Executive Actions (14 page)

Katie ordered a Lemon Drop Martini. Roarke called for a margarita on the rocks with salt. “Jose Cuervo,” he emphasized.

“That’s not quite a proper Bostonian drink,” Katie maintained.

“I don’t think I’d qualify as a proper Bostonian,” Roarke added with little reflection. “Are there still any left?”

“The old days of the Back Bay Society and Boston Brahmins with their aged scotch and brandy are history. Now it’s exotic martinis. Martinis, Mr. Roarke. Not margaritas.”

“Okay, okay. Two Lemon Drops,” conceded Roarke. “But make sure the rim’s coated with sugar.”

“Thank you,” she offered, then turned to the waiter. “And I’ll be ordering dinner as well for ‘The Hulk.’” She batted her eyes at Roarke when the waiter left to get their drinks. “Let me see if I can get you right.”

Roarke took the challenge. “Okay. No one’s ever tried before. Go ahead.”

She studied the menu for only a moment. It was obvious to Roarke that she knew the restaurant’s best dishes.

“I’d peg you for a lamb chop man,” she said putting the menu down. “But I’m not going to let you have it tonight.”

Was that a devilish smile
?

“No, we’re going for something lighter. Something more me, than you, Mr. Roarke.”

This woman got to him, quieted him, and touched him unlike any he had ever met. He permitted himself that fleeting whim he had in Washington.
Maybe it’s time to start leading a normal life. Leave that other one behind.

The drinks came. Katie was about to offer a toast, but he interrupted.

“No, you’re choosing dinner. The toast is mine. To…to,” he paused to weigh his words, “to the Supreme Court. They don’t know what they’re in store for, counselor.”

“Why Mr. Roarke, you flatter me.”

“Thank you. You deserve it.” He stared deeply into her eyes. And for the first time since they met, she didn’t have a fast come back. Katie Kessler blushed.

“Tell me something,” she finally said. “If you hadn’t talked me into pulling the files would you have gotten them yourself?”

“A very good question. A legal one?”

“A personal one.”

“An honest answer then. No,” Roarke admitted.

“That begs the question. What if your boss claimed National Security?”

“On what grounds?”

“Now you’re asking the questions. Very clever, Mr. Roarke.”

“Thank you, but I was counting on you.”

“Why would you even think I would help you.”

“The one thing I know for certain-trust my instincts.”

“And you can say without a doubt that none of this is political?”

“It’s not.”

“That you’re not trying to dig up some dirt to help in November.”

“No.”

“That you’re not messing with Lodge’s principal law firm?”

“No,” he said sharply. His body tensed and voice grow completely serious. “Look, here it is. Real straight. I came to Boston after an assassination attempt of a presidential candidate.”

“And the murder of…”

“His wife. Yes. And the fact that the Secret Service was not attached to Lodge yet was the law. Now he’s under our protection. And he could get the job. So, I’m here and your law firm
interests
me”

“
Interests
? Such an interesting word, Mr. Roarke,” She said trying to keep it light. “What’s that mean?”

He took a deep breath not knowing what he meant. It was an honest response based on nothing more than instinct. “Just that,” he continued more softly. “It
interests
me.” Roarke let the inflection remain.

She peered into his eyes. A moment later, not even realizing what she was doing, Katie slid her hand across the table finding his fingers. After a long silence she said, “Maybe we should visit records again.”

All the tension in his body left and he softened to the feel of her fingers and the sound of her voice. Dinner tonight would be fine no matter what she ordered.

Sami Ben Ali took his time. During his training at Langley he had learned about two agents who hadn’t been patient enough. The CIA even had file photographs, smuggled out of Kharrazi’s Abu Salim Prison, showing what was left of their bodies after being riddled with electrodes, stoned, and beaten until they were put out of their misery with a bullet between the eyes.

Ben Ali liked living more than anything else. He earned a miniscule salary from Libya, and generous hazard pay from the U.S. Since he wanted to be around to enjoy it in his old age, he moved with utmost care.

On Thursday, the eve before the Moslem Sabbath, he found what he needed the most. Opportunity.

Like clockwork, Walid Abdul-Latif ducked out for a late afternoon cigarette break. Earlier, Major Karim Kitan had departed angrily. And since his assistant had reported in sick, no one else was around. Ben Ali had what he calculated as just seven minutes to log onto Walid’s computer. Seven minutes—the time that it took for Walid to go down the hall, take a piss, smoke a cigarette as he always did on the balcony, and return. Seven minutes. That’s all he had.

Ben Ali cursed General Kharrazi for the lack of better technology in Libya. They were decades behind. The damned computer required more than two minutes to boot up. Two-and-a-half to be precise, out of seven. And all of his next steps were slow, too.

First he needed to check the pull down file and write the exact order of the last four files that Walid worked on. He figured that would take thirty more seconds. He quickly ran through the rest of procedure in his mind: Allow another ninety seconds to locate the file that Walid had typed. Add a minute to insert a disk, copy and close the file. Another ninety seconds to call up each of the last four files in correct order to cover his tracks, thus hiding his work on the pull-down file menu. Finally, forty-five of the slowest seconds of his life to close each file in the correct order and shut down the computer.

If Walid smoked at his typical rate, his margin of error was only fifteen seconds.

He began. The computer churned, sputtered and flashed the start-up icons. And as he had planned, he was into the program at the 4 minute and 32 second mark. If only there was time to read the file, he wouldn’t have to leave with a disc. He hated having evidence on him. But in this case, even the slow computer was faster than his ability to scan and absorb the report.

Then it was time to save the file.
“Shit!”
he screamed to himself. He had grabbed a floppy disc that was completely full. He scrambled to his desk and rifled through the top drawer.
Where the fuck is a disk!
Another ten seconds. Fifteen. He hated making stupid mistakes. This was one. At thirty seconds he found a disk, and prayed to Allah and anyone else who would listen that there was room to store the file. He inserted the 3MB disk, imported from the U.S. via Saudi Arabia, clicked on
Save As
and highlighted the A Drive. Now he was getting nervous. He had never been this careless before. Ten seconds, 20, 30, 40, 50. At 60 seconds the computer was still saving the file. He was now six minutes into his operation and the damned computer wasn’t finished yet. At a minute-fifteen into the process, it finally completed its task.
Now to quickly, if such a thing existed on this piece of crap, call up the old files.
He checked his list.

Just as he opened the last file he heard footsteps down the hall. Walid. He wasn’t finished and he had another forty-five seconds to close down.

In a moment he’d be caught spying in the office of the Libyan leader’s most accomplished son.

“Walid!” he called out, running into the hall.

“Yes, I’m coming, what is it? What is it you fool?”

“I just received a call—a car bomb in the plaza! We have to get out of here. Now!”

“Who called? The last time it was some idiot trying to scare us all.”

“I don’t know,” Ben Ali answered, grabbing Walid. “But this sounded real.”

“Okay, okay. But let go of me you moron.”

Ben Ali apologized. “Better take the stairs.” As they ran past other offices he yelled for people to evacuate.

Midway down the flight of stairs Ben Ali stopped. “Shit! I left a cigarette burning on my desk. I have to go back. I’ll be right down.” He bounded up the stairs three at a time, ignoring the foul outburst from Walid.

Back in the office he shut the computer down, lit a cigarette that he supposedly had been smoking, burned a brown stain on his desk, then crushed the butt on the floor. One task remained. He pulled his disk from the computer and stuffed it in his pocket.

He ran down the hall and rushed into the lobby just as Walid and the others were exiting. He was completely out of breath, ever so much looking like a fool. A
living
,
breathing
fool.

Roarke walked Katie up to her Grove Street apartment. She lived in a condominium on the third floor of a converted 1889 brownstone.

“I have a view of the Charles River,” she announced at the doorstep. “But you’re not going to see it.”

For all of his skills, Roarke dreaded this part of the evening. He had pretty specific erotic thoughts at the moment, but felt like a schoolboy. After all, this was a first date, with a little bit of danger of discovery at the law firm adding to the excitement. And as first dates went, he found himself thinking about a second and a third.

No,
he had said to himself on their walk to her condo.
A kiss on the cheek will be fine
. And yet, Katie had telegraphed some fairly inviting signals that she was interested in him. That was until now. He was actually relieved.

“Another night maybe,” she coyly added.

He felt those stirrings again.

“If you call me.”

Roarke didn’t take orders from very many people. The president. Yes. A few commanding officers along the way; but rarely women. “I will,” he answered meaning it.

Before he could kiss her on the cheek, she kissed him.

“Now be careful. I’m going to see what else I can find for you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. But I liked your toast before dinner. It felt like a little career boost.”

She turned, wiggled her fingers over her shoulders and pressed the key code to unlock the front door. A second later she disappeared up the stairs.

Roarke walked down Grove Street to find his car and a cold shower.

H
aywood W. Marcus thanked Witherspoon for the information. “You handled everything quite properly and professionally, young man. I’m certain there’s no reason for concern. You are to be congratulated,” he said through his blindingly white teeth. Marcus was the most well put together partner in the firm; perfectly groomed and immaculately dressed. He favored hand-made shirts and suits and started every morning with a shoe shine in the lobby. His fastidiousness placed everyone else in the firm on notice that neatness mattered. So did the accoutrements. Everything in his office—the rare Winslow Homer depiction of a New England fisherman, the Victorian antique furniture, and his two cherished Frederick Remington bronze statues celebrating cavalry charges—contributed to the ultimate focal point: Marcus’ desk and Marcus.

“Thank you, Mr. Marcus,” the younger attorney said. “After I saw your cautionary note on the file I immediately ended the meeting.”

“Again, thank you,” Marcus said.

Witherspoon gave himself a few gold stars. He didn’t get the chance to speak to one of the senior partners often and in his estimation this had gone very well even though he had taken a few days to make the appointment.

“Oh, just one thing. An opinion, my boy. Where do you think this man was going with all of his questions?” Marcus asked without any apparent concern.

“Just exploring. He really knew nothing walking in.”

Marcus peered over his glasses. His eyes turned ice cold. “And walking out?”

“Oh, nothing. I cited lawyer/client privilege.”

“I’ll ask you this just once. Answer as if your life depended on it. Are you
absolutely
certain?”

Witherspoon, acutely aware that this was no longer a friendly conversation, felt real terror. He had never been asked a direct question so intently. And this was not the kindhearted 62-year-old man he’d been conversing with a moment earlier. Here was a lawyer whose legal prowess proved the undoing of many formidable courtroom opponents. He was ruthless and calculating. Witherspoon realized he was way out of his league.

“Did you say anything?” Marcus demanded.

“No, Mr. Marcus,” Witherspoon answered, revealing why he would never become a good lawyer.

“And the materials?”

“I had them returned to Records.”

“Get them and bring them here. And do it quicker than it took you to decide to speak to me now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To me. No one else. Do you understand?” Marcus demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Witherspoon repeated, actuely aware how cold the suddenly office felt. Not just physically, but emotionally. It was void of the typical personal touches; no family photos, no memorabilia, no clutter. Just Marcus holding court.

“Now!” Marcus’ eyes had not blinked once and Witherspoon was frozen by the power of his boss’ stare. “Now.”

Ten minutes later Witherspoon returned with all the Lodge files. He quietly put them on Marcus’ hand-carved 19
th
Century oak desk. Marcus was reading the latest edition of “The Robb Report.”

“It’s all here, Mr. Marcus.”

“Thank you my boy,” the partner said as if nothing had happened.

“There is one thing, sir.”

Marcus lifted his eyes. “Oh?”

“They’re a little out of order.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“They’re not the way I left them. Someone’s looked at them since me.”

Marcus’ law practice brought him many wealthy clients from around the globe. On any given day it was not unusual for him to bill major Fortune 500 members as well as industrialists from foreign capitals. He also had a select private list, which he didn’t bill. Nonetheless, money found its way into special bank accounts far from Boston. At the top of the list was a very good client who resided on Miami’s renowned Fisher Island.

He needed to think about what to tell him. This wasn’t going to be easy. But he had to do it. He’d been
handling
the Lodge estate for years. He probably should have shredded the file, but he never saw a reason to do so, until now. He thought about what he had been promised more than thirty years ago and realized this required a personal conversation, not a phone call.

Haywood Marcus did something himself that he always gave to his secretary. He called the airlines.