Infamy Read online

  “That’s right,” Stupenagel said. “And they both loved West Point. Even when we were tearing it up in Southeast Asia and Latin America, this was one memory only the two of them shared. Maybe they just wanted to be here with all the rest of these American heroes who had this place in common.”

  They walked the rest of the way without speaking until they came to the outer edge of the large gathering of mourners. Most of the men in attendance were in uniform, though some of them appeared to have dug their clothes out of mothballs. The women, even Stupenagel, were in black. An honor guard of cadets in the gray uniforms of the academy stood off to the side with their rifles, while a bugler waited.

  During the ceremony, Stupenagel watched Sasha, who was seated and wearing her dress uniform. Although the young woman’s face was ashen, she didn’t appear to be crying. But as the bugler played “Taps” and a cadet officer brought her the American flag that had rested on the casket and was then folded into a neat triangle, she buried her face in the cloth and sobbed.

  Stupenagel covered her mouth to stifle her own sob, then flinched when the honor guard discharged the first of three volleys in a twenty-one-gun salute. Marlene held onto her arm and leaned against her.

  When the services were over, Marlene asked, “Do you want to say anything to Sasha now? Were you going to ask her about MIRAGE?”

  Stupenagel shook her head and wiped at her tears. “No, it’s too soon. I wasn’t invited to this, and she might blame me. I was the last person to talk to him, and maybe even mixed up in the reason he was killed. I’ll call in a few days and see what she says.”

  They were walking away when a female voice called out from behind them. “Hello. Ariadne Stupenagel?”

  Sasha Swindells was walking across the lawn toward them. Behind her the crowd of mourners looked confused, concerned.

  “Yes?” Stupenagel said.

  “What are you doing here?” Sasha demanded.

  “I came to pay my respects. Your father was a good friend for many years.”

  “Not because of what you wanted to talk to him about before he was killed?” the young woman asked accusingly.

  Stupenagel’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s not why I came. But I admit that I would like to talk to you at some point about that,” she said. “I may be able to help the people who are trying to get to the bottom of his murder.”

  “What people?” Sasha spat, balling her hands into fists. “The same people in charge of the government he risked his life for from Vietnam to Afghanistan? The people who betrayed him?”

  “No,” Stupenagel replied, feeling the tears leak down her cheeks. “As a matter of fact, the district attorney of New York, Butch Karp. This is Marlene Ciampi, she’s my best friend, but she’s also the DA’s wife, though she’s just here to support me.”

  “I already told that detective I wasn’t interested in talking to the district attorney,” Sasha said. “I told that other guy, too. The big guy, William somebody, said he worked for a counterterrorism agency. Creepy asshole wouldn’t take no for an answer. But I don’t trust any of you. This isn’t about some crazy soldier having a beef with his former commanding officer, but now the real reason is going to get swept under a rug. Well, I’m not helping you with your little cover-up. I’ll get to the bottom of this, and when I do . . .”

  “I understand,” Stupenagel said. “I feel the same way. Did you know your dad’s friend, Sam Allen?”

  Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Murdered by the same people. The district attorney made scapegoats out of those two guys, but the real power is still in place.”

  “The president’s national campaign manager, Rod Fauhomme, and the president’s national security adviser were no scapegoats. They were major players behind the scenes and Mr. Karp went after them,” Stupenagel said. “They planned the murder of General Allen because Sam was about to expose them and the corruption that goes all the way up to the administration. That took some guts on the DA’s part. He can’t do it all without help, but I’m sorry I came. Today I just wanted to say goodbye to an old friend, not dig into a conspiracy, or cause you more pain.”

  With that, Stupenagel and Marlene turned to go. They’d walked about ten yards when Sasha called out again. “Wait.”

  The young woman approached. Her face had softened and was wet with tears. “I loved my dad very much,” she said. “I never had enough time with him; he was married to this damn uniform.” She looked around. “To this damn place. But I loved him anyway, and I need to follow through on the last thing he asked me to do.”

  Sasha fished her cell phone out of the pocket of her dress slacks and tapped on the screen. “I haven’t shown this to anyone else. It’s a text he sent to me right before he was shot.” She handed the phone to the journalist.

  Stupenagel read the text out loud. “ ‘If something happens to me, please give my copy of the Gold Book to the woman you just met. I love you forever, Dad.’ ”

  Handing the cell phone back, Stupenagel looked confused. “The Gold Book?”

  “Basically, it describes the code of ethics and responsibilities every cadet is expected to internalize so that upon graduation each newly commissioned officer is, and I quote, ‘committed to the values of Duty, Honor, Country.’ It’s about living honorably at all times in all environments. Now incoming cadets receive the book as a PDF computer file. But Dad, who was going to be teaching a course in professional military ethics, had his original Gold Book he got in the 1960s printed and bound in a leather case. He didn’t say why he wanted you to have it, but he went to the trouble of texting me that message, so it has to be important.”

  Sasha Swindells looked back at the crowd of mourners, most of whom were watching her. “We’re having a little get-together at the reception hall,” she said, “and I have to attend. But please join us, and we can get the book after that. It’s at his place on the grounds.”

  Two hours later, Sasha broke away from the crowd of well-wishers and found Ariadne and Marlene waiting in the back of the hall. “I think it’s okay for me to leave now,” she said. “You have a car? It’s a little bit of a hump and it’s getting dark.”

  “A truck,” Marlene said. “We can all pile in the front.”

  As they wound their way in Marlene’s truck toward staff housing over near the cliffs that rose above the Hudson River, Sasha apologized for her earlier outburst. “Dad didn’t tell me much about what he was doing,” she said. “I think he was trying to protect me. But I knew it had to do with one of his last postings overseas. Something was troubling him and he was looking into it. That’s about the extent of my knowledge.”

  “I understand the anger and suspicion,” Stupenagel replied. “These people seem to be good at sowing both, even among friends.”

  “Divide and conquer, I guess,” Sasha said as they pulled onto a street that was mostly dark and empty except for the streetlights. “It’s summer break and a lot of the faculty are gone. Dad’s place is up ahead.”

  Approaching the house, Sasha suddenly tensed. “Keep driving,” she said. “I think I saw a light moving around inside. No one is supposed to be here.”

  Marlene kept rolling and pulled over half a block farther down the street. She reached under her seat and pulled out a .380 handgun. “Call the police, or MPs, whoever responds at West Point,” she told the other two. “I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Marlene, stay here,” Stupenagel said. “Let the police handle it.”

  “I’m just going to make sure they don’t slip out the back when the cops arrive,” Marlene said. “You two stay here.”

  “You’re ordering a commissioned officer in the United States Army to stay out of the fight?” Sasha said. “Not on your life, and not at my dad’s house.”

  Marlene looked at the young woman’s determined face and nodded. “Okay, but we’re just going to keep an eye on them until the cops s
how. No heroics. Stupe, tell them I’ll be around back and not to shoot the female civilian with the gun.”

  Running from shadow to shadow across the lawns, Marlene and Sasha arrived at the bungalow. Creeping next to a back corner of the house that Sasha indicated was where she’d seen the light, they could hear someone moving around inside, apparently trashing the place as he looked for something.

  “The son of a bitch, he’s in Dad’s library,” Sasha whispered, and started to move.

  Marlene grabbed her arm. “Remember, we’re going to let the cops handle this,” she cautioned in a hushed voice. “We don’t know if he’s armed or if there’s more than one. You keep a lookout here while I work my way over to the other side so I can cover the back door.”

  Leaving Sasha in place, Marlene ran to a small wall beyond the back patio and knelt with her gun out, pointed at the back door. Suddenly, the night air was disturbed by the sound of an approaching police siren. Cursing that the element of surprise had been lost, she readied herself.

  As expected, the back door opened and the dark silhouette of a large man appeared in the doorway. “Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” she shouted, rising from her position behind the wall.

  The man hesitated and began to raise his hands. But at that moment, Marlene heard a sound behind her and whirled just in time to miss being stabbed by a man wearing a dark ski mask. She didn’t have time to shoot before he kicked the gun from her hand and charged into her, knocking her to the ground and landing on top of her. “Take off, sir, I’ll handle the bitch,” her assailant yelled to the man in the doorway.

  Instinctively, both of Marlene’s hands went immediately to the attacker’s arm that held the knife as he tried to press the blade home. She was strong, but he was stronger, and she knew she was about to lose the fight when the man was knocked off of her by Sasha, who flew in and tackled him.

  Marlene scrambled to her hands and knees and found her gun where it had fallen. About ten feet away, Sasha was struggling with the man. Before she could do anything, there was a cry, and the young woman fell back. The man stood up with the knife in his hands.

  “Put it down, asshole,” Marlene demanded.

  The man whirled and pretended he was about to drop the knife, but instead he charged, covering the distance between them with alarming speed. Marlene fired twice. The first round caught him in the stomach, doubling him over just a few feet from her. The next entered the top of his head, killing him.

  Marlene looked for the second man and just caught a glimpse of him running through the backyard two houses away. She ran over to Sasha, who was lying on her back, her hands over her stomach. Even in dim light, Marlene could see the dark blood seeping through her fingers.

  “I’ll be okay,” Sasha moaned. “Go get the book. It’s on Dad’s desk.”

  “I need to get you an ambulance,” Marlene protested.

  “If you don’t get it now, the cops won’t let you get it later,” Sasha insisted, then groaned. “It could disappear.”

  The appearance of flashing red and blue lights accompanying the siren convinced Marlene there wasn’t any more time. She stood up just as Stupenagel appeared. “Tell the cops that they need to call an ambulance,” she yelled. “Sasha’s been stabbed.”

  Marlene ran for the house, picking up the flashlight that the first man had dropped when she told him to stop. She quickly made her way to the library. Everywhere she looked, books had been pulled from their shelves, papers were scattered on the floor, and a wall safe that had been hidden behind a painting was open and empty. She went over to the desk and spotted a small booklet bound in blue leather. On the outside, embossed in gold, were the logo of the United States Military Academy and the words “Gold Book.” She picked it up and stuffed it down her pants.

  A minute later, Marlene walked out of the house and stopped as she was blinded by a flashlight in her face. “Put the weapon on the ground,” a voice demanded.

  Only then did Marlene realize she was still holding her gun. She slowly leaned over and put the gun down.

  “It’s okay, Officer,” Stupenagel said. “She’s the wife of the New York district attorney. She’s the one who stopped the guy with the knife.”

  “Yeah, and I’m the adjutant general,” the military police officer said. “On the ground, lady, until we get this sorted out, and lock your fingers behind your neck.”

  “Yes, Officer,” Marlene said, complying with the order. “Just please get an ambulance for the young woman. She’s the daughter of the officer who used to live here. We were just coming back from his memorial service to retrieve some of his personal effects when we ran into these men who’d broken into the house.”

  “An ambulance is on the way,” the MP said. “In the meantime, you always go to memorial services with a gun?”

  Marlene sighed. “What can I say? Some girls like purses and lipstick. I’m partial to semiautomatics.”

  11

  CLARE DUNE FROZE. SHE THOUGHT she’d heard something, or someone, though no one else was supposed to be home. She stood for a moment outside her husband’s library, her heart pounding, her hands sweaty, and listened.

  There were no more sounds and she decided that she was being paranoid. Wellington was at Camp David with the president on a “boys only” holiday. She’d just checked on Tommy, who was asleep upstairs, the servants had all gone home, and she hadn’t seen the brutish Shaun Fitzsimmons for days.

  Clare thought about Richie Bryers and wished he was spending the night in the guesthouse. She didn’t want to return to the bedroom she shared with Wellington. She wanted to lie in his arms all night. But it simply wasn’t safe. What if the maid or Fitzsimmons showed up in the morning? But recently, he’d been convinced that Constantine was spying on them. “Or maybe you’ve got me paranoid,” Richie had teased her the last time they got together as he kissed her goodbye. “Let’s just take a break and stay separated for a little while.”

  “You’re not getting tired of me, are you?” she’d pouted.

  “I’ll never be tired of you,” he’d replied. “I want to spend forever with you. Divorce him and marry me now. We’ll never have to spend another night apart.”

  However, Clare repeated that it was better to wait for Constantine to make the decision. “It won’t be long. He doesn’t even try to have sex with me anymore,” she said. “He’s probably already got someone on the side. Good for him, hope she talks him into it soon.”

  Still, his absence was making her rethink her position on asking for a divorce. That and Richie was convinced her husband was somehow tied up in the shooting of that colonel in Central Park after he read the newspaper articles. “Remember what I read in his journal about some colonel and a ‘Russian bitch’ being in the way,” he’d reminded her. “Then I heard him talking about a guy named Mueller—and that’s the name of the guy who shot that colonel in Central Park that same day. That doesn’t add up to a coincidence. And what about ‘MIRAGE’? It’s in his journal and he brought it up, and Iraq, too, with whoever he was talking to at the White House.”

  At first Clare had refused to buy into it. “I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” she’d said. “I know he’s unscrupulous and not at all the man he presents to the public. But murder and espionage? He’s always fighting with someone over his business deals, and I think his oil company has refineries in Iraq. Who knows what he meant by a colonel and a Russian being in the way? They could be competitors.”

  But Bryers had reminded her that she was the one who thought he might have had something to do with the congressional candidate who fell from his apartment building. “And you’re worried he might do something to me if he finds out about us,” he’d pointed out. “What’s so far-fetched about this?”

  Gradually, Clare had come around. “Maybe you should talk to your friend, that district attorney in New York,” she suggested.

  “Butch
? Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” Richie said. “But I don’t have any proof. Who’s going to believe a public school basketball coach over a well-loved philanthropic billionaire who gives millions of dollars to charities and golfs with the president? I need proof.” He’d thought about it for a minute. “I wish I could get another look at his journal.”

  Clare had suggested that she could try to look at it. “I’ll take photographs of the pages on my phone and send them to you,” she said.

  Richie, however, forbade her. “If this is real, it’s not a game,” he said. “It’s not worth you putting your life in danger.”

  So they’d avoided the topic for a couple of days, and then she’d had another idea. “Imagine if he was convicted of murder,” she said. “We’d be rich, but more important, think of all the good things we could do with the money. We could still live a good life and make a real difference in the world.”

  Richie still didn’t like the idea, but tonight, after a couple of glasses of wine, she decided to act. She reached on top of the doorjamb where she’d once seen him hide the key to the library, unlocked the door, and went in. Even though she and Tommy were the only ones home, she didn’t turn on the lights and instead used the small flashlight she’d brought with her.

  Clare walked quickly over to the part of the massive bookshelf where Wellington had carefully lined up his journals in chronological order. Those on the far end she knew were fifty-year-old composition notebooks containing the memories of a child. She moved to the end where the latest journals were stacked and pulled the last from the shelf. Taking out her cell phone and pressing the button to open the camera app, she opened the journal and began to scan until she saw a page with MIRAGE printed in big bold letters. She took a photograph and sent it to Richie.

  Almost immediately he texted back. “What are you doing? Get out of there!”

  She was about to turn to another page when she heard a noise again. Her heart jumped into her throat. “Someone’s here,” she texted. She hurriedly replaced the journal and left the library, locking the door and putting the key back.