Murder at the Pentagon Read Free

and then disengaged. “Yes,” she said. “Arrived about a month ago. Funny I haven’t bumped into you in the building.” If I were honest, she thought, I’d admit that I had hoped not to see him. Unrealistic, of course, even in the mammoth complex. Monroney was assigned to the Air Force Directorate of Engineering Services (DE&S). Margit’s assignment to the X-ray laser project ensured that they would come in contact at some point.
    “It’s a big building,” he said. “And I’ve been away most of the month. I suppose that’s why we haven’t run into each other. How have you been?”
    “Fine. Really good.”
    “Still flying choppers as if born to it?”
    “Sure. When I get the chance.”
    “And a lawyer, too,” he said with a sense of slightly exaggerated respect. “What’s next for Margit Falk, brain surgery?”
    “I’ve been considering that,” she said. “Need any work? You look good. The Pentagon must agree with you.”
    Monroney laughed. “As long as you don’t take it too seriously. Actually, I’ve been enjoying the assignment. Nothing like rubbing shoulders with the purple suiters.” Pentagonese for top brass. “Good for the career, if not for the morale.”
    “How’s your wife?” she asked.
    Monroney looked to where his wife was sipping a lemonade while chatting with another woman. He returned his attention to Margit. “Celia is fine. Still living the single life?”
    “Yes, and enjoying every minute of it. Excuse me. It was good seeing you. I’m thirsty.” She resumed her path toward the kiosk, aware that Monroney was watching her every step. She skirted Celia Monroney and reached the kiosk where volunteers wielded long black forks that pierced frankfurter skins and slid easily between charred ribs. Fat dripping from hamburger patties hit the flame of the barbeque pit with the searing hiss of a snake pit. Margit ordered a diet cola.
    Unpleasant memories flooded her, but she willed them away. To her right, lined up along a counter, were military officers who somehow wore their profession and rank even in civilian clothing; lobbyists invited to the picnic by their Pentagon contacts; and a member of the House of Representatives whom Margit recognized from pictures.
    “I know one thing,” one of the military men said in an authoritative, commanding voice (did he sound that way to his wife and children? Margit wondered), “that son of a bitch had better be put in his place now before he takes a notion to use that bomb he’s ended up with.”
    “It sure as hell got Israel’s attention,” said a lobbyist.“What did I hear yesterday, that they’ve voted an emergency two billion for weapons?”
    “Can’t blame them,” another officer in mufti said. “That head case drops one bomb on Tel Aviv, good-bye Jewish homeland, bonds for Israel, and conventional warfare.”
    Margit continued to sip her soft drink and eavesdrop. The demonstration by the leader of an Arab nation that he had, in fact, developed nuclear weapons had dominated virtually every conversation since videotapes of the test were released. Until that fateful moment the world had been drifting, albeit slowly but surely, into a rumbling but comforting peace. Relations between the United States and what had been the Soviet Union had continued to develop into one of mutual cooperation. Gorbachev and his policies of revised
glasnost
had started the process. The Wall had tumbled in Berlin. Eastern bloc countries had flexed their muscles, to the extent they existed, and sought to enter the mainstream of free enterprise and free elections. Then, the failed coup against Gorbachev and, of all things, the collapse of Communism within the Soviet Union, set in motion the dismemberment of the Russian nuclear superpower itself, at least as it had been known.
    Saddam Hussein’s audacious takeover of Kuwait, and subsequent rout on the battlefield under Stormin’ Norman and the hundred-billion-dollar Desert Storm operation—give or