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Coleman slowly nodded. Rapp was right. It didn’t make sense. “So, if you weren’t the ultimate target, then who is?”
“I don’t know, but if their intent was to have me found at the scene and identified…” Rapp paused and thought about the ramifications. “That would have spelled trouble for a lot of people.”
“Namely the president.”
“Yep, and the Agency.”
Coleman thought about it for a moment and added, “That still doesn’t rule out foreign involvement.”
“No, it doesn’t. But my gut tells me it’s someone here in town.”
Dumond called from the other room. Rapp and Coleman went back into the dining room and found a grinning Marcus Dumond leaning back in his chair.
“I’ve got some info on your man.” Dumond pointed to the computer screen in the middle. “His mobile phone account is through Sprint, and it’s registered under the name of Tom Jones. It was purchased at a Radio Shack in Alexandria five months ago. It looks like he paid for a full year of service in advance.”
“What did he use?” asked Rapp.
“A Mastercard. I already checked into the credit card account. It was opened and closed a month later. The billing address is for an apartment in Falls Church. We can look into it, but my guess is it’s a dead end.”
Rapp agreed. “What else do you have?”
“Something you’re going to find interesting.” Dumond pointed at the screen to his left. “This is a map of downtown from the Hill to the Potomac. All of these little red dots you see are towers that Sprint owns and operates.” Dumond scrolled down the screen. “This is a list of all the calls that have been made to this phone in the last thirty days.”
Rapp looked at the list. “What about calls he has made?”
“There aren’t any. He’s smart. He knows someone could do exactly what I’m doing right now. The trail ends here.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t distress just yet. I do have one piece of information that might be useful.” Dumond scrolled back up to the map of the city. “Almost half of the calls he has received have been handled by this one tower right here.” Dumond pointed to a spot four blocks west of the White House. “After this tower there’s another one in Georgetown that pops up a lot, and then one more on the Hill. Other than that, the rest appear to be random.”
Rapp knelt down and looked at the screen. “Can you sort these calls by the time of day they were received?”
“I’m already on it for you. I’m going back to the start of the service and plotting them by tower, day of the week, and time.”
“How long until you have something you can show me?”
“An hour or two, and I should have it pretty well nailed.”
“Good work, Marcus.” Rapp looked over his shoulder at Coleman and pointed at the screen. “Look at what’s just two blocks away from this tower.”
Coleman squinted. “George Washington University.”
“No.” Rapp moved his finger a couple of inches down. “The State Department.” He tapped the spot with his index finger and said, “I’ll bet my left nut this guy works for State.”
Frowning, Coleman looked at the screen. “Why State? He could just as easily work at the White House or…” Coleman looked at some of the other buildings. “The World Bank or maybe the Federal Reserve. Hell, the United Nations has even got an office there.”
“It’s State. I know it is. Remember what Irene told us about Secretary Midleton calling her Saturday morning to find out if the Agency had anything to do with Hagenmiller’s death?”
Coleman thought about what Kennedy had said. It was true that Midleton had seemed to be in on the action a little too quickly. Coleman felt his chest tighten just a notch. If this thing was connected to the State Department, things could get really ugly. “I think you might have something, but we need to talk to Irene about it immediately.” As an afterthought, Coleman added, “And I don’t think we should do it over the phone.”
SENATOR CLARK HAD all of the players gathered. They were in one of the Senate Intelligence Committee’s soundproof briefing rooms on the second floor of the Hart Building. Clark sat at the head of the long black table with a glass of scotch in his hand. It was a few minutes before five in the evening. He usually waited until after five to pour his first drink, but tonight he had made an exception. He was trying to get the others to relax, especially Congressman Rudin. He was sitting to Clark’s left, looking as ornery as ever. Midleton was next to Rudin, and across from them, on the other side of the table, was their guest of honor—Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Congressman Rudin had demanded that something be done. Kennedy’s baldfaced lies to his committee could not go unpunished. Clark, always willing to play the role of problem solver, suggested they hold a very discreet meeting. Rudin liked the idea. In his current state of rage, anything other than doing nothing sounded good. Clark had personally made the phone calls. He first called DDCI Brown and asked if he could come to the Hill on an informal visit. Informal was code for off the record. Brown, always willing to keep the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee happy, readily agreed to the meeting. He had arrived in an unmarked car and entered the building through the underground parking garage. Secretary of State Midleton had done the same. It wouldn’t do to have him parading across town in his armor-plated limousine, so he came in a government sedan with blacked-out windows.
Senator Clark leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. Looking at the number two man at the CIA, Clark said, “Jonathan, my colleague from the House is a little concerned over who is running the show at your place.”
“I’m more than a little concerned,” snapped Rudin. “I’m fucking irate. I’m so irate, I’m thinking about holding hearings.”
