Conspiracy

97

As he walked up the path to the tidy brick Georgian, Rubens nodded at the plainclothes guard. Dressed in a black suit despite the prospects of a blisteringly hot day, the man was the only visible component of an elaborate security team and system covering the upscale suburban Mary land home. Without him, the house would have appeared completely unre-markable, little different from the cardiac specialist’s home next door or the upper-level manager’s across the street.

That was the idea, though as Rubens rang the bell to Admiral Devlon Brown’s house, the thought occurred to him that it was perhaps slightly galling that the man responsible for the NSA should live in a house that symbolized only a moderate amount of achievement. Architecture reflected a man’s worth, at least in Rubens’ opinion, and while one might choose to be subtle, even subtlety showed.

Admiral Brown apparently did not share that opinion. He was waiting for Rubens inside the family room off the kitchen, sitting on a couch with his legs propped up on a nearby ottoman. He wore a blanket and his face was as white as the night Rubens had seen him in the hospital after the heart attack. But his voice was stronger.

“William, thanks for coming by. I hate doing business by telephone. I’ve come to hate it more and more,” said Brown, motioning him to sit. “Breakfast?”

“I had a bagel earlier.”

“Not with butter, I hope.”

“As a matter of fact, no.” Rubens chose a chair that had been borrowed from the dining room, pulling it close to the admiral’s legs.

“I’ve been listening to my doctor’s scoldings so much I’m becoming a scold myself,” admitted the admiral. “Coffee?”

“I’m trying to cut back.”

“Too bad. I’m not allowed any myself,” said Brown. “I have to live vicariously, smelling the aroma.” Rubens had come to discuss several matters, the most important of which was the investigation into the Vietnamese assassination plot.

Or, more accurately, non-plot.

“Whether the CIA plot was a figment of an agent’s imagination remains to be seen,” said Rubens, who suspected as much, “but in any event, neither the attack on Senator McSweeney nor Special Agent Forester’s death is related to it.

What they may be related to, however, is the theft of government money some forty years ago.”

Brown seemed to gain back some of his color as Rubens continued, briefly summarizing the story.

“Two suicides and an assassination attempt,” said Brown.

“They would all seem related somehow. But why is it coming to a head now?”

“I simply don’t know. I assume there is much more here than we have uncovered. The question is whether to turn this over to the FBI or to continue investigating it ourselves. The NSC finding is open-ended,” Rubens added. “It states that we should investigate the assassination attempt. But it was issued with the idea that a foreign government was behind the attempt. This would seem to be a domestic matter.”

“Have you discussed this with the President?” Rubens had a long-standing personal relationship with President Marcke. Nonetheless, Rubens felt slighted at the question, for it suggested that he might subvert his boss. It was the sort of thing that Bing would accuse him of.

“I don’t see a need to go directly to the President,” said Rubens. “I’ve briefed Ms. Bing, and as far as the missing money goes, there’s no proof that it’s a consideration here.

And in any event, I would come to you first before briefing the President,” said Rubens.

“I appreciate that.”

“I have another concern,” added Rubens. “The National Security Advisor is trying to build a case against relations with Vietnam. She wants our operations there to continue, even though I’ve told her there is no point.” Brown put his fingers together in front of his chest, pushing them back and forth as if they were an old-fashioned bellows, generating air for a smith’s forge.

“If Senator McSweeney stole the money, who would be trying to kill him? One of the Vietnamese who was supposed to get it?” Brown asked.

“Maybe someone who was double-crossed,” said Rubens.

“Or perhaps the person who is trying to kill him is worried that the senator will expose him in some way.”

“Hmmm.”

“There is also the possibility that it has nothing to do with the theft of the money. Both the FBI and the Secret Service say the attempt fits the profile of a disgruntled or disturbed individual.”

“All assassins are disturbed, aren’t they?” said Brown.

Unless they work for us, thought Rubens, though he didn’t say it.

“Do you think McSweeney is a thief?” A sly smile broke across Brown’s lips. “Any more than the average politician?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know him well enough to judge,” said Rubens.

“The NSC finding did not say you should stop if Vietnam was not involved. Close down what ever part of the operation isn’t helping you.”

“And Ms. Bing?”

“I’ll deal with her when the time comes. A good wrassle will do me a world of good.”

Rubens nodded, then moved to the next item he’d come to discuss.