Murder at the Pentagon Read Online Free PDF

nose in the air, sniffed, stood, and said, “Enough! I don’t want to overcook the beef.”
    They were soon seated at a nicely laid table in the dining room, and Smith opened a bottle of “house red, by the glass or bottle.” “Gallo by the gallon,” Annabel put in helpfully.
    Mac asked, “Anybody ever meet Joycelen?”
    They hadn’t.
    “I heard him speak once,” said Smith, enjoying the garlic-touched mashed potatoes. “As brilliant as he obviously was, I had the impression he wasn’t the sort of fellow you’d want to end up sitting next to on a long plane trip.”
    Foxboro laughed. “His personality didn’t seem to turn off the ladies. Married twice, and engaged, I understand.”
    Margit said, “I’d completely forgotten about a conversation I had at the picnic. There was a woman there. Christa Wren was her name, I think. She said she was at the picnic with Dr. Joycelen, although I never saw him with her. The minute they brought the news out of the building that there had been an accident, she left. But then, everybody was leaving.”
    Smith said to Foxboro, “You say he was engaged? Maybe that was his fiancée.”
    “Yes, it was,” Foxboro said, returning his attention to what was left on his plate.
    “How do you know her name?” Margit asked.
    “I heard someone mention it once,” Foxboro replied without looking up.
    Smith sat back, dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and said, “Jeff, I get the feeling you know more about Joycelen than you’re willing to admit.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Well, it makes sense that Senator Wishengrad and his staff would have a distinct interest in Joycelen. After all, as deputy director of DARPA and the brains behind that advanced weapons system … what is it called?”
    “Project Safekeep.”
    “Right. Project Safekeep. Your boss has been criticizing that program since it was first announced. Did the senator have dealings with Joycelen?”
    “Not that I know of. Maybe before I joined the staff.”
    Smith looked at Annabel and Margit, whose faces mirrored what Smith was thinking. Foxboro did not wish to discuss Joycelen on any level other than what the papers were saying. Fair enough, Smith decided. Drop the subject. After they finished the main course, with much lip-smacking and noisy commendation for the chef, he went to the kitchen and returned with a platter of four cheeses—a Tuscany Caciotta, an English Somerset Cheddar, the French Fourme d’Ambert, and an Italian Toma. Smith’s fondness for cheese rivaled Annabel’s love of pre-Columbian sculpture.
    The evening was extended into the living room, the topics of conversation changing with regularity and rapidity. The discussion would have gone on longer had Foxboro not announced his fatigue, saying that if he didn’t get home to bed, the Smiths would have an overnight houseguest on the couch. Margit had driven there and had found a parking space—as rare as Jeff’s taxi—relatively near the house. “Come on, let me get Senator Sleepyhead home,” she said, taking Foxboro’s hand and pulling him from the couch with exaggerated difficulty.
    “How are your quarters at Bolling?” Smith asked at the front door.
    “Wonderful,” Margit said. “Not only does Bolling havethe best commissary, PX, and gas station in the area, I wake up each morning to a stirring pageant. The Air Force Band is headquartered there and rehearses every day, and the Presidential Honor Guard goes through its drills. I love it. I only wish it were still an active flight center. I’m going to have to get in my chopper time at another base.” Despite its rich history—Lindbergh’s
Spirit of St. Louis
was housed there following his historic 1927 flight to Paris, its hangar now the commissary—no aircraft had landed at the air-force base since 1962. An F-105 Thunderbird cemented in place at the base’s entrance was the only plane to be seen. Bolling’s role since 1962 had been strictly support.
    “I’m sorry