Murder at the Pentagon (38 page)

He looked small at that distance. Gray hair was cropped close to his temples; he wore a dark suit and tie. A V of white shirt showed. His nondescript face was deadpan. Flanking him were three officers. Margit was introduced to two of them—General Walker Getlin, vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs; and Joseph Carter, the CIA’s assistant director for foreign policy. She indicated that she needed no introduction to Major Anthony Mucci.

“Sit down,” Massingill said, indicating chairs on either side of the table. Margit took one next to Carter; Bellis sat across from her. “Nice of you to come here at this late hour,” Massingill said. The kindness inherent in his words surprised her. She didn’t expect it because of his reputation, and because of the circumstances.

“It is my understanding, Major Falk, that Colonel Bellis has been direct with you today about our displeasure with actions you have taken of late. He has ordered you to cease taking those actions. Am I correct?”

Margit cleared her throat. “Yes, sir, that is correct.”

“It is now my understanding that you have informed Colonel Bellis that you do not intend to obey his order. Am I correct again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m certain you’re aware, Major Falk, that the military service cannot, and will not, tolerate such insubordination.”

Margit nodded.

“Perhaps you can explain why you would take what has been an outstanding career in the United States Air Force and place it in such jeopardy.”

Margit drew a deep breath and looked at Bellis, then down at her hands, which rested on the table. She wasn’t sure she was up to trying to explain once again her motivation to clear Cobol’s name. She’d already made different versions of the speech to Foxboro, Mac and Annabel Smith, Bill Monroney, and, only hours earlier, to Bellis.

“Major Falk,” Massingill said. “I asked you a question.”

“Sir, I believe Colonel Bellis has told you why I have placed myself in this position. I did it knowingly, and accept full responsibility. I never asked to be involved in the murder of Dr. Joycelen, but I was by being assigned to defend his accused murderer, Captain Robert Cobol. I asked not to be given that assignment but was overruled by Colonel Bellis. I followed his order despite my serious reservations. As a result, and because I was determined to do the best possible job as a defense attorney, I came to know a young man, a good soldier, a decent person, and that young man’s mother. I came to believe that Captain Cobol did not kill Dr. Joycelen. I do not waver in that belief, even at this moment. I also do not believe that Captain Cobol hanged himself. He was terminated to protect someone, or something, that was responsible for Joycelen’s death. Cobol’s mother lives with the nightmare that her dead son went to his grave accused of murdering a leading U.S. scientist. I don’t know whether, if I were a mother, I could live with that. I’ve had to live with watching my father be unfairly forced to leave the service because someone lied and a superior officer carried a grudge.

“I am, and have always been, a proud and committed officer. My record reflects that. I believe orders are to be followed, unless, of course, they are illegal. In this case, the order to stop probing what happened with Joycelen and Cobol is not in and of itself illegal. But the accusation against Cobol is certainly, if I am correct in my thesis, illegal. Murder always has been.”

The room was eerily silent. The men stared at her. In that quiet moment a question hit her. Here she was, sitting with some of the top brass in the American military establishment, who presumably were there to inflict the ultimate punishment, her dishonorable discharge from the service. But if that were to be the outcome, why do it here, at nine o’clock at night, in the presence of such powerful men?

General Getlin, the Joint Chiefs’ vice chairman, said, “It is my understanding that you are aware that Dr. Joycelen was providing information to the senator from Wisconsin and his
staff that would seriously jeopardize our ability to develop a vitally important weapons system, Project Safekeep.”

“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” Margit replied. “I am also aware that it is said to be vital.”

The CIA’s Joe Carter spoke. “Colonel Bellis informs us that someone has filled you with the absurd notion that this country, this government, this administration, has provided a nuclear weapon to a madman, with the goal of achieving an increased military budget.”

Margit had hoped that wouldn’t come up; she was sorry she’d mentioned it to Bellis. She stood. “Sir, I have been told that Dr. Joycelen not only sold information detrimental to Project Safekeep, he was in the process of providing information to that same senator about the very accusation you’ve just raised. I don’t know whether that’s true or not. If it is, it renders my crusade, as you call it, on behalf of Robert Cobol’s name insignificant. If it is true, it is not what my country, my government, or my military service is supposed to represent. That, like a murder, is also illegal.”

Margit saw in the room’s dim light a thin smile form on Massingill’s face. He raised his head and took her in with downcast eyes. His smile did not provide warmth. Instead, it sent a beam of frost in her direction. He said, “Major Falk, we are not here tonight to punish you for your indiscretions. We don’t like losing good officers, and it is our policy—my policy—to go that extra yard to see that good officers like you are retained. But sometimes even a well-meaning officer becomes mired down in false information and ill-advised causes. I believe it is our obligation to correct such false information, and the assumptions that naturally follow. Do you understand me?”

What Margit understood was what Bellis had said earlier—that if she were drummed out of the service, she would become a civilian loose cannon, capable of, at least, complicating the lives of the men in the room, and others. She also thought of Cobol breaking Reg 1332, and being told he would not be punished because the service did not want to lose a “good officer.”

She said, “Sir, I would be pleased and relieved to have it shown to me that I’m wrong. I wish none of this had ever happened, and that it would just go away. If you accomplish what you have just stated, I will be grateful. It would mean I could return to my duties with renewed commitment and dedication.”

“Please sit down,” Massingill said. He nodded at Mucci, who went behind Massingill and slid open doors that were part of the wall, exposing a large television monitor. He turned it on, and did the same with a VCR. He took a videotape from a briefcase that had been on the table in front of him, inserted it in the VCR, used dimmers to bring down the lights to a dull copper glow, and pressed Play on the VCR.

Margit wondered whether she was about to see another tape of the nuclear-weapons test in the Middle East. But the monitor’s screen came to life, and a scene that had been recorded from a high angle played out for her eyes.

A man stood next to the purple water fountain in the basement of the Pentagon. He checked his watch, mumbled something under his breath. Joycelen! It was Richard Joycelen
.

The camera continued to relentlessly record what was happening. He—Joycelen—checked his watch again. Then, footsteps. Another look at his watch. A second man entered the scene. He pointed a gun at Joycelen. Neither man said anything. The second man fired. The bullet shattered Joycelen’s eyeglasses and pulled skin and bone into the gaping hole it had created between his eyes. A word formed on Joycelen’s lips but was never sounded. The scientist slumped to the floor, his back riding down the purple fountain, his face washed in a grotesque, velvety red
.

The screen went black. Mucci removed the tape, returned it to his briefcase, and turned up the lights to their previous level. The men in the room observed Margit’s reaction, like physicians peering down on an exotic operation in a medical arena. They saw her begin to tremble, eyes wide, horror frozen on her face.

“Satisfied?” Massingill asked.

She was numb, speechless.

Joycelen had been murdered by Captain Robert Cobol.

“You don’t have to worry about clearing his name any longer, Major,” Massingill said. “His name is tainted because it deserves to be. My suggestion is that we all go home, get a good night’s sleep, and wake up in the morning ready to continue the daunting challenge of defending this nation against those who would see it destroyed. Oh, by the way, Major Falk, I’ve personally reviewed your father’s file. It seems he was the victim of an unfair process. I’ve ordered that he posthumously receive a commendation, and a promotion.”

Margit fought back bitter tears. She stood and said loudly, “If Cobol did it, he was told to do it. Programmed to do it. He was blackmailed, brainwashed.” Her brief proclamation drained all energy from her. She sat.

“That active imagination of yours will snap back to reality pretty quick,” Massingill said. He came around behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad we could resolve this for you, Major Falk. I think you’ll find your next assignment to be the sort of job every chopper pilot dreams of. Colonel Bellis will fill you in. Major Mucci will accompany you from the building.”

He removed his hand and went to the door, Getlin and Carter following. “Good night,” he said. “Please turn off the lights when you leave.”

Mucci stood at attention by the door. Margit looked across the table at Bellis, who seemed to have aged. “I’d like to leave,” she said.

Bellis stood. His shoulders sagged; his eyes missed hers.

She said to Mucci, “No one, especially you, will escort me anywhere.”

He remained in his silent brace.

“Please excuse us, Major,” Bellis said. When Mucci didn’t respond, Bellis said in a louder voice, “Leave the room, Major Mucci. We will be out shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” Mucci said.

When he was gone, Bellis said to Margit, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what? That I was wrong—but am right—about Cobol? That I’ve been offered a blatant bribe to be a good little girl and keep my mouth shut?”

“No,” Bellis replied. “I’m sorry that this night ever happened. What will you do?”

“Tomorrow? I don’t know. Tonight? I have some phone calls to make.”

“I admire you, Major,” Bellis said.

“Admire me? For what?”

“For having a set of convictions that run deep. Get those convictions from your father?”

Her eyes misted. “I guess so,” she said in a voice on the verge of breaking.

“Sometimes our convictions get pushed aside by pragmatic needs,” Bellis said. Margit raised her eyebrows. “Career, family, just getting through,” he continued. “And sometimes because of a belief in something that doesn’t hold up to hard scrutiny. Like tonight.” He sat in his chair, the room’s dim light leaving half of his face in shadow. “Go make your phone calls,” he said. “I think I’ll just sit here awhile. I have some thinking to do.”

She walked to the door, stopped, and turned. He smiled, and tossed her a small salute. She left.

Mucci stood at attention just outside the door. Despite Margit’s objections, he followed her from the meeting and to one of the Pentagon’s exits. He held the door open for her. “Take the advice,” he said, his eyes black, his mouth barely moving.

She came to attention. “No, you take
this
advice, Major. You ever touch me—you ever come near me—and you’ll end up singing in a boys’ choir.”

March of the Following Year

Wisconsin senator Henry “Hank” Wishengrad looked down from his chairman’s chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee. His glasses poised precariously on the tip of his nose. His unsparing expression was matched by his voice.

“The testimony you have given here today is shocking in its ramifications. Naturally, I wish you could have brought us more tangible evidence of the charges you level. On the other hand, with the way most of our military and intelligence establishments function under a dark blanket of secrecy, I wouldn’t be surprised that the physical elements you describe have long ago felt the shredder’s teeth. We’ve subpoenaed the videotape you’ve told us about, but we’re told no such tape ever existed. We subpoenaed the psychiatrist in New York, Dr. Marcus Half, but he refuses to testify because of his doctor-patient relationship. The medical corpsman who visited Captain Cobol in his cell will say only that he administered a sedative because the captain was highly agitated,
and the corpsman was afraid he posed a danger to himself. Why a medical corpsman is free to make such judgments, and to administer injections, is something else this committee should look into.

“Whether we ever get to the bottom of this remains conjecture. I will say, however, Ms. Falk, that you are one courageous lady to have stood by your principles, abandon a sterling military career, and come before this committee and the American people to call for righting what is, if it can be proved, a tale of gross abuse of power. I’ll go further. Anyone, civilian or military, who would take the law into their own hands, and for their own purposes, is stealing our country right out from under us. They’re our own people, but every last one of them is a traitor.”

Margit smiled weakly at Wishengrad. Her eyes went to Jeff Foxboro, who sat behind and to the left of the senator. He’d become her ally because of the hearing. What personal feelings remained between them were relegated to memories.

“May I make one final statement?” Margit asked.

“You make as many statements as you wish, Ms. Falk.”

“The saddest day of my life was the day I resigned my commission in the United States Air Force. Every morning I put on that uniform, I felt a sense of pride and purpose. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt as patriotic as I do today. This country, this government, and the armed services that serve both, are made up of thousands of dedicated and qualified men and women. They carry out their daily assignments believing that what they do benefits their country and its people. But there are within this group of good people those who would subvert the laws and regulations in order to fulfill their own prophecies. They believe, I suppose, that what they do is right and good. It isn’t. We are a nation of laws, which led me to become a lawyer. These people—and my solace is that there are so few of them—ignore the very thing they are charged with protecting. They burn the village to save it, as we all heard from Vietnam. They take it upon themselves to decide what is right for this country, ignoring those with legal
authority who say otherwise. It was my misfortune to be put in direct contact with this minority when I was assigned to the Pentagon. My life has changed dramatically because of it, and I will, for the rest of my days, regret my bad luck. But I wish to leave this committee with the understanding that I have been proud to serve with the men and women of our armed forces, and will always view them with that same pride.” Her eyes filled up, and concluded with a broken voice, “Thank you very much.”