Executive Actions (33 page)

“Well, in the case of this family, the older son was about to be sent back to Russia for more training, but the couple was brought in by the FBI. The DCI assures me we learned a great deal about Red Banner from them and the lengths to which they trained their actors for the roles of their lives.

“And now to your question. Who’s Hoag? Much of the latest picture we have on the old Soviet intelligence apparatus comes from a man named Yuri Kusnitzoff. He learned to be an exceptional American at Red Banner. He blended right in, waiting a good twenty years to be activated. A leak in Moscow turned us onto him and I’m told that Evan’s people had what you might term a ‘come-to-Jesus meeting’ with him.

“Kusnitzoff decided to share some information with us, a little bit at a time. Gradually we got the most complete picture of Red Banner we ever had. Through him we discovered that maybe one-hundred graduates remain in deep cover within our borders. They’re still here, Scott. Still in America. Many of them have to be in their late forties or even much older. Who knows what their instructions are. Who controls them. Or whether they’ll ever be activated.”

The president paced. Heavy steps. “We were working on Kusnitzoff to identify other graduates, which so far he had been unwilling to give up, though he supplied us with other important information. But according to Evans, he recently called in. That’s something he never did on his own. The CIA thinks he may have decided to report somebody else; a classmate. Or he had a change of heart on some other important information. But we won’t find out from Kusnitzoff. You see, in the States he went by the name Steven Hoag.”

The president stopped and smiled at Roarke. “Are you sure you won’t take that drink now?”

Roarke went to get a glass. The president met him at the sideboard and poured the Tawny.

“Interesting when you consider it in context, Scott. What’s a Russian spy got to do with an assassination attempt of a presidential candidate?”

“Shades of Lee Harvey Oswald,” Roarke offered.

“Oh, that doesn’t even scratch the surface, my boy,” Taylor said. The two men stood side by side. “This runs deeper into American life. How deep, we don’t know.” The president handed Roarke his port. “Now, tell me what you’re thinking.”

Roarke took a sip and let the warmth work its way down. “You realize, nobody is who they’re supposed to be.”

The president frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Starting with what you just told me. Hoag is Kusnitzoff.”

“And?”

“You’re familiar with the name Sidney McAlister?”

“The assassin.”

“What about Frank Dolan?”

“The man who shot Hoag.”

“Yes. Well, as far as we can tell, neither of them exist, at least with those identities. So they have to be somebody else.
Who
is the question. But that’s not all.”

Roarke removed a manila envelope from his backpack and from within that, a photograph. “You tell me who it is.”

He put the photo, not in the least looking computer-generated, on the art stand.

The President studied the picture and then asked, “I’ll bite. Who is it?”

“It’s an age progression photograph created by the FBI’s top computer artist, the one you helped set up through Bob Mulligan. Touch Parsons. He’s a wizard. He’s able to take photographs of children and reliably predict what they’ll look like later in life. It’s proved invaluable for locating and identifying kidnapped kids.”

“So who’s this?” Taylor repeated.

“As far as I can tell, it’s
nobody
.”

“Okay,” the president said looking closer. “It’s nobody. Is it
supposed to be
somebody?”

“Mr. President, I believe it’s supposed to be the man you’re running against. Teddy Lodge.”

T
eddy Lodge was ahead with Black voters, Hispanics, Jews, and most importantly in female demos. His cross-over numbers were especially telling. Republican women openly talked about how good he looked to them.
The New York Times
poll had him ahead by nine percent, with a margin of error of three. If the momentum continued, he’d take the election by fifteen points. Lodge was going into the first debate on sure footing.

Geoff Newman ran Lodge through the mock debates as if they were real. He used law students as journalists and Madison Avenue consultants who critiqued him through real time sessions. They drilled him and coached him. And with every rehearsal, Lodge’s responses drew sharper. He was prepared to answer the reporters directly and calmly and deflect any political salvo from the President.

In four days they’d both be tested. In one month the voters would decide.

At the end of the long day Newman let Lodge catch up on his newspaper reading. He tossed him the
Times
. O’Connell’s latest front-page article landed face up on his lap.

T
HE
I
CEMAN IN THE
L
ODGE
C
AMP

A sub-heading clarified the point.

Geoff Newman Cold and Calculating
.

“The Iceman!” Lodge yelled out. “How did you let this happen?”

“Let it happen? I made it happen.”

“What?”

“Classic good cop, bad cop. Makes you come off warmer. You were the only one who was interested in me. I was the only one who helped you. Read it.”

Lodge did as he was told. O’Connell recounted Newman’s early life in Germany, how his father was killed in the military helicopter crash, getting lost on his way to America, and his difficulties blending in at school.

Lodge saw what Newman meant. While the reporter painted a personally acrimonious picture of Newman, he showed how their fellowship completed Lodge, helping him grow into a leader in school, in business and in politics.

There were harsh words like “shrewd and calculating,” but they were balanced with observations that termed Newman as “intense and determined.” Altogether, O’Connell presented the most complete portrait of Newman to date.

The last line was not Lodge’s favorite, but he clearly knew that the reporter had gotten that part of their story right.

A rare photograph of Newman’s father in Germany accompanied the article.

“Nice picture of dear old Dad,” Lodge said.

“Took me by surprise. But I give O’Connell credit. He did his homework. See the photo caption? Courtesy, U.S. Department of Defense. Good digging.”

Lodge nodded and continued. There were no other archival photographs, which wasn’t surprising. There weren’t any. Instead, the article relied on campaign photos and a still frame credited to Chuck Wheaton’s video coverage from Hudson. The picture showed Newman consoling Lodge immediately following Jennifer Lodge’s death.

“I can’t believe it. The iceman melteth,” Lodge joked.

“See, a picture is worth a thousand words.”

Chuck Wheaton’s real paying job was teaching 20
th
Century world history to his high school students. Every autumn he ran one of his favorite films, Constantin Costa-Gavras’ Academy Award winning 1968 conspiratorial tale,
Z
. He was absorbed in the intricate layers of the story, which masterfully fictionalizes the real life assassination of a notable Greek doctor and humanist. The movie’s critical tension is owed to the subtle dialogue during the investigation.
Z
never failed to hold his students’ attention.

The twenty-two Hudson High seniors watched the film over three class days. With only twenty minutes left the final day, Wheaton also sat mesmerized as if it were his first time screening the classic thriller. He’d seen it every fall for the last twenty-five years. The film was in French, but he could mouth the subtitles almost verbatim. There was a rhythm to the structure and to the dialogue. The key plot twist hinges on the conspirators using the same rehearsed phrase, “Lithe and fierce as a tiger.” One government official and dubious character after another comes to testify before the chief investigator, played by Jean-Louis Trintignant. Each uses the same phrase that only they would know. Costas-Gavras cut the scenes together with an ever increasing pace, emphasizing the connection.

Suddenly Wheaton looked away from the screen.
The rhythm. Lithe and fierce as a tiger.
There was something utterly familiar to that rhythm.
What is it?
He thought harder.
Something in the rhythm.
The audio of the French language film continued to fill the classroom, then without even realizing it, Wheaton was now mouthing English words to himself. Other words. He felt his palms perspire and his heartbeat quicken. He closed his eyes and pictured the movements that went with his words. Just as the words fit specific actions and gestures in the movie, so did the phrases echoing in his mind.

The film ended and the bell rang. Wheaton’s students sat stunned, as they always did. But their teacher wasn’t there to send them off to 5
th
period. He was already out the door to see an old friend.

“Carl, come on with me. I want you to watch the footage again.” The Hudson Police Chief had no doubt what footage Wheaton meant.

“Again?” Marelli asked putting down his coffee.

“Again.”

“Without a hello?”

Wheaton realized he had pushed through the chief’s door without an invitation. Both stupid and dangerous in any police station. “‘Hello.’ Now come. You’ve gotta see it. This time really closely. I can’t believe I didn’t catch this before.”

“I’ve seen it a hundred times. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t explain it. Just come on.”

Marelli stayed put. “This better not be about you playing cop.”

The Hudson Police Chief knew that it was only Wheaton’s football injury years ago that prevented him from pursuing his earliest goal of becoming a policeman. In the fourth quarter of a championship game his senior year, a bulldozer disguised as a seventeen-year-old Albany Academy student blindsided him as he faded back to pass. Wheaton took the full force of the human Caterpillar in his knees. And his opponents took the game. Surgery and physical therapy ultimately restored much of the mobility he lost on the field that night, but it didn’t give him the dexterity and strength required for police department entry.

Marelli was right, though. It was in Wheaton’s DNA. Even after all these years, he wanted to think like a cop. Maybe that was why he slept with the policeband radio on and he was typically the first freelance cameraman in Columbia, Greene, and even Dutchess Counties to show up at a crime scene. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop screening the footage he shot.

“No,” he answered. “Well, maybe yes. Who the hell knows. But don’t give me any shit now. If you don’t want to see it, I’ll go directly to that FBI shithead. That’ll look really good, won’t it?”

“Alright already. I’ll follow you.”

“No tickets on the way?”

“No tickets. But don’t push it.” Marelli grabbed his hat and shooed Wheaton out the door.

After a near-record eleven-minute run, Wheaton was at his gravel driveway. He slammed his car door and tore into his studio to warm up his PC driven-digital edit bay before Marelli caught up.

“Coffee’s over there behind me, just flick the switch. The water will start to drip,” Wheaton said without looking.

“So what’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“Today I flashed on something crazy. Here, watch.” He pressed a green key on his keyboard and the video came up well into Congressman Lodge’s now fateful speech.

Congressman Lodge was speaking with great enthusiasm.
“We strike partnerships by sharing food and building up economies. We give. We get. We educate the world’s uneducated, we make them intellectually stronger against dictators who would take advantage of their
people’s
lack of knowledge.”

Marelli was surprised how much he had memorized himself. Lodge’s complete speech was embedded in their consciousness.

“We give and we get. And yes, we share our knowledge of arms and our technological know-how to fight emerging terror in third world nations so we won’t have to rush in at an unacceptable cost of American lives. We give and we get.”

“We build bridges to former adversaries and make them our friends,”
Lodge proclaimed on a close-up. Wheaton and Marelli heard the crowd, unseen at the moment, clamor,
“We Give and We Get.”
They saw the congressman step back and smile, then approach the microphone again.

“Soon you will have to make a major decision,”
Lodge predicted on the playback.
“But it is not about one man over another. One candidate versus another. We are all responsible individuals, devoted to serving you. No, the decision is not about a person. It’s about policy.”

“Walk with me to the future. We’ll make a partnership for peace celebrating all people of the world with the United States of America as a full and valued partner.”

“Better we go to welcomed arms than with arms unwelcomed.”

“It will mean we take what we know to the world so the world will know more. And by so doing….”

And everyone cheered,
“We Give and We Get.”

Congressman Lodge peered over his left shoulder to Jenny then back, smiling to the crowd that continued to chant, “
We Give and We Get! We Give and We Get!”
Over and over.
“We Give and We Get! We Give and We Get!”
Lodge raised his arms to quiet the crowd.

“It’s time for a family of nations in a world apart,”
continued Lodge softly.

“Time for a family that will last into all of our tomorrows.”

“Here’s where I zoom out a little to include Jenny,” Wheaton whispered during the congressman’s pause.

“…a family for you…and,”
then another pause,
“and…a family for me.”

“And he’ll bow his head forward in a second, just a little and wipe his eyes.”

Then the moment Marelli and Wheaton would never forget. The instant that Jennifer Lodge died in front of their eyes.

The policeman looked away. “Enough. I’ve seen this enough.”

“You haven’t begun to see it,” Wheaton demanded. “Now again.” The camerman reset his computer with a thirty-second roll cue from the gunshot and hit play. Marelli took a deep breath.

“Really, no more, Chuck,” the Police Chief complained.

But Wheaton ignored him. He slowed down the audio and video and described what he was seeing on screen.

“‘And by doing so,’ yadda, yadda, yadda. The next string of ‘give and get.’ Everyone’s charged up. Now watch carefully, Carl.
Very
carefully.”

He skipped forward a few seconds. The congressman spoke at one-quarter speed, the words stretched out.
“Time for a family that will last into all of our tomorrows.”

“My zoom out,” Wheaton said again, then, “There.” He pointed to the screen. As the camera widened to include Jennifer, Wheaton froze the shot. “His fingers. Watch his fingers on his right hand, by the side of his leg.” He rolled more. Lodge finished saying
“a family for you,”
and the cameraman counted “one” aloud in sync with Lodge putting his index finger down and then “two” as Lodge added a second finger. Then the second phrase,
“a family for me.”
And again Wheaton whispered “three” and “four” as Lodge repeated his action.

“He’s counting, Carl. It’s amazing. He’s really counting the beats. I’ll bet you a steak at Kozel’s he’s counting. Watch again.”

Wheaton rewound the video. “Watch. The words have a rhythm to them. So do the pauses. I swear he’s timing the pauses. Two beats each.”

As the tape played, Marelli moved closer to the screen.

“He’s going to lean forward slightly to wipe his eyes. But now watch his count. Four seconds, Carl. Watch. He’ll count it for you. One…two…three…four.” And in the background Jennifer Lodge straightened her body never realizing that death had just gripped her.

Wheaton froze the shot on Jennifer. “He was timing it, Carl. Lodge was timing his move.”

The police chief stared at the image, looking at the four fingers Lodge barely extended on his right hand. He looked down at his side. This time he had done exactly the same thing.

Wheaton’s body shook and sweat poured down his forehead despite the air conditioning in his editing room. Marelli reached for a chair behind him. He swung it around, pulled up next to Wheaton and quietly said, “You may make rookie yet. Play that again for me, Chuck.”