Executive Actions (3 page)

Bernsie nodded in agreement. Maybe that was the tact to take. He hoped New York voters would make it a moot issue.

Today it would be the Galil SAR, an Israeli-made assault rifle. SAR standing for Short Assault Rifle. McAlister didn’t even note that irony in his choice.
Israeli. Developed after the 1967 war when the Israeli Army determined they needed a lighter combat rifle.
He chose the weapon because it was compact; the shortest assault rifle in the world at only 33.07 inches long. Broken down, his 8-pound, 27-ounce Galil could be hidden in suitcases, passing as ordinary travel items, though he’d never be foolish enough to take it on a plane. It had a collapsible sniper stock with a built-in cheekpiece and a detachable 30-round magazine. However, he planned on firing only one silenced 5.56mm NATO bullet.

He attached an Israeli Military Industries IMI mount with a M15 rail and a Colt 6x scope. The M15 rail positioned the optics lower making it easier to sight. He preferred his configuration over the bulkier, heavier Elcan scope. Equipped as the rifle was, McAlister had tracked targets 300 to 500 yards away with deadly accuracy. Early this afternoon his intended victim would be barely 215 feet in front of him. McAlister’s single bullet, exiting at 2,953 feet per second, would find flesh and bone before he relaxed his finger.

When he finished his job, he wouldn’t escape. He would simply disappear.

T
he Secret Service had an ironic origin. It was established on April 14, 1865, by President Abraham Lincoln, though it didn’t do him any good. Its initial charge was to prevent counterfeiting in the United States, not protect the Chief Executive. So when John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger on the very same day the United States Secret Service was created, no federal officer was there to protect him.

It took the assassination of two more presidents, James A. Garfield in 1881 and William McKinley in 1901, for Congress to finally add presidential protection to the duties of the Secret Service.

Today, authorized under Title 18, United States Code, Section 3056, the Secret Service is guardian of the Executive Mansion and the neighboring grounds, the Main Treasury Building and Annex and other presidential offices. They watch over the president and vice president, members of their immediate families, the temporary official residences of the vice president and foreign diplomatic missions in Washington, D.C., and around the globe. And following the assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy, the Secret Service has been assigned to protect all official, credible, viable, major presidential candidates and their spouses within 120 days of a general presidential election.

The election was 133 days away.

Teddy Lodge enjoyed it all. The attention and the power. He rarely got enough sleep, but he trained for campaigning like a soldier preparing for battle.

His routine began every morning at five, with 200 pushups, 200 crunches, and a two-mile run in almost any weather. He didn’t have an ounce of excess body fat. It had been part of his ritual since he recovered from a near fatal van accident as a teenager.

Following his protein breakfast, Lodge-the-athlete turned into Congressman Lodge, answering constituent’s e-mail and reviewing research on a bill regarding auto emission standards. By 10
A.M.
he closed up his Dell laptop, took his last sip of herbal tea, looked to the eastern sky and the Berkshire mountains in the distance, and anticipated the knock at the door a moment before it happened.

“Congressman, the governor is ready in the lobby.”

It was his campaign manager Geoff Newman. Newman, cold and calculating, was said to know Teddy Lodge better than anyone.

Outsiders could never penetrate the inner circle that surrounded Lodge and Newman. Newman had a lock on Lodge’s psyche. And Lodge knew that Newman’s loyalty was unquestionable. It had been that way for years.

Geoff Newman had transferred to Harvard Essex Academy the same year as Lodge. He was a portly teenager who engaged in a seemingly never-ending battle to keep his weight down. What came easy to him was organizing complex thoughts far beyond his years. They called him “the brain.” While classmates at the elite North Shore boarding school struggled through the rigorous course load, he completed the assignments with ease. Though he was extremely smart, he wasn’t popular. That hadn’t changed in the years since; neither had his weight issues. But Lodge recognized his strengths and relied on him; particularly after his accident.

According to interviews, it was said that the only reason Newman was alive today was because he didn’t ski. A number of Teddy’s closest friends were killed in a car accident on their way up Mount Washington for a weekend in 1975. Newman wasn’t invited. And Teddy narrowly survived.

But according to published biographies, Newman visited Lodge in the hospital, the only real friend left to do so. A few years later they reconnected at Yale. During their college years they developed an unusually strong bond. Few words were needed between them. They spoke an almost non-verbal shorthand that served them well over the years. Lodge made Newman his chief political strategist, his principal advisor and now his presidential campaign director.

Newman was a good deal like Morgan Taylor’s chief advisor. Bullish. Controlling. Determined. Argumentative. But unlike John Bernstein, insiders complained that Geoff Newman ran more than the congressman’s campaign. He controlled a great deal of his life.

“So? We can count on Poertner?” Lodge asked.

“Finally,” Newman replied. “He’ll make the announcement at the photo op. But it’s going to cost a Cabinet post.”

“Fine if he
helps
deliver New York.”

The endorsement of the Governor of New York was important. The photograph they’d soon pose for would make tomorrow’s
Albany Times Union
along with the rest of the breaking news. Newman had staged it like everything else in the campaign. One step, then another. All of them leading right up to the White House.

After the announcement from Governor Poertner, the schedule called for Lodge to drive the 35 miles due south to Hudson. Later in the day he’d have pre-arranged meet-and-greets in Kingston and Poughkeepsie, dinner in Newburgh with $1,000 contributors, and a late evening arrival in Manhattan.

Teddy Lodge was used to the grind and Jenny was his perfect companion. She was nine years younger, a Vassar graduate and the very picture of a first lady. They had been married for only three years and she had kept her job as a features editor for
Vanity Fair
until the primaries began in earnest. Children would follow. They’d have the first babies in the White House since Jack and Jackie.

Jenny was a statuesque brunette, 5’10”, and magnificently proportioned. She could easily carry off everything in a model’s closet with elegance and grace. She was particularly partial to Isaac Mizrahi suits and Bobbi Brown makeup, but she looked great in casual clothes, too. Some gossip columnists predictably compared her to Jackie Kennedy, in taste, manner and appearance. And like Jackie, she could stand out in a crowd or look totally at ease on her husband’s arm.

Men loved her and women envied her. She always had the right word for everyone and with her keen editing skills, she helped Teddy craft his speeches.

They met at a Democratic fundraiser she had been invited to attend.
Whose idea was it?
She tried to remember, but couldn’t. A freelance photographer she met at the magazine?
A guy named Garrison or Harrison?

“Come on Jenny, you’ll have a good time. Who knows, maybe the man of your dreams will come along,” she was told.

Somehow she scored a free table right in front of the congressman’s. “Hello,” said Mister Right.

She was drawn to his deep brown eyes, capped by thick eye-brows. His voice seduced her. His character overwhelmed her.

They saw each other the next night and the next. Jenny couldn’t put her finger on it. It almost seemed preordained. But it was wonderful…and fast.

Her friends couldn’t believe the match. Religion: Both fairly non-practicing Protestants. Compatible astrological signs: He’s a Gemini; she’s an Aquarius. Sushi lovers. Both into skiing and sailing. Similar taste in authors: Clancy and Grisham for sheer fun. Halberstam for history. Similar dislikes: Olives, SUV’s and bad grammar.

Teddy was good with his words. But Jenny’s writing helped him put his ideas into memorable prose. About the only thing they disagreed on was when to have children. And his rumored temper, never seen in public, was always in check with her. The only hint to the pressure he felt was his restless sleep. She explained to herself that he had a great deal on his mind, including the stressful job he was applying for.

Their friends were mostly hers. Teddy had no close buddies from childhood and no living relatives. Their social life was marked by must-attend political dinners and receptions at least three times a week. He rarely made plans with colleagues and preferred to do his exercising alone.

He was outwardly dynamic and inwardly private. Jenny felt she was lucky to win him—a trophy husband. And yet she was acutely aware of how little she really knew him.

When she thought about it, they shared no leisure time with anyone else. They traveled only to campaign and never for pleasure. Not Europe, not even Israel. Especially Israel, which she maintained would solidify his political future.

“It’ll look good if we go there before the election,” she said no more than a week ago. She had recommended it before, too. “Then we can visit Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and Jordan. No one could accuse you of not knowing the names of the world leaders.” He laughed at the reference Jenny made to the way a reporter ambushed George W. Bush in the 2000 presidential campaign.

“After the election, honey,” he always answered. “How about first I win here, then I take on the rest of the world.”

There was something about the phrase. Appealing. She played with it. In time, she rewrote his aside as,
“We can all be part of changing the world.”

“All be part of changing the world? It has a nice ring to it. I like it,” he told her. Jenny recommended he put it to the test on the road. The first time she heard it was at an impromptu press conference in Illinois. It worked. He incorporated it into his stump speeches and it played well with the crowds. It sounded optimistic and youthful. Teddy Lodge would lead a generation forward, helping to change the world. Jenny wanted to be there with him.

As they drove down Route 9, pockets of people came out to wish the candidate and his wife well. Teddy liked rolling down the window and waving. His campaign manager knew it meant more votes and until the Secret Service detail was assigned to him as the official Democratic candidate he’d be free of endless rules and an armed entourage.

Newman scanned a schedule sheet and glanced at his watch.

“How we doing, Geoff?” Lodge asked.

“Five minutes off.” The driver flashed his headlights twice. The New York State Police car escort immediately speeded up.

Newman punched a phone number into his Nokia. He called an advance man in Hudson.

“Newman here,” he said jumping in as soon as he was connected. “TV?” Lodge listened and saw that Newman angrily shook his head at the answer; obviously not what he intended to hear. “Just a stringer? Shit. Then tell him he better be ready to roll. And stay in fucking focus!”

Jenny, who had been enjoying the scenery, now glared at Newman and then her husband. She hated the way her husband’s strategist treated people.

Lodge squeezed her hand and whispered, “He’s just trying to keep us on schedule.” He kissed her cheek, then shot a quick and angry frown at Newman.

Newman had managed all of Lodge’s campaigns since he ran for class president in college. Now, like then, he was always in the background; working, manipulating, calculating. Jenny called it something else: Scheming. However, her husband had undying confidence in Newman and she had to live with it.

She tried her best to smile at Newman, but nothing genuine came across.

“Geoff. It’ll be okay,” Teddy calmly said. “Go easier on people.”

Jenny was pleased.

Newman relaxed his tone on the phone. “Sorry. The congressman just has an important new position speech today and we need to make the greatest impact possible.”

There was peace in the car. And with that Lodge took five pages out of a file folder sitting on his lap and checked the order. His handwritten notes were on the side. He scanned ahead to page three, studied the words intently, then mouthed them silently to get the precise cadence. This had to play just right.

Fadi Kharrazi’s desk calendar had three dates circled. Today was one of them. The other two were later in the year.

This was a private calendar, representing a personal schedule; unknown to all but one other man. Fadi put a large “X” through the circle and smiled. He was assured by his associate that the other dates would come and go with equal success.

The Western press reported little about him. In fact, there was virtually nothing to report. They had few inside sources, little real information, and hardly a notion of what made Fadi Kharrazi tick. That’s why the CIA wanted to learn more about the son of the latest Libya leader. But since the violent revolution that ousted Colonel Mu’ammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi, they hadn’t been able to effectively penetrate the inner circle of the man who succeeded him—General Jabbar Kharrazi—or the organizations of his two sons Fadi and Abahar. However, they were getting closer.

It should have been easier with regard to Fadi Kharrazi. He kept himself in the public eye as head of the state’s principal television channel and newspaper. But Libya’s press was no more free under the new regime than it was in Qadhafi’s day, even after tensions lessened between Libya and the West. Fadi, known for his closely cropped beard, a trademark cigar and tailored Italian suits, cultivated his public image, while keeping his real persona far from the headlines.

His holdings were estimated in the hundreds of millions of dollars; much of it blood money.

Rumor had it that he participated first-hand in the coup that brought his father to power. Under the influence of too much French brandy, he was said to have boasted how he personally shot five of Qadhafi’s senior lieutenants in the back. These pronouncements never made the street. The women he told this to always disappeared after he raped them.

Fadi found other sports interesting as well. However, he often confused “the rules of the game” with one of his favorite pastimes, human target practice.

Shortly after the revolution, he oversaw Libya’s national soccer league. He wasn’t the most popular executive in the international governing board of the FIFA, the Federation International Football Association. On one occasion at a state exhibition game he ordered his bodyguards to shoot at spectators chanting epithets about his father. Dozens were reportedly killed on the spot. FIFA considered removing Fadi from the league, but since no one filed a complaint, for obvious reaons, and the family-run press failed to corroborate the story, the matter was dropped as heresay.

Later, when Fadi’s team lost to Iran, he dismissed the team’s manager, had Army officers cane the players on the soles of their feet and threatened them with a jail sentence if they lost again. Since this was not witnessed by FIFA officials, and only rumored by other teams, it also failed to warrant anything more than a harsh telephone rebuke.