Rising Phoenix (21 page)

Back in the kitchen, Blake poured a healthy slug of skim milk into a bowl of low-fat granola. A look of distaste spread across his lips as he watched the individual grains bob up and down in the white liquid. This was the substitute for bacon and eggs that his wife had devised to halt the progression of his waistline. No way to start the day, as far as he was concerned.

The Baltimore Sun and Washington Post lay in front of him on the table, wrapped in damp plastic bags. The house was dead silent. He’d had the same ritual for years. Getting up a half an hour before the rest of the family to read always seemed to put his day into perspective. He knew that there wasn’t much time before pandemonium struck, so he pulled the Post out of its bag and carefully stripped it of its rubber band.

As he smoothed the paper out on the damp table next to him, his hand passed over the boldface type announcing the top story of the day.

ORGANIZATION THREATENS U.S.
NARCOTICS SUPPLY.

His emotions ran away from him for a moment, starting with excitement and ending, inexplicably, in despair. He had managed to put the entire situation out of his mind over the last few months and now it all came flooding back. Seeing it in black and white, sprawled across the front page of the Post, made the whole thing uncomfortably real. He smoothed out the paper one last time and began reading.

Toward the end of the article, he was feeling a little better. It seemed that the press hadn’t gotten ahold of any information that his ex-security chief didn’t want them to have. Blake nurtured a healthy fear of the tenacity of the press, as did all television evangelists. The story had also described how serious the drug problem was, and that this may be an effective way to
correct it. Overall, a more balanced piece than he had expected.

Blake’s reflections were interrupted by the sound of small feet pounding down the stairs on their way to the kitchen. He quickly folded the paper back up and pushed it to the center of the table, as if it were some girlie magazine that he was hiding from his parents. Realizing what he had just done, he shook his head silently. He just wasn’t cut out for this kind of work.

T
homas Sherman gathered up a stack of folders from his desk and tucked them securely under his arm. He paused on his way out to catch the tail end of a news report on the television nestled in a bookcase next to his desk. The channel was perpetually tuned to CNN—a station that was becoming more and more a staple in the diet of FBI and CIA. When they weren’t caught up in something trivial, CNN had its nose in everything. More evidence of the superiority of free enterprise over government agencies, as far as he was concerned. Profit, it seemed, was the great motivator of man.

When the screen faded into a commercial for Teflon pans, he clicked the TV off and continued for the door. He should have been running a tape on the report—it dealt directly with his top priority of the day. The problem was that he had never learned to record on the complex VCR built into the TV—despite his daughter’s diligent tutelage.

Sherman rushed down the drab hall, taking a hard
right into the last office suite. He smiled at the Director’s secretary as he charged through the outer office. She smiled back. “They’re all in there, Tom.”

Punctuality was not what had propelled his meteoric rise through the ranks of the Bureau to become its second in command. Sometimes he wondered what had propelled it. His soft voice and grandfatherly demeanor didn’t fit the image of the take-charge FBI man. Mark Beamon delighted in introducing him as a hat maker, insisting that Sherman had became the associate director only by some bizarre twist of fate.

He closed the door quietly behind him, confirming uncomfortably that he indeed was the last to arrive. Director Calahan sat behind his large desk, framed by two American flags. Across from him sat Frank Richter, associate deputy director in charge of investigations, and Eric Toleman, ADD in charge of administration. The chair between them was empty, and Sherman rushed across the thick carpet to take it.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, narrowly averting dropping all of his papers on the floor as he sat.

“No problem, Tom, we know you’re a busy man,” the Director replied with a sarcastic edge to his voice. It was well known that he didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Sherman had learned to dread these meetings. Calahan had become Director almost two years ago and liked to have his hands in everything. That, in and of itself, was not a problem. Sherman had been critical of the previous Director for his lack of involvement in day-to-day administration. The problem arose when Calahan had decided on his first day that his fifteen
years on the appellate bench, and subsequent appointment to the FBI, made him the country’s number one law enforcement expert. But he had never bothered to learn the first thing about the operation of the organization he now commanded. That, combined with his comically overinflated ego, made him a dangerous man. It was common for him to ask questions that a first-year agent could answer; but if any of his executives appeared pedantic in their reply, he would throw one of the tantrums that had become legend at the Bureau.

Sherman stretched his long legs out as far as they would go without hitting the desk in front of him. The three executive agents were seated in a straight line in front of the Director’s desk, like schoolboys in the principal’s office—a position that they had become accustomed to over the last couple of years, and one that was obviously designed to give Calahan the psychological edge.

“I didn’t call this meeting, Frank did,” Calahan announced. “You wanted to talk about this drug poisoning business?”

“Uh, yes, sir. I was going to call a meeting last night, but I thought it would be better to come in with a few more facts.” He shuffled the papers on his lap until he was comfortable that they were in the proper order.

“It looks like the CDFS is going to make good on its threat. We have reports of three suspected poisonings from hospitals across the country. Let me stress that these aren’t confirmed victims. They do have symptoms that are consistent with poisoning, though, and the hospital staff has established that they are drug
users. None have died yet, but all three are terminal and not expected to live through the week.” He paused to see if anyone had comments.

“That’s why I was late,” said Sherman. “I was watching a report on this on CNN.”

“Yeah, it looks like the press has picked up on one of the three, and they’re all over the TV with it. It’s been a slow news month.”

“Do we know anything about the people poisoned?” Sherman asked.

“Not yet. I’ve got our guys running them down. We really just got the word last night. I should have a hell of a lot more tomorrow.”

Calahan cut in. He seemed to have a formula to calculate how long he would allow a conversation to go on without his input. “Where are they from?”

Richter shuffled through his well-ordered notes. ’Two from Miami, one from New York.”

“And the cashier’s checks?”

“We’re working on it, but nothing so far,” Richter replied vaguely. It had been irrefutably proven that giving Calahan too many details would set him to suggesting endless, and painfully obvious, investigative avenues.

“So have you done anything but sit around with your thumb up your ass, Frank?” Calahan’s voice rose a notch.

Sherman cut in, rescuing his subordinate. ’Director Calahan, there really wasn’t anything to investigate until last night. Frank’s as on top of it as anyone could be.”

Calahan looked as though he was going to lash out, but then seemed to think better of it.

Richter continued, effectively veiling his anger. “Sir,
this is pretty high-profile and it crosses the jurisdictions between us, DEA, and the local police. I suggest that we form an interdepartmental task force to handle it.”

Calahan thought for a moment, playing absently with the handle on the front drawer of his desk. “And who would you suggest that we put in charge of this task force?”

“I was thinking of Dave Schupman—he’s a hell of a good investigator.”

Tom Sherman squirmed in his chair and suppressed a laugh. It came out sounding like he was trying to clear his sinuses. Calahan’s eyes moved to him. “I take it you disagree, Tom?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” He turned to face Richter, feeling a little guilty about his lack of self-control. “Look, Frank, Dave’s a great investigator but he comes off like an MIT computer nerd. Christ, last time I saw him he was wearing a pocket protector.”

“Actually, I think Dave is an MIT computer nerd,” Toleman said, speaking for the first time in the meeting. He looked around him for confirmation.

Sherman ignored the comment and continued. “I think we all understand why Frank suggested Dave. I think we also know who we should put in charge of the investigation.”

Richter’s eyes narrowed. “Good thinking, Tom. Maybe he can just beat the information out of a few dying junkies.”

“That charge was bullshit, Frank, and you know it,” Sherman snapped back.

The Director broke in again. “Who are we talking about?”

Sherman and Richter had locked eyes and looked like they were in telepathic communication. Toleman answered the question. “Uh, I think they’re talking about Mark Beamon, sir.”

A look of disbelief crept across Calahan’s face. Sherman winced. He would have liked to have introduced the idea a little more gently.

“Is that true, Tom? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Sherman nodded, getting ready to speak, but Richter cut in before he could open his mouth.

“Sir, Beamon’s uncontrollable—he’s only been in Houston for a few weeks and he’s already gotten the SAC there involved in a gunfight. A goddam gunfight! I can’t be responsible for his actions if we bring him back.”

“Relax, Frank, I agree with you,” Calahan said smoothly. His distaste for Mark Beamon was no secret. “But I also agree that Dave is a bad choice. We need someone who plays better to the press.” He turned back to his deputy. His shocked expression had melted into one of disappointment. “I’m surprised that you would bring up Beamon, Tom. Give me another recommendation.”

Sherman stood abruptly and turned to the men beside him. “Could you excuse us for a few minutes?”

Toleman looked relieved and headed for the door before Calahan could change his mind. Richter rose more slowly, his body language suggesting suspicion. Sherman’s powers of quiet persuasion were well documented. Even Calahan had been known to succumb.

The associate director followed them out as far as the door and closed it behind them.

“So what’s so important, Tom?” There was a hint of nervousness in Calahan’s voice.

“I would like to reiterate my recommendation that we put Mark in as head of this investigation,” Sherman replied, taking his seat again.

Calahan laughed maliciously. “Just dying to get your old buddy back to D.C., aren’t you, Tom. Having to spend too much time with your wife?”

Sherman ignored the insult. He knew that he had the power to intimidate the Director and that this was just his feeble attempt at keeping the upper hand.

Sherman stood, walking around behind his chair and grabbing the back of it to support his weight. “I sent Mark to Houston so that he could finish his career in peace. If I was really a good friend to him, I’d leave him there.”

“Then leave him there. The Bureau’s got to have one other guy who can handle this case. Find him.” It was a direct order, but the conviction had drained from Calahan’s voice.

“No, I don’t think there is.” Sherman walked over to a wall virtually covered in photographs. Almost all depicted Calahan with a well-connected government official.

“The recent criticism of you in the press has given us a black eye.”

Sherman was referring to the widespread speculation that Calahan had been using Bureau resources for personal benefit. An allegation that everyone in the FBI knew was absolutely true.

He continued scanning the photographs but in his mind’s eye he could see a flush coming over Calahan’s
face. The Directors inability to conjure up a good poker face when backed into a corner had been the subject of more than a little concern at the FBI.

“Go on,” Calahan said coolly.

“The press loves Mark. Hell, they damn near deified him after the Coleman kidnapping. And whether it’s true or not, they think he’s our best man.” Sherman moved to his right and began trying to find Calahan’s young face in a photograph of his law school graduation.

“I’ve got a bad feeling that we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg with these first three poisonings. If I’m right, the press is going to latch onto this thing and not let go. We’ll be performing this investigation under a microscope.” He turned and looked directly at his boss to drive the point home. “We damn well better look like we’re pulling out all the stops to get these guys. And if this whole thing turns out to be nothing, we just send Mark back to Texas. And you know what the media says? They say that you pulled out the big guns to ensure the safety of a bunch of drug users. What a guy.”

Sherman crossed his arms, signaling that he was done with his pitch. Calahan turned and looked out the window while his deputy stared intently at the back of the wide leather chair. Finally he swiveled it back, and they were once again face to face.

“Have it your way, Tom, but keep him away from me.”

Sherman nodded. “I’d also like to suggest that Mark report directly to me and not Frank. I don’t think that their relationship is particularly constructive.”

Calahan was already shuffling through his “In” box
with feigned interest, indicating that the meeting was over. “Whatever. It’s your show.”

As he walked out of the Director’s office, Sherman wondered whether or not he should be happy with his victory. Mark Beamon and he had been friends for almost fifteen years, and he knew that taking this job would be a risky move for Beamon. He suspected that one of the reasons Calahan had agreed so quickly was that he was looking forward to making Beamon a scapegoat for anything that went wrong.