“The boat your father was sailing. Is it a big boat?”
“A twenty-six-foot Seaward. It’s not exactly a yacht but it’s a handful.”
“Is it hard to sail alone?” Bo asked.
“For me, yeah. But not Dad.”
“I don’t know about sailing, Nick. Your father’s accident, does that kind of thing happen a lot?”
“Not to sailors like him.”
Bo glanced around the room again. “Look, Nick, I wonder if I could be alone here for a while.”
Nick thought about it and nodded. “I’ll be down the hall.”
Bo checked the desk. It was neat, no stacks of paper, only a few letters that looked like they were awaiting Robert Lee’s reply. He opened the drawers, then checked the file cabinet. He considered the computer, wondering about files Lee might have created. Going there would be time-consuming and intrusive. He went to the door. Nick stood down the hallway. When he saw Bo, he returned.
“Find what you were looking for?” Nick asked.
“Not yet. I may have to get into the computer. Do you know the password?”
“Yes.”
Bo didn’t want to go there if he didn’t have to. “Nick, is this where your father did all his office work when he was home?”
“His paperwork. If he was thinking about something, usually he’d go out to the greenhouse and goof around. He’s got a board out there that he writes stuff on.”
Bo thought about it. It would be easier than scanning computer files. “Could I see the greenhouse?”
“Sure. This way.”
They went out a sliding door in the study. The back lawn was large. Bo could feel the sweep of the Potomac somewhere in the dark beyond it. There was a swimming pool, a garden, and the greenhouse. Inside the greenhouse, the heat and the humidity of the night became oppressive. There were rows of long planter boxes that held flowers, exotic-looking things.
“Dad loved raising orchids and tropical flowers,” Nick said. “It seemed boring to me, but I guess he found it relaxing.” Nick touched one of the boxes. “Safer than sailing anyway.”
On a wall near the door was a large chalkboard, full of scribbling. Nick pointed toward it.
“That was Dad’s notebook. If he thought of something out here, he’d chalk it up there. If he couldn’t find a place, he’d just erase enough other stuff to fit it in.”
It was a mix of information. Telephone numbers, some with identifying names, some just floating. Snippets of thought. Get clear on Snyder-Brookins bill. Cryptic things. A quote Bo recognized from John Donne. No man is an island. There was a drawing of a horse. Or maybe it was a dog. Lee was no artist. Written small, down in one corner, was the name Dixon. It was not identified as Clay or William. Just Dixon. Bo wondered if there was something somewhere on the board that connected with the name.
He was sweating in the humid heat, and he took off his blazer. He pulled out a pen and a notepad from the inside pocket and began to write everything down that was on the chalkboard, noting where in relation to everything else it was. He wrote quickly, but carefully, while Nick stood quietly and watched him.
As Bo began to write the Donne quote, he realized he’d made a mistake when he first read it. It didn’t say, No man is an island. It said, NOMan is an island.
NOMan. National Operations Management. Bo felt as if he’d finally found something he could hold on to. He finished recording everything from the chalkboard, then he put his pen and notepad away.
“Thanks, Nick. I think I have what I need.”
Nick saw him to the front yard, skirting a trip through the house. Bo appreciated that. On the front walk, Bo asked, “The inlet where the accident happened, do you know it?”
“Sure. It was one of Dad’s favorite places. He usually ended his day’s sail there so he could watch the bald eagles. He liked it because there’s almost never any other boats around. He liked having the water and the eagles to himself.”
An isolated place Robert Lee was known to frequent. It violated the most basic rules of protection.
“I’m sorry about your father,” Bo said.
“Thank you.”
He shook the young man’s hand. Because there was nothing more he could offer, and nothing more he needed, he turned away and headed to his car.
chapter
thirty-six
Bo had breakfast at Afterwords, the cafe in Kramerbooks on Connecticut Avenue, a place he’d often eaten during the years he was assigned to duty in D.C. At nine o’clock, he walked through the door of the Old Post Office Building on Pennsylvania Avenue and took the elevator up. When he got off, he proceeded down a long, quiet hallway. At the end he came to a set of double, glass doors with NATIONALOPERATIONSMANAGEMENTpainted in white block letters across the panes.
The reception area was small and reminded him of the waiting room in a dentist’s office. There were a few magazines on a low table next to a love seat. Near the window was a fish tank with a lot of lazy-looking fish. Outside the window was a sunny view of Western Plaza with its crisscross of white lines that was a depiction of L’Enfant’s original plan for the capital city.
The receptionist was on the phone. She glanced up when Bo came in and flashed him a nice smile. She made a notation on her desk calendar, finished her conversation, and hung up.
“May I help you?”
“I’m sure you can,” Bo said. “I need some information.”
“What kind?”
“Pretty general, really. For starters, I’d like to know what National Operations Management does exactly.”
She laughed gently. “We don’t make the front page very often, do we?” She reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brochure that she handed to Bo. “I think this pamphlet will give you a very nice overview of NOMan.”
“Thank you. Mind if I sit down and read it here?”
“Be our guest.”
Bo sat and read.
NOMan, as the text kept referring to the organization, was a division of the General Accounting Office. It had been created by an act of Congress on March 10, 1963. Its purpose, according to the pamphlet, was to “standardize, facilitate, and oversee the security of communications and procedures within and among the various branches of the federal government.” Headquartered in Washington, D.C., NOMan had regional offices in several cities across the country.
“Standardize, facilitate, and oversee the security of communications and procedures,” Bo read aloud. “In layman’s terms, what does that mean?”
The receptionist, a Ms. Hoeffel, according to her name tag, looked up from the computer on which she was working. She gave him another of her nice smiles. “We do forms mostly. Make sure all departments use the same, or at least similar, documentation. We design documents for interdepartmental exchanges of all kinds. Procurement, travel, you name it. Not the most exciting office in the government, but we like to believe we help things run more smoothly.”
“What about this security aspect?”
Although still friendly, she seemed to be growing a bit tired of Bo’s interruptions and questions. “We’re responsible for the design and maintenance of the security system that keeps secret documentation and communication, well, secret.”
“Sounds like pretty important stuff to me,” Bo said.
