There was a TV in the farmhouse but it got only two channels. He would have thought that the NSA, being who they were, could have at least pirated a cable feed. And the only thing to read was a stack of old newspapers. He was going to hang himself if he had to stay in the place another day.
He flopped down on the couch and picked up one of the papers again, even though he’d already read every word in it. One article was about Martin Breed and showed photos of the high-ranking folk who had attended his funeral. DeMarco looked at the photos again but this time saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was an old guy in a wheelchair sitting near Charles Bradford. He studied the caption that identified the people in the picture, and then read the article again. Huh.
DeMarco heard a car coming up the driveway. He looked out the window and saw Dillon unfolding his long, lean form from the backseat of a black SUV. Dillon just stood there for a moment, looking out at the barren fields as if he were wondering why the NSA’s crop was so poor. Finally, he turned and walked toward the house, and DeMarco heard his guards yes-siring the guy as he entered.
“Good morning, Joe,” Dillon said. Then, after inquiring about DeMarco’s health and pretending to apologize for keeping him prisoner, he got down to business. “I want you to meet with Charles Bradford,” he said.
“You betcha,” DeMarco said, sounding as if it would be the most natural thing in the world for him to drop in on the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “You mind if I go home and change into my good suit for the meeting?”
DeMarco was no longer wearing the sweat clothes he’d borrowed from Perry Wallace. When Alice found his car abandoned in Falls Church, she’d been kind enough to retrieve his clothes as well as his wallet, watch, and cell phone. But the clothes were a mess since he’d been wearing them when he was shot by Levy and crawled around under the bleachers.
Dillon ignored DeMarco’s sarcastic comment about changing into a suit. “I obviously can’t meet with Bradford,” Dillon said. “The agency’s involvement in all this must be kept completely secret. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, yeah, I understand,” DeMarco said.
But he was thinking that maybe what he should do is grab Dillon and put a choke hold on him and threaten to break his neck if they didn’t let him go. But then what? He’d finally figured out how they had tracked him last time: a satellite. He’d seen in movies how a satellite orbiting a zillion miles above the earth was able to take close-up pictures of a pimple on a terrorist’s nose, and that’s what they’d used to follow him. They knew he’d made a phone call from the Hyatt in Crystal City and then they’d parked some big-ass satellite right over his head and watched his every move. Now that he knew how they followed him, he might be able to evade them next time. Yeah, he could live in the sewers for the rest of his life.
Maybe it would be a good idea to quit being a smart-ass and listen to what Dillon had to say.
“And assuming the general will meet with me, exactly what am I supposed to say to him?” DeMarco asked.
“You won’t have to say much. I simply want you to play General Breed’s recording for him. Then you can tell him that you know he had your cousin and the reporter killed, and you suspect he had Martin Breed killed as well. And then tell him he needs to resign.”
“And that’s it? I just waltz in, play the recording, and he says: I give up, Joe. You got me. I’ll pack up my desk today.”
“No, the tape alone won’t be enough to convince him. There are problems with the tape.”
“Like the fact that Bradford’s last name is never mentioned.”
“Yes, like that,” Dillon said. Dillon didn’t tell DeMarco the recording he had found in the church had been modified.
“So what’s going to make Bradford fold?” DeMarco asked.
“You’re going to tell him that you know John Levy…”
“The guy who tried to kill me at the ball field?”
“Yes. Levy is Bradford’s creature. My people followed him when he left Tuckahoe Park and identified him. At any rate, you’re going to tell General Bradford that we have Levy cold. We have voice recordings of him. We have witnesses who saw him shoot you. You’ll tell Bradford if he doesn’t resign, you’ll inform the press and people in Congress, turn over everything you have to the FBI, and Levy will be arrested for murder and forced to admit that he was-and has been for years-operating under Bradford’s control.”
DeMarco shook his head. “If I know all those things, Bradford’s going to wonder why I haven’t already gone to the press and why I’m bothering to talk to him at all.”
“No, he won’t wonder that,” Dillon said, “because by now he knows you’re working with other people in the government. And he’ll realize that those people don’t want his activities exposed. So you need to convince him, Joe. You need to make him believe that we’ll expose him if we’re forced to but that we don’t want to. It’s not good for the country.”
“Why not?” DeMarco asked.
“It’s complicated, but take my word for it. Exposing Charles Bradford is bad for the country. And it’s bad for the NSA.”
Dillon was telling DeMarco to leave the heavy thinking to him-and DeMarco thought Dillon was full of shit.
“You think it’s going to be that easy?” DeMarco said. “I just tell Bradford that Levy is going to roll over on him, and he crumbles?”
“People like Charles Bradford don’t crumble. But he knows the damage this could do to the military, not to mention his own legacy. Charles Bradford wants to be remembered as a great American general-but not in this way. So if you’re convincing, he’ll believe Levy will be arrested and forced to testify against him, and he’ll also believe that even though we don’t want to expose him, we will if he doesn’t resign.”
DeMarco sat there, thinking about everything Dillon had told him, and shook his head again. “I don’t think so,” he said. “There’s no reason for me to be involved in this any longer. Anybody can play those tapes for Bradford and deliver your message. Get one of your people to do it. Put Alice in a disguise. I don’t care how you do it, but I want out of this.”
“Sorry, Joe, but we’re going to do this my way. Right now only three people know what Martin Breed said about Bradford on that recording: me, you, and an associate of mine. I don’t intend for our small circle to grow any larger. And since neither my associate nor I can meet with Bradford, you’ve been drafted.”
DeMarco opened his mouth to protest but Dillon raised a hand to stop him. “You need to keep in mind, Joe, that by now Bradford knows who you are and the only reason you’re still alive is because I’m protecting you. But if you don’t do as I ask then I’ll have no reason to protect you, and Bradford’s people-this monster Levy or somebody just like him-will hunt you down. Think about who your enemy is, Joe. He’s the leader of the most powerful military force on the planet. How hard do you think it’s going to be for him to find you and kill you?”
DeMarco didn’t say anything, but if he’d ever thought that Dillon, because of his appearance, was in any way soft, he just disposed of that notion. Dillon would sacrifice him in a heartbeat if that’s what he thought he needed to do.
“I’ll protect you until Bradford resigns,” Dillon said. “But you’re going to deal with him. So, have we reached an accord? Are we on the same page? Before you answer, remember the problems we can cause your CIA friend in Afghanistan.”
DeMarco wanted to break Dillon’s aristocratic nose, but all he said was, “Yeah, we’re on the same page.”
“Good. Now, you were asking earlier if you should go home and get your good suit. Alice, can you come in, please?”
Alice must have driven Dillon to the safe house. She walked into the room, her face as expressionless as always, carrying a man’s dark blue suit on a hanger in her right hand. Under her left arm was a black belt and a new white dress shirt still in its packaging, and in her left hand, a pair of black shoes appropriate for the suit.