“Sir,” DeMarco said-he couldn’t help but call him sir-“I’d just like you to listen to two recordings. May I play them please?”
Bradford nodded his head, his pale eyes boring into DeMarco’s. Bradford’s eyes had as much warmth as the point of an ice pick.
When the radio intercept of Paul Russo being killed was finished, Bradford frowned and said, “I have no idea what all that was about, all that carrier and messenger nonsense.”
DeMarco didn’t bother to respond to Bradford’s denial. All he said was, “Now I’ll play the second recording, the one made by General Breed before he died.”
DeMarco saw it: Bradford’s eyes widened in surprise, just for an instant, and he rocked back in his chair. The fact that DeMarco had in his possession a recording made by Breed not only surprised Bradford, it hit him hard.
DeMarco tapped the play button on the recorder, and the voice of a dead general filled the room.
Thomas, this is about things I did for Charles during my career. I know when you hear this you’re going to be disappointed in me.
Bradford listened to the recording without any further evidence of emotion. He just sat, his face impassive, his eyes hooded, his big hands steepled under his chin. When DeMarco hit the stop button, Bradford didn’t say anything for a moment.
“DeMarco, it seems to me that you didn’t think this blackmail scheme through very well.”
“General, I’m not trying to black-”
“That first recording, the one with all the messenger-carrier stuff, there’s nothing on it that makes it clear what those men were talking about, much less any connection to me. Regarding the recording you claim is General Breed speaking-and by the way, I think you’re despicable for trying to soil Martin’s name-the recording doesn’t mention me by name, it only refers to someone named Charles.”
“You’re the Charles he’s referring to,” DeMarco said.
“Really?” Bradford said. “Do you know there’s a General Charles Paulson, the four-star at CENTCOM, and that Martin once worked for him? And I’m sure you know Congressman Charles Mallory. He sits on the House Appropriations Committee, and he and Martin attended West Point together. And do you know Charles… Oh, never mind. I think I’ve made my point.”
“Sir,” DeMarco said, “you can save all that for your court-martial.”
Bradford’s face reddened at DeMarco’s impertinence and he put his hands on the edge of his desk to stand up, but before he could, DeMarco continued, “There’s something else you need to know. The man speaking on the first recording, the one controlling the operation, is a man named John Levy. Levy works for you, and a couple of nights ago he tried to kill me at a park in Falls Church. Several people saw him shoot me in the back and the only reason I’m not dead is because I wore a vest. What I’m saying is that Levy is finished. He’ll be arrested for Paul Russo’s murder and for attempted murder, and when he’s arrested, he’ll admit he was working for you.”
“Who are you working for, DeMarco?”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that other people know the same things I know. The recordings you heard are copies of the originals.”
“Then why don’t you go to the media with all this? Why haven’t you told those fools in Congress? And why haven’t you arrested this man Levy?”
“Because exposing you would be bad for the country, sir. We don’t want the rest of the world to know an American general controls a group of assassins and runs around killing whoever he thinks represents a threat.”
“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Bradford snapped. “People like you-” But then he stopped. “What do you want?”
“We want you to resign, sir.”
“Resign? Why you pissant. If you think I’ll give into this sort of blackmail-”
“Sir, these recording are authentic. And I don’t care if there are a million guys named Charles, you’re the Charles on General Breed’s tape.” DeMarco stood up. “I’m leaving now, but if I don’t read in tomorrow’s paper that you’re resigning, Levy will be arrested and made to confess. And then everything we have will go to the media and the fools in Congress you mentioned. We don’t want to do that, but we will.”
DeMarco didn’t think Bradford was going to let him leave. He figured the security guys who had frisked him were going to slap handcuffs on his wrists and toss him into a cell in the basement of the Pentagon. Fortunately, they didn’t.
As he was leaving Bradford’s office, he looked down at the button lying under the chair where he’d been sitting.
38
DeMarco walked slowly through the Pentagon parking lot and got into his car, but he didn’t start the engine. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. And he wondered, although at this point it was the least of his problems, if he’d committed a crime by planting an NSA eavesdropping device in Bradford’s office. Probably.
“You did a good job, Joe.”
DeMarco jerked like he’d been goosed. That damn Dillon had rigged up a speaker in the car so he could talk to DeMarco.
“So what are you going to do when Bradford doesn’t resign?” DeMarco said.
Dillon didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, “I’d like you to return to the safe house in Maryland, Joe. Do you know how to get there?”
“Yeah,” DeMarco said, but he was wondering what would happen if he just made a run for it. But then he thought: a run to where? Where could he run to that Dillon couldn’t find him? His next thought was that maybe the safe house was actually the best place for him to be. Bradford had tried to kill him once and now that he’d stuck his finger directly into the man’s eye, there was a good chance he might try to kill him again.
“Good,” Dillon said. “Then drive back to the safe house. I want you off the street.”
DeMarco crossed the Key Bridge into the District and then wound his way to New York Avenue. It would have been faster to take the beltway back to the safe house, but he wasn’t in any rush. As he drove, he wondered how many people were following him. A whole bunch, would be his guess. Alice and her NSA pals, and maybe a few of Bradford’s people had joined the procession. The whole time he was driving, one question occupied his brain: What the hell was Dillon really doing?
There was no way Bradford was going to resign. Just five minutes with the guy, and DeMarco could tell. Bradford was going to fight back, somehow, someway.
But what the hell was Dillon up to? About the only thing Dillon had told him that he believed was that Dillon didn’t want to expose Bradford, and DeMarco believed this for one simple reason: for the old spy to expose Bradford, he’d have to expose himself. But Dillon had to know Bradford wasn’t going to resign. All Dillon had done by playing the recordings for Bradford was tip his hand. Bradford now knew everything Dillon knew.
So what was Dillon doing?
DeMarco didn’t have a clue.
As DeMarco continued to drive toward Maryland, random thoughts bounced around inside his brain. He wondered how Mahoney was faring. Had it not been for Dillon, he would have called Mary Pat again to ask, but he didn’t want to do that now. If he called, Dillon would know and then he might figure out DeMarco’s real relationship to Mahoney and find a way to exploit the situation. And what was the point of calling? Hell, Mahoney was going to be all right. Nothing could kill the bastard. In a day or two, he’d be sitting up in his hospital bed eyeing the derriere of every passing nurse.
He thought for a moment about his kitchen; he’d missed the appointment with the contractor who was supposed to give him a repair estimate. Assuming he lived through this thing with Dillon and Bradford, he still had a fight with his insurance company to look forward to.