Executive Actions (55 page)

T
he Lions didn’t make it to the Super Bowl. They were eliminated in the playoffs. But Farouk Azzarouq was still extremely happy with the tickets he and his father had for the game at New Orleans’ Superdome. A friend
in high places
had scored him great 50-yard-line seats along with tickets for next season’s home games at Ford Field. As he jumped to his feet and threw his hands straight up as the first wave circled the stadium, Farouk actually hoped that Abahar Kharrazi was watching. He enjoyed imagining his reaction; how surprised he’d be to see Sami Ben Ali cheering for a team called the Patriots.

Bill Crawford listened to the game while driving along Interstate 84 toward Sun Valley, Idaho. He drove a rented SUV out of Salt Lake City with newly purchased $400 Dynastar Concept skis strapped to the roof rack. The 33-year-old man looked like any other ski bum, with 5 days of stubble and a recently shaved head.

The Patriots completed a 65-yard drive and led in the first quarter. Crawford found it ironic that he rooted for the Saints. He was far from one himself.

In his own way, he tried to put the events of the past year into perspective. He’d been busy being so many people, most recently a member of the Capitol Police. Now he was grateful for the time just to be himself. But that wasn’t entirely true. Bill Crawford wasn’t his real name either. He’d given that up long ago.

Ahead, a week of skiing fresh powder at Sun Valley.
Powder.
He laughed at the word. He remembered the last time he’d visited the area was for business. This time it was going to be for pleasure.

A contingent of ten Marines lowered the second body into an unmarked grave on Hart Island, just off Manhattan.

President Lamden decided that since the identities of these men were unknown, they would remain as unrecognized in death as they truly were in life. With permission of the Mayor of New York, they were brought to Potter’s Field, named for a passage in the Gospel of St. Matthew (27:3-8). Here they were laid to rest, unceremoniously and far from the nation’s capital and the job they sought.

A heavy snow had fallen most of the night. By morning, five inches covered the old Waterside Cemetary on West Shore Drive. The weight pushed many of the branches of the weeping willows down to the ground, casting an added sadness over the landscape. The snow continued lightly and began drifting, the cold wind off the ocean.

Three cars slowly drove through the main gate cutting parallel tracks in the unplowed narrow road. Two Lincoln Towncars flanked a limousine. The cortege moved deliberately, winding for a quarter mile until they stopped at a lonely gravesite.

Eight men stepped out of the Lincolns and scanned the cemetery. They communicated through radios to a helicopter overhead. When they were certain that the terrain was clear, one man tapped twice on the car roof. The Vice President of the United States opened the door and stepped out.

He stretched his arms and took in a heavy, invigorating breath of the frigid air.

The Secret Service agents had stationed themselves twenty yards apart marking the way through the blanketed path.

After a three-minute walk, made difficult because of the heavy snow, the Vice President stood before a headstone. He sighed, took the remaining two steps forward, kneeled and wiped the snow from the letters. The monument was showing some aging from the harsh New England elements. But the words could still be seen. He stepped back.

In memory of
Oliver and Katharine
Proud Parents

Morgan Taylor rested his hand on the granite and quietly wept. His tears trickled down his cheeks, freezing halfway.

The newly confirmed vice president removed a brass picture frame from a manila folder he carried. He crouched down and placed it at the base of the memorial. It showed a little boy getting his first haircut with a man standing behind him. Teddy and his father.

Taylor heard the sound of snow crunching as someone approached. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Scott Roarke.

“The Lodges could have raised a real president, Scott. Who knows, I might have even run against him.”

“From what I learned about the boy, you would have had a helluva time,” Roarke said as studied the photograph for the last time. An utter sense of sadness came over him. The Lodges were memorialized here, but not one of them was buried below.

“Someone destroyed an entire family,” he said.

“And nearly the country, too.” Morgan Taylor whispered as he slowly straightened.

Roarke offered his arm for support. The Secret Service agent gazed across the landscape. His thoughts went to Katie; the most important woman ever to come into his life. In a way he had to thank Teddy Lodge for that. Not the man posing as him, but the boy they came to honor today.

“It’s not over is it, sir?”

The vice president looked at his friend; his eyes revealing the simplist answer.
No.

The two friends now silently wondered what tomorrow would bring as the drifting snow began to build up on the photograph already frozen in time.

GARY GROSSMAN has written for
The New York Times, The Boston Globe
, and served as columnist for
The Boston Herald American.
He covered presidential campaigns for WBZ-TV in Boston and produced television series for NBC News, ABC, CBS and Fox. He has written two previous books,
Superman: Serial to Cereal
and
Saturday Morning TV.
Additionally he taught communications and journalism courses at Emerson College, Boston University and the University of Southern California, and now is co-owner of Weller/Grossman Productions, a Los Angeles-based Emmy Award winning production company specializing in documentary and informational television shows.

Gary Grossman can be contacted through his website:

www.executiveactions.com.