BY THE TIME KARP GOT back to his office after leaving the Casablanca and the body of Lt. Gen. Sam Allen, he knew he had his hands full with a high-profile homicide case. In spite of the killer’s efforts to make it look like a suicide, it didn’t take Fulton’s “intuition flu,” or Assistant Medical Examiner Gail Manning’s remark about how a scotch aficionado would have avoided the bitter taste by not emptying the pills into the drink, to recognize the deception.
Suicide simply didn’t make sense. For one thing, it just didn’t mesh with what he knew of Allen’s character—a decorated soldier who’d retired at the pinnacle of his career and was embarking on another that at least publicly he seemed to covet. While anything was possible, nothing about the man indicated he was the sort to kill himself even if he was “sorry for everything”—whatever that meant. A man like him would “face the music,” Karp thought. And even if for some inexplicable reason Allen had decided to take his life, he wouldn’t have chosen to do it in such a public manner, in a hotel room in New York City, putting his family and friends through the media storm that would follow.
The question then became who killed the general and why. Over the course of his military career and in his position as the acting director of the CIA, Allen would have made enemies, as well as been a prime target for assassination. However, it was reasonable to rule out a terrorist action, as they would have wanted the publicity of killing such an important individual.
Poison, if that was indeed the cause of Allen’s death, had been a tool of the spy trade for eons. Somehow Karp doubted that the general had been induced to swallow enough Valium to kill him—after all, there’d been no sign of a struggle—and thought it likely to have been used to cover up the real cause of death. Gail will find it in the toxicology, he thought, especially now that I’ve asked her to look beyond the obvious.
So who then? Why? He was supposed to testify before the congressional committee tomorrow. Could it be related to that? And who would have the arrogance to think that they could murder the acting director of the CIA and get away with it? The questions raced through his mind as Officer J. P. Murphy drove him south toward the Criminal Courts Building. He tried to call Marlene to tell her about Allen; she’d been out for a run when Fulton gave him the news that morning. But she didn’t answer her cell phone.
The news outlets had reported that there were no female bodies identified and several males were unaccounted for in Chechnya after the attack. The absence of “bad news” had lifted Marlene’s spirits at least for the moment. She was convinced that Lucy and Ned were alive. “They were probably together doing something outside the compound,” she explained. “Maybe they’ve been captured or are on the run, but I can feel they’re alive . . . I don’t know how I know, maybe it’s the mom in me, but I know.”
Karp didn’t want to dash her faith; he hoped she was right. But he knew that in what the administration kept referring to as the “fog of war,” the information that Jaxon was getting was agonizingly incomplete. And since the initial report, the fact that there’d been nothing new was demoralizing. Believing that their daughter needed her, but unable to do anything, Marlene reverted to a darkened mood. He didn’t know what she’d make of the news about Allen and what, if anything, it had to do with the compound being overrun in Chechnya—and Lucy’s disappearance. He didn’t know what to make of it himself.
When he got to his office and was settled in behind his desk, he reached for a yellow legal pad. Whether it was for a trial or just to help him think through a problem, he always found that jotting down notes on a pad helped his thought process. He listed the chronology of events since the attack in Chechnya, such as he knew them from either the media—meaning the administration—or Jaxon, leading up to Allen’s death the day before he was scheduled to testify. Up to this point, as far as he knew, the general had refrained from making any comments other than to say that the CIA was continuing to assess what happened as information became available. He refused to be baited by the growing criticism, particularly from the president’s opponents, that “once again” American intelligence gathering had failed to identify and deal with a threat.
Most of the administration’s statements had come through Rosemary Hilb, the irascible press secretary, and Helene Vonu, the assistant secretary of state specializing in the Northern Caucasus and Russia. Vonu, in particular, had been the public face of the administration on television and in newspaper reports. But she mostly stuck with the administration’s talking points: the attack occurred without warning, was over swiftly, and was carried out by Chechen separatists in a “brutal act of terror.” She and others like Fauhomme had lauded the president’s “close cooperation” with Russian authorities as proof of his fitness to lead “in the international arena.”
On the Sunday-morning political talk shows, Vonu expanded a little, saying, “These terrorists—masquerading as patriots—are trying to disrupt U.S. attempts to mediate a political solution” between “disgruntled” Chechen factions and Russia. When the sole member on one of the panels who occasionally was critical of the administration renewed the question of whether Al Qaeda was involved, Vonu openly scoffed. “Al Qaeda Al Qaeda Al Qaeda,” she said, smiling and shaking her head as though scolding a not very bright student. “Let’s trot out the big bad bogeyman of Al Qaeda to sell newspapers and television ads, shall we? Our Russian friends will back me up on this one; Al Qaeda was not behind this attack. It just seems to me that some people have a hard time accepting that other forms of terrorism exist that aren’t Islamic extremism–motivated or somehow connected to Al Qaeda. The terrorists behind this attack are little more than warlords and organized crime syndicates who don’t want to see a legitimate, democratically elected government in power in Chechnya.”
Rod Fauhomme made the rounds, too. He complained that the congressional hearings were “clearly a partisan attempt to discredit the administration in the run-up to the election. The president’s opponent took a big hit in the last debate, which happened to be on foreign policy. The opponent knows he has no foreign policy experience, and unlike the president would be lost in the current situation. So all he—through his proxies on the congressional committee—can do is invent straw men and attack while cooler heads are handling the situation in cooperation with the Russian government. It’s the difference between statesmanship and gamesmanship.”
Karp picked up the television remote and clicked on the twenty-four-hour news channel just as a photograph of Allen appeared above the text: BREAKING NEWS! CIA DIRECTOR ALLEN DEAD IN NEW YORK HOTEL. So it’s out, he thought, but in the next instant his attention was diverted by what sounded like a brawl in the reception area outside his office, followed by a sort of wild scrabbling at the door before it cracked open.
Standing up, Karp could see Darla Milquetost valiantly fighting to keep the intruder out. “I don’t care who you think you are; you can’t just barge in on Mr. Karp!”
The tall blond woman on the other side of his receptionist ignored the shorter woman and yelled over the top of her head. “Karp, we need to talk!”
“You need to make an appointment like anyone else!” Milquetost complained. “You are such a rude person!”
“Beat it, Darla, this is important,” Ariadne Stupenagel said, using her greater size to leverage her way past and into his office.
Darla clutched Stupenagel’s elbow as she looked at Karp. “Shall I call security?” she asked hopefully.
Karp shook his head. “No, thank you, Darla. Sorry, Ariadne, but I’m not in the mood to deal with the media just now . . .”
Stupenagel pointed past him to the television screen. “It’s about Sam.”
“Sam?” Karp replied with a frown.
“Sam Allen. We were old friends,” Stupenagel explained. “I talked to him Friday, and I think you might want to hear what I’ve got to say before it appears in my newspaper tomorrow.”
Still frowning, Karp nodded at his receptionist. “It’s okay, Darla, let her in.”
Milquetost glared up at Stupenagel. “Okay, but I’ll be right outside if you change your mind.” She let go of the journalist and left the room.
Karp shook his head. “You really do need to quit antagonizing Mrs. Milquetost. She’s just doing her job.” His voice faded as Stupenagel crossed the room and sat down in the leather chair across from Karp’s big mahogany desk and crossed her long legs. “First, I want your assurances that this goes no further, particularly in regard to the slimeballs in the press,” she said. “This is my story.”
“So this is about getting a scoop,” Karp replied with a frown. Just then Ariadne’s normally tough-as-nails reporter’s eyes welled up with tears; she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
“Hey, Ariadne, I’m sorry. You said he was a friend, I wasn’t thinking.” He grabbed a box of tissues as he walked around his desk and handed her one.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Sorry. I got a call a half hour ago from a friend who works at the hotel. I just . . .” She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. “I couldn’t believe it. I just saw him Friday.”
“Yes, you were saying that I should hear,” Karp said as the intercom suddenly buzzed, followed by Milquetost’s annoyed voice.
“Mr. Karp, your wife is here to see you.”
Karp looked at Stupenagel, who said, “I called her. I know about Lucy.”
The door opened and Marlene walked in. Stupenagel stood and the two women embraced. They’d been friends since they were college roommates at Smith. Stupenagel had been the wild child while Marlene was more conservative due to her strict Italian Catholic upbringing in Queens, but still the unlikely pair had formed a lasting bond.
Marlene was aware of the love-hate relationship between “Stupe” and her media-averse husband, but she knew even he had a grudging respect for her talents as an investigative journalist. And several times in the past, she had “done the right thing” and held stories or passed on information—sometimes against her aggressive journalistic principles.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Karp said when Marlene broke away from her friend. “I take it you’re here due to whatever Ariadne has to say about General Allen’s alleged suicide.”
“It wasn’t a suicide,” Stupenagel spat. Suddenly, the tears were gone, replaced by a fierce glare. “I’ve known Sam a long time. He wasn’t the type . . .”
“People change. I’d guess he was under a lot of—”
“Sam was the sort of man who thrived on pressure,” Stupenagel retorted. “But even if not, I talked to him two days ago. He wasn’t suicidal, though he certainly had a lot going on in his personal life, and he was damn mad about the Chechnya situation and prepared to do something about it at the congressional hearings.”
Karp and Marlene listened quietly for the next twenty minutes while Stupenagel told them about her conversation with Allen. The more she spoke, the grimmer their faces became.
When she was done, Marlene let out a low whistle. “Well, if what he said about Al Qaeda being involved is true, and someone high up is lying about this ‘trade mission’ and the failure to respond to protect American lives, I can understand why the administration wouldn’t want this to come out in the hearings right before the election. You think he was killed to prevent any deviation from the administration’s version?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense to me,” Stupenagel replied.
“I don’t know, Stupe,” Karp said. “You say he was being blackmailed—supposedly by someone in the administration—to keep his mouth shut or his wife would find out about his affair. Maybe the choice between lying at the hearing or putting his family through hell was too much for him so he took pills as a way out?”
“And killing himself wouldn’t be putting his family through hell?” Stupenagel shook her head. “You would have had to know the man, but he was going to tell the truth and was prepared to take his lumps.”
Marlene abruptly got up from her chair and walked over to the window behind Karp and looked out at the streets. “I knew there was something fishy about the whole explanation regarding what happened in Chechnya. And this proves it, at least to me. I think you’re right, Ariadne; I don’t think he killed himself. But those sons of bitches put my daughter in harm’s way, and if I can prove it . . .”
Both women turned expectantly toward Karp. “I have to admit that something wasn’t right when I went to the hotel this morning. Clay and I both felt it,” he said. “I’m waiting on the toxicology results and Fulton’s investigation, but I think you’re right; this wasn’t a suicide. But intuition and even Allen’s telling you he was being blackmailed is a long way from proving who would have been behind it. I’d rather the killer, or killers, not know that we’re on to them. So, you going to run with the story?”
Stupenagel considered the question, then shrugged. “I’m going to write up what I got,” she said. “But it’s pretty dicey. Sam can’t back me up and my editor may be a little hinky about saying that he was killed because of what he was going to say at the hearing. I need corroboration, a second source; so I guess that buys you a little time.” She looked up at the television and did a double-take that caused Karp and Marlene to look, too.
The photograph of a young woman now appeared with the headlines about Allen’s death. “That’s Jenna,” Stupenagel said.
“Who?” Karp asked.
“Sam’s girlfriend, Jenna. Sam showed me a photograph . . .” Her voice trailed off as she listened to the newscaster.
“FBI officials are asking the public for help in locating this woman, Jenna Blair,” the newsman said. “According to an FBI spokesperson, she may have been the last person to see General Allen alive and is being sought for questioning. Anyone having information is asked to . . .”
“Think she knows something?” Marlene asked.
“I don’t know,” Stupenagel replied. “But even if she doesn’t, I’d say we better find her before whoever was blackmailing Sam does.” She turned to look at Marlene. “Care to do a little investigative work with your old buddy?”
Marlene’s eyes narrowed. “You bet.” Both women again looked at Karp. “Any thoughts, Butch?” his wife asked.
Karp thought about it and nodded. “Yeah, starting with a telephone call to Jaxon.”
“That’s a start,” Stupenagel said. “I think we’re going to need all the help we can get.”