Code 13 (17 page)

“I don't have time for all that!”

“How can I help?”

“I got your memo about the problem we're running into with this Navy commander.”

“Right. From what I understand, this MacDonald guy is a maverick officer who more or less marches to his own tune.”

“Excuse me, but tell me how a midlevel officer in the Pentagon can wield such power. To me this makes no sense. Why doesn't some admiral order him to write this paper—or whatever it is—to push the contract through?”

“Well, you know, I never served in the military. That was a fantasy I never fulfilled. I always wanted to be a Navy JAG. But after the NFL didn't work out, I got married, went to law school—”

“I'm not paying you to reminisce about your unfulfilled professional fantasies!”

“Sorry. Here was my point: I've researched the JAG and know a little about it. To answer your question, the JAG officers are charged with rendering independent legal opinions. Now, this MacDonald is an action officer at the Pentagon. His job as part of this Code 13 group is to provide independent legal opinions to the Secretary of the Navy. He's been ordered to research the legality of this project. Once he submits his opinion, the Secretary is free to accept it or reject it. And other JAG officers get to comment on it too.”

“Will the Secretary of the Navy accept MacDonald's recommendation?”

Jack hesitated. “Richardson, I don't know. I don't know the Secretary of the Navy. I do think the Navy wants this contract, though. It would be a major coup to be awarded the largest drone contract in the history of the world, and especially over the Air Force.

“But on the other hand, a negative opinion from MacDonald is not good. My concern is this: While I don't think a negative legal opinion from the action officer will kill the project from the Navy's standpoint, I think it could put the brakes on the project. The Navy might delay and demand tweaks in the operational plans until they feel like they can deal with the objections of these Ron Paul–worshipping libertarian types in Congress who will oppose this contract from the day it's announced like white on rice.”

“Unacceptable!” Richardson stepped back inside and flung the glass of liquor across the office, smashing it into the far wall, sending shards of glass everywhere. Raindrops of liquor rolled down the wall. “Delays cost millions! Delays will not be tolerated!”

Three quick knocks on the door. “Sir, is everything okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine, Ivana!” he yelled. “Hang on, Jack.”

“Sure, Richardson.”

He waited a second to check his composure, then lowered his
voice to just above a whisper. “Jack, what do you know about this MacDonald?”

“Probably more than his own mother knows, unless he's told his mother that he's falling into an embarrassing love triangle. Recently broke up with another JAG officer, a Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick. They were hot and heavy when he was stationed in San Diego. Now he's playing footsie with a new potential love interest, a Lieutenant Victoria Fladager, a hot little firecracker of a redhead JAG officer. McCormick doesn't know about Fladager, and this could get interesting, because they're all about to be stationed at the Pentagon at this Code 13 together.”

Richardson thought for a second. “You've certainly done your homework.”

“That's what you pay us for. I've not even sent you the full dossier—only what we intercepted about his thinking on the drone contract. We know more. His immediate boss made the mistake of sending a couple of confidential emails up the chain, which we intercepted. My sources leave no stones uncovered, Richardson.”

“I take it since your firm has managed to gather data by whatever means on this MacDonald that you could, for example, track his movements anywhere, anytime?”

Patterson snickered. “Put it this way. As long as you're willing to spend the money, we can track him anywhere, anytime, as long as he's not inside a U.S. military installation or on a warship out to sea.”

“I don't even want to know what I had to spend for this dossier.”

“No, you don't,” Patterson quipped. “But at least I got you results, unlike your buddy up there in the senate. Just proves you can get a lot more done by hiring a lawyer than hiring a politician.”

Richardson did not immediately respond. As high-priced as Jack was, he had a point. And Jack's services went beyond legal services. Quarterbacking investigations. Numerous private investigator contacts in every city in America. Experts capable of intercepting emails, texts, and cell phone conversations.

Jack had already given him more information about this MacDonald character than Talmadge had, but there was no point in
acknowledging that Jack got results. No point in stroking his ego. That might encourage him to raise his rates even more.

“Listen, Jack. Since you're bragging about your contacts and such, I want you to take care of this MacDonald so he's not a problem blocking this contract anymore. Do you think you can do that?”

No immediate response.

“Is something wrong with your phone, Jack?”

“I'm here.” Another pause. “Uh, what do you mean when you say you want me to take care of him?”

“What I mean is that we have millions, maybe billions in profits riding on this contract. That's a ton of profits not only for AirFlite, but also for Patterson & Landry, assuming Patterson & Landry remains principal counsel to AirFlite. I'm sure that thought has crossed your mind. Am I right?”

“Of course. I understand there's a lot riding on this. What are you suggesting, Richardson?”

“I'll leave that up to you. And you're smart enough not to ask questions like that over the phone. But I don't care what you do as long as MacDonald doesn't write a negative legal opinion to the Secretary of the Navy. You take care of MacDonald from your end, and I'll take care of Talmadge from my end. Do you understand me?”

“I understand, Richardson.”

“Good. Then let's get to work.”

He slammed down the phone, then punched the intercom and told Ivana to bring another drink.

CHAPTER 11

HANK'S OYSTER BAR

633 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE SE

WASHINGTON, DC

TUESDAY MORNING

“I think this is the place, Kristina,” Chuckie Rodino said from the back of the nondescript white Ford Taurus used by low-level members of his senate staff. Remaining unrecognized while traveling around Washington, DC, was a challenge for a United States senator.

Yet anonymity was often essential, for various reasons. Chuckie learned early on from some more seasoned members of the Democratic Caucus that scrapping a senatorial-assigned black limo for an unostentatious staff car helped reduce suspicion.

“When should I pick you up, Senator?” The enthusiastic young intern had gotten the job of glorified taxi driver by virtue of her position as vice president of the District of Columbia Young Democrats, and also by the fact that she passed Chuckie's looks test for his intern staff.

“I'll give you a call.”

“Yes, sir. I'll be here for you, Senator.”

One had to be careful with interns. Some of his foolish colleagues had not been. But Chuckie had not been caught. He was too smart for that.

He stepped out of the passenger side of the car onto the brick
sidewalk. Holding his head down, he quick-stepped past the handful of small, black, wrought-iron tables and chairs, entering the hole-in-the-wall joint that was no more than twenty feet in width, called Hank's Oyster Bar.

Inside, a long, single bar with forty or fifty bar stools ran deep into the joint.

A figure sat alone down at the far end, perhaps a hundred feet from the Pennsylvania Street entrance.

“Chuckie!”

“I'm here. What do you want?”

“Come talk to me! The bartender made you a drink. On the house!”

It was the subtle, classic power move. Vinnie wasn't coming to the front to greet him, and in fact wasn't even going to stand.

He hated kissing up to wormy maggots like this. But it was part of the price of power.

Hopefully one day he would be sufficiently powerful that he would never have to kiss up to such scum again.

He walked alongside the long bar, his eyes fixed on the rat sporting the cheese-eating grin. Approaching the human rodent, he stuck out his hand for a shake, a politician's innate instinct whether approaching friend or foe.

“That's all I get?” Vinnie stood up. “A handshake? I thought we were like family.” He opened his arms wide. “How about giving your main man a great big bear hug?”

Vinnie wrapped his arms around Chuckie, hugging him like he was a big, fat, Italian teddy bear. As he broke the bear hug, the senator caught a whiff of Vinnie's cologne, which smelled like a mixture of ammonia and mint julep.

“Have a seat.” Vinnie pointed to the bar stool right beside his.

Chuckie obliged. “Okay, tell me how I can help you.”

“First things first before we start talking business, Chuckie boy. I mean, we're friends. Right?” Another cheesy grin. A jovial, man-pal punch in the arm.

“Yes, Vinnie. We're friends.”

“That's more like it. So listen. There's one thing I gotta know.”

“What's that?”

“I mean, being such a big, powerful senator, you must get all the women. Matter of fact, the way I hear it, there might be a little switch-hitting involved. You know?” Vinnie laughed. “Maybe a little congressional boy action, too, once in a while?”

Chuckie fumed at the notion of these animals spying on his intimate sexual practices.

“I wouldn't know.”

“Hey, hey.”

More smiling. More cheese-eating grins. Chuckie would punch this guy, except that would end his political career.

“I hear you can get the pick of the litter, Chuckie!”

Chuckie glanced down at his watch. “So how can I be of service?”

“Relax. We'll get to that.” He patted Rodino on the shoulder and swigged his liquor. “So tell your man about these interns. I hear they're among the best perks of being in Congress! And I hear they love Democrats. Gary Condit, Mark Foley, Anthony Weiner, Johnny Edwards. Hey, even the big kahuna, ole Slick Willie himself, had one! Huh? Huh?” More backslapping. “Come on, bro. Give me something juicy!”

Chuckie wanted to punch the guy. “It's not just a Democrat problem, Vinnie. Plenty of Republicans have gotten into trouble too.”

“Oh, come on, man. I hear the interns are hot. These young babes are hot. I know you've got a little side thing going with a bunch of 'em, right? It stays here. You can trust your man!”

“There's nothing to say.”

“Come on. How about that hot little brunette babe who drove you up here? What's her name? Kristina, ain't it?”

Rodino felt his blood boil with rage. “How do you know who drove me here? And how do you know her name?”

“Chuckie! Chuckie! We're family, bro! Family keeps up with family!”

“Look, let's get to the point. I have a busy schedule. Tell me how my office can help.”

“I hear she's a good kisser! Huh? Huh?”

“I'm not sure what Kristina or any other intern—”

“She sure looks good for the camera! Huh?” The rodent plopped a yellow envelope on the bar and slid it over in front of Chuckie. “Huh? Check it out!” Laughter.

His heart pounded at the sight of the envelope. He wanted to rip it to shreds. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Go ahead, Chuckie. Check it out. She's a babe. And a great kisser, from what I hear.”

What to do? Chuckie followed his instinct. The first photo had been taken inside his senate office. Time mark: 11:15 p.m. The still shot showed him in a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, pushing Kristina McRaven against the wall and kissing her. Her arms were wrapped around his back, and he was clearly cooperating.

The picture had been snapped through his office window, obviously with a telephoto lens.

The second picture showed them in the front seat of his car, at night, in front of her apartment, kissing again. The photo had been enhanced through infrared photography.

Chuckie stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and slid them back to Vinnie. “Very cute.”

Vinnie pulled out the first photo, looked at it, and laughed. “So, hey, she looks like a great kisser to me. What do you say, Senator?”

“What's your point?”

“No point. Just that you're a lucky guy.”

“You're not planning to let anybody see those pictures?”

“Now, why would I do such a thing? In fact, once you help us the way we need to be helped, we might just forget all these little bitty pickies. Ha-ha!”

It was a classic mobster blackmail power play. Chuckie had heard of it a hundred times. The Washington rumor mill had it that someone had gotten to Republican Chief Justice John Roberts with some sort of threat or blackmail, which was the only rational explanation Chuckie could think of for Roberts's strange switch to author a bizarre opinion upholding the Affordable Care Act on a “taxation” theory that not even the Obama administration lawyers had advocated.