The Minotaur (47 page)

“I’m on your side. Admiral.”

“Hallelujah! I hate to think of the mess we’d be in if you
weren’t.”

“Why my wife?” Jake asked.

“You’d been given guardianship of the holy grail, Athena. You, a
captain. Smoke Judy worked for you. Admiral Henry knew Judy
was a bad apple, and he knew I knew.”

“It’s a wonder he slept nights.” Dunedin muttered.

“Are you saying he didn’t trust me?” Jake said doggedly.

“Tyler Henry didn’t trust anyone. He didn’t just cut the cards;
he insisted on shuffling every time. But I don’t think it was you he
was really worried about. It was me- He didn’t want you corrupted
by me.”

“Say again?”

“He thought I might recruit you, so he was looking for clues in
the only place he could.” Camacho stood. Dreyfus got to his feet a
second later. “Gentlemen, that’s the crop. That’s all you get”

“Not so fast, Camacho,” the admiral said, pointing toward the
chairs. “You can hike when I finish this interview. I have a few
more questions to ask, and so you sit right there and I’ll do the
asking.”

Camacho obeyed. Dreyfus remained erect. “You can wait out-
side,” the admiral said.

“He can stay,” Camacho said. Dreyfus sat.

“Who approved this operation?”

“My superiors.”

“Who are?”

“The Assistant Director and the Director. And the committee.”

“What I want to know is this: who gave you the green tight to
screw around with the U.S. Navy? As if we didn’t have enough
troubles.”

“My superiors.”

“I want names, mister! I want to know the names of the idiots
who authorized a covert operation that resulted in the death of a

vice admiral and jeopardized congressional approval of the A-12. I
want some ass! The CNO is going to want blood. George Ludlow,
Royce Caplinger, if they don’t know about this—“

“Ask them. Any more questions?”

“Ludlow? Caplinger? They knew?”

“The people who have to know, know. You said those names; I
didn’t. Now if you will excuse me, I’ve said all I can say and I have
work to do.” Dreyfus reached the door before Camacho got com-
pletely out of his chair.

“The FBI Director better be there pouring oil on the water when
I get to those hearings, Camacho,” Jake said.

“And if he isn’t?” Dreyfus asked with exaggerated politeness.

“Then you’d better be there with a warrant if you want me to
keep quiet. I have this nasty little habit of answering questions by
telling the truth.”

Camacho just nodded and strolled for the door, which Dreyfus
opened and held. “Thank you both,” he told the naval officers,
then stepped through.

When the door was shut behind them, Dunedin said, ‘Too bad
we don’t know any truth to answer questions with.”

“We know a little.”

“You’ve still got a lot to learn, Jake. Truth isn’t something you
can extrapolate from a tiny piece. And believe me, those two have
given us the tiniest piece they could. If it was a piece of the truth at
all, which is debatable.”

On Monday morning Jake signed his report, which recommended
the TRX prototype as the plane the navy should buy, and hand-
carried it to Admiral Dunedin’s office. The admiral flipped through
it to see that the changes he wanted were made, then he signed the
prepared endorsement. From there Jake carried it over to the pro-
gram coordinator’s office. Commander Rob Knight was tapping a
letter on his word processor when Jake came in.

“This is it, huh?”

“Yep.” Jake pulled up a chair. Knight reviewed the changes,
then signed the routing slip. “Congratulations. Another milestone
passed.”

“Think we’ll get this plane?”

“Looks good. Looks good.” Knight grinned. He spent a large
portion of his time talking to congressional staffers on behalf of the
CNO’s office. “They know we need it They know it’s a good buy.

The only really iffy thing is the choice of prototypes. Duquesne
knows this is coming and he’s loading his guns.”

“What’s he going to come at me with?”

“I’ll know more by tomorrow. I’ll be over at nine with a guy
from the Office of Legislative Affairs to brief you on expected ques-
tions, suggested answers, how to keep your cool—all the good
stuff. You’ll be testifying with Admiral Dunedin and he’ll go first.
But you’re the guy they’ll try to rip. You originated the recommen-
dation. If they can get you to admit you’re an incompetent, lying
idiot, then Dunedin, CNO, SECNAV, SECDEF, they all have to
reconsider. So wear your steel underwear.”

Jake’s next stop was CNO’s office. He had to talk to the execu-
tive assistant—the EA—and wait an hour, but with the CNO’s
blessing on his document, he walked it down to the Secretary of the
Navy’s office. After the obligatory half hour wait while the EA
reviewed the document, Ludlow invited him in.

“How close is this to the draft I saw?”

“Pretty close, sir. Vice Admiral Dunedin and CNO wanted
some changes, and they’re incorporated.”

“Are you prepared to defend this report on the Hill?”

“Yessir,”

Ludlow quizzed him for an hour on the technical aspects of the
report. Apparently satisfied, he accompanied Jake to the door.
“Just don’t get cute with the elected ones. Be open, aboveboard, a
good little sailor.”

Smoke Judy changed into his running clothes and stowed his rags
behind a Dumpster in a Georgetown alley. God, he smelled ripe.
But what the hell—they sold this stink in a bottle now, didn’t they?
He would probably have women crawling all over him. Everyone
would think he just ran five miles and dropped by for a tall, cool
Perrier. Just as trendy as a pair of Gucci shoes.

He walked the four blocks to the bar carrying the gym bag in his
right hand. The place was packed, just like last week. If anyone
noticed his aroma, they didn’t show it.

He made his way through the crowd and into the men’s room,
where he washed his face and neck and arms as thoroughly as
possible. He even used a paper towel on his armpits without taking
his shirt off.

Whew! He felt better.

He stepped out of the men’s room and stood looking. A two-
person booth opened up at the back of the room, so he immediately
slipped into it. Holding the gym bag under the table, he extracted
the pistol from the bag and laid it on his lap.

The waitress didn’t give his four-day beard a second glance.
“Gimme a Bud.”

He drank the first one quickly, then nursed the second. Twenty
minutes passed, then thirty, -r

What if Albright doesn’t show?

Judy got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The beer felt like
it was going to come up. He stared at the door, scrutinizing every
face.

When Albright came in, Judy almost shouted.

He walked the length of the room and shd into the booth. Only
then did Judy realize his hands were empty.

“Jesus,” Albright said. “You look bad.”

“Had a little trouble.”

“I guess you did. I read about it. Dealing, are you?”

“A crock.”

“Yeah.” Albright ordered a Corona. He sat looking around.

“Where’d you spend the weekend?”

“In an alley.”

“Smart.”

“They haven’t caught me yet.”

“You wired?”

“What?”

“Are you wearing a wire?”

“Hell no- Where’s the fucking money?”

“You got it?”

“Yeah, right here. You wanta see it?”

“Okay. Show me.”

Judy passed him the gym bag. “The side pocket. Look but don’t
take it out.” Albright did as requested.

“So, you got it?”

“What’s it look like?”

“What it looks like, my friend, is a five-and-a-quarter-inch
floppy disk, which could have anything under the sun on it. It
could even be empty- You didn’t think I was just going to take it on
faith that you’re an honorable gentleman and hand you all that
lettuce, did you?”

“Something like that.”

The Corona came. Albright took his time squeezing the lime
slice and dropping it down the neck of the bottle. “Your good
health,” he said, and took a sip.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The bread, asshole.”

“Out in my car.”

“You want the disk, you go get it.”

“I need to see what’s on the disk first. What say we both go out
there and I’ll check the disk on my laptop. I brought it along, just
in case.”

“Uh-uh. No money, no disk.”

“You make me very suspicious, my friend. Your refusal to come
outside indicates there is a very good possibility you are wearing a
wire. The possibility is even higher that the file I want is not on this
disk.” Albright grinned. “You see how it is.”

“What I see is this: I’ve got it and you aren’t leaving here with it
until I see the money.”

“When did you copy this disk?”

“Friday afternoon.”

“When did the admiral come by?”

“About ten minutes later.”

Albright looked at the faces around him, then turned back to
Judy. “Even if you think you have the file—I will grant you your
good faith—I doubt seriously if it is the information I want. Not
on Friday afternoon, with NIS and the FBI just ten minutes away.
They were waiting for you. It was a trap.”

“I got the file,” Judy insisted.

“No. I think not.” Albright started to slide out of the booth.
Something hard hit his leg, and he stopped.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“I don’t know what you think- Use your hand, gently, and feel.”

Albright did so. “I see.”

“Turn back around. Face me.”

Albright obeyed. He took another sip of beer. “Now what?”

“Now I want that money.”

“How do you propose to get it?”

“You had better think of something I like real fucking quick or
you aren’t walking out of here. I’m going to blow your cock off
with the first one, then I’m going to put one right in your solar
plexus. Who knows, an ambulance could get here so fast you might
live. But you’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life and
you’re going to do ali your peeing sitting down.”

Albright wasn’t fazed. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“You do the suggestions. You have one minute.”

“Hmmm.”

“I got nothing to lose, Albright. I will pull this trigger. Believe
it!”

“You’ll be caught.”

“Probably, but they’re going to try me for killing a vice admiral,
not for blowing the cock off a commie spy. Who knows, with you
on my record, I may get probation. You got forty seconds.”

“Who knows. Indeed, who knows.” Albright considered.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Quiet. I’m thinking.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled
slowly. “Look to your left. Against the bar. There is a man there
wearing a UCLA sweatshirt. Look at his hand.”

Warily, Smoke glanced left, then back at Albright. The man
across the booth was watching him with an amused look. Judy
looked again. The man at the bar had a pistol, and it was pointed
straight at him.

“I didn’t come alone. You pull that trigger and he will kill you
before you pull it again.”

In spite of himself, Judy looked again. It sure looked like a real
pistol, an automatic, held low, shielded by the body of the man
beside him. The gunman was looking straight into his eyes.

“So,” said Harlan Albright “Here is how it will be. You will put
your gun back in the gym bag. We will walk out to my car—oh yes,
I do have a car. We will put the disk in the laptop and check it. If
indeed it contains the Athena file, I will give you the money. If not,
we’ll shake hands, and you’ll go your way, I mine.”

“I oughta just shoot you, here and now.”

“As you say, I may live. You most certainly won’t. Your
choice.”

“I’m busted. I got nothing. They—” He swallowed hard. Tears
were obstructing his vision. “They emptied the file. It was a setup.
Nothing there but the title pages of thirty documents, each docu-
ment just one page. Honest. I got what you wanted to buy. I’m
desperate! I need the money.”

Albright nodded- “I’m sorry.”

“C’mon, mister,” he pleaded. “I’ll do you a deal. The title pages
must be worth something. I got fifteen bucks to my name. That’s it!
Fifteen lousy bucks.” He was sobbing.

“I think not.” Albright looked around. Spectators were watch-
ing Judy. It was past time to go. Albright took out his wallet and
tossed all the currency he had on the table. “There’s something
over a hundred and forty there. You take it.”

Judy seized the bills. He scooped them up with his left hand,
then fumbled below the table with the gun. “I need the gym bag.
Here”—he held out the disk- “You take it. I don’t want it.”

“Good luck,” Albright said, and then rose and walked toward
the entrance, leaving Judy holding the disk and staring after him.
When Albright was through the door, the gunman on Smoke’s left
followed him.

Judy lowered his head to the table.

“Mister,” he heard someone saying. “Mister, you’re going to
have to leave. Please, mister,” urged the hard, insistent voice, “you
can’t stay here.”

28

Senator Duquesne has a copy of your service record.”

“What? How’d he get that?”

Commander Rob Knight shrugged. “God only knows, and he
won’t tell. What’s in your service record that would do him any
good?”

“I don’t know,” Jake Grafton said.

“He may not use any part of it. Probably won’t. But he told
some colleague’s aide, figuring you’d hear about it and get wor-
ried.”

“What a guy.”

“This is major-league hardball, Grafton. And he’s got that
crackpot Samuel Dodgers scheduled to testify before you get on
the stand, after SECDEF and Dunedin finish.”

“He’s playing Russian roulette. Dodgers is a genius with the
personality of a warthog.”

“His strategy, apparently, is to get the A-12 defeated. The story
I hear from a couple aides is that Athena is such a revolutionary
new technology, it needs to be produced and evaluated before the
navy buys any stealth airplanes—i.e., neither prototype will be pur-
chased. Then Consolidated can participate in another competition
for a more conventional design that makes full use of Athena’s
capabilities. The argument is that a more conventional airplane
that uses Athena exclusively for stealth protection will save the
government several billions.”