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Authors: Patrick A. Davis
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dark and ominous against the moonlit sky. Despite the late hour, the parking lot was moderately full, reflecting the heightened demands on the military since 911. In order to support the war on terrorism and Iraqi occupation, a number of offices were forced to burn the midnight oil.
Amanda stepped from the car and paused, looking at me with a strangely amused expression.
Here it comes.
But when she spoke, she said, “There’s something I forgot to mention, Marty. Chief Tisdale and I are going to search two offices.”
“Oh?”
“Simon phoned Congressman Harris, asked him about the message. You remember the part where the caller said Harris screwed him over…”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Harris said the accusation was absurd. When Simon pressed him, he did mention someone who’d threatened Talbot recently.”
I waited for her to say the name. She didn’t. She just kept looking at me with that amused expression.
I sighed. “You’re not going to tell me who it is, are you?”
“It’s a name you’re familiar with.”
I squinted at her. “What? Are you trying to say it’s General Baldwin?”
She batted her eyes innocently. “I don’t know. Am I?”
Christ. “Amanda, knock off the games. This is important. I need to know if—”
“Gee, not much fun, is it?” With a sardonic smile, she shut the door and walked away.
8
T he Mayflower Towers apartment building was one of a line of seemingly identical glass and chrome high-rises that defined Crystal City. Ten minutes after leaving the Pentagon, I swung under the entrance’s concrete awning and parked in a space reserved for guests. Going up the steps to the glass doors, I thumbed the intercom button and peered into a marble lobby, focusing on the security desk. A large black man in a guard’s uniform was seated at it, flipping through a magazine. He looked over with disinterest before reaching to his desk.
“Help you?” the speaker cracked.
After I gave him my name, there was an extended pause and I thought maybe General Baldwin had conveniently forgotten to pass on my name.
Finally, the door buzzed and I entered the lobby, heading for a bank of elevators at the back. General Baldwin lived on the thirty-second floor, where the penthouses were located.
Not many two-stars could afford a Crystal City penthouse apartment, but Baldwin had the benefit of a trust fund established by his father, a retired full general. As I intimated, the military was the Baldwin family business. Every Baldwin male was expected to join either the Army or Air Force—for some reason, none had ever served in the Navy or Marines—put in a career, then retire with their preordained one to four stars. Occasionally, a Baldwin topped out at full colonel, but that was rare. As with a civilian organization, the military’s promotion system was predicated upon connections and the Baldwins had those in spades. While they didn’t get rich during their active duty tenure, they made up for it later, usually by sliding into high paying management or lobbyist positions in a variety of defense-related industries.
The elevator deposited me into a quiet hallway with pile carpeting. General Baldwin’s apartment was the third one on the right, and as I approached the twin oak doors, I detected faint music and the murmur of conversation. Someone laughed out loud.
I rang the bell.
Baldwin had always been big on entertaining. Like the rest of his family, he considered cocktail or dinner parties crucial to fortifying relationships. He approached golf and bridge similarly. As long as I’ve known him, he’s played both regularly, but rarely with people he considered friends.
“What you have to understand, Marty,” he once told me, “is that competency in your job is only part of the promotion equation. The rest comes down to the social game. Not only how well you play it, but if you even want to play at all. A lot of guys don’t and I don’t blame them. Sucking up to people is a pain
Amanda stepped from the car and paused, looking at me with a strangely amused expression.
Here it comes.
But when she spoke, she said, “There’s something I forgot to mention, Marty. Chief Tisdale and I are going to search two offices.”
“Oh?”
“Simon phoned Congressman Harris, asked him about the message. You remember the part where the caller said Harris screwed him over…”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Harris said the accusation was absurd. When Simon pressed him, he did mention someone who’d threatened Talbot recently.”
I waited for her to say the name. She didn’t. She just kept looking at me with that amused expression.
I sighed. “You’re not going to tell me who it is, are you?”
“It’s a name you’re familiar with.”
I squinted at her. “What? Are you trying to say it’s General Baldwin?”
She batted her eyes innocently. “I don’t know. Am I?”
Christ. “Amanda, knock off the games. This is important. I need to know if—”
“Gee, not much fun, is it?” With a sardonic smile, she shut the door and walked away.
8
T he Mayflower Towers apartment building was one of a line of seemingly identical glass and chrome high-rises that defined Crystal City. Ten minutes after leaving the Pentagon, I swung under the entrance’s concrete awning and parked in a space reserved for guests. Going up the steps to the glass doors, I thumbed the intercom button and peered into a marble lobby, focusing on the security desk. A large black man in a guard’s uniform was seated at it, flipping through a magazine. He looked over with disinterest before reaching to his desk.
“Help you?” the speaker cracked.
After I gave him my name, there was an extended pause and I thought maybe General Baldwin had conveniently forgotten to pass on my name.
Finally, the door buzzed and I entered the lobby, heading for a bank of elevators at the back. General Baldwin lived on the thirty-second floor, where the penthouses were located.
Not many two-stars could afford a Crystal City penthouse apartment, but Baldwin had the benefit of a trust fund established by his father, a retired full general. As I intimated, the military was the Baldwin family business. Every Baldwin male was expected to join either the Army or Air Force—for some reason, none had ever served in the Navy or Marines—put in a career, then retire with their preordained one to four stars. Occasionally, a Baldwin topped out at full colonel, but that was rare. As with a civilian organization, the military’s promotion system was predicated upon connections and the Baldwins had those in spades. While they didn’t get rich during their active duty tenure, they made up for it later, usually by sliding into high paying management or lobbyist positions in a variety of defense-related industries.
The elevator deposited me into a quiet hallway with pile carpeting. General Baldwin’s apartment was the third one on the right, and as I approached the twin oak doors, I detected faint music and the murmur of conversation. Someone laughed out loud.
I rang the bell.
Baldwin had always been big on entertaining. Like the rest of his family, he considered cocktail or dinner parties crucial to fortifying relationships. He approached golf and bridge similarly. As long as I’ve known him, he’s played both regularly, but rarely with people he considered friends.
“What you have to understand, Marty,” he once told me, “is that competency in your job is only part of the promotion equation. The rest comes down to the social game. Not only how well you play it, but if you even want to play at all. A lot of guys don’t and I don’t blame them. Sucking up to people is a pain
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