Murder at the Pentagon (18 page)

His unexpected agreement with her decision—in fact, a total lack of a challenge from him the entire night about anything she’d been doing—made for an extremely pleasant dinner.

“What about Joycelen?” he asked as they stood in his foyer that Thursday morning.

“What about him?”

“Have you done much digging into his life?”

“I assigned Mr. Woosky that task. Whatever clippings he comes up with.”

“It seems to me you’d want to place more emphasis on Cobol, his background.”

“Of course. I intend to focus on that myself.”

“Could be you’re taking on more than you should. That’s what help is for.”

When Margit didn’t respond and poised to leave, he asked, “What’s new on the homosexual slant?”

“It’s not true.”

Foxboro leaned against the wall. “I heard a rumor yesterday that Joycelen went both ways.”

“Who did you hear that from?”

“Cloakroom gossip. Probably no truth to it.”

“Probably not.”

“But, if it
is
true that Joycelen and Cobol had a personal relationship, it would give Cobol a motive, wouldn’t it? I mean, after all, it’s hard to imagine why an army captain would gun down a leading scientist—unless there was something personal between them.”

“If there was, it’ll eventually come out,” Margit said.

She left the apartment carrying with her the lovely aftereffects of an extended, passionate kiss.

As she drove to Bolling for a quick shower and change of clothing, three cars moved slowly on U.S. 9. They passed the Cape May Ferry and continued until reaching a sign where the road divided. The lead car took the right fork, and the others followed. Soon, they entered a wooded recreation area on the Atlantic Ocean that was part of Cape Henlopen State Park. A small sign indicated they’d entered the Fort Miles recreation area, an off-post military R&R just outside Fort Meade. Forts everywhere, it seems, surrounding D.C.

They stopped in front of a building that looked like any other small apartment complex in the Washington area. The three uniformed drivers remained behind their wheels as six men emerged from the cars, two from each. Some wore military uniforms; others were in civilian clothing.

They climbed a short set of steps to the front door where a sign said No V
ACANCIES
. The first man, who was dressed in civilian clothing, pushed through the door and went to a desk where two marine enlisted men snapped to attention. “Secured?” the civilian asked.

“Yes, sir,” the marines answered in unison.

A navy commander bounded down a set of stairs behind the desk and stiffened. “Good morning, Mr. Massingill,” he said to DOD’s undersecretary for policy. “Follow me, please.”

They followed the navy officer up the stairs and down a hallway to its end. He opened a door and stepped back to allow them to enter. When the last man was inside, the navy officer closed the door and took a position against the wall immediately outside the room. Four armed marines stepped into the hallway through another door. Not a word was spoken.

Apartment 2-G was furnished with military-issue furniture. The men removed their topcoats and tossed them on a couch. In the kitchen fresh-brewed coffee stayed hot in insulated carafes. A tray of pastry was on the counter, flanked by neatly folded paper napkins and plastic utensils.

The six men fell into a seating arrangement that naturally placed Massingill in a leadership position. “Well, where do we stand?” he asked.

“Hard to say.” The CIA’s assistant director for foreign policy, Joe Carter, was responding. “We’re evaluating the situation now.”

“Using what methods?” Massingill asked.

“Everything we have at our disposal,” Carter replied, “including eyeballing things up close, on the scene.”

The disgust and anger Massingill felt colored his voice. “Just how long will this investigation, this eyeball analysis, take, Mr. Carter?”

Carter, a studious man of middle age, whose large horn-rimmed glasses were distinctly old-fashioned, glanced at the others. “We should have a handle on things within a week,” he said.

“A week,” Massingill repeated flatly. “There were assurances from the very beginning from you, from Mr. Hickey, and from the others in this room that the terms of the agreement would be met without exception.”

“They’d better be,” Colonel James Bellis said. “You all
know that the secretary of defense had grave reservations about this project from the beginning. So did I. I counseled against it based upon the legal ramifications should it go sour, but I was outvoted. Based upon recent events, I’d say those legal ramifications are looking more likely every day. And they’re pretty goddamn serious.”

“There were safeguards in place,” CIA’s Carter offered. “As far as we know, those safeguards haven’t been violated.”

“That isn’t the way I read it,” Massingill said. “The murder of that German doesn’t look to me like safeguards are working.”

“That reflects a business arrangement gone bad,” said Carter. “It has nothing to do with our deal with him. Strictly a private matter.”

Massingill swiveled left and right in his chair. “Jesus, I can’t
believe
I’m hearing this,” he said. “We went ahead on the assumption that every detail was worked out, every goddamn
t
was crossed.” He glared at Carter. “You and your agency assured us that he was the most stable leader in the region. You and your agency assured us that he was in our camp a hundred percent, and that it was his intention to use whatever weapons given him to work for stability and peace in the region. Isn’t that what we were told, Mr. Carter? Didn’t you and your boss tell us that?”

“And nothing has changed,” said Carter. “We are still of that opinion about him.”

“Based upon what?”

“Based upon a long-term and careful analysis of the man, his motives, history, intentions, the overall situation.”

“The German press is beginning to make something out of Mr. Keller’s murder,” said an air-force major from DOD’s European Sector Analysis Division. “They’re investigating his history as an arms dealer, and are probing for connections with others.”

“Can they trace him?” Massingill asked. “I mean, all the way back here?”

Carter shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“What if they can?” Massingill asked Bellis.

Bellis was careful and slow in his answer. “Legally, I believe sufficient distance can be put between the active participants and DOD. SecDef is not directly involved, which, you’ll remember, I insisted upon.”

“But his tacit approval was given,” said Massingill.

“Depending upon how you view it,” Bellis answered.

Massingill turned to another uniformed officer in the group, an army bird colonel, Arlie “Specs” Praeger, who commanded the Pentagon division in charge of selling American weaponry to foreign countries. Praeger was a short, muscular man with a beaked nose and steady black eyes. “Are you meeting with Consulnet soon?” Massingill asked.

“Nothing planned.”

“I think you’d better.”

“I’ll set it up as soon as we leave,” Praeger promised.

On the trip back to the Pentagon Praeger and Bellis shared the car that had taken them to the meeting. It was driven by Bellis’s aide and driver, Lieutenant Max Lanning.

“Call them off,” Bellis said. “Let’s get the Cobol business behind us before they make any more moves.”

“How does that stand?” Praeger asked.

“Under control, but there’s a long way to go. I’m trying to speed it up, but … well, I’ll keep you up-to-date.” Unsaid was the unsettled tension he’d felt in his gut since getting up that morning. He’d thought for years that the biggest problem faced by every busy man was a lack of time to think. Everything these days, it seemed, was reaction rather than reflection. Putting out those proverbial fires, and so many of them. Everyone involved in the meeting from which he’d just emerged could use some quiet think time. Maybe if they’d indulged themselves in it, his advice would have been heeded. Maybe. If. This was not just another little one-alarm blaze to be extinguished; it had all the potential of a raging firestorm.

Bellis had canceled their regular morning meeting, so Margit began her day by meeting with Woosky and Silbert. She said she wanted to see them separately, citing the tight quarters of her little office as the reason. Somehow, it seemed wise to her to do it that way. Ordinarily, she’d prefer working as a team, but she wasn’t sure this was a team—yet. Woosky, whom she saw first, handed her a manila folder bulging with material.

Margit smiled. “I didn’t expect so much.”

“A lot of it is work published by Dr. Joycelen. Plus a bio, some newspaper clips.”

Margit browsed through the material. “I see what you mean,” she said. Included in the folder were technical reports issued by DARPA, including a recent one signed by Richard Joycelen on the development of the X-ray laser, the technology behind Project Safekeep. There was also a transcript of testimony given to the House Armed Services Committee’s Subcommittee on Research and Development. It was
delivered, for the most part, by DARPA’s director, but significant portions had been provided by Joycelen.

Margit closed the file. “Looks like I have some reading to do,” she said. The folder was thick with photocopies, thin in content.

Woosky did not respond.

She said, “I’d like you to start researching applicable case law.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Silbert had replaced Woosky in the chair across the desk from Margit, she asked, “How did your interview with Cobol go?”

“Okay, I guess. He’s uptight, isn’t he?”

Margit cocked her head. “I wouldn’t describe him that way.”

“Well, he was when I was with him.”

Margit mentioned her meetings with Cobol. He’d been so placid, so mild-mannered, so accepting. What had changed him? She asked Silbert whether something had taken place to cause this change in behavior.

Silbert shrugged. “Maybe his mother. She surprised him yesterday with a visit.”

“She did? I wonder why she didn’t call me.”

Another shrug from Silbert. “Cobol mentioned it in passing. I was only with him twenty minutes or so. Frankly, I was glad to leave. I started to get uptight, too. I suppose I can’t blame him, being accused of murdering a top techno.”

“No, we can’t blame him,” Margit said quietly. “What did he tell you?”

“Not much. He said a doctor had been in to see him that morning.”

“A doctor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Major. He rattled on about they kept his mother from visiting him until you stepped in. I asked him the name of his roommate, and it spooked him. He kept asking me what his roommate had to do with any of this. I
told him probably nothing, but that you wanted a name. He finally gave it to me.” Silbert slid a piece of paper across the desk. On it was written
Brian Maitland
.

“What else?” Margit asked.

“I got the name of that Major Reich you wanted.” Another slip of paper came at Margit:
Major Wayne Reich
.

“Follow up,” Margit said. “Locate him and see if you can arrange an interview.”

“Shall do,” Silbert said smartly. “Want me to contact Brian Maitland?”

“Not yet,” Margit said. “How was Cobol when you left him?”

“The same as when I arrived. Anxious.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I’d like you to begin interviewing those who were on duty in the Pentagon the morning of Joycelen’s murder. Get ahold of the duty roster. After that, let’s try to identify those people who attended the picnic, who knew Joycelen, and who had access to the building.”

The moment Silbert left, Margit called Mac Smith. “What day would be good for you to visit my client?” she asked.

“Monday looks good,” he replied.

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Afternoon, if possible.”

“I’ll
make
it possible.”

“How’s it going, Margit?”

“I don’t know. My investigator visited Cobol yesterday and said he was in an agitated state. Hard to believe. Whenever I’ve been with him, he’s been the picture of tranquillity.”

“I have Monday written down,” said Smith. “What does your weekend look like?”

“Work.”

“Well, if you feel like taking a break, give me a call.”

“Sounds appealing. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Her phone rang minutes later. It was Jeff. “I miss you,” he said.

“That’s the nicest news of the day. I haven’t had a chance
to miss anyone this morning, but now that you mention it, I do. Miss you, I mean.”

“Good. Up for dinner tonight?”

“I don’t think so, but thanks. I’m facing reams of reading. Even harder, thinking. Maybe I’d better hunker down and do with a quick sandwich.”

“Sounds dull to me,” he said.

“If it sounds dull to you, imagine what it is to me. Tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’ll call you tonight.”

Margit closed her door and read the material Woosky had delivered about Joycelen. The picture that emerged was as advertised, a fascinating, brilliant, and also enigmatic man.

He was fifty-eight when he was killed. Had he lived another week, he would have been fifty-nine. He was born in Argentina to British parents; his father had been an engineer sent there by the British company for whom he worked.

Joycelen attended a church-run school in Argentina until he was eight. Then his parents sent him back home to England, where he attended boarding schools.

After having established himself in England as a young man with a future in the physical sciences, Joycelen was accepted at MIT. His undergraduate years there were outstanding, and he received a fellowship to Stanford, where he obtained his advanced degrees in physics. His dissertation was in what was then the infant field of laser energy. After stints at two private research centers in California, he was offered a position in Washington with the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency. DARPA was a key spot, a center for cutting-edge technology, a high-energy place.

Indeed, charged with the mission of using high-energy lasers to develop advanced weapons systems—and basking in seemingly unlimited budgets authorized by Congress for a time—Joycelen had risen to preeminence within the esoteric scientific realms of national defense and its insatiable needs.