Executive Actions (22 page)

C
arl Marelli typed up exactly what Anne Fornado told him and then dialed the number the man Dolan had left with the hotel.

“Hello. Hold on,” roared a woman who answered. Marelli heard clanging in the background and a cacophony of voices. “Yeah, what can I get you?”

“Dolan. I’m looking for a man named Dolan.”

He heard her yell into the room, “Hey, anyone here named Dolan? I got a guy on the phone.” When nobody responded, she came back. “Nope. No Dolan here. You want anything?” the woman asked again. “I’m in a hurry, bub, so let’s have it.”

“Excuse me, but where have I dialed?”

“Pizzalla. If you’re not going to order than so long.”

“Wait a second. Let me check the number again.” Marelli read it off to the woman.

“Yup. Right number. That doesn’t change who you got. This is Pizzalla.”

“Okay, I understand that, but…”

“Hold on a second,” she said. The call went on hold. Marelli presumed she took an order. A minute later she returned, just as gruff. “I’m back and like I said—”

“Look, I’m Chief of Police in Hudson, New York and I’m trying to find a man named Dolan. He’s not a customer. This was supposed to be his phone number.”

“I told you, there ain’t no Dolan here.”

“But this was the contact number he left.”

“And you’ve been snookered. You reached a pizza place in Stamford, and I’m damned busy. So with all due respect, so long.”

The woman hung up. She was right. They’d been snookered, which told him that this Dolan was definitely part of a team. He added the information to his report. Then decided to check the computer for Dolan name matches.

Marelli logged onto NYSPIN, the New York Statewide Police Information Network. The system, maintained by the New York State Police, communicates messages internally among police departments and other law enforcement agencies and provides users direct access to NCIC, the National Crime Information Center. Police can share information, add comment or updates, and link to systems in other states through cooperative agreements.

Four names came up on the NYSPIN police web. One in Buffalo, a spousal abuse matter. The second a DWI from Gilderland. The third match was a car theft in Syracuse. The fourth caught Marelli broadside. It was filed by the Manhattan Police with a cross-reference to another police department—in Stamford, Connecticut.

Dolan, Frank. Wanted possible suspect. Homicide.

The description that followed matched Anne Fornado’s ID. The contact was an NYPD detective named Coates.

Carl Marelli made his second call. This one counted.

“Coates. Homicide.”

“Detective, My name is Marelli, I head up the police department in Hudson, New York.”

Hudson was very much on the map these days and Harry Coates immediately gripped the phone headset harder.

“We need to talk about a man named Dolan.”

“Say that again,” Coates asked. He rolled his chair forward to get closer to his desk and write.

“This is Carl Marelli, I’m…”

“I got that part. But it’s about?”

Marelli spoke slowly. “Dolan. A man named Dolan. Frank Dolan.”

“You have my undivided attention, Chief Marelli,” Coates proclaimed.

Marelli told his story and then listened to Coates as he explained about the death of Steven Hoag.

“So, we both have a guy named Frank Dolan,” Marelli added. “Their descriptions match pretty well. And they were both around murders. What’s the chance that there is just one Dolan.”

“I’d say about 100 percent. Send me your report. I’ll get you what I have. And let’s stay on this, Chief.”

“I have to talk to my contact at the Bureau. Then I’ll fax you,” Marelli said.

“I don’t know where this is going to lead, but I have to tell you, it’s the best news I’ve had in awhile.”

Marelli was actually feeling excited. So was Coates. If Dolan was also involved in the assassination attempt on Lodge, then it raised even more questions about the phone line that had been disconnected. The New York cop thought for a moment. The possibilities were unnerving. For now, he didn’t even want to go there.

The people silently listening on the line, recording the exchange looked at one another. This was an interesting development to them, too. Their boss would have to hear about it. Before they were off the line, Evans had been notified.

It was the constant eating that President Taylor hated the most about the job. At least four nights a week he hosted a dinner at the White House, spoke at an embassy function or traveled to one dais or another halfway across the country. And all the food was bland. Where were the spices he discovered on duty in Asia? Or the delicious meals in the Caribbean ports? Unless he was visiting Los Angeles and Wolfgang Puck catered the meal it was all fairly uninspired.

Rather than eating, the president moved the food around on his plate: From left to right, up and down and sometimes creating food artwork in patterns. An aide confided that his predecessors had basically done the same thing.

By Taylor’s count he had to endure another seventy-eight dinners before leaving the White House.

Teddy Lodge led by twenty-three points now. He’d get another boost at the Democratic primary. Then, Taylor would enjoy a predictable bump following the Republican primary. Maybe they’d be 50-50 for awhile. But by Labor Day, Lodge would move ahead again. The President needed to deliver a command performance in the debates to achieve any advantage. That is unless he really wanted to call it quits after another seventy-eight state dinners. Funny how the most important job in the world came down to limp vegetables and dry chicken breasts, the staples of the “rubber chicken” circuit.

While Morgan Taylor chatted with a Brazilian ambassador, he noticed that the Secret Service agent closest to him cupped an ear to block the room noise. A communication was coming in. He nodded, tapped “Top Gun,” the handle the Secret Service gave to Morgan Taylor.

“Gotta go, Mr. President.”

“No argument from me,” the President said through a relieved smile. “What is it?”

“The Chief needs to speak with you. Pronto.” The reference was to the president’s chief of staff.

Twenty minutes later Morgan Taylor was back at the White House. John Bernstein was waiting for him in the Oval Office.

“What’s up, Bernsie?”

“Jack Evans is on his way. He’ll be here in a couple of minutes. There’s been a development.”

“More,” Taylor asked not understanding.

“The Lodge shooting.”

This was just the kind of news that made Taylor realize he could put up with another thousand bad presidential meals.

“Sit down everyone,” the president commanded. “Give it to me straight, Jack?” The President of the United States lit up a Partagas against all Federal smoking regulations in the building. “Straight.”

“Pieces right now. But enough to paint a disturbing picture.”

“As I’m sure you’ve heard, I’m all ears.”

The CIA head and the president’s chief of staff laughed. They were very familiar with the cartoon caricatures of the president, which overly emphasized his ears.

“It’s about McAlister, the man who shot at Congressman Lodge.”

“Shouldn’t Bob Mulligan be in on this?” the president asked.

“Oh, I think he’ll be here all on his own very soon. He’s got much of the same information.”

“What is it?”

“We think that McAlister may know the man who took out Steven Hoag on the way to New York.”

“What?” exclaimed Bernsie. “The man who tried to kill Lodge is involved in the death of a Russian, too?”

“Maybe,” Evans said.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Bernsie said. His voice cracked like a teenager’s. “This could be a hit by the Russians? Retribution for turning their man. Or…”

“Easy, Bernsie,” the president said.

“But there are legal ramifications. National and international. I can’t begin to stress…”

“Later, Bernsie. When it’s time to notify the AG we will. But by the look on Jack’s face, I don’t think he’s quite finished yet.”

“No, I’m not.” He directed his comments to the president, who had been right about both the seriousness of his expression and the need to continue. “McAlister was the shooter in Hudson. But McAlister is an alias. There’s no such person. A few days after he checked into the Hudson hotel, this McAlister moved from one room to another. Into 301, exactly where he needed to be to set up his shot. Initially that didn’t raise any concern with the FBI. Now it does, thanks to some heavy lifting by the local Police Chief. McAlister had direct line of sight from there. He just blew it.”

“If killing Jenny Lodge was blowing it,” Bernsie interrupted. He showed his anger.

“Okay,” Evans apologized, “Poor choice of words. Anyway, agents say Room 301 gave him the percentage shot. And the room became available to him right when he needed it. Right when someone else left the hotel earlier than he indicated at check-in.”

“I assume you’re saving the best for last, Jack.”

“Quite right, Mr. President. The man who checked out? His name was…Dolan.” Evans paused to allow the president to process the first part of his story.

“And…” Taylor said encouraging further clarification.

“And according to a statement the police took from a witness in Stamford, Connecticut, the man who shot Hoag was also Dolan.”

“Dolan,” the president repeated.

“Dolan. With a description that matches the man who checked out of 301, allowing McAlister—who had requested it—to move in.”

“How do you know this?” the president asked.

“I just know it.”

“That’s it?” Bernsie blurted.

“And Mulligan?” the president asked.

“I’m sure you’ll hear from Robert this evening.”

“This is ridiculous,” the chief of staff protested. “We have spies spying on the FBI? Is that it?”

“We learned this through a telephone call. That’s all you need to know, sir.”

“Are we not playing together nicely in the sandlot, Jack?”

Evans took a few steps closer to his boss. He respected him a great deal and didn’t want to see Morgan Taylor defeated, personally or professionally. “We’re not playing, Mr. President. We’re not playing at all.”

Evans took a breath and then added, “And there’s more.”

“We received another report from Sandman.”

The president stood up and walked to the bay window facing the Rose Garden. “Go on,” he said to the DCI. Taylor definitely wanted to hear more about their deep cover in Abahar Kharrazi’s OIS.

“Abahar is hell bent to find out about what his brother is up to. He knows where to look. So do we now. Neither of us have detailed intel. Not yet. But it’s big enough to make Abahar fear for his succession. It involves Bashar Al-Assad and his father before him. And if that’s the case, I’ll bet it also means the Russians have their fingerprints on this. And I’d like to lay the groundwork for a mission to find out.”

“Oh shit,” Bernsie said under his breath.

The president continued to gaze outward into the darkness. Two pictures instantly came to mind. The photograph of Bobby Kennedy consoling his brother Jack; exhausted looks on their faces during the fearful days of the Cuban Missile Crisis. And Lyndon Johnson at the same window mulling the catastrophic effects the Vietnam War was having on his presidency. Now he was here contemplating the unknown himself. He was grateful no photographer was around to capture the moment.

Taylor walked back to the couch.

“I want Roarke.”

“With all do respect, Mr. President, that’s not possible,” Evans answered. John Bernstein cleared his throat trying to telegraph that this would not go down well, but he was too late.

“He has no history with Sandman,” the intelligence chief continued.

“He has a history with me.”

“Quite honestly, Mr. President, I’m not comfortable. He’s not one of mine.” Evans realized he might have misspoken. He put it a different way. “I would feel much better if we used one of the Agency’s assets.”

Anyone who worked closely with Morgan Taylor understood that he was a good listener. He rarely interrupted. It was his military training and his Jesuit upbringing. He was polite. But he was also President of the United States. A man who made his own decisions.

“Thank you, Jack. Of course, you’re right.”

Evans smiled.

“But, I want someone in there who can explain everything to me in terms that I will understand. I want to know exactly what my options are. Roarke will do fine. Just have the mechanism to spring them if there’s trouble.”

Evans sighed. He wouldn’t win this round. “Then I’ll need him by the weekend, Mr. President.”

“Agreed.

John Bernstein was not happy. “If you’ll allow me a moment. We should have something concrete before we send a man like Roarke in. He might know every last sand dune in Iraq, but this is new territory for him. He could compromise the whole…”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does, Mr. President?” the CIA Director asked solemnly over his shoulder. “If he gets caught?”

“Then you get them out,” the president stated emphatically.

“Morgan, please,” said Bernsie. “This is no walk in the park.”

“He’ll be ready. Trust me,” the president responded calmly. Then he turned back to Jack Evans. “Jack, put Roarke with anyone you want. Anyone.”

“I have a man in mind.”

“Good, now tell me, when Bob comes in, how surprised should I be by what he tells me?”

An hour later, Robert Mulligan got his appointment and went through what he knew. The major difference was in the details he’d gathered from Bessolo’s conversations with the Hudson Police Chief. The president didn’t disclose what he learned from Evans or that the CIA had their hooks into Hoag. This was a classic example of “need to know.”

When Mulligan finished, Taylor graciously thanked him and asked for a favor.

“Yes sir, what can I do?”

“Bob, I need you to open some doors for me at the bureau.”

“Anything, sir. I believe you own those doors. What is it?”