“I think he will, General. I briefed the whole thing to him as an internal Army CIC effort to trap a dirty DCIS agent. I told him that Stafford was a whistle-blower who burned some people in Washington, including a Bureau man, but now we think all that was done to cover up his own game.”
“In other words, payback. The Bureau guys are into payback. He Buy it?”
“The Bureau does not love whistle-blowers. He sincerely wished us luck.
Said he was glad to help.”
“But he’ll have to report it, right?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I told him to contact us if his bosses had any further questions. Full cooperation. We owe them one, that sort of thing. I’m hoping the SAC Atlanta will just put it away in his favor bank.”
“Okay, let’s rock and roll. And Major?”
“Yes, sir?”
“As far as General Waddell is concerned, this thing has been destroyed, just like you said. So all we’re doing now is making sure there are no loose ends. Like Stafford.”
The hatch closed with a bump and a hiss. Mason frowned, looking worried.
Well he should be, Carrothers thought as he watched Mason’s face. He was proposing to go behind the commanding general’s back, with the major’s connivance. It would be interesting to see if Mason remained loyal to him or to the CG.
“With respect, General,” Mason replied, “is there a new ‘right answer’ to what’s happened to that thing?”
Carrothers rolled his eyes as the aircraft began to taxi. “Go get your seat belt on, Major. Tray tables and seat backs in the upright position, and all that.”
32
Dave parked the rental car on the street a block from his hotel and walked in through the front plaza area, looking for signs of surveillance or unmarked government cars. Then he realized they might just park in the underground garage and wait inside. Like in his room. He went up to the front desk and asked for the night manager.
A prosperous-looking young man came out of a back offfice, wiping his chin with a handkerchief as if he’d been interrupted at dinner. Dave identified himself as a federal agent, presented his DCIS credentials, and asked if a Mr. Sparks from the DCIS had gained access to one of the hotel’s rooms that afternoon. The manager blinked and said that yes, he had. Dave thanked him and walked away before the manager could ask any questions. He headed for the mezzanine lounge bar.
He took a table, ordered a Tanqueray martini, and then asked for a table phone. He called his room number and let it ring. After ten rings, the phone was picked up. “Ray,” Stafford said. “I’m in the mezzanine bar.
Lemme buy you a drink.”
There was a brief sigh, and then the phone was hung up. A few minutes later, Sparks walked into the lounge, with two of the local DCIS agents behind him. Sparks motioned for them to take a nearby table, and then he sat down across from Stafford. When he saw the backup men, Stafford slipped his left hand beneath the table, doing it in such a way that they would see him do it. His useless right arm remained on the table.
“Haven’t lost your touch, Dave,” Sparks said. Stafford managed to lift the index finger of his right hand and point to his own drink while raising an eyebrow, but Sparks shook his head. He gave Stafford a searching look before asking the burning question. “What the hell have you got yourself into now?”
Stafford kept his left hand under the table and stirred the ice in his drink with a finger. He tried to keep it casual, but his right hand still trembled when he lifted it. He smiled. “You guys here to pick me up, Ray?”
“You bet your ass we are. Washington is suddenly very interested in what you are doing and why, and, oh by the way, you’re to knock it off, as of yesterday, if not sooner.”
Stafford leaned forward, the smile gone. “I’ve been shanghaied once today, or rather, last night. I’m not going to be taken anywhere by anybody for a while, not tonight, not anytime soon.” “Really,” Sparks said as he returned Stafford’s stare and casually unbuttoned his suit jacket, allowing the butt of a government-issue 9mm a little breathing room. Stafford saw the other two follow suit as they moved their chairs to, face in his direction.
“Yeah, really,” Stafford said. “What, you proposing to have a gunfight in the lounge of one of Atlanta’s most expensive hotels?”
“Takes guns on both sides to have a gunfight, Dave,” Sparks said. “I don’t recall issuing you a weapon. You’re not armed.”
“That something you know, Ray? This is Georgia: They sell guns at the church socials down here.”
“You’re bluffing, goddamn it. Now give this shit up. We don’t want to get civilians into a deal here.”
“Your call, Ray. Or you could relax for a few minutes, go into the receive mode, maybe learn something you need to know. Don’t you think as regional supervisor you ought to know where I’ve been lately? Hell, Ray, don’t you even want to know? Just a little? You used to be an investigator, remember?”
Sparks flushed, his lips tightening. But then he sat back and rebuttoned his jacket. He gave a little shake of his head, and the backup men relaxed, although they did not change the position of their chairs.
“Okay, so talk.” Sparks said.
Stafford took him back through it, right from day one at the airport and all the subsequent events relating to the cylinder. Sparks listened patiently, having heard a lot of this before, until Stafford got to the part about the MP sweep on his motel in Oxford.
“They did what?”
“Hell, Ray, I figured you’d sent them. You were sure as hell interested in knowing precisely where I was, as I recall.”
“Fucking-A, I was. But that was for my information.” He paused, seeing, the look on Stafford’s face. “Okay,” he admitted. “I was gonna come get you, but not because of the fucking Army.”
“It gets better,” Stafford said, and then described the events of early Sunday morning.
“They picked you up? Arrested you? The Amzy? Did you show them ID?”
“Hell yes, but they knew who I was and they obviously had orders in place to pick me up. Now let me tell you where they took me.” “Wait a minute,” Sparks said. “I think I want that drink now.”
Dave signaled a waitress with his head. While they waited, Sparks got up and went over to his two cohorts. After a minute of earnest discussion, they got up, although they seemed reluctant to leave. Sparks was insistent, and they left the lounge. When his scotch arrived, Sparks took a substantial hit and then indicated for Stafford to continue. His expression grew angrier when Stafford told him about the bunker, and then the lie-detector test. He drained his drink when Stafford finished.
“This is fucking outrageous,” Sparks declared. “Just fucking outrageous.
The Army has no damned jurisdiction.”
“That’s not what’s important here, Ray,” Stafford said. “Yeah, what they did is outrageous. But they wouldn’t have done it unless they were panicsville. They’ve lost a weapon. But they’re stuck — they can’t tell anyone.”
“But why the hell did they just let you go, then? You obviously know about it. ‘Have you seen it?’ and ‘Do you have it?’ Unless you think you beat the flutter?”
“I doubt it. The flutter tech was a Bureau man. They don’t hire amateurs.”
“A Bureau man?” Sparks looked around the lounge carefully. It wasn’t crowded, given it was a Sunday night.
“You’re telling me the Army and the Bureau are working together? That is seriously disturbing news. And it might explain why I’m getting sudden heat from DCIS Washington to get your ass back on the reservation.”