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Before Kennedy could answer, Congressman Zebarth said, “I am progressing in years, but if my memory serves me right, it’s Dr. Kennedy, not Ms. Kennedy.”
Rudin mumbled something under his breath and then said, “Dr. Kennedy, what happened in Germany last weekend?”
“Could you be more specific, Mr. Chairman?”
“I could, but I won’t, because you know damn well what I’m talking about.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman,” interjected Zebarth with a confused look on his face, “I don’t know whether or not the good doctor knows what you’re talking about, but I’m a tad bit embarrassed to admit that I certainly don’t. Not that I claim to understand you in the most esoteric sense of the word, but in regard to the CIA, I can usually extrapolate some type of a read on your position.”
Rudin refused to look at Zebarth, who was sitting only four feet to his right. He hated the old windbag. Staring straight ahead, he said, “She knows what I’m talking about, and you will soon enough. Just conserve your oxygen for the next couple of minutes. It should help clear the fog.”
Zebarth snickered. Imitation was the greatest form of flattery, and Rudin had just stolen a line right out of Zebarth’s play book.
“Now, Dr. Kennedy, let’s get back to my question. What happened in Germany this past Saturday, and what was the involvement of your agency?”
“Are you referring to the events surrounding Hagenmiller Engineering?”
“I’m referring to the assassination of Count Hagenmiller,” replied a stern Rudin.
“There isn’t much that I can add that you don’t already know, Mr. Chairman.”
Rudin had his hands folded in front of him. He kept his eyes on Kennedy. “I don’t believe you.” A chorus of rumbles erupted from the Republican side of the committee. Rudin ignored them and pressed the point. “I want you to tell this committee, in detail, what role the CIA had in the assassination of Count Hagenmiller. And I would like to remind you, if you lie to my committee, you will be prosecuted.”
This time, Democrats and Republicans alike turned around to look at the chairman. An accusation as blatant as this was a rare event in the tiny committee room.
“Well, well, well…” interjected Zebarth. “Given the fact that Dr. Kennedy has been very cooperative with this body in the past, I am assuming that the exuber
ant chairman has some information that he would like to share with the rest of us before we continue down this possibly reckless line of inquiry.”
Rudin snatched his wooden gavel and gave it several whacks. “Order. The chair has not yielded. When I have, I will let you know.” From the righthand side of the bench came a chorus of questions. Each time Rudin tried to get back to Kennedy, a Republican would ask loudly, “Will the chair yield, please? Point of order, Mr. Chairman.” This unruly behavior smacked of the antics displayed on the Judiciary Committee, but it was very unusual for the Intelligence Committee. Even the Democrats seemed a bit miffed by Rudin’s aggressiveness.
Kennedy kept her mouth shut and watched. Rudin’s blunt question had her concerned, but she didn’t show it. The Orion Team didn’t exist, and she had nothing to do with the death of Hagenmiller. She would utter those falsities until she was dead. She could never admit any of it no matter how bad it got. The big question was whether or not Rudin was bluffing, or if he had been given some information. A week ago, she would have bet the farm that he was bluffing, but today, with the unknown leak lurking out there somewhere, she couldn’t be sure.
With a red face, Rudin yelled over the din of protests, “Dr. Kennedy, answer my question! Did the CIA have anything to do with the assassination of Count Hagenmiller?”
Kennedy calmly looked up at the angry chairman and said, “To the very best of my knowledge, the CIA had no involvement whatsoever in the death of Count Hagenmiller.” Kennedy did not blink; she did not waver. She had just committed a felony. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The face looked familiar. It was hard to be sure because the subject’s eyes were closed, but it definitely resembled one of the men he’d seen in Colorado. Scott Coleman looked at the computer screen and squinted. It was mid-morning, and they were in Marcus Dumond’s apartment in Bethesda. With Kennedy’s approval, the reigning computer expert from the Counterterrorism Center had called in sick. His orders from Kennedy were to assist Rapp and make sure that whatever he did, he didn’t get caught.
It was not unusual for a person to die a violent death in Washington, D.C. It happened all the time. What was unusual about the homicide was the number of bullets fired and the fact that most of them were from silenced weapons. Dumond had caught the story on the nightly news. The D.C. police were handling the homicide, and they had sent information to the CTC on the off chance that there might be a terrorist connection.
Coleman leaned over Dumond’s shoulder. “Are there any other photos?”
“Let me check.” Dumond maneuvered his mouse and clicked on an icon. With his high-speed connection, it took less than a second to download the second photograph. It was of the body lying on the street between two parked cars. “He looks like a pretty big guy.”
“Yeah, this guy out in Colorado was a house.” Coleman squinted. “I think this is him. Do they have a vitals sheet on him?”
“Let me check.” Dumond went to work. A short while later, he asked, “Will the autopsy report do?”
“Very nicely.” Coleman read from the new screen. It listed the deceased’s name as Todd Sherman and said that he was six five and weighed two hundred eighty six pounds. “I think this is the guy.”
Rapp came in from the kitchen. “You think who is the guy?”
“This guy who was killed in College Park yesterday…I think he’s one of the people who was involved in the hit out in Colorado.”
“Let me see.” Coleman moved out of the way, and Rapp bent over Dumond’s shoulder. “Todd Sherman. Can you show me what he looks like?”
“Yep.”
