Authors: Don Brown
Code 13 (25 page)
“I'm on it, boss. I already met me a friend from Rodino's office. I think I'll pay him another little visit just to make sure we're all singing from the same song sheet. Know what I mean?”
“I never know what you mean, Vinnie. Sometimes, the way you talk, it's impossible to know what you mean. But here's what I mean. I want you to stay on the ground and do whatever you need to do, and work with Chuckie Rodino's office to make sure this drone contract project gets killed as cold as this MacDonald is. We got that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, boss.”
“Excellent. You get to work on that now, and I'll break the news to Big Sal.”
“You got it, boss.”
DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING
UNITED STATES CAPITOL
OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)
WASHINGTON, DC
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
United States Senator Bobby Talmadge looked up just as Tommy Mandela rapped three times on the outside of the senator's office door. He walked in before Talmadge could even say a word. Talmadge could tell by the serious look on Mandela's face that whatever he had in mind, it wouldn't be jovial political chitchat.
“Need to talk to you, boss.”
“By the look on your face, Tommy, I'm not sure I'm gonna want to hear it.”
“Maybe you will. Maybe you won't.”
“Spit it out.”
“That JAG officer from Code 13, the one Richardson was worried about writing that opinion letter, was shot this afternoon.”
“What?”
“Yep. Bullet to the back of the head. Took him to Walter Reed for emergency surgery. Died on the table.”
“Holy crap.”
“Want me to put you on the line with Richardson to tell him that problem's taken care of?”
“Let me think.” Bobby felt a twisting in the pit of his stomach. He had hired Tommy Mandela for his reputation as a ruthless political operator, as one who would make things happen without the necessity of specific direction, a take-no-prisoners operator whose goal was the political advancement of his boss. In fact, Bobby had hired Mandela at the joint recommendation of Richardson DeKlerk and Joe Don Mack of the Georgia Political Victory Fund. “He'll be the perfect balance for you, Bobby,” Joe Don Mack had said. “You can be the nice guy and he can be the bad guy. Every smiling politician needs a cutthroat operator in the background where you won't want to know about stuff he did.”
Why did the smirk of satisfaction on Tommy's face and his piercing black eyes make Bobby's stomach feel sick?
“Tommy, do we know what really happened to this officer?”
Mandela hesitated. A knowing grin. A look of self-satisfaction.
“You really want to know the answer to that question, boss?”
Something didn't feel right about all this. “Do you think I should know?”
“Not if you want to claim plausible deniability, boss.”
Mandela's words jolted him, and Bobby felt his stomach being knotted like a tightly twisted washrag with all the water being wrung out of it. “I guess it doesn't matter. Tell you what. Leave it alone with Richardson for the time being. If he doesn't already know, he'll find out soon enough. And the last thing we need is for him to get another shot at razzing me about the status of the drone contract.”
“Ya know what, Senator?” Mandela didn't give Bobby enough time to answer. “For a rookie senator, your political instincts are pretty darn good.”
“Thanks, Tommy. Let's leave it at that. Meanwhile, let's arrange a meeting with Senator Roberson Fowler. We need to call in the big guns to get this contract through. Gotta make sure we stay on DeKlerk's good side. Joe Don Mack's too.”
“As I said, Senator, for a rookie senator, your political instincts are pretty darn good. I'll get that meeting arranged ASAP. But understand, sir, we're gonna have to go to him. He's not coming to us.”
“I understand. He's been in the senate since Ulysses S. Grant's inauguration. He's the king of Washington. I'm the new kid on the block.”
Mandela laughed. “With a learning curve like that, Senator, we'll have you in the White House faster than a bullet can take out a troublemaker.”
“Don't know if I like the analogy, Tommy. But thanks for the compliment.”
HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY
EAST 161ST STREET
THE BRONX
THURSDAY
“Okay, look, Chuckie.” Phil sucked on his third cigarette in the last hour. “Now that the problem of that troublemaker JAG officer has been eliminated, we need some action on this contract. You know, I've been patient. Big Sal has been patient. But we need this contract squashed. You know, the family didn't get you elected just to go down to Washington and drink caviar and sip champagne. So what's going on, Chuckie? What am I gonna tell Big Sal? I mean, Big Sal ain't gonna be patient forever!”
“Don't worry, Phil.” Rodino sounded nervous. “This drone project bill hasn't even been brought to Congress yet. Tell Big Sal it will never see the light of day. And if it does see the light of day, it'll get squashed in committee.”
“Wait a minute. Are you telling me it won't get called for a hearing, or are you telling me it will get called but won't pass? What are you telling me, Senator?”
A pause.
“Hey, tell Big Sal the bill hasn't been passed, and if I have anything to do with it, it won't be passed. Tell him I guarantee it.”
Vivian stepped into the office.
“Mr. D'Agostino, it's Vinnie on the line again.”
“Look, Senator, I'll pass it on to Big Sal. But right now I gotta go. Just do your job. Okay? Talk to you later.”
Phil slammed down the phone and picked up the blinking line. “Vinnie. What have you got for me?”
“We got a problem, boss.”
“Talk to me, Vinnie.”
“Our computer geek just called.”
“Which computer geek? We got several of 'em.”
“Tony, boss. You remember Tony?”
“Oh yeah. Tony. What about him?”
“Well, you know we've been watching emails coming out of this Code 13, right?”
“Right. What did we have to spend? Thirty thousand cash for some civilian clerk at the Pentagon to give us log-on info?”
“More like forty grand, boss.”
“Okay, whatever. So you're telling me Tony's found something?”
“Yep. So he says.”
“Spit it out.”
“Seems like this MacDonald, before he got taken out, finished his legal paper and emailed it to another officer who works in the same section, this Code 13, for safekeeping. Except he didn't email it to a government computer. He emailed it to a private email address. Which means it's probably at the officer's residence. And it gets worse, boss.”
Phil rocked back in his chair, fuming, and tempted to scream at his son-in-law lackey who, as much as he hated to admit it, wasn't as stupid as Phil wanted him to be. But there was no point in killing the messenger, even though nobody ever made that point to Big Sal, who would take Vinnie's bad news out on him. “Okay, Vinnie. How does it get worse?”
“Well, the opinion that he wound up writing? From what Tony says, it ain't good. He wrote it against us, saying that the drones would be legal. And then he wrote that he might send another opinion, saying
the drones would be illegal, but he never sent it. He got bopped off instead.”
“So, Vinnie. Let me see if I can get this straight. You're saying our computer guy intercepted an email this MacDonald wrote to another naval officer, working in the same division, with a legal opinion saying the drones are legal so the Navy can go forward with the contract?”
“Right, boss.”
“But in the body of the email, he said he might be sending the officer a contradictory opinion, saying the drones are illegal, which is what we wanted him to say?”
“Actually, boss, he said he
would
be sending another opinion after he got back from his run. In other words, if he hadn't got bopped off down on the National Mall, it looks like he would have come back, taken a shower, put on his uniform, and sent the second opinion, saying the drones are illegal, which is what we wanted him to say. But he got hosed out on the Mall.”
“So let me get this straight again. There's one opinion floating around out there that cuts against the family, and it might be in some other officer's hands by now. And there's another opinion out there, but it's still sitting in the Pentagon, because MacDonald got hosed before he could come back from his run and send it.”
Phil cursed. “Why'd you have to work so fast, Vinnie?”
“I was just doing what I thought you wanted me to do, boss.”
Phil shook his head, drummed his fingers on his desk, and thought.
“Who did MacDonald send this email to?”
“Hang on. Let me check the name.” A pause. “To another officer. A Lieutenant Ross Simmons, who is also a JAG officer at Code 13. In the same division. Apparently this Simmons worked with or worked under MacDonald.”
“Did MacDonald say anything in that email about why he sent his legal opinion to Simmons?”
“Hang on. Let me look.” Another pause. “He said, âIn case something happens to me, they'll probably reassign this to you. Wanted to make it easy for you to pick whichever opinion you would want to go with.' ”
“Son of aâ!” Phil drew on his cigarette. “The sucker knew somebody might take him out.”
“Right, boss. And my guess is it ain't just us who wanted to see him get iced.”
“You're smarter than I like to give you credit for, Vinnie.”
“You gonna tell Big Sal?”
The backhanded compliment about being smarter than given credit for seemed to have blown over Vinnie's head.
“I don't know yet. I don't want to bother Big Sal if we can handle it in-house.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We gotta find this Lieutenant Simmons and get that opinion back. We can't have that thing floating around out there. And talk to Tony and see if there's any way we can get that email erased.”
“You got it, boss. I'm on it.”
ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY
SECTION 60
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
The late-afternoon sun, blazing through the cloudless, deep blue sky, lit the wind-ruffled cherry tree blossoms standing guard above the still-empty grave. All across the massive acreage of the sprawling tree-dotted cemetery, the sun seemed to lend a deeper lushness to the green grass carpeting on the hallowed plains and hills.
Perhaps the perfect weather and picturesque beauty was God's way of telling them that P.J. was now in a better place. Because if it weren't for the sight of thousands of simple grave markers rising from the grass, this place might be a future glimpse of heaven.