Still stunned by what he’d been told, DeMarco said, “I barely knew him. He moved to Washington about five years ago. He said he wanted to get out of New York and try someplace else, that he needed a change of scenery. When he got here, he looked me up, probably because my mother told him to, but, like I said, I hardly knew him. When we were kids, I didn’t have much to do with him because he was younger than me, and the only times I ever saw him were at family things—weddings, funerals, things like that.”
“So why would he have your name in his wallet as an emergency contact?”
“I don’t know, but I’m the only relative he had that lives around here. He wasn’t married, both his parents are dead, and he didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so maybe he couldn’t think of anyone else to write down. When he first moved here, we had lunch one day and I showed him a few areas where he might want to rent an apartment, but that was about it. I spoke to him a couple times on the phone afterward, but I never saw him again.”
“Huh,” Glazer said.
DeMarco wasn’t sure what that meant. “Huh” seemed to be something Glazer said whenever he heard something that didn’t match what he was thinking.
“Was your cousin wealthy or famous or connected to someone important?”
“Famous? No, he wasn’t famous. He was just a nurse, as far as I know. Look, I appreciate you calling me, but if you’re thinking I can help you figure out who killed him, I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help.”
“And you said the FBI didn’t contact you?”
“Yeah, I already told you that. Why would they? Are they involved in this?”
“Yeah,” Glazer said. “Actually, it’s their case.”
“Then why are you—”
“Like I said, Russo was shot at the memorial, which is in Arlington County, and when the body was discovered the Arlington P.D. responded. But the thing is, the park’s federal property and it was sort of a toss-up as to who had jurisdiction, us or the feds. Well, I had just gotten to the scene—this was about two
A.M.
—when an FBI agent shows up and takes the case away from me. And that’s what I don’t get, Mr. DeMarco. I mean, if your cousin had been some kinda big shot I could understand it, but based on what you’re telling me, he wasn’t. So why’s the FBI so interested in him?”
“I have no idea,” DeMarco said, but what he was really thinking was: since there wasn’t anyone else to do it, he was going to have to get Paul’s body and arrange for a funeral. Shit.
“One thing I didn’t tell you,” Glazer said. “When we found your cousin he had cash in his wallet and his credit cards hadn’t been taken, so he wasn’t killed in a robbery. So there’s a possibility—no offense intended—that he might have been pedaling meds. I mean, since he was a nurse he probably had access to all kinds of medications and maybe he was dealing painkillers, tranks, things like that. But—”
“Narcotics? Paul? I kinda doubt that. Like I said, I didn’t know him too well, but he always struck me as being pretty straitlaced.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right, and that’s what I was going to say. He didn’t have a criminal record, and guys who get killed over narcotics usually do. Which made me wonder if he was a witness involved in some sort of federal case.”
“Well, if he was, I wouldn’t know,” DeMarco said. Glazer started to say something else, but DeMarco interrupted him. “Detective, if this isn’t your case, why do you care why Paul was killed or why the FBI’s involved?”
Glazer rubbed a hand over his face as if trying to scrub away the fatigue. Finally he said, “Because he was killed on my turf, DeMarco. And because there’s something strange going on here. If your cousin was just some ordinary schmuck who had the bad luck to get shot, the feds wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him and would have insisted I take the case. But that’s not what happened and it bugs me. I was hoping you could help me figure out what the hell’s going on.”
It sounded to DeMarco like this was some sort of pissing contest between the local cops and the Bureau, and he had absolutely no interest in it. “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” he said. “Unless there’s something else, I need to get his body and make arrangements for a funeral.”
“You’ll have to talk to the FBI about that,” Glazer said. “And they won’t release the body until an autopsy is done. The agent in charge is a guy named Hopper.”
Charles Bradford didn’t like the expression
shit happens
because too often fate was blamed for poor preparation and execution. But sometimes, shit did happen. Sometimes, the best-planned operations went awry for reasons the planners could have never imagined. The attempt to rescue the hostages in Iran in 1980 was one of the best examples he could think of.
In 1979, the American Embassy in Tehran was taken over by an Iranian mob, fifty-three Americans were held hostage and, after almost a year of attempting to negotiate their release, the president finally authorized a military mission to free them. The mission was planned for months, all possible intelligence was collected, the best personnel were selected—and then everything went to hell. One helicopter had an avionics system failure, another had a hydraulic system failure, and an unexpected sandstorm occurred. The mission finally ended in total disaster when a refueling plane crashed into a third helicopter, killing eight U.S. servicemen.
Shit happens.
Bradford knew something similar had happened with Levy’s operation. John Levy was a careful man, a man who thought things through. He had worked for Bradford for a long time and had always performed admirably under the most difficult conditions. So even before Levy gave him the details, Bradford was sure that whatever had gone wrong had been totally out of Levy’s control—an act of God, if you will. As it turned out, he was right.
“A drunk hit the ambulance I had staged for moving the bodies,” Levy said. “It was a … a total fluke.”
“Why didn’t you have the ambulance right at the scene?” Bradford said.
“I thought it might stand out and somebody might remember it. And it was only two blocks away, less than a minute away. But this drunk? He takes a corner going about sixty and hits the ambulance head on. The drunk was killed, a woman with him is in critical condition, and my man was injured.”
“What sort of injuries?”
“Internal injuries and major head trauma. He’s in a coma. I have someone inside the hospital, and if he comes out of the coma I’ll be called immediately. I’ll make sure he doesn’t talk to anyone, but it may take a few days to get him out of the hospital because—”
Bradford interrupted him. “John, you know what’s at stake here. This man poses a significant risk. He may talk and not even realize he’s talking. I know he’s a good man, but—”
Bradford stopped speaking and just stared at Levy. Finally, Levy said, “Yes, sir. I—I understand.”
Bradford could see the fate of the driver bothered Levy—and this was understandable. Levy wasn’t a demonstrative man, but neither was he without compassion. Nor was Charles Bradford. Nonetheless, and as Bradford had said, Levy knew that the life of a single man couldn’t be allowed to compromise everything they were doing.
John Levy was tall and broad-shouldered and had a marathon runner’s physique: no excess fat, long ropy muscles. His hands were huge and his wrists were the size of two by fours. Levy had the most powerful-looking wrists Bradford had ever seen. He wore his dark hair short and his face was long and somber with sunken cheeks and dark circles under deep-set, morose brown eyes. He looked like a man who rarely slept and never smiled; Bradford sometimes visualized him in a Franciscan monk’s brown cowl, the hood covering his head, shadowing his face. But Levy wasn’t religious, at least not in the conventional sense. What he was, above all else, was a patriot.
“Does the driver have a family?” Bradford asked.
Levy shook his head. “No wife or children. His mother and father are in Kansas. Farm people.”
Salt of the earth, Bradford thought.
“Have him die somewhere overseas, in combat,” Bradford said. “I don’t want his parents to think their son was wasted in a senseless traffic accident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the rest of your team?” Bradford asked.
“They’re already on their way out of the country.”
“Good. And the two men who stumbled upon the scene?”
A second act of God, those two men showing up near the Iwo Jima Memorial at that time of night.
“I had Hopper interview them,” Levy said. “They didn’t see anything. They don’t know anything. They’re not a problem.”
“Good,” Bradford said. He said nothing more for a moment as he analyzed everything Levy had told him. “I think the only thing I’m concerned about was bringing in Hopper too fast. Taking the case away from Arlington and giving it to Hopper was the right thing to do, but it might have been better if you had delayed that a bit.”
“I didn’t know what those two men had seen at the time,” Levy said. “And since I had to leave Russo’s body, I didn’t want to give the Arlington cops time to study the wound or do an autopsy and figure out what type of ordinance was used.”
“I understand,” Bradford said. “It was a judgment call. And you certainly made the right choice regarding which body to leave.”
“I think so,” Levy said. “Russo didn’t have a lover, and his parents are dead. Nobody will really push for a solution. I’ve told Hopper to say he was most likely dealing drugs and, with Russo being a nurse, the people who matter will buy the story.”
Bradford nodded. It appeared as if Levy had thought of everything. There were some risks—in any military operation there were always risks—but not large ones.
“All right, John,” Bradford said. “Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir,” Levy said.
Bradford noticed Levy started to raise his right hand to salute but then stopped himself. Old habits die hard—and it was good they did. John Levy would always be a soldier, with or without a uniform.
Bradford stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking out a window. In the distance he could see a portion of Arlington National Cemetery: a rolling green hill and row after row of white headstones. He loved the view from his office and took pride in the fact that one day his body would be interred at Arlington, his grave marked only by a simple white stone marker. That was all he wanted—no grand tomb, just the same stone that marked the graves of his fallen comrades.
He could also see Levy standing on the sidewalk talking to someone on his cell phone. He was most likely checking on the young man in the coma. He was probably wishing the driver would simply die, and then he wouldn’t have to execute the order he’d been given. But Bradford had no doubt that Levy would follow the order.
He was so lucky to have a man like John. The people of this country, blissful in their ignorance, had no idea how much their survival depended on men like him.
And Martin.
Ah, Martin, I miss you so
.
There was a rap on his office door. Bradford turned and saw one of his secretaries standing timidly in the doorway.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, General, but your meeting with the Secretary of Defense begins in two minutes.”
“Dillon, I’ll see your five and raise you five,” Harry Cramer said.
“Harry,” Dillon said, “are you sure you want to do that? The odds of you making your straight are less than sixteen percent.”
“Maybe you’ve lost track of the cards,” Harry said. “We all know you hired that young lady to distract us, but you’ve been paying more attention to her than anyone else at the table.”
The bartender Dillon had hired to serve the poker players was indeed a distraction. She was a six-foot-tall, twenty-seven-year-old brunette with lavender eyes and exquisite proportions.
“Harry, I’m shocked you’d suggest such a thing,” Dillon said. “I hired her because she makes a perfect martini and can pour with either hand. Ambidextrous bartenders are hard to find.”
Marge Fielder boomed out a laugh. Marge was the only woman player present. The other attendees of the monthly game held at Dillon’s home on the Maryland shore were: Harold Cramer, a federal judge who served on the D.C. Court of Appeals; Paul Winfield, special assistant counsel to the Chairman of the Federal Reserve; Stephen Demming, deputy to the Under Secretary of Defense for Policy at the Pentagon; Clyde Simmer, assistant to the Solicitor General at the Department of Justice; and Dillon Crane, deputy to the deputy director of the National Security Agency. Marge Fielder worked at the State Department and her title was Undersecretary for Political Affairs—making her the third highest ranking official in the department.
The six poker players had four things in common. They were all in their late fifties or early sixties and incredibly bright; no one player had any particular advantage over the others. Second, they were absurdly wealthy. Five of the six were heirs to obscene amounts of money willed to them by their ancestors. The exception was Stephen Demming, who had married money and then his wife had been kind enough to die and leave it all to him.
Each player occupied a powerful position in the federal government, yet none of them were known to the general public. Dillon, had he desired the job and had he been willing to contribute to whomever was running for president, could have been the Secretary of Defense; Harry Cramer had once been short-listed for a seat on the Supreme Court but had made it clear he wouldn’t serve. Marge had twice declined the job of Secretary of State, having seen all too often how the press—and Congress—devoured the person in that position. Which was the third thing they all had in common: they all loved power but were astute enough to realize that the real power in Washington lay in the hands of the long-serving bureaucrats who occupied positions below the radar—the special assistants, the undersecretaries, the deputies to the deputies. The people in these positions were less likely to be changed out when a new administration occupied the West Wing and, because of their experience and longevity, they all knew exactly which levers to pull to make the gears of Washington spin. The reason Dillon had organized the game was that his friends not only had the wealth to play for staggering amounts but the game was also a forum for exchanging information—although all the players were extremely tight-lipped about giving away secrets. They came to acquire knowledge, not to dispense it.