Call to Treason o-11 Read online

  “Okay. Here’s a reason Link might have wanted Wilson dead,” McCaskey said. “Publicity for Orr. Guilty by innuendo, then exonerated by the second murder.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Or maybe Link is a sociopath who misses the thrill of undercover operations,” McCaskey said. “I know I do.”

  “You were stopping transgressions, not instigating them,” Hood pointed out.

  “Whether you snort, smoke, or inject, danger is a tonic,” McCaskey said. “Look, Paul. I don’t know why he would do this. I only have a feeling that there’s something here.”

  “How much time will you need to explore this feeling?”

  “Forty-eight hours?”

  Hood frowned. “Take a day and see where it leads. I can’t promise you more than that.”

  “All right.”

  “You also have to decide about Mike,” Hood went on. “Until I have his resignation, he’s still working with us.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Tough call. If he finds out, he’ll think we couldn’t trust him. But he’d also feel obligated to tell Link. Best to give him plausible deniability for now.”

  “Good call. Speaking of calls, I’m going to let Maria know what’s up. She might have some ideas.”

  “Good idea,” Hood said. He thought for a moment. “Mike is an honorable man. He may not like what we’re doing, but if he smells something wrong, he’ll act.”

  McCaskey smiled.

  “Did I miss something?” Hood asked.

  “The smile, you mean? Yeah. You never leave us out to dry.”

  “You lost me,” Hood said.

  “You said that Mike may not like what we’re doing,” McCaskey told him as he turned to go. “You don’t pass the buck, Paul.”

  Hood did not realize he had done that.

  When McCaskey had gone, Hood went to his E-mail. He just stared at the monitor. He had just received another pat on the shoulder for being a good and responsible man. If Paul Hood was so good and responsible, how did he get to this place in life? Rationing McCaskey’s hours like they were water in the desert, working as cabin boy on the Good Ship Sharon and Jim, playing defense instead of offense with the CIOC and the William Wilson investigation. When Hood was the mayor of Los Angeles, he used to feel that fighting the city council or one of his commissioners to a draw was unsatisfactory. Right now, a stalemate sounded sweet.

  “Knock, knock.”

  Hood looked up. Liz Gordon was standing in the doorway. Her dark eyes were large and owl wise, framed on three sides by short brown hair. They were set in a wide, open face that invited trust.

  “Come in,” Hood said.

  Liz entered.

  “Have you ever heard of Admiral Kenneth Link, former head of covert ops for the CIA?” Hood asked.

  “No,” Liz said. “Former head? So what is he doing now?”

  “Helping Senator Donald Orr launch the new USF Party.”

  “That’s the one Mike is going to work for, correct?”

  Hood snickered. “I’m glad to see the Op-Center grapevine hasn’t been affected by cutbacks.”

  “There are cheap, unlimited minutes on that network,” Liz joked.

  “I saw an online news flash that Orr should be holding a press conference now,” Hood said, looking at his watch. “The word is that Link will serve as Orr’s vice presidential candidate. Darrell believes Link may be connected to the deaths of William Wilson and this other gentleman, Robert Lawless. I need a quick, rough profile.”

  “Sure, but I can tell you what it will probably look like,” Liz said. “How long did he run covert ops?”

  Hood looked up his file. “Twelve years.”

  “That’s a long time,” she said. “Did he go right from that job to this one?”

  “Within a few months.”

  “Classic. How often do you hear about former presidents, generals, quarterbacks, and CEOs retiring and playing golf?”

  “I don’t know — though right now that sounds like a damn fine idea,” Hood admitted.

  “Precisely. People who run high-performance teams in pressure cooker situations get fried over time,” Liz told him. “They rarely go back to that kind of operation. Chances are good that if Admiral Link got out, he did not jump back in. Would the killings have had an elective quality for him?”

  “You mean, did it have to be Wilson and did it have to be now?”

  Liz nodded.

  “We’re not sure. What about Link leaving intelligence work and missing the risk factor? Darrell seems to think that might be significant.”

  “Moving from behind a curtain at the CIA to center stage in a national political campaign is a pretty big risk,” Liz said. “Which brings us to the X factor.”

  “Which is?”

  “A political ticket would be subjected to scrutiny by the press and public,” Liz said. “Orr and Link have no control over where those eyes and fingers go probing. A man used to being in charge of things might want to set up a few sidelines that he could control, just to enjoy some familiar ground.”

  “Including something this bold?”

  “Well — that’s the unknown quantity,” Liz explained. “I’ll have a look at Link’s file, but I’m not optimistic. A dual murder seems a little extreme for someone who just moved from an organization where that kind of activity was at least acceptable, if not encouraged.”

  Hood said he would E-mail the file to Liz. Before leaving, she asked if he was all right.

  “Sure, why?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

  “The situation with Mike,” she replied.

  “That wasn’t easy,” Hood admitted. “But hiring and firing are part of the job description.”

  “Does he know you’re investigating his new colleague?”

  “No. At least, no one told him. I don’t know what he might surmise or suspect.”

  “So everything’s under control here,” she said.

  Hood picked up a paperweight Alexander had made in the first grade. It was a blue and white glazed lump of clay that was supposed to be Earth. He held it in his fist. “I’ve got the whole world in my hand, Liz,” he said.

  “Like Atlas,” she said.

  “He had it on his shoulders,” Hood pointed out.

  “Like Atlas,” she repeated.

  Hood thought about that, then smiled. She got him. He put the paperweight down. “What do you do when you feel like your life and career are on a parallel course in the wrong direction?”

  “That depends,” Liz replied. She shut the door. “If you’re patient, it’s like moving around that globe. Learn what you can on the journey, enjoy the scenery, and eventually, you come back around.”

  “What if you feel like you’re running out of fuel?”

  “Ride the winds.”

  “I have been,” Hood told her.

  “And?” The psychologist moved toward the desk. “Talk to me, Paul.”

  Hood hesitated. He was not good at this. He did not like to complain or to seek help. But Liz must have sensed that something was wrong. The woman was responsible for keeping psychological files of the staff, and her antennae were always extended. Decisions made in these offices could affect millions of people. If Liz felt that someone were under too much stress, either personal or professional, she could order them to take time off. She had done that with Mike Rodgers after his Striker military unit was decimated in India.

  “Truthfully, Liz?” Hood said. “I feel like those winds have been blowing me all over the damn place, mostly away from where I need to be.”

  “Do you know where you need to be?”

  “Not doing this,” he said. “Not cutting personnel and pulling back from missions. Not kowtowing.”

  “That’s negative space,” she said in a careful, nonjudgmental voice. “You can’t define what you should be doing by what you’re not doing.” She leaned on the desk so their eyes were level. “First tell me this, Paul. Are we talking about home or about Op-Cen
ter?”

  “Both,” he admitted.

  “So you feel like your backsliding in two areas.”

  “Yeah. At the same speed and gaining momentum.”

  “Do you wish you were back with Sharon?”

  “No,” he said without hesitation.

  “Are you upset that she’s getting her life together?”

  Liz was Harleigh’s therapist, so Hood was not surprised that she knew this.

  “No,” he answered truthfully.

  “You said you were kowtowing. To Sharon?”

  Hood nodded. “To her, to the CIOC, to Scotland Yard, and when you leave I’ll probably feel like I was kowtowing to you.”

  “Then tell me to go.”

  Hood hesitated.

  “The only way to stop backsliding is to dig down with your heels.” She stood. “Do it, Paul.”

  “Okay. We’re done,” he said.

  “Not good enough. That isn’t an end. It’s neutral.”

  “I don’t see the difference,” he confessed.

  “I’m still here. I’m still talking, aren’t I?”

  Hood grinned. “Get out,” he said sharply. “Now,” he added.

  Liz smiled. “One more thing?” she asked.

  Hood could not tell whether or not this was a trap. “One,” he said firmly.

  “Everyone is disoriented and retrenching,” Liz said. “Sharon, the intelligence community, the nation. You’re being pushed, but it isn’t personal — it’s partly fear, partly a sense of renewal.”

  The intercom beeped. It was Bugs Benet’s line.

  Liz turned to go. “Don’t be afraid to push back,” she said. “Aggression externalized is preferable to aggression internalized.”

  “Isn’t that how wars start?” Hood asked as the intercom beeped again.

  “No,” Liz said. “Was the American Revolution about tea? Was the Civil War about slavery?”

  “In part—”

  “Bingo. War is never about one thing,” Liz said. “It’s about one thing that was never addressed and became two things, then three, and finally exploded and consumed everything.”

  She was right. “Thanks, Liz,” Hood said as he picked up the phone.

  “Anytime,” she said.

  Hood nodded gratefully as he took the call. “What is it, Bugs?”

  “Chief, the White House just called,” Bugs said. “The president wants to see you in two hours.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No,” Bugs said.

  Being asked to see the president was not unprecedented. However, if Hood had any doubt about the wisdom of Liz’s advice, it evaporated when he asked who else was going to be there.

  “Senator Debenport,” Bugs replied.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday, 7:30 A.M.

  With the flags of Texas and the United States as his backdrop, the dome of the Capitol between them, bright morning light causing his gray eyes to sparkle, Senator Donald Orr announced his candidacy for president. A crowd of some two-dozen supporters cheered. Half as many reporters recorded the moment.

  Mike Rodgers stood well off to the side with Kat Lockley. He had called early to tell her he was going to accept the job offer and she told him Orr would appreciate having him at the announcement. Rodgers was glad to be invited. Admiral Link stood anonymously among Orr’s supporters with Kendra Peterson. Explaining the presence of Rodgers or Link was not a concern. Kat had told the gathering ahead of time that there would be no questions. The press secretary had looked directly at Lucy O’Connor when she said that. Rodgers was not in uniform, and it was unlikely that any member of the press corps would recognize him, either as the deputy director of Op-Center or from the news coverage of the UN siege or the assault in India. Those stories had been about Op-Center, not about him. Rodgers had wanted to be here so he could see how his future boss operated in public. He was certainly impressed with the way Orr had handled himself in his two television appearances. Rodgers routinely taped both the Evening News and Nightline appearances on his digital recorder. The senator was a master of working the camera. He addressed issues directly and with clarity. When he was not speaking, he used a lowered eyelid, a raised brow, a slight pursing of the lips, or a slant of the head to express himself. Orr knew the difference between communicating and mugging.

  “This will not be an ordinary campaign,” Orr promised after making his introductory statement. “It will be inaugurated — and I use that term with an eye on the future,” he said with a big wink, pausing for applause from his supporters. “It will be inaugurated under the banner of a new party with a new vision for the nation. The United States First Party, working for a new independence.”

  There were cheers and strong applause from supporters.

  Kat leaned toward Rodgers. “That’s the slogan,” she said.

  “I figured,” Rodgers replied. “It’s a good one. Yours?”

  She nodded, then turned her attention back to Orr.

  “Our independence will be built on a framework that already exists but has been marginalized by legislation and special interests: the Bill of Rights and the American Constitution. Other nations do not understand our passion for these documents. They do not understand our passion for the freedoms they protect. They are accustomed to being dominated by kings or czars or warlords. We threw off a foreign king. We will not tolerate the dictates of other nations. We will not put their needs above our own. We will no longer be part of a globalization process that finds our values and our way of life reprehensible.”

  There were more cheers and a few raised fists. Granted, these were the converted. But Rodgers liked what he heard. He could imagine that a majority of American voters would, too.

  “Our party will be holding its first convention later this week in San Diego,” Orr went on. “Just as the USF will not be an ordinary party, ours will not be a business-as-usual convention. The doors will be open to all. Everyone who attends will have a vote. That is the American way.”

  The group roared its approval.

  Rodgers leaned toward Kat. “I assume you have a plan to fill the convention center,” he said. “What are there, about ten thousand seats?”

  “Twelve thousand,” she said. “Four thousand people are being bused from Texas alone. We have a lot of support in Orange County less than an hour from the convention center—”

  “John Wayne country.”

  “That’s right. Our people there have organized a Freedom Freeway caravan to drive to San Diego,” Kat told him. “That should bring us another three thousand. We have smaller groups coming from other parts of the country, and we believe individuals will come just to be part of something new and exciting.”

  “The press likes caravans of ordinary folks,” Rodgers observed.

  Kat smiled. Like her namesake, Rodgers thought.

  Orr continued speaking. Rodgers just now noticed that he barely consulted his note cards. He had taken the time to memorize his speech. He was using the silences to make eye contact with the crowd.

  “There may be voters in my great home state who feel abandoned by this change in party affiliation,” Orr continued. “To those people I say, only the label has changed. The Texan is still a Texan. Don Orr is the same man. He is still a champion for the young who want to work and the elderly who don’t want to retire. He believes that service to the nation, to its industry and its economy, should be honored. To those Americans who do not yet know me, I ask that you listen to what we have to say over the next days, and weeks, and months. We are not vainglorious politicians interested in power. We are not puppets controlled by special interest groups or special interest money. We are proud Americans who want to restore our nation to what it was and can be again. A country of scholars and adventurers. A land of bounty, not just in food and natural resources but also ideas. A launching pad of extraordinary new goals worthy of an exceptional people. A nation of justice and equality for the wealthy and those less fortunate
, for the healthy and the infirm, for people of all ages.”

  “Leave no vote unharvested,” Rodgers whispered to Kat.

  “Perhaps, but the senator isn’t pandering, General,” Kat said. “He means it.”

  “I believe he does,” Rodgers said. “In fact, I’m counting on it.” The general was doing more than that. He was responding to it. Whether it was his own situation with Op-Center or a general frustration with bureaucracy, politics, and a fragmented national focus, he was becoming enthusiastic for the first time in years.

  “And finally, a few words to our friends abroad,” Orr said. “United States First does not mean United States only. We believe that a strong and vital America is essential to the health and prosperity of the world. But we believe our role should be as a beacon, not as a bank. We will be trailblazers, not nursemaids. The world is best served by a United States of America that is not a crutch but a foundation, strong and unshakable. This is the platform of our party, one that is designed to serve the proud people of our nation. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your gracious attention today and in the days to come. God bless you all, and God bless these United States.”

  As the crowd cheered, Kendra maneuvered the senator from the podium and reporters. Questions were being shouted about William Wilson, but they were being ignored. Kat was making notes in a PalmPilot about who was asking the unfriendly questions. Those reporters would probably find access to the senator restricted until that was no longer an issue.

  Link had gone ahead to a waiting sedan. Kendra tucked the senator into the back of the black limo and slid in beside him. When they drove off, Rodgers followed Kat toward a table where beverages and snacks were available. They grabbed two cups of coffee before the reporters came by, then walked slowly across the lawn behind the Capitol.

  “You know, if a major party candidate had said all that, they’d call it bluster and rhetoric,” Rodgers told her.

  “That’s the difference between Senator Orr and the others,” Kat said. “Do you disagree?”

  “Not a bit. I found it inspiring,” Rodgers said.

  “Really?” Kat asked.