Murder at the Pentagon (2 page)

Margit nodded. He was sizable, sweaty, married, and not especially interesting. But he seemed nice enough, Midwestern friendly. What was there to say?

Maize stood. “Well, welcome aboard, Ms. Falk.” He leaned forward to read the lettering on her T-shirt. “A club?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Margit. “I’m chopper-rated. Some other women pilots and I got together and had these made up.”

“Cute,” Maize said. “And pardon me for calling you ‘Ms.’ Military, huh?”

“Major.”

“Glad to meet you, Major.”

“Thank you.” Funny how men like to read our T-shirts so intently, she thought. Maybe we should have had shoulder patches made instead.

Although Margit had never met Maize, she knew who he was—the lead auditor on a controversial air-force weapons system known as Project Safekeep, based on the X-ray laser and funded by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency. Safekeep’s technical development had been contracted to Starpath, Inc., a low-profile, high-tech California company. The theory behind the new weapon, as Margit understood it from scuttlebutt, was that small nuclear devices, carried by combat aircraft, could be detonated in the air, their nuclear energy sending out radiation sufficient
to destroy enemy missiles. No working model had been field-tested, as far as Margit knew, although Starpath claimed successful laboratory tests. DARPA, and the air-force section of the Pentagon charged with overseeing the new weapons-system project, had recently told Congress that significant progress had been made. Others in the scientific community cast doubts on the testimony, citing their knowledge of the state of the art in X-ray lasers, which, they claimed, was still in its infancy—at best.

She watched Maize join his wife, the tall, fair, square woman with short blond hair and cheeks flushed with heat. After a time Margit got up and casually strolled in her direction. As she passed, she heard Mrs. Maize say to others in the group, “Saturdays, Sundays, it never stops. Now
that’s
an agreement the president ought to hammer out with the Russians. One day a week when it’s illegal to even think about national defense.” She laughed lightly, but there was discernible seriousness in her voice.

Margit didn’t know many people at the picnic. She was the only person there from SecDef’s general counsel. She’d been invited because her first assignment upon reporting to the Pentagon was to act as legal liaison with Test and Evaluation’s Project Safekeep. She’d considered declining the invitation, especially when Jeff had begged off. She and Jeff Foxboro had been law students together at George Washington University, Jeff studying full time, Margit using nights and weekends during a tour at Bolling Air Force Base just outside Washington. Upon graduation, he had taken a job with a highly visible liberal senator from Wisconsin, Henry “Hank” Wishengrad, now in his fourth term in the Senate, and Congress’s leading Pentagon critic.

Their relationship had blossomed in the classroom under the watchful eye of law professor Mackensie Smith, who, in addition to teaching Margit the law, served as her adviser. Not long after graduation Margit was reassigned to Lowry AFB in Colorado, which put a decided, although not fatal, crimp in her relationship with Foxboro. Her returning to Washington via her new Pentagon assignment was good news
on three fronts: first, of course, being closer to Jeff; second, a chance to renew contact with Mac Smith and his wife, Annabel, with whom she’d become friendly beyond ordinary student-professor status; and third, the obvious allure of a Pentagon assignment. A stint at the Starch-and-Salute Factory, her name for it, didn’t guarantee military career success, but a successful tour there couldn’t hurt.

Even though Jeff Foxboro hadn’t been able to accompany her to the picnic that morning, he’d encouraged her to attend. “Good chance to meet people outside the office,” he’d said. “Knowing people on a personal level, especially in that zoo, will help smooth the way when you’ve got a problem.”

He was right, of course, and though alone, she was glad she’d come. There, in the tranquillity of trees and grass, surrounded by one of the world’s largest office buildings—83 acres of offices on 175 acres of land—and within whose walls decisions of the gravest consequence were made, one experienced the distinct and pleasant feeling of an old-fashioned family picnic. Children ran and stumbled in three-legged races and tag-team competition. The more competitive of the adults had gone to the Pentagon Officers’ Athletic Club (POAC) to compete in gymnastic and swimming events. The POAC building had been built during World War II as a bomb shelter for FDR. No bombs had fallen on it, but it began to deteriorate of natural causes until athletic-minded officers found the funds to spruce it up.

Others at the picnic vented their Pentagonesque competitive natures in less strenuous games of horseshoes, volleyball, and badminton. Margit preferred to compete with herself, to stretch her endurance, increase her strength—no need to prove it to someone else—and so she contented herself with observing the competitions, the fun, and enjoying the warm sun on her face.

He heard footsteps on the hard floor, checked his watch again. Nine minutes late. About time
.

* * *

“Margit.”

She’d been on her way across the center court to the kiosk in the middle from which hamburgers, hot dogs, watermelon, soft drinks, and beer were being dispensed. She stopped and turned.

“Good to see you again.” Bill Monroney. So it wasn’t true that Margit didn’t know anyone at the picnic. She knew Lieutenant Colonel William Monroney from years back, right after she’d completed helicopter training and had been certified to fly the tricky, unwieldy, wonderful aircraft. They’d met in Panama, where Margit—military directives against women in combat be damned—had flown a UH-60 “Blackhawk” on clandestine supply missions from a CIA-funded airstrip in Costa Rica to support the invasion. Monroney was the air-force intelligence officer assigned to their unit.

“I heard you were at the Pentagon,” he said pleasantly, narrowing the gap between them and extending his hand. Margit scrutinized his face. He’d grown older—no surprise in that—but was even more handsome than she remembered him to be, tall, imperially slim, a new dash of gray at the temples adding a touch of wisdom to his patrician good looks. Like Margit, Bill Monroney had enjoyed keeping fit, and his sinewy frame attested that he still did. He wore white slacks and loafers, and a shirt the color of Pepto-Bismol with the top two buttons left open. One thing certainly hadn’t changed; his smile was infectious.

Margit briefly took his hand and then disengaged. “Yes,” she said. “Arrived about a month ago. Funny I haven’t bumped into you in the building.” If I were honest, she thought, I’d admit that I had hoped not to see him. Unrealistic, of course, even in the mammoth complex. Monroney was assigned to the Air Force Directorate of Engineering Services (DE&S). Margit’s assignment to the X-ray laser project ensured that they would come in contact at some point.

“It’s a big building,” he said. “And I’ve been away most of the month. I suppose that’s why we haven’t run into each other. How have you been?”

“Fine. Really good.”

“Still flying choppers as if born to it?”

“Sure. When I get the chance.”

“And a lawyer, too,” he said with a sense of slightly exaggerated respect. “What’s next for Margit Falk, brain surgery?”

“I’ve been considering that,” she said. “Need any work? You look good. The Pentagon must agree with you.”

Monroney laughed. “As long as you don’t take it too seriously. Actually, I’ve been enjoying the assignment. Nothing like rubbing shoulders with the purple suiters.” Pentagonese for top brass. “Good for the career, if not for the morale.”

“How’s your wife?” she asked.

Monroney looked to where his wife was sipping a lemonade while chatting with another woman. He returned his attention to Margit. “Celia is fine. Still living the single life?”

“Yes, and enjoying every minute of it. Excuse me. It was good seeing you. I’m thirsty.” She resumed her path toward the kiosk, aware that Monroney was watching her every step. She skirted Celia Monroney and reached the kiosk where volunteers wielded long black forks that pierced frankfurter skins and slid easily between charred ribs. Fat dripping from hamburger patties hit the flame of the barbeque pit with the searing hiss of a snake pit. Margit ordered a diet cola.

Unpleasant memories flooded her, but she willed them away. To her right, lined up along a counter, were military officers who somehow wore their profession and rank even in civilian clothing; lobbyists invited to the picnic by their Pentagon contacts; and a member of the House of Representatives whom Margit recognized from pictures.

“I know one thing,” one of the military men said in an authoritative, commanding voice (did he sound that way to his wife and children? Margit wondered), “that son of a bitch had better be put in his place now before he takes a notion to use that bomb he’s ended up with.”

“It sure as hell got Israel’s attention,” said a lobbyist.
“What did I hear yesterday, that they’ve voted an emergency two billion for weapons?”

“Can’t blame them,” another officer in mufti said. “That head case drops one bomb on Tel Aviv, good-bye Jewish homeland, bonds for Israel, and conventional warfare.”

Margit continued to sip her soft drink and eavesdrop. The demonstration by the leader of an Arab nation that he had, in fact, developed nuclear weapons had dominated virtually every conversation since videotapes of the test were released. Until that fateful moment the world had been drifting, albeit slowly but surely, into a rumbling but comforting peace. Relations between the United States and what had been the Soviet Union had continued to develop into one of mutual cooperation. Gorbachev and his policies of revised
glasnost
had started the process. The Wall had tumbled in Berlin. Eastern bloc countries had flexed their muscles, to the extent they existed, and sought to enter the mainstream of free enterprise and free elections. Then, the failed coup against Gorbachev and, of all things, the collapse of Communism within the Soviet Union, set in motion the dismemberment of the Russian nuclear superpower itself, at least as it had been known.

Saddam Hussein’s audacious takeover of Kuwait, and subsequent rout on the battlefield under Stormin’ Norman and the hundred-billion-dollar Desert Storm operation—give or take a billion or two—had rendered Iraq impotent, at least for the time being. Negotiations between Israel and the PLO had taken what appeared to be a few positive steps forward, although they were far from achieving a definitive resolution.

And then, with a push of a button, the world once again faced the prospect of a nuclear outburst. What governments had always feared was now a fact. Not that a superpower would unleash nuclear devastation, but that the technology would end up in the hands of a renegade, a rogue, an uncivilized and unreasonable despot who would view the use of such a weapon not as a threat to humankind but as a means of achieving commanding power. And, of course, depending
upon the depth of his religious convictions, a hallowed place in heaven.

The testing of the nuclear device had detonated the Pentagon into a frenzy of round-the-clock activities. Weapons systems that had been put on hold were dragged off the shelf and viewed as viable again. Members of the House and Senate appropriations committees, who’d pushed hard to turn the world’s calm into a moderate peace dividend—unleashing funds at least temporarily freed from defense to rebuild America’s infrastructure, to help ease the growing, grinding rate of poverty and close the widening gap between rich and poor, and to fund needed educational programs to bring America up to par with its leading economic competitors—now seriously rereviewed cuts in the military budget.

A crew in a Russian missile silo outside St. Petersburg lounged on couches provided for their long, boring shifts. American and Russian negotiators had made considerable strides in reducing the arsenal of nuclear weapons on both sides, but the day had not yet been reached when all such weapons were abolished. Three members of the crew played cards. A radio broadcast Mussorgsky orchestrations of Russian folk themes into the large, windowless room that was the central control for the launching of the silo’s deadly instrument. The word to launch would come by telephone, a simple black instrument on a desk near the much more complex technological apparatus that, once activated, would send the missile into the sky, across the ocean, and, if everything went right, to a direct hit on its still-designated target, a kiosk in the center of five acres of trees and grass surrounded by five walls, a target consisting at the moment of Coke and Pepsi, burgers and dogs, potato chips and popcorn, coffee and tea. The kiosk had, for decades, been Ground Zero, the chosen target for the first Soviet missile launched in the event of war. The bags of potato chips and the walls around them would become, in a flash, indistinguishable
.

“I have a headache,” one of the Russians said
.

“Too much vodka last night,” a major said helpfully
.

“Deal the cards,” an enlisted man at the table said
.

And so it went, shift after shift, week after week, waiting for a phone to ring that had never rung before, and that was less likely to ring with each passing day of détente
.

Unless, of course, the missiles under the Soviet crew’s control were to be turned, from a kiosk in the center of the Pentagon to a white-walled city in the Middle East
.

Margit continued to wander the park, stopping occasionally to introduce herself to people who looked accessible to overtures from a stranger. A sadness had come over her. It wasn’t profound, just there, a moment of melancholy not unknown to her, usually triggered by being alone in a setting in which families prevailed. Being married and having children certainly appealed to Margit, although she wasn’t driven by that need, as evidenced by the proposals she’d declined in her adult life. Her thoughts went to Jeff. Would their relationship develop to the point that they might marry one day? You didn’t push those things; at least, you shouldn’t. If it happened, it happened. Meanwhile, she had work to do.