The Devil's bed

chapter
thirty-six

Bo had breakfast at Afterwords, the cafe in Kramerbooks on Connecticut Avenue, a place he’d often eaten during the years he was assigned to duty in D.C. At nine o’clock, he walked through the door of the Old Post Office Building on Pennsylvania Avenue and took the elevator up. When he got off, he proceeded down a long, quiet hallway. At the end he came to a set of double, glass doors with NATIONALOPERATIONSMANAGEMENTpainted in white block letters across the panes.

The reception area was small and reminded him of the waiting room in a dentist’s office. There were a few magazines on a low table next to a love seat. Near the window was a fish tank with a lot of lazy-looking fish. Outside the window was a sunny view of Western Plaza with its crisscross of white lines that was a depiction of L’Enfant’s original plan for the capital city.

The receptionist was on the phone. She glanced up when Bo came in and flashed him a nice smile. She made a notation on her desk calendar, finished her conversation, and hung up.

“May I help you?”

“I’m sure you can,” Bo said. “I need some information.”

“What kind?”

“Pretty general, really. For starters, I’d like to know what National Operations Management does exactly.”

She laughed gently. “We don’t make the front page very often, do we?” She reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brochure that she handed to Bo. “I think this pamphlet will give you a very nice overview of NOMan.”

“Thank you. Mind if I sit down and read it here?”

“Be our guest.”

Bo sat and read.

NOMan, as the text kept referring to the organization, was a division of the General Accounting Office. It had been created by an act of Congress on March 10, 1963. Its purpose, according to the pamphlet, was to “standardize, facilitate, and oversee the security of communications and procedures within and among the various branches of the federal government.” Headquartered in Washington, D.C., NOMan had regional offices in several cities across the country.

“Standardize, facilitate, and oversee the security of communications and procedures,” Bo read aloud. “In layman’s terms, what does that mean?”

The receptionist, a Ms. Hoeffel, according to her name tag, looked up from the computer on which she was working. She gave him another of her nice smiles. “We do forms mostly. Make sure all departments use the same, or at least similar, documentation. We design documents for interdepartmental exchanges of all kinds. Procurement, travel, you name it. Not the most exciting office in the government, but we like to believe we help things run more smoothly.”

“What about this security aspect?”

Although still friendly, she seemed to be growing a bit tired of Bo’s interruptions and questions. “We’re responsible for the design and maintenance of the security system that keeps secret documentation and communication, well, secret.”

“Sounds like pretty important stuff to me,” Bo said.

“I’m glad you think so. We certainly do.”

“Can I get a tour?”

“We’re not one of the more popular stops for tourists in the capital. We don’t really give tours.”

“How about a public relations person?”

“That would be Laura Hansen.”

“Could I speak with her?”

“Not without an appointment. She’s very busy.”

“I’d like to make an appointment, then.”

“Certainly. Just a moment.”

She punched in a number on her phone. “Dan, it’s Mary Jude. I have a gentleman here who’d like to make an appointment to see Laura.” She listened. “General interest,” she said. “Uh-huh. Hang on a sec.” She glanced up at Bo. “Your name, sir?”

“Bo Lingenfelter.”

She repeated the name over the phone, then she smiled again at Bo and asked, “Is now a good time for you?”

“Now? Really?”

“Really.”

“All right.”

“Fine, Dan. And thanks.” She hung up. “You’re in luck. Laura will be right out.”

While he waited, Bo watched the fish in the tank. They didn’t seem in any hurry, which was good because they didn’t have anywhere to go.

The door behind the receptionist opened, and a woman in a light gray skirt and matching jacket came out. She was a small woman, but a lot of energy seemed to be contained in that slight frame. She smiled broadly at Bo.

“I’m Laura Hansen.” She extended her hand.

“Bo Lingenfelter. From Pueblo, Colorado.”

“Really? You sound more midwestern.”

“Transplant,” Bo said.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lingenfelter?”

“Truth is, I’m county chair for our party’s local committee. I’m trying to understand all the duties and responsibilities of our senators so that we can translate it for the voters back home. Now, it’s my understanding that among the other responsibilities he has, Senator Dixon also attends NOMan meetings. I’d like to know what that’s about.”

“Of course. Why don’t you come back to my office and we can talk a bit.”

She led the way. Behind the door, the office widened into a large area partitioned into dozens of cubicles where staff seemed diligently at work. The noise in the area consisted mostly of the click of keyboards, the ringing of phones, and the hum of voices. Laura Hansen guided Bo through the maze and into a real office with a real door, which she closed.

“Senator Dixon,” she said as she sat behind her desk. Bo took the chair opposite her. “He’s played a very important role in NOMan. In fact, he cosponsored the legislation that created our office. Over the years, he’s functioned in many capacities. Currently he serves as an adviser to several committees. Around here, he’s known as Senator Bill.”

“What does he do as an adviser?”

“Offers opinions, his expertise. He no longer has a voting role in committee decisions, but he often sits in on meetings of particular interest.”

“Are the minutes public?”

“Some. Not all. Sometimes the meetings deal with security issues, and for obvious reasons those minutes aren’t available to the public.”

“He was in a meeting here last week. Wednesday. Was that a secret meeting?”

“Last week?” She thought a moment. “I don’t think so. But then I’m not privy to everything here.”

“Would it be possible to get a copy of the minutes? If they’re a matter of public record.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She made two calls, and within five minutes, a man stepped into her office with a folder. “Thanks, Hank,” she said. She glanced at the contents, then handed the folder to Bo. “It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid. Mind-numbing, in fact. Discussion of revising a document that’s used when departments purchase from one another. But you’re welcome to it.”

“Any chance I could get a tour of things here?”

“That would have to be arranged, cleared at a higher level.”

Bo stood. “Thank you, Ms. Hansen. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll mention you to Senator Dixon when I see him and to the folks back home.”

She escorted him to the reception area, shook his hand, and Bo left.

He got a cup of coffee at the Old Ebbitt Grill and took a look at the minutes of the meeting Dixon had attended the day after Robert Lee began his investigation of the senator. It was, as Ms. Hansen had characterized it, a mind-numbing subject. Reading through the minutes, Bo had two big questions. First, why would a busy man like Dixon waste his time with a meeting that discussed a cross-payment document? And second, why had Dixon made no comments whatsoever during the meeting?

When Bo looked up, he saw that the television behind the bar was tuned to news coverage of the funeral of Robert Lee. The scene was graveside in Richmond, Robert Lee’s hometown. The president was there with Kate, both of them standing next to Lee’s widow. Flanking the woman on the other side were her sons. Everyone appeared to be weeping. Even President Andrew Clay Dixon wiped at tears. Bo could understand why. Everything he knew about Bobby Lee told him a good man had died. And that probably he had died unjustly.

In the minutes of the NOMan committee meeting, the name Donna Plante was among those listed as attendees. Bo tracked her down at the Department of Agriculture in the Whitten Federal Building. He caught her at her desk just as she was preparing to leave for lunch. When she saw his Secret Service ID, she agreed to delay her meal.

“I just want to ask a couple of questions about NOMan,” Bo said.

“Sure.”

Donna Plante set a small brown sack on her desk. Bo could smell the tuna sandwich inside.

“You sit on a NOMan committee.”

“Yes. Lots of employees from various departments do. It’s part of our assignment.”

“You were in a meeting last Wednesday with Senator Dixon, yes?”

“I was there.”

“I’ve looked at the minutes, and I find it odd that the senator offered no comments during the meeting.”

“Not odd. He wasn’t there.”

“In the minutes, he’s listed as an attendee.”

“He showed up, was noted, then he left. He sometimes does that.”

“Where does he go?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I envy the fact that he gets to skip out. Those meetings.” She gave an exaggerated yawn.

“Do you ever participate in meetings that discuss security issues?”

“Right. They’re going to let a clerk in USDA listen in about security issues.” She looked at her watch.

“Thanks,” Bo said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“What does all this have to do with Secret Service.”

“You know those meetings you don’t get to sit in on because they’re about security?”

“Yeah.”

“So’s this.”

In the Secret Service Memorial Building on H Street, Bo checked through security and received a temporary access ID. As he made his way to the Technical Security Division, he bumped into several agents he knew from previous assignments. All congratulated him on his work at Wildwood.

Robin Agnew was at her desk, deep in the reading of a thick report. She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice Bo. He was glad, because it allowed him, for a moment, to watch her without worrying about what his face might betray.

Her hair was a premature but absolutely beautiful silver. She’d shortened it since he last saw her. She worked her jaw as she read, an old habit. When she looked up, her eyes showed her surprise. Then she laughed.

“Bo. Jesus, you scared me.”

“Hello, Robin.”

She got up and hugged him. “What a nice surprise. I hadn’t heard you were coming.”

“I didn’t know myself until a couple of days ago.”

“Business?”

“Sort of.”

“I thought you were on medical leave after the Wildwood incident.”

“I was. Am.”

“Good work, by the way. I always knew you were hero material. I understand Chris is doing fine, too. I’m glad.”

Manning. A lot of years ago they’d gone through some strange permutations, the three of them. Manning and Bo had stayed single afterward. Robin wore a wedding ring.

“Did you have any trouble with him?” she asked.

“Nothing either of us couldn’t handle. You ever run into him out here?”

“Not often. It’s awkward whenever we do. I think he still has issues, even after all these years.”

“How about you?” Bo said. “You doing okay?”

“I married the right man. Not Secret Service.” She smiled. “So what’s up?”

“I came to beg a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Could I use your computer?”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“All the way from Minnesota just to use my computer?”

“All right, how about your computer and you let me buy you dinner?”

“Oh, Bo, I’d love to. But I have to pick up little Gus at day care. And then Jamie and I have an early meeting at church tonight. You wouldn’t care to baby-sit, would you?”

“No thanks. I did enough of that on Dignitary Duty. Sounds like a good life, Robin.”

“The best.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot. I’m late for my workout. Let me log off.” She sat down at her computer and ended her connection with the system. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Will that be enough time?”

“Should be.” Bo smiled. “You look good, Robin.”

“So do you, Bo. So do you.” She kissed his cheek.“Ciao.”And she left.

Bo logged on and accessed the Internet. He did a search for NOMan and came up with 427 hits. He scrolled until he found the home page for National Operations Management. He went there, then clicked on a side bar notation that read “History.”

The precursor to NOMan, he learned, was an agency within the Department of Defense called the Office of Branch Communications. Created following World War II, it was responsible for coordinating communications among all the branches of the military. Headed by Marine Colonel Woodrow (Woody) Gass, the office proved so effective that it came to the notice of Congress. On March 10, 1963, it was made a part of the General Accounting Office, its name was changed to National Operations Management, and the scope of its authority was broadened to include all areas of government service. Every division of every department was required to have an employee whose responsibility, in part, was as a liaison with NOMan.

Although the agency was officially under the aegis of GAO, the director of NOMan didn’t report to GAO’s comptroller general but was responsible instead to Congress directly. The term of appointment was the same as that for the comptroller general, fifteen years, which made the position less vulnerable to shifting political whims. Woody Gass was the first director of National Operations Management. He served in that capacity for thirty years, or two terms. When he stepped down, he was replaced by the current director, a NOMan veteran named Arlo Grieg.

In its capacity as watchdog for effective, interdepartmental communications, NOMan had been credited with saving the government billions of dollars through consistent monitoring and upgrading of communication channels. It had effected a network that, within one of the largest and most complex bureaucracies in the world, had become a model of efficiency.

This was the official line, anyway.

Bo clicked around some more, looking for anything that might shed a more unofficial light. On a Web site that called itself Big Brother Buster, he found a discussion of the budgets for several government offices, NOMan among them. According to the information presented there, NOMan didn’t operate in exactly the way its official budget indicated. Much of the operating expense of NOMan was picked up by the offices it served. Not only did each office pay a fee for service (that indispensable help with efficient communication that Bo, as an agent of the federal government for nearly two decades, had yet to see), but it also picked up the entire salary cost for the mandatory employee who served as a liaison with NOMan, employees like Donna Plante of the USDA. Therefore, any dollar amount appearing officially in the federal budget as allocated to NOMan to cover operating costs in fact represented only a small percentage of the actual money NOMan had available for its use.

It wasn’t a new idea. Bo knew the CIA had been operating that way for most of its history. He found a government Web site that gave a long list of individuals whose service to the nation included sitting on NOMan committees. Among them were representatives of the FBI, CIA, NSA, IRS, WHCA, as well as a number of well-known congressional leaders.

He stumbled across a discussion of Woodrow Gass, former director of NOMan. Woody Gass appeared to be a feisty son of a gun. A marine commander in the Philippines during World War II, he’d been taken prisoner on Bataan, been on the infamous Death March, survived a year of prison camp at a place called Cabanatuan, escaped with several other prisoners, and had made his way to the Australian forces on Borneo in a stolen boat. He’d continued to serve in a distinguished manner for the rest of the war. Afterward, he was outspoken about the blundering in the Philippines. To quiet him (the discussion implied), he was put in charge of an insignificant new division that dealt with communications.

The information was interesting, but what was more interesting to Bo was the name of one of the men who’d escaped from the Philippines with Gass. Private William Dixon.

“Still at it?”

Bo looked up from the screen. Robin was back. She had her blazer slung over her arm, and there was a slight gloss to her skin.

“Good workout?” he asked.

“Great. But I wilted walking back through that damn humidity.” She eyed her desk and the chair in which Bo sat. “Get what you needed?”

“I’m not sure what I got.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No. I’ll figure it out.” He allowed himself one final, approving look. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

“I do. Jamie’s a lucky guy, and he knows it.”

Bo laughed. “I’ve got to go, Robin. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too. And if you see Chris, tell him I wish him well.”

“Will do.”

They hugged briefly, then Bo headed off.

Robin was right. It was hot and humid outside the building. Bo was dripping by the time he reached the cool sanctuary of his hotel. He went to his room and laid out everything he had so far.

He had a suspicion that Senator William Dixon was involved in something darker than mere back room politics. He’d found a strong connection between Dixon and NOMan, a very low profile organization with a finger in every branch of the government. He’d discovered a wartime link between Dixon and the man who’d organized and headed up NOMan for several decades. But how this information fit into the death of Robert Lee, if it fit at all, was still unclear.

Bo checked his watch. It was still early enough that he could make one more visit.

The receptionist gave him an odd look when he stepped in.

“Mr…” She thought a moment. “…Lingenfelter.”

“You’re good,” Bo said.

“We don’t get many visitors. And almost no one who comes twice in one day.”

“I’d like to see Ms. Hansen again. And no, I still don’t have an appointment.”

“I’ll see if she’s available.” She punched in a number on her phone. “Dan, Mr. Lingenfelter is here again. He’d like to see Laura. Again.” She flashed him a playful smile. “Uh-huh. All right. Thanks.” She hung up. “Someone will be right up.”

Bo checked the fish again. They were darting around now, as if looking for something in that empty water. Bo figured it must be close to feeding time.

The door behind the receptionist opened. Ms. Laura Hansen was not who appeared. But the man who did come out was someone Bo had seen before. Although they’d passed only briefly in the Stillwater hospital after Tom Jorgenson was attacked, the man’s damaged face, the bubble of burn scars that welted his right cheek, his reconstructed right ear, all made him impossible to forget.

Bo hoped his own face was really as forgettable as Lorna Channing seemed to think.

“I’m Hamilton Gaines, Mr. Lingenfelter. An assistant director here at NOMan. I understand you have quite an interest in our office.”

“It’s an interesting office,” Bo said.

“Not many people share your view. Ms. Hansen is unavailable at the moment. I wonder if there’s something I could help you with.”

“I hope so,” Bo said. “As I explained earlier to Ms. Hansen, I’m on a little fact-finding mission for the party folks back in Pueblo. She was kind enough to give me some minutes of a meeting that our Senator Dixon attended last week. But it’s my understanding that the senator had to leave that meeting very early. In fact, I understand that he often leaves early. I was just wondering what might pull him away while he’s here at NOMan.”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Gaines replied.

“You don’t know the answer?”

“It’s more a security issue, Mr. Lingenfelter. Senator Dixon has been associated with this office for a very long time. We rely on his expertise significantly, particularly in areas that deal with sensitive information and security. If we know he’s here, we often ask him to sit in on a meeting when such issues are being considered.”

“Ms. Hansen seemed to be under the impression that there weren’t any meetings like that last week.”

“Ms. Hansen is responsible for public relations. She’s not necessarily aware of everything that occurs here at NOMan.”

“Of course. I wonder if it might be possible to get minutes from some of the other nonsensitive meetings that Senator Dixon was scheduled to attend recently.”

“I’d be happy to have them sent to you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll pass on it. But I’m sure the folks back home would be interested in knowing why Senator Dixon’s presence is consistently recorded at these meetings if, as I’ve been told, he often slips away.”

“That’s not an issue I can address.”

“I see. Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”

“About my face,” Gaines said, as if that was always the question.

“Vietnam. Napalm burns.”

“I thought it was our side who dropped napalm.”

“Friendly fire, as they say. A mistake that wiped out most of my platoon. Is there anything else, Mr. Lingenfelter?”

“That wasn’t actually what I was going to ask about.”

“No? I’m sorry. What would you like to know?”

“What do you think of our senator?”

“In my opinion, a great man.”

“The folks back home will certainly be glad to hear that.”

“Please give my best to those folks. In Pueblo, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Right.” Gaines smiled broadly but unconvincingly. “Good day, Mr. Lingenfelter.”

Outside, Bo stood on the sidewalk pondering questions that lay on him even more oppressively than did the heat of the afternoon sun. What was Hamilton Gaines doing at the hospital in Stillwater? And was there a connection between Tom Jorgenson and NOMan?

He looked back at the Old Post Office. NOMan is an island, Robert Lee had noted on his chalkboard. Lee had purposely distorted the quote to fit the truth. NOMan had done its best to secure a place in the vast, bureaucratic ocean, a place isolated from general knowledge and public scrutiny. Bo sensed something dark and creepy beneath the organization’s mundane exterior. Whatever that darkness was, it spread out far beyond the agency’s office, beyond even the capital itself. In a hospital room a thousand miles away was a man Bo had always admired greatly. Now he wondered if Tom Jorgenson lay in the shadow of that darkness, too.

He had to hit three used bookstores before he found what he wanted, a copy of Jorgenson’s autobiography, The Testament of Time. Several years had passed since he’d read it. This time around he’d be looking at it with a different eye.

Bo knew of a cyber cafe near Dupont Circle. He grabbed a taxi and in fifteen minutes was on the Internet again, calling up the Web sites he’d found earlier using Robin’s computer. He printed out the information he felt might be useful, then did a search with the termsThomas JorgensonandNOMan. He got no hits. He tried various combinations but came up with nothing pertinent. Next he searched usingWilliam DixonandPhilippines. He got the whole story. Bataan. The Death March. Cabanatuan. The escape and sea journey in a stolen boat. He got something else, too. The names of all the men who’d escaped with Dixon and Gass. One by one he searched them on the computer.

Four of them had served very long terms in Congress. Two of them were still there. One of the men had been an assistant director of the CIA before establishing a consulting firm. One had been an assistant for national security to a previous president. One had died in the war. The final man was someone named Herbert Constable. He’d been a cryptographer for the army, stationed in Manila at the outbreak of the war. He claimed to have broken the Japanese code prior to Pearl Harbor and to have notified his superiors of the impending attack. He died in a mental institution in 1950.

Bo printed out all this information as well, gathered up everything, and left. Back in his hotel room, he grabbed a Heineken from the room refrigerator, lay all the material out on the table, and looked things over carefully. It was on his third pass that he caught two small, but important, details he’d missed earlier.

One: The man who’d been an assistant director for the CIA was named James J. Hammerkill. The company he’d established after leaving the government was Hammerkill, Inc., a security consulting firm that now employed Jonetta Jackson, the only eyewitness to Robert Lee’s death. Bo thought about Jackson, a strong woman, trained to be capable of killing. It wasn’t a huge leap of logic to speculate that she might have been more involved in Robert Lee’s death than as a mere witness. On that isolated inlet, a small army could have been involved, and no one would have been the wiser.

Two: Senator William Dixon had been one of the two sponsors of the bill that created NOMan. His cosponsor had been the then freshman senator from Minnesota, the Honorable Thomas Jorgenson.

Bo lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Jonetta Jackson. Hamilton Gaines. William Dixon. These were people who, in the service of their country, had placed their lives in jeopardy. They deserved to be honored. Yet they were involved in an organization that was not at all what it seemed and that may have been responsible for the murder of Robert Lee. To what end did they betray their honor, if indeed betrayal it was?

That was a question Bo couldn’t answer, but he was pretty certain he knew who could. He used the hotel phone, called Northwest Airlines, and made a reservation on a flight the next morning that would take him back to Minnesota. Then he picked upThe Testament of Timeand began to read.