Koop shook his head. "No, didn't pay much attention."
"Nothing on the Civil War, or the first and second world wars, not even anything relating to historical conflicts, naval battles, warships, or warfare strategy and tactics. Strange for a military man."
Koop asked, "What does he read?"
Ellis pitched him a book. "Stuff like this one. Man's Social Nature and Interpersonal Experiences, reading material for a sociologist or psychologist. He's got a small library in the living room on cultural heritage and forms of collective behavior."
Koop put the book back on the bench and opened the pantry door. Looks like Mrs. Jessops' behavior pattern was to eat out a lot, hardly a basic staple in here. Reminds me of my place."
Ellis smiled. "I've been trying to tell you, Jay, you've got to get yourself married."
"The admiral is, and it hasn't done much for his larder." They laughed, and Koop said, "Let's go look at the bedrooms." The agents climbed the stairs, and after carefully observing the master bedroom and the two guest rooms, Koop remarked, "There are no pictures of the admiral or his wife anywhere, no family history. You'd think there would be a few personal photos on the wall."
"Sure would. She has the face and figure my wife would die for, and his super-hero looks would light up the silver screen. They're beautiful people, but I guess they didn't have to remind themselves of that." He opened the doors to the large closets. "Full. If they packed anything before they left they are sure traveling light. Notice the shoe racks. Empty spaces in each one for the shoes they were wearing."
Koop opened the jewelry box on the dresser. "Look at this. Diamond earrings, emerald bracelet, a variety of rings with expensive stones, pearls and gold necklaces. Good stuff. Rick, I'm getting the impression that their departure was very sudden and dramatic. Got to be a kidnapping. Maybe terrorists got to the admiral at Andrews, drugged him and put him in the trunk of a car. With the right credentials, getting on and off the base would be a simple matter. Then they came back here and abducted Mrs. Jessops."
"The reports from Naval Intelligence could possibly support that theory even though they've discounted it," Ellis said. "The admiral was talking to his aides in the VIP lounge when he was called to the telephone in the base commander's office. When the plane was ready for boarding they went over to get him. He wasn't there. No one had seen him."
"And no one saw him go back through the gate. That's what makes it seem like an abduction to me."
Ellis opened another door, this one leading from the bedroom to the admiral's study. Again no photographs, military books or naval paraphernalia.
"Maybe there's something in his personal papers," Ellis said. He opened the top drawer of the desk. A ballpoint pen, two pencils, paper clips and a blank yellow pad. The side drawers produced only nature magazines, a pocket diary with nothing written in it, and file folders with real estate papers, titles to automobiles, and tax returns. "Not a bill, checkbook, or the normal paper-junk that litters most home work-stations."
"Doesn't make sense," Koop said.
"None of it does. Come on, let's get out of here."
***
Later that afternoon at FBI headquarters, six pairs of Federal agents compared their notes in preparation for a summary report for the director. The Ellis and Koop observations were essentially duplicated by the other teams. Except for closets full of clothes and some jewelry, few personal effects were found in the homes, each dwelling giving the appearance of a part-time residence. And though it could not be explained how Admiral Jessops got past the guard at the air base, or how the others eluded friends and associates, the consensus was they had left on their own accord with no force or struggle involved.
Chapter 6
FBI Special Agent Norman Rigler parked on the narrow gravel road in the Virginia countryside, lights out. Night hung like a heavy black curtain blowing in the wind, an occasional flash of lightning momentarily framing the old tin-roofed farm house in the valley below. Rigler knew the house was deserted, property foreclosed. The perfect site for a bogus hit-and-run operation by agents of the task force. That's what Rigler's superior had asked for, a lure, a United States senator the supposed target. Only one other agent was called in for the assault.
Rigler lit a cigarette, took a drag and looked at his watch. Almost midnight. A moment later, car lights appeared in his rear view mirror. Agent James Craddock was on time. Rigler liked Craddock, his passion for intelligence work, how he often charted his own aggressive course in an investigation. Both in their early forties and single, they regularly jogged together, played macho studs in D.C.'s watering holes, and for a time dated twin sisters.
But in recent weeks Craddock had turned sour, wasn't the same man. Obviously angry, he expressed misgivings about the unit's mission, distanced himself from other agents. He was now considered a liability by the head of the task force.
The gray Ford pulled up behind. Rigler got out of his car, waved, and eased into the passenger seat beside his friend. "Hell of a night, and the temperature’s dropping.
Craddock asked, "Where are the others?"
"I thought we could handle this ourselves."
"Are you sure Senator Obrey and his wife are in the house?"
Rigler removed his gloves. "My question earlier. I slipped down there and checked. Not a sign of life." He sighed. "The intel was faulty."
Craddock gripped the steering wheel, spoke softly. "As usual." He turned to look at Rigler. "Norman, why'd you pick me for tonight? You know how I feel about this stupid crusade. It's--"
"Jimmy, relax. I called because I wanted you personally involved, to get you back in sync with the mission. The twelve we're after are evil--against everything we believe in--and if our country is to survive, they've got to be terminated."
"Jesus! These are top government officials, elected and appointed, and there's not an ounce of proof they're not who they say they are. I can't believe you bought into this ridiculous fantasy." He shook his head. "I want out."
Rigler put his hand on Craddock's shoulder. "Jimmy, we took an oath, signed on to be a part of Task Force Zero until the entire group was eliminated." He paused. "We knew the consequences if we backed out."
Craddock forced a laugh. "Come on, Norman, this is America. We work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not a terrorist militia in some downtrodden country. Consequences? I can't see agents popping agents because of the insanity of one man."
Rigler pulled away, lit a cigarette. "Why did you agree to be a part of the team?"
Craddock lowered the window, fanned the smoke away. "I got caught up in the excitement of a possible real conspiracy like the one in Seven Days in May, but this time it wasn't the military supposedly attempting a coup. We were dealing, so I thought, with traitors in the inner circle, and like you, I was gung ho to protect my country. Later I realized this was a crazy out-of-the-loop operation orchestrated by a mother-dominated fanatic. That's when I confided in you, thinking we could get out together and squash this thing." He shifted in his seat. "Have you told anyone about our conversation?"
Rigler lied. "No, no one. How about you? Any talk outside our group?"
Craddock hesitated. "Not yet."
"Okay, it's just between us. And to be honest, the reason I asked you to meet me tonight was to talk some sense into you." He glanced out the window. "But I guess you're not going to change your mind."
Craddock rubbed a hand over his face. "This was all a set-up, wasn't it? Make me see things differently or take me out. Thank God we're friends."
Rigler removed the weapon from his shoulder holster. "You're right on all counts. I'm sorry, but orders are orders."
Craddock