“Monica left half an hour ago,” General Brokaw said.
“Where to?”
The General didn’t take his eyes off the screen when he said, “LA, where she lives.”
“They let her go?” Walker motioned to the FBI guys, out of sight, one in the hall and one in the kitchen, covering the front and rear doors.
“Yes,” the General said. “The assistant SAC from the LA Field Office came to brief us on all they’re doing to try to locate Jasper. Monica asked to be at home, agreed to the same kind of FBI and police presence there, and she left with him.”
“Can I have her address?”
General Brokaw looked to Walker. “What for?”
“I need to ask her some questions.”
“The FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge asked us about Jasper. If there’s anything we suspected, of him being in danger, any threats, any associates that may have wanted to do foul by him.”
“And nothing was gleaned?”
“Nothing. Monica mentioned some of his late career Army stuff, something he worked on, but that was it.” General Brokaw looked at the image of his son on the television screen. “Besides, Jasper’s never been much of a figure to have close friends and associates. Nor family, for that matter.”
“Never married.”
“No. Never close, to my knowledge.” He chewed at his lip, then added, “Never close to anyone in the family. Out the door at eighteen and seen maybe once a year. Didn’t matter to me. His mother was upset.”
“Sir, your wife?”
“Passed. Four years back.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Not yours to know. How’s your family?”
“My mother died a couple of years ago.” Walker hesitated, then added, “My father too, not that long after.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, son.” General Brokaw looked at the fireplace. “So, tell me, Walker, what do you think you can do that the FBI can’t?”
“All that I can, sir.” Walker knew that adding the honorific of sir, when told not to, gave his statement credence that only military men could and would understand; it carried with it the weight of oaths and sacrifice and respect and said, I will move heaven and earth to help in any way that I can because we are in this together: we are family.
“Why don’t you help me to my office,” the General said.
Walker got the crutches and helped the General to his feet. He offered to aid him but the older man moved with practiced rhythm. Walker couldn’t see any obvious reason for the crutches and didn’t ask about it.
In the hallway, the FBI agent stood from his chair, appropriated from the formal dining room opposite, but the General growled at him and he resumed his position.
“Meet you at the top,” General Brokaw said to Walker. “No point you watching my arse all the way up. This ain’t the damned Navy.”
Walker humored the old guy with a chuckle and waited for him at the landing.
Ascending the stairs was slow going for General Brokaw. The carpet runner had wear marks in it from frequent such journeys. Walker wondered how long he had been like this; if it was long enough to make wear marks in the carpet like that, then why didn’t he get one of those mechanical chairs installed on a rail to get him up and down? Or move house to a single story? Pride, and memories, Walker figured, that’s what kept him doing this, and doing it here. But the guy was late sixties, and while overweight he didn’t seem so out of shape or beyond it that he should be in this physical situation.
Even the best and brightest break down, even those we care about most, his father had once said on hearing the diagnosis of his mother. It doesn’t mean it’s fair, or that it’s for any reason other than damned stupid luck, he’d added. That was as much as David had ever spoken of the matter with his son.
“Here,” General Brokaw said, turning left at the landing and heading through a door to a dark-wood-paneled office. There was the obligatory Me Wall, just as Walker had pictured. There was a photograph of a previous Vice President, who’d been in office when Walker was a cadet. He remembered the visit to the Academy, and the Vice President’s address, all chest-beating stuff about how the war on terror was being won because of brave men and women like those assembled.
“Shut the door,” General Brokaw commanded, interrupting Walker’s thoughts.
Walker did so. The study was a corner room and two walls had picture windows with padded seating built in to the deep bookshelves, stacked with reference books and trinkets from a life served around the globe in the armed forces.
“Sit,” General Brokaw said.
Walker sat in a chair opposite the desk. General Brokaw leaned his crutches against the desk and sat on the edge of it. The hulk of old mahogany didn’t protest.
“No BS,” General Brokaw said. “Lay it out. What can you do?”
“You heard what I did at the Stock Exchange, the thing with the Vice President,” Walker said. “Before and after that, I’ve been working on a long-term assignment with a specialist investigative unit. This is a part of the deep op we’re working on. And while the FBI and NSA and all those guys may well find your son, I’m here to do whatever it is I can to help you and your family and avert what is planned in these cyber attacks.”
“Okay . . .” General Brokaw said. “Do you have any leads? Do you know who has my son?”
“No.”
“And you really think Monica may have some more ideas?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Maybe Jasper was more forthright with her,” Walker said. “Maybe he told her things that he couldn’t tell you.”
The General looked at Walker for a long moment, with something behind his eyes that Walker couldn’t read. Then General Brokaw looked away.
“I doubt that.”