“Yes. Mrs. Vandervelt?”

“You’re with the FBI?”

“That’s correct.” He walked over and showed her his ID.

“What’s going on? Why are you here?”

“May we sit down?”

She sat on the sofa, and he took a chair.

“Mrs. Vandervelt, I’m very sorry to tell you that there has been an attempt on your husband’s life. He didn’t survive.”

She sat, staring stonily at him, quiet for a long moment. “When did this happen?” she asked.

“About three hours ago. I was unable to leave the scene until now.”

“How did it happen?”

“Someone placed a bomb in your husband’s car, probably in the parking garage of his office building. It went off when he got out of the car at Burning Tree. The car was destroyed and your husband was killed instantly. He never knew what happened, never felt anything.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m glad of that.” She looked out the window for a moment, her face now drawn and sad. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Not yet, but if you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Please go ahead.”

“Did your husband have any enemies that you are aware of?”

She suppressed a laugh. “About half the country,” she said.

“Did he ever receive any threats here, at home?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “It was known that we live in the Watergate, so he got a fair amount of mail here, mostly fan letters, but occasional critical letters, too. I read many of them, but I don’t remember a death threat.”

“Who might have benefited from your husband’s death?”

“Well, I suppose I’m your first suspect,” she said. “Van was quite rich, and I stand to inherit most of it. He made a new will less than a month ago. We were married six weeks before that.”

“Was your marriage a happy one?”

“We didn’t really have time to get unhappy. I’m not sure where it would have gone. We were starting to get on each other’s nerves.”

“That happens to a lot of married couples.”

“I suppose so. If it helps, I don’t know how to make a bomb, and I don’t know anyone who does.”

Kinney got to his feet. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Vandervelt, and I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He gave her his card. “Please call me if you think of anything else.”

“I will.”

“And for what it’s worth, you’re not a suspect,” Kinney said kindly, though it was not entirely true. She would be investigated very thoroughly indeed.

13

KINNEY WENT BACK to his office and called a meeting of half a dozen of his top people, including his assistant deputy director, Frank Coram.

“Gentlemen, I’m personally assuming responsibility for the investigations of the murders of Senator Wallace and Van Vandervelt,” he said. “Frank, you’ll be acting deputy director for investigations while I’m on this.”

“Any idea how long this will be, Bob?” Coram asked.

“Until we wrap up the investigation. I’ll meet with you once a week to talk about current investigations, but for the most part, you’ll be on your own, and that includes administrative matters. Check with me on transfers of investigators, though.”

“All right.”

He handed Coram a list. “I’ve picked a few men to help me, and they’ll be detached from their regular duties for the duration.”

Coram read the sheet. “That’s everybody in this room but me.”

“That’s right. My secretary will be with the group, too, serving all of us.”

“Anything else, Bob?”

“Only that, if you run across anything in another investigation that pertains to my work, let me know.”

“Of course.”

“That’s all, Frank. The rest of you remain with me for a few minutes.” He called his secretary and asked her to come in. Helen Frankel, two years from retirement and imperious, came into the room and took a seat.

“All right,” Kinney said, “we’re the Group, that’s the only name we’ll have. We’re an informal task force and we’ll have priority for any technical services we require.”

Someone raised a hand. “Sir, is there some relationship between the two cases? They seem very different on their faces.”

“There are two connections: One, the two victims were spokesmen for the same set of political views; two, I think both murders were committed by the same man.”

“Any suspects?”

“No, and we’re not likely to have one anytime soon. The man we’re looking for is extremely proficient in at least two disciplines-shooting and bomb making-and probably in many more. He leaves as little as possible behind, and we’re not going to apprehend him unless we get lucky. Of course, the harder we work, the luckier we’ll get.

“Harry,” he said to the man who had asked the question, “it occurs to me that the sort of man we’re looking for might very well work or have worked at a place like the FBI. I’d like you to take charge of investigating every retired technical officer who might have the skills exhibited in these two murders. Any one of them who isn’t in a hospital bed is a suspect, until he’s cleared. You can pick two agents attached to headquarters to help you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, taking notes. “Should we investigate retirees from other agencies, as well?”

“First us, then them. Start with Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms when you’re done here. Tommy, you’re in charge of coordinating technical reports, starting with the Vandervelt killing. We’ve got all we’re going to get from the Wallace case, and it’s next to nothing, but this bomb investigation should turn up some bits and pieces for us to took at”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied.

“The team at Burning Tree will be back in-house by the end of the day. Don’t wait for their report to get involved. Look over their shoulders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all for the moment. I want to hear from anybody with a theory or an idea on how to proceed. This is wide open, and you’re all invited to contribute in any way you can.”

Everybody shuffled out. “Helen, would you stay for a moment, please?”

“Yes, sir.” She stayed in her chair.

When the room had been cleared he got up and opened his safe. “You and I are going to work together on a special part of this investigation,” he said, placing Senator Wallace’s index cards on his desk.

“In addition to my other duties?” she asked.

“Get somebody to cover the phones and do the ordinary secretarial work.”

“All right. May I ask why you chose me instead of an agent for this assignment?”

“You’re near retirement, and you have no political ax to grind. You’re not bucking for promotion, and you won’t take this to the tabloids. Frankly, I expect you to take it to your grave, and I think, based on past experience, you’re perfectly capable of doing that.”

Something like a blush appeared on Helen’s face. “Thank you, sir. What are these files?”

“These are index cards kept by Senator Frederick Wallace for, I don’t know, forty years. They are the equivalent of Director Hoover’s fabled files, and I’m sure they contain dirt on many prominent people. I know you understand how explosive these files could be if anyone in the press became aware even that they exist, let alone their contents.”

“Of course,” she said.

“I’d like you to begin by making a written summary of the cards, in the order that the senator kept them, so that I can refer quickly to various people and to what the senator thought was important about them.”

“Where shall I work?”

“Lock the outer doors to my conference room next door and work on the table there. I don’t want even the cleaners in there, so you’d better have the locks rekeyed. You keep one key, and I’ll keep the other.”

“All right. Am I to draw any conclusions from what I learn?”

“I’ll go over your summary myself. Until I do that, if you discover anything that you think might make one of these people a suspect in either of these two murders, I want to know about it immediately.”