Mission Compromised (32 page)

Newman, if it indeed
was
Newman who had sent the missive, was asking for an urgent meeting at the Iwo Jima Memorial, hence the reference to Suribachi—the mountaintop where the Marines on the postcard were planting the flag. And for some reason or another, Newman clearly didn't want North to contact him about the request to meet, hence the reference to EMCON.

North's curiosity was thoroughly aroused, so he decided to call an old friend to find out if Peter Newman really was at Fort Bragg.

The phone answered on the second ring: “Brigadier General Murray Stedner, Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Plans and Operations, Headquarters Marine Corps.”

“Hey, it's North. Man, that's quite an impressive spiel. Do you feel important? You must be important, answering your own phone and all,” he chuckled.

“Oliver—hey it's great to hear from you. Important, eh? Well, nothing I'd rather be doing than pushing paper and kissing more senior generals' backsides ten hours every day.”

Stedner hated duty at HQMC. He was known as a “Marine's Marine”—a troop leader who despised staff assignments. He and North had served together at Quantico, gone together to Vietnam, relieved each other in commands from the Western Pacific to the Eastern Mediterranean. They had served together in the Second and Third Marine Divisions. Their wives were thick as thieves, had given birth to kids in the same military hospitals—kids who had subsequently grown up with each other in the same military base schools. Their two families had shared the privations and pains of military
housing as neighbors. To say that Stedner and North were friends was an understatement.

They had talked when North had been forced to retire in the aftermath of the Iran-Contra flap, and Stedner had cried right along with North. Only Stedner and other Marines could know the emotion that was attendant to North's forced resignation from the Corps. But Stedner didn't bring up that subject. He stuck to small talk. “What are you doing these days? How's Betsy? And the family?”

North kept the conversation on that level until the two of them were caught up on each other's career moves and family matters. Then Stedner got to the point: “How can I help you, man? I know you didn't call me just to chew the fat. What's up?”

“Well, I'm calling because I'm trying to track down one of my old lieutenants from Third Battalion, Eighth Marines,” said North without mentioning the cryptic postcard.

“Who is it?” said Stedner. “I can call up the personnel records on every Marine in the Corps right here on this computer. Give me his name and horsepower.”

North could hear his friend tapping the keys of a computer keyboard, shifting from the program he'd been working in to the personnel file. North told him, “I don't have his service number, but his full name is Newman, Peter J.”

The clicking on the keyboard stopped, and there was a long pause before Stedner replied. “Why are you asking about Newman, Ollie?”

North, sensing that there was more here than he had at first realized, was suddenly cautious. He would trust Stedner with his life in combat, but who knew who else might be listening in on this conversation or what trouble Newman might be in? He offered a benign reply.
“I'm just trying to track him down to rehash some stuff when we served together in the Eighth Marines. You know, I may have another book in me, old man.”

“Well, I don't need to run through the personnel records on Newman. He worked here in Ops and Plans until last November. But he was transferred out, and my boss, General Grisham, is handling his assignment personally.”

North knew Grisham well. He was one of the most respected officers in the Corps and widely rumored to be a future commandant. “I see,” said North. “Can you tell me if Newman's in the area—is he in CONUS … is he overseas?”

“Ollie, I can't say. It's a classified assignment. And I know you've had all the clearances, but I don't want to get cross-threaded with General Grisham.” Then, as if changing the subject, Stedner said, “Say, by the way, when you went on all those trips overseas, did you ever stop in London and go shopping at that big department store there?”

North knew this wasn't a change in course in the conversation. His friend was offering him information, if he could figure it out. “Uh … well I never had much time to go shopping,” he said, adding, “I guess you can't tell me what I want to know.”

“Sorry, Colonel,” Stedner said, “I'm afraid that's all I can say. But it's been great to hear your voice. You know, you and Betsy ought to get together with Anne and me for dinner one of these days soon. I'll have Anne call Betsy and set it up.”

“Great idea, buddy. I look forward to it. One thing's for sure—if our wives set it up, we had both better be there; we don't need them telling tales about us behind our backs. Good to talk to you. Semper Fi.” North hung up the phone, wondering about the clue Stedner had buried in the conversation. “Harrod's … he probably meant the
department store in London by that name. Harrod's … ?” North asked himself. Then he sat up straight.
Simon Harrod. Newman's at the White House working for the National Security Advisor
, North thought.

Then he began to wonder why. His thoughts came in quick succession.
He doesn't have a background in Russia, so it can't be the Yeltsin coup. What else is happening that the White House needs a recon Marine?
North exhausted the possibilities without coming to a logical conclusion. Still, North reasoned, maybe Newman just didn't want anyone at the current White House to know that he was contacting a controversial member of a former administration. But just to make sure, North decided he would be at the Iwo Jima Memorial at 7:30 P.M. on Tuesday, February 7.

 

Smiling Buddha Restaurant

________________________________________

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, 7 February 1995

1820 Hours, Local

 

As Newman maneuvered his Tahoe through Georgetown's rush hour into the tiny public parking lot on Thirty-third Street, the wipers were working hard to keep the freezing sleet from sticking to the windshield. He was less than a block away from the little Thai restaurant on M Street where Coombs, McDade, Robertson, and he had come to celebrate his being “frocked” as a Lieutenant Colonel a month before. Newman had chosen the place then because he and Rachel had several times enjoyed dinner there and because the price of a good meal was affordable. Being “frocked” meant that if he ever got to don his uniform again, he could wear the silver oak leaves of a Lieutenant Colonel—but he would still be paid as a major until his promotion became official sometime later in the year. But he had chosen this place tonight for an entirely different reason.

Before he got out of the car, he took his gray Marine-issue military trench coat, folded it into the smallest bundle he could make, and stuck it, along with a small collapsible umbrella and the front section of the
Washington Times
, under his bright yellow windbreaker. He had chosen this
L.L.Bean
sailing jacket because it was easy to spot in a crowd. He was also wearing a red baseball cap emblazoned with the Marine Corps' eagle, globe, and anchor embroidered above the bill. He wanted anyone who might be following him to keep watching for the tall guy in the yellow jacket and red hat. He also wanted to be close to the Key Bridge, the shortest route to Arlington Cemetery. He dashed up the hill, around the corner, and into the restaurant between drops of rain.

As Newman entered the crowded little establishment, the proprietor saw him and motioned him to his favorite corner booth in the back.

“Good evening, Mr. Newman … no friends tonight?”

“Not tonight, Mr. Sudhap. I just came in out of the cold for a big bowl of your famous egg-drop soup.”

“Coming right up!” The owner was as good as his word, and the soup appeared almost instantly, along with a generous portion of crispy rice crackers and a little pot of hot tea. Newman ate quickly, and in less than ten minutes, he placed a ten-dollar bill on the table and got up to leave.

Upon entering he had hung his yellow jacket, with the baseball cap tucked into a pocket, on the coatrack. But now, Newman unfolded and put on his gray military trench coat and a black Greek fisherman's cap that he pulled from its pocket. No one inside noticed that he was dressed differently than when he came in. “I'll just duck out the back way to avoid the rain,” he said to the owner, who shrugged and pointed the way to the kitchen.

Newman made his way through the swinging doors at the back of the restaurant, past the chefs and servers stirring woks over a huge gas range with steam tables full of vegetables. As he stopped by the rear door to the alley outside, Newman unfurled his umbrella and stepped out into the darkness, wind, and rain.

Keeping the umbrella low over his face, Newman came out of the narrow alley behind the restaurant onto Thirty-third Street, just up from where he had parked his car. But instead of going to the parking lot, he jaywalked across Thirty-third, turned right, and walked up to M, pacing his stride so he'd arrive at the intersection just as the light changed. A crowd of other pedestrians surrounded him as he crossed M Street. Then he turned left on M, melding into the people dressed just like him, and walked briskly down the busy sidewalk toward Georgetown University. He dared not look back, but he was hoping that anyone who might have followed him to the restaurant would still be outside watching the front door of the place, waiting for a person wearing a yellow windbreaker and a red baseball hat to exit the way he went in. Newman also hoped that his pursuers were getting cold and wet.

When he reached the intersection of M and Thirty-fourth, there was a crowd queuing up at the Metro bus stop. He stepped beneath the awning of a jewelry store with a small knot of prospective passengers and removed the newspaper he had taken from his car. While he pretended to read it, he surveyed the busy thoroughfare he had just traversed, looking for any watchers. He saw none.

A few minutes later, a cab stopped on the corner and discharged a tired-looking, wind-whipped woman. While the woman made change, Newman bolted from the crowd and jumped into the cab before any of the waiting throng could lay claim to its warm, dry interior.

“Rosslyn—Pettyjohn's Sports Bar at the corner of Nash and Colonial,” he said to the cabbie, who was glad to have another fare so quickly. The driver pulled back out into traffic and a block later made the left turn onto the Key Bridge and across the Potomac into Virginia.

As they traversed the span, Newman kept looking behind them to see if he had been followed, but all he could see through the fogged-up, sleet-spattered windows of the cars around him were the faces of weary commuters, fleeing home from another hard day in the nation's capital.

It was exactly 1845 hours when Newman stepped out of the cab in front of the bar. A boisterous crowd was standing inside by the doorway, waiting for seats. Instead of entering, Newman walked across Nash Street, down the hill, and turned right. Two blocks later, he entered the Rosslyn Metro station and trotted down the escalator to the platform labeled “Blue Line to National Airport.” He slid his FareCard into the slot in the turnstile and stepped onto the crowded platform just as the sleek, rush-hour subway train arrived to discharge one load and take on another. Newman waited until just before the doors closed before boarding the train and pressed himself in with other standees, who were glad to be riding instead of fighting gridlock on the highways to get home.

At the “Pentagon City” stop, Newman got out, took the escalator up to the Mall level, turned left, and went right back down the escalator and turned toward the platform labeled “Blue Line to Addison Road.” Once again, he unfolded his newspaper and pretended to read it while he scanned the crowd for anyone he had seen boarding the train in Rosslyn. Again, he saw no familiar faces.

When the train arrived, Newman retraced the route he had just taken and arrived back at the Rosslyn Station at 1915 hours. But when he exited the station on Moore Street, instead of returning to the sports
bar where the cab had dropped him, he turned right on Moore and right again at the next corner, then left on Mead Street. As he crossed over U.S. Route 50, he checked his watch again: 1925 hours. He again checked over his shoulder and then slowed his pace to arrive at his destination at precisely the appointed hour.

It was exactly 1930 hours and the rain had stopped when Newman walked down the wet grass, through the pines, and into the shadows cast by the lights shining on the six men in World War II combat gear, straining to raise the flag.

For Newman, like most Marines, there was something wonderfully inspiring about seeing the six huge cast-bronze figures that replicated that stunning photo that is indelibly ingrained in the national consciousness.

He was standing there, peering through a light drizzle at the six men frozen in that unique, historical moment of exertion, when out of the shadows he heard, “Impressive, isn't it, Marine?”

Newman spun around. There in the shadows of the pines, he saw a figure approaching. Though he couldn't make out a face, he could see in the damp darkness the familiar outline of a Marine trench coat—turned almost black by the near-freezing rain and subsequent drizzle. As he walked nearer, the figure spoke again. “Well, Pete, you sure picked a nice night for an outdoor rendezvous.”

Newman relaxed. “Hey Colonel North, you sure got a kick out of my adrenal cortex. Thanks for coming. How are you?”

“Not bad, if I don't catch pneumonia out in this stuff. You know, retired grunts are supposed to be excused from night-training exercises.”

Newman, unsure of himself for the first time, looked to see if there was a rebuff in that comment, but North was smiling with his familiar gap-toothed grin.

“I didn't know that the weather was going to be this bad, or I would have arranged to meet in a place more suitable to your advanced age and frail condition, sir,” Newman shot back.