The Brea File (42 page)

Halbig seemed to have himself well in hand, Landers thought. His wife was out of danger, and she had confirmed what was now a growing body of evidence of Gordon Ruhle’s involvement in the Brea matter. Erika Halbig, however, knew nothing about the case. She had confessed to Halbig a previous affair with Ruhle as well as other sexual liaisons. Ruhle knew of them and had taken the trouble to acquire proof. He had used that evidence to force her to meet Macimer at the Pook’s Hill Lodge. Photographs of their meeting had been taken by means of concealed cameras. She was not sure why Ruhle had wanted her to do it; he had acted as if it were a kind of joke. She had wanted to believe that, knowing Ruhle’s long friendship with Macimer. She had tried to talk herself into believing it—and failed. “She knew in her heart that Ruhle had used her contemptuously,” Halbig said without intonation. “I suppose she despised herself for that. And she was afraid that, with the hold he had over her, he would use her again if he wanted to. She found sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet of the apartment…”

After a moment’s silence Landers said, “She didn’t want you to know, Russ. That must tell you something.”

“Yes…” Halbig seemed about to say more, the mask of control slipping, but he recovered. Then he said quietly, “The helicopter is standing by, Director.”

“I know. I suppose I’ll have to leave shortly, but… damn it, where is Macimer? An FBI vehicle shouldn’t take this long to spot!” Landers glowered, relieved to take the discussion away from private anguish. “Keep trying to raise him on the radio. He should know better than to play the lone wolf.”

“It’s his daughter, sir. Almost certainly Ruhle kidnapped her, or arranged it, and is holding her. Apparently he’s convinced that Macimer has been holding the Brea file, and Ruhle is using the girl to force him to turn it over. Macimer won’t answer the radio signal—he’s probably not even listening—if he believes our involvement would risk the girl’s life.”

“I know, I know…”

Landers’ thoughts lurched back over Gordon Ruhle’s three-year pattern of treachery, from the betrayal of Ruhle’s informant in the PRC massacre to the murders necessary to cover up what he had done. He would not hesitate to kill again.

“I wonder why he waited so long,” Landers muttered aloud.

“For what, sir?”

“To kill Tim Callahan.”

Halbig considered the question coolly, methodically. “He took out McWilliams early because he perceived him as a clear risk of exposure. McWilliams may even have become suspicious. But apparently Ruhle didn’t perceive Callahan as an immediate threat to him until Vernon Lippert opened up the Brea investigation. Once questions began to be asked about a maverick agent involved in the PRC affair, Callahan became dangerous. He knew about the undercover agents McWilliams was running.” Halbig paused, frowning as he pursued his line of thought.

“What is it?” Landers asked.

“There is one thing we haven’t considered, Director.”

“What might that be?”

“Ruhle may believe you are also a risk to him. He eliminated those who could have identified him as Brea in a really intensive investigation, specifically the men in command of the PRC Task Force. First McWilliams, then Callahan. But they both worked under you. How could Ruhle be certain you weren’t kept informed of all operations, including the use of undercover agents?”

John Landers regarded Halbig thoughtfully. Finally he said, “That’s academic now, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.” Halbig did not appear satisfied. “I’d like to go down to Quantico with you, Director.”

Landers shook his head. “No, I want you to stay here and keep on top of the search for Macimer and Ruhle. You can maintain radio contact with me. I want to know the minute anything breaks.”

“Of course, Director.”

Halbig seemed puzzled about something, and Landers guessed his perplexity had to do more with the events of last night than this morning. What had Halbig expected when he reported this morning to Headquarters? Evidently what he had
not
anticipated was having everything as it was before, his temporary defection overlooked, even condoned, his wife’s questionable conduct not held against him.

A cool, methodical man, Landers thought, but human after all. And because of that perception Landers found it easier to talk to Halbig. Hell, the man had intimidated him before!

“It was going to be a proud day,” Landers said after a moment. The class of new agents graduating from the Academy was the first he was to address as Acting Director. “Now, with this Brea case about to go public… it’s not so proud a day for the Bureau. One of those times when some of the mud will stick.”

“It comes off,” Halbig said.

“Yes…” Landers scrubbed his face with a big square hand. Abruptly he pushed out of his swivel chair, his movements suddenly brisk. As he prepared to leave his office to go up to the rooftop helicopter pad, Landers appeared to be struck by an afterthought. He swung back toward Halbig, a thin smile bending the tight line of his mouth. “By the way, Russ… you’re on good terms with Senator Sederholm, I believe. It might be a good idea if you got in touch with him. He’ll want to know what’s happening.”

Landers saw the color rise on Halbig’s neck as the Director ushered his assistant out of the office. As he rode up to the roof in the elevator, Landers’ smile widened. It was certainly easier to like a man, he thought, when you knew his weaknesses as well as his strengths.

“How long have you known?” Gordon Ruhle asked amiably over the intercom. He could be anywhere nearby, Macimer thought, probably in a car or in the woods surrounding the clearing. No wires were visible, but communication could be something as simple as a portable walkie-talkie with a matching unit, its switches open, in the cabin.

“Not until this morning. I should have guessed earlier about the switch at Dulles when you had one of the your Cuban thugs take Linda’s place. She would only have left with someone she knew.”

“They’re not thugs, they’re patriots,” Ruhle said.

“I can imagine what kind of story you must have told them.”

“You never figured out it was me from Lippert’s file?” Ruhle sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Raymond Shoup had the file,” said Macimer. “I never put my hands on it until this morning. By that time I didn’t need it. What tipped me was something you said on the phone—about Oliver Packard and what I’d said to him about shoveling dirt. That call came on the phone in my den last Sunday, just a couple of hours after you had supposedly cleared that phone. I knew you weren’t that careless. That meant you were involved.”

Gordon Ruhle chuckled. “I slipped up there.”

“Maybe you didn’t much care by then if I knew,” Macimer suggested. “You wanted me up here anyway.”

Ruhle’s silence told Macimer his hunch was accurate. Then Gordon said, “I’m sorry it had to be you, Paul, but when I thought you had got hold of that file I didn’t have much choice.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know yet? The Bureau thinks it was you! The brass, the high muckety-mucks, Halbig and Landers and the others—they think
you
were Brea.”

“That’s crazy.” But suddenly Macimer knew that it wasn’t crazy. It explained the surveillance; nothing else did.
Not a conspiracy, a lone killer
.

“Is it? You were in that area, Paul, when it all went down. Except that on the day the PRC bought it, you were supposed to be off in Fresno on some wild-goose chase. There’s no evidence you were ever there, Paul.”

“I registered at a motel,” Macimer pointed out. “I was supposed to meet an informant, but…”

“Uh-uh. There’s no entry for you on that register. I took care of that.”

Macimer felt hairs stir on the back of his neck. “You made that anonymous call.
You
sent me to Fresno!”

“I didn’t want you in the way, that’s all. At least I thought that’s why I was doing it at the time. I never meant to make it look like you could be Brea—not then. That came later, after Vernon Lippert wouldn’t leave well enough alone and I couldn’t find all the stuff he’d dug up. Then I saw the brass would start wondering about you—especially if they suspected you had the file and were sitting on it.” Ruhle paused. “It’s kind of eerie, I mean the way it all began to fit together, even that old register that didn’t show you being where you said you were.”

There was no remorse in the explanation, Macimer saw, no feeling of guilt. Gordon Ruhle had moved beyond that, shaping his own world with its own set of rules.

“Why would the Bureau suspect me?” he asked. “Why not you?”

“Without the file, and with no one alive to say otherwise, there’s no proof I was ever there, Paul. Oh, I think our old pal Halbig would like to believe I was in on it, or maybe that we pulled it off together. But I doubt he thinks that anymore. The fact is, you look guilty as hell, Paul. You recovered those boxes of documents—and the Brea file was missing. You investigated the WFO bombing when McWilliams was killed—and you came up empty. You were there at Quantico the morning Callahan finally shut up. That robbery at your house even looked like a phony setup to divert suspicion. And that reporter, the one who was beaten up, you were the one he was hounding. When the snoopers put all that together with the idea that you lied about being in Fresno the day of the PRC blowout… well, you’re Brea, Paul.”

“It won’t hold up, Gordon, because none of it is true. I didn’t do all those things, you did.” He thought of another question, one that had continued to puzzle him. “Why did you kill Carole Baumgartner? She was no threat to you.”

“She saw me with Erika,” Gordon Ruhle answered curtly.

Linda began to sob softly, uncontrollably, tears streaming down her cheeks. Macimer tried to soothe her with the grip of his hands, as if he might pour strength into her by holding her more tightly.

“She didn’t even know you,” Macimer said.

“I couldn’t be sure of that. You’ve got that snapshot of us on the wall at home. She could’ve recognized me from that.”

And everyone who knew, or guessed, or might in any way threaten to expose Ruhle’s sinister secret had to be silenced. Everyone.

“It won’t hold up, Gordon,” Macimer said. “And you’ve forgotten someone—the Director. There’s a good chance he knew about the undercover operation against the PRC. McWilliams wouldn’t have launched that without approval. And Landers won’t rest until he has the names.”

“I didn’t forget him.”

Ruhle was calm again, and the pronouncement was matter-of-fact, but it brought a new chill of fear. Landers! What had Ruhle done to guarantee
his
silence?

Macimer tried to keep his turmoil out of his voice. “Landers is alive.”

“He’s giving the big speech to the new agents today down at Quantico. Remember how it was in the old days, Paul? A new agent never forgot shaking hands with J. Edgar Hoover the day he got his badge.” Ruhle chuckled. “Believe me, nobody’s ever going to forget this graduation ceremony.”

“You’re crazy, Gordon!” Macimer shouted. “Listen to yourself! You make murder a joke—you’re mad!”

The outburst silenced the man outside. As the seconds dragged by Macimer re-examined the cabin, considering the few options open to him, trying to see the cabin, its openings, its setting, its vulnerabilities through Gordon Ruhle’s eyes.

“Maybe you’re right, Paul,” Ruhle said at last. His tone was flat, the earlier sense of casual banter, even friendliness, wiped away. “But I won’t be crucified over something that had to be done. I won’t see my name used like it was something you’d spit on—not after all these years. Landers is the last link between Brea and me. Him and the file—and you brought that with you. I knew you would—you had to. So there’s nothing left to point to me.” Another pause, and Macimer felt the coldness in it, the implacable determination. “The way it will look, Paul, is you found that file and tried to bury it. Because you were Brea. And when you saw that a cover-up wouldn’t work…”

“I took my own life, is that it?”

Linda gave a small whimpering cry. Like a frightened child she burrowed deeper into the shelter of Macimer’s arms.

“Now you’ve got it.”

Hearing his own death sentence, the words finally said, Macimer was strangely calmed by them. Fear remained, but it was for others—for Linda, and for John L. Landers. And if he was to save them both he had to find a way for her to get away. Nothing else mattered.

He wondered when it had started to go bad for someone like Gordon Ruhle. The man Ruhle had been when Macimer first joined the Bureau could not have plotted the death of a friend, any more than he could have planned and carried out a scheme of wholesale murder. He had had to be conditioned for it. By the bitter realization that the people he served, those who had always paid him honor and respect, no longer trusted and admired him. By years of involvement in “sanctioned” crimes. The arguments that justified a poison-pen letter against a Klansman, a false tip to a journalist, lies and scams against black militants, break-ins and arson and the rest, were the same arguments that must have been in Ruhle’s mind when the idea of the PRC massacre was born. The difference must have seemed to him one of degree, not of kind.

The temptation was always there, Macimer thought. We watch too many crooks go free. We see too many terrorists flaunt their savagery because we’re hamstrung by our own rules. The temptation to skirt the law a little, to overlook this small elasticity, to employ the tools and tactics of viciousness against the vicious (just this once) was always there, always insidious. It had always to be resisted.

But Macimer knew there was no way to convince Gordon Ruhle that the Bureau he loved was hurt far more by cover-ups, dirty tricks, fanatical loyalties than by the truth. Argument was useless—but talk was essential. He had to keep Gordon talking.

Macimer studied his daughter intently. Would she be able to do what he asked of her? It was a chance he had to take. He tightened his grip on her arm as he called out, “We had a deal about Linda. Her life for the file. Are you backing out on that, Gordon? Is she to be sacrificed like the hostages who were in that house with the PRC? Like your own informant? Like the FBI men who trusted you?”