The Shadow Cabinet (33 page)

He admitted that they had a case. Caltronics had been under investigation for bribery and corruption after a Caltronics sales agent was suspected of bribing a government contracting officer for the award of a twenty-million-dollar computer time-sharing contract on the West Coast. Wilson, after a week of cautious probing, had learned as much from a friend at the Security and Exchange Commission, who'd given him Merkle's name. He didn't know that Justice had been working on a second case involving the same Caltronics salesman and a Navy procurement officer handling the award of a sixty-million-dollar computer software contract for naval ordnance inventories.

“Ready for the grand jury?” Wilson asked.

“Hardly,” Merkle said with an ambiguous smile.

“So you really haven't made either case.”

“Right now, that's hard to say. What we had initially looked very good.” He hesitated, removed his glasses to draw a small finger across his eyelid, and then looked at Wilson silently. Without the glasses, the face was one Wilson didn't know. “Here it gets a little sticky,” he continued, almost apologetically.

The U.S. Attorney in Los Angeles had had sufficient evidence to obtain a court-authorized wiretap—legal surveillance—but only for two months. A California district judge had refused to authorize the extension.

“Before you could complete the case,” Wilson said.

“We thought by then we'd found a material witness willing to cooperate,” Merkle replied, looking over Wilson's shoulder at the closed door. “It didn't work out, unfortunately.” His eyes moved back to Wilson and he put his glasses on.

“What happened to the witness?”

Merkle smiled faintly. “He disappeared.”

“In Los Angeles?”

“No, here. In Washington, as a matter of fact.”

“A Caltronics employee?”

Merkle didn't answer. The smile may have been intended to answer for him.

Wilson mentioned a few names—Artie Kramer, Nat Strykker, and finally Peter Rathbone. Only the latter's name evoked Merkle's nod of recognition.

“He's new to Caltronics—just took over, I understand,” he said. “I know Peter. He was on the transition committee.”

“The Reagan committee?”

Merkle was surprised Wilson didn't know. “Oh, yes, he was here until February, I believe, when he went back to California. I thought he might have taken a subcabinet post, but apparently Caltronics made an offer he couldn't refuse. You didn't know that?” Merkle was amused.

“I knew he worked in the Nixon White House but not Reagan's,” Wilson said.

“Peter's an old hand at it, one of the best. We'd heard you might be coming over here had the elections proved otherwise. I'm sorry, sorry it didn't work out. A lot of us are, I think.”

“You've felt the political heat?” Wilson asked.

“In what way?”

“The Caltronics case.”

“Not at all,” Merkle said. “Peter Rathbone's too smart for that. We're just not ready to make the case.”

“You know who Artie Kramer is and what he's doing in town?”

“We had a wiretap and we have a lot of names,” Merkle said. “Kramer's may be one of them, but I can tell you quite frankly that it means nothing to me. That's as much as I can say right now.”

That was as far as Merkle was willing to go, whatever his feelings about the current administration.

“Old loyalties do come back, don't they, Haven?” he offered blandly as he accompanied Wilson past his secretary's desk to the outer door. “Do you remember Carl Dowdy, from antitrust? He dropped by the other day too, in to renew old acquaintances. He has a law firm in Chicago. Seems to be doing very well.”

But Wilson's visit paid a cryptic dividend. Two days later, he received a call from Fred Merkle, asking him to drop by. When he arrived, the secretary told him Merkle had been summoned upstairs.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but he'll probably be gone for an hour at least. Would you like to reschedule for tomorrow?”

“No, I'll give him a call at home tonight.”

A large man in an overcoat sat at the end of the table in the alcove, reading a newspaper in the gray light of the high windows. Hearing Wilson's name, he got up, dropping the newspaper aside. His hair was long and curly, a thick mustache grew down the corners of his mouth to his chin, and his rough cheeks were pitted with scars.

Wilson recognized him and waited in the hall as the man followed him out.

“Bernie Klempner,” he said, sticking out a huge hand. “You're Wilson. I was gonna ask Fred to get us together sometime. You saved me a trip.”

They left by the side door. “I figured you for someone from Labor,” Klempner said as they turned up the street. “That day at Potomac Towers and you came busting in my back door like that, I figure you for someone from the Labor Department, maybe the old special investigations section, one of those fucking dimwits over there who blew the Central States pension scam.” He laughed raucously and pulled on a cheap furry Tyrolean hat made in some Hong Kong or Korean sweatshop. Settled atop his shaggy head, it looked like a stuffed animal sitting on a bedroom pillow. “What'd you figure?”

“I figured you were annoyed.”

“I was,” Klempner said sarcastically. “Maybe I still am. That's why I wanna talk. You got a few minutes?”

“I was going back to my office. We can talk there.”

“We'll grab a cab, next block over.” He pulled a package of gum from his pocket, removed a stick, peeled it, stuck it in his mouth and began to chew, the bulge of muscle flexing like a bicep. Below the dark overcoat his trousers were short at the cuffs, and an inch of dark stocking showed. Metal taps were nailed to the thick heels and they rang out along the pavement like Percheron iron.

“I heard you been asking around,” Klempner said, studying the crowded street ahead of them, “asking questions, looking up a few old friends. I figure I better find out why. You're a Democrat, someone told me, headed for big things until the Reagan crowd short-sheeted you. Broke your toes off at the ankles. Criminal division, I heard. Was that it?”

“A possibility. Who told you?”

“This town doesn't keep any secrets, not from me, anyway. I did a little checking after you blew in my back door. I heard some lawyer from Salt Lake City got your job. That's tough shit, man, my heart really bleeds. I was fifteen years with the FBI and I quit cold turkey, like you did. Maybe you heard. I don't bleed easy. Who set you up for this big job at Justice—your pals on the Hill?

“Some old friends.”

“You were gonna put things straight, I heard. That's the trouble with all these goddamn political appointees—they've all got big ideas, all of 'em wanna make it big. Me, I don't give a shit—high road, low road, I go either way. You guys that are all gonna make it big are just the same, white on black, black on white. You tell me the difference.”

He watched Wilson's face as they walked, but Wilson didn't reply, head down, wondering how accidental their meeting had been.

“They're all gonna put things straight their way,” Klempner continued, head back again, eyes restlessly roaming the street ahead of them. “Like Fred Merkle back there, who's as dull as bay oyster and just as honest. Or they roll into town after election day, think they own it and are gonna rip it off, like your pals over at the Watergate or those dude ranch cowboys over at the White House. Me, I like Washington the way it is, my way—just the way you see it. C'mon, there's a cab.”

He bounced across the pavement into the crowded street, grabbed the taxi's rear door handle, and pulled the door open before the driver could speed away.

The driver, a Nigerian, protested: “Hey, mon—I'm on call—”

“Like shit you are. You're cruising for brothers. Lemme see your green card.” Klempner hovered over him, huge, shaggy, and intimidating. The thin driver conceded and they drove off.

“My car's in the shop,” Klempner continued randomly, settling back on a seat covered with dull plastic, very worn. On the dashboard was a display of personal items—tinted photographs, toilet articles, religious medals, and a radio—like a barbershop shelf. “I can take the Metro, catch a cab, either one, I don't care. You a sports fan?” The pale-green eyes showed only conversational interest.

“I follow the Redskins, that's about all.”

“I watch them sometimes, but I wouldn't give six bits to watch them play. Hey, who do the Redskins play this weekend?” he called to the driver.

“Giants, mon. New York.”

“See what I mean,” Klempner said, moving his eyes again to the pavement crowds. “These Afros from overseas try to blend in, jive you like that boogie crowd over in Southeast and think you don't know the difference. Washington's a spectator sport, Wilson, that's all it is. A goddamn spectator sport, and I'm not just talking about that hot-air circus up on the Hill. Who wants to pay twenty, thirty bucks a shot to go out to RFK and watch twenty-two millionaires punching a leather ball on Sunday afternoon, when you've got all this sideshow on the pavement? To a lot of people, Washington stinks, just like the government stinks, but it's my air and I breathe it. Me, I'm right here all the time, the same way, what you see one year to the next. I don't blow away when a new crowd of shysters move in.”

He lowered his head to follow someone walking jauntily along the pavement, shoulders bouncing in a brown leather coat. He turned to follow him through the back window. “See that black dude in the high-heel shoes? Carver Mack, from over at Fourteenth and U, the candy man for that crowd over there, a drug dealer.”

Wilson looked indifferently out the rear window.

“He used to carry this thirty-eight with a speed loader. They picked him up in Rock Creek Park a couple of years back on a bust, but all they could find was this thirty-eight in his armpit. He told them he was hunting squirrels.” Klempner laughed softly. “Talking about squirrels, TV on Sunday afternoon doesn't have a goddamned thing to do with football, just like this California crowd over on Pennsylvania Avenue doesn't have a fucking thing to do with politics. The way this country is, Sunday afternoon comes and CBS could put two kangaroos in boxing gloves on the tube, and all these armchair jocks around the country would still hustle out to the icebox between rounds like they were going to miss something.” He prodded the front seat with his knee. “Isn't that right, sonny?” he called to the driver.

“Yeah, mon, yeah.”

“See what I mean?”

“Still an Agency front?” Klempner asked as they climbed the steps to the Center. The brick masons and ironworkers who had been erecting the new front fence were putting away their tools for the day. Once it was complete, the high-palinged iron fence would limit access to the front and rear gates. “Still cooking up reptile poison for Castro and some other weird shit, or have you cleaned that up too?”

“What do your friends tell you?” Wilson asked, a little deadened by Klempner's unremitting cynicism.

“They tell me you can pump up a flat economy with hot air, same as the Sisters used to tell us you can get a virgin pregnant with little green bananas.” He stood in the reception room, gazing about curiously. It was empty and silent at that hour of the afternoon.

Wilson led him into the director's office, shut the front and rear doors, and paused to look at the telephone messages waiting on the desk. Rita Kramer had called and asked that he telephone before six. Buster Foreman had called twice, wanting to know if he'd made up his mind about going down to South Carolina with him. They could drive down over the weekend. Wilson had forgotten all about it.

Klempner peeled off his overcoat as he stood at the bay window looking out over the quadrangle. “It's a pretty big layout,” he said. “Who does your security?”

Wilson said he wasn't sure, still looking at the telephone messages. Then he crossed the room to join Klempner, who offered to do a security survey. Business was slow and he could give him a good price. A complete package: survey, hardware, and installation.

They sat in the leather chairs at the end of the room. “So you're looking for new business, is that it? That's what you want to talk about?”

“I'm always looking for new business. I drive by this place maybe three, four times a week. I see what's happening. I get curious.” He smiled, as if savoring Wilson's uncertainty. “It's not hard to figure. Me, I'm like the old dog on the block. Someone new moves in on my sidewalk, I walk around sniffing assholes. Only in your case, it doesn't figure—a guy like you with your background and a pair of clowns like this Strykker and Artie Kramer. What's the connection? They got you on a retainer?”

Wilson lifted his feet to the coffee table and sat back. “I have an interest in a small brokerage out in Virginia,” he said. “It handled a house out on the Potomac and Kramer's wife was interested. It didn't work out.”

Klempner didn't seem convinced. “Like I say, this is my town and I know it. I see things happening.”

“What kind of things?”

“Whatever. Maybe I couldn't get a front table over at Sans Souci or wherever the fast crowd hangs out these days, but I know who does. Maybe I couldn't find the hat room at the Cosmos Club, either, like some of your friends, but I know who's dicking who over on the Hill, same as you do, who's getting coked up or juiced blind, who's hanging out at the gay night spots after the Georgetown dinner parties shut down.…”

“Maybe we ought to swap stories,” Wilson said.

“Instant replay, Wilson. I've seen it too many times, like you have. Only you don't know these two clowns, these out-of-town cheapies, like I do. So I figured maybe I'd better fill you in, put you wise.”

“Artie Kramer, you mean, Kramer and Strykker.”

“Artie Kramer's nothing, Wilson,” Klempner said. “Real small but he thinks he's big-time. He's nothing. You think he's got connections, that he's smart? He's got an IQ about ten pounds lighter than a rock, nothing heavier, that's what he's got.”