Gallows Pole, page 8
“Yes, sir,” Rusk said. He put down the coffee cup and left the room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The CEO of NextGen was a short, wiry, fortyish man with prematurely gray hair. He wore casual slacks and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a habit of drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair in intricate patterns that seemed never to repeat: index-ring-index-pinkie-pinkie-middle-thumb index, and on and on. In any normal interviewee, Melissa would have assumed that the mannerism indicated extreme nervousness. But, as her background research had shown, Charles “Chaz” Leavitt was not normal. Not anywhere near. He slept, several business journals had reported breathlessly, three hours or less a night, often sleeping at a private, Spartan apartment he kept on the campus of NextGen headquarters. He routinely worked sixteen-hour days and ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at his desk. He was the sort of prodigy for whom the term “wunderkind” was quickly overused to the point of nausea. He was the youngest CEO ever of a major pharmaceutical company, and his manner showed everyone around him that he damn well knew how special that made him. But, she had to admit, he had a certain charisma. In some ways he reminded her of Bishop, except where Bishop’s confidence was quiet, rock-solid, Leavitt’s was incandescent. You caught the fire of his enthusiasm just by being close to it.
“You gotta understand,” Leavitt was saying in his rapid-fire, staccato cadence, “We did nothing wrong. Nothing. Everything by the book.”
She gave him a smile. “You’re not known for doing things by the book, Mr. Leavitt.”
He gave her the smile back, with equal sincerity, which is to say, none at all. “Hah. Yeah. Good point.”
“Chaz,” the company lawyer said warningly. It had taken several days to get this meeting set up, and she had the feeling if it had been up to him, it never would have happened at all.
Unlike his boss, Arnold Benning was dressed in an expensive suit, shoes that probably cost as much as Melissa’s whole wardrobe, cufflinks just so. According to his background check, he was in his fifties, but Melissa would have taken him for sixty at least. She supposed trying to keep Leavitt in check could age any man.
Collette spoke up. “We’re not looking to prosecute, Mr. Leavitt,” he said. In contrast to the usual intimidating demeanor he used in interrogation, Collette sounded humble, almost starstruck. Like Melissa, he’d immediately picked on Leavitt’s weakness: his ego. “We’re just trying to understand. This is all kind of beyond us. Me at least.” He chuckled apologetically. “Heck, I barely passed freshman chemistry. If I hadn’t been on the football team, I probably wouldn’t have. So…can you help us out? Tell us about Lot Seventeen. In,” he chuckled again, “small words.”
Oh, good one, Dave, Melissa thought. Leavitt was the classic boy genius, and he’d probably suffered for it in high school and college at the hands of guys who’d looked a lot like Dave Collette. He wouldn’t be able to resist telling the big dumb jock how smart he was. It was complete bullshit on Collette’s part; he’d graduated summa cum laude from Stanford, with a major in organic chemistry, and his sports career hadn’t gone beyond intramurals.
Benning saw the gambit and moved forward as if to physically stop Leavitt, but there was no way the little man was going to refuse the bait.
“Seventeen was Rutledge’s baby,” he said. “And I knew from the start it was a dead end. It was a benzodiazpene derivative, like Flunitrazepam.” He saw Collette’s expression and mistook it for puzzlement. “You know, Rohypnol. Roofies.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “The ‘date rape’ drug.”
Melissa watched Collette closely. One of the first cases they’d worked on together was that of a serial rapist in the DC area who’d been suspected of slipping Rohypnol into his victims’ drinks to subdue them. One of the girls assaulted had been the daughter of a US Senator. Collette had pursued the case with a single-mindedness that sometimes seemed almost obsessive. Finally, one night over after-work drinks, she’d asked him what was bugging him. He’d told her his sister had been raped in college by someone who’d slipped someone into her drink at a party. His sister’s rapist had never been caught. But, he swore to her, he could maintain his perspective. And he had. Together, they’d helped track the rapist through his supplier and build an airtight case that’d put him away for a long, long time. But the mention of Rohypnol had dropped a blankness across Collette’s face that only Melissa recognized as ominous. She jumped in.
“So this…Lot Seventeen…was like Rohypnol?”
He smiled at her indulgently. “Sweetheart,” he said, “This stuff would make Rohypnol look like decaf latte. Which is why I shitcanned it. Our job was to come up with a drug to make bad guys talk, not get sociopaths laid.”
Melissa ignored the condescension. “What about non-sexual uses?” she asked. “Like subduing prisoners? Making them more pliable.”
He nodded. “It might have some uses in that arena,” he said, “But the dissociative and suggestibility effects were too short-term. An hour, tops. I decided that the liability issues were too great. I don’t need this stuff out there. With no real clinical application, it’d be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“What about the government?” Collette said. “Did they show any interest in it?”
Leavitt looked away. “We told them it wasn’t part of the contract,” he said. “We stopped making it.” The finger-tapping went on. Index-index-thumb-ring-middle-ring-middle.
He’s hiding something, Melissa thought. She decided to take another tack. “How did Dr. Rutledge feel about the termination of the project?”
“We didn’t terminate the project,” Leavitt said. “We just got it back on track.” He shrugged. “Rutledge was never much of a team player.”
“Could Rutledge be making Lot Seventeen? Somewhere else?”
Leavitt’s face darkened. “He’d better not be. We’ve got some pretty airtight non-compete and non-disclosure contracts.” He looked at Benning. “Right, Arnie?”
Benning nodded. “And he’s already been warned.”
Leavitt turned to Melissa with a satisfied look. “See? He’s…” he stopped, turned back to Benning. “Wait. Rutledge has been warned about making Lot Seventeen?”
Benning looked uncomfortable. “Well, not in so many words. But we just wanted to be sure. So we sent him a letter.”
“And why,” Leavitt asked, suddenly going very still, “Did you think it was necessary to send Rutledge one of your famous stern letters?”
Benning was starting to sweat. “Nothing, really,” he said.
Leavitt had stopped the incessant tapping of his fingers. “Really,” he said.
“Mr. Benning,” Collette said, and the amiable-jock persona was gone. “Did you have some reason to believe that Dr. Rutledge was manufacturing Lot Seventeen for someone else? Another company, maybe?”
“He wouldn’t need another corporate facility,” Leavitt said grimly. “If you know the formula and can get the precursor chemicals, you can make the stuff in a reasonably well-equipped college chemistry lab.” He turned to Benning. “God DAMN it, Arnie!” he snapped. “Why the FUCK wasn’t I informed of this?”
Benning turned to Melissa, a stricken expression on his face. “Agent Saxon.” he said, “Can I have a moment alone with Mr…”
“No,” she said.
“We’re going to need a list of the precursor chemicals, and who supplies them,” Collette told Leavitt.
“You got it,” Leavitt said. “Make it happen.”
“Chaz…” Benning said.
“You’re on thin fucking ice, Arnie,” Leavitt said. “I’d quit trying to skate if I were you.” He turned to Melissa. “Close of business tomorrow soon enough?”
I hope so, Melissa thought. “As soon as you can get it to us, Mr. Leavitt.”
Leavitt nodded. He got up and left the room, Benning trailed in his wake, no longer looking quite so composed and put together.
“Looks like we need to talk with Rutledge,” said Collette.
“Looks like.”
“You want to wait till we get the lists from NextGen?”
She shook her head. She could feel the presence of the Hangman out there, like the rumble of a distant thunderstorm, building up to break over some unsuspecting family.
She took out her cell phone. “Let’s see what Parr has for us.”
Parr picked up on the first ring. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey. What have you got on Rutledge?”
“He’s hinky,” Parr replied. “I can feel it.”
“I’m more interested in what you know,” Melissa said.
Parr sounded abashed. “Okay, he left NextGen, or was fired, a year and a half ago. I can’t see that he’s worked since. But he’s current on his mortgage, his car payments, and the tuition for his daughter’s private school.”
“Could mean he’s invested well. Or saved his money.”
“Haven’t been able to get into his bank records. Yet.” Parr said. “Give me another couple hours. But here’s the thing. His power bills are incredible.”
That got Melissa’s attention. Drug growers often gave themselves away because the lights they used to cultivate marijuana indoors used so much electricity that it attracted notice. She thought of Leavitt’s statement: you can make the stuff in a reasonably well-equipped college chemistry lab. Maybe the equipment needed to make something like Lot Seventeen would draw a similar amount of power.
“You think it’s enough for a search warrant?” Parr said.
“No,” Melissa said, “But I think it’s enough to go ask Dr. Rutledge a few questions, since he hasn’t bothered calling me back.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The man was waiting for Bache at the gate as she got off the plane, just as she’d been promised. He must have had extraordinary access to get be able to walk through the security at ReaganInternationalAirport. There was nothing outwardly extraordinary about him, however; he was a thoroughly nondescript little man, and she wouldn’t have even noticed him had he not been clearly looking for her as she debarked. She paused a moment to adjust the strap of her shoulder bag.
“Oberst Bache,” the man at the gate said, stepping over and extending a hand. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” he went on in perfect German. “My name is Rusk.”
“Danke, Herr Rusk,” she answered, then switched to English. “But the rank, I’m afraid, no longer applies. I am a simple civilian now.”
“My employer is disturbed by the injustices in that,” Rusk said. “As am I.” He looked around. “But we can discuss these matters in the car.”
“My bags…” she began.
“Are already being retrieved,” Rusk said. “Come with me, please.”
The car was a stretch limousine, with rich leather seats and deep pile carpet. The privacy screen between the passenger compartment and the driver’s seat was already raised. Campbell was waiting for her inside. A leather briefcase rested at his feet. He leaned forward to take her hand.
“Colonel Bache,” he said. “An honor, madam.”
“So your man said,” she smiled. She looked around. Rusk had disappeared. She frowned slightly at that.
“Mr. Rusk is making arrangements for the other team members’ arrival, Colonel,” Campbell said, “But I wanted to meet you personally, and extend my warmest welcome.” He gestured at the wet bar at one side of the compartment. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you,” she said. Despite Campbell‘s courtesy, she was still cautious. She hadn’t yet joined any team, and she didn’t care for the feeling that she was being dragooned into one. Still, there was no harm in being polite back. “It is an honor to meet you as well, Herr Campbell,” she said. “Your own reputation precedes you.”
She gestured at the opulent interior. “You seem to be doing well. Stretch limousines, first class airline tickets…it must mean,” she smiled, “that you are no longer in government service.”
“On the contrary,” Campbell said. “I’m still serving my country. And the common interests of all civilized nations.” He smiled back. “I’ve just been lucky enough to arrange things to allow me more freedom of action in doing so.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain shipment of American cash missing in Iraq?” She watched him carefully to see his reaction, but he only smiled and lifted his hand to her in salute. “That, Colonel,” he said “is why GSG-9 wasted one of its best talents when they let you go.”
“On second thought,” she said, “I will have that drink.”
He reached over, took out two glasses, and poured a finger of Scotch into each. He raised his glass. “Yours is one of the best minds in the anti-terrorist field. Analysis, planning, operations…you have done it all, and brilliantly. You are particularly skilled in psychological analysis. And, according to your dossier, you’re not afraid to get your own hands dirty. Or to take aggressive measures if necessary.”
“Thank you,” she said, the flattery making her more suspicious. “But my superiors apparently did not agree.”
“That wasn’t it, and we both know it. They did not approve of your politics.”
She looked up, eyes blazing, her control slipping for the first time. “Politics?” she almost spat the word. “We were trying to save Germany.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Colonel,” Campbell said mildly. “My country has the same troubles with immigrants that your Order of the Black Sun was attempting to warn your countrymen about. It was short-sighted, at best, to ban an entire political party because of a few rash statements by its leaders. Or a few injudiciously displayed swastikas.” He leaned forward. “And it was criminally stupid,” he went on, “to relieve an experienced and talented operative of her duties,” he leaned heavily on the last word, “for holding unpopular opinions.” He leaned back in his seat, took another sip of his Scotch. “You belong back in the game, Colonel Bache. Doing what you do best. Hunting down and eliminating threats to civilization.”
She studied his face. His own mask of calm affability had slipped somewhat. She could sense the banked fires behind his eyes and was intrigued. She felt the same fire.
“I’m listening,” she said.
He nodded and reached into the briefcase. “These potential members of a team I’m putting together,” he said, handing her a file folder. “Do you know them?”
She took the folder and leafed through it. “I know Udovin and Dawes,” she said. She pulled out a photograph and frowned. “This man looks familiar,” she said. “But I can’t place him.”
“Lieutenant Paul Woodward,” he said. “Formerly of Delta Force.”
“The one who was accused of killing civilians in Iraq?”
“Accused is the operative word,” Campbell said. “And as for civilians, well, that’s often a matter of opinion, isn’t it?”
“Your Army apparently felt that…”
“Certain people in the Defense Department,” Campbell said, “Needed a scapegoat. A sacrificial lamb to toss to the leftists in Congress. So they prosecuted a good soldier, a highly trained anti-terrorist operative, for doing his duty.”
“I seem to remember reports of children among the dead,” she murmured.
“Collateral damage,” he snapped back. “And terrorist activity in that sector dropped off to nothing after the incident.”
“Merely playing Devil’s Advocate, Herr Campbell,” she smiled.
He relaxed. “I understand,” he said. “Forgive me. Injustice makes me angry.”
“And I as well.” She closed the folder. “So,” she said. “What next?”
“Now we go to my home,” he said. “After dinner, we meet with the other potential members of the team. We see what develops. From what you know, do you think you can work with these people?”
She opened the folder again, pursed her lips. “Udovin is a bit of an eccentric,” she said. “But he brings a wealth of technical knowledge.”
“Can you work with a Russian?” Campbell said, watching her closely.
She shrugged. “Better a Slav than a Jew, I suppose.”
“What about Dawes?”
She grimaced. “Dawes is a pig. But he fights well. And he’s an excellent shot. I can deal with him,”
“There’s one name not in the folder,” Campbell said. “Another potential.”
“Who?”
“Colonel Mark Bishop.”
She sat back. “I thought Bishop had retired.”
He looked at her appraisingly. A look had crossed her coldly beautiful face at the mention of Bishop’s name. That intrigued him. “We’ve located him. And I’m going to ask him to work with us.”
“He’s difficult,” she said.
“Most honorable men are. But if Bishop can be persuaded, the rest of the former members of Iron Horse come with him.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then they become a liability, and the new team’s first mission will be to remove it.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“If it were easy,” he said. “I wouldn’t have called you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“All of you are here,” Campbell said, “for two reasons.”
He looked around the living room. Bache was seated in one of the antique chairs, next to the empty fireplace. Dawes, a squat, broad man with a shaved head and a nose that looked as if it had been repeatedly broken, slouched insolently on the couch. A taller, lanky man with the cadaverous face of an undertaker and the dead eyes of a man who’d killed too many times sat next to him. That was Udovin, formerly of Russia‘s Federal Security Service. Woodward stood by the window, looking out towards the mountains in the distance. He was easily the largest man Campbell had ever seen, at least seven feet tall, and as broad-shouldered as a lumberjack. His strength and ferocity were legendary, as was his temper. Campbell hoped he could keep him in check; he had had to pull a lot of strings to get the man early release from a military prison.
