Mike Lawson - House Divided

Linda Breed let out a heart-wrenching moan, and Bradford took her small hand into his. But as he held her hand, his thoughts turned to John Levy. Bradford prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize issues and problems, and his focus this morning had been on Martin’s funeral and his eulogy. Now that his part in the service was over, however, he couldn’t help but wonder how Levy was faring.

Levy had to find out who had identified that young soldier through his fingerprints.

“That’s her,” Perkins said, pointing at the monitor on his desk.

Perkins-a lanky, balding, bookish man in his forties-was an agent who worked for the PFPA, the Pentagon Force Protection Agency. The PFPA is the Pentagon’s police force and is composed of guards, criminal investigators, and highly trained technicians responsible for protecting the Pentagon and other DOD assets in the D.C. area. John Levy was nominally the deputy director of the agency. The reality, as Perkins and every other member of the force knew-including Levy’s boss-was that Levy reported to no one. And people in the Pentagon quickly learned to do whatever Levy asked of them. If they didn’t, someone very, very high up the chain of command would make a phone call and instruct them in the error of their ways. Levy was a shadowy presence who, for reasons no one could understand, was incredibly powerful and totally autonomous.

Levy looked at the monitor and saw a stocky black woman with henna-colored hair and black framed glasses wearing a dark pantsuit.

“We got that picture from a surveillance camera located near the hospital pharmacy,” Perkins said. “We started with a general description of the woman from a nurse’s aide, who said that a black woman identified herself as an Arlington police officer and took the fingerprints of the John Doe corpse. We showed the aide this surveillance photo, and he confirmed this was the woman.”

“So who is she?” Levy said.

“Her name is Alberta Merker. I used Homeland Security’s facial recognition software.” A second photo flashed up on the screen, showing a round-faced black woman, her hair cut in a short Afro. “That’s her Maryland driver’s license photo, minus the wig and glasses.”

“Put both photos on the screen at the same time,” Levy said. Perkins did and Levy studied the two pictures. Yes, it was the same woman, but the simple disguise she’d worn made it tough to tell.

“She’s not an Arlington cop, is she?” Levy said.

“No, sir. All I could find out about her is that she’s ex-army enlisted and works for the Department of Defense. DOD personnel records identify her as a GS-Eleven procurement specialist, but her file has nothing in it that identifies exactly what she does or which division she works for. And a title like procurement specialist is not much help; she could be procuring anything from combat boots to tanks.

“I mean, this is really strange,” Perkins added. “I’m certain this woman is connected in some way to the Pentagon, but it’s like her personnel records have been sanitized.”

Levy just stood there, looking at the two pictures of Alberta Merker still visible on the monitor. He didn’t say anything, but he was thinking that the Department of Defense employed over two million military personnel and almost a million civilians. It was spread over the entire planet and had more departments, divisions, and bureaucratic niches than anyone could possibly imagine or keep track of. The fact that Merker’s personnel records were incomplete didn’t necessarily mean that someone was trying to hide the identity of her employer-but he suspected that in this case someone was.

“Where does she live?” Levy asked.

“College Park, Maryland, according to her tax returns. Also, per her tax returns, she’s single. But I don’t know if she lives alone or not.”

When Levy didn’t say anything, Perkins added, “Sir, if you told me why you’re interested in this woman, maybe I’d be able to get more data.”

“You don’t need to know anything else,” Levy said. “All you need to know is that she’s a security risk and I don’t want you talking about her to anyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Levy turned to leave, then, realizing he’d been too harsh with the man, he said, “You did a good job on this, Perkins, and I appreciate it. And I’d tell you more if I could. It’s just that the situation with this woman is very sensitive.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

For your sake, I hope not, Levy thought.

DeMarco ate a can of chili for dinner and, while he ate, he felt sorry for himself. Mahoney’s absence was a gift-a gift that was now being squandered because he was wasting his time dealing with his cousin’s death. He also wondered what the hell the FBI was doing. He agreed with Glazer, the Arlington cop, that something very odd was going on.

He grabbed a beer from his refrigerator and went into his den to watch the evening news, but just as he was about to turn on the television his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID but the number was blocked.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hi, it’s me.”

It was Angela. Thank God. He could picture her: the long dark hair, the laughing eyes, the trim body he loved.

“Are you back?” he asked, hoping like hell that she was. She’d only been gone a few days, and he couldn’t believe how much he missed her.

“No. And I probably shouldn’t even be calling you, but I just wanted to let you know I was all right and that I was thinking about you.”

“I know you can’t tell me exactly where you are, but are you someplace safe? Tell me you’re not running around in the mountains looking for al-Qaeda guys in caves.”

She didn’t answer for a moment, as if she was trying to choose her words carefully. “I’m in a safe place, so don’t worry about me. I can’t tell you any more than that, because if the NSA intercepted this phone call I could get in trouble.”

“The NSA!” he said. “You think they’re listening to this?”

“No, not really, but you can never tell with those guys.”

“Well, in case they are, let’s give them something interesting to hear. Tell me what you’re not wearing.”

“Don’t be silly. Anyway, I miss you and I love you.”

“I miss you too. When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.” To change the subject, she asked him what he’d been doing. He told her Mahoney was in the hospital, nothing serious, and he’d been planning to play golf until his boss returned to work. He was just about to tell her about his cousin getting killed when he heard a thud in the background and she said, “Joe, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”

The thud could have been anything-something falling off a shelf, a door slamming-so why did he think it was an explosion? God, he hated her job.

He turned on the television, listened to the local news as he sipped his beer-and tried not to think about Angela in Afghanistan. The anchorman was yapping about a Washington Post reporter being missing, saying how the reporter had been an investigative journalist and had broken a number of big political stories. DeMarco had never heard of the guy. Except for the sports page, he rarely paid attention to the bylines in the paper.

The newscaster went on to say that management at the Post was concerned that the reporter’s disappearance could be related to whatever he was working on, although his editor didn’t know what that could be. Which made DeMarco think that maybe they oughta supervise their damn people a little bit closer. It sounded to him like a reporter could goof around all day and his bosses wouldn’t have a clue what he was doing.

Kind of like DeMarco.