The Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building has a beautiful Indiana limestone facade, a red-tile hip roof, and decorative colonnades. It is a five-story one-point-two- million — square-foot behemoth, and occupies one enormous city block. And, as is the case with almost all federal buildings since nine/eleven, people don’t simply walk into the building. You either had to have identification showing you were an employee of the department-and, as an FBI agent, Hopper had such identification-or you had stop at a security checkpoint where guards would examine your ID, verify you were an approved visitor with an appointment, and then provide you with a temporary badge and most likely someone to escort you to wherever you wanted to go. Whomever Hopper was meeting was most likely already inside the building. He could be an employee of the Justice Department or some other federal agency that was permitted access. Even if Alice were to show the security guards her NSA credentials-which she had no intention of doing-it would still take time to convince the guards to let her enter the building, and by then Hopper would have disappeared into one of the hundreds of rooms inside the place.
She was screwed.
Alice stood outside the building for half an hour and at four o’clock, people began to stream out of the building, going home for the day. One of the people who exited was Hopper, and his contact could be any one of the hundreds of other people exiting at approximately the same time. She watched without any indication of the frustration she was feeling as Hopper crossed Pennsylvania Avenue again and walked back into the Hoover Building, then she pulled out her cell phone, called Claire, and told her what Hopper had done.
Claire went ballistic.
31
“John,” Bradford said, “I feel like things are spinning out of control. It should have ended with Russo and the reporter. But now this lawyer… what’s his name again?”
“DeMarco,” Levy said. “Joseph DeMarco.”
Bradford was attending a barbecue later that day at Camp David. It was the president’s wife’s birthday but hardly an occasion, in Bradford’s opinion, worth taking him away from his duties. Had the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee not been attending as well, he would have come up with some last-minute emergency that required him to stay at the Pentagon. Unfortunately, part of his job, whether he liked it or not, was cozying up to the people who funded the military.
Not only did he not want to attend the function, he didn’t want to attend in the attire he was wearing. The invitation had emphasized casual dress, indicating they might be sitting around a bonfire, and he was consequently dressed in stiff new blue jeans, a red and blue striped shirt, and loafers. The president was a man who looked comfortable in jeans-hell, he was comfortable in jeans-but the only casual clothes Bradford liked were combat fatigues. And the damn jeans, for some illogical reason, made him feel less powerful, less able to handle the situation with this DeMarco character. He knew he was being irrational and mentally shrugged off the feeling.
“So now this lawyer knows that Hopper’s involved in some sort of cover-up and he knows Martin was Russo’s last patient.”
“Yes, sir,” Levy said.
“How did DeMarco connect the nurse to Martin?”
“He could have simply talked to Russo’s employer,” Levy said. “I didn’t have him under surveillance-maybe I should have, but I didn’t-and I had no idea he was investigating Russo’s death.”
“But why’s he investigating?”
“I don’t know. All he was trying to do was find his cousin’s will, but he keeps digging things up. I guess I should have watched him closer.”
“Yes, maybe you should have.” Bradford was quiet for a moment. “You know, we’ve been very lucky up until now, John, but we can’t rely on luck any longer. We can’t afford any more mistakes. We need to wrap this up, once and for all.”
They had been incredibly lucky. When Martin had told him he was going to expose him if he didn’t resign, he’d taken the precaution of having Levy place a listening device in Martin’s bedroom. To install the device, Levy waited until nightfall and simply drilled a small hole through the siding of Martin’s house. The bug was about a quarter inch in diameter and connected to a small recorder that Levy hid in the shrubs outside of the bedroom, and the recorder could be accessed remotely by phone like a telephone answering machine. Bradford knew Martin was so ill he rarely left his sickbed, and he figured a single device in the Martin’s bedroom would be sufficient. If anyone was seriously looking for a listening device they’d find the bug, but it was so small he doubted Martin’s visitors or his family would notice it, and he knew Martin was too weak to conduct a search himself.
Thanks to the listening device, they heard Martin tell the nurse he had to talk to Thomas Antonelli before he died. Bradford had no doubt he was going to tell Antonelli about their relationship, and that’s when he ordered Levy to kill Martin, as much as he hated to do so. Levy picked the lock on Martin’s backdoor when Martin’s family was asleep and after the nurse had left for the day, and killed him painlessly with an overdose of morphine.
But where they really got lucky was with the nurse.
Bradford wasn’t sure if Martin had told the nurse anything specific but he thought he might have, so he took the precaution of having Levy watch Russo after Martin died, and one day, as Levy was tailing him, Russo suddenly stopped his car to use a pay phone. This took Levy by surprise and by the time he parked, the nurse was already on the phone, but Levy heard enough to know that Russo was planning to meet a reporter at the Iwo Jima Memorial.
So much luck-and the problem with Martin should have ended when Martin, the nurse, and the reporter died. But then this congressional flunky comes along. How much did DeMarco know? And what did he want? And the big question: was anyone helping him?
Levy had apparently been thinking the same thing. “Sir,” he said, “that man Drexler you sent over to the NSA. He called me yesterday. He said he didn’t find anything that tied the agency to Russo, but he sounded strange. There was something off about his… his tone of voice. I’m thinking I should talk to him in person.”
“We don’t have time for that,” Bradford said. “And I’m not surprised that Drexler didn’t find anything. They’re not fools over there at Fort Meade and, for that matter, we really don’t know the NSA is involved.”
“Well, somebody’s involved,” Levy said. “The woman who took Witherspoon’s fingerprints worked for some organization.”
“I know,” Bradford said. “Has anyone made any attempt to contact the two soldiers you used?”
“No, sir.”
Bradford rose from his desk, too agitated to sit, and began to pace his office. He wasn’t the type to feel sorry for himself, but there were times when it felt as if the responsibilities he bore were overwhelming. The Chinese were growing stronger, both financially and militarily, and the Indians weren’t far behind. Good-paying jobs for middle-class Americans were disappearing, the country’s manufacturing base was collapsing, and we were at war with religious fanatics, a war that would never end. He wondered, some days, if he was going to live long enough to witness the end of an empire.
He had no doubt that the course he had embarked on ten years ago with the help of John Levy and Martin Breed was the right course. It was simply unconscionable to sit back, doing nothing, while the politicians wrung their hands and Americans died and suffered. But sometimes… sometimes it was just too much. Yet what choice did he have? He could retire, of course. Simply walk away and leave all this for the man who replaced him. But what was the likelihood that his replacement would do what needed to be done? Not much. He squared his shoulders. Wallowing in self-pity was unacceptable. His only choice was to keep moving forward, to keep on fighting, no matter how terrible the cost might sometimes be.