“We have breaking news,” Katie said. “The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Charles Bradford, has been shot. All we know at this point is that the general was in his office at the Pentagon when the shooting occurred, and he’s been taken to a hospital in Arlington, Virginia.”
DeMarco was as stunned as Katie appeared to be. His first thought was: I wonder who shot the bastard? His second thought was: Maybe if he dies, Dillon will let me get back to my life.
For the next ten minutes, all Katie did was demonstrate how little information the network had, but she made the best of it. The station showed an aerial view of the Pentagon, photos of Bradford with the president, photos of Bradford in combat fatigues, including one of him standing next to a bombed-out bunker in Iraq. Katie filled up airtime by talking about Bradford’s career and then began to wonder out loud how anyone could penetrate the Pentagon’s security and shoot the nation’s highest ranking military officer. The picture then cut to a reporter standing in front of a hospital, who told Katie that he didn’t know zip and that he and all the other reporters were waiting for somebody to come out and tell them what was going on.
A man in an army uniform walked out of the hospital a moment later and took up a position facing the reporters. He introduced himself as Colonel Andrew somebody and said he was the public affairs officer at the Pentagon. He started off by saying that General Bradford had been shot in the shoulder, and although one of his lungs had been nicked, he was expected to make a full recovery. The reporters immediately started yelling questions, the main one being, Who the hell shot Bradford? The public affairs guy got a funny look on his face, like what he had to say was really painful, and finally answered the mob.
“The general was shot by a man named John Levy. Mr. Levy was a civilian employee at the Pentagon who worked for the Pentagon Force Protection Agency.”
Whoa!
the reporters exclaimed.
The Pentagon spokesman waited until the uproar died down, then added, “It appears Mr. Levy had some sort of mental breakdown. We don’t know, at this point, why he tried to kill the general.”
“So where’s this guy Levy now?” a reporter demanded. The colonel gave the reporters an irritated look, the look seeming to say,
If you damn people would just shut up, I’d tell you
.
“Mr. Levy is dead. He was shot by a member of General Bradford’s security detail.”
The reporters started screaming again, but the colonel raised a hand and said, “That’s all we know at this point. As other facts become available, you’ll be informed.”
The television switched back to Couric, who had this wide-eyed, can-you-believe-it look on her face, and then she began repeating for the slow learners everything that the Pentagon spokesman had just told the media.
DeMarco let the noise from the television wash over him. What the hell was going to happen now? He didn’t know, but he was certain of one thing: with John Levy dead it was going to be almost impossible to convict Charles Bradford of a crime. Hell, the way things worked, Bradford might even come out ahead on this thing, an assassination attempt being a public relations dream for any high-ranking official.
Charles Bradford’s right arm itched where the IV entered a vein near his elbow. He’d been shot twice in Vietnam and this wound was nowhere near as painful as those had been. But maybe the painkillers they used these days were better.
The surgeon had told him that some of the muscles in his shoulder had been severely damaged and it was going to take at least one more surgery to set things right, and after that a lot of physical therapy would be required.
He was a man who had always prided himself on his physical abilities and the thought of being crippled, even for a short time, was depressing. And it wasn’t just physical limitations he was concerned about; it was also his image. A general had to appear strong in both mind and body.
He wondered, too, if he was still in shock or if it was because of the drugs, but he felt amazingly calm considering what had just happened.
He had been sitting in his office. He’d arrived at dawn, not being able to sleep, and had been expecting that at any moment Gilmore would call and tell him that John Levy was dead. So when Levy himself opened the door to his office, Bradford was certain his face must have betrayed his astonishment.
The first words out of Levy’s mouth were: “Why? You’ve known me for over twenty years! How could you have ever doubted my loyalty?”
Naturally, he said he didn’t know what Levy was talking about. At the same time, he placed his finger on the button beneath his desk.
“You sent Gilmore to kill me last night,” Levy said.
“Gilmore? You mean the colonel over at Fort Myer? Why on earth would I have him kill you, for God’s sake?”
“I heard you call him.”
“You heard me?”
“When DeMarco came to see you, he planted a listening device in your office.”
Bradford’s heart almost stopped when he heard that.
“I heard DeMarco tell you that they were going to make me testify against you. You should have known I would never do that.”
Levy started crying then. Not sobbing, just these fat tears rolling down his long, sad face. “You betrayed me,” he said.
“John, you’re having some sort of breakdown. It’s the stress, the lack of sleep. You know I would never—”
Levy pulled the big Colt from the holster beneath his suit coat and Bradford pressed down frantically on the panic button beneath his desk.
All high-ranking personnel in the Pentagon had a button similar to Bradford’s: the Secretary of Defense, the assistant secretary, and each of the joint chiefs. In spite of all the security to prevent armed people from entering the Pentagon, there was always the danger that some employee would go berserk and try to kill his co-workers. That was a too-common occurrence in corporate America, and there was no reason to think the Pentagon was immune to such madness.
Bradford wondered, however, if his security detail would respond in time. He imagined their first reaction would be that he had hit the button accidentally. All he could do was hope that they would perform as they had been trained.
There was no doubt in Bradford’s mind that Levy’s plan had been to kill him and then kill himself. Thank God that sergeant had been so fast. Levy had just pointed his gun at him when the sergeant burst into the room, his sidearm already in his hand. Of course his gun was in his hand: Bradford had hit the button, which meant his life was in danger.
But Levy hadn’t even looked at the sergeant. He was saying, “I loved you more than my own father.” And then he fired, but the sergeant fired too, maybe a millisecond before Levy. The sergeant didn’t hesitate at all. He saw the threat and he fired, just as he’d been trained to do.
Levy’s aim was thrown off by the sergeant’s bullet striking his head. He never would have missed otherwise, not standing so close. So instead of the bullet hitting Bradford’s heart as Levy had surely intended, he was hit in the shoulder.
It was a miracle he was still alive.
“What do we do now?” Claire asked.
“As I see it, we have two options,” Dillon said. “We—you and I, my dear—can step forward with what we know. We can testify to some congressional committee, share our recordings with them, and let Congress take it from there. We’ll lose our jobs, of course. And our illegal monitoring of American communications traffic will come to a halt, but we’ll damage Bradford’s reputation enough to at least force him out of the army.”
“We can
not
let them disband my division, Dillon. It’s vital to preventing another nine/eleven.”
“That may be,” Dillon said, “but if we expose Charles Bradford, that’s what will happen.”
“So what’s the second option?”
“We do nothing. Life simply goes on as it was before. Bradford may have another John Levy or Martin Breed working for him, but even if he does, I imagine he won’t be authorizing any executions anytime soon. He knows we’re watching now.”
Claire just shook her head.
Dillon stared at her for a moment, then said very quietly, “I’m sorry, Claire, but I don’t have all the answers. I think Bradford’s won this round and we’ll just have to bide our time and look for another opportunity—and hope he doesn’t figure out that you and I were the ones helping DeMarco.”
“And what about DeMarco?” Claire asked
“He’s not going to be a problem. He has no evidence, and he knows what we can do. And I’ll threaten him, of course.”
“You may be underestimating him, Dillon.”
“What are you suggesting? That we murder the man?”
“No, I’m not suggesting that,” Claire said. “If we killed DeMarco, we’d be no better than Charles Bradford. I’m just saying, Don’t underestimate the guy.”
Dillon handed DeMarco his cell phone and the keys to Perry Wallace’s truck and said, “You’re free to leave, Joe.”
“So it’s all over,” DeMarco said.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“And you’re not going to expose Bradford, are you?”
“You keep missing the big picture, Joe. I’ve told you before that exposing Bradford is bad for the country.”
“Oh, right. The big picture. Where does my cousin getting murdered fit into the big picture?”
“Joe, I don’t have time to debate this with you. And I think you can relax somewhat regarding General Bradford. Now that he knows that other people are aware of his activities, I think he’ll exercise some restraint.”
“What’s gonna restrain him from killing me?” DeMarco said.
“What would be the point? You don’t have any evidence and Bradford knows you’re just being used by someone else. Killing you won’t accomplish anything—or not much, at any rate.”
That was really comforting, DeMarco thought.
“Now listen to me carefully, Joe. Some of my colleagues think that leaving you among the living is unwise, but so far I’ve been able to prevent them from taking any action against you. But if you talk to anyone about any of this…. Well, need I say more?”
“No,” DeMarco said.
“And you do know, of course, we’ll be aware if you talk. You need to keep in mind that every word you say in the future might be overheard. Every call you make might be listened to. Every piece of mail you send may be opened. You need to remember you’re dealing with an organization that has at its fingertips technologies you can’t even imagine.”
DeMarco looked at Dillon for a long moment, then nodded his head.
“I think I’m starting to see the big picture now,” he said.
DeMarco was glad that Dillon’s people had been kind enough to move Perry Wallace’s old pickup from the parking garage at the Days Inn in Crystal City to the safe house in Maryland. Had they not done this, Perry’s truck would have been towed away. As things stood now, DeMarco was not looking forward to seeing Perry when he returned the truck, considering how Perry had most likely been grilled by Dillon’s agents.
DeMarco turned the key in the ignition, shifted the ancient transmission into first, and took off. He knew that far above his head a satellite was possibly watching him. And somewhere behind him was stone-faced Alice or somebody just like her. And Perry’s beat-up Mazda was most likely fitted with a tracking device, and he was almost certain he was wearing listening and tracking devices as well.
He felt like a dog infested with fleas.
He drove a little farther, thoughts buzzing inside his head.
Finally he said to himself,
Fuck the big picture
.
“Why’s he stopping, Alice?” Claire said.
“He’s at that liquor store, the one he went to after he met with Bradford at the Pentagon.”
“It would appear that Mr. DeMarco has a drinking problem,” Claire said.
“I don’t know,” Alice said. “He likes his booze, but he doesn’t look like an alky to me.”
Claire listened to DeMarco’s voice through the speaker in the operations room. Alice, parked half a block from the liquor store, was also listening to him via her headset.
Hey. How you doin’ today? How ’bout another bottle of Stoli
?
Uh, yes, sir
.
A couple of minutes passed then:
That’ll be twenty-two fifty
.
There you go. And thanks
.
And thank you, sir
.
“What was that ‘and thank you, sir’ stuff?” Claire said. “It sounded like DeMarco gave the clerk a big tip or something.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Alice said.
“I mean that sounded funny. It sounded off,” Claire said.
“You want me to do something?”
“No. Just watch his ass. I don’t know why, but he’s making me nervous. Dillon had better be right about him.”
Fifteen minutes elapsed.
“He’s stopping again,” Alice said.
“Where’s he going this time?” Claire said.
“I don’t know yet,” Alice said. “He just parked the truck. Okay, he’s going into an auto parts store.”
“What the hell for?” Claire said.
Hey, I need some oil
.
The oil’s right over there, sir
.
Thanks
.
Five minutes later.
That’ll be twenty-eight fifteen, sir
.
“He’s heading back to the truck,” Alice said.
“Twenty-eight bucks for oil? Does that sound right to you?” Claire said.
“No,” Alice said, “but maybe he bought something else.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He tossed a bag into the truck and now he’s adding oil to the engine. That truck’s a piece of shit. It leaked oil all over the garage at the safe house.”
Claire didn’t say anything.
“He’s taking off again,” Alice said.
Fifteen minutes later, Alice said, “He’s stopped again. He pulled into a loading zone in front of a Starbucks. I guess he wants a latte for the drive home.”
Two minutes later, Claire said, “Can you see him?”
“No.”
“Get in there, Alice, and see what he’s doing. The GPS shows he’s not moving, but we can’t hear him.”
It was five long minutes before Alice reported back.