Hobson paused and stared at the General, but Wingate did not react. Hobson smiled.
“A lot more microfilm was destroyed in the mid-nineties when the information was upgraded to digital media,” he continued. “I thought that I’d reached the end of the line when the clerk remembered that the Defense Finance and Accounting Service in Indianapolis kept copies of the original pay records on microfilm.”
Hobson shook his head. “I had a hell of a time finding them. The microfilm was in old moldy boxes filled with thousand-foot rolls. My men and I thought we’d go blind, but we finally got the pay records for all ten men.”
“I can’t make heads or tails of these numbers and letters,” Wingate said.
“But you do recognize the names at the top. They’re the same names that Mrs. Vergano read to you, the names you testified under oath rang no bells.”
Hobson placed a document on the table. “This is Carl Rice’s pay record for his time in the army from 1970 until 1985. You should have a copy in that stack.”
Wingate found his copy and stared at it.
“I couldn’t make any sense of this either,” Hobson said, “but I got a subject-matter expert at the DFAS to interpret the code. What’s important is the pay rate for each man. Carl was paid as a captain right after he claimed to have started working for you. And he received hazardous-duty pay, which he would not have received for teaching at the language school. But most important, someone had to authorize the promotion of these men so they could receive the pay increase. On the page for each of these men is a code that authorizes their promotion to captain so they could be paid as captains. The papers promoting these men were with their pay records.”
Hobson pushed them across the table.
“They were all signed by you, General,” Schoonover said.
Wingate looked at the documents but did not touch them.
“Victor, would you step outside?” Schoonover asked.
Hobson got up without a word. As he circled the table, his eyes never left Wingate. The General was pale. He seemed disoriented, like a man awakening from a deep, troubled sleep.
“So, what does Jennings want?” Wingate asked as soon as he and Schoonover were alone.
“He’d love to see you on California’s death row awaiting execution for the murder of Eric Glass. Actually, we both would.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Wingate picked up the papers he’d stacked in a pile. “This jumble of numbers and letters won’t get you anywhere. And neither will testimony from my daughter, the ex-mental patient; or Carl Rice, the mass murderer.”
“Carl passed three polygraphs since we took him into federal custody. Vanessa passed her tests, too.”
“Polygraph evidence isn’t admissible in court.”
Schoonover smiled. “You’re right, but newspaper reporters are. The bail hearing is only in recess. What do you think the papers will print when these documents are admitted into evidence? You’ve testified under oath that you’ve never heard of these men and that you had no contact with Carl after he graduated from high school. Your signature on the pay records proves that you’re lying.”
“These documents are forgeries. Jennings probably had someone from the CIA doctor them.”
“Right, the CIA. That reminds me. Do you remember getting a visit from a CIA agent shortly after Eric Glass was murdered?”
“No.”
Schoonover nodded. “Charles told me you’d deny any knowledge of the meeting, and Gregory Sax, the agent, is dead-the victim of an armed robbery that occurred shortly after Peter Rivera was murdered.”
“Where is this going?”
“Sax was the Unit’s liaison with the White House in 1985. When Vanessa told the police that Carl Rice murdered Eric Glass, Sax knew that a member of the Unit had killed the congressman, and he had a crisis of conscience. He’d been leery of some of the Unit’s missions, but there had always been some sort of national security justification that let him rationalize the assassinations, the drug dealing, and all the other sordid activities in which your men engaged. But Glass’s murder was the last straw. He’s the one who went to President Reagan and told him that the Unit had to be shut down. He’s the man who carried President Reagan’s order to shut down the Unit back to you in 1985. And you really shut it down, didn’t you? You sent those fine soldiers to their deaths. Then you made it look like Carl Rice had murdered Peter Rivera for the codes to the secret fund, but you killed Rivera and took the money, didn’t you?”
“It’s convenient for you that this Sax person and the president he allegedly told about Vanessa’s secret army are dead. Where is this fairy tale going?”
“When Sax was murdered, President Reagan put a bright young CIA agent in charge of a secret investigation of the Unit. The agent was Charles Jennings.”
“Ah, and I suppose that Charles is going to get on TV and tell the world about his secret investigation that just happens to prove that the man who is running against him is a murderer and a thief.”
“You know better than that. But the president knows you’re dirty, Morris. He doesn’t have to be convinced that you betrayed your men in Vietnam, that you stole the millions in the secret fund and used that money to buy into Computex, and that you were behind the murders of Sax, Glass, and Rivera. Unfortunately, with Rice missing and Sax dead, he could never prove anything. Then Carl Rice returned from the dead. And now we have the pay records of men that you swore under oath you didn’t know, with your signature authorizing their promotions to a rank their official files say they never attained.”
“This is all very interesting but I’ve got a statement to make to the press and a plane waiting to take me to Pittsburgh.”
“Use the press conference to announce that you’re dropping out of the race.”
“Not a chance.”
“Then we’ll go public with the pay records, the Justice Department will look into where you got the money you used to finance Computex, and we’ll investigate the plane crash that killed Simeon Brown. With all the negative publicity, you’ll be lucky to get any votes in the primary, and the president will have four more years to make your life hell.”
“This is what happens in banana republics, Ted,” Wingate replied calmly. “The person in power arrests his opposition. If Charles tries that with me, I’ll win the primary in a landslide.”
“You’ll be able to count the votes in jail, if the other prisoners vote to watch the news that night,” Schoonover answered.
Wingate stood up. “I’m calling your bluff, Ted. If you persist with these outrageous demands, I’ll hold a press conference, all right, and I’ll use it to expose the blackmail threats you’ve just made. I’ll have Brendan Kirkpatrick and the Secret Service agents in my guard detail tell the world how the president’s hatchet man insisted on this private meeting. Then I’ll get the best experts money can buy to prove that these documents are false.”
Schoonover smiled. “When I was in ’Nam, we had a name for guys like you who sent other people to die doing their dirty work. We called them REMFs. It’s an acronym that stands for rear-echelon motherfuckers. We despised them, just like I despise you. That’s why I’m going to take great pride in bringing you down.”
Sam Cutler was working on the details of security for an appearance in Madison, Wisconsin, when the General stormed into his hotel suite. Wingate had been calm and self-assured when he spoke to the reporters at his press conference, but he was seething now.
“Sam,” Wingate barked. Cutler cut short his phone conversation and followed the General into the bedroom.
“Has this room been swept?” Wingate asked.
“We can talk,” Cutler assured him.
As he changed into casual clothes for the trip to Pittsburgh, Wingate told Cutler about his meeting with Ted Schoonover.
“The documents can hurt us,” the General said, “but our real problem is Carl Rice. Vanessa knows only what he told her. Carl is the key.”