Code 13 (42 page)

“I appreciate you gentlemen meeting me in the parking lot, but if I need bodyguards here at the Pentagon, we're in big trouble. Anyway, I've got to get inside. I've got a lot of work to do.”

“Okay. I'll walk with you, if you don't mind,” Mark said. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“I'm sure you do.” Caroline stepped up her pace, walking again toward the south entrance.

“You guys can back off now! We've got it!” Mark shouted, which prompted Caroline to look over her shoulder.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Commander, meet Special Agents Carraway and Frymier.”

She turned around and saw two well-cut younger men, one a balding black guy and one a white guy with a close-cropped crew cut, maybe in their late twenties. They were wearing pinstripe suits, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and earpieces attached to squiggly wires. “This is Special Agent Carraway.”

“Ma'am,” said the black guy, nodding at her.

“And Frymier.”

“Good morning, ma'am,” said the Caucasian, his cologne smelling a bit strong in the wind.

“Special Agents Frymier and Carraway are your overnight detail watching your place. They just followed you here.”

“You were the guys who were on detail outside my house this morning?”

“Yes, ma'am. Plus, we had a couple of other agents stationed in the area also.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No, ma'am,” Carraway said. “When you came out of the front door, a bus pulled up and we lost visual contact for a second. Next thing we knew, you were in your car and on the road. We followed you as soon as you pulled out.”

She looked at Frymier. “You didn't see anything either?”

“No, ma'am. We were stationed close to each other. I saw what Special Agent Carraway saw.”

“Wow.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Not at the moment,” Mark said. “Stay on standby until your shift changes. I want someone following her home this evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

She turned and started walking again. Paul and Mark flanked her on each side. “So, no offense to these guys, but what good are they if they let someone get off a shot and didn't even see the shooter?”

“Unfortunately, that's not always uncommon,” Mark said. “Snipers sometimes aren't seen until long after the fact because they position themselves in obscure places. Sometimes they aren't seen at all. That's part of what makes this a dangerous business. And of course, when a sniper uses a silencer, it makes it even harder to know someone's even gotten a shot off.”

They kept walking as a cloud passed over the sun, casting an ominous shadow over the great sea of asphalt.

“Frankly, I don't like it,” Paul said. “When we've got NCIS agents out there and even they can't stop this, I think this is too much to ask of Caroline.”

“Nobody's asking me to do anything, Captain.”

“I know, but still—”

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”

The parking lot spun like a whirlwind.

Sharp, burning pain.

Concentrated.

Instant.

Sharp.

Caroline fell forward. Her head hit the concrete.

“She's been shot! Hit the deck!”

CHAPTER 33

AIRFLITE CORP

U.S. DOMESTIC HEADQUARTERS

OVERLOOKING THE SAVANNAH RIVER

SAVANNAH, GEORGIA

TUESDAY, 8:15 A.M.

Richardson DeKlerk, wearing a blue designer blazer, rocked back in the chair behind his desk, sipped his morning bourbon, and was checking his email when Ivana popped into his office.

“Excuse me, Richardson,” she said in that luscious Eastern European accent of hers, “but you have a telephone call from Washington, DC.”

“I hope it's Bobby Talmadge with some good news about my contract.”

“Actually, sir, it's Senator Talmadge's assistant, a Mr. Mandela. He said you know him. He says it's urgent.”

“Urgent? It's already beyond urgent,” Richardson said, then remembered that taking out his frustration over Talmadge's lack of action on Ivana would do no good. “Very well, my dear. Put Mr. Mandela through.”

“Yes, sir.”

Richardson picked up the telephone. “Tommy, I'm hoping you're calling to tell me our junior senator has gotten the proposal from the Navy he needs to bring Project Blue Jay as an up-or-down expenditures bill before Congress.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. DeKlerk, it doesn't appear that Senator Talmadge will be bringing any more bills before Congress at all.”

Richardson bottom-upped the last ounce of his morning shot. “What are you talking about, Mandela?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. DeKlerk, the senator shot himself early this morning.”

“What? Did you say Talmadge shot himself?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Is he okay?”

“He's dead.”

“What the heck?” Ivana appeared at the door with a bewildered look on her pretty face, obviously curious about the conversation. Richardson poured himself another shot of bourbon, then got up and started walking toward the riverview balcony. “What set him off?” A sip of bourbon.

“Well, the
Washington Post
somehow got hold of some of those pictures with the senator and Marla Moreno and wrote a juicy little exposé on the front page. That's all it took.”

“Tommy, we weren't trying to get him to bop himself off, only to pressure him to act on this bill. How did this happen?”

“I don't know the answer to that yet, Mr. DeKlerk. But I'm sure the pictures run by the
Post
didn't originate from our camp. Somebody else was trying to get to him. He was three sheets to the wind at the party by the time she jumped on his lap. Anybody could have taken those pictures.”

DeKlerk cursed. “This presents a problem. I've got to make some calls to get this seat filled, and fast. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise. Hopefully we'll find someone a little more compliant when we have a legislative request. Gotta go.” He hung up. “Ivana?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me Joe Don Mack over at the Georgia Political Victory Fund. Tell him it's urgent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And bring another bourbon, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

Richardson stepped out on the balcony and looked down at the blue waters of the Savannah River. How had something that should be so bloody simple become so bloody complicated?

Ivana stepped out onto the balcony holding a cordless telephone. “Mr. Mack is on the line, Richardson.”

“Thank you.” He took the phone. “Joe Don. Have you heard the news about Talmadge?”

“Yep. Just got a call from the director of the Georgia Republican Party.” Joe Don Mack spoke in an elongated southern drawl. “I'm shocked. What a waste. The
Washington Post
did a hit piece with him and that hot little Italian chick. Like ole Harry Truman said, if you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. But this is one heck of a way to get out of the kitchen.”

Richardson checked his watch. “Look, Joe Don, I don't have time to hear about Harry Truman. Right now I need to know what the procedure is for finding a replacement for Talmadge.”

“Well, the governor makes the appointment. Then whoever the governor appoints has to stand for reelection at the same time Bobby would have been up for reelection.”

“You've got a couple of names in mind?”

“Of course, Richardson. We always have a short list. A couple are from the Georgia State Senate.”

“Okay, listen, Joe Don. I want you to go to your short list and pick the lackey who's going to pick up the ball where Talmadge dropped it, and I want you to have a specific conversation with him and tell him what we expect, and tell him that this drone project is vital to the state's economy, and to his general election chances, and to his health in general. Got it?”

“Got it, boss.”

“Good. And then I want you to get this appointment through within forty-eight hours. Tell the governor that Georgia cannot afford to be without a United States senator and that his own chances for reelection or other political aspirations he may have will depend on him acting fast.”

“But—”

“There's no but to it, Joe Don. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And as far as the Victory Fund goes, I'm prepared to spend whatever amount of money it takes, but only if you make it happen.”

“We'll make it happen. I'll get the governor on the line—personally—and tell him how much this means to you and to the state of Georgia. We know how important AirFlite is to the Victory Fund. We won't let you down.”

NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY

BROOKLYN NAVY YARD WAREHOUSE

OVERLOOKING THE EAST RIVER

KAY AVENUE

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

10:15 A.M.

The last time he stood on this concrete floor in this cavernous warehouse, a dead body had been sprawled on the floor, oozing blood from a bullet hole to the temple, compliments of the long-barreled revolver of the “big guy” himself, the still-too-meddlesome godfather of the family, Sal D'Agostino.

But the company's cleaning crew had done a marvelous job spicking-and-spanning the place, Phil thought, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Phil!” Sal shouted, barreling like a bouncing bear across the warehouse. “Hey, looks like all the blood and guts got scrubbed up good.” He laughed. “Unless we decide to take out one of these limp-wimp, congressman-senator types.” He laughed at himself again. “Hey, come give your favorite uncle a little affection, will ya?” The big guy held out his arms in a gimme-a-bear-hug gesture and wrapped them around Phil.

“How are you today, Uncle?”

“Great! Now that I've seen my favorite nephew.”

“I'm your only nephew, Uncle Sal. That's the only reason I'm now running the family business.”

“You'd be my favorite nephew even if I had a hundred nephews,” Sal said. “Give me one of those, will ya?” Sal snatched the cigarette before Phil could even say “Sure thing,” lit it, and started talking again. “So, are our two Washington lover boys almost here?”

“Joey just called. They're at the gate now.”

“Good.” Sal released a smoke ring. “Tell ya what. Let's go over and wait for 'em in the side office. Call Joey and tell him to bring those boys in to us as soon as they get out of the car.”

“You bet.” Phil punched the speed dial and relayed Sal's instructions.

They walked across the concrete door to an industrial-looking office with a plain wooden desk, several plain wooden chairs, and a few filing cabinets.

Mostly the office was used for foremen to sign off on receipts of inventory—catches—brought in from the fishing boats. Big Sal sat behind the desk and kicked up his feet. “So how's my boy Vinnie?”

“Still in Washington. So far, so good, I guess.”

“The boy might get used to the lifestyle, Phil. Maybe we could buy him a congressional seat! That way we could get stuff done more efficiently.” Sal doubled over, cackling at himself. The notion of Vinnie in Congress struck a funny nerve even with Phil.

“You got me on that one, Uncle.”

Phil's phone rang. “It's Joey.” He tried containing his laughter. “Yeah, Joey?”

“We're here, boss.”

“Bring 'em in.”

A moment later, Joey rounded the corner wearing a black T-shirt, his big, tattooed biceps naturally flexing. The two weasels from Washington walked in behind him, all decked out in their pinstripe-suit congressional attire, the senator in blue and the congressman in gray, and both looking rather unhappy.

“Senator! Congressman!” Sal bellowed. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Glad to be of service.” Rodino plastered a fake smile on his face.

“Joey, round up some chairs for our distinguished guests.”

“Yes, sir.”

“After all, it ain't often that we get visited by such . . . by such . . . what am I trying to say, nephew? Help me out.”