Clark arrived in Bogotá late that afternoon. No one met him, and he rented a car as he usually did. One hour out of the airport he stopped to park on a secondary road. He waited several annoying minutes for another car to pull up alongside. The driver, a CIA officer assigned to the local station, handed him a package and drove off without a word. Not a large package, it weighed about twenty pounds, half of which was a stout tripod. Clark set it gently on the floor of the passenger compartment and drove off. He’d been asked to “deliver” quite a few messages in his time, but never quite so emphatically as this. It was all his idea. Well, he thought, mostly his idea. That made it somewhat more palatable.
The VC-135 lifted off two hours after the funeral. It was too bad they didn’t have a wake in Chicago. That was an Irish custom, not one for the children of Eastern European Jews, but Emil would have approved, Dan Murray was sure. He would have understood that many a beer or whiskey would be lifted to his memory tonight, and somewhere, in his quiet way he’d laugh in the knowledge of it. But not now. Dan had gotten his wife to maneuver Mrs. Shaw onto the other side of the airplane so that he could sit next to Bill. Shaw noticed that immediately, of course, but waited until the aircraft leveled off to make the obvious question.
“What is it?”
Murray handed over the sheet he pulled off the aircraft’s facsimile printer a few hours earlier.
“Oh, shit!” Shaw swore quietly. “Not Moira. Not her.”
16. Target List
‘I’M OPEN TO suggestions,” Murray said. He regretted his tone at once.
“Christ’s sake, Dan!” Shaw’s face had gone gray for a moment, and his expression was now angry.
“Sorry, but – damn it, Bill, do we handle it straight or do we candy-ass our way around the issue?”
“Straight.”
“One of the kids from WFO asked her the usual battery of questions, and she said that she didn’t tell anybody… well, maybe so, but who the hell did she call in Venezuela? They re-checked going back a year, no such calls ever before. The boy I left behind to run things did some further checking – the number she called is an apartment, and the phone there rang someplace in Colombia within a few minutes of Moira’s call.”
“Oh, God.” Shaw shook his head. From anyone else he would merely have felt anger, but Moira had worked with the Director since before he’d returned to D.C., from his command of the New York Field Division.
“Maybe it’s an innocent thing. Maybe even a coincidence,” Murray allowed, but that didn’t improve Bill’s demeanor very much.
“Care to do a probability assessment of that statement, Danny?”
“No.”
“Well, we’re all going back to the office after we land. I’ll have her into my place an hour after we get back. You be there, too.”
“Right.” It was time for Murray to shake his head. She’d shed as many tears at the graveside as anyone else. He’d seen a lifetime’s worth of duplicity in his law-enforcement career, but to think that of Moira was more than he could stomach. It has to be a coincidence. Maybe one of her kids has a pen pal down there. Or something like that, Dan told himself.
The detectives searching Sergeant Braden’s home found what they were looking for. It wasn’t much, just a camera case. But the case had a Nikon F-3 body and enough lenses that the entire package had to be worth eight or nine thousand dollars. More than a Mobile detective sergeant could afford. While the rest of the officers continued the search, the senior detective called Nikon’s home office and checked the number on the camera to see if the owner had registered it for warranty purposes. He had. And with the name that was read off to him, the officer knew that he had to call the FBI office as well. It was part of a federal case, and he hoped that somehow they could protect the name of a man who had certainly been a dirty cop. Dirty or not, he did leave kids behind. Perhaps the FBI would understand that.
He was committing a federal crime to do this, but the attorney considered that he had a higher duty to his clients. It was one of those gray areas which decorate not so much legal textbooks, but rather the volumes of written court decisions. He was sure a crime had been committed, was sure that nothing was being done to investigate it, and was sure that its disclosure was important to the defense of his clients on a case of capital murder. He didn’t expect to be caught, but if he were, he’d have something to take to the professional ethics panel of the state bar association. Edward Stuart’s professional duty to his clients, added to his personal distaste for capital punishment, made the decision an inevitable one.
They didn’t call it Happy Hour at the base NCO club anymore, but nothing had really changed. Stuart had served his time in the U.S. Navy as a legal officer aboard an aircraft carrier – even in the Navy, a mobile city of six thousand people needed a lawyer or two – and knew about sailors and suds. So he’d visited a uniform store and gotten the proper outfit of a Coast Guard chief yeoman complete with the appropriate ribbons and just walked onto the base, heading for the NCO club where, as long as he paid for his drinks in cash, nobody would take great note of his presence. He’d been a yeoman himself while aboard USS Eisenhower, and knew the lingo well enough to pass any casual test of authenticity. The next trick, of course, was finding a crewman from the cutter Panache.
The cutter was finishing up the maintenance period that always followed a deployment, preparatory to yet another cruise, and her crewmen would be hitting the club after working hours to enjoy their afternoon beers while they could. It was just a matter of finding the right ones. He knew the names, and had checked tape archives at the local TV stations to get a look at the faces. It was nothing more than good luck that the one he found was Bob Riley. He knew more about that man’s career than the other chiefs.
The master chief boatswain’s mate strolled in at 4:30 after ten hot hours supervising work on various topside gear. He’d had a light lunch and sweated off all of that and more, and now figured that a few mugs of beer would replace all the fluids and electrolytes that he’d lost under the hot Alabama sun. The barmaid saw him coming and had a tall one of Samuel Adams all ready by the time he selected a stool. Edward Stuart got there a minute and half a mug later.
“Ain’t you Bob Riley?”
“That’s right,” the bosun said before turning. “Who’re you?”
“Didn’t think you’d remember me. Matt Stevens. You near tore my head off on the Mellon awhile back – said I’d never get my shit together.”
“Looks like I was wrong,” Riley noted, searching his memory for the face.
“No, you were right. I was a real punk back then, but you – well, I owe you one, Master Chief. I did get my shit together. Mainly ‘causa what you said.” Stuart stuck out his hand. “I figure I owe you a beer at least.”
It wasn’t all that unusual a thing for Riley to hear. “Hell, we all need straigthenin’ out. I got bounced off a coupla bulkheads when I was a kid, too, y’know?”
“Done a little of it myself.” Stuart grinned. “You make chief an’ you gotta be respectable and responsible, right? Otherwise who keeps the officers straightened out?”
Riley grunted agreement. “Who you workin’ for?”
“Admiral Hally. He’s at Buzzard’s Point. Had to fly down with him to meet with the base commander. I think he’s off playing golf right now. Never did get the hang of that game. You’re on Panache, right?”
“You bet.”
“Captain Wegener?”
“Yep.” Riley finished off his beer and Stuart waved to the barmaid for refills.
“Is he as good as they say?”
“Red’s a better seaman ‘n I am,” Riley replied honestly.
“Nobody’s that good, Master Chief. Hey, I was there when you took the boat across – what was the name of that container boat that snapped in half… ?”
“Arctic Star.” Riley smiled, remembering. “Jesus, if we didn’t earn our pay that afternoon.”
“I remember watching. Thought you were crazy. Well, shit. All I do now is drive a word processor for the Admiral, but I did a little stuff in a forty-one boat before I made chief, working outa Norfolk. Nothing like Arctic Star, of course.”