On a wall near the door was a large chalkboard, full of scribbling. Nick pointed toward it.
“That was Dad’s notebook. If he thought of something out here, he’d chalk it up there. If he couldn’t find a place, he’d just erase enough other stuff to fit it in.”
It was a mix of information. Telephone numbers, some with identifying names, some just floating. Snippets of thought. Get clear on Snyder-Brookins bill. Cryptic things. A quote Bo recognized from John Donne. No man is an island. There was a drawing of a horse. Or maybe it was a dog. Lee was no artist. Written small, down in one corner, was the name Dixon. It was not identified as Clay or William. Just Dixon. Bo wondered if there was something somewhere on the board that connected with the name.
He was sweating in the humid heat, and he took off his blazer. He pulled out a pen and a notepad from the inside pocket and began to write everything down that was on the chalkboard, noting where in relation to everything else it was. He wrote quickly, but carefully, while Nick stood quietly and watched him.
As Bo began to write the Donne quote, he realized he’d made a mistake when he first read it. It didn’t say, No man is an island. It said, NOMan is an island.
NOMan. National Operations Management. Bo felt as if he’d finally found something he could hold on to. He finished recording everything from the chalkboard, then he put his pen and notepad away.
“Thanks, Nick. I think I have what I need.”
Nick saw him to the front yard, skirting a trip through the house. Bo appreciated that. On the front walk, Bo asked, “The inlet where the accident happened, do you know it?”
“Sure. It was one of Dad’s favorite places. He usually ended his day’s sail there so he could watch the bald eagles. He liked it because there’s almost never any other boats around. He liked having the water and the eagles to himself.”
An isolated place Robert Lee was known to frequent. It violated the most basic rules of protection.
“I’m sorry about your father,” Bo said.
“Thank you.”
He shook the young man’s hand. Because there was nothing more he could offer, and nothing more he needed, he turned away and headed to his car.
chapter
thirty-six
Bo had breakfast at Afterwords, the café in Kramerbooks on Connecticut Avenue, a place he’d often eaten during the years he was assigned to duty in D.C. At nine o’clock, he walked through the door of the Old Post Office Building on Pennsylvania Avenue and took the elevator up. When he got off, he proceeded down a long, quiet hallway. At the end he came to a set of double, glass doors with NATIONAL OPERATIONS MANAGEMENT painted in white block letters across the panes.
The reception area was small and reminded him of the waiting room in a dentist’s office. There were a few magazines on a low table next to a love seat. Near the window was a fish tank with a lot of lazy-looking fish. Outside the window was a sunny view of Western Plaza with its crisscross of white lines that was a depiction of L’Enfant’s original plan for the capital city.
The receptionist was on the phone. She glanced up when Bo came in and flashed him a nice smile. She made a notation on her desk calendar, finished her conversation, and hung up.
“May I help you?”
“I’m sure you can,” Bo said. “I need some information.”
“What kind?”
“Pretty general, really. For starters, I’d like to know what National Operations Management does exactly.”
She laughed gently. “We don’t make the front page very often, do we?” She reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brochure that she handed to Bo. “I think this pamphlet will give you a very nice overview of NOMan.”
“Thank you. Mind if I sit down and read it here?”
“Be our guest.”
Bo sat and read.
NOMan, as the text kept referring to the organization, was a division of the General Accounting Office. It had been created by an act of Congress on March 10, 1963. Its purpose, according to the pamphlet, was to “standardize, facilitate, and oversee the security of communications and procedures within and among the various branches of the federal government.” Headquartered in Washington, D.C., NOMan had regional offices in several cities across the country.
“Standardize, facilitate, and oversee the security of communications and procedures,” Bo read aloud. “In layman’s terms, what does that mean?”
The receptionist, a Ms. Hoeffel, according to her name tag, looked up from the computer on which she was working. She gave him another of her nice smiles. “We do forms mostly. Make sure all departments use the same, or at least similar, documentation. We design documents for interdepartmental exchanges of all kinds. Procurement, travel, you name it. Not the most exciting office in the government, but we like to believe we help things run more smoothly.”
“What about this security aspect?”
Although still friendly, she seemed to be growing a bit tired of Bo’s interruptions and questions. “We’re responsible for the design and maintenance of the security system that keeps secret documentation and communication, well, secret.”
“Sounds like pretty important stuff to me,” Bo said.
“I’m glad you think so. We certainly do.”
“Can I get a tour?”
“We’re not one of the more popular stops for tourists in the capital. We don’t really give tours.”
“How about a public relations person?”
“That would be Laura Hansen.”
“Could I speak with her?”
“Not without an appointment. She’s very busy.”
“I’d like to make an appointment, then.”
“Certainly. Just a moment.”
She punched in a number on her phone. “Dan, it’s Mary Jude. I have a gentleman here who’d like to make an appointment to see Laura.” She listened. “General interest,” she said. “Uh-huh. Hang on a sec.” She glanced up at Bo. “Your name, sir?”
“Bo Lingenfelter.”
She repeated the name over the phone, then she smiled again at Bo and asked, “Is now a good time for you?”
“Now? Really?”
“Really.”
“All right.”
“Fine, Dan. And thanks.” She hung up. “You’re in luck. Laura will be right out.”
While he waited, Bo watched the fish in the tank. They didn’t seem in any hurry, which was good because they didn’t have anywhere to go.
The door behind the receptionist opened, and a woman in a light gray skirt and matching jacket came out. She was a small woman, but a lot of energy seemed to be contained in that slight frame. She smiled broadly at Bo.
“I’m Laura Hansen.” She extended her hand.
“Bo Lingenfelter. From Pueblo, Colorado.”
“Really? You sound more midwestern.”
“Transplant,” Bo said.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lingenfelter?”
“Truth is, I’m county chair for our party’s local committee. I’m trying to understand all the duties and responsibilities of our senators so that we can translate it for the voters back home. Now, it’s my understanding that among the other responsibilities he has, Senator Dixon also attends NOMan meetings. I’d like to know what that’s about.”
“Of course. Why don’t you come back to my office and we can talk a bit.”
She led the way. Behind the door, the office widened into a large area partitioned into dozens of cubicles where staff seemed diligently at work. The noise in the area consisted mostly of the click of keyboards, the ringing of phones, and the hum of voices. Laura Hansen guided Bo through the maze and into a real office with a real door, which she closed.
“Senator Dixon,” she said as she sat behind her desk. Bo took the chair opposite her. “He’s played a very important role in NOMan. In fact, he cosponsored the legislation that created our office. Over the years, he’s functioned in many capacities. Currently he serves as an adviser to several committee
s. Around here, he’s known as Senator Bill.”
“What does he do as an adviser?”
“Offers opinions, his expertise. He no longer has a voting role in committee decisions, but he often sits in on meetings of particular interest.”
“Are the minutes public?”
“Some. Not all. Sometimes the meetings deal with security issues, and for obvious reasons those minutes aren’t available to the public.”
“He was in a meeting here last week. Wednesday. Was that a secret meeting?”
“Last week?” She thought a moment. “I don’t think so. But then I’m not privy to everything here.”
“Would it be possible to get a copy of the minutes? If they’re a matter of public record.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She made two calls, and within five minutes, a man stepped into her office with a folder. “Thanks, Hank,” she said. She glanced at the contents, then handed the folder to Bo. “It’s not very exciting, I’m afraid. Mind-numbing, in fact. Discussion of revising a document that’s used when departments purchase from one another. But you’re welcome to it.”
“Any chance I could get a tour of things here?”
“That would have to be arranged, cleared at a higher level.”
Bo stood. “Thank you, Ms. Hansen. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll mention you to Senator Dixon when I see him and to the folks back home.”
She escorted him to the reception area, shook his hand, and Bo left.
He got a cup of coffee at the Old Ebbitt Grill and took a look at the minutes of the meeting Dixon had attended the day after Robert Lee began his investigation of the senator. It was, as Ms. Hansen had characterized it, a mind-numbing subject. Reading through the minutes, Bo had two big questions. First, why would a busy man like Dixon waste his time with a meeting that discussed a cross-payment document? And second, why had Dixon made no comments whatsoever during the meeting?
When Bo looked up, he saw that the television behind the bar was tuned to news coverage of the funeral of Robert Lee. The scene was graveside in Richmond, Robert Lee’s hometown. The president was there with Kate, both of them standing next to Lee’s widow. Flanking the woman on the other side were her sons. Everyone appeared to be weeping. Even President Andrew Clay Dixon wiped at tears. Bo could understand why. Everything he knew about Bobby Lee told him a good man had died. And that probably he had died unjustly.
In the minutes of the NOMan committee meeting, the name Donna Plante was among those listed as attendees. Bo tracked her down at the Department of Agriculture in the Whitten Federal Building. He caught her at her desk just as she was preparing to leave for lunch. When she saw his Secret Service ID, she agreed to delay her meal.
“I just want to ask a couple of questions about NOMan,” Bo said.
“Sure.”
Donna Plante set a small brown sack on her desk. Bo could smell the tuna sandwich inside.
“You sit on a NOMan committee.”
“Yes. Lots of employees from various departments do. It’s part of our assignment.”
“You were in a meeting last Wednesday with Senator Dixon, yes?”
“I was there.”
“I’ve looked at the minutes, and I find it odd that the senator offered no comments during the meeting.”
“Not odd. He wasn’t there.”
“In the minutes, he’s listed as an attendee.”
“He showed up, was noted, then he left. He sometimes does that.”
“Where does he go?”
“I don’t know. I just know that I envy the fact that he gets to skip out. Those meetings.” She gave an exaggerated yawn.
“Do you ever participate in meetings that discuss security issues?”
“Right. They’re going to let a clerk in USDA listen in about security issues.” She looked at her watch.
“Thanks,” Bo said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“What does all this have to do with Secret Service.”
“You know those meetings you don’t get to sit in on because they’re about security?”
“Yeah.”
“So’s this.”
In the Secret Service Memorial Building on H Street, Bo checked through security and received a temporary access ID. As he made his way to the Technical Security Division, he bumped into several agents he knew from previous assignments. All congratulated him on his work at Wildwood.
Robin Agnew was at her desk, deep in the reading of a thick report. She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice Bo. He was glad, because it allowed him, for a moment, to watch her without worrying about what his face might betray.
Her hair was a premature but absolutely beautiful silver. She’d shortened it since he last saw her. She worked her jaw as she read, an old habit. When she looked up, her eyes showed her surprise. Then she laughed.
“Bo. Jesus, you scared me.”
“Hello, Robin.”
She got up and hugged him. “What a nice surprise. I hadn’t heard you were coming.”
“I didn’t know myself until a couple of days ago.”
“Business?”
“Sort of.”
“I thought you were on medical leave after the Wildwood incident.”
“I was. Am.”
“Good work, by the way. I always knew you were hero material. I understand Chris is doing fine, too. I’m glad.”
Manning. A lot of years ago they’d gone through some strange permutations, the three of them. Manning and Bo had stayed single afterward. Robin wore a wedding ring.
“Did you have any trouble with him?” she asked.
“Nothing either of us couldn’t handle. You ever run into him out here?”
“Not often. It’s awkward whenever we do. I think he still has issues, even after all these years.”
“How about you?” Bo said. “You doing okay?”
“I married the right man. Not Secret Service.” She smiled. “So what’s up?”
“I came to beg a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Could I use your computer?”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All the way from Minnesota just to use my computer?”
“All right, how about your computer and you let me buy you dinner?”
“Oh, Bo, I’d love to. But I have to pick up little Gus at day care. And then Jamie and I have an early meeting at church tonight. You wouldn’t care to baby-sit, would you?”
“No thanks. I did enough of that on Dignitary Duty. Sounds like a good life, Robin.”
“The best.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot. I’m late for my workout. Let me log off.” She sat down at her computer and ended her connection with the system. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Will that be enough time?”
“Should be.” Bo smiled. “You look good, Robin.”
“So do you, Bo. So do you.” She kissed his cheek. “Ciao.” And she left.
Bo logged on and accessed the Internet. He did a search for NOMan and came up with 427 hits. He scrolled until he found the home page for National Operations Management. He went there, then clicked on a side bar notation that read “History.”
The precursor to NOMan, he learned, was an agency within the Department of Defense called the Office of Branch Communications. Created following World War II, it was responsible for coordinating communications among all the branches of the military. Headed by Marine Colonel Woodrow (Woody) Gass, the office proved so effective that it came to the notice of Congress. On March 10, 1963, it was made a part of the General Accounting Office, its name was changed to National Operations Management, and the scope of its authority was broadened to include all areas of government service. Every division of every department was required to have an employee whose responsibility, in part, was as a liaison with NOMan.
Although the agency was officially under the aegis of GAO, the director of NOMan didn’t report to GAO’s comptroller general but was responsible
instead to Congress directly. The term of appointment was the same as that for the comptroller general, fifteen years, which made the position less vulnerable to shifting political whims. Woody Gass was the first director of National Operations Management. He served in that capacity for thirty years, or two terms. When he stepped down, he was replaced by the current director, a NOMan veteran named Arlo Grieg.
In its capacity as watchdog for effective, interdepartmental communications, NOMan had been credited with saving the government billions of dollars through consistent monitoring and upgrading of communication channels. It had effected a network that, within one of the largest and most complex bureaucracies in the world, had become a model of efficiency.
This was the official line, anyway.
Bo clicked around some more, looking for anything that might shed a more unofficial light. On a Web site that called itself Big Brother Buster, he found a discussion of the budgets for several government offices, NOMan among them. According to the information presented there, NOMan didn’t operate in exactly the way its official budget indicated. Much of the operating expense of NOMan was picked up by the offices it served. Not only did each office pay a fee for service (that indispensable help with efficient communication that Bo, as an agent of the federal government for nearly two decades, had yet to see), but it also picked up the entire salary cost for the mandatory employee who served as a liaison with NOMan, employees like Donna Plante of the USDA. Therefore, any dollar amount appearing officially in the federal budget as allocated to NOMan to cover operating costs in fact represented only a small percentage of the actual money NOMan had available for its use.
It wasn’t a new idea. Bo knew the CIA had been operating that way for most of its history. He found a government Web site that gave a long list of individuals whose service to the nation included sitting on NOMan committees. Among them were representatives of the FBI, CIA, NSA, IRS, WHCA, as well as a number of well-known congressional leaders.
He stumbled across a discussion of Woodrow Gass, former director of NOMan. Woody Gass appeared to be a feisty son of a gun. A marine commander in the Philippines during World War II, he’d been taken prisoner on Bataan, been on the infamous Death March, survived a year of prison camp at a place called Cabanatuan, escaped with several other prisoners, and had made his way to the Australian forces on Borneo in a stolen boat. He’d continued to serve in a distinguished manner for the rest of the war. Afterward, he was outspoken about the blundering in the Philippines. To quiet him (the discussion implied), he was put in charge of an insignificant new division that dealt with communications.