Executive Treason (19 page)

Boston, Massachusetts

Katie flew across the Charles with the afternoon breeze. She was in her westbound lap, skipping across the water some 200 feet from Memorial Drive on the Cambridge side. She made a wide sweep in front of the Mass. Ave. Bridge, adjusting her sails into the wind. Now to dart up the Boston side. She glided along the Lagoon, carved out in a 1930s renovation of the riverbank. Rows of three-and-four-story brownstone condominiums stood along Beacon Street to her right. She quickly made her way back to the Hatch Shellon the esplanade where the Boston Pops often played.

That’s where Roarke spotted her.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Katie!” He decided he wanted to say goodbye in person, not through a note.

“Katie!” he screamed again. She didn’t see him, and she certainly couldn’t hear him. Although Katie was no more than 120 feet away, the onshore wind obscured his calls.

Roarke ran along the grass toward the Community Boathouse where Katie had launched. Maybe she’s on her way in now. But Katie sailed beyond the dock, toward the Longfellow Bridge.

Roarke walked to the edge of the dock. Two young boys, no more than twelve, were just coming in. They handled their sloop like pros. Roarke stepped to the side, away from their sail. In that one moment, he lost her.

Come on, where’d you go? He scanned the river for the woman in the red top. He didn’t spot her, but he did see what appeared to be a log. It suddenly popped up above the surface. He panned his field of view to the right. There she is. He relaxed. Then he calculated Katie was on a trajectory that would intercept the piece of wood. He wondered how safe that was for boaters. He was about to ask the boys, when a light flare caught his eye. It came from the same place, just ahead of Katie. He strained to look, squinting to sharpen his view.

It’s not a log. It’s a diver. As quickly as he realized that, the diver was gone. It was no less dangerous than a log, but the swimmer must have seen her coming.

Roarke continued to track Katie’s boat. Once more, he had to step away from the boys who, by now, were tying up at the dock. The diver’s head emerged from underwater again. It seemed as if he swam underwater to get even closer to her. Why? He had to see Katie. Impossible not to. He should have changed direction. But…

All of Roarke’s senses fired at once. A dangerous situation was developing. Possibly for the diver. Definitely for Katie. He screamed out as loudly as possible. “Hey! Move!”

The boys froze in place.

“Katie!”

The man who ran the MDC boathouse peered out from his window.

“Watch out!” Roarke yelled.

Katie continued on her course. She still couldn’t hear him.

Roarke reached for his Sig Sauer. A warning shot? A bullet in the air…too dangerous. He shifted his attention. “Boys! Get me out there!” He pointed where Katie’s boat would intersect with the diver.

“What?” they asked together. They were genuinely scared.

“Get me out there fast!” Roarke ran onto the end of the dock.

“But why?” the youngest asked.

By now the Community Boathouse manager had come out. He was an old sailor who had weathered a lot of storms off the North Shore seas, and handled his share of drunks in Gloucester bars. He carried a beaten-up Louisville Slugger baseball bat.

“Just hold up a minute there, mister. Leave those kids alone.”

“Guys! I can’t sail,” Roarke said, ignoring the man. “I need you to get me out there!” There was real urgency in his voice.

“I don’t know,” the older, more responsible boy said sheepishly.

“My girlfriend’s in trouble,” Roarke added. He turned his attention back to the water. “Katie!”

“I don’t know,” the boy said again.

The situation looked worse. The swimmer kept adjusting to Katie’s run.

“Look, I need your help!” Roarke bent down and grabbed their boat.

“You hold it there, mister.” It was the old skipper. He was on the dock, about ten feet from Roarke. His bat was up high, ready to take a swing at Roarke. “You’re not going anywhere with those boys.”

Roarke rose up quickly, his hands simultaneously slipping into opposite sides of his tweed jacket. He thought about removing his automatic with his right hand. Instead, he reached for his Secret Service ID with his left.

“Secret Service. Stop!”

The man froze in place, but mostly out of disbelief. “What?”

“I need this boat. These men will take me out right now.”

“Oh, boy,” Roarke heard the youngest say.

The manager didn’t really know what to do, so he did nothing.

“You’re really a Secret Service agent?” the boy questioned.

Roarke turned around. “Yes, now please!”

“Climb aboard.”

Roarke gingerly stepped into the 17-foot craft. The sailor now made a gesture toward them, but Roarke waved him off. At fifteen feet from the dock, Roarke tried to get his bearings.

“You should sit down, sir,” the older boy said.

Roarke didn’t need the encouragement.

“And you better take your shoes off.”

Boston University
Metropolitan School

This guy’s crazy, Bernie Bernstein said to himself. He put down a paper one of his students had written about the host of the radio show Strong Nation.

This was Bernstein’s first teaching assignment at BU. His office on Bay State Road overlooked the Charles River just west of the Mass. Ave. Bridge. He joined the faculty as a part-time professor after leaving the White House. After four years as Morgan Taylor’s chief of staff, he accepted a teaching job. He encouraged his Government and Ethics students to reach beyond law books to find foundation for their legal arguments. One of his students decided to tackle a challenging topic: Was the Fairness Doctrine Fair? He drew a thorough line between the debate over The Red Lion Case to the state of talk radio today. In doing so, he analyzed the phenomenal rise of Elliott Strong, or as the host considered himself, America’s leading “Voice of Reason.”

Bernstein was aware of Strong, but he hadn’t listened to his show in a long time. His student’s paper made the man Morgan Taylor affectionately called Bernsie more interested than ever.

According to the report, Strong’s radio show was having a domino effect: other broadcasters were listening to him and following his lead. Strong’s political bias made for good radio. And good radio, largely unregulated, made for great ratings. Since every radio host in the country lived for ratings, the Strong rhetoric appeared to be a formula worthy of imitation.

The student provided the statistics. Four hundred fifteen percent growth in audience in the six months dating back to January of the current year, according to the Arbitron rating’s service. Strong reached an estimated 21,450,000 listeners in late night, far more than King, Bell, or Nouri ever pulled. His daytime ratings trounced the competition. His audience remained with Strong for an average of forty-seven minutes, longer than any other talk host in the history of the business. The number of stations that carried Strong Nation continued to grow by the week.

Crazy like a fox. The ex-president’s chief of staff was learning from a graduate student the first rule of talk radio: Stay on the good side of the hosts. Somewhere along the line, the administration wasn’t. Now he wondered whether Strong could be stopped.

The student raised the same rhetorical question in his paper. The immediate answer was no. “Contemporary talk radio is the Frankenstein born out of deregulation,” the student maintained in his paper. “It took its first, unsure exploratory steps with the relaxation of laws that had previously guaranteed a multiple of opinions on the airwaves. It came of age with the demise of true local community ownership, and it matured with the encouragement and support of the political right.”

Even Bernstein had to admit he’d used people like Strong to help Morgan Taylor. Did he control them? No, he had to admit. It had worked for Bernstein as long as the president wasn’t the target. He believed, perhaps naively, that they’d never turn on the man who most closely represented their politics. But he was wrong. There was no loyalty among the thieves of the airwaves. They’d stolen the meaning of true political debate. It was all in the student’s report. It had happened years ago. Now it seemed that Morgan Taylor would be the catalyst for Strong’s highest ratings ever.

After reading the paper, Bernstein went on the Internet. It was all there. His student had done his research well. Bernstein considered calling Elliott Strong himself. Maybe he could get the talk host to ease up. But who was he now? A teacher with no political clout. Another former White House staffer.

Instead, he decided to phone an old Georgetown classmate: the CEO of the company which syndicated Strong Nation.

“You have to understand, the entire world of radio is different today. And it’s probably all due to one man,” Charlie Huddle explained.

“Limbaugh?”

“On the nose. And it’s not because he’s a blowhard. He was the first one to listen to an audience that felt unrepresented by the mainstream media.”

“Come on, Charlie, he doesn’t listen to anybody. Nor do—”

“You asked my opinion, Bernie, let me give it to you,” Huddle said, cutting him off. “Generally speaking, conservatives were always labeled. Liberals were not.”

“What do you mean?” Bernstein asked over the phone.

“Well, news anchors would read lines like, ‘Conservative firebrand Newt Gingrich clashed with Senator Kennedy.’ Gingrich had a negative branded to his name, while there was nothing for Kennedy. Why not?”

“Charlie, it’s just an adjective.”

“It’s more than just an adjective. It was a way of thinking. And guess what? This isn’t from me. Google ‘Brian Williams,’ you know, the anchorman. In a C-SPAN interview a few years back, Williams acknowledged that for decades many people felt like they were unrepresented. No one talked to them or about them: no one until Rush. Suddenly, the right had a savior for three hours a day: a voice that said what they were thinking. Limbaugh found that listeners, sick and tired of getting their news filtered through a liberal bias, were thrilled to have a spokesman who was one of them.”

“Come on, Charlie, it’s not that simple,” Bernstein argued.

“No? Then why did he catch on so successfully? Again, Williams said it. I’m surprised you missed it. There probably wouldn’t be a Fox News if Limbaugh didn’t give conservatives a voice.”

“That doesn’t give Strong the right to lie.”

“Lie?” The syndicator challenged him brazenly. “Is it a lie because you don’t agree with what he says?”

“It’s a lie because what he’s saying isn’t true.”

“Strong complains that nobody elected Taylor president. Is that a lie?”

“No, but—”

“He says that the way the Constitution looks at succession is outdated. You have to agree with that, Bernie.”

“Out of date, but not something to step on and grind into the ground. That’s what Strong is propagating.”

“No, he’s just coming at it from a different political perspective than you.”

“Don’t give me that!” Bernstein complained. “He’s dangerously close to calling for the overthrow of the American government.”

“Bernie, do you actually listen to Elliott?” He sounded patronizing now. “He’s not trying to overthrow Taylor, he’s asking people to exercise their right. He’s giving listeners a platform to talk about change. It was okay when Kerry got airtime during the Vietnam War when he wanted Nixon out, but it’s not okay for everyday listeners to get a few minutes on the air? Bernie, it’s talk radio. It’s just a show.”

Bernstein was completely annoyed. He returned to the essence of his call without any hint of friendship. “So you won’t do anything?”

“Do anything?” Huddle laughed. “We are doing something, Bernie. We’re practicing the First Amendment, and making millions of dollars doing it.”

Boston, Massachusetts

The scuba diver surfaced again with a quick kick of his flippers. There she is. The woman’s boat was coming around. This time, he solemnly said to himself. This time. It’ll be over in under a minute. The instant he stopped kicking, his body slipped under. In another few moments he’d bob back up, grab her at the point she was most off-balance. Then—

Katie could have sworn she heard her name called. Scott? Her head was into the wind. She smiled and wrote it off. This is what it’s like when you’re really in love. Now there were only the natural sounds—her Laser skipping across the Charles and the sail billowing in the breeze like a puffy cloud. Katie angled out of the arc on what she decided would be her last turn. She ducked under the boom, swapped hands for control of the rudder, and leaned sharply over the edge of the starboard side to balance her craft. Her legs were stretched out across the width of the hull. The boat was stable, even if she was not.

Now! He kicked and shot straight up. He actually admired her skills as a sailor. She picked her spot to turn and hit it every time. It made his job easier.

Three feet. Two feet. One more hard kick. He needed more than his head above water this time. There she is. He saw the woman gliding across the river right in front of him. He reached out. The top half of her body was extended well out over her craft. So easy. With that thought, he grabbed the back of her shell with one hand and yanked her hair with the other.

It happened too quickly for Katie to process. First she felt herself falling backward. There was no time for corrective action, only an automatic cry. Luckily, as she went over, Katie had the good sense to suck in a breath of air. When she hit the water, she realized that she hadn’t just fallen overboard. She was being weighted down. Katie kicked and grabbed at the water, trying to resurface. But she was unable to right herself. She continued to sink.

Katie squirmed and tried to twist her head around. She felt a sharp yank on her hair. It was so powerful that it did what she couldn’t do herself. It turned her around. Below her, pulling her, was a man in a wetsuit, goggles, and scuba tank. She flailed her hands, but she was no match for the man.

Still, she fought against his power. But each time she struggled she used up more air. The man pulled again. Katie looked up. The light from above dimmed as he dragged her farther down. Her body ached. She desperately held onto her last breath and suddenly was overcome by a final realization: She was going to die. Here and now…without sharing her life with Scott.

Scott. She imagined Roarke swimming toward her, reaching out, taking her into his arms. The thought brought a sense of calmness to Katie. She reached out to the image of the man she loved, wishing he were really there.

Less than twenty seconds after Katie went under, the boys steered to where she’d been pulled over. Roarke had clearly seen it. He knew what he had to do.

He dove in and kicked hard. Bubbles from the diver’s tank showed him the way. Air! It’s what the diver had, and exactly what he and Katie needed. His mind raced. How? He couldn’t fire his Sig.

Despite what’s depicted in the movies, discharging a bullet underwater can be as dangerous for the shooter as it is the intended target. It doesn’t do much good for the weapon, either.

The effects had been drilled into Roarke. Shock/pressure waves could severely damage the shooter’s eardrums as the blast is amplified underwater by a factor of four. The chamber can explode sending shrapnel backward as well as outward. The pistol might blow up in the shooter’s hand. The bullet may not follow the intended course. Or, in this case, it could strike Katie.

Roarke’s gun was out of the question.

The killer’s flippers could have taken him beyond Roarke’s reach, but he swam slowly, not knowing he was being pursued. After all, time was on his side. He just continued to drag Katie lower. The more he did, the less she resisted.

The midday sun shot beams of light through the Charles. Roarke swam away from Katie’s outstretched arms. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life. To save her, he had to ignore her. Roarke needed to come around the diver’s blind side.

Roarke kicked harder. He was glad the kids told him to lose his shoes. Faster! he willed himself.

He swam under Katie. Deeper. With hardly any air left and all the power he could muster, Roarke rammed his head into the diver’s kidneys. The regulator instantly popped out.

Roarke figured that he couldn’t survive a fight more than a few seconds. That’s when the odds tipped against him. The man pulled a five-inch blade from a sheath on his leg; somehow he still held onto Katie’s hair. Roarke instinctively drifted away. The hesitation gave the diver the opportunity to reinsert the regulator and take in more air.

Enraged, the diver swam forward, his arm outstretched, the knife blade catching the light from above. But he moved slower than he wanted because he had Katie in tow.

As if in a slow-motion aqua pas de deux, Roarke faked to the left and leaned right, dodging the first thrust. But sensing Roarke’s next move, he lunged forward. Roarke kicked away, but not quickly enough. The knife grazed Roarke’s left calf.

Roarke jerked backward. He fought the temptation to look down at the wound. Instead, he let his body relax. He dropped his arms to his side, giving the diver an easier, stationary target.

Jun Chung had taught him what to do, albeit on dry land and on a gym mat. The lessons from his Tae Kwon Do master in Los Angeles seemed like a lifetime ago. It might be if he didn’t execute the next moves correctly.

“Slow or fast makes no difference,” the Tae Kwon Do master had explained. “It is the point of contact. Concentrate on force, not speed.”

Roarke heard Master Chong through the water, through the years, and through his pain. Concentrate on the force. Force, not speed.

As the attacker pushed through the water, Roarke dodged right, twisted his body and reached forward with his left hand. He gripped the assailant’s right wrist, held it, then with his own right hand coming into play, he forced the man’s knuckles unnaturally backward. The killer struggled to free himself, but he couldn’t. He let go of the knife and tried to kick away. Again, he couldn’t.

Roarke increased the force, still remembering
force,
not speed. With his left hand still on the man’s wrist, he released his right hand, extended his whole arm flat against the killer’s arm, elbow touching elbow. He bent the arm against what nature intended, and it broke. Roarke heard the amplified crack through the water.

The man suddenly drifted upward. Roarke kicked to stay with him. Accelerating, he extended the fingers of his right hand straight out, held them tightly together, and drove them directly up and into the man’s unprotected Adam’s apple. Roarke pulled away and repeated the move, further drilling his fingers into the man’s neck. This time he felt bone crush. But he was not finished. Now with his left palm flat, he slammed up into the man’s right lung, instantly collapsing it.

The attacker’s mouth opened; an automatic reflexive motion. This had a serious effect underwater. He gagged and gasped. But the Charles River filled the space that hungered for air.

Roarke and the man who wanted to kill Katie were inches apart. Roarke ripped off his face mask. There was nothing the scuba diver could do to stop him. Not anymore. Roarke stared into the lifeless eyes and recorded the face.

He took in a lungful of air from the regulator that hung over the dead man’s shoulders. Now for Katie. But Roarke couldn’t find her.