Allington swung his chair around toward the window, then back, as he asked, "Commander, is there any evidence Admiral Morelli knew Donovan personally, I mean, beyond Navy business?"
Grant shook his head slowly and responded, "No, sir. I haven't been able to find any evidence of that. It's my belief that he was never aware of Donovan being the mole. That's just the way the Russians operate, sir — on a need to know basis." He paused, running a hand across his forehead. "After Senior Chief Adler and I had the confrontation with the Russian commandos aboard the Bronson, I was positive it went beyond Donovan, and… I… started pulling out incidents, faces, trying to make a connection.
“I gave certain information to Commander Simmons to pass along to the admiral, leaving out significant details. Then, when I parachuted onto the trawler, I can tell you that the Russians were waiting — they knew someone was coming. I tried to dig out more info from Vernichenko. His response to my saying we took care of the mole was that 'even though one cuts off the head of a snake, you still don't know how far the body stretches'." Grant hesitated, allowing the two men to absorb his words.
Allington pressed his palms together, resting his chin on his fingertips. "Why would he take such a risk, Commander? Why would a man with his background, his rank, throw it all away to betray his country?"
Grant sat on the edge of the chair. He rubbed his temple, feeling the roughness of the stitches against his fingertips, and he shook his head, responding, "I can't answer that, sir."
"You can't answer that, Commander?" Wooster asked in a sarcastic, thunderous voice. "You're accusing the Chief of Naval Investigative Service, a United States Navy admiral, of treason, and you can't answer?"
"Sir, right now I can only tell you that putting the facts together, it makes sense to me."
Adler blinked, catching the comment, thinking to himself, Ouch! Be careful, sir. He tried to be inconspicuous as he wiped perspiration from his upper lip.
Grant stood again. "Sirs, the only way I can prove it is to confront the admiral."
Wooster tapped his finger against his mouth. "And don't you also mean possibly 'disprove', Commander?"
Grant nodded. "Sir, if I'm wrong, my resignation will be on your desk by tomorrow. I'll make a public apology to the admiral." He lowered his head, saying quietly, "But I don't think I'm wrong, sir." He jerked his head up, staring at Allington. "Sir, this isn't easy for me. I'm the last one you'll ever meet who wants any of this to be true. I've agonized over this, sir."
Allington focused his eyes on Adler, sitting quietly, staring at Grant. Adler was the only one who understood what Grant was going through, and he nodded.
Grant walked closer to the SecDef. "If I face him, sir, I'll know… we'll all know one way or other."
Wooster slapped the arm of the upholstered wing chair. "Goddammit, Commander! You know and I know that a public apology or your resignation won't be near enough if you're wrong. The whole Navy will take a hit. How would you repair Morelli's career after the word leaks… and it will leak, you know."
"What you're really asking, sir, is if I'm wrong, how would I explain this to the President."
Wooster sat back, resting his forefinger against his long, thin nose, rubbing an imaginary itch. "Something like that." He rose from the chair slowly. "Look, you'd better be right, Stevens, 'cause a wrong answer from Morelli, and we'll nail your salty ass to a yardarm. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"
Grant brought himself to attention. "Yes, sir… crystal clear, sir." Grant was somewhat insulted by the National Security Advisor's skepticism, but knew he was a long-time fan of Morelli's and was instrumental in securing his appointment at NIS.
Allington was clearly unprepared for the conversation and accusations that had just been thrown around the room. But for whatever reason, there was something about Grant Stevens, making him positive that a resignation wouldn't be a forthcoming event. "Uh, Commander, you do what you have to do. Call me the minute your meeting is over."
"Yes, sir."
The SecDef walked around from behind his desk. "Commander, if you have to call the admiral's office to tell him you're on your way, you can use the phone in the outer office."
"No need, sir. I directed Commander Simmons to send word to him after Senior Chief Adler and I left the carrier, advising the admiral we'd be back sometime today."
Adler sat quietly throughout most of the proceeding. As he stood, Allington walked over to him. "Senior Chief, Commander Stevens had some very good words about you. We thank you for everything you did."
Adler stood tall. "Thank you, sir." He nodded toward Grant. "And Commander Stevens."
"Commander Stevens!" Petty Officer Gardner slammed the file cabinet drawer next to him. "Welcome back, sir."
"Thanks, Alex." Grant removed his coat and laid it over the back of the chair. He motioned in Adler's direction. "This is Senior Chief Adler." Hardly pausing, he asked, "Is the admiral in?"
"Yes, sir. Let me tell him you're here." Gardner disappeared behind the office door.
Grant put his cap on the edge of the desk, then looked up at Adler. "Joe,—"
"I'll wait for you out here, sir."
Gardner held the door open. "Commander, the admiral will see you."
Grant gave a quick sideways look at Adler before he walked into the office. Once behind the closed door, Grant stared hard at his long-time friend, taking a few steps closer to the desk. He saluted. "Sir."
Morelli stood and returned Grant's salute, then he came from behind his desk. He reached out to shake Grant's hand. "You did a remarkable job, Commander."
"Thank you, sir."
"How are you feeling?" he asked as he pointed to the stitches.
Grant stood at ease, bringing his arms behind his back. "I… I'm fine, sir."
Morelli looked toward his office door, then back at Grant. "Is Senior Chief Adler with you?"
"Yes, sir, he is."
"Hmm. Commander Simmons informed me the senior chief was injured."
"Yes, sir, he was. He took a bullet in the shoulder. But he'll be okay, sir."
"Good. Good." Morelli turned away, then picked up his cigar before sitting behind the desk. "Well, Grant, I know you have something on your mind. Talk to me."
Grant stepped closer to the desk that he and Morelli had so many conversations across. He looked directly into Gene Morelli's bloodshot eyes. "I'm right, aren't I, sir?" What seemed like a few very long, agonizing seconds passed as the two men stared at each other. "Christ! I'm right," Grant said with affirmation, his voice trailing off. Morelli inhaled a lungful of smoke-filled air, a vacant stare in his eyes.
Grant stood rigid, his arms stiff by his sides. His head was throbbing. He couldn't remember a time he'd felt so confused, so disillusioned. He massaged his temple as he walked to the window with Morelli watching him. Turning suddenly, he blurted out, "It started when you approached Vernichenko during the Moscow conference, didn't it?"
Morelli shook his head ever so slightly. "I had a contact right here at the Russian Embassy. That was the beginning." He tilted his head and ran a finger up and down behind his ear. When he spoke it was more like a man astonished, not like one being a braggart or pretentious. "It was so easy, Grant. All our security measures, intel, background checks… they all meant squat. It was so very easy."
Grant could guess how Morelli managed to defy the intelligence networks, how he passed the information, but he wanted to know more. "Why? Why, sir? How the hell could you do it?" For a brief moment he noticed a softening around Morelli's eyes, his face relaxing. Immediately, Grant knew and he stepped back, staring at Morelli through squinted eyes. "Your son? Because of what happened to Jimmy?"