The Rule of Nine

FORTY-SEVEN

My contact is Senator Joshua Root,” says Joselyn. “I am telling you this only because I am certain that he has nothing to do with what happened to Herman. I am telling you in confidence and I expect you to keep the secret. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

We are in our room at the Hotel George. I’m still changing my clothes.

“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” she says. “I’ve worked with him for years. There has to be some mistake.”

“Did you tell him where we were staying, here in D.C.?”

She nods. “Yes, but why would he do anything like that? What possible involvement could a man like Joshua Root have with someone like Thorn? What would he possibly have to gain? It’s not like him. Josh Root is a dove. I know him. He is a gentle man. He hates violence. True, he’s had some bouts with serious depression in the last year or so. But he has been treated for that. We all have times when we’re not ourselves. God knows what I’ll be like when I’m his age. But there’s no way he’d be involved with someone like Thorn.”

“What else did you tell him?” I ask.

“I told him about Thorn and the plane, what happened down in Puerto Rico. I told him everything we knew, and I asked for his help, and he agreed.”

I pull on my socks and put on my shoes as we talk.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

“I tried to call him this morning, just a few minutes ago. I tried his office. They said he wasn’t there. I called his house. There was no answer, and his cell phone didn’t answer either. I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

“Root was the source of your information on the nuclear device in San Diego?” I ask.

She nods. “And his information has always been accurate. He has been nothing but truthful every time I’ve dealt with him. And he takes a considerable personal risk in sharing such information because it’s classified. He could go to prison and he knows it. But he’s willing to take that risk because he knows that the dangers the country and the world face by remaining silent are much greater.”

“How did he know about the nuke?”

“He chairs the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. There isn’t much he doesn’t know. There was a Senate investigation after the attack at Coronado. Root’s committee held two weeks of hearings behind closed doors. He told me some of the committee members wanted to go public with the information about the bomb. But the administration convinced them that until they knew more about who planned the attack, and how they carried it out, it would be unwise to disclose the fact that there was a nuclear attempt. All it would do would be to cause needless public panic,” says Joselyn. “At least that was the argument.”

“Yeah, and would probably raise a lot of questions about how the administration screwed up,” I tell her. “Wait a second. Wasn’t that the committee Snyder’s kid…?”

“Yes. I thought about that when I read the news reports on the murder,” says Joselyn. “Jimmie Snyder worked for Root’s committee, but it didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

“How do you know?”

“He was on staff, but he was new. He’d only been there a short time. I’m sure he didn’t have any security clearance, so he wouldn’t have had access to any significant information. He was a gofer. Besides, he wasn’t working there at the time he met Thorn, when those security photographs were taken.”

“How do you know that?” I say.

“His father told me. He and I talked after you left the office that day. The day I got sick.”

“So where were the photos taken?” I ask.

“I asked him that,” says Joselyn. “He told me he’d rather not say. He said Jimmie had made a mistake and paid with his life.”

“Violated security protocols, as I recall.”

“Yes, by showing Thorn something he wasn’t supposed to see,” says Joselyn. “Snyder made it clear that unless discussing the details would lead him to Thorn, he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Sheltering his son’s reputation, I suppose. Even in death.”

“Where are the pictures Snyder gave us?”

“They are in my briefcase,” says Joselyn. “Why?”

“Why don’t you get them?”

“Sure.” She walks over to the other side of the room, looks in her briefcase, and pulls out a manila folder. She opens it and takes out the photos.

We spread them out on the bed. Joselyn lays down on her stomach. I sit. We look at all three photographs for the umpteenth time, two of them showing Thorn and Jimmie Snyder together, the third one, the enlargement of Thorn by himself.

The images are almost ghostlike because of the stark white walls behind them. They look like film frames from one of those movies in which some mortal character plays God in some whitewashed ethereal corporate office that represents heaven. There is nothing on the walls except the one sign partially obscured behind Thorn’s shoulder.

“What’s this? It’s been bugging me since the first day we saw the photographs, just before lunch at the Brigantine.” I point to the sign over Thorn’s shoulder, the words “basketball and weightlifting” clearly visible.

“It looks like a gymnasium,” says Joselyn.

“It has to be here in this city someplace. Are you sure you don’t recognize it? You’re the Washington insider,” I say.

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve never seen it before. It doesn’t ring any bells.” She tries to read the line below it, the last few words of which are visible over Thorn’s shoulder but lost in the glare of light. “It looks as if there’s some kind of a plastic sheet or cover over the sign,” she says. “The rest of the sign is blocked by part of Thorn’s head and body. Give me a minute.” Joselyn rolls over, sits up, and again walks to where her briefcase is. When she returns, she has a small plastic case about an inch and a half square and half an inch thick in her hand. She pulls on it and a small magnifying glass slides out. She reaches across the bed and picks up the photograph with the sign in the background. She holds the magnifying lens close to the photo and examines the image as if it were a fine piece of jewelry. “Oh, my God! What day is it?”

“Monday. Why?”

“The first Monday in October, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The sign. It’s the highest court in the land,” says Joselyn.

“What?”

“We don’t have time to talk,” she says. “Come on.” She grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the door.