A slippery, scheming political operator, Thrailkill had literally inherited his seat. His father had arranged the appointment with the governor before stepping down after twenty-four years in the Senate. Thrailkill was the B-2's most vocal and strident opponent. Wing could still hear the goading voice ringing in his ear the previous night.
Patton had sat in his study, deep into a book on General H. H. "Hap" Arnold, wartime chief of the Army Air Forces, when the phone rang. The shrill sound in the dark, silent house startled him. It was after eleven o'clock. It was not the distinctive tone of the red phone, the direct line to the Pentagon, so he knew it was the commercial line. Who would be calling at this hour? He thought of the baby. Had something happened to him? Victoria was in Richmond doting over their three-week-old grandson. The tyke's father was a CPA, of all things. A number cruncher. Hopefully the boy would grow up to carry on the family military tradition.
"Patton," he barked into the phone.
"Good evening, General Patton," said the syrupy voice of Senator Thrailkill. "I hope I'm not disturbing anything."
"I had just gotten to sleep," the General lied, hoping it might strike a remorseful chord.
It didn't.
"I thought you should know that one of my contacts has turned up something quite interesting, General."
"It should be terribly interesting to warrant rousting me out of bed, Senator."
"Well, it isn't exactly a bedtime story."
"Then what is it?" With most senators, he would use the respectful term "sir." Not with Thrailkill. He detested everything about the man, from the way he dressed to the way he talked to the way he combed his hair. Thrailkill was one of those people who used your name in every breath in an attempt to impress you. To Patton it sounded like a crutch to prop up a faulty memory.
"It seems, Philip, that there is a large block of stock in Western Aircraft Corporation," said the senator, dragging his words out for dramatic effect, "registered in the name of the WP Retirement Trust."
Patton hated him for so casually using his first name, as if they were friends. But he was much more disturbed by the message. Western Aircraft was the prime contractor for the Air Force's XTF — Experimental Tactical Fighter. The company stood to make billions if the design won final approval and was put into production. Wing had purchased the stock through the trust at a sizeable discount. It was a blatant conflict of interest, of course, but the type of insider deal he had learned from his father-in-law's cronies. "Don't just depend on your Air Force pension," General Strong had warned.
Wing fought to keep his voice calm, attempting to sound disinterested. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
"'WP' could very well stand for Wing Patton, don't you think?"
"No, I don't," Patton snapped. "Why should you?"
"Simple, Philip. I understand the trustee is Walker Holland, your attorney."
The air conditioner was working well, but the General found that he was beginning to sweat. This simply could not be happening. "It sounds like someone has been leading you astray, Senator. I know nothing about this."
"Well, General Patton, I should know a good deal more about it after talking to my source tomorrow. Just thought you'd like to sleep on it. I'm a reasonable man. All you need do is remove that exhorbitantly expensive stealth bomber from your funding request, and your little secret will remain our little secret." He paused for a moment. "Pity, a thing like this could wreck a man's career."
As soon as he hung up, Patton called Walker Holland, who, it appeared, actually had already gone to bed. The lawyer's wife answered. By the time her husband came on the line, Wing's blood was pumping in overdrive.
"I just had a call from Senator Thrailkill," he said, breathing heavily. "The bastard knows about the WP Retirement Trust. You said it couldn't be traced to me."
"Correction, General. I said it would be almost impossible to trace it to you."
"Then how the hell did he—"
"Slow down. Think a moment. Did he say they had traced it to you, or was he just on a fishing expedition?"
Wing thought back to what Thrailkill had said. "Well, he didn't actually say they had traced it. Just that the WP looked like it could stand for Wing Patton. And that the trustee was my attorney."
"He's speculating. I had a call this evening from an investigative reporter. He was no doubt Thrailkill's source. The reporter asked if the WP in the name of that trust meant Wing Patton. I told him I had a rule of neither confirming nor denying anything about any client. I also pointed out that I was forbidden to reveal anything about that particular trust by a privacy provision in the trust agreement."
"Then it's true? There's no way they can trace it to me?"
"If the trust were involved in litigation, a judge could order me to reveal the beneficiary. Other than that, you're pretty safe. The trust income is paid into a numbered account at a bank on the Isle of Man. The bank invests the money in mutual funds in Austria."
"So what if Thrailkill calls again?" Wing asked.
"Deny everything."
Despite the lawyer's assurance, Patton did not sleep well. Which was as Thrailkill had intended.
At Senator Weesner's office, the General was greeted by a fresh-faced young woman who looked all of twenty or twenty-one. Like most members of Congress, Weesner staffed his office largely with bright young people just out of college or on hiatus from the books.
"The Senator is still tied up with a delegation from Chicago, General," the attractive blonde informed him with a friendly smile. "He said he would be with you as quickly as possible. Could I get you some coffee?"
"No, thanks," Patton replied and took a seat in one of the plush leather chairs. He picked up a magazine but did not even notice the name on the cover. His thoughts had already drifted to the subject of the NSC meeting he had just finished, to the operation that would get under way this afternoon. Easy Street. He wondered who the hell had the gall to pick that name? Sending a Special Operations helicopter deep inside Iran to fly out a defecting official of the revolutionary Islamic government was not his idea of anything easy. It was not a recommendation he had made lightly, of course, nor one the Commander in Chief had approved without great soul-searching. Hovering in the background was the specter of President Carter's disastrous hostage rescue effort back in 1980. But the technology today was worlds ahead of that fateful era. The spec ops people had certified the mission's feasibility. What had undoubtedly tipped the balance in the Oval Office was the swelling media chorus. In the wake of his success in the Persian Gulf War, the President was under intense pressure to get the American hostages out of Lebanon.
The possibilities for a diplomatic solution appeared to have been exhausted. Efforts by the United Nations Secretary-General and the Israelis had brought nothing from the Hezballah captors but tantalizing photos, videotapes and rumors. Had someone in the White House possessed a good reliable crystal ball, the subsequent tragedy could have been avoided. But dependable crystal balls had always been in short supply inside the Beltway. With the world in a state of unpredictable disarray, no one foresaw the course of events that would lead to the hostages' eventual release before Christmas.
Word had come through a CIA contact that Mostafa Nazari, Iran's chief liaison with the Lebanese terrorists, wanted to defect to the U.S. He knew exactly where the hostages were being held. He had been the conduit for their captors' payoffs. In seeking to defect, he was acting out of the purest of motives, self-preservation. His brother had made the fatal error of speaking out against some of the excesses of the fundamentalists. A hardline mullah had ordered him put to death. When Nazari protested, he received a blunt warning that he could be silenced just as easily. It was obvious the time had come to bring down the curtain and quietly exit the stage.