Arkalalah

By Richard Haddock

When DC lawyer Jamie Maxwell returns to his hometown in Kansas after 25 years to help solve an old friend's murder, he gets involved in more than he bargained for. Delving into his friend's past, he discovers his role in a secret FBI/CIA project known as Salamander that has generated millions of untraceable dollars. Using his friend's clever clues, Jamie's snooping raises red flags in DC and puts him literally in the crosshairs of those who want Salamander kept secret. Torn between justice for his old friend and exposing associates back in DC, Jamie wanders in and out of his past amidst the events and colorful personalities of the annual Arkalalah celebration. The atmosphere provides a sharp contrast between a life and people Jamie once loved and his career amongst the DC politics and scheming that he has come to loathe. Arkalalah is a poignant story for anyone who believes that "you can't go home again," plus an exciting mystery involving an expose that makes "Iran-Contra" look like child's play.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 6, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469746159

Richard Haddock

Dr. Haddock is retired and lives with his wife, Marilyn, in Northern Virginia.

Book preview

Arkalalah

Richard Haddock

Writers Club Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Arkalalah

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Richard Haddock

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse, Inc. 5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

Cover design by Ms. Paige Powell

ISBN: 0-595-21522-X

ISBN: 978-1-4697-4615-9 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

For Hattie & Ben Lois & Bob Dorothy & J.B. Anita & Lloyd Hester & Don

CHAPTER 1

Roger Elston peered from the darkened house as the car backed out of the garage beneath him. Its headlights swung across the yard, illuminating the gravel driveway that led to the road below. The car quickly disappeared over the crest of the hill and sped off. Roger sighed, then bowed his head and mouthed a prayer.

He felt for the knapsack on the floor with his foot. It was there, its cargo still in his possession. His watch dial glowed green in the blackness of the room. It was eleven o’clock. He moved to the window on the other side of the room and parted the drapes with a trembling hand. The front yard looked empty. He took a deep breath, then reached down for the knapsack. He grunted as he shoved his arms through the straps and hoisted it onto his back. He moved slowly to the front door and paused to gather himself. He had traveled the three-mile route over the rough Kansas terrain a hundred times as a boy, but never with his life at stake.

He eased out the front door of the Dickerman house, crossed the porch, and descended the stairs to the yard. The moon was full and the October breeze blew softly in his face as he labored up the steep hill behind the house. When he reached the top of the hill, he turned and surveyed the scene below: the dark house, the quiet countryside. He took a deep breath and moved forward at a measured pace through the thick prairie grass. He fell once, twice, as he stumbled over the rough ground. The straps of the knapsack cut into his shoulders. He was quickly soaked in sweat. He struggled over a barbed wire fence, his forty-eight year old legs heavy and uncoordinated.

Pushing on, his eyes darted into each ravine and gully, searching every shadow for movement. His pace quickened, his stride lengthened. Reaching his designated halfway point, he paused, out of breath, and leaned against the outcropping of rock known locally as Geronimo’s Nose. He bent his head back, staring up into the twinkling sky. His mind slipped into neutral, his gaze fixed on the moon. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and listened to the sounds of the night. Crickets chirped busily like an orchestra tuning up. There was the murmur of an owl, the distant wail of a coyote. The sharp smell of a skunk wrinkled his nose and broke his reverie. He struggled forward, his entire body aching.

Several minutes later, a farmhouse came into view, perhaps five hundred yards away. An inviting yellow glow shone from the kitchen window. He sighed, then moved on, struggling to the crest of another hill. The final hill.

The gentle flow of the river gurgled off to his left. But as he started down the bank, his feet slipped. He tripped, stumbled, and fell forward into the shallow water. He scrambled back onto the bank and knelt, gasping for breath, struggling to regain control. He listened carefully, glanced one more time at his watch and started the last leg of his journey.

***

The gin was beginning to have its way with me, not that I was offering much resistance to the seduction. I speared the lone olive in my drink and turned to look out across the huge, chandelier-lit ballroom filled with Washington’s elite: sleek tuxedos, white dress uniforms, the latest fashions from Paris and Rome. More arrogance per square foot than an NBA locker room. I smiled at my analogy, then frowned. After all, I was part of all this greed and double-talk and fake laughter. A reluctant player perhaps, but here I was nonetheless.

To my right, a string quartet in tie and tails labored to provide the right amount of background music. The room hummed with oh-sopolite conversation and laughter, and the sweet aroma of Chanel mixed with the pungent odor of Cuban cigars. Add a honky-tonk piano, my old friend Maude Masterson would say, and you got all the makings of an Oklahoma cat house. Maude was allowed to make such observations; after all, this was her house. I turned and nodded to the bartender, a young man dressed in a Revolutionary War uniform. You know what I hate about this town, Larry?

Larry took my empty glass and began to refill it. No sir, Mr. Maxwell.

Not enough bartenders. I jabbed a finger in Larry’s direction. You guys actually listen to what people have to say. Everybody else is too busy talking about their damned jobs. Or themselves.

Larry smiled and slid a fresh drink across the bar. Yes, sir.

I took a pull on the gin and turned the barstool so I could face the crowd. Let me show you what I mean, Larry. I gestured across the room. You see that General there, with those two men? Larry nodded. That’s General John Ambrose, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The guy to his right is J.D. Brookings, an Executive VP with ACS, the big computer company. And the little guy in between is Ahmed Bin Mohammed, the Ambassador from Saudi Arabia.

The guy in the blue sunglasses?

Yeah. Cute isn’t he? Anyway, Brookings there is probably describing how he has single-handedly revolutionized the computer business. Not that they’re listening, mind you, but when the other two get their turns, they’ll be boasting about modernizing the armed forces and their country with the same form of inspired leadership. From here, they look like they’re the greatest of friends, don’t they?

Yes, sir.

I shook my head. They loathe each other, Larry. I took a sip of my drink. You see, Ambrose thinks that contractors like Brookings are leeches; sucking taxpayer money out of the Pentagon like a vacuum cleaner. Brookings thinks the military are a bunch of mindless Cretins who can’t figure out which end of a hammer to hold without a contractor showing them how. And old Mohammed hates both the infidels who have raped and plundered his country, forcing our technology and military aid on his humble people.

And Brookings and Ambrose think old Mohammed is just one generation removed from being a goat herder?

I smiled. You catch on quick, Larry. I took another sip of my drink. The irony is, when Ambrose retires next spring, he’ll get a cushy job offer from—

Brookings?

Yep. Then Ambrose will live it up with his old Pentagon buddies on the golf course to earn his salary, and Brookings will gloat that his former hard-ass client now works for him. I turned to look at Larry. They won’t have too many meetings though. They’d need an office as big as this room to hold both their egos.

Larry laughed, wiping the bar with a rag. How do you know so much about these guys, Mr. Maxwell?

Well, sooner or later you have to tell even the bartenders who you are, the part in the game you’re playing. Larry, I’m embarrassed to tell you, that in my humble capacity as a DOJ lawyer, I’ve actually had dealings with those clowns. Plus, I play poker with them every month over at Bart Thompson’s place.

Senator Thompson?

Uh, huh. I glanced around the room, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who might want to engage in a mindless conversation about pending legislation or the failures of the legal system vis-a-vis the

O.J. case. I winced. Such a conversation was heading my way; Phil Drysdale, a senior partner with Giles, Worthington and Cohen, one of Washington’s most prestigious law firms. I turned back to Larry.

Speaking of megalomania, here comes another damned lawyer.

Another Tanqueray, Mr. Maxwell? Larry said.

Might as well. It looks like I’m trapped. I shot Drysdale a thin smile as the barrister approached.

I thought you’d be here tonight, Jamie, Drysdale said in his deep baritone. He grabbed my hand and pumped it vigorously, like he was an old friend. Celebrating the big victory, huh? He flashed an expensive smile.

I leaned back against the bar with a sigh. Actually, Phil, I found a quiet little corner where I could avoid small talk and small minds. I paused. Then you ruined both objectives.

Drysdale gave me a startled look, then threw his head back and laughed boisterously,clapping his hands together. Well,he said, glancing at Larry, I’d be in a witty mood too if I’d just won the biggest case of the year for DOJ. His face grew serious and he leaned closer, as if to pass along a stock tip. Let’s do lunch next week, Jamie. I’m anxious to hear the details.

I sighed. Actually, Phil, I don’t do lunch. I play racquetball or tennis at noon. Besides, I won’t be in town.

Drysdale frowned. Well, have your people give my people a call when you’re back. See if my calendar’s free. It’ll be my treat.

I shot Larry a wink. Sure, Phil.

Larry stifled a laugh while Drysdale gave me another robust handshake. Well, congratulations again, Jamie. He nodded at Larry and headed off towards the next check mark on his obligatory social round for the evening.

I shook my head. Now there’s another example of Washington politics at its finest, Larry.

How’s that, Mr. Maxwell?

Phil knows I’ll be out of town for the next month, so he offers to buy me lunch next week.

And he knows you don’t do lunch.

I smiled. You have more on the ball than most people in this room, Larry. I dug into my pocket and produced a twenty dollar bill, then emptied my drink. Thanks for being a good listener. See you around.

Yes, sir, Mr. Maxwell, Larry said, pocketing the twenty. I moved into the Roman orgy buffet area. Tables overflowed with huge slices of smoked Alaskan salmon, mammoth bowls of purple-black Russian caviar and mounds of pink crabmeat from the Chesapeake Bay. The ice sculpture centerpiece, a flamingo-like figure, was beginning to melt, dripping from its beak into the green kiwi arranged like a fanned deck of cards beneath it. I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, then paused to stare out the French doors at the harvest moon, a subdued orange in the Washington haze. I pictured myself alone on my boat: salt spray in my face, a steady wind whistling, the deck rolling comfortably beneath my feet.

The deep voice boomed from behind me. Surprised to see you here tonight, counselor.

I turned, anticipating the pudgy face of Senator Bart Thompson of Michigan. What I saw instead was the Senator’s escort, a tall, blonde woman overflowing the top of her skin-tight green dress. She blushed, her cheeks matching her lipstick, and lowered her eyes.

The Senator pulled a mangled cigar from the corner of his mouth. I said, I’m surprised to see you here tonight, Jamie. I thought you’d be off to some exotic place celebrating your latest victory. Isn’t that your normal custom?

I shifted my gaze from the pink spheres pushing up out of the green dress to the squat Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Why, yes, Bart. I’m leaving Sunday, sailing down to the Caribbean. I’ll be gone a month.

The Senator shook his head. Well,that’s the way to live,my boy.Win the biggest case of the year for Justice, then escape the premises while everyone else tries to take credit. He enjoyed a hearty laugh, one hand pressed hard against his red cummerbund. Yes, sir, that’s the way to live. He lifted his glass in tribute. I nodded, turning to share the gesture with the Senator’s companion. Oh, excuse me, Bart said. You know Miss Swanson, I believe?

I smiled. Myrna Swanson lowered her eyes again. Yes, how are you, Myrna? I recalled our encounter several years ago after a similar gala, her breasts firm and cool to the touch, unnatural, and how she had passed the natural blonde test I learned years ago in the Army. She was also dumb as a bag of hammers.

Bart nudged me with his elbow. So, I understand you proved some high ranking procurement officials had their hands in the cookie jar? The Senator’s small, beady eyes stared up at me.

When I hesitated, the Senator began his own version of the case details for Myrna’s benefit. As he droned on, my eyes were drawn to the mirrored wall behind us. From my vantage point I could see that Myrna’s dress was cut in the back all the way down to her, well, her outfit precluded underwear. I recalled our prior evening in the hot tub and the waterbed, neither of which required underwear either.

As I listened, my gaze moved unexplainably from Myrna’s shapely backside to the physical contrast between Bart Thompson and myself in the mirror. Boredom will do strange things to one’s attention span. At six-two and a hundred and ninety pounds, I stood almost a foot taller and probably fifty pounds lighter than the Senator, and at forty-eight, I looked trim and tanned, if I did say so myself. Old Bart looked every bit his sixty-five years: a series of chins, a chalky white face and a bulging midriff. His After Six tuxedo looked two sizes too big and his bald head was beaded with sweat. In a reassuring gesture, I ran a hand through my own full head of dark brown hair.

Bart Thompson went on to describe how the FBI had charged a prominent computer company with industrial espionage and how I had proven an Admiral and a Navy procurement official to be in cahoots instead. The FBI, always anxious to expose procurement corruption, had pursued the right scenario, but the wrong individuals, he explained, shaking his head in wonder. Once again, I had saved the FBI’s bacon by uncovering the true culprits.

The tale told, I turned my attention back to the green dress. So, how have you been, Myrna?

Myrna sipped her drink and smiled, her lips parting sensually. Bored, until now. She took a slow, deep breath and I was certain, if not hopeful, that gravity was about to separate dress and bosom.

Bart cleared his throat. So, exactly what do you do on these long cruises, Jamie? The Senator began searching the sea of faces around us for an escape route; a signal that would provide a convenient transition to a conversation with someone who would not push Myrna’s buttons.

I continued to stare at the Senator’s escort as I answered. Well, I’ll try some new gourmet recipes, Bart. I’ll play my guitar, catch up on my reading and listen to a lot of opera. I raised my eyes as if staring off across the ocean. And every evening I’ll grab a bottle of wine and sit watching the sunset. I turned my gaze back to the Senator. It’s a great way to purge my brain of Washington bilge and bile. I waved a hand as if dismissing stress and frustration with the flick of my wrist.

Bart Thompson frowned. Bilge and bile, huh? He patted his stomach. Perhaps that’s what I need. Too much bilge and bile in here, huh? He laughed and puffed on his cigar. Excuse me, he said, heading toward the bar across the room.

Myrna leaned toward me and whispered, Bart will have me driven home about midnight. I still live over on DuPont Circle. Her breasts swelled like hot air balloons about to become airborne. A flush returned to her cheeks.

I saw Bart returning out of the corner of my eye. I’m flattered, Myrna, but I’ve got a full day tomorrow. Need to get my rest tonight. I winked at her, then turned with my best phony smile to greet the Senator.

I knew that Thompson, like Phil Drysdale before him, had reached his limit of social obligation, so I used my best legal skills to move him along his required path. I lied. Uh oh, I think Senator Dorsett has spotted me, I said, referring to Bart’s congressional nemesis.

Thompson seized the opportunity as I knew he would, grabbing Myrna’s elbow and moving quickly to avoid the imaginary confrontation with the Senator from Texas. Yes, well, nice seeing you again, Jamie. Give me a call when you get back. He raised a hand in farewell and was gone, Myrna looking back over her bare shoulder.

I sighed and finished my champagne, feeling strangely alone in the crowd. It struck me that, with a few notable exceptions, I did not consider anyone here a true friend: someone I would welcome into my home, trust with my innermost thoughts or even want to associate with outside the necessity of the work place. And tonight’s gala, despite its pretense at social entertainment, was nothing more than an informal extension of that work place. Speaking of pretense, I wondered where my date for the evening had disappeared. As I circled the perimeter of the dance floor, moving quickly to avoid more small talk and hypocrisy, I spotted her in the next room.

Standing six foot in heels, Andrea Walton towered over Julia Rayford-Townsend, an administrative assistant to the senior Senator from California. To Andrea’s right, Mark Swearingen, political columnist for the Washington Post, nodded enthusiastic agreement to whatever she was saying.

Andrea’s purple strapless gown accentuated wide tanned shoulders and a shapely leg peeked through the slit on the side of the dress. Firm young breasts held the low cut bodice tightly in place. Brownish-red hair hung to her shoulders and her green eyes were alive, moving back and forth with animation and what I knew was genuine interest in the conversation. A Cartier diamond choker around her neck matched her wide, dazzling smile.

I took a deep breath and checked my watch, the silver and blue of my Georgetown ring flashing under the bright lights. Eleven forty-five. A lot of preparation awaited me for my cruise. Time to go. I approached the trio unseen from behind.

It seems to me, Rayford-Townsend was saying, that millions of people think what you say is gospel, not just the opinionated viewpoint of one narrow-minded journalist. That demands a burden of responsibility, don’t you think? Her face had turned the color of her auburn hair, worn short over the ears. She wore no jewelry or make up and a plain gray pants suit that resembled a suit of armor. I wondered if Joan of Arc, too, had been gay.

Mark Swearingen smiled. Well, I’m sorry I don’t represent the specific interests of your constituency, but then, I’m not a lesbian.

I’d rather be a lesbian than a horse’s ass, Rayford-Townsend shot back.

Well, I said in a loud voice, deciding to make my presence known, I wondered when the conversation would get around to lawyers. The trio turned and greeted me with laughter and smiles.

Well, Jamie, Swearingen said, care to comment on your latest triumph?

I shook my head. I don’t know why everybody is making such a fuss over this case. It’s like a dozen others I’ve tried over the years. Trapping petty bureaucrats in their mindless procurement games had indeed become ho-hum.

Swearingen pressed. Well, not every case involves a multi-billion dollar computer procurement—

Or an Admiral committing industrial espionage, Rayford-Townsend added.

I remained silent, unwilling to endure another telling of the tale. Well, you know Jamie, Andrea said. Always modest and understated. She smiled up at me.

I nodded, anxious to move on. Well, if you two will pardon us, I need to consult with Miss Walton on a matter of Constitutional interpretation. I nudged Andrea’s elbow, bowing politely. If you will excuse us now.

We exchanged a few good to have seen you agains and other insincere farewells and were gone, Andrea obediently latched onto my arm. Where have you been? I said under my breath as I moved her across the ballroom. I’ve been bored to tears.

She squeezed my arm. Jamie, I’m sorry. She looked up at me. I guess I got caught up in the conversation. I’m sorry.

I returned her inebriated gaze. Well, you have to be careful with those two. Swearingen will misquote you and Julia will—

Try to get me to sleep with her?

I nodded, waving at the Secretary of State as we moved through the crowd. Andrea craned her neck and whispered up at me. The only one who’s going to sleep with me tonight is you. And that sleep will be earned through exhaustion, not boredom.

So much for first date foreplay, I thought. Andrea had made her contacts for the evening, thanks to my introductions, had her fill of champagne and now was ready for a shot at the title, as Maude would say in her Oklahoma cat house vernacular. I smiled. Then let’s pay our respects and leave. I want time to earn my fatigue.

Andrea gave me a guttural purr and ran her fingertips over the back of my neck. I could feel my hair stand up. Was it anticipation of what lay in store for me with Andrea, no pun intended, or that my evening of forced politeness was almost over?

Tell me about the Mastersons, Andrea said, referring to our hosts for the evening.

I nodded, acknowledging a wave from the Secretary of Defense as we pressed slowly through the crowd. Maude is an oil-heiress from Oklahoma and Arthur, I think he’s her fifth husband, is the number two guy over at the CIA. Maude’s father discovered oil around Tulsa in the twenties and she inherited his fortune when she was a teenager.

Matt Doubleday, the wildcatter?

The same. Anyway, Maude’s first husband was a Congressman from Oklahoma. That’s how she came to Washington fifty years ago. She knows everything that’s happening in this town: who’s sleeping with whom, the vote count on legislation, details of classified Pentagon operations, who’s in and who’s out on the White House staff. Andrea nodded as we continued to wade through the crush of people.

And Arthur is a career civil servant; been with the CIA nearly thirty years. He’s polite, studious and articulate; a strange match for old Calamity Jane.

For me, Maude Masterson was a refreshing escape from the snobbish arrogance of Washington society. Despite her social stature and considerable fortune, she remained earthy, candid and cantankerous, a confidant and good friend. We had shared many a bottle of bourbon discussing everything from Pushkin’s poetry to why the Redskins needed another interior lineman, from what was right and wrong with the world in general, and with Washington in particular, to what the lyrics to Bob Dylan’s latest song really meant. If I had met her thirty years ago, I would have asked her to marry me. And she would have thrown me like a tenderfoot on a wild stallion. It would have been worth the ride, I considered with a smile.

The Mastersons were ensconced like queen and prince consort in the corner of the ballroom. Jamie, dearest, Maude cooed, offering a gloved hand from her throne. I proceeded with the introductions.

Well, Arthur announced, eyeing Andrea, it’s customary for the host to dance with all the charming young ladies. He grabbed Andrea’s hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. Maude and I watched as our respective companions disappeared into the crowd.

Maude struggled up out of her chair. The old goat just wants some firm horse flesh up against him. I joined her in a loud guffaw as she moved up beside me. She stood just under five feet and smiled graciously at her guests with a face that had experienced the plastic surgeon’s blade on three separate occasions. I also knew she wore a wig to cover her baldness and that other vital statistics, such as her age and weight, were as closely guarded as any covert CIA operation. She could drink the toughest Marine into a coma, was no longer welcome at Bart Thompson’s poker parties because she always won, and cried like a baby when she watched her favorite movie, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence.

Her dark eyes flashed. So, Andrea Walton, huh?

I sighed. She’s a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry. She’s probably giving Arthur a free sample right now. She hands them out like business cards. On the street, she’d be arrested for distribution. In here, it’s considered skillful marketing.

She seems pretty savvy to be only—

Twenty eight. And yes, she’s aggressive and—

Only with you tonight to meet all your famous friends and lecherous associates?

I laughed. That’s what I like about you, Maude. No foreplay, cut right to the chase.

She ran a hand over her shimmering blue dress, a Dior original. When you get to be my age, the approach has definite advantages. We both smiled. So? she pressed.

I tugged at my collar. Yes, tonight is a business affair for Miss Walton. Not one of the heart. I frowned. Besides, if she were the one, you know the last place I’d bring her would be to this gaudy, pretentious display.

We both laughed, watching the swaying bodies on the dance floor. Maude pushed a fleshy hip into mine. You can’t pine over me forever, cowboy.

I returned her nudge and put an arm around her shoulders. From what I hear missy, it would be well worth the wait. We exchanged a frisky laugh.

From the look in that gal’s eyes, I’d guess she can’t wait to get you somewhere a little more private. She looked up at me. I’m sorry she ain’t the one, Jamie.

I bent down and kissed her on the cheek. So am I.

Well, cowboy, young horse flesh has got to be ridden by someone. It might as well be you, huh?

Might as well be me, I murmured, wondering if women like Andrea and Julia Rayford-Townsend resented using their bodies to advance and prosper, or whether they actually enjoyed it. I wondered what had happened to women who might be interested in a man for the old fashioned reasons of love and family. Not in this town, pal. Get real.

Andrea and