“Stephanie?” he called, getting out of bed. There was no answer. She was not in the bathroom, and her clothes and purse were gone. The clock on the nightstand read a few minutes before five. Where the hell had she gone?
He was pulling on his trousers when a key grated in the door lock. Crossing the room in two strides he snatched up his gun, slipped off the safety and spun around as the door opened.
Stephanie’s figure, backlit by the corridor lights, appeared in the doorway and she slipped inside, stopping in her tracks when she saw that McAllister was out of bed, standing in the middle of the room, the gun in his hand pointed at her.
“Oh,” she said.
McAllister’s heart had jumped into his throat. He lowered the gun with a shaking hand and stepped back. “Christ,” he said. “Where did you go?”
“It’s my father,” she said breathlessly. “I went downstairs to call from the pay phone. But there was no answer.”
“What?”
“David, he should be home. Something has happened to him. Something terrible. I just know it!”
Chapter 18
Robert Highnote was careful with his driving. With all the snow that had fallen in the night the roads at this hour of the morning were extremely slippery. The dawn had brought an uncertain gray light. Traffic was very heavy on the Capital Beltway around the city, and cars still drove with headlights on.
The telephone call he had received a scant hour ago had come as a complete surprise, as had the peremptory tone Paul Innes, the U.S. associate deputy attorney general had used.
“A few of us are getting together for breakfast at my place this morning, Bob. We want to talk to you.”
Highnote hadn’t slept well. He glanced at his bedside clock.
It was barely six. “A hell of a time to be calling. What’s this all about?”
“I won’t discuss this on an open line. But I want you here as soon as possible. We’ve all got extremely tight schedules this morning.”
“I’ll just give Van a quick call…
“Already been done. We’ll be expecting you within the hour.” Van was Howard Van Skike, director of central intelligence. Whatever was going on at Innes’s house this morning had to be very important. “I’ll be there.”
Highnote got off the highway at the U.S. Department of Agriculture Research Center and took Baltimore Avenue south into College Park adjacent to the University of Maryland. A good deal of Washington’s workaday business was conducted at such breakfast meetings. A lot of interservice liaison was accomplished without the red tape attendant to normal office hours meetings. Innes had been the prosecutor on the O’Haire case, and on reflection Highnote had a feeling what this morning’s meeting would be about. He turned off the main road and headed up a long, sloping driveway through the trees. His only questionwas how much Innes knew and who else would be present this morning.
The snow had eased up, but several inches lay on the ground and as Highnote got out of his car in front of the huge three-story colonial house, he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. He turned around as a very large man, dressed in boots and a white parka came around from the side of the house.
“Good morning, sir,” the man called out as he approached. Highnote’s heart skipped a beat. He stood beside the car waiting until the man reached him. FBI was written all over his face and bearing.
“Are you armed, Mr. Highnote?”
The question was extraordinary. “No, of course not.”
“Very good, sir,” the man said glancing into Highnote’s car. “Just go right in, they’re expecting you.” There were no other cars here, though there were tire tracks leading around to the back of the house. Crossing the driveway and mounting the stairs to the front door Highnote had the impression that he was being watched. He rang the doorbell. When he turned around, there was no one behind him.
They were waiting for him in the breakfast room at the rear of the house. Large bay windows looked out over what in summer was a lovely rose garden, sprinkled here and there with a collection of ornately carved marble fountains.
Three men were seated around a glass-topped wrought-iron table.
On the left was Paul Innes, who got to his feet when Highnote entered. “Thanks for coming this morning on such short notice,” Innes said shaking hands. He was a thick-waisted man with pitch-black hair and heavy eyebrows. His grip was firm. Like Highnote he had come out of Harvard, serving with a prestigious New York law firm before becoming assistant district attorney for New York State. He’d served on the bench as a federal judge in the Seventh Circuit before being called to the Justice Department during Reagan’s first year in office. The man was a survivor. He’d been one of the few who had somehow managed the juggling act of appearing to support his boss Edwin Meese while maintaining a very low profile with the news media. Introductions were unnecessary. Highnote knew the other two men very well. Across from Innes was Alvan Reisberg, deputy associate director of the FBI, and during the past six months also acting assistant director of the Bureau’s Special Investigative Division-two hats which he wore exceedingly well. With his nearly obese figure and bottlethick glasses, which gave him a permanently bemused air, he was often mistaken for an academic, when in reality he was the nation’s top investigative officer. He looked up and nodded.
To Innes’s left, opposite the empty chair, was Melvin Quarmby, general counsel for the National Security Agency, and former assistant dean of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Quarmby was almost Spanish in his aristocratic bearing and manner. In addition to his law degree he held Phd’s in physics and chemistry and was said to be a competent electronics engineer and computer expert. He half stood up, holding his napkin in his lap with his left hand, while reaching across the table with his right to shake Highnote’s hand.
“Have you eaten?” Innes asked as they sat down. “Just coffee,” Highnote said, and Quarmby passed the sterling server.
“I’ll be brief, as I expect you gentlemen will be,” Innes began. “I spoke with the President at five o’clock this morning. It was he who suggested this initial meeting.”
“What exactly are we talking about here?” Highnote asked. Innes looked at him cooly. “Before we get started, I want it stated for the record that this meeting is being taped. I want no doubt of that afterward in anyone’s mind.” He turned to Reisberg. “Alvan?”
“Alvan Reisberg, FBI, I understand.”
“Melvin Quarmby, National Security Agency, so advised.” Innes turned again to Highnote.
“Robert Highnote, CIA. I understand these proceedings are being recorded, but I have not yet been advised of the nature of this meeting.”
“Thank you,” Innes said. “This morning the President appointed me as special prosecutor in the matter of David McAllister, a man whom in a manner of speaking you are all familiar with… in Bob’s case, intimately.”
Highnote was stunned. “This has been an internal matter, and it’s a damned sight premature to be talking about prosecution.”
“I can’t agree,” Innes said. “Especially in light of what happened last night.”
“You’ve obviously seen my report. We damned near had him. But I think he showed remarkable restraint under the circumstances in avoiding any civilian casualties.”
“We’ll certainly get back to that, Bob. But for now I’m speaking about another incident.” Innes glanced at the NSA man, Quarmby. “This will probably not come as a surprise to you.”
“Like the others, I’m here and I’m listening,” Quarmby said. “Last night James and Liam O’Haire were murdered at the federal penitentiary at Marion, Illinois. Their bodies were found in a trash container ready for shipment off prison grounds. They’d been stabbed at least one hundred times.” Quarmby’s eyebrows rose. “If you understand the significance that act has for the NSA, then I commend you on your range of information.”