arrival.
“Thank you,” she said. Jay Kraft was hunched at his desk over a thick file. He didn’t acknowledge her arrival, nor did Margit extend her usual morning greeting.
She sat behind her desk and glanced up at Lanning. Her raised eyebrows asked, “Well? What?”
“I’ve been assigned as your driver for the rest of the day, Major Falk,” Lanning said, a pleased smile on his face.
“My driver? I didn’t know I had a driver. I didn’t know I had a car.”
“Those are my orders,” said Lanning. “I was told you’re going to Fort McNair this afternoon at four.”
Someone else who knew about the meeting with Cobol, maybe before she did? She’d bring that up the next time she met with Bellis.
“Fine,” she said. “I’d like to leave in plenty of time.”
“I’m at your disposal all day,” Lanning said.
“I won’t need you until I go to McNair. We’ll leave at three.”
Her attempt to make good use of her time before heading for McNair was thwarted by a succession of phone calls. Some of the press, including a few in the downstairs pressroom, had bypassed the Information Office and reached her directly. After three such interruptions, she called the Armed Forces News Division and requested that something be done about it. Within an hour a new telephone with a private number had been installed on her desk. Simultaneously, the building’s telephone command center, which links the Pentagon’s offices through 100,000 miles of telephone cable, handling over 200,000 calls each day, arranged for Margit’s publicly listed number to be routed directly to AFND.
At three that afternoon Margit got in the backseat of a blue air-force four-door Ford with DOD markings on its doors. As Lanning headed for McNair, her thoughts hopscotched, and she struggled to focus upon a list of questions she’d scribbled on a yellow legal pad. The first was not on the pad. Who was Cobol, and what was he like?
They reached a dead end on P Street, turned left, then took an immediate right through the main gate. Margit put the pad back in her briefcase, drew a deep breath, and said to Lanning, “Building Forty-One. I’m to check in with Trial Defense Service.”
Lanning jumped out of the car and came around to open the door for her, but she was quicker. She had the feeling he wanted to escort her inside. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I have no idea how long I’ll be with Captain Cobol. Please stand by here.”
Twenty minutes later, at precisely four o’clock, Margit was ushered into a large, tastefully decorated and furnished office within Trial Defense Service. “Am I meeting Captain Cobol in here?” she asked her escort.
“Yes, Major Falk.”
“This is someone’s office,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“I assumed I would meet my client where he’s being detained.”
“We thought you and your client would appreciate more comfortable surroundings.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t make the decision, Major.”
Margit went to the window and looked out. Parked in front was a military police van surrounded by six armed soldiers. The rear doors opened, and a manacled prisoner was helped down. He wore green fatigues and black slippers. Following him out of the vehicle were two more armed soldiers. The prisoner looked up at the building; although Margit knew he couldn’t see her, she felt his eyes.
Captain Robert Cobol.
Her client.
The officer who’d brought her to the office pointed to a couch in the corner. A glass-topped coffee table in front of it was flanked by two lemon-yellow wing-back upholstered chairs. “We thought you and Captain Cobol might be most comfortable over there, Major Falk.”
Margit looked at the desk, then to other parts of the large room. “That will be fine,” she said.
A minute later there was a sharp rap on the door. “Come in,” the officer from Trial Defense said. The door opened, and military policemen stepped aside to allow Cobol to enter. He stood passively, his
“Thank you,” she said. Jay Kraft was hunched at his desk over a thick file. He didn’t acknowledge her arrival, nor did Margit extend her usual morning greeting.
She sat behind her desk and glanced up at Lanning. Her raised eyebrows asked, “Well? What?”
“I’ve been assigned as your driver for the rest of the day, Major Falk,” Lanning said, a pleased smile on his face.
“My driver? I didn’t know I had a driver. I didn’t know I had a car.”
“Those are my orders,” said Lanning. “I was told you’re going to Fort McNair this afternoon at four.”
Someone else who knew about the meeting with Cobol, maybe before she did? She’d bring that up the next time she met with Bellis.
“Fine,” she said. “I’d like to leave in plenty of time.”
“I’m at your disposal all day,” Lanning said.
“I won’t need you until I go to McNair. We’ll leave at three.”
Her attempt to make good use of her time before heading for McNair was thwarted by a succession of phone calls. Some of the press, including a few in the downstairs pressroom, had bypassed the Information Office and reached her directly. After three such interruptions, she called the Armed Forces News Division and requested that something be done about it. Within an hour a new telephone with a private number had been installed on her desk. Simultaneously, the building’s telephone command center, which links the Pentagon’s offices through 100,000 miles of telephone cable, handling over 200,000 calls each day, arranged for Margit’s publicly listed number to be routed directly to AFND.
At three that afternoon Margit got in the backseat of a blue air-force four-door Ford with DOD markings on its doors. As Lanning headed for McNair, her thoughts hopscotched, and she struggled to focus upon a list of questions she’d scribbled on a yellow legal pad. The first was not on the pad. Who was Cobol, and what was he like?
They reached a dead end on P Street, turned left, then took an immediate right through the main gate. Margit put the pad back in her briefcase, drew a deep breath, and said to Lanning, “Building Forty-One. I’m to check in with Trial Defense Service.”
Lanning jumped out of the car and came around to open the door for her, but she was quicker. She had the feeling he wanted to escort her inside. “Lieutenant,” she said, “I have no idea how long I’ll be with Captain Cobol. Please stand by here.”
Twenty minutes later, at precisely four o’clock, Margit was ushered into a large, tastefully decorated and furnished office within Trial Defense Service. “Am I meeting Captain Cobol in here?” she asked her escort.
“Yes, Major Falk.”
“This is someone’s office,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“I assumed I would meet my client where he’s being detained.”
“We thought you and your client would appreciate more comfortable surroundings.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t make the decision, Major.”
Margit went to the window and looked out. Parked in front was a military police van surrounded by six armed soldiers. The rear doors opened, and a manacled prisoner was helped down. He wore green fatigues and black slippers. Following him out of the vehicle were two more armed soldiers. The prisoner looked up at the building; although Margit knew he couldn’t see her, she felt his eyes.
Captain Robert Cobol.
Her client.
The officer who’d brought her to the office pointed to a couch in the corner. A glass-topped coffee table in front of it was flanked by two lemon-yellow wing-back upholstered chairs. “We thought you and Captain Cobol might be most comfortable over there, Major Falk.”
Margit looked at the desk, then to other parts of the large room. “That will be fine,” she said.
A minute later there was a sharp rap on the door. “Come in,” the officer from Trial Defense said. The door opened, and military policemen stepped aside to allow Cobol to enter. He stood passively, his
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