Call to Treason

TWELVE

Paul Hood called around to find out if the department heads in nonclassified areas needed an intern. They did not. Lowell Coffey said he would be happy to work with a legal trainee. Frankie Hunt did not fit that profile. Kevin Custer in Electronic Communications said he would take on someone with interest in the field. Otherwise, it was a waste of everyone’s time. Other division leaders said more or less the same thing. Hood could have pushed them, but he did not. As he made the calls, he had already decided he did not want the kid working at Op-Center. Someone who helped a friend was “a nice man.” Someone who helped his former wife was “a man with guilt.” Someone who helped the lover of their former wife was not a man at all.

Working behind the scenes at Op-Center instead of in the light at Los Angeles City Hall had tempered Hood’s healthy but modest narcissism somewhat. But it had not quite turned him into a masochist. Sharon, on the other hand, was mossy with fresh self-interest and vanity. She felt her former husband owed her time, effort, and attention, and she was determined to collect.

Hood would wait a few hours before calling Sharon. That would make it seem as if he had made more of an effort than he had. At least he did not have a lot of time to think about it. Hood had spent a lot of time with CFO Ed Colahan working on the budget cuts. There was not a division of Op-Center that would be unaffected. Matt Stoll’s computer division would lose six of its twelve employees, Herbert would lose one of his six intel analysts, and the field force Mike Rodgers had assembled would be eliminated. Operatives like David Battat and Aideen Marley would be recruited on a case-by-case basis. Lowell’s four-person legal office would be cut to three. Custer would have to release one of his four electronics surveillance people. The night staff would also be reduced. Each time Hood okayed a cut, he knew he was not only affecting an employee but national security. Op-Center had established a singular way of working. Homeland Security could not simply reassign those tasks to the FBI or CIA; Hood and his people had the trust of agents at Interpol, at the Russian Op-Center, at other agencies around the world. Time, personnel, and funds were required to maintain the quid pro quo nature of those valuable relationships. The cuts were going to impact that severely.

Darrell McCaskey walked in just as Colahan was leaving with his laptop.

“How are you holding up, Paul?” McCaskey asked. He shut the door behind him as the CFO left.

“When I was mayor, I had to cut billions from the Los Angeles city budget,” Hood said. “That was politically painful but faceless. Each stroke of a key today was someone I know.” Hood sat back. McCaskey looked preoccupied. “You heard about Mike Rodgers?”

“Yeah. Bob was so mad he nearly ran me over.”

“I haven’t heard from him yet,” Hood said.

“He’s laying low till he cools off,” McCaskey said. “He should be in to see you some time next week.”

Hood smiled. “What can I do for you?”

“Ironically, you’re going to need to loan me out for a couple of days.”

“What’s up?”

“I think William Wilson was murdered.”

Hood’s smile evaporated. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. This is going to be a big one.”

“How did you get involved?”

“Scotland Yard asked me to bird-dog the autopsy,” McCaskey said. “I went to the Georgetown medical center and had a look at the body. The ME missed an injection in the root of the tongue. We sent a skin sample to the lab. There was a concentrated trace of potassium chloride, a drug that can be used to stop the heart.”

“That’s damned impressive, Darrell.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you informed the Yard?” Hood asked.

“I did,” McCaskey said. “They’re going to work through the British embassy to get their own people involved. Until then, they asked if I would be their point man on the investigation.”

“What are we looking at, time-wise?”

“Three or four days,” McCaskey told him.

“That’s when media attention will be at a saturation peak,” Hood said.

“I know. The good news is, public attention got us more money after the North Korean incident,” McCaskey said.

“That was a very different time, when Congress regarded the old institutions as tired, not blue-chip solid,” Hood said. “This is going to be a big, public investigation. If Op-Center is on the news every night, the CIOC may see that as a ploy for fund retrocession.”

“Please. The CIOC can’t be that naive.”

“Not naive, Darrell. Suspicious.”

“Of what? They know we have to help other agencies if we want their assistance,” McCaskey said.

“You’re assuming that we’re supposed to survive,” Hood said. “The CIOC and our older brothers may have other plans.”

“Staggered dismantling,” McCaskey said.

“It’s possible,” Hood said.

“Okay,” McCaskey said. “Assume the other agencies are leaning on the CIOC to cut us back—”

“I don’t have to assume that,” Hood told him. “They are. Senator Debenport told me.”

“In that case, we should not get locked into a siege mentality,” McCaskey said. “We should lean back, put our assets in peoples’ faces. Senator Debenport will probably be thrilled to take a corner of the spotlight. What politician wouldn’t want to be seen as a crusading crime buster?”

“He’ll say ‘Cheese’ and maximize the benefits of that exposure,” Hood agreed. “And when the lights go off, he’ll turn to me and say — prodded hard by the other agencies — that there is obviously too much fat on Op-Center’s bones. He may ask for additional reductions.”

“The electorate wouldn’t stand for that, especially if we’re working on a high-profile case.”

“The voters might surprise you,” Hood said. “They want to know that government agencies are doing their jobs. Our job is crisis management. Finding the killer is a Metropolitan Police matter, not a hostage situation or terrorist threat. Voters also don’t like it when the rich get special attention. Finding the killer of a European multibillionaire who was trying to take money from American banks, and jobs from our shores, is not as important as making sure landmarks and airports are secure.”

“I can’t believe our society has gotten that self-absorbed,” McCaskey said. “I refuse to believe it.”

“Oh, we have,” Hood assured him. “We once saw endless possibility and opportunity in all directions except down. That was the American definition of beauty. Do you know what happens to the narcissist who stops feeling beautiful?”

“Yeah. He gets botox treatments.”

“No,” Hood said. “He gets scared that he’s going to lose everything else.”

“He does that, or America does that?”

“Both, I suppose,” Hood replied.

McCaskey looked a little sad. Hood did not like where this was going. The next visit would be from Liz Gordon, who would chat and probe and try to determine if he were acting out.

Maybe with good reason, Hood thought. “Darrell, look. I’m not asking you to have a seat in my bunker.”

“I know that, Paul—”

“My personal concerns don’t change the fact that the threat to Op-Center is real,” Hood went on. “We lost a fifth of our budget today. We can’t ignore the possibility that there will be additional cuts.”

“I agree.”

“At the same time, we have to do what we can to help our colleagues,” Hood continued. “All I want you to do is fly as far under the radar as possible.”

“In D.C.?”

“I know,” Hood said with resignation. “Just be careful. If your name gets attached to this, I don’t want any interviews. Make sure your Yard contact understands the low-profile agenda, and maintain minimal C and C with your colleagues at the Bureau.”

C and C was contact and collaboration. It described the friendly enemy status of relations between rival domestic law enforcement and intelligence groups. Most international agencies got along fine.

“I will go out in stealth mode,” McCaskey promised.

“Good. And when you nail the guy who did this, we’ll have another look at how to play it with Debenport and the CIOC.”

“Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia, and then we’ll talk.”

“Something like that,” Hood said.

“Sounds good. And chief? I know it’s been a tough morning. If I came on a little hard, I’m sorry.”

“You asked the right questions at the right time,” Hood said. “If I can’t take that, I don’t deserve to be in this chair.”

McCaskey smiled. It was good to see that.

When McCaskey left, Hood told Bugs to hold his calls for five minutes. Then he rubbed his forehead and thought again about the situation with Frankie Hunt. If it were about his son, Alexander, Hood would not have failed to get him an internship. Sharon knew that. So she would know that her former husband had given this minimal effort — if that. Would the little bit of self-respect he gained be worth the little bit of self-respect he could give?

Hesitantly, as though it were a coiled snake, Hood reached for the phone. He began making more calls, in a less ambivalent voice than he had used that morning.