CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Munroe still remembered his office at the Pentagon fondly, even though it had been over ten years since he had actually
seen
it. He could have used his influence to requisition a larger and more luxurious space, one with a private office for him, but he liked the communal feel of the room. He called it his
War Room
, and they were most assuredly at war. The twenty by twenty space held three matching walnut desks, all facing each other, and thanks to Annabelle, always smelled like vanilla or cinnamon or whatever fragrance had most recently piqued her interest. His desk sat at the back of the room against the outer window with Annabelle and Gerald
’
s desks flanking his in a U-shape. He remembered the way in which the yellow-tinted bullet and blast resistant glass of the Pentagon had cast an unusual pallor onto everything in the room. He had heard rumors that the Secretary of Defense had paid out of his own pocket to have the glass replaced with a more expensive crystal clear variety, but he had never asked the Secretary if the rumor were true. At one time, he had filled the rest of the room with cork boards and dry erase boards displaying pictures and bits of information pertinent to cases, but now all that had to be done in his head.
Black had barely said a word to him since the attack at Georgetown the previous evening. He tapped a finger on his desk and could feel Black
’
s hard stare burning holes in him.
“You don
’
t agree with the way that I handled the situation at the university?” Munroe finally said.
“We were lucky. You almost got us both killed. And Annabelle. Is that drive really worth all our lives? Most operators would have shot us both in the back of the head and searched the corpses for the intel.”
“This man isn
’
t most operators.”
“Listen, Munroe. I get that you
’
re an expert on the inner-workings of politics and bureaucracy and all this defense department bullcrap. You understand all that in ways that I never will. And, you just think of me as some ex-con with a gun, but I was a good soldier once. I understand soldiers and combat situations in ways that you never will.”
Munroe steepled his fingers and said, “Duly noted.”
“What was all that about Ramon Castillo?”
“Castillo is the leader of one of the largest cartels in Mexico, and many believe him to be one of the most dangerous men in the world.”
“But how did you connect him to all this?”
“An educated guess that our Hispanic friend confirmed for us. I was telling the truth when I said that a friend at the FBI had described the Castillo Cartel
’
s business dealings here in the US. It made sense that the cartel could be connected. Any other questions?”
Black released a long disgusted breath but said nothing. He could feel the heat coming off the big man in the silence that followed. A ringing of Munroe
’
s cell phone cut through the tension. “What did you find, Joey?” he said into the phone.
“You were right to have me look through the photos of people associated with the Castillo Cartel. I found the guy that broke into my apartment. His name is Antonio de Almeida. He
’
s a Colombian who rose through the ranks to become one of the group
’
s top enforcers. It
’
s rumored that Almeida
’
s become Ramon Castillo
’
s right hand man since Castillo
’
s son was killed in a recent attempt to take down Ramon himself.”
“Good work. What about Wyatt Randall
’
s financials?”
“Nothing unusual there. If he was getting paid from somewhere, the money wasn
’
t going into his bank account. Which means no paper trail. But I did get a pretty big hit on people from Randall
’
s past. Apparently he went to college with Brendan Lennix.”
“The president of Lennix Pharmaceuticals?”
“Right, and word is that Lennix has been working on some highly classified project for DARPA and the DOD. Pretty good for a company that was almost bankrupt.”
“I can take a guess on who helped Lennix overcome his financial troubles. Keep digging. See if you can find out anything else about Lennix
’
s mystery project. What about Randall and General Easton? Did you find any connection there?”
“Easton
’
s son attended Georgetown during the same time Randall taught there. Annabelle
’
s verifying it, but we think he may have been one of Randall
’
s students. If so, we
’
re going to track him down and find out if he put Randall in touch with his father.”
“Don
’
t bother. Verify the records, but don
’
t contact Easton
’
s son. That family
’
s been through enough. I don
’
t want him to feel somehow responsible.”
Munroe said goodbye, hung up the phone, and leaned back in his chair, organizing the various strands in his mind. Things were starting to make sense. Wyatt Randall had taken his discovery to Brendan Lennix. Randall then learned that Lennix had borrowed money from the cartels and stole evidence to give to General Easton. But that still didn
’
t explain how Corrigan tied into everything and why the disgraced soldier was so important. Munroe guessed that Corrigan connected to Wyatt Randall
’
s so-called miracle drug somehow, but he had no evidence. The dots were there, but he had yet to connect them all, and he couldn
’
t prove any of it. But maybe he could at least verify some of his suspicions.
Munroe stood from the desk and said, “Mr. Black, let
’
s take a walk.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought maybe we
’
d drop in unannounced over at the executive wing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
By floor area, the Pentagon was the world
’
s largest office building. The iconic headquarters took up around six and a half million square feet, and over thirty thousand people went to work there everyday. It was the nerve center of the American military, and a self-contained city of its own. A worker at the Pentagon never had to leave during the day. The building housed dentists, doctors, a myriad of retail stores, a fitness center, and just about everything else in between. But Damian Lightoller, the Under Secretary of Defense for Acquisition, Technology, and Logistics, appreciated the food choices the most. Lightoller was not a small man and had always enjoyed food. He hated eating the same thing day in and day out. Variety was the spice of life, after all. Luckily, the Pentagon provided as much variety for food choices as any shopping center the world over—everything from Subway to McDonald
’
s, Pizza Hut to Panda Express. And most importantly for those that burned the midnight oil in defense of the nation
’
s freedom: Starbucks and Dunkin
’
Donuts.
Lightoller had tried just about every diet on the market, and he had no problem finding the discipline to lose the weight in the short term. It was sticking with it that posed the issue. Fortunately, a low carb diet (with the weekends off, of course) seemed to suit him fairly well. So, keeping with the diet, he sat at his desk and sipped a sugar free vanilla latte made with whipping cream. When the door to his office opened without any introduction from his secretary, Lightoller nearly spilled the latte down the front of his Brooks Brothers suit.
“Mr. Lightoller, I tried to stop them,” his secretary said from the next room.
“Hello, Damian. I need a word. National security and all that,” Deacon Munroe said from the doorway. A large and stern man stood next to the DCIS agent. The big guy radiated an aura of physical confidence, like the bouncer at a strip club, though Lightoller sensed the big man was more than just bravado.
“It
’
s okay, Becky,” he said as he stood and offered his hand. Munroe didn
’
t reach out for it, and Lightoller experienced a moment of guilt when he realized that Munroe couldn
’
t see the proffered greeting. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Munroe said. The big man roughly pushed Munroe into the chair, earning him a look of disgust from the blind man.
“So what can I do for you, Special Agent Munroe? I
’
m afraid that I
’
m leaving for an appointment soon.”
The big man took up position to the blind man
’
s left but remained standing. Munroe adjusted his dark sunglasses and said, “I won
’
t take up much of your time, and since you have other engagements, I
’
ll get right to the point. What can you tell me about Lennix Pharmaceuticals?”
Lightoller swallowed hard. “I
’
ve heard of them, but that
’
s about as far as my knowledge goes. Just what I
’
ve seen in the papers.”
Munroe
’
s head tilted to the side. “Really. That
’
s very odd.”
“
I don’
t know what you mean.”
“I just find it strange that the man in charge of acquisition, technology, and logistics isn
’
t familiar with a company that
’
s in bed with the DOD and DARPA.”
Lightoller leaned back in his chair. “I
’
m sorry, Deacon. Yes, we do have a contract with them, but you know that I can
’
t discuss the details of classified projects.”
“It
’
s on a need to know basis?”
“That
’
s right.”
“Well, I need to know. All this ties back to the reason General Easton was murdered and a Marine that
’
s about to be executed.”
“I thought Easton committed suicide.”
Munroe smiled. “If you buy that story, then your elevator
’
s stuck between floors.”
“I still don
’
t see how I can help.”
“You know, this whole thing started a couple years back with the Marine. John Corrigan. You were sitting in that same chair at that time, and I figure that means there
’
s a pretty good chance you were involved in whatever cover-up went down.”
“First of all, I don
’
t appreciate you barging into my office. You want to speak to me, make an appointment. Second, if you intend to make wild accusations, you had better come to me with more than a three hundred pound gorilla on your side. You had better have some proof.”
The big man
’
s eyes narrowed, and he cracked his knuckles. Lightoller immediately regretted the gorilla comment, but it was too late to back down now. He said, “Your time
’
s up, Munroe. See yourself out.”
Instead of getting up, Munroe leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. In a calm, friendly voice, the blind man said, “Did you know that I lost my wife to cancer within only two years of losing my sight? That was a difficult time. A very dark time for me filled with a lot of anger and confusion. When I learned that my wife had only a few months to live, I couldn
’
t deal with it. I called a taxi and checked in to a hotel. To this day I can
’
t explain exactly why I did it. It was probably the most cowardly thing that a man could do in that situation, but I suppose that I just couldn
’
t deal with losing her and sitting idly by as she withered away.”
Munroe turned toward the far wall as if he were reliving the moment. Then he lowered his head and intertwined his fingers as if in prayer. Lightoller said, “I
’
m very sorry to hear all that, but—”
“It took less than a day for me to come to my senses,” Munroe interrupted. “My wife wasn
’
t even angry. She seemed to understand that it was because of how deeply I loved her that I felt I had to leave. But I was angry enough with myself for the both of us. I still think about the time that I missed by leaving. Even though it was only a few hours, I would give anything to have those moments back. To have the opportunity to spend them with her now.”
Munroe stood up, placed his hands atop the desk, and leaned toward Lightoller. “After that moment, I vowed I would never run from a fight again as long as I lived. I
’
ve lost two friends over this, one of them the oldest and dearest friend I had in this world. There
’
s no force in Heaven or Earth that will stop me from seeing it through. I
’
m going to find those responsible, and I
’
m going to burn them down. Make no mistake about that.”
The big man gave Lightoller one last contemptuous glare and then led Munroe from the room. After they had gone, Lightoller just sat there for a moment, trying to calm his thundering heart and plan his next move carefully. Then he picked up his desk phone, tapped one of its many buttons, and said, “Becky, get me Brendan Lennix on the line immediately.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Pentagon had always reminded Jonas Black more of a shopping mall or hospital than a military complex. Wide corridors, off-whites, a maze of halls—he could have been magically transported to any large medical center and not known the difference between the two, except that the other people filling the halls would have worn scrubs and white jackets instead of suits and military uniforms.
Munroe was quiet at his side, and Black wondered if his new boss
’
s thoughts still dwelled on old memories. “Lightoller was lying,” Black said.
“About Lennix? Obviously.”
“Not just about that. I got the distinct impression that he knew that Easton was murdered and Lennix was connected to it.”
“What makes you say that?”
Black debated on how much of his own story to share, but Munroe had already referenced his checkered past when they first met so it likely wouldn
’
t be a surprise. He said, “Have you ever seen a movie where a group of mafia types have someone tied to a chair and one guy is asking questions and another guy is beating the piss out of the dude in the chair.”
“I suppose so.”
“Before I became a Marine, that
’
s pretty much what I did for a living.”
“You were an interrogator?”
“No, I was the guy that gave the beatings. But you do enough of those and you start to develop a sense of when the person is lying or telling the truth.”
“Hmm,” Munroe said, “It sounds like you developed a talent for kinesics.”
“What does that mean?”
“Take the next right.”
Black cocked an eyebrow at his companion. “You know where we are?”
“I always try to have a general sense of my location relative to my surroundings, especially in places for which I
’
m intimately acquainted.” Black took the next turn, and Munroe continued, “And kinesics, for future reference, is the science of observing and analyzing the body language and verbal behavior of witnesses and suspects. Certain people have a natural talent for it. You
’
re likely subconsciously picking up on those types of cues. People with a natural aptitude toward it make the best kinesic interrogators. Maybe that
’
s a skill you should consider developing.”
“Does that mean you
’
re getting used to having me around?”
Munroe ignored the question. “I believe we
’
ve arrived.”
Black glanced around the hall. The sign by the closest door read
The Reflection Room.
“Arrived where?”
“This used to be a storage closet, but after 9/11, this place became known as
The Reflection Room
. It
’
s dedicated to those from the Navy family who lost their lives here and on the aircraft during the attack.”
Black opened the door and led Munroe inside. The room didn
’
t contain an elaborate memorial or intricate adornments. The walls were the same off-white and the floor the same dark blue marble as the corridor leading to the space. A simple stone tablet containing a list of names flanked by the American and Navy flags rested in a niche along one wall. Stone benches sat in the room
’
s center. The lights had been dimmed, and the room was currently unoccupied. Black felt an inexplicable weight fall upon him when he entered—a power or resonance that nearly brought him to tears.
Munroe sat down on the bench facing the list of names.
“Were you here when the attack happened?” Black asked.
Swallowing hard, Munroe replied, “I
’
d like to be alone, Mr. Black. Grab us some coffee and then come back for me. Take your time.”