my view, and that of most of my colleagues on the committee, that we should provide enhanced defensive capabilities for Israel. Hard to argue against that now that your neighbor has proved he can launch a preemptive nuclear strike. How he developed that capability—or, more important, who gave it to him—is the question we’d like answered.”

Elaha started to respond, but Wishengrad leaned forward in his chair. “I know what you’re about to say. The same thing our own military people have been saying. Finding out
how
it happened is academic in the face of the potential destruction
it can deliver. I am also aware that Israel is, and always has been, a staunch ally of the United States.”

Elaha nodded.

“What bothers me, Mr. Elaha, is not boosting funding to Israel so that it can defend itself. What sticks in my craw is that you, and your country’s lobbyists, have been pushing hard to convince
us
to increase
our
military budget. Sure, they go hand in hand, but the percentage of our defense budget that reaches Israel is small. How we allocate the rest of it to defend
us
seems to me to be out of your purview. At least it should be.”

“Why would that bother you, Senator?” Elaha asked. “Israel is in a precarious situation, and has been since its creation. The optimism that abounded following your military defeat of Saddam Hussein was misguided. The valiant efforts of then-secretary of state Baker, and others in that administration, to capitalize on your victory were in vain. To be blunt, the situation has, in some respects, deteriorated rather than improved for Israel. Our proximity to an Arab nation committed to our annihilation, and one that has demonstrated the nuclear capability to achieve that goal, has turned the usual tense situation into a desperate one.”

“Granted,” Wishengrad said. “As I’ve acknowledged to you, my views on increased military funding to Israel have changed. But pushing to increase the defense budget of the United States is another matter.”

“Not if you are forced to deploy men and equipment to the Middle East again.”

“Which I will do everything in my power to avoid,” Wishengrad said. “You’ve said it yourself. Desert Storm didn’t accomplish a hell of a lot except to boost our deficit billions of dollars higher. It didn’t buy any security for Israel. It didn’t get rid of Saddam Hussein, who slaughtered hundreds of thousands of people, created chaos for Kurds and Shiites in Iraq, and polluted this planet beyond our wildest imagination. About the only good I can see that came out of it was that our president at the time got to flex his muscles as commander in chief. That diverted attention from the
problems we were having at home. It also gave the military an excuse to try out its expensive toys, and then come running up here to the Hill for billions more. Frankly, that money is better spent solving problems here at home.”

Elaha chewed his cheek before saying, “I don’t wish to be brazen, Senator Wishengrad, but I respectfully submit that your view reflects a minority position, even with the more liberal administration currently in the White House.”

“I’m aware of that,” Wishengrad said. “The military-industrial complex is riding high because of the detonation of that bomb. Strike while the iron is hot. More crime on the streets? Push for a bigger police department. More aircraft accidents? Push for a bigger FAA. Nothing strange about it. The way things work.”

“I wish I could share your view,” said Elaha, “but I believe in reality. The only hope for peace and security for smaller nations, including Israel, is a strong and committed American military capability. Even if I wish to accept your thesis that we should not be meddling in what is inherently the American budgetary and military process, there is every reason for Israel, and other smaller nations, to champion the cause of an increased United States military budget. Many of the weapons systems that you would see abandoned could be vitally important additions to Israel’s military arsenal. Not only would they enhance our ability to defend ourselves, the sale of them would help alleviate your shocking trade deficit. Frankly, it strikes me as a good deal. Much of the increased defense money given us by your country would, in turn, be used to purchase weapons systems from you. You call it ‘a wash,’ I believe.”

One of Wishengrad’s colleagues said, “I won’t debate your business logic, Mr. Ambassador, but I will be quick to point out that if some of these weapons systems are given the go-ahead, they’ll be available for sale to damn near anyone who puts up the cash. You might view that situation as a balance of power—a deterrent—but I don’t. If kicking Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait is to have any true meaning for peace in the future, it has to be accompanied by a clampdown on arms
sales across the board. That hasn’t happened. All the major players in the world’s arms business come up with the sleazy excuse that we might as well sell weapons, because if we don’t, somebody else will. I don’t buy that thinking.”