Call to Treason (2004) Read online

  Hood shut the door, went to his desk, and input his personal computer code. It was not the name of his children, or his first pet, or the date he started working here. Those were things that a hacker might figure out. Instead, it was Dickdiver, the main character of his favorite novel, Tender Is the Night. It also made Hood smile to key it in. Hood and his long-ago fiancée Nancy Jo Bosworth had read it to each other when they first moved in together. When there was still magic in his world and romance in his heart. Before stolen software designs compelled Nancy to run off without telling him why or where. It took almost twenty years for Hood to find her. It happened by accident, during a trip to Germany on Op-Center business. Nancy told him she had wanted the money for them but grew ashamed. Since she could not return it, she kept it for herself.

  Old feelings returned for them both. Though the passions were not acted upon, they helped to undermine what had been a colorless, rebound marriage to Sharon. While Hood was alone now, the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel was still the key to a sublime place, the last time Hood was truly happy. The password was his way of remembering that every day.

  Hood started going through his E-mail. He used to come to the office and read the newspaper, then answer phone calls. Now the news was on-line, and the telephone was something you used in the car or at lunch. GovNet, which provided Op-Center’s secure Internet access, was devoting a lot of space to Wilson’s death on their welcome screen. That was not surprising, since his firewalls made it possible for most government agencies to link what had formerly been dedicated lines. They were reporting that he had gone to a party at Senator Don Orr’s town house, left around ten-thirty, and went back to his suite at the Hay-Adams. A woman had come to visit him. According to the hotel, she arrived at eleven and left around twelve-thirty. The concierge reported that she had been wearing a block print coat that came down to her knees and a matching crocheted hat with a black ribbon. The wide brim was dipped low. Obviously, she did not want to be recognized. That was not unusual. Many officials and businessmen had trysts in local hotels. They did not want their guests to be identified or photographed by security cameras. Typically, hotel management respected the desire for privacy by allowing expected visitors to pass without scrutiny.

  The Metropolitan Police did not know who the woman caller was. She had given a name, Anna Anderson, which had led them to an elderly woman who was clearly not the perp. She may have selected the name as a joke, a reference to the woman who claimed to be Anastasia, the daughter of Czar Nicholas II. The security cameras in the hotel lobby and on the street showed her leaving unhurriedly and walking down Sixteenth Street, where she was lost in the night. Visitors like her seldom used valet parking. They did not want their license numbers traced. Washingtonians assumed that everyone, from waiters to cab drivers, was looking for a payday from a tabloid newspaper or television show. More often than not they were right. The police assumed that Wilson died after the woman left. Otherwise she could have called 911 and then slipped away. This belief was reinforced by the fact that there did not appear to be anything suspicious about Wilson’s death. He had perspired heavily—presumably from the exertion—and the bed suggested “an active evening,” as one source put it. Though Wilson was young and had no history of heart trouble, many forms of heart disease could slip past a routine electrocardiograph. The autopsy would tell them more.

  There was nothing exceptional in the E-mails. A few résumés from agencies and private businesses that were being downsized. Op-ed pieces from the left, right, and center. Requests for interviews, which Hood routinely declined. He was not a self-promoter and saw no benefit to giving out information about how Op-Center worked, or with whom. His E-mail even contained links to password-protected web sites of individuals who were willing to provide intelligence from various countries and foreign agencies. He forwarded these to Bob Herbert. Most were con artists, a few were foreign agents trying to find out about Op-Center, but occasionally there were nuclear scientists or biotechnicians who genuinely wanted to get out of the situations they were in. As long as they were willing to talk, American operatives or embassy officials in their countries were willing to listen.

  Hood was about to access his personal address for private E-mail when Bugs beeped him. Senator Debenport was on the line. Hood was not surprised. It was budget time on the Hill, and the South Carolina senator had recently replaced Senator Barbara Fox as the chairman of the Congressional Intelligence Oversight Committee. Those were the officials who kept track of what the federal intelligence agencies did and how much it cost.

  “Good morning, Senator,” Hood said.

  “That may be true somewhere,” the sandpaper-voiced senator replied. “Not in my office.”

  Hood did not ask why. He already knew the answer.

  “Paul, last night the CIOC Budget Subcommittee agreed that we have to work out a strategic retrenchment,” Debenport told him.

  The CIOC’s euphemism for budget cuts.

  “We took a four percent hit last fiscal year and six percent the year before that,” Hood told him. “What’s the damage now?”

  “We’re looking at just upwards of twenty percent,” Debenport replied.

  Hood felt sick.

  “The night crew is going to have to cut its staff by fifty percent. I know that’s a lot, but we had no choice,” Debenport went on.

  “What are you talking about? You’re the head of the damn committee.”

  “That’s right, Paul. And as such I have a duty that transcends my personal feelings about the value of Op-Center’s work,” Debenport said. “It will be my call where to make the cuts, though I want your input and I will rely heavily on it. We would prefer you work backwards. Make your way back to Op-Center’s original configuration.”

  “Our original configuration had a military component,” Hood pointed out. “That’s already been cut.”

  “Yes, and those funds were reallocated to General Rodgers’s field personnel,” Debenport said. “That’s an area we feel should undergo deoperation. We looked closely at the internal breakdowns of the other intelligence groups. The Company and the Feds have those areas covered. Merge that post with the political officer.”

  “Senator, how much are you taking from the CIA, the FBI, and the NRO?” Hood asked.

  “Paul, those are all older, established—”

  “You’re not cutting them, are you?” Hood asked.

  Debenport was silent.

  “Senator?”

  “If you really want to know, Paul, they’re getting a small bump,” Debenport told him.

  “Amazing,” Hood replied. “How much time did they spend lobbying the committee?”

  “They did the usual PowerPoint dance, but that wasn’t the key to the increase,” Debenport said. “Those boys grabbed a lot of Homeland Security detail out of the gate. We can write those budget request entries in ink.”

  “Because of a buzz phrase,” Hood said. “We might have been in a position to reorient ourselves if our attention hadn’t been on stopping nuclear war between India and Pakistan.”

  “Yes, and frankly your success is part of the problem. You’ve shifted the majority of your operations from the United States to other countries—”

  “At the president’s request,” Hood reminded him. “He asked us to augment Op-Center’s domestic agenda after we stopped a leftist military coup in Russia.”

  “I know the history,” Debenport said. “I also know the future. The voters don’t much care whether Moscow turns Red again or Tokyo is nuked or Spain falls apart or France gets hijacked by radicals. Not anymore. Foreign aid resources are being downsized across the board.”

  “Your constituents may not care, but we know that what happens there affects what happens here,” Hood said.

  “That’s true,” Debenport said. “Which is why the mandate the president gave you is not being changed.”

  “Only our funding. We’re supposed to do the same job but with eighty percent of an already stretched budget
.”

  “American households are having to do more than that,” Debenport said. “As a senator, I also have a responsibility to help alleviate that burden.”

  “Senator, I appreciate your position, but this isn’t right,” Hood said. “I used to work on Wall Street. I run a trim operation, leaner than the agencies that are getting an increase. I intend to request, in writing, a hearing of the full CIOC as permitted under charter—”

  “You can have it, of course. But you will be wasting your time and ours,” Debenport said. “This decision was unanimous.”

  “I see. Let me ask you this, then. Is the CIOC fishing for my resignation?”

  “Hell, no,” Debenport said. “I don’t run when I can pass. If the committee thought you had overstayed your welcome, I’d tell you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Hood said. “Did you discuss any of this with the president?”

  “That’s my next call. I wanted to tell you first,” Debenport said. “But whatever his feelings, he has no veto power. He doesn’t even have a political majority on the committee.”

  “So that’s it.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul.”

  Hood was angry, though not at Debenport. He was upset with himself. He should have smelled this one in the oven. He thought the departure of Fox was a signal that things were going to get better. And maybe they had, in a way. Fox did not see why Op-Center was necessary at all. She believed that the overseas intelligence activities of the CIA and the FBI were sufficient to keep America safe. Of course, she was also one of the senators who had put the bulk of America’s spy capabilities into electronic intelligence. That was a huge miscalculation. If there were no operatives on the ground to pinpoint the mud huts, bunkers, apartments, cars, and caves for audio surveillance and spy satellites, a lot of what was called “incipient hostile intent” went unnoticed. That was when surgical covert activity became a War on Terror.

  Still, Hood had hoped that Debenport would fight harder to keep Op-Center fully staffed.

  The senator hung up, and Paul sat there, looking at the last E-mail he had opened. It was from the CIA Office of Personnel Security, Department of Communication, regarding updated procedures for the evacuation and decontamination of juveniles in the event of a biological attack on child care facilities serving the intelligence community. It was an important document, but it emphasized the gulf between the agencies. Op-Center did not even have a child care facility.

  Hood closed the E-mail and brought up the budget file. He called Op-Center’s CFO Ed Colahan and asked him to come to his office. He had come in early. Colahan knew their current fiscal year gave them another six weeks of business as usual. He wanted to be ready for whatever the CIOC decided.

  Hood knew he would not be ready for this.

  The question Hood had to address was whether to cut personnel from most or all of their ten divisions or whether to eliminate one or two departments entirely. He knew the answer even without looking at the figures. He also knew which departments would get him close to twenty percent. One of them would cost him efficiency.

  The other would cost him a friend.

  FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Monday, 8:20 A.M.

  When Don Orr was a little boy, he used to look forward to June 22, the day Miss Clarion’s twenty-two-student school closed down for the summer. He did not dislike school. Just the opposite. He loved learning new things. But the first day of summer vacation was special. He would get up at sunrise. With an olive green baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, he filled his father’s canteen and slung it across a small shoulder. He made three or four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pushed them into a knapsack, along with a package of oatmeal cookies and a compass. Then he took a shovel from the tool shed. That was for beheading rattlesnakes if he encountered any. Holding the shovel like a prophet’s staff, he walked out from the family’s cattle ranch in Kingsville, Texas. He walked into the hot, windless plain to think about everything he had learned that year. Being alone like that for a day helped to burn the important things into his brain. He had learned in Bible class that this was what Jesus had done, and Moses before Him. The young boy felt that the walk would help to make him a stronger, better man.

  He was right. Don Orr did that for ten years running, from the time he was eight. What he did not know, until years later, was that for the first two years, his father had one of the ranch hands follow him. The tradition ended in 1967, when Orr turned eighteen and joined the air force. Orr knew what it was like to walk and ride. Now he wanted to fly. But the air force had other ideas. They wanted him to work with his hands, like he did on the ranch. Just two years earlier, the air force had established RED HORSE units: Rapid Engineer Deployable Heavy Operational Repair Squadron, Engineering. These were divided into two squadrons: the 555th Triple Nickel and the 554th Penny Short. They assigned Orr to one of these. After nine weeks of training at Cannon Air Base in New Mexico, the young man was sent with the 554th to Phan Rang Air Base in Vietnam. There, his specialty was drilling wells to obtain drinking water, a skill he had learned on the ranch.

  Orr did one tour in Vietnam and a second in Thailand. He was sorry he never saw combat. Like breaking a horse, herding cattle, or hauling yourself into the baking summertime wilderness, war was the kind of intense challenge that burned things into a man’s head, muscles, and heart. That was one reason Senator Orr had always gotten along with combat veterans like Admiral Link. Risk-taking had been hardwired into the systems of those men.

  It was not risk-taking but a sense of duty that had inspired Senator Orr to found the United States First Party six months before. Each of the two major parties was like a Third World country, a collection of ideological warlords with only one thing in common: an overwhelming dislike for the other party. There was no singular, driving philosophy. It was discouraging. Orr’s idea was simple. The United States needed to become what the Orr Ranch was, a powerful spread run by men of vision. The nation should not be run by parties that burned up their energies playing a tug-of-war for inches. National growth should not be determined by an international consensus or by despots who bullied us with goods, from lumber to steel to oil. The USF Party would provide that. Orr had influence, resolve, credentials, and an American bloodline unmatched by any third-party leader in the past. The effort would also be good for Don Orr. The senator had influence on the Hill, but he did not have control. He was affiliated with good men, but he was not surrounded by them.

  That would change.

  The senator arrived at his office in the Russell Senate Office Building. Completed in 1908, the Beaux Arts structure was just a short walk north of the Capitol, bounded by Constitution Avenue, First Street, Delaware Avenue, and C Street NE. The senator’s office was just off the magnificent rotunda and had an inspiring view of the Capitol dome. It was also just two blocks from Union Station.

  “That proximity gives me a comfortable exit strategy,” the outspoken senator liked to joke with reporters. When Orr first came to Washington, the Dallas Morning News sent him a coach ticket. The newspaper worried that he represented a nineteenth-century Manifest Destiny ideology in a more heterogeneous twenty-first-century world. The Dallas Morning News was wrong. He had nothing against a melting pot. He just wanted to make sure that the United States, and not radicals and petty tyrants, controlled the flame. Orr believed that Americans wanted that, too. On warm spring days, when his schedule permitted, the senator would do a short version of his childhood walk. He would take a brisk walk to the station and just stroll around, listening to what voters were saying. Then he would buy a bottle of water and walk back, letting their comments settle in along the way. It matched the E-mails and letters he received from his constituency. Americans embraced globalization, but they wanted a world that was fair. The United States made other nations rich by purchasing their cars, steel, oil, and electronics. We provided them with free military protection. In exchange, most of those countries gave local manufacturers tax breaks while impo
sing heavy tariffs on American goods. Even Orr’s family business had suffered. Cattle-men in Australia, Canada, and Brazil paid their hands far less than American workers received. Many of those ranchers fed their cattle with cheap grasses instead of expensive, healthier grains. It was increasingly difficult to conduct business in that kind of marketplace. Orr intended to change that. He would insist on equal access to foreign markets and matching taxes on imports. If he did not get it, the door would be closed. Critics said he was being naive, but Orr believed that princes and prime ministers, presidents and chiefs would find the world a less comfortable place without American markets—and protection.

  The senator had been up late the night before, talking to opinion makers, fellow politicians, and business leaders. Most of those people were friends and allies. A few were not. They had been invited to see how Orr and his colleagues felt about their protectionist activities.

  One of those outsiders was the late William Wilson.

  Orr heard about Wilson’s death from Kat. As his driver moved through the thick morning traffic, Orr phoned Kendra Peterson to discuss the news. They both knew that Orr’s office would receive calls from around the world looking for comments about Wilson’s death last night. The woman was already at her desk helping to answer calls from reporters, commenting about the genius of Wilson’s MasterLock and lamenting his passing. She promised that the senator would have a statement later in the day.

  Arriving at the office, Orr discovered that the press were not the only ones interested in speaking with him. Detective Robert Howell of the Metropolitan Police phoned the senator’s office shortly before nine. The senator respected law officers of any stripe. He took the call. Detective Howell sounded tense.