DeMarco found a parking place in the vast lot surrounding the Pentagon. Dillon had provided the car he was using, and it had all the appropriate decals to permit him to drive onto the lot. He’d been somewhat surprised that Dillon had let him drive himself to the meeting, but since Dillon had him and his car bugged, and probably had a satellite watching from above, and had Alice tailing him, Dillon probably wasn’t too worried about DeMarco taking off like he had last time. He concluded again that Dillon must have been more concerned about Bradford’s people seeing someone drop him off than he was about letting DeMarco drive himself.
He stepped out of the car and pulled out the cell phone that Alice had provided. Dillon had insisted that DeMarco not take his own cell phone to the Pentagon, which meant, DeMarco was pretty sure, that his own cell phone was bugged. He called the phone number he’d been given which, according to Dillon, would be answered by Bradford’s secretary and not some voice mail system. And sure enough.
“Good morning. This is Mrs. Cleary.”
“Hi, Mrs. Cleary. My name’s Joe DeMarco, and I need to see General Bradford right away. He’ll want to see me.”
“Mr. DeMarco, I don’t know who you are or how you got this number, but you don’t simply call up and expect to get on the general’s schedule.”
“Mrs. Cleary, I know the general has nothing scheduled for the next hour. His calendar, the one you have in the computer on your desk, says he’s dining alone today and working on some speech he’s giving at Fort Hood next week.”
“How do you know-”
“Mrs. Cleary, please tell General Bradford I want to talk to him about Paul Russo. Trust me, ma’am, he’ll know who I’m talking about and he’ll want to see me. Tell him if he doesn’t see me, my next stop is The Washington Post.”
The phone was silent for a moment.
“Please hold, Mr. DeMarco.”
The lady had wonderful manners, and less than two minutes later she was back on the line. “Mr. DeMarco, where are you?”
“Right here at the Pentagon.”
“Very well. Go to the security checkpoint at the main entrance. Someone will meet you and escort you to the general’s office.”
Two Pentagon cops in black fatigues walked DeMarco down the wide hallways of the building. DeMarco had never been in the Pentagon before and was awed by the size of the place, not to mention all the brass walking around. He’d never seen so many generals and admirals in one spot. He was taken to a small room where he was met by two other security guys wearing suits. They ordered him to empty his pockets and to take off his suit coat, belt, and shoes. He removed his wallet, dumped all his spare change into a bowl, and handed the security guys his cell phone and a small digital recorder.
“Take off your watch, too,” one of the men said.
As DeMarco removed his watch, he looked at the time. He needed to be in Bradford’s office in ten minutes. In ten minutes the listening devices sewn into his suit would be activated.
While one of the men was giving him an embarrassingly thorough frisk, the other one examined his belt, shoes, and suit coat. He ran his hands all over the coat to make sure nothing was sewn inside the lining. He tried to twist the heels off DeMarco’s new shoes, but they remained in place. He then took a little circular patch of cotton and rubbed it all over everything: suit, belt, and shoes. And DeMarco’s hands. DeMarco assumed the cotton swab was like the type they used at the airport to see if you have explosives in your luggage. Two other electronic gizmos were then passed over him. He guessed one was looking for recording devices as Dillon had told him, but he didn’t know what the other gizmo did.
Apparently satisfied, they told him he could put his shoes, belt, and coat back on, but that he wouldn’t be permitted to enter Bradford’s office with his watch, his cell phone-or the recorder.
“Uh,” DeMarco said, “I don’t care about the phone or the watch, but I have to take the recorder to the general.”
“No, sir,” one of the security men said.
“I’d suggest you call General Bradford,” DeMarco said. “Tell him that what’s on that recorder concerns General Martin Breed and you won’t let me bring it to him.”
The man gave DeMarco a steely-eyed stare then left the office. Two minutes later he was back and said, “The general says you may bring the recorder with you but we need to examine it first.”
“Sure,” DeMarco said. “By the way, what time is it?”
The security guy ignored him.
Shit. Without his watch, he couldn’t know the exact time but he was pretty sure the recording equipment in the suit coat would activate in a couple more minutes. He hoped they didn’t take too long looking at the recorder. They didn’t. A young guy came into the room, took the recorder apart, looked at it, poked at it, and put it back together in plenty of time. These guys were good.
DeMarco, like every other TV-watching American, had seen and heard General Charles Bradford before. He was familiar with the boot-camp haircut, the eagle’s beak, the rumbling voice that sounded wise and fatherly when he spoke to the public-and he was definitely intimidated.
Charles Bradford was a man who had spent most of his life in an arena that DeMarco couldn’t even imagine, must less compete in. He dealt with the president, senators, and cabinet members on a daily basis and, judging by the number of stars on his shoulders and the medals on his uniform, he was exceptional at what he did. And not only that, the guy looked like a general; he made DeMarco-who had never been in the military-want to stand at attention and salute. Yeah, he was intimidated-and if he hadn’t been, Bradford’s opening salvo would have ensured that he was.
“Well, DeMarco,” Bradford said, “I’m not exactly sure why I’m meeting with you. I don’t know anyone named Russo, but when you said something about going to the Post, I decided to listen to what you had to say. But unless you’re a very stupid man, I’m sure you understand that threatening me is not a wise thing to do. You’re probably going straight from this office to a federal lockup.”
“Sir,” DeMarco said-he couldn’t help but call him sir-“I’d just like you to listen to two recordings. May I play them please?”
Bradford nodded his head, his pale eyes boring into DeMarco’s. Bradford’s eyes had as much warmth as the point of an ice pick.
When the radio intercept of Paul Russo being killed was finished, Bradford frowned and said, “I have no idea what all that was about, all that carrier and messenger nonsense.”
DeMarco didn’t bother to respond to Bradford’s denial. All he said was, “Now I’ll play the second recording, the one made by General Breed before he died.”
DeMarco saw it: Bradford’s eyes widened in surprise, just for an instant, and he rocked back in his chair. The fact that DeMarco had in his possession a recording made by Breed not only surprised Bradford, it hit him hard.
DeMarco tapped the play button on the recorder, and the voice of a dead general filled the room.
Thomas, this is about things I did for Charles during my career. I know when you hear this you’re going to be disappointed in me.
Bradford listened to the recording without any further evidence of emotion. He just sat, his face impassive, his eyes hooded, his big hands steepled under his chin. When DeMarco hit the stop button, Bradford didn’t say anything for a moment.
“DeMarco, it seems to me that you didn’t think this blackmail scheme through very well.”
“General, I’m not trying to black-”
“That first recording, the one with all the messenger-carrier stuff, there’s nothing on it that makes it clear what those men were talking about, much less any connection to me. Regarding the recording you claim is General Breed speaking-and by the way, I think you’re despicable for trying to soil Martin’s name-the recording doesn’t mention me by name, it only refers to someone named Charles.”
“You’re the Charles he’s referring to,” DeMarco said.
“Really?” Bradford said. “Do you know there’s a General Charles Paulson, the four-star at CENTCOM, and that Martin once worked for him? And I’m sure you know Congressman Charles Mallory. He sits on the House
