“I don’t understand.”
“Most of the people we send into the field are survivalists,” Allan told him. “They are not scientists or doctors. Techniques are dumbed down as much as possible to give agents as little to worry about as possible. It is easier to inject an individual in the buttocks or thigh than in the arm or a more exotic spot, such as between the toes. An injection in the root of the tongue is relatively precise, not to mention dark and slippery. The person giving it cannot be a novice. In this case, maybe you should look for someone with dental training. The underside of the tongue is an entry point for a number of drugs used in oral surgery.”
“I’ve already done that,” McCaskey said. “Getting back to this question of novices, the Company has used precision assassins in the past. Poison in the tip of a blind man’s cane, formaldehyde on a hero sandwich in a victim’s refrigerator, even the abortive attempts on Castro.”
“Yes, and those efforts against Castro are the reason today’s killings are outsourced,” Allan said. “Assassins can make millions of dollars a hit. Why would they work for salary and an inadequate pension?”
“Patriotism?” McCaskey asked sincerely.
“God and country cannot overcome greed,” Allan replied. “When we engage in field work of this kind, it has to be successful. Often, it also requires plausible deniability, as you know. When we need it super clean, we go into a for-hire mode.”
McCaskey had no more questions. But something the doctor just said did interest him. He stood. Allan also rose.
“Sir, I appreciate your time and counsel,” McCaskey said.
The men shook hands across the desk.
“I am truly sorry it could not be more,” Allan said.
“To the contrary,” McCaskey told him. “This was very helpful, though I have to ask you, Doctor, to satisfy my own curiosity. What is it that drives you? Patriotism or greed?”
“Neither. I’m here for the difference in conjunctions,” Allan replied.
“I don’t follow.”
“I asked myself that very question for years,” Allan told him as they walked toward the door. “I deluded myself into thinking I came to work here out of civic spirit. Then I realized that, at the heart of it, I enjoyed more power than any other physician I know. I have power over life and death. That’s and, Mr. McCaskey. Not or.”
The difference in conjunctions.
McCaskey left the doctor’s office. He was glad to go. The office that had seemed warm and personal when he arrived now had a pall about it, a subtle chill, like the waiting room of a slaughterhouse. Murder was conceived here, plotted with cool, impersonal efficiency.
The young aide was still waiting outside the door to escort McCaskey back to the lobby. They walked in silence. This time, though, McCaskey’s head was filled with noise. There was the sound of his own voice as he cherry-picked what had been said by Link and others. He played out an evolving monologue in his mind as he sifted through the last few days for clues.
He confronted his own shortcomings in his approach to the murder.
Maria always said her husband was naive. In a way, he was. He had always been an idealistic, self-denying G-man, Harry Hairshirt. In this instance maybe they were both right. Any crime could be approached two ways: with facts or with philosophy. McCaskey had been looking mostly at the facts. That was useful but narrow. A good commander could cover his tracks, as the assassin had done, but not his philosophy.
Greed versus patriotism versus power. One or more of those could well be the motive in this case, but to what degree and in what combination?
McCaskey had contemplated possible reasons behind Wilson’s assassination, possibly a warning to investors that they should bank American. Perhaps the truth was much bigger than that.
Mike Rodgers had spent time with these people. The admiral himself was a military man. If Link were behind this, Rodgers might have thoughts about which of those values applied. McCaskey had to get in touch with him and the senator.
There was an out-of-service response from the general’s cell phone, and no answer at his house. That left one place for McCaskey to try.
He slid into his car and headed toward Washington. McCaskey decided not to call Senator Orr’s office but simply to go over. Rodgers might not like it, and the senator might like it even less. McCaskey had only two words for that, words he was prepared to back with his own show of greed and power.
Too bad.
THIRTY-THREE
Mike Rodgers knew that he had already made a complete mental break from Op-Center. Since the Monday-morning meeting with Hood about budget cuts, Rodgers had not worried about unfinished NCMC business, about future activities, or about the operational status of his field agents.
After the blast, however, Rodgers suspected something else: that he had also divorced himself from Op-Center emotionally. He felt sad for the team members, who were hardworking and diligent, and for Mac’s family, of course. But the carnage itself had not affected Rodgers. At least, not yet. Perhaps his brain had gone into survival mode. Ignore the pain, deal with the problem. Maybe, though, the blast was an outward expression of what he had already done inside. He had trashed Op-Center in his mind, angrily and violently. He had used a blowtorch to burn the place from every crease in his brain that might have cared. That was how Mike Rodgers had learned to deal with loss. It was cold, but it worked.
That did not mean Rodgers condoned this abhorrent attack. Therein lay the problem for him. If it were executed by a member of the Op-Center staff, the bombing was a repugnant way to manipulate policy. Rodgers did not believe Hood or any of his team were capable of doing that. If the bombing had been committed from without for political reasons, either by a domestic or foreign agency, the perpetrator would be uncovered. Someone would talk. Washington, D.C., had the most fertile grapevines this side of Northern California. Secrets were kept with the same care and sacred diligence as marriage vows.
And if Rodgers found out that anyone associated with Admiral Link or the USF Party had been responsible?
The general did not want to believe that. But if it turned out to be the case, Rodgers would make sure the perpetrators learned that truth and justice could not be suppressed. Not on his watch.
Rodgers did not remain in the parking lot with Paul Hood and the others. He spoke briefly with the base commander and Hood, then borrowed a Jeep to go into Washington. His own car had been one of those destroyed by the pulse. Rodgers felt a chill when he contemplated what had happened here. Electromagnetic pulse weapons were still in their infancy. The bombs were small, with a limited range. The problem developers faced was to generate a sufficiently wide-ranging pulse before the explosive trigger destroyed the weapon itself. But the impasse was nearly beaten, and within a year the Pentagon expected to deploy the first EMP devices. The navy would use the powerful microwave pulses of e-bombs to knock down antiship missiles; the army would pack pulse generators into artillery shells to neutralize the mechanized forces, field headquarters, and telecommunication capabilities of enemy troops; and the air force would load pulse weapons in bombers, fighters, missiles, and unmanned drones to shut down the infrastructure of enemy cities and take out aircraft. The latter could be particularly devastating. Unlike conventional explosives, which destroyed a plane in the air, an e-bomb would simply shut the engine off and drop the plane, its fuel, and its bombs on whatever was below. An enemy bomber taking off could be used to cripple its own air base. Tactical e-bombs could be fired air-to-air. A single fighter would be able to destroy entire enemy squadrons and their payload. Mini e-bombs, smaller than the one used against Op-Center, could become effective antiterrorist tools. In a properly shielded nuclear power plant, dam, or passenger aircraft, an electromagnetic pulse could be employed to shut down timers and thereby defuse bombs.