But the devil was quite pleasant, remarkably gracious, a different man. Prison.
Joel introduced himself and his son Neal to Senator Clayburn. All hands were properly shaken, all thanks duly given. The table in the small suite was covered with pastries, coffee, and juice. Four chairs had been pulled around in a loose circle, and they sat down.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Joel said. “Senator, I need your help. I don’t know how much you know about the rather messy affair that sent me away for a few years...”
“I know the basics, but there have always been questions.”
“I’m pretty sure I know the answers.”
“Whose satellite system is it?”
Joel couldn’t sit. He walked to the window, looked out at nothing, then took a deep breath. “It was built by Red China, at an astronomical cost. As you know, the Chinese are far behind us in conventional weapons, so they’re spending heavily on the high-tech stuff. They stole some of our technology, and they successfully launched the system — nicknamed Neptune — without the knowledge of the CIA.”
“How did they do that?”
“Something as low-tech as forest fires. They torched twenty thousand acres one night in a northern province. It created an enormous cloud and in the middle of it they launched three rockets, each with three satellites.”
“The Russians did that once,” Clayburn said.
“And the Russians got fooled by their own trick. They missed Neptune too — everybody did. No one in the world knew it existed until my clients stumbled across it.”
“Those Pakistani students.”
“Yes, and all three are dead.”
“Who killed them?”
“I suspect agents of Red China.”
“Who killed Jacy Hubbard?”
“Same.”
“And how close are these people to you?”
“Closer than I would like.”
Clayburn reached for a doughnut and Pratt drained a glass of orange juice. Joel continued, “I have the software — JAM as they called it. There was only one copy.”
“The one you tried to sell?” Clayburn said.
“Yes. And I really want to get rid of it. It’s proving to be quite deadly, and I’m desperate to hand it over. I’m just not sure who should get it.”
“What about the CIA?” Pratt said, because he had yet to say anything.
Clayburn was already shaking his head no.
“I can’t trust them,” Joel said. “Teddy Maynard got me pardoned so he could sit back and watch someone else kill me. Now there’s an interim director.”
“And a new President,” Clayburn said. “The CIA is a mess right now. I wouldn’t go near it.” And with that Senator Clayburn stepped over the line, becoming an advisor, not just a curious spectator.
“Who do I talk to?” Joel asked. “Who can I trust?”
“DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency,” Clayburn said without hesitation. “The head guy there is Major Wes Roland, an old friend.”
“How long has he been there?”
Clayburn thought for a second, then said, “Ten, maybe twelve years. He has a ton of experience, smart as hell. And an honorable man.”
“And you can talk to him?”
“Yes. We’ve kept in touch.”
“Doesn’t he report to the director of the CIA?” Pratt asked.
“Yes, everyone does. There are now at least fifteen different intelligence agencies — something I fought against for twenty years — and by law they all report to the CIA.”
“So Wes Roland will take whatever I give him and tell the CIA?” Joel asked.
“He has no choice. But there are different ways to go about it. Roland is a sensible man, and he knows how to play the politics. That’s how he’s survived this long.”
“Can you arrange a meeting?”
“Yes, but what will happen at the meeting?”
“I’ll throw JAM at him and run out of the building.”
“And in return?”
“It’s an easy deal, Senator. I don’t want money. Just a little help.”
“What?”
“I prefer to discuss it with him. With you in the room, of course.”
There was a gap in the conversation as Clayburn stared at the floor and weighed the issues. Neal walked to the table and selected a croissant. Joel poured more coffee. Pratt, obviously hungover, worked another tall glass of orange juice.
Finally, Clayburn sat back in his chair and said, “I assume this is urgent.”
“Worse than urgent. If Major Roland is available, I would meet with him right now. Anywhere.”
“I’m sure he’ll drop whatever he’s doing.”
“The phone’s over there.”
Clayburn stood and stepped toward the desk. Pratt cleared his throat and said, “Look, fellas, at this point in the game, I’d like to check out. I don’t want to hear any more. Don’t want to be a witness, or a defendant, or another casualty. So if you’ll just excuse me, I’ll be heading back to the office.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He was gone in an instant, with the door closing hard behind him. They watched it for a few seconds, somewhat taken aback by the abrupt exit.
“Poor Carl,” Clayburn said. “Always afraid of his shadow.” He picked up the phone and went to work.
In the middle of the fourth call, and the second straight to the Pentagon, Clayburn placed his hand over the receiver and said to Joel, “They prefer to meet at the Pentagon.”
Joel was already shaking his head. “No. I’m not going in there with the software until there’s a deal. I’ll leave it behind and give it to them later, but I’m not walking in there with it.”
Clayburn relayed this, then listened for a long time. When he covered the receiver again he asked, “The software, what’s it on?”
“Four disks,” Joel said.
“They have to verify it, you understand?”
“Okay, I’ll take two disks with me into the Pentagon. That’s about half of it. They can take a quick look.”
Clayburn huddled over the receiver and repeated Joel’s conditions. Again, he listened for a long time, then he asked Joel, “Will you show me the disks?”
“Yes.”
He placed the call on hold while Joel picked up his briefcase. He removed the envelope, then the four disks, and placed them on the bed for Neal and Clayburn to gawk at. Clayburn went back to the phone and said, “I’m looking at four disks. Mr. Backman assures me it is what it is.” He listened for a few minutes, then punched the hold button again.
“They want us at the Pentagon right now,” he said.
“Let’s go.”
Clayburn hung up and said, “Things are hopping over there. I think the boys are excited. Shall we go?”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes,” Joel said.
When the door closed behind Clayburn, Joel quickly gathered the disks and stuck two of them into his coat pocket. The other two — numbers three and four — were placed back in the briefcase, which he handed to Neal as he said, “After we leave, go to the front desk and get another room. Insist on checking in now. Call this room, leave me a message and tell me where you are. Stay there until you hear from me.”
“Sure, Dad. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Just cutting a deal, son. Like in the old days.”
The taxi dropped them at the south lot of the Pentagon, near the Metro stop. Two uniformed members of Major Roland’s staff were waiting with credentials and instructions. They walked them through the security clearances and got their photos made for their temporary ID cards. The entire time Clayburn was griping about how easy it was back in the old days.
Old days or not, he had made a quick transition from the skeptical critic to a major player, and he was thoroughly engaged in Backman’s plot. As they hiked along the wide corridors of the second floor, he reminisced about how simple life had been when there were two superpowers. We always had the Soviets. The bad guys were easy to identify.