BACK    LANDER

Page 17.

Lieutenant Colonel Rick Bellamy’s office was on the 12th floor of Tower 3. Bellamy, the Provost Marshal on location, was an amiable man of 40, tall and sandy-haired. “Come on in, Captain,” he said. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee. Have you seen the view from here?”

Bellamy’s corner office had two large windows, one overlooking the lobby and looking toward the middle tower, the other window overlooking the domed meeting hall and, beyond that, a southeasterly view toward the centers of government. “There’s the White House,” he said. David noted the Washington Monument obelisk with its winking red light, the highest point in the capital. He saw the Capitol dome, museums on the Mall, and farther monumental structures beyond, lost in haze.

“Sir, can we get into Top Five?”

Bellamy frowned. “That would be the top five floors of this building. General Montclair’s headquarters. Off-limits to everyone but General Montclair and his crackerjack troops. I was there a few days ago and got thrown out. My first and only time. Why?”

David sipped his coffee. “I need the recordings of Mary Corcoran’s conversation with Chaplain’s Assistant Duester. Top Five came and took them.”

“I know. It’s a tough situation. I’m supposed to be the top cop here, and they bypassed me completely.”

“Too bad Corcoran didn’t contact you, Sir.”

“Agreed. I would have forwarded the recordings to Composite HQ before these turkeys could grab them.”

“Any idea why they’d grab them?”

“Publicity. Can you imagine the media interest in something like this? Any news out of this building is hot news right now. General Montclair would not appreciate the attention.”

“I understand, but I have a job to do.” He remembered Jankowsky’s admonition to handle these cases to the best of his ability. “I need the recordings to complete my file.”

“You could close out your report by saying Top Five confiscated them.”

“I have to go up there and try. Who is Colonel Bronf?”

“He’s Montclair’s assistant chief of staff for security.”

“And I’ll need whatever you have on the criminal investigation.”

Bellamy held his coffee mug in one hand as he stood relaxed. The other hand was tucked into a trouser pocket, non-regulation. “I can give you my patrol MP’s crime report on Corcoran’s rape. It was our case, until Top Five threw us off it. My investigation is incomplete.”

“I don’t understand the setup here, Sir.”

“The Pentagon runs Composite Force directly, through the operational units stationed here and at Rock Creek Park. Everyone has to have their finger in the pie, in the name of bureaucracy. You’ve got the Reservists in Rock Creek Park. Then you’ve got the National Guard from Virginia, Maryland, and Delaware camped out in the streets around the hotel with their barbed wire and tank traps. Then you’ve got my Regular Army MP battalion guarding the inside of the hotel except the assembly hall, which has private civilian security guards. The delegates have immunity from arrest or prosecution, so they can do whatever they want and get away with it; the guards are just window dressing. Where it gets dicey is this. The top five floors of Tower 3 are General Montclair’s operational headquarters, a totally separate command that answers directly to the Pentagon, and Montclair seems to have brought in troops of his own—”

“Those shaven-headed types? “

“Yes, commandos specially trained for this duty. I asked Colonel Bronf about those guys, and he told me I didn’t have a need to know. Trust us, he said. Okay, I won’t argue. I’m the Provost Marshal here, the police chief, but they won’t allow me or my people above the 30th floor of Tower 3, nor are we terribly welcome down in the lower garage, where they have their armory. And what an arsenal. I guess they’re prepared to repel an invasion force if need be.”

David changed tack. “I’m going to see Colonel Bronf, and I want to also see the alleged rapist.”

“So,” Bellamy said sighing and sitting down, putting his feet up, “you want to try your luck upstairs.”

“I’ve got to try, Colonel. Besides, I can get a warrant from my boss, or his boss, or whatever it takes. I mean, we’re all part of the same armed forces, aren’t we?”

“You’ve got spirit.” Bellamy dictated the number, and David entered it into his lapel com. After about ten minutes of bouncing from one enlisted clerk to another, David connected with Colonel Bronf. David explained his mission. The colonel said: “Take the elevator up to the 31st floor of Tower 3. Step outside and wait. Someone will escort you to my office. Under no circumstances are you to wander around. Got that?”

“Yessir. Thank you.” The line went dead, and David gingerly rang off.

“I give you credit,” Bellamy said. “You got invited up. Then again, I made the trip a few days ago, on an unrelated matter. Maybe it’s beginner’s luck. Your charm will wear off.” He rose to walk David into the 12th floor lobby to the elevator.

“Separate command, I heard?” David asked as they trooped down a long corridor. Everywhere, in the periphery of his vision, he spotted men busy loading, piling up supplies, moving ammo. It was dusty, dirty work, but the men seemed in good spirits. They seemed to share a silent intensity of purpose. “A healthy thing for us all,” Lee replied enigmatically to David’s question. They stopped outside a door whose plaque told David he was about to see General Montclair’s Deputy Chief of Staff for Security. “This is a completely separate command. We are the real protection for CON2. The Composite is essentially our support and backup. We’ve got our own everything—Quartermaster, Field Hospital, MP Battalion, G-1, G-2, you name it. We don’t even shop in the same exchange. It’s been well thought out at the highest levels.” Lee led David into a large office and introduced him to a bald, sweaty man who smelled of cigarette smoke and looked like he could stand a shave and a diet. Colonel Bronf excused himself from a conference with a lizard-faced major and turned his attention to David. The lizard-like man had remarkable mud-colored eyes, angular cheekbones in a forward-thrust face, and a small, dry-looking mouth. For a second, David thought the man’s tongue slithered, forked, over his lips as he stared at David; then he left the room. David thought, this place spooks me.

“What can I help you with?” Colonel Bronf boomed.

David explained his purpose, concluding: “Sir, I need to interview both the accused private and his unit commander. And I need the Chaplain’s Office recordings.”

Bronf had black brows and a dramatic face. “Well now, Captain, that’s not likely, unless you get travel orders, because the private has already been transported to await trial at his parent unit in Texas. The recordings have gone there also.”

David felt shocked. “Sir, with all due respect, I believe the accused was supposed to remain in this military jurisdiction.”

“Well now Captain, that’s where you’re wrong. Not a lawyer, are you?” Bronf glanced at David’s lapel insignia. “Infantry. Well, that’s nice. I’ve had this conversation already with Bellamy and one or two other people in his chain of command, and I’m getting tired of repeating myself. Our private is a stupid son of a bitch who raped a woman and cast the U.S. Army in a bad light, just when national media attention is focused our way. I don’t appreciate that and I assure you that General Montclair takes a dim view. So, the private can’t get a fair trial here.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye, Captain. Tell your boss we’ll be happy to cooperate in any way we can, but we shipped the private as far away as we could, and nobody is bringing him back here. Have a nice day.”

For a moment, David boiled. He wanted to take this smelly, fat officer, slam him against the wall, and choke him until he lost the attitude. At the same time, he remembered that he must check his temper. He must not let this guy win the day. He felt the M.P.’s and Lee rustling by his side in case he made a move, and he relaxed abruptly. “If you say so, Colonel. I’ll note your comments in my report. Thank you.”

David was still angry. He suddenly hated politics and couldn’t wait to get back to the real Army. Outside, gray storm clouds moved across the city. Only the needle of Washington’s Monument protruded clearly. Its red aircraft warning lights winked in slow and painful rhythm against the shrouded dome of the Capitol.

They spoke a few minutes more, and David was glad to be back in the free, fresh air away from the hotel. As he looked back on it, its white walls gleamed, but its windows were like eyes following him with their dour gaze.