Train man 1999, p.5
Train Man (1999), page 5
“Yes, I expect it will,” was all he said. He stared down at the carpeted floor of the elevator as it rose to the seventh floor. He felt the usual butterflies in his stomach when summoned to the director’s office. Hush Hanson had been assigned as the head of the FBI’s Independent Investigations Task Force, abbreviated IITF, by the previous director following an extremely successful investigation, and simultaneously nominated for the Senior Executive Service rank of assistant director. The current FBI director, however, was keen on putting his own people in all the headquarters AD slots, and there had already been some sudden retirements, so several such appointments were still on hold. Hush was was one of these. He was serving in the IITF director’s job as an acting AD at the civil service equivalent rank of GS-16, as were three other unit and section chiefs at headquarters.
The elevator doors opened onto the foyer of the executive suite. The director’s office was at the north end of the main hallway, fronted by two glass doors and a receptionist’s area. The executive suite also contained the offices of the deputy director, the chief of staff, some special assistants, two receptionists, the executive conference room, and a node of the headquarters main communications center. Hush could see several other of the more senior assistant directors standing around in the reception area, and one striking woman whom he felt he should recognize but whose name escaped him. Watkins took one look at the group of senior officers down the hall and prudently stepped back into the elevator as the door closed behind Hush.
Hush realized this was going to be an operational meeting: the assistant directors in charge over Criminal Investigation, Finance, Information Resources, National Security, the Inspection Division, Public and Congressional Affairs, and the Laboratory were present with their deputy assistant directors. The deputy director of the Bureau, whose name was George Wellesley, was standing right next to the glass doors. It was he who greeted Hush, who kept his face neutral as he walked up.
“Mr. Hanson,” Wellesley said, looking up into Hush’s face as he extended his hand.
“Good morning, Deputy Director,” said Hush, shaking hands formally. It was as if the two had never met. George Wellesley was a lean, dark-faced man who was two years younger than Hush. He had been an Air Force brigadier general in the highly politicized Military Doctrine Division of the Air Force headquarters staff before coming to the Bureau. The fact that he had not risen from the ranks within the Bureau made him impervious to the normal network of career allegiances and favors owed, as, no doubt, the director had intended when he brought him over from the Pentagon. Behind his back, his nickname within the Bureau was “Heinrich,” as in Himmler, based partially on his facial resemblance to Hitler’s notorious henchman, as well as on Wellesley’s perceived bureaucratic role within the executive suite. The director called him George; Wellesley had warmly invited everyone else to address him as “sir” or, alternatively, “Deputy Director.”
Wellesley looked at his watch and then at the group. “Gentlemen,” he said. “And, ah, lady. Assistant Director Hanson and I will go in to see the director for a few minutes, and then we’ll have the incident briefing in the executive conference room. This won’t take too long.”
Wellesley ushered Hush through the large mahogany door into the director’s suite. The director was standing at a large library table covered with stacks of color-coded folders positioned all around it. His work habit was to attack each stack in turn, moving around the table throughout the day. The office was L-shaped and spacious, decorated more as a living room than as an office. In the long leg of the L, there was a second library table, with fewer folders, a large leather armchair with a communications console positioned alongside, a leather couch, side tables, bookshelves, and a formal fireplace at the end of the room. The short leg of the L contained a traditional desk and an executive chair. There were framed pictures of the President, the current Attorney General, and J. Edgar Hoover on the wall behind the desk.
The director gestured for his two visitors to sit down on the couch, which faced the armchair. The partially draped floor-to-ceiling windows behind them overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, which disappeared in the morning smog into a perspective V pointing down toward the White House. Muted sounds of traffic below just penetrated the otherwise-quiet office, and the director’s pen scratching was audible. All of the windows had small antieavesdropping wires attached.
“Just one second,” he intoned as he finished with an executive summary paper, scrawling a comment across the bottom with a large red felt-tipped pen. No one else in the Bureau headquarters was permitted to use red ink.
“All right.” He exhaled, closing the folder and coming over to settle into the leather armchair. He moved carefully, but with a grace belying his seventy years of age. “I gather someone’s blown up a railroad bridge?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the deputy director. “A rather big railroad bridge, over the Mississippi, complete with a freight train.”
“We know for a fact that the bridge was deliberately sabotaged?” the director asked.
Hush squirmed a little on the couch; because of his height, he had to sit with his knees at a pronounced angle, almost like an adult attending a grade school teacher’s conference. The couch, he noticed, was measurably lower than the director’s chair. He folded his long hands together and listened carefully.
“Yes, sir,” Wellesley replied. “Missouri and Illinois state police were first on the scene, followed by the railroad company’s own police. Then the Union Pacific—they own the bridge—accident investigators. There’s a Railroad Safety Office go team arriving from Washington this morning. The state police report that there are clear signs of explosives on the Missouri end of the center span. Since it was clearly not an accident, the RSO people may back out. Also, since the explosion was on the Missouri side, the Missouri State Highway Patrol CIB people have taken charge.”
The director sighed. “Indeed,” he said. “And I assume you recommend that IITF work this one?”
The previous director had constituted IITF to handle those large-scale investigations where several agencies of the government were likely to get involved. The current director had not as yet done anything to change this arrangement, although Hush was aware that some of the more senior assistant directors, especially Carswell, who was over National Security, wanted to carve up IITF in order to enlarge their own baronies. Hush was early-retirement eligible, and there had been some subtle probes in that direction over the past year. If the director went along with assignment of a major case to IITF, it would be considered a vote of confidence.
“Yes, sir,” Wellesley was saying. “This apparently was a major train wreck, with nearly a hundred railroad cars in the river, tank cars, chemical spills—the works. ATF may disagree, but I definitely think we should run this one, and IITF gives us an interagency modality through which to run it. I also propose to put Acting AD Hanson in charge. Personally.”
The director nodded, his patient expression suddenly giving Hush the feeling that the two of them might be walking through a script. “Well,” the director said, “that’s entirely within your prerogative, George. So why did you want to see me? Other than to confirm that we’re getting on with it?”
Good question, Hush thought as he studied Wellesley’s face. It was quite unusual, although not unheard of, for the Bureau to assign a headquarters assistant director to handle a field case personally.
Wellesley put down his briefing folder. “Well, sir, I also want to solve an internal political problem.”
“Yes?” The director still wasn’t following. Neither was Hush.
“I want to assign Carolyn Lang—she’s currently the assistant section chief in the office of Public and Congressional Affairs, as the number two on this case, working as task force deputy to Mr. Hanson.”
Hush saw a flare of recognition in the director’s hooded eyes and realized they had come to the heart of the matter. The director was looking over at him now with that zero parallax, eagle-eyed expression for which he was becoming famous in the Bureau. Headquarters people had some colorful descriptions for that look.
“How very interesting, George,” the director murmured. “Are you annoyed with Mr. Hanson here?”
Wellesley smiled with his teeth and slowly shook his head. He let the import of what the director had just said grow on Hush, who had finally recognized Lang’s name and made the connection with the woman in the anteroom outside.
“Why, no, sir, not at all,” Wellesley said.
The director turned back to Wellesley. “Well, George, that’s possibly a brilliant idea. Make her the number two on a high-profile investigation while letting her know she’s on parade. If she screws this up, she’s history. If she does well, we defang her with a promotion. I think I like it.”
He turned to face Hush. “And, Mr. Hanson, I think you’ll like it, too. Especially since I like it, as I’m sure you understand.” The sounds of a traffic accident penetrated the room, and the director got up and walked over to look out of the windows overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. “I presume you’ve recognized Carolyn Lang’s name?” he said over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir, I’ve heard of Miss Lang,” Hush said. The couch was beginning to feel confining. He was now more than ever convinced that the director and his deputy had preplanned this little scene.
“That’s Ms. Lang to us mortals,” the director said, still looking out the window. “You need to disregard the beautiful facade and think in terms of edged adjectives: competent, lethal, ambitious, intelligent, cunning, ruthless. She is a beautiful, professional woman who is intent on getting ahead and who purportedly has few scruples about taking prisoners along the way.” He returned to his chair, giving Hush a moment to digest what he had just said. Wellesley studied his fingernails while the director spoke.
“Ms. Lang is not to be confused with anything so trivial as some kind of bra-burning feminazi,” the director continued. “Although she has been known to brandish the sexual discrimination and harassment stick from time to time. But in point of fact, I think she’s mostly ambitious. Both eyes firmly on the prize. Professionally focused.” He treated Hush to another eagle-eye. “In other words, very much like us, Mr. Hanson.”
Wellesley anticipated Hush’s next question. “So why are we doing this?” he asked rhetorically. “Principally because there were some problems in her last tour out in the field. She was sent out to St. Louis to be the ASAC. Things didn’t work out.”
“If things didn’t work out, why are we having this discussion?” Hush asked, being careful to address his question to Wellesley and not the director. He did not want to seem to be challenging the director, but it was the director who answered.
“Because we’re not entirely sure what happened out there, and Himself Herlihy has chosen to be somewhat … reticent. The upshot was that another senior agent, who purportedly had been in line for the number-two slot there, retired abruptly amid some extremely disagreeable sexual harassment vapors.”
Hush began to understand what was going on. Whatever had happened out in St. Louis, there was apparently just enough mud on the Bureau’s skirts to require that Lang get another chance. Which meant that somewhere, somehow, she must have some senior top cover. It was also apparent that neither the director nor the deputy director was going to elaborate further.
“All right, I think I’m getting the picture,” Hush said finally.
Wellesley’s face brightened. “Good,” he said. “That’s settled, then.”
“Not quite,” the director said. He sat upright in his chair, his hands on his knees, looking very much like the Washington potentate that he was. Even with the height disparity between chair and couch, he had to look up to meet Hush’s eyes. “Mr. Hanson, you are a temporary GS-Sixteen holding an assistant director’s position. In an ‘acting’ capacity. Ms. Lang is a GS-Fifteen. As I said, she is an extremely competent investigator. She has been commended for her work in her specialty field of financial fraud. She displays a willingness to work as long and as hard as it takes to get the bad guys all the way to court, and to do so in a manner that not even all those creeping-Jesus liberals over at Main Justice can screw up the case.”
Hush said nothing.
The director leaned forward in his chair. “I’m going to be completely up front with you, Mr. Hanson,” he said. “When this case is over, one of you is going to get promoted to permanent SES level. The other of you will probably retire.”
“And you will have the advantage of knowing what’s at stake in your working relationship, won’t you?” Wellesley added. They both looked at Hush expectantly. In other words, Hush thought, the woman is a problem. You have a choice: Do her in for us, and you get the permanent promotion. Or don’t, and we’ll give it to her. They were both still looking at him. He decided to say nothing, simply nodding instead.
“Now I know why they call you ‘Hush,’” the director said with a complimentary smile. “There are many people in this building who could learn something from you, I suspect. I think we’re done here, George, unless Mr. Hanson has any questions?”
“Just one,” Hush said. “We’re going to be awash in other government agencies with this one. As my deputy, Lang will have a key role in coordinating the interagency task force, both practically and politically. If she bungles that, am I allowed to pull her off?”
“You are allowed to recommend that she be pulled off,” the director said. “To George here, who will of course consult with me. We will make any such determination, if it comes to that, as to when, and if, she has officially failed.”
The director raised his eyebrows, nodded at both of them, and got up, signifying that the meeting was over. Hush and Wellesley stood. The director looked back over at them. “Frankly, Mr. Hanson, I don’t think her incompetence is going to be your problem. Good day, sir.”
The deputy director touched Hush’s elbow, easing him toward the door. “I’ve called a principals’ meeting in the executive conference room,” he told the director. “We’ll get an overview of the case, after which, I’ll announce the assignments.”
“Fine, George,” replied the director, who was already attacking the next stack of folders. Hush followed the deputy director out of the office, wondering what in the hell he had just gotten himself into.
They walked over into the conference room, where the other senior division managers were already seated. A briefer from the FBI operations center was waiting patiently at the podium. Wellesley took the director’s empty chair, a small but effective expression of his own close-to-the-throne power. Hush walked in front of the backup row along the wall to his seat. In the director’s conference room, only assistant directors in charge could sit at the table. Deputy ADICs and lesser mortals sat along the wall in what was known as “the backup row,” ready to hand their bosses quick facts and figures should a question come up.
As he lowered himself carefully into the chair, Hush saw Senior Special Agent Lang sitting in the next-to-the-last chair in the backup row across the table from him. Her face was turned toward the front of the room, allowing him to study her surreptitiously. She appeared to be tallish, five nine, maybe even five ten, with a wide-shouldered, athletic figure and thick ash-blond hair. She had a clear complexion and was wearing no visible makeup. Her clothes were subdued and very businesslike: dark slacks, ivory blouse, a conservative blue blazer, low-heeled shoes, and no jewelry. She’s very pretty, he thought, but not beautiful. Her expression, at least in profile, was much too severe. The room grew silent, and he, too, focused on the briefer.
“Go ahead,” ordered the deputy director.
The lights dimmed and a video began to roll on the rear-projection screen. There were several audible “mnnhh’s” and other expressions of dismay at the scene of the train wreck. The video had been shot in early-morning light from the Missouri side of the river and a few hundred yards upstream, then sent to Washington on the FBI’s video teleconferencing net. The center span of the bridge was still partially attached to the eastern pier, on the Illinois side, although it had deformed during the collapse, with its western half mostly submerged under the small mountain of wrecked railcars sticking up out of the river. There were several people visible up on the western pier tower, standing among ribbons of yellow crime-scene tape fluttering through the heavy steel latticework. Two Army Corps of Engineers fireboats were stationed on the downstream side, where smaller pusher boats were attempting to stream an oil-containment boom across the river.
“All right, this is a big deal,” the deputy director said. “What facts do we have as of this hour?”
The briefer raised the lights as the video ended. He consulted his briefing notes.
“Sir, the incident occurred sometime around one-thirty this morning central time, based on the fact that the Union Pacific’s railway operations center lost track continuity and communications across that bridge at about one-twenty-five. AT&T confirms loss of several long-haul trunk circuits at that same time. The train involved was a mixed freight, which means both boxcars and tank cars. There were eighty-eight cars and multiple engines. The bridge was apparently blown after the engines had crossed the center span. Eleven cars made it across behind the engines. Seventy-seven cars went into the river, as you saw on the video.”
“No personnel casualties?” asked CID.
“No, sir. Union Pacific says that the only crew would have been in the engines; although they did say that there is always the chance of a hobo on one of the cars.”
“There’s no caboose anymore?” asked Information Resources. He was in charge of the FBI’s world-famous criminal identification data banks. There were some small chuckles audible in the room.
“No, sir,” replied the briefer with a straight face. “We asked the same question. Cabooses are unusual these days.”
