Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [97]
He directed his final words at Sydney Wingate, the Elephant Man, Special Agent Donald “Skip” Traxler’s handler. “Where is Agent Traxler?” he asked.
“On leave, sir. You know he was—”
“What I know is that I’d like to talk to him again, and quick. This is going to blow up into a major scandal. We put somebody inside a hate group, he gets the goods on that group, and we do what we’re expected to do, take action. Then State sticks its nose where it doesn’t belong, helped by the CIA, of course, and they come up with a crazy story from a Russian con man. Worse, this jackass reporter gets himself on TV with another crazy story, gets his fifteen minutes of fame, and whips the public and the press into a further frenzy, with us on the receiving end of it—again, of course. Let’s cut the legs out from under this.”
Colonel Walter Barton was on the phone when Pauling walked into his office.
“What the hell is going on?” Barton snapped, placing his hand over the receiver.
Pauling sank into a chair. “What’s going on,” he said, “is one hell of a big mistake.”
“The Secretary’s office is on the line, looking for you.”
“Well, tell them they’ve found me.”
“Hoctor from CIA wants you, too.”
“It’s nice to be wanted—Colonel.”
“He’s here,” Barton said into the phone. “What? Yes, I’ll have him report there now.” He hung up.
“Where do I report first—or next, Colonel?” Pauling asked.
Barton ignored the sarcasm. “Get up to the Secretary’s office, on the double.”
“Sure.”
“You haven’t spoken to anyone outside of the chain of command, have you, the press, anybody like that?”
Pauling slowly shook his head as he pushed himself out of the chair and went to the door. He paused, his hand on the knob, and turned. “Know what just occurred to me?”
Barton stared at him.
“It just occurred to me, Colonel, that my source in Moscow says four missiles were sold to that group on the Canadian border in upstate New York.”
“And?”
“And, Colonel, only three of them have been used. Have a nice day.”
Chapter 36
That Same Day
Washington, DC
Like millions of Americans—and countless viewers around the world—Mac and Annabel Smith sat for a time transfixed in front of their television set as the events in Blaine, Washington, played out in real time, a video war game with blood-and-flesh people and live rounds, Academy Award–worthy sound effects, the black hats and white hats pitted against each other as in a classic western, with occasional tension relief provided by commercials.
But the script failed to provide a seamless story line. There were too many back stories, as they say in Holly-wood, getting in the way of the main tale of good triumphing over evil, justice being served, the proverbial happy ending.
“Do you believe that Post reporter, Potamos, and his claims?” Annabel asked her husband.
“I don’t know, Annie. If he’s right, the FBI’s got a lot to explain.”
“They haven’t identified the undercover agent, have they?”
“No, and they won’t—unless, of course, some enterprising investigative reporter digs out his name.”
“I was thinking of Jess Mumford,” Annabel said.
“Her ex-husband, Skip—what is it, Traxler?”
“Uh huh. I’d hate to be in his position—the one who provided the information on the Jasper group, I mean— if they attacked the wrong people based on his faulty information.”
“That’d be a heavy weight to bear. Have you spoken with Jess lately?”
“No. Think I’ll call.”
She returned to the den a minute later. “Busy. I’ll try again.”
Annabel’s