The Devil's bed

chapter
thirty-seven

As the 747 dropped low over the Minnesota River valley and Bo saw the wetlands sliding beneath him, he was, as always, happy to be home. He took a shuttle to the remote lot where he’d parked his car and from there drove directly to the St. Croix Regional Medical Center in Stillwater. It was late morning when he arrived. Tom Jorgenson was awake. The stroke had left him weakened, particularly on the right side of his body, but no permanent damage had been done. He greeted Bo with a smile, albeit a lopsided one. The black around his eyes that the E.R. doctor had called battle signs had faded to the point where the shadows simply made him look exhausted.

“Invitation to the White House,” Jorgenson said. He spoke slowly.

Bo sat down beside the bed. “I’ve been there a lot of times, but never as a guest.”

“How’s Clay?”

“I’d say he’s having a tough time right now.”

Jorgenson nodded gravely.

Bo held up the copy of Jorgenson’s autobiography that he’d purchased in D.C. “A fine book, Tom. Just finished rereading most of it.”

“Nothing better to do?”

“I was especially intrigued with the section in which you discuss your experience on the U.S.S. Indianapolisduring World War Two. When it was torpedoed and sank, nearly a thousand men went into the ocean, is that correct?”

“Nine hundred.”

“Without lifeboats, food, or water. After four days, after countless shark attacks, after the effects of exposure, only what, three hundred survived? It must have been a nightmare.”

“It was hell.”

“In the book, you blame the military command. A Japanese submarine was in the area, but that information was never communicated to the ship’s captain. After the torpedoes hit, the ship’s distress signal was ignored. And nobody seemed to notice or to care that theIndianapoliswas long overdue for docking.”

Jorgenson shook his head. “Criminal neglect.”

“You were bitter.”

“A waste of fine men.”

“Still bitter?”

Jorgenson seemed surprised by the question. “What are you getting at?”

“Do you know a man named Hamilton Gaines?”

Jorgenson’s eyes, only tired before, grew wary.

“Now there’s a man with plenty of reason to be bitter,” Bo said.

“Senator William Dixon, too. What do you suppose men like that do to deal with all that bitterness? Do they maybe find ways to get even?”

Jorgenson waited. “Some of them,” he finally replied.

“Not all?”

Jorgenson shook his head. “Not all.”

Bo leaned over the edge of the bed. “Tell me about NOMan.”

Jorgenson didn’t reply.

“Did you know that while you were in a coma, Hamilton Gaines was here, asking questions about you?”

Jorgenson’s face, already the color of biscuit dough, went even whiter.

“That’s right,” Bo said. “What do you suppose that was about? Could it be NOMan was afraid that in your weakened state you might give away secrets?”

Bo moved even closer, so that as he spoke his breath rippled the casing of the pillow.

“Don’t play dumb, Tom. You cosponsored the legislation that created NOMan. You and I both know that what NOMan appears to be and what it is are two very different things. NOMan scares me. And looking at you right now, I’m guessing it scares you, too. Talk to me.”

Jorgenson closed his eyes. “I don’t know anything.”

“NOMan assassinated Robert Lee.”

The blue eyes opened a crack.

“I’m certain of it, Tom. I just don’t know why. I think more people are going to die, but unless I can figure NOMan’s motive, I don’t know who those people are or how to help them. I need answers and I need them now.”

Jorgenson spoke in a voice quieter than could be accounted for by his weakness alone. “I can’t help. NOMan and I parted ways a long time ago.”

“Tell me about that.”

Jorgenson stared at the ceiling.

“Please,” Bo said.

Jorgenson finally gave an almost imperceptible nod. “NOMan. Woody Gass loved that name. You know your Greek mythology, Bo? The Cyclops Polyphemus demands to know the name of the man who outwitted him. Odysseus replies, ‘No man.’ Gass loved the idea of a normal man defeating a giant.”

“For Gass, what giant?”

“The monster that is the federal government. The horrendous bureaucracy.” He rolled his head and spoke toward Bo. “What do you think is the most powerful weapon in the modern world? Some nuclear device?” He shook his head. “Information. A man who knows the right things has leverage that can move the world. Gass understood that. NOMan was designed to know everything.”

“To what end? The assassination of its enemies?”

“To make sure information that might prevent global blunders reached those who needed it. A noble motive.” He paused, as if gathering his strength. Bo could tell this was difficult for him, physically and emotionally. “But there was always division, always those who were eaten up inside by the desire for revenge or for power-”

“Like William Dixon?”

Jorgenson nodded. “That kept him out of the White House, you know. NOMan wanted one of its own in that office. Dixon and I were the contenders. NOMan chose me. They positioned me for ascendance. Then Myrna died, and I lost my heart for it. Came home to Wildwood. They were understandably disappointed in me. Until I established the Institute for Global Understanding. That proved to be quite useful to NOMan, and NOMan was useful to me.”

“They fed you information?”

“On occasion. To negotiate successfully between men or countries or regions divided by hatred takes logic, cajoling, bribery, sometimes a little blackmail. Information is essential. Six or seven years ago, things began to change. The old guard of NOMan began to die off or step back, disappearing from the picture. New blood came in, with selfish motives. Dixon stayed in the thick of things, gathering more power for himself personally. Eventually, I was frozen out. NOMan and I have been strangers since. I’ve sometimes wondered, given what I know, if my days on this earth are numbered.”

“Maybe that’s what Gaines’s visit was all about.” Bo sat back. “If you’re concerned for your safety, why haven’t you told this to anybody before?”

“I decided long ago that my safety takes a backseat to the good that I might do, and NOMan helped me accomplish a lot of good things. I’ve hoped the organization would come to its senses.” Jorgenson breathed a weary sigh, but not for himself. “Robert Lee. What a tragedy. Does Clay know?”

“He suspects. We need proof.”

“What you need is an army. NOMan is everywhere.” He reached out and took Bo’s arm. Bo could feel the weakness of the man’s grip, the quiver of the tired muscles. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure, Tom. Would you be willing to go on record with what you know?”

“That’s a pretty big Rubicon to cross. NOMan would be a formidable enemy. Let me think about it.” He let go, and his hand fluttered back to the bed.

“Sure.” Bo stood up. “I’ll be back. You get some rest.”

“Have you seen Kate yet?”

“I’m on my way to Wildwood now. Just to say hello.”

“You won’t say anything about Lee and NOMan?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.” Jorgenson closed his eyes as if preparing to sleep. “Keep her safe.”

The orchards of Wildwood lay green under the sun, the fruit turning red like hearts hung from the branches. The deputy in the cruiser at the entrance to the drive waved him on through, but when Bo came to the gatehouse, he was forced to stop.

Special Agent Fred Turner bent to talk through the car window.

“Sorry, Bo. I can’t let you pass.”

“Why not?”

“Got a directive this morning.”

“Whose directive?”

“S.A.I.C. Ishimaru.”

“Diana? What’s going on, Fred?”

The agent shrugged. “You need to see Ishimaru, Bo.”

Beyond the gate, through the cut in the orchard where the drive ran, Bo could see the main house and the yard. He saw the pool and, sitting in the shade of a table umbrella, Kate. The sight of her seemed to suck out his soul. He wanted to grab Fred Turner and throw him aside. Instead he turned the car around.

On the fourth floor of the Federal Court Building in Minneapolis, he punched in the security code for the lock on the main door of the field office. The door would not open. He tried again. Nothing. He stepped back to the bulletproof window that opened onto the reception area just inside, and he pushed the buzzer. A moment later, the receptionist, Linda Armstrong, appeared. She was a woman in her late forties, smart and trim. She’d grown up on a farm in Nebraska, and she and Bo had often swapped farm tales. When she saw who it was, her face took on a pained expression.

“I need the new code, Linda.” He spoke louder than was necessary.

“Just a minute, Bo.” She vanished again.

Diana Ishimaru accompanied her when she returned. Ishimaru opened the door.

“What the hell’s going on, Diana?” Bo said.

“In my office, Agent Thorsen.” She turned, and he followed.

Her office was not empty. Another man sat in a chair near her desk. He stood up as Ishimaru and Bo entered.

Ishimaru said, “Agent Thorsen, this is Assistant Director Bill Malone.”

Malone. Bo had never met him, but he knew him by reputation. He was reputed to possess, as a result of his long and varied career with the Secret Service, an excellent understanding of the exigencies of the job. Malone shook his hand, then indicated another chair.

“Have a seat, Agent Thorsen.”

“I’d like to know what’s going on,” Bo said.

“The assistant director asked you to sit down,” Ishimaru said.

Bo sat.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Agent Thorsen. Special Agent Chris Manning has made certain allegations concerning the appropriateness of your actions prior to and during the incident at Wildwood.”

“What allegations?”

“You’ll be receiving a full statement shortly. I’m here to convene an internal board of inquiry. I’ve directed S.A.I.C. Ishimaru to suspend you with pay pending a finding by that board.”

“What?”

“Take it easy, Bo,” Ishimaru said.

He gave her an angry look. “My ass is about to be nailed to the wall, Diana. Are you okay with all this?”

“This is standard procedure, Bo, and you know it.” Then she added, “In this, my hands are tied.”

“Bullshit. Is this why I’ve been denied access to Wildwood?”

Malone said, “Until the board of inquiry has reached a finding, we don’t want you to communicate with any of the principals involved.”

“Right. And it just happens to keep me conveniently away from the First Lady.”

“That’s another issue, Agent Thorsen,” Malone said. “One we need to discuss.”

“I’m through discussing,” Bo said. He stood up.

“Agent Thorsen,” Ishimaru said. “Sit down. We’re not finished.”

“I am.” Bo walked out the door.

He was halfway down the hall when Ishimaru caught up with him.

“Agent Thorsen, at the moment my patience is dangerously thin and your actions are very close to insubordination. We need to talk.”

“Talk about what? You know everything that happened at Wildwood. What more is there to say? From now on, Diana, if you want to talk to me, you go through my lawyer.”

“Bo-”

He didn’t stay to hear what else she had to say. If he’d remained a moment longer, he’d have put his fist through the wall.