Capital Crimes

20

KATE ARRIVED AT CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, at 7:45 a.m. and was at her desk in the director’s office by eight. Her secretary buzzed.

“Mr. Broward, from personnel, is here to see you,” she said.

“Oh, yes, send him in.”

Broward looked younger and more athletic than a personnel officer was supposed to look, and he carried a large cardboard box as if it were lighter than it really was. “Good morning, Director,” he said.

“Just put them on the conference table in the next room,” Kate replied, “and we’ll go through them together.” She followed him into the conference room.

“Yes, ma’am.” He set the box down and took out a stack of file folders, some of them very thick. “There are eighteen printouts here, representing everyone who has left technical services during the past ten years, either retired, fired, or for any other reason. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

Kate pulled up a chair. “What’s your first name?”

“Harold.”

“It’s like this, Harold: We’re looking for someone with the technical skills and the motivation to have carried out the murders of Senator Wallace, Van Vandervelt, and Timothy Brennan. I’m sure you’ve read about them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’d like you to sit here and read these files and make notes on anything in any of them that might be relevant. Let me give you an example: Suppose you find in somebody’s file that a man was given a hard time in one of the committees Senator Wallace served on. That’s my idea of a motivation. Also, look for membership in any liberal-oriented groups-the American Civil Liberties Union, People for the American Way -any of those, plus subscriptions to publications like The Nation. Anything at all that would indicate a strong leaning to the left or an antipathy for the right. These files are going to go to the FBI, and I want to know what’s in them before they leave the building.”

“I understand, ma’am.”

“When you’re done, buzz me, and we’ll talk about what you’ve found.” She closed the door and left him to his work.

KATE WAS CONCLUDING a meeting just before lunch when her phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“It’s Harold Broward, Director. I’ve finished.”

“I’ll be right with you, Harold.” She concluded her business, then went into the conference room. Broward stood as she entered, and she waved him back into his seat. There were two stacks of files next to him and one thick folder before him. “Have you got something, Harold?” she asked.

“Maybe so, ma’am. At least, this guy meets the specifications pretty well.”

“Tell me about him.”

Broward consulted his notes. “His name is Edward Eugene Coulter. He retired two years ago at age sixty-five. He was an assistant director of technical services, having served in that department for thirty-nine years in a variety of capacities, gradually being promoted. He has expertise in firearms, explosives, drugs, document work, and almost anything else you could ask tech services for. He was a member of the ACLU, but that was his only political affiliation. He didn’t subscribe to any publications, except The New Yorker and Washingtonian. He testified before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence four years ago and was raked over the coals by Senator Wallace for his ACLU membership and for being associated with some documents that his department had prepared, which were later stolen and used in an operation against us in the Middle East.”

“Now that’s what I call a good fit,” Kate said.

“Shall I send all this to the FBI?”

“Yes, but not yet. Call the office of Robert Kinney and tell his secretary that we’re messengering the files over tomorrow. In the meantime, leave them here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kate went back to her office and called the office of internal investigations. Fifteen minutes later, two officers stood before her desk. She handed them Coulter’s file. “I want you to copy this, then conduct an immediate investigation of this man. Don’t interview him, but I want to know how and where he lives his life; how much money he has; who, if anyone, he lives with; the organizations he belongs to; his hobbies; and anything else there is to know-and I want it all by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Any questions?”

“Are we permitted to know the reason for this investigation?” one officer asked.

“He’s a suspect in the right-wing murders you’ve been hearing about. By tomorrow afternoon, the FBI will be all over him, and if he’s the killer, I want to know about it first.”

“I understand,” the man replied.

“Then get on it.”

HELEN ENTERED Bob Kinney’s office. “The CIA personnel office just called. They’re sending over all the relevant files tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Kinney replied. “Put a couple of people on them as soon as they arrive, and let’s see if we can develop some suspects.”

“There’s something else,” she said, laying a thick brown envelope on his desk.

“What’s this?”

“When going through Senator Wallace’s personal files, I found that more than two dozen cards had the president’s name on them, going all the way back to when he was in college.”

“Did you read them?”

“No, sir. I checked the early ones to see when they began and the later ones to see where they ended. There are notations dated as recently as a month ago.”

“Thank you, Helen, I’ll deal with these myself. When will you have your digest of the others prepared?”

“In a couple of days, I think.”

“See that it contains no reference to the president.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a letter.”

She picked up a pad and sat down. “Go ahead.”

“To the President of the United States, for his eyes only: Sir, enclosed are index cards bearing your name from the personal files of Senator Frederick Wallace, the remainder of which are in my possession. To the best of my knowledge, no one except Senator Wallace has read them, certainly not I nor anyone else at the Bureau. The files bearing your name are not evidence in any case, and you need not return them to me. They may be disposed of as you wish, and no copies have been made. Sincerely, etc.

“Have the package hand-delivered to the president personally by an agent and have him sign for them. If he’s busy, have the messenger wait until he can receive them. Let his secretary know to expect our agent.”

“Yes, sir.” She went to do her work and returned shortly with the letter for him to sign.

He signed it and sent the package on its way.