Murder at the Pentagon (5 page)

Then, back to vinyl and click-click-click, more people, all in a rush. Margit had learned to stick to the middle of the wide corridors to avoid being run over by someone racing out of an office. Ahead of her a young marine enlisted man led a dozen people on a tour. He walked backward, as he would throughout the hour-and-a-half tour, his eyes never leaving those in his charge, an occasional glance over his shoulder his only acknowledgment that something could be in his way.

A horn startled her from behind, one of many battery-powered buggies driven by enlisted men delivering mail and intrabuilding correspondence. She stepped aside, and he passed. “ ’Morning, Major,” he said. Despite Margit’s nickname for the Big P, there was no saluting indoors; even the open center court had been designated “indoors” for some reason, which contributed to its informality.

She reached her office. “Good morning, Jay,” she said to the man with whom she shared the cramped space. He was reading that day’s edition of
Early Bird
, a compilation of media clippings having to do with defense that was put together in the middle of the night and widely circulated each morning.
Early Bird
was read by everyone in the Pentagon. High-level officers and civilians had it delivered to their homes, and read it in the backseats of the limos that brought them to work. Most morning staff meetings, at every level,
began with comments about what
Early Bird
said the press had reported over the past twenty-four hours.

Major Jay Kraft glanced up, nodded, and went back to reading. Kraft represented the only unpleasant aspect of Margit’s Pentagon assignment, at least to date. He was a dour person who, in their tight confines, did nothing to lighten the atmosphere.

Margit perused her calendar. It promised to be a busy day, beginning in fifteen minutes with the arrival of Samuel Caldwell. Unlike most lobbyists who operated under the same theory of successful public relations—keep the profile low and do your work behind the scenes—Caldwell enjoyed the spotlight. It hadn’t, however, affected his ability to shape opinion within branches and agencies of government about the clients who paid him handsome retainers, including Starpath, Inc. The small, controversial, high-tech California company currently developing Project Safekeep paid him well. Margit knew something about Caldwell through Senate hearings into Safekeep, chaired by Jeff Foxboro’s boss. Caldwell had testified to Hank Wishengrad’s committee on more than one occasion, and Margit had watched portions of the hearings on C-Span. From what she remembered, Caldwell was as comfortable in the witness chair fielding questions from senators and their counsel as if he’d been sitting in a living room, or in a xenophobic men’s club.

Caldwell had called Margit a few days ago, saying he wanted to “meet and greet” the new member of SecDef’s legal team. Margit had told him that while she would enjoy meeting him one day, her schedule was such that it was impossible to find the time, at least in the near future. Her rebuff didn’t dismay him. He pleasantly thanked her for taking the time to talk to him on the phone, and said he looked forward to when her schedule eased up and they had a chance to get to know each other.

The next afternoon Margit received a call from an assistant to the assistant secretary of defense for legislative affairs. After introducing himself as Colonel Watson, he suggested that it might be to Margit’s benefit, as well as helpful to the
team involved with Project Safekeep, to get to know Caldwell.

“Why?” Margit asked.

“Because, Major Falk, Caldwell is an integral part of the process to get this system off the ground. He can be a good source of information.”

Margit started to ask a new question, but Watson cut her off. “Major Falk, please find time to see Mr. Caldwell, and extend every courtesy.”

She and Caldwell sat across a desk from each other in a small, often empty office maintained for such meetings. He was an affable man, about sixty, Margit judged, blocky in stature, ruddy and fit, and possessing a hint of a southern accent that Margit decided did not come naturally. As far as she knew, Caldwell was a native Californian.

“Well, Major Falk, I certainly do appreciate this chance to meet you personally. I understand you’re acting as legal liaison with T and E on Safekeep.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“They started you off with a tough assignment,” he said, laughing.

“I haven’t learned enough about it yet to know how tough it’s going to be. Right now, I’m trying to soak up everything I can about the project.”

“In your sponge phase,” he said. “Well, that’s one of the reasons I thought we should meet. I want you to know that I am at your disposal at any time, for any reason, and to encourage you to call upon me if you need anything.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Caldwell. I’ll certainly keep it in mind.”

He leaned forward in his chair and became slightly conspiratorial, an old friend giving good advice. “You know, Major Falk, this project is vitally important to the defense of this nation, especially now that we have that psychopath in the Mideast showing off his nuclear muscle.”

Margit said, “It seems every weapons system has taken on new importance since he detonated that bomb.”

“For good reason,” Caldwell said.

“What’s the testing status of the system?” Margit asked, not sure it was her business.

Caldwell narrowed his eyes and nodded his head. “Things are going very nicely, Major. A few kinks. Like anything involving so much technology. But real progress is being made. Of course, it’s important that the process keep flowing smoothly, like a river without any dams.”

Translation: Keep the money flowing to Starpath. Margit had nothing to do with funding the system. That was up to Congress, but she reminded herself that as a lobbyist for the defense contractor, Caldwell was obliged to touch base with anyone and everyone who had anything to do with it, and to attempt to shape the legion of people, civilian and military alike, to some consensus. Fair enough. She’d given him his shot, gave of her time that morning, had followed orders. She checked her watch; she had another meeting to get to and needed time to gather up papers for it, and to find the meeting site. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to run out on you, Mr. Caldwell. Another meeting. Always a meeting, it seems. We could defeat any enemy on earth by bombing them with minutes from our meetings.” She stood and straightened her khaki skirt.

Caldwell stood, too, and extended his hand. “It was gracious of you to see me, Major Falk. I hope we have the chance to do this again. Maybe in more social, relaxed circumstances.”

A slight nod of Margit’s head was the extent to which she committed to that suggestion.

“Some lawmakers amaze me sometimes,” he said.

“Oh?”

“No matter what the facts are, Major, some of them just don’t see things the way you and I do. Take Wishengrad, for example. He just can’t see real threats to this country, no matter what facts are laid in front of him. It’s a shame. Every man and woman in uniform sees it, and that’s why we all have to work together, help people like the senator from Wisconsin, and others like him, to realize that instead of cutting the defense budget, they ought to be finding ways to boost
it, get it up to where we don’t have to fear people like this Arab Hitler.”

Margit resented being lumped into a common group—lobbyists and military personnel—but she didn’t express it. She escorted him back to her office and said she’d call down for an escort to accompany him out of the building. No one wandered the halls of the Pentagon without an escort unless he worked there and had a badge to prove it, or had special status that entitled him to a No Escort I.D.

Which, of course, Caldwell had. “I’ve got to stop down at DE and S. I promised some folks there I’d drop in this morning. I’m still all shook-up over what happened to Dick Joycelen. Can’t believe it. That man—and I knew him pretty well—that man’s genius laid the groundwork for Project Safekeep. A hell of a loss to this nation. Well, I’d better get downstairs. Don’t like to keep my friends waitin’.”

If he was trying to impress Margit with the depth and breadth of his contacts, he’d succeeded only slightly. She wondered in passing whether one of the people he would see in the Directorate of Engineering Services was Colonel Bill Monroney.

From the time Caldwell left until Margit walked out of her final meeting of the day at five-thirty, time had passed quickly. The meetings had been focused and well managed, an achievement on the part of those in charge that Margit admired. She’d received lots of informal advice from those she met in the Pentagon, including that superiors looked for the sort of leadership that resulted in meetings being choreographed to achieve the desired result in the shortest amount of time. “Elevator speeches” they were called, getting your points across in the time it takes for a typical elevator ride. That specifically did not include “tap dance meetings,” Pentagonese for slick, quick meetings lacking in substance. She’d been exposed promptly to a few of those since assuming her new post. Sometimes, like most people, she resented meetings; they got in the way of her real work. On the other hand, they served to get her out of the cubbyhole she shared with Kraft. Aside from being, apparently, a naturally sour human
being, Jay Kraft was transparent in his resentment. He’d been working on Project Safekeep but was taken off it upon Margit’s arrival and assigned to less demanding, and certainly less important, duties. His resenting her was, she knew, only human, but his disappointment and anger were misdirected. Kraft was someone who’d obviously not made his mark since being assigned to the Pentagon. You could spot them, hear it in their voices, see it in their walk. The Pentagon was a career opportunity. You either ran with it or it ran over you, as seemed to have happened to Kraft.

When she returned to her office late that day, he had gone home. “Something to do with a sick kid,” one of the civilian administrators said.

Margit closed the door to her office. She had a half hour to kill—
spend
is more like it—before going to a meeting of DACWITS, the Defense Advisory Committee on Women in the Service, which was being held in one of the building’s auditoriums. Margit had joined the organization at Lowry and intended to stay active. Early in her air-force career, she’d questioned the wisdom of getting involved with organizations that stood for women’s rights in a predominately male domain—220,000 women on active duty worldwide, 11 percent of America’s military force—and growing in proportion each year since those 1991 figures. But she’d soon got over those feelings. While career opportunities for women in the service had improved over the years, there were still areas of male prejudice that Margit felt should be corrected, not only in the interest of a more unified service, but out of fairness. She certainly was not, nor had she ever been, a strident feminist. She liked the fact that there were two sexes, and that they were set apart by defined physiological and psychological factors. But
la différence
shouldn’t have any impact upon the ability of members of either sex to do their jobs to the best of their ability, and to be compensated unequivocally. The military’s prohibition on women engaging in any combat role had not only, in Margit’s opinion, been wrong, it was hypocritical. She knew the helicopter missions she’d flown in Panama placed her in extremely dangerous
situations. She knew other women who’d flown missions in Vietnam and in the Persian Gulf that exposed them daily to every bit as much peril as their male counterparts. She recognized the concerns, even the considerations, that had led to such a prohibition. But times had changed—the world had changed—and it was time to recognize that every man and woman in uniform was in it together and should share the risks together. Differences could be dealt with.

She’d packaged up materials to take home to read, and was about to leave the office when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she said.

A young lieutenant with a boyish face poked his head around the door. Max Lanning was a personal aide to the general counsel. A horse-holder, as young officers were called when their duty was to serve the personal whims of purple suiters. He and Margit had liked each other from her first day there. Among many things she enjoyed about him was his simple, wide-eyed awe at working in the Pentagon. He was also an incorrigible snoop and gossip, and a great deal of the semi-facts Margit had been privy to had come from him.

“Hey, big news, Major,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door.

“Really? They’re changing the menu in the cafeterias? No more mystery meats?”

“Nah, nothing that important,” he said, grinning. He lowered his voice. “The word is that they’re about to come down with a suspect in the Joycelen murder.”

“That
is
big news,” Margit said. “Any idea who it is?” While she found the rumor interesting, it also sent a twinge of apprehension through her. It was bound to be someone involved with the Pentagon, possibly a uniformed member of the military. She didn’t like that.

“No name yet, but I hear it’s an officer out of CIA.”

“CIA?” Margit’s screwed-up face reflected her puzzlement.

“Some liaison officer. That’s all I know—I think they’re planning to break the news in the morning.”

Margit exhaled, causing a faint whistle. “You’re sure they’re that close to announcing it?”

Lanning shrugged. “I’ve given you everything I know, Major.”

“I doubt that, Max. But you’ve given me quite a lot,” she said. “Well, have to run to a meeting.”

He looked at his watch. “The day is over.”

“Not for the hardy. Thanks for the gossip, Lieutenant. See you in the
A.M.”

Margit got back to Bolling too late for the weeknight social hour at the Officers’ Club, but had a drink with some chaplains attached to the Air Force Chief of Chaplains Office who were celebrating a birthday—chief topic of conversation, the Joycelen murder.

After a quick and quiet dinner by herself in the club’s Washington Room restaurant—Jeff had accompanied Senator Wishengrad to Wisconsin for the weekend—she sat in her quarters until after midnight reading Project Safekeep files, the all-news radio station WTOP kept on low volume beside her in the event there was an announcement of a break in the Joycelen case. No such announcement was made, although the murder led off each twenty-minute news round. If a suspect had been identified, the media hadn’t got wind of it.