The Inner Sanctum (25 page)

"Good morning, Malcolm." Monique Howard was Walker's chief of staff. She was tall with long dark hair, a pretty face, and a slender frame. She had been with Walker since his campaign for the state senate and often accompanied him to formal government affairs, because the senator's hectic schedule allowed him little time to date. As they were both unmarried, rumors of a physical involvement abounded. And if he had made it obvious that he was interested, Monique knew she would have agreed, because she was extremely attracted to his sharp features, quick wit, and natural charm. But in their ten years together, he had always been a perfect gentleman. So like most Washington gossip, the talk was just that--talk.

"Monique, how are you this morning?" Walker's voice boomed out over his huge desk, cluttered with papers and empty Styrofoam coffee cups.

He was naturally disorganized. He had tried to convince Monique for years that he kept the desk a mess on purpose because it helped him to think in a more liberated fashion. That the mess represented free thought. But she knew the truth. He just didn't like cleaning up. So it was she who reorganized the desk once every two weeks to keep him from being buried by the paper mountain.

Monique eyed Walker suspiciously. "Why are you in such a good mood today?" He had been outwardly discouraged lately by Coleman's strong showing in the polls.

"Today we begin the comeback." He stood up quickly and moved to the large office doorway, acknowledging the four young interns working in the outer office with a quick nod before shutting the door. Then he began pacing, as he always did when he was excited. "Today we grab the spotlight back from Elbridge Coleman." Walker smacked his lips as if savoring a delicious meal.

"Oh, right, the news conference." Monique was not as excited about the day's possibilities as Walker.

He continued to pace. "Yes, the news conference." He heard the skepticism in her voice. "Why do you say it like that?"

Monique smoothed her pleated knee-length skirt. "Let's go over your remarks," she said, sidestepping his question for the moment.

Walker paused at the window of his first-floor suite in the Russell Senate Office Building to collect his thoughts. From this spot he had a wonderful view of the Capitol. Only senior senators were allowed office space in the Capitol itself. The rest of them walked or took the short train ride through the underground corridor connecting the two structures to attend sessions. "First, I will disclose the existence of the A-100 stealth fighter-bomber," he began. "I will detail the A-100's immense cost to the American people, probably a hundred fifty billion dollars over seven years when everything is said and done. And the fact that it represents an extraordinary waste of taxpayer money in this day and age of United States military dominance. I will, of course, point out that the funds could be used more effectively in a number of social programs, citing several specific examples.

"Second, I will discuss the black budget in general and how the A-100 contract was awarded under its veil. I will call for a full Senate investigation of the contract process, both in Congress and at the Pentagon, with the objective of shutting down the old-boy network." He pushed out his chin defiantly. "There. What do you think of that?" he asked, turning away from the window.

He would be taking a huge gamble following this strategy, Monique knew. "What exactly do you intend to say about the black budget?"

"What I know."

"Tell me again what that is."

Once more Walker began pacing. "That a select number of senior senators, possibly as many as three, probably two, but maybe just one, can, on their own authority, without accountability to anyone, secretly appropriate up to ten percent of the defense budget each year and spend it on new weapons development. That no one has the ability to question the allocation of these funds by the black budgeteers. Not Congress, not the Office of Management and Budget, not the General Accounting Office, not even the President, for crying out loud. That deals with defense firms can be cut under the protection of the program without any objections being raised." Walker noticed that his chief of staff seemed to be more interested in her skirt than his remarks. "Monique?"

She'd been rubbing a spot on the skirt. "Yes?" The spot was an irritating reminder that she'd eaten a fruit-filled Danish for breakfast and spilled a good bit of it on herself.

He didn't appreciate the indifference she consistently showed for his fight against the Defense Department. "People need to know about the black budget, Monique. They need to understand that this system has been in place for years. That black programs are costing taxpayers a great deal of money, at least thirty billion a year, and that tremendous opportunities exist for fraud and at the very least, incredible conflicts of interest. It's a system that has never been audited and never will be unless someone takes a stand. I've been fighting government waste in the DOD ever since coming to the Hill. I'm the logical choice to lead this battle." He sat down behind the desk, picked up a tennis ball lying in an unused ashtray, leaned back in the leather chair, and tossed the ball toward the ceiling. "And the press conference will generate a lot of great publicity for us right when we need it the most."

"How do you know the black budget actually exists?" The spot wasn't coming out. And she'd just picked up the skirt from the dry cleaner.

"Come on." He was annoyed. "We all know it does."

"Specifically, how do you know? The press will ask if you really choose to let loose with all this. You'd better have an answer prepared."

"Okay, okay. How about an example? The B-10 bomber was a black-budget program. And what do they estimate each one of those nasty little buzzards cost the American people?" Walker asked rhetorically. "A billion two, that's how much. Of course, the real price was probably twice that high, and you know people got wealthy off the books. You know development money found its way into secret coffers."

"What proof are you going to offer?"

"The fact that no one will account for the money. Talk to a Pentagon accountant and there's the fear of God in the expression below the green eyeshade. Talk to OMB or GAO and their eyes just glaze over."

"You need more," Monique said decisively.

"Look, if you hang around the halls of Congress for six years, you hear things. Whispers about how the DOD budget game is really played. How the contracts are awarded. You never hear anything concrete, never anything anyone will own up to, but you know what you know."

"Maybe there's a good reason no one will own up to it," Monique offered ominously, still scraping at the spot on her skirt with her long fingernails.

"Hey, we promised each other we'd never be scared off by these people." Walker sensed her apprehension, and it irked him. She was a strong-willed woman, and he had never seen her this way before. "Are you getting soft on me?"

"No!" Her eyes flashed to his. "But sometimes it's better just to let the lions take their pound of flesh and not bother them."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this." Walker threw the tennis ball toward the ceiling again. When it came back down he bobbled it. It fell to the floor and rolled across the thick red carpet toward a far corner of the office. "Did someone get to you?" he demanded.

"Of course not."

"Be honest. Did someone approach you?"

"No, dammit, I'm just trying to protect you."

"Then what's your problem?"

"Malcolm, let's suppose you're right. Let's suppose there is a huge fund within the Defense Department budget that one or two senators personally control. That there is a conspiracy involving a small cadre of senior Pentagon officials and defense industry top management. Do you really think you're going to persuade Congress to investigate what's going on? If the fund is there, it's there because senior legislators think it ought to be there. You're going to ask the very same people who think the fund ought to exist and who would then be profiting from it to investigate it. To investigate themselves, in other words. It isn't going to happen, and you're going to be ostracized in the process." She gave up on the spot and resigned herself to another trip to the dry cleaner. "I know you're disappointed in me, but my advice is to fight them on a project level. Expose the A-100, but leave it at that. Play the game by the rules. You'll make points with voters and you'll stay alive."

"Oh, please." He waved a hand at her. "You're being a little melodramatic."

"Am I?" She wasn't so certain.

"Yes."

"Stay away from the black budget, Malcolm. It's not that I'm scared. I just don't think it's a good move politically to focus on it. I'm your chief of staff. You pay me to give you advice. That's what I'm giving."

"How about the fact that there's an Air Force captain sitting in a cell at Area 51 who hasn't been charged with anything?" Walker asked. "Taken into custody and left to rot. Doesn't it bother you that they can do that?"

"Of course it does. But doesn't it bother you that he hasn't said a word? That he hasn't accused anyone of anything? That he's so scared he's willing to sit in an eight-by- ten room and play tic-tac- toe on cinder-block walls rather than fight to get home to his children? I'd say they've gotten to him. If you don't draw that conclusion from his silence, you're blind." She paused. "Doesn't it bother you that his Washington contact, Senator Malcolm Walker, hasn't tried to get him out?"

Walker banged the desk loudly with his hand. "That's not fair! Captain Nichols came to me. I told him there wasn't anything I could do if they got to him. He knew the risks."

"You've got to help him anyway."

Walker rose from the chair and began pacing again. "I know," he said, emitting a long, guilty sigh. "And I will. Just let me lay open the black budget first. Then I really will be able to help him."

"But I don't think anyone on Capitol Hill is going to start an investigation on the basis of what you've told me," she reiterated.

"What do you want me to do, Monique?" His voice suddenly reflected the strain of the last few months. "If I don't try something drastic, Elbridge Coleman is going to roll over me in November. That's obvious from the trend in the polls. I need a splash. Something that will take the spotlight away from him and put it on me. Otherwise I'm gone. It won't matter if I'm politically ostracized or not, because I won't be around. Look at the numbers." He stopped pacing and jammed his hands in his pants pockets. "There's an ABC poll coming out tomorrow that has Coleman five points ahead of me now."

"How did you find that out?" she asked quickly. Usually she was able to screen those calls.

"Peter Jennings, for Christ's sake. He called me directly for a comment."

"I'm sorry, Malcolm."

"It's all right." He rubbed his forehead for a moment. "There's one more thing I haven't told you." He picked up a paperweight from the desktop, then put it back down. "I have a piece of physical evidence."

"What? Really?"

"Yes. It's small, but it would probably be enough to at least start a Senate investigation."

"What is it?" She was suddenly excited. "I mean, if you have something like that, maybe it would be enough."

Walker sat back down in his chair and pulled open a desk drawer. He removed a manila envelope and tossed it toward her.

She grabbed the envelope from where it had landed atop several unread Washington Posts, pulled out the single piece of paper from inside, and read it quickly. Her eyes widened. "This is a handwritten memo from Chief of Naval Operations Ted Cowen to Senator Webb requesting an appropriation from the black budget for the A-100! I mean it actually says the words 'black budget.' And it's clearly addressed to Senator Webb."

It was like a gift from God. And just when he had needed it most. "Can you believe it?" Walker asked. "From what I understand, nothing important like that is ever written down when it comes to the black budget. I guess it just goes to show how the Navy's been ignored over the past few years. Admiral Cowen must not have been aware of black-budget protocol."

"Is that definitely Admiral Cowen's signature at the bottom of the memo?"

"Yes. No doubt of it. I had an expert examine the handwriting."

"But how did you get this?" She could barely contain her excitement.

Once more Walker thought about Captain Nichols sitting alone in the cell. He would get the man out if he had to call in every favor he had. "From a file at Area 51. It was the last piece of physical evidence Captain Nichols was able to smuggle out before he was silenced."

At precisely one in the afternoon, Senator Malcolm Walker moved through the wide doorway into the Central Hearing Facility of the Hart Building. The large room was packed, mostly with members of the press. Several reporters nodded or patted Senator Walker on the back as he approached the dais. He had always enjoyed an amicable relationship with reporters--even ones sympathetic to the conservative side who detailed his investment portfolio and school resume. It was never a good idea to irritate the press, no matter what. Walker had learned this lesson at the outset of his political career.

He tapped the microphone a few times and smiled at several familiar faces in the crowd. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." He turned his head slightly, tilted it down, and stared directly into the CNN camera. "Thank you for coming today. What I am going to tell you will--"