Rinehart said, “We’re employing scorched earth here, Puller. We talked to both defense counsel and the prosecutor in the case. And to the judge. We learned about the letter from Doug Fletcher, among other things.”
“I interviewed him, but he didn’t mention talking to you.”
“That is because my people told him not to disclose the interview. And even though he’s no longer in the military, he knows how to obey an order from a three-star.”
“And why was it important to keep this from me?”
“It wasn’t necessarily done to keep it from you. I wasn’t aware you were going to even speak with him. It was done, in a blanket way, to keep this matter in as tight a group of need-to-know as possible.”
“And what did you think about the existence of the letter?”
“Robert Puller could have easily written it himself. That’s why it wasn’t introduced into evidence.”
“That’s not exactly right. It wasn’t introduced into evidence because my brother wouldn’t let it be. I’m assuming Fletcher told your people that?”
“So what? Even if it had been introduced, there was no way to validate its authenticity.”
“But that’s the point. My brother would have known that. So why would he even bother to make it up? It couldn’t help him at all.”
Schindler said, “You don’t know that for certain. Maybe he had a change of heart after he wrote it, and decided not to use it. Maybe he thought it might carry some weight on appeal. I don’t know because I’m not a lawyer. Your brother is by all accounts a genius. Sometimes geniuses do irrational things. Sometimes they are delusional. Perhaps he felt guilty about what he’d done and wrote the letter and invented the story to make up for it somehow, at least in his mind.”
“My brother is not some sort of crazy genius. He had no delusions. He’s as pragmatic as I am.”
Carter said, “But you weren’t around him all the time back then, were you, Puller? You were off serving your country. People change.”
“Not like that. Not my brother.”
Carter finished his coffee, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and turned to Rinehart. “I think we’ve exhausted the possibilities of this meeting.”
Rinehart nodded and took a last sip of his port.
Before the men could stand, Puller said to Carter, “And why have you been brought into the tight circle of need-to-know?”
“Puller, Mr. Carter is the director of DTRA, for God’s sake,” Rinehart said sternly. “He oversees a three-billion-dollar budget with personnel deployed in over a dozen countries. His specific security clearances are at the very highest level.”
“I have no doubt they are. I was just inquiring as to why he’s involved in this particular matter.”
Before Rinehart could respond, Carter held up his hand. “I’ll field this one, Aaron, if you don’t mind.” He turned to Puller. “As I said, before I was in charge of DTRA, I worked where your brother was headed before he went to prison. There one of my colleagues was the unfortunate General Tim Daughtrey when he was still a colonel. I never worked with your brother back then, but I had met him. I saw as much potential in him as I’d ever seen in anyone. I didn’t consider myself a mentor to him, because frankly I didn’t think myself smart enough. And Robert Puller had plenty of mentors since everyone was racing to attach themselves to his coat-tails. I didn’t want to believe that he was guilty, but I have to accept facts too. Now, my immediate interest in this? As you know, your brother was at the heart of many programs, which in turn are at the very core of what this country does in both the intelligence collection and nuclear defense fields. In addition to my duties at DTRA, my main objective at the center is to locate WMDs and prevent them from falling into the hands of our enemies. The work that your brother did at STRATCOM has a direct connection to what I try to do at the center. If he’s escaped and people that he was selling secrets to are active once more, then I need to know what is going on. This country has many enemies and many issues confronting it, everything from cyber warfare to corporate espionage. But there is no more paramount concern than rogue WMDs being used against us. A crew of cyber warriors can attack the grid, knock out data servers, and hack into millions of credit card accounts. But a single WMD of sufficient magnitude can wipe out a city and kill hundreds of thousands of people. Credit cards can be replaced. People can’t. So which do you think is more problematic from a security perspective?”
“Thanks for answering my question, sir,” said Puller.
Carter rose, gave a slight bow followed by a tight smile. “You’re quite welcome.”
CHAPTER
48
RINEHART AND SCHINDLER left in a car driven by a man in uniform. Puller was heading out too when Knox gripped his arm, holding him back.
“Just give it a minute, Puller.”
Shortly after that Donovan Carter approached them in the lobby.
“Have time for a nightcap?” he asked, looking at one and then the other.
Puller glanced at Knox, who said, “Sounds like an offer we can’t refuse, sir.”
They walked to the bar on the second floor. There were only a few people left there and they took a table in the back. Carter ordered a whiskey soda, Knox a glass of Prosecco, and Puller a Heineken. When the drinks arrived, Carter extracted a pill from a silver case and swallowed it along with some of his whiskey.
“Painkiller,” he explained.
“Should you be mixing that with alcohol?” asked Knox.
“Probably not, but I’ve been doing it for years with no adverse results. And the whiskey makes it go down a little bit better.”
“Painkillers?” said Puller.
Carter pointed to the damaged side of his face. “In case you failed to notice, I’ve suffered injuries of unfortunately a permanent nature.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Knox.
“Afghanistan in 2001.”
“Were you in the military?” asked Puller.
“I was there serving my country before the uniform
s even showed up. I was captured and tortured. What you see on my face is just the visible marks. There are lots of others under my clothes. The Taliban are quite adept at inflicting pain. And scars.”
“Were you gathering intelligence?” asked Knox.
He nodded. “Intel on the ground was vital before we invaded. Afghanistan is a tough nut to crack. Many nations have tried it. The Brits. The Russians. It’s fairly simple to win the war over there turning rubble to dust, as they say. However, it’s absolutely impossible to win over the country after the tanks stop rolling, as we found to our chagrin.”
“How did you get away?” asked Puller.
“I would like to say that I was rescued, but I wasn’t. I got away on my own. Not sure how. I was out of my mind with pain. But maybe I was so desperate that I just pushed the agony out of my head. I killed the three Taliban guarding me. If I had had time, I would have tortured them before I slit their throats. It seemed fitting. But I didn’t have the option. I dragged myself about three hundred miles across landscape that resembled the moon until I reached safety. Two years of physical therapy allowed me to function physically, walk and talk and use my arms. But the scars are permanent. The pain is permanent. So I take pills and I drink whiskey, but neither to excess. And I serve my country, and I do it well. After my ordeal in Afghanistan people considered me a hero, rightly or not. At least I had the wounds to show for it. And it certainly helped my career path, which was like a rocket launch after that. I jumped back and forth