I knew that. And millions of Americans knew it too. Keith Martin was a well-publicized hero of the Vietnam War. He was one of the few who remained in prominence even after his capture. What was it — three and a half years as a POW? Hard years for any man. When released, they were barely human: weak with sickness and hunger; the wounded badly in need of medical care. All faced emotional adjustments, some needing extended therapy before they could return to normal life in a peacetime society.
I’ve been thrown in jails, confined in grubby, despicable places and treated harshly by guards when a field operation’s gone sour. But I never have had to endure the prolonged mistreatment suffered by those hapless POWs. Still, I felt a distant kinship with those who had led dismal lives in Hanoi’s miserable prison camps. Or those who died there.
Martin was one who survived. Once released, he was not backward about telling how tough it was. He came home with the rank of colonel and used his position to stand up and speak out for the less articulate POWs. Too outspoken for some, he was immediately gagged and taken out of the public limelight. A short time later, however, his career progress continued but with considerable less fanfare.
“We don’t want to be too hasty about this,” cautioned a lean ramrod of a man on Jarrett’s left. “Keith Martin’s too well-known on the Washington scene for us not to try to cover up his absence for as long as possible. If the White House isn’t making a stir about it, maybe we should hold off a little longer. We’re damn lucky to have a man like Martin on the presidential staff where he can exert the kind of influence we need.”
“Yeah,” snarled Bromley. “He’s got a fast act going, but he won’t be giving any encores if we can’t find the son-of-a-bitch. He’s an upstart kid trying to make out like pushy George Custer did until some smart Sioux cut him down to size. I don’t care if Martin is the president’s fair-haired lad; I say we dump him and bring Clyde Burkhardt onto the board in his place.”
General Jarrett’s response surprised everyone, including me. “Do I hear an objection?” he snapped. Before any could be offered he brought his balled fist down hard on the table top. “Done!” he rapped and rose to his feet with alacrity that belied his sixty-one years. It was pretty evident that, with statutory retirement only a few months away, Jarrett didn’t give a damn who sat on the board. He controlled it with an iron hand anyway.
The other generals sprang to their feet. They stood, waiting for the chief of staff to leave the room. The stenographer did. Jarrett held back. He bobbed his head, dismissing the other members of the board. I moved with them.
General Jarrett extended his hand to block my way when I stepped up to pass around him. “You didn’t get much out of that, did you, Mr. Carter?” He did remember me.
I knew I wouldn’t have been monitoring a five-minute, high-level Pentagon conference unless it had significant overtones of interest for the man who had sent me to it. “I presume I heard what my boss wanted me to hear, General.”
My boss is David Hawk, the no-nonsense director and operations chief of AXE, a clandestine intelligence organization with no official charter. Hawk manipulates the obscure, worldwide activities of AXE as deftly as an exacting maestro conducts a well-rehearsed symphony. My employment with AXE had been going on long enough for me to have accumulated enviable seniority, a few scars — none disfiguring — and immense respect for David Hawk. Seniority in AXE is in no way related to length of service. It is more closely associated with survival. I’d reached the point at which Hawk altered my personnel jacket to carry the coded designation of N3. Only field operatives can quality for ‘N’ status. It has never been revealed to me how many N agents AXE has or who N1 and N2 are... or were. I suspect that both of them are dead. In this business, only the desk types can look forward to certain retirement.
“I wouldn’t want you to carry back the wrong impression, Mr. Carter.” Jarrett’s voice was crisp and solemn. “General Martin has his detractors — men of sincere purpose — who cannot accept radical departures from long-standing tradition. In some cases, these very senior officers view Martin as a threat — not to themselves, but to a disciplined establishment.
“Martin is young, daring, and forward. He is a combat-hardened officer, having proved himself under fire and deserving of the rapid promotions he has received. That his family has wealth and wields considerable political clout had nothing to do with his remarkable career progress. In many respects he takes after his uncle, Senator Steadier, whose tough, hawkish stand during the Vietnamese conflict was hotly challenged by Martin. Nevertheless, Keith willingly served his country, fought with outstanding bravery, and was honored for it. Oddly enough, when he was to be presented with the Distinguished Service Cross at an award ceremony conducted at Letterman Army Hospital upon his return from Southeast Asia, Martin refused to accept it from his stepfather who, as you might know, is a retired lieutenant general. Are you familiar with that background?”
“Not in detail, General.”
“I don’t have time to educate you. I’m mentioning this much only to convey to you that General Martin remains something of an enigma to many people. And to ask you to inform Mr. Hawk that he has my complete confidence. Any steps he undertakes in this matter will be both prudent and speedy, I’m sure.”
General Jarrett didn’t give me a chance to confirm that that was the only way Hawk would tackle any assignment. He spun about and strode away.
I was left by myself in the big, quiet room.
There was a lonely, eerie atmosphere about it.
The meeting had been opened and adjourned in such a hurried, ominous manner, I felt that much had been left unsaid.
There must be a reason why General Keith Martin refused to attend a crucial meeting of the Strategic Options Board. I wondered if his truancy had been ordered by the White House.
If the president was involved in prolonging Martin’s absence, some very peculiar skullduggery was going on.
That didn’t seem likely. The whole thing could be a foot-dragging trick by the unpredictable Keith Martin.
I wouldn’t get any answers by standing here daydreaming about the situation.
Hawk was waiting for me to brief him on what had transpired. He’d have some key pieces to fill out the gaps in this crazy puzzle.
Two
Mid-morning traffic crossing Arlington Memorial Bridge into the District was light and not much heavier going north on 23rd Street. I branched off onto New Hampshire Avenue at Washington Circle. Street repairs on Connecticut Avenue near the underpass reduced traffic around DuPont Circle to one lane.
I tucked my car into the reserved space kept for me in the basement garage of the DuPont Plaza Hotel. Using the emergency fire door to reach the alley, I walked clockwise halfway around the Circle and passed the Iraqi and Nigerian embassies. It was a quiet morning.
The first alphabetical listing on the directory in the lobby of the Hatterman Building is Alliance for Peace located in Suite 514. I always suspected that was a front for something else. The second listing is Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. That looks legit, but it isn’t. It’s the cover name for AXE which occupies most of the third floor.
The reception room was empty. It normally is. Very little AXE activity is carried on out in the open. Right after I entered, a familiar voice boomed out over a concealed loudspeaker. “Come right in, Nick. My door’s open.”