scissors with considerable skill now held a dryer to Margit’s shorter-shorn head.
“Phone call for Major Falk,” a woman at the reception desk announced.
Desperation was painted on Margit’s face. The womanlaughed and said into the phone, “Major Falk is indisposed at the moment. Can she call you back in a half hour?” The reply was obviously negative. “Hold on,” she said, placing the receiver on the desk and crossing to Margit’s chair. “He says it’s important.”
Margit shuffled to the desk and picked up the phone between her thumb and middle finger as though it were contaminated. “Major Falk,” she said.
“Major, this is Lieutenant Lanning.”
An instant anger flared in her. She enjoyed their office banter, but to call her at home—even worse, here at the body-and-fender shop—was inexcusible.
“Sorry to bother you, Major, but this is no for-fun call. The boss told me to get ahold of you right away.” The boss was Colonel James Bellis, general counsel to the secretary of defense.
“Why?” she asked, feeling less angry.
“He wants you at the office at two this afternoon,” Lanning said.
“What for?”
“Major, I don’t know. I’m just following orders.”
“Is it a general staff meeting?”
“I don’t know any more than what I’m telling you. But no. Two o’clock sharp.”
“All right, I’ll be there. Thank you for calling, Max.”
“Hey, Major.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What?”
“I think it might have to do with the Cobol thing.”
“Cobol?”
“Nothing tangible, except I heard his name mentioned yesterday afternoon, and I heard your name mentioned in the same breath.”
She was not about to pursue this latest line of speculation, thanked him again, and hung up.
Being summoned to the General Counsel’s Office set up several reactions in Margit. She suffered them simultaneously as she returned to her chair and waited for hair, hands, and feet to dry. Had she done something wrong to be summonedon a Saturday? Weekend duty wasn’t unusual in the military, but this sounded serious. Could Max Lanning, Pentagon scandalmonger, be correct in his assessment? It was inconceivable that her meeting with Colonel Bellis could have anything to do with the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. She kept that thought in mind as she returned to her quarters and prepared for the meeting, paying particular attention to her uniform and shoes.
The Pentagon parking lot was only a quarter full. Still, she parked in her designated slot lest some overzealous security guard be called upon to boost his weekend summons tally. She went to her office and pretended to be busy, but her thoughts focused exclusively upon what she might face twenty minutes from now.
At 1:55 she entered the general counsel’s reception area. The door to his office was closed, and she wished his secretary were there. She paced, checked her watch: two o’clock straight-up. She knocked. His familiar gruff voice barked, “Come in.”
Colonel James Bellis was a contradiction in style. Very much the career soldier, exhibiting some of the rough edges career soldiers seem compelled to adopt, his law training—Harvard, and a stint at Oxford—spoke of considerable intellectual depth. He was a marine. The hair on the side of his head, and what was left on top, had been red but was now accented with gray. Freckles covered his forehead and spread up into his bald pate. He had the complexion of a redhead; Margit had heard that he’d had dozens of basal-cell skin cancers removed over the years. He liked to talk informally, off-the-cuff, but there was a military formality that could not be ignored. On this Saturday, seated at his desk, he had no rolled-up sleeves or tie pulled loose from the collar. He was in full uniform and sat erect in his chair.
“Major Falk, thanks for coming in. Sorry to screw up your Saturday.”
“No problem for me, Colonel. A free weekend.”
“Sit down. That chair.”
She sat where
“Phone call for Major Falk,” a woman at the reception desk announced.
Desperation was painted on Margit’s face. The womanlaughed and said into the phone, “Major Falk is indisposed at the moment. Can she call you back in a half hour?” The reply was obviously negative. “Hold on,” she said, placing the receiver on the desk and crossing to Margit’s chair. “He says it’s important.”
Margit shuffled to the desk and picked up the phone between her thumb and middle finger as though it were contaminated. “Major Falk,” she said.
“Major, this is Lieutenant Lanning.”
An instant anger flared in her. She enjoyed their office banter, but to call her at home—even worse, here at the body-and-fender shop—was inexcusible.
“Sorry to bother you, Major, but this is no for-fun call. The boss told me to get ahold of you right away.” The boss was Colonel James Bellis, general counsel to the secretary of defense.
“Why?” she asked, feeling less angry.
“He wants you at the office at two this afternoon,” Lanning said.
“What for?”
“Major, I don’t know. I’m just following orders.”
“Is it a general staff meeting?”
“I don’t know any more than what I’m telling you. But no. Two o’clock sharp.”
“All right, I’ll be there. Thank you for calling, Max.”
“Hey, Major.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What?”
“I think it might have to do with the Cobol thing.”
“Cobol?”
“Nothing tangible, except I heard his name mentioned yesterday afternoon, and I heard your name mentioned in the same breath.”
She was not about to pursue this latest line of speculation, thanked him again, and hung up.
Being summoned to the General Counsel’s Office set up several reactions in Margit. She suffered them simultaneously as she returned to her chair and waited for hair, hands, and feet to dry. Had she done something wrong to be summonedon a Saturday? Weekend duty wasn’t unusual in the military, but this sounded serious. Could Max Lanning, Pentagon scandalmonger, be correct in his assessment? It was inconceivable that her meeting with Colonel Bellis could have anything to do with the murder of Dr. Richard Joycelen. She kept that thought in mind as she returned to her quarters and prepared for the meeting, paying particular attention to her uniform and shoes.
The Pentagon parking lot was only a quarter full. Still, she parked in her designated slot lest some overzealous security guard be called upon to boost his weekend summons tally. She went to her office and pretended to be busy, but her thoughts focused exclusively upon what she might face twenty minutes from now.
At 1:55 she entered the general counsel’s reception area. The door to his office was closed, and she wished his secretary were there. She paced, checked her watch: two o’clock straight-up. She knocked. His familiar gruff voice barked, “Come in.”
Colonel James Bellis was a contradiction in style. Very much the career soldier, exhibiting some of the rough edges career soldiers seem compelled to adopt, his law training—Harvard, and a stint at Oxford—spoke of considerable intellectual depth. He was a marine. The hair on the side of his head, and what was left on top, had been red but was now accented with gray. Freckles covered his forehead and spread up into his bald pate. He had the complexion of a redhead; Margit had heard that he’d had dozens of basal-cell skin cancers removed over the years. He liked to talk informally, off-the-cuff, but there was a military formality that could not be ignored. On this Saturday, seated at his desk, he had no rolled-up sleeves or tie pulled loose from the collar. He was in full uniform and sat erect in his chair.
“Major Falk, thanks for coming in. Sorry to screw up your Saturday.”
“No problem for me, Colonel. A free weekend.”
“Sit down. That chair.”
She sat where
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