“Put on the jacket, Joe,” Dillon said.
Alice handed DeMaro the suit coat and he put it on. It fit perfectly. “How’d you know my size?” he asked.
Alice gave him a look that said, You’ve got to be kidding. It was the most emotion he’d ever seen the woman display.
“That coat,” Dillon said, “ is an eavesdropping device. It records and transmits and has its own power supply. When you go to Bradford’s office, you’ll be searched for weapons and listening devices but the devices in the coat will not be activated at that time. If they are activated, they’ll be detected when you’re searched. So the key to this operation is timing. You must get in to see Bradford no later than a specific time as the devices in the coat will automatically power-up at that time.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“Don’t worry. We have that figured out. And one other thing, Joe. You’ll note there are three buttons sewn on the right sleeve of the coat but only two on the left. We don’t think Bradford’s security people will notice the difference, but if they do you’ll just tell them a button fell off. You see the little bits of thread from the missing button on the left cuff?”
DeMarco looked down at the brass buttons. They all looked the same and they all looked like ordinary buttons to him.
“Before you leave his office, Joe, you need to pull the top button off the right sleeve and drop it on the floor someplace where it won’t be stepped on.”
“You want me to plant a bug in the office of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs?” DeMarco said.
“Exactly,” Dillon said.
''Do you really think Bradford will resign?” Claire said later, when she was alone with Dillon.
“Oh, no,” Dillon said. “I’m sure he won’t.”
“Then why on earth are you sending DeMarco to him and giving him everything we know?”
Dillon just smiled.
God, she just hated it when he did that.
37
DeMarco found a parking place in the vast lot surrounding the Pentagon. Dillon had provided the car he was using, and it had all the appropriate decals to permit him to drive onto the lot. He’d been somewhat surprised that Dillon had let him drive himself to the meeting, but since Dillon had him and his car bugged, and probably had a satellite watching from above, and had Alice tailing him, Dillon probably wasn’t too worried about DeMarco taking off like he had last time. He concluded again that Dillon must have been more concerned about Bradford’s people seeing someone drop him off than he was about letting DeMarco drive himself.
He stepped out of the car and pulled out the cell phone that Alice had provided. Dillon had insisted that DeMarco not take his own cell phone to the Pentagon, which meant, DeMarco was pretty sure, that his own cell phone was bugged. He called the phone number he’d been given which, according to Dillon, would be answered by Bradford’s secretary and not some voice mail system. And sure enough.
“Good morning. This is Mrs. Cleary.”
“Hi, Mrs. Cleary. My name’s Joe DeMarco, and I need to see General Bradford right away. He’ll want to see me.”
“Mr. DeMarco, I don’t know who you are or how you got this number, but you don’t simply call up and expect to get on the general’s schedule.”
“Mrs. Cleary, I know the general has nothing scheduled for the next hour. His calendar, the one you have in the computer on your desk, says he’s dining alone today and working on some speech he’s giving at Fort Hood next week.”
“How do you know-”
“Mrs. Cleary, please tell General Bradford I want to talk to him about Paul Russo. Trust me, ma’am, he’ll know who I’m talking about and he’ll want to see me. Tell him if he doesn’t see me, my next stop is The Washington Post.”
The phone was silent for a moment.
“Please hold, Mr. DeMarco.”
The lady had wonderful manners, and less than two minutes later she was back on the line. “Mr. DeMarco, where are you?”
“Right here at the Pentagon.”
“Very well. Go to the security checkpoint at the main entrance. Someone will meet you and escort you to the general’s office.”
Two Pentagon cops in black fatigues walked DeMarco down the wide hallways of the building. DeMarco had never been in the Pentagon before and was awed by the size of the place, not to mention all the brass walking around. He’d never seen so many generals and admirals in one spot. He was taken to a small room where he was met by two other security guys wearing suits. They ordered him to empty his pockets and to take off his suit coat, belt, and shoes. He removed his wallet, dumped all his spare change into a bowl, and handed the security guys his cell phone and a small digital recorder.
“Take off your watch, too,” one of the men said.
As DeMarco removed his watch, he looked at the time. He needed to be in Bradford’s office in ten minutes. In ten minutes the listening devices sewn into his suit would be activated.
While one of the men was giving him an embarrassingly thorough frisk, the other one examined his belt, shoes, and suit coat. He ran his hands all over the coat to make sure nothing was sewn inside the lining. He tried to twist the heels off DeMarco’s new shoes, but they remained in place. He then took a little circular patch of cotton and rubbed it all over everything: suit, belt, and shoes. And DeMarco’s hands. DeMarco assumed the cotton swab was like the type they used at the airport to see if you have explosives in your luggage. Two other electronic gizmos were then passed over him. He guessed one was looking for recording devices as Dillon had told him, but he didn’t know what the other gizmo did.
Apparently satisfied, they told him he could put his shoes, belt, and coat back on, but that he wouldn’t be permitted to enter Bradford’s office with his watch, his cell phone-or the recorder.
“Uh,” DeMarco said, “I don’t care about the phone or the watch, but I have to take the recorder to the general.”
“No, sir,” one of the security men said.
“I’d suggest you call General Bradford,” DeMarco said. “Tell him that what’s on that recorder concerns General Martin Breed and you won’t let me bring it to him.”
The man gave DeMarco a steely-eyed stare then left the office. Two minutes later he was back and said, “The general says you may bring the recorder with you but we need to examine it first.”
“Sure,” DeMarco said. “By the way, what time is it?”
The security guy ignored him.
Shit. Without his watch, he couldn’t know the exact time but he was pretty sure the recording equipment in the suit coat would activate in a couple more minutes. He hoped they didn’t take too long looking at the recorder. They didn’t. A young guy came into the room, took the recorder apart, looked at it, poked at it, and put it back together in plenty of time. These guys were good.
DeMarco, like every other TV-watching American, had seen and heard General Charles Bradford before. He was familiar with the boot-camp haircut, the eagle’s beak, the rumbling voice that sounded wise and fatherly when he spoke to the public-and he was definitely intimidated.
Charles Bradford was a man who had spent most of his life in an arena that DeMarco couldn’t even imagine, must less compete in. He dealt with the president, senators, and cabinet members on a daily basis and, judging by the number of stars on his shoulders and the medals on his uniform, he was exceptional at what he did. And not only that, the guy looked like a general; he made DeMarco-who had never been in the military-want to stand at attention and salute. Yeah, he was intimidated-and if he hadn’t been, Bradford’s opening salvo would have ensured that he was.
“Well, DeMarco,” Bradford said, “I’m not exactly sure why I’m meeting with you. I don’t know anyone named Russo, but when you said something about going to the Post, I decided to listen to what you had to say. But unless you’re a very stupid man, I’m sure you understand that threatening me is not a wise thing to do. You’re probably going straight from this office to a federal lockup.”