Murder at the Pentagon (7 page)

“Major Falk, thanks for coming in. Sorry to screw up your Saturday.”

“No problem for me, Colonel. A free weekend.”

“Sit down. That chair.”

She sat where he indicated and watched him rummage
through a desk drawer. He didn’t find what he was looking for and slammed the drawer shut. Then he looked at her as though surprised that she was there. “Sorry I haven’t been able to devote much attention to you since you arrived,” he said.

“That’s all right, Colonel. I’ve been taken good care of. The staff has been extremely helpful.”

“Glad to hear that.” It was common knowledge that Colonel Bellis was not particularly pleased with several of his staff, particularly the civilian contingent. He preferred military attorneys, they said, and could be unnecessarily harsh on those who did not wear a uniform. His temper was well known. Margit had not, at least as yet, been victim of it, although once she had heard him bellow through the oak door that separated him from the rest of the free world. A tough boss, one to be understood and accommodated.

“I’d offer you coffee, or tea,” he said, “but I don’t have any made. Helen usually does that for me.” He was referring to Helen Matthei, his administrative assistant, who performed myriad tasks far more important than filling the coffeepot in the morning.

“I’ve had coffee, Colonel, but thank you for thinking of it.”

It was evident that Bellis, blunt as a bombardier, was having trouble getting to the point. Why? He was her superior. Did he want to assign her something unpleasant? Then do it. Along with making the choice of clothing in the morning easy, the military also made Margit appreciate its straightforward command process. No need to cajole, convince, even con, an employee to take on a task. Give the order. That simple, unless the order was clearly illegal, in which case the employee—someone of lesser rank—could balk on the basis of its illegality. He’d called her here. Tell her what to do, and, unless it
was
illegal, she’d do it. It was known as following orders.

Maybe Bellis sensed what Margit was thinking, because he leaned his elbows on his desk and said, “Let me get to
the point, Major Falk. I have an important assignment for you.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve heard that Dr. Joycelen’s murderer has been apprehended.”

Margit withheld a smile. Did anyone
not
know that? “Yes, sir, I have.”

“What have you heard?”

“That his name is Robert Cobol. That he’s an army captain assigned to the CIA but stationed here at the Pentagon. I heard on the news that it was his weapon that was used to kill Dr. Joycelen.” She paused. “I think that’s all.”

“There’s more.”

“Oh?”

“It’s full of twists and turns, some of them not very pleasant.”

She said nothing.

“Look, Major, let me ask you a couple of questions. Have you had much experience with military law?”

“No, sir, not much. Not enough, anyhow. I was assigned the defense of a couple of airmen at my previous assignment.”

“How’d you do?”

She smiled. “I won both cases.”

“Beat the system, did you? Beat our employer?”

“I never viewed it that way. In both cases the Command was wrong in its charges. They weren’t cases involving serious crime, just infractions.”

“Murdering the deputy director of DARPA is no infraction.”

“I would agree with that.”

“Would you have trouble defending a fellow officer who gunned down somebody like Joycelen?”

She didn’t know how to respond. My God, Lanning had been right. She was being interviewed for the role of defense counsel for Captain Cobol. If there was a right moment to beg off, this was it. He was giving her an out.

“Trouble defending such a person?” she asked. The question filled the gap in her thinking.

“Yes, for you. Philosophical difficulties. Outraged at the crime and unable to mount a decent defense.” He cocked his head. “Afraid defending such a person wouldn’t be good for the career.”

His last comment nettled. “I’m very secure in my military career, Colonel,” she said. “I think I’m a good officer. I also think that the air force recognizes ability and dedication and rewards it accordingly.”

He sat back as though she’d slapped him. Then he laughed. “No offense, Major, but we do have military lawyers who shy away from cases because they think taking them on might upset someone up the chain of command. Obviously, you don’t fall into that group.”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

They scrutinized each other in silence for a moment. She broke the quiescence. “Why me?”

“A lot of reasons. I’m told you’re bright. Maybe even better than bright. I’ve got a bunch of bright boys who can’t find the door. I’m told your law training was top-notch. Law Review at G.W. A protégé of Mackensie Smith. Smart as a whip, I’m told. Impressive.”

Margit had been doing some hard thinking for the past minute. She drew a deep breath before saying, “Colonel Bellis, may I be direct with you, sir?”

“I’d welcome it.”

“Sir, I don’t wish to defend Captain Cobol.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t think I’m qualified.”

“Nothing to do with the career?”

“No, sir!”

“Sorry, Major, but I’ve made a decision while sitting here. I like what I see. I like what I hear. I am assigning you to the defense of Captain Robert Cobol, charged with the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen, deputy director of the Defense Advanced Project Research Agency.”

“May I have time to consider this?”

“No, ma’am.”

She broke the stare between them and looked at photographs on his wall. The assignment made no sense. The Trial Defense Service was rife with qualified military lawyers whose job it was to defend members of the armed forces before military tribunals. She was not part of that service. Since earning her law degree, she’d been immersed in a perpetual flow of paper, contracts, regs, position papers. Her desk was heaped with contracts relating to Project Safekeep. “Party of the first part” stuff. Nothing murderous, aside from the hours spent in search of vague paragraphs and misleading statements. She’d never tried a murder case in her life, civilian or military.

Why me?

She asked.

Bellis stood. “Major Falk, the murder of Dr. Joycelen has ramifications beyond what might be apparent at this moment. Let me ask you another question. How do you feel about homosexuals?”

There it was. The rumor—first from Max Lanning, then from Mac Smith. It obviously had some validity. Or at least life. She shrugged. “I think they lead a difficult life because society makes it so,” she said flatly.

“Nice sentiment, but you aren’t working for the ACLU. We have military regulations that say that if you’re a homosexual, you’re out.”

“Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. Why are you asking me this?”

“Because it is possible that Captain Cobol is a homosexual, and that he killed Dr. Joycelen over a purely personal matter between them.”

“Dr. Joycelen was gay?”

“I prefer the original meaning of the word. He evidently was bisexual. Now, how do you feel about all of this, Major?”

She’d become exasperated. She wanted to get out of there, to take a long walk, to think. His questions were premature, and she felt singularly ill equipped to answer them with even a measure of intelligence. She said, “Sir, if I am being assigned
to the defense of Captain Cobol, I will have to accept that assignment. I understand that. If Captain Cobol is a homosexual, and if the motive for the murder revolves around that, I will have to deal with that circumstance as any attorney would, in any criminal case. I do not want this assignment. I am not interested in defending Captain Cobol because I am ill equipped, and anyone accused of murder deserves experienced counsel. I respectfully ask you to reconsider your choice.”

He nodded. “Yes, Major Falk, I will give it some additional consideration. But don’t count on me changing my mind. I’m not famous for it like some presidents and secretaries of defense.”

She stood. “May I go?”

“Of course. Look, Major, I’m sorry that we have had our first substantive conversation under these circumstances. I could have done without being given this assignment by SecDef. This is a no-win situation for me … and it probably will be for you … provided I don’t change my mind.” He smiled. “Major Falk, I don’t intend to change my mind. Sorry. You’re it. Give him the best defense you’re capable of, which, I’m confident, will be considerable. I’d like to meet with you Monday morning at eight, here, in this office.”

He walked her to the door. “Foul up your weekend pretty good?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, sir, you certainly did.” She couldn’t help but laugh. With all his exterior gruffness, Bellis was a nice man. She liked him, despite the fact that he
had
truly screwed up her weekend.

He had a final word before she left. “Let’s keep this between us, Major Falk, at least until an announcement can be made next week.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that, Colonel Bellis.”

“Why?”

“Because I intended, the minute I got back to my quarters, to call Mackensie Smith and become a law student again.”

Bellis laughed. “You want to discuss it with your former
law professor? Go right ahead, Major, but keep it at that. The one thing I don’t want is the media to get hold of this until we’ve decided how and when to give it to them.”

“Understood,” Margit said.

“Good. By the way, a question off the subject. What do you think of Lieutenant Lanning?”

“Think of him? He’s a capable young officer.”

“He’s like a little old lady, a gossipy young man.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir. He seems to have your best interests at heart.”

“Glad to hear it. One thing we don’t need around here is a tale-teller. Thank you for coming in on your leisurely Saturday, Major. I look forward to working with you.”

She wished she could say the same and, of course, did.

“Annabel?”

“Yes.”

“Margit Falk.”

“Margit. How are you? Sorry you couldn’t join us for dinner last night. We ended up having pizza at Belmont Kitchen. You might have saved us.”

“I’m glad now I didn’t join you. It takes two hours in the gym to get rid of a Belmont pizza.”

“How is Jeff?” Annabel asked.

“Still off in Wisconsin with Wishengrad. I had a simple weekend planned, but I ended up in a meeting with my boss at the Pentagon.”

“I hope we aren’t going to war this weekend,” Annabel said.

Margit laughed. “No, but from my perspective, that might be preferable to what I’ve been handed.” As far as she was concerned, flying night missions over Panama’s jungles, with snipers boring holes in her Blackhawk helicopter, was a less daunting assignment than what she had just been given by Colonel James Bellis.

“Sounds heavy,” Annabel said.

“Yes, it is. Is the professor around?”

A lilting laugh from Annabel. “Somehow, I don’t view
him as a professor on weekends. More a grouchy home handyman who hits his thumb too often. Yes, he’s here. He just came back from walking Rufus. Or vice versa. Hold on.”

“Hello, Margit,” Smith said.

“I need to talk to you, Mac.”

“Missed you last night. We had pizza.”

“I heard. Mac, I need some informal consultation. I’m defending Captain Robert Cobol for the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Smith said, “Get on over here.”

Most of Consulnet’s board had trickled into Vienna during that Saturday, although some had arrived the night before. They’d gathered for dinner in a small private dining room at Korso, the elegant restaurant in the Bristol Hotel, on the Kärntner Ring, in which they all were staying.

They’d dined sumptuously on specialties of the house—some enjoying
Schweinsjungfrau
, commonly known as “pig’s virgin,” others eschewing pork for fish dishes like
Fogosch
and
Krebse
. Two of the eight men stuck to less adventuresome schnitzel. The Dutch member of the group selected an Austrian wine,
Gumpoldskirchen
, which the others agreed had been a good and tasty choice, although the French representative had muttered something about its fruitiness being carried to a criminal extreme.

It was almost midnight; dishes had been cleared, and dessert and coffee delivered. Sacher torte was served to all. Most preferred simple black coffee—
Schwarzer
—with a few opting for a touch of rum in theirs, the
Mokka gespritzt
version. One of those choosing the alcoholic rendition was an American,
Paul Potamos, who sat at the head of the table not by chance, but because he projected a leadership persona. He wasn’t a big man—no more than five feet eight inches tall—nor did he have the Central Casting look of a captain of industry. He was quite bald, and there was a sheen to the swarthy skin atop his head. His parentage was Greek, although he’d been born in the United States. Sixty years old, heir to his family’s shipping company, he’d guided it to even greater success. Business associates, especially those with whom he’d butted heads, considered him arrogant. He preferred to view himself as self-confident, a character trait helped in no small degree by money.

Potamos yawned and looked at his watch. “Unless there is further business to discuss,” he said, “I suggest we call it a night.”

“There is further business,” the Brazilian Consulnet representative said.

“Which is?”

“Payments. He’s behind, too far behind to ignore.”

Potamos looked to the German member of the board, Hans Keller, who’d been pleased that Potamos wanted to end the evening. Keller had someone waiting in his room. He knew she wouldn’t leave; she’d been paid for the night. But to waste such pleasurable time was anathema. “How much does he owe, Hans?” Potamos asked.

Keller, a large, fleshy man whose shirt collar was too small, shrugged. “He paid thirty-three million. He owes another thirty.”

“Just for the yellowcakes,” said the connoisseur, Sidney Cheval. “Raoul is right. He’s too far in arrears. Thirty million for the yellowcakes alone. Our Japanese supplier is asking questions. Who can blame him?”