But as Richmond had said, they would move one step at a time. In the end, they had one advantage over Stone.
If things went south, they could always put him in that special storage compartment.
NINE
Washington, B.C. Monday, 10:59 a.m.
It was one of those days. A day when Darrell McCaskey was working for everyone but his employer.
When McCaskey worked for the FBI, the agents and field directors called things like this tactical exchange activities. TEA time was when operatives for one law enforcement agency or intelligence group were loaned to another organization. Sometimes it was an official and open-ended seconding, such as General Rodgers being assigned to Op-Center. More often than not, it was unofficial, for a day or two, such as Darrell giving a hand to the postal police.
Or being asked just a few hours later to help Scotland Yard investigate the sudden death of William Wilson. Detective Superintendent George Daily, of the Special Branch of the Criminal Investigation Division, had been asked by the assistant commissioner to rule out the possibility of any 'mischief.' McCaskey and the fifty-seven-year-old Daily had worked together ten years before on an international investigation of the abduction of Chinese-American and Hong Kong women.
They were being taken to China to help populate a generation that had been gutted by strict birth control policies. Beijing began to worry that there would not be enough children to staff the military and workforce in the twenty-first century. The ring was broken, though the government officials were never punished.
'I'm sure the D.C. medical examiner knows how to do her job,' McCaskey told his old acquaintance.
'No doubt,' Daily replied. 'But questions are already being asked, given Mr. Wilson's standing. The AC would feel very much better if someone with experience in criminal matters had a look.'
'Do you have information that Mr. Wilson was the target of any particular group?' McCaskey asked.
'There is no such indication whatsoever.'
'So this is a cosmetic application,' McCaskey said.
'Hopefully, yes,' Daily replied. 'None of us wants to find evidence of criminal activity in this matter.'
McCaskey looked at his watch. 'Tell you what, George. I'll make some calls and get myself invited over this morning. Do you want me to call you at home when I'm finished there?'
'Please,' Daily said.
'Same number in Kensington?'
'What was it your Western cavalry used to say? They would not be back 'until the enemy is captured or destroyed.' I'll be here until the cavalry drags me away or my wife tosses me out.'
McCaskey laughed. He enjoyed Daily. The man took his cases seriously, but never himself. McCaskey also envied the detective's relationship with his wife. When they were working in London, Lucy Daily was openly proud of the work her husband was doing. A childhood survivor of the blitz, Mrs. Daily was a strong supporter of law and those who maintained it.
McCaskey hung up, then called his contact at the FBI, Assistant Director Braden, to get him into the coroner's office. Braden understood the drill and arranged for McCaskey to meet with the medical examiner. The Bureau had a lot of clout with other local offices and set up a meeting for 12:30. McCaskey left his office at once. On the way out, he saw Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers talking outside Rodgers's office. Herbert looked uncharacteristically sullen. The intelligence chief had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Tucked in a high-tech wheelchair, Herbert did everything with passion. He laughed hard, fought doggedly, took field assignments whenever possible, and had an explosive lack of patience for bullshit. To see him this quiet was disconcerting.
'Good morning,' McCaskey said as he passed.
Herbert's back was to McCaskey. The intelligence chief grunted loudly but did not turn.
McCaskey stopped. 'What's wrong?'
'Obviously, you didn't hear,' Herbert said. His voice was a gloomy monotone. 'Mike Rodgers got canned.'
McCaskey's eyes shifted to the officer. 'For what reason?'
