Code 13 (40 page)

If that ever got out, it would be all over.

Personally.

Politically.

Professionally.

He had gotten no sleep—none—since the photos showed up. And frankly, he wondered if there were more.

He had to deliver on this contract. Had to. It was now or never. Do or die.

Maryanne came back in, wearing a fitted dark-blue skirt, black heels, and a satin blouse, smiling and holding a cup of steaming black Maxwell House in his favorite Georgia Bulldogs mug.

“Here's your coffee, Bobby,” she said softly. She often called him by his first name—a practice he rather liked—when she was sure nobody else was in earshot.

“By the way, where's my copy of the
Washington Post
?”

“The
Post
?”

“Sure. You know. That liberal rag Jesse Helms used to call the
Pravda on the Potomac
. Could I sweet-talk you into bringing me a copy?” He delivered an affectionate wink but did not receive the flirtatious, Marie Osmond–look-alike return glance, as he so often got in the early-morning hours with just the two of them alone in the office.

The look on her face.

Something was wrong.

CHAPTER 31

OFFICE OF THE NAVY JUDGE ADVOCATE GENERAL

ADMINISTRATIVE LAW DIVISION (CODE 13)

THE PENTAGON

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

TUESDAY, 6:17 A.M.

Even at the secretive and hush-hush Code 13, as was the case with most military stations around Washington, DC, military protocol demanded that junior officers and junior enlisted personnel be among the first to report to duty for a new workday, or a new shift, or any special or extraordinary assignments involving the military unit.

Although this was not a direct command from on high that was written in stone, the practice was true for naval and marine units in the National Capital Region. Junior officers and enlisted personnel understood that if they wanted to advance within the Navy, they would have to adhere to this rule, get to work before their bosses, and make the work space as accommodating as possible for their superiors.

Usually that meant starting the coffee mess, firing up lights and computers, checking overnight message traffic and making sure that all messages were delivered to the correct recipients, answering before-hours phone calls, and handling anything else that might pop up that would be of service to the command.

Lieutenant Victoria Fladager, still the junior officer at Code 13,
had already started the coffee mess and was firing up her computer when the phone rang.

“Navy Judge Advocate General. Code 13. This is a nonsecure line subject to monitoring. May I help you, sir or ma'am?”

“Victoria? Is that you?”

At first Victoria wondered about the identity of the woman on the other end of the line. The Pentagon's landline, because of scrambling features to deter electronic eavesdropping, sometimes altered the pitch and tone of a caller's voice.

Then it hit her.

“Caroline?”

“Thank God I got through. I couldn't reach either you or Paul on your cells.”

“Cells hardly work inside the Pentagon. What's going on? You sound terrible.”

“Somebody just took a shot at me.”

“What? Are you okay?”

“I'm okay for the time being.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in my car. On Old Keene Mill Road. On my way to work.”

“What happened?”

“I was on my front doorstep. Locking my door. All of a sudden, out of the blue, this bullet whizzed right by my ear and went through my front door. Luckily I'd moved my head just before the guy shot, and this Metro bus pulled up in front of my townhouse. I didn't see the NCIS agents and didn't know if whoever it was would shoot their way in the house if I went back inside. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. So I jumped in my car and took off.”

“Is anybody following you?”

“I checked my rearview. There are cars behind me, but if the shooter's back there, I wouldn't have a clue.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Negative. In fact, I think he may have used a silencer, because I didn't even hear a gunshot. Just my door almost exploding beside my head.”

“Did you call 911?”

“No!”

“Do you want me to call them for you?”

“No. I want to keep the local cops out of it. They're a bunch of buffoons, and I don't trust them. If they get in the way, it might blow our chances of finding this guy. But I do want you to call Mark and let him know, if he doesn't know already. Let's keep NCIS on this. They've got a better chance of finding P.J.'s murderer than the Springfield police. And then call Paul and let him know. I should be there in about thirty minutes, assuming I don't get shot first.”

“Okay. Consider it done. I'll call them right now, then I'll call you back. But please be careful.”

“Thanks, Victoria.”

The line went dead. Victoria felt her heart pounding inside her chest in a delayed reaction.

She punched the speed dial for the man who had been out of her life and now had come back into it.

“NCIS. Special Agent Mark Romanov.”

“Thank God.” She realized, for the first time, that the sound of his voice brought her comfort. “Mark, this is Victoria. Somebody tried to shoot Commander McCormick.”

CHAPTER 32

DIRKSEN SENATE OFFICE BUILDING

UNITED STATES CAPITOL

OFFICE OF ROBERT TALMADGE (R-GA)

WASHINGTON, DC

TUESDAY, 6:18 A.M.

Maryanne stepped back into Bobby's office, looking both sumptuous and worried at the same time.

“You got the paper?”

She nodded, winced, laid it down on his desk, then turned and walked out.

He picked up the paper and felt his stomach drop through the floor.

CHRISTMAS SEXCAPADES:

THE ROOKIE SENATOR FROM GEORGIA
AND THE HOT ITALIAN MODEL

by Julian Morgan III, Staff Writer

WASHINGTON HAS BEEN ROCKED BY THEM SINCE TIME immemorial. JFK and Marilyn. Bill and Monica. Wilbur Mills and Fanne Foxe. Johnny Edwards and Rielle Hunter.

Powerful men in Washington, wielding more power than
a million other men combined, still growing discontent and wanting even more.

Theirs is an electric pattern of excitement that must live on the brink of self-destruction.

And so, in pushing themselves to a destructive brink, recklessly womanizing, what's not clear is whether they secretly want to be discovered.

“Deep down, these men get their turn-on by pushing their luck to the limit, hoping they will be exposed. It's both a macho thing and a masochistic thing at the same time,” said Dr. Jim Bell, professor of clinical psychology at George Washington University and author of the book
Playboys of the Senate: Why the Men of the Upper Chamber Cannot Restrain Themselves
.

Now a new Romeo-boy has joined a long line of conquistadores, making himself eligible for inclusion in the update to Bell's book.

Meet rookie senator Robert “Bobby” Talmadge, Republican of Georgia.

Based on eyewitness reports and photos leaked to the press, the newest member of the senate's playboy club is rumored to have been involved in a tryst with red-hot Italian supermodel Marla Moreno.

The two were first spotted together at a Christmas party at the home of oil-and-gas lobbyist Hub Webster. The picture shown below, taken by a partygoer, shows Ms. Moreno, 27, in a short black leather skirt and Santa cap, sitting cozily on Talmadge's lap, flopping her arms around him and nuzzling her nose behind his ear.

And from the photographic evidence, it doesn't appear that the married Mr. Talmadge, who is shown turning his head toward Ms. Moreno and grinning like a satisfied Cheshire cat, is objecting to the attention.

Witnesses at the party report that the senator and the model, who had been carousing with one another under the
influence of intoxicating beverages for a good portion of the party, disappeared at the same time, reportedly retiring to a secluded area of the house to be alone.

Fortunately for Talmadge, he doesn't face reelection for another two years, so it remains unclear just how news of this breaking scandal might affect his political future.

The
Post
attempted to contact Talmadge's office for comment, but his office did not return our calls.

Bobby dropped the paper on his desk.

His life was over. Politically. Personally. Professionally. His reputation had fallen into the sewer, and he could never get it back.

It was over. He was ruined.

How? How had this happened?

The phone on his desk rang.

Maryanne. He punched the intercom.

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

No response.

“Bobby?”

“I'm okay,” he lied.

“You've got a phone call.”

“Who is it?”

“Your wife. She said she couldn't get through on your cell.”

Molly Sue had seen the article. He knew it. Or someone had called her about it. “How'd she sound?”

“Not good.”

“Tell her, uh . . .” What to say? What to do? “Tell her I'll call her back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Like certain members of the U.S. Senate before him, including John Kerry and John McCain, Bobby Talmadge not only had married into natural beauty but also had married into a ton of money.

There was nothing wrong with marrying into an ultra-rich and powerful family, especially if all the parties were on the same page.
And in this case, Molly Sue's father, former congressman Steve Roy McGovern, had made his fortune in peanut brokerage and gone on to serve in Congress for nearly forty years, where he had chaired the powerful House Ways and Means Committee and become known as the “oldest rat in the Republican barn.”

Long before Bobby ever met Richardson DeKlerk or came under the wing of the Georgia Political Victory Fund, Congressman Steve Roy McGovern took Bobby under his wing, recognized him as a political star, basically handed him the congressional seat in Buckhead that McGovern had held over four decades, and made sure the money got spent to ensure Bobby's success.

The payback would be to guarantee that McGovern's only daughter and only child, Molly Sue, who was so darn gorgeous and talented that she could have won Miss Georgia even without her daddy's money and influence, would be guaranteed the life of a high-powered political socialite wife, whether it be in Washington or as first lady of Georgia.

She inherited all of Daddy's money when he died, prompting the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
to run a feature story dubbing her as the “Richest Woman in Georgia”—and she inherited all his meanness too.

In fact, the older she got, the meaner she got. She stayed on his case constantly. Criticizing. Nagging. No matter what election he won, no matter how far he climbed in the polls, no matter what accolades were bestowed upon him, it was never enough. She was always pleased to compare him unfavorably with other men—other senators, other members of Congress, other husbands, other professionals. Doctors, lawyers, ministers—whoever. “If only you were more like so-and-so,” she would harp.

Once, he had surprised her for her forty-fifth birthday with a romantic trip to Paris. One would think the gesture would have been appreciated. And although at first she had seemed excited about it, from the moment they stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport, she unleashed a torrent of nonstop criticism that proceeded to flow like hot lava from an angry volcano for the entire duration of their French getaway.

The five-star accommodations he arranged were not acceptable.

She complained about the taxi service.

He should have checked the weather to make sure there was no rain on the day he made reservations for their tour of Montmartre.

Like a Roman solider lashing a shirtless prisoner on the back with a skin-stripping bullwhip, her sharp tongue lashed him constantly. Night and day. Every waking minute. And she kept coming back. She would attack, starting her barrages against him about 8:00 p.m. after a couple of glasses of red wine. Then, after a brief respite while she switched to scotch, she would take a few gulps and allow herself to be worked up into another frenzy of verbal attacks. And her second barrage, usually commencing around ten o'clock, felt like salt tossed into the bloody wounds she had delivered in her first round of haranguing. Usually, in round two, she launched into an ultra-critical soliloquy about his body.