Executive Treason (23 page)

“Morgan Taylor has to go.”

FBI labs
Quantico, Virginia

“Your gal Friday from the Pentagon sent over some stuff. She’s a lot nicer to deal with than you, Roarke.”

“And a bit more dangerous,” the Secret Service agent told Touch Parsons over the phone.

“But she sounds so nice.”

“Army Intel. She’ll suck the eyes right out of your head. She knows more things about you than your mommy. And what she doesn’t know, she’ll find out one way or another.”

“Well, turnaround’s fair play. You see, I’ve done a little checking up on the good Captain Walker, too. Thirty-five. Good-looking. Career field officer until she became a desk jockey and a computer junkie. Maybe you could fix us up.”

“Oh, Walker will love knowing that you’ve spied on her. News like that will get you real far. Broken collarbone, smashed kneecaps. You’ll be lucky if your balls are still attached when she’s through with you.”

“Yah, then why did she check me out on the agency website?”

“You hacked into a DOD computer?”

“Due diligence, Agent Roarke.”

“Why?”

“Because I can. So why don’t you play matchmaker and let me take my chances? I haven’t had a date in two years. It’s the least you can do since you fucked up the rest of my life with your half-baked ideas.”

Roarke was actually amused by Parson’s schoolboy hots for Penny Walker. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been serious with anyone for a long time. He thought about it for a moment. They just might hit it off.

“What will you give me?” Roarke asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What will you give me?”

“I don’t understand.”

Roarke’s voice grew serious. “I want Depp.”

Parsons, noting the change in tone, responded in kind. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Then plan on working late over some java as soon as I get back to D.C.”

Boston, Massachusetts
Wednesday, 27 June

Paul Erskine could make a mean cup of coffee. He’d worked at Starbucks in Rapid City, Tulsa, and San Francisco. This particular Starbucks in Boston’s financial district suddenly had an opening. One barista on the early shift didn’t show up the very morning Erskine applied. “So, if you’re good and you can handle the 5:30 A.M. shift, the job is yours,” the manager told him.

“Put me on. See for yourself. I think you’ll be happy,” Erskine proposed. His Southern accent made him all the more friendly.

The manager took Paul up on the offer. Erskine delivered the speediest, friendliest, most organized effort the manager ever saw.

“If you need references…” Erskine said after the demonstration.

“No, you’ve got the job! You can start in the morning.”

“Well, bless your heart. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

The manager was quite happy to have someone he didn’t have to train, someone with some maturity. Erskine was in his 30s and obviously something of a wanderer. He wore a nicely pressed white shirt, fairly new blue jeans, a bead necklace, and two of the yellow rubber bracelets that signified support for cancer patients. His long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and large aviator glasses framed his face. He had a five-day stubble that completed his bohemian look. The manager noticed that he didn’t have a wedding ring, a signal that Erskine was probably one of the typical coffee hobos who explored America by taking jobs at coffee grinders.

The most important thing was that he’d worked in Starbucks before and he knew the drill. That counted immediately. Erskine had proficiency, that was certain. And he had speed. The added bonus was his personality. Just right for the morning crowd. The earliest commuters started crowding his doors at 5:45. The biggest crunch was between 7:45 in the morning and 8:30. Erskine was a godsend.

“What’s your phone number?”

Erskine recited it. “But you won’t ever need it. I’ll be here on time.”

The manager laughed. “Just in case we need you for a second shift.”

“Anytime.”

With that, they shook hands. “See you tomorrow,” Erskine said with a broad smile. “And thank you very much.”

The newest barista at the Starbucks across from some of Boston’s most prestigious law offices walked out, very pleased that he’d scored the job he wanted the most.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

D’Angelo mulled over the latest hourly report from the FBI. Bessolo had his prints—one from inside the liquor cabinet, another on the refrigerator door, a third on the bathroom toilet handle, and a fourth on the inside of the bedroom closet door.
So much for spotless cleaning
, he thought. Three were the same: the cabinet, the bathroom, and the closet. But none of them matched the fingerprint on file for Ibrahim Haddad’s passport. He didn’t have a driver’s license.

This told D’Angelo that either the common print was not Haddad’s or that Haddad had someone else apply for the passport. He wrote off the fingerprints. They’d need more.

D’Angelo assembled his team. They worked around a bulletin board in a bullpen section of their CIA office. “Okay, let’s put everything on cards and get them up.

“Here’s what we have,” D’Angelo stated. He started writing. After one card, Jassim took over.

“Let me do that. You dictate.”

“Are you trying to tell me my handwriting sucks?”

“Yes,” Jassim said.

“No argument there. All right, here goes in no particular order,” D’Angelo said. “First me, but feel free to chime in. One: Haddad stayed inside most of the time,” Jassim wrote down the key words or phrases. “Two: no social contact. Three: He was always accompanied by bodyguards. Four: He ate at home. Five: He didn’t use the condo facilities. Six: He never showed up for functions.” He stopped to let Jassim catch up and then asked, “Comments? Additions?”

“None yet. Keep going.”

“Seven: secretive to the point of reclusive.” Next, he handed over a picture that needed to be added to the cards. “Eight: He’s a big guy, too.” He pointed to a man walking by a family posing for a picture. It was a still frame from a DV, shot by a condo owner the previous summer. Haddad was clearly visible. “We have the whole tape.”

Jassim put it next to Haddad’s enlarged passport photo.

“That’s nine. He traveled.”

“I can help you there,” Bauman said. “I pulled a mess of files from Immigration. Haddad made an almost yearly trip to the Middle East. All listed as business.”

Jassim wrote Middle East travel on a card and tacked it up.

Bauman continued. “We’re checking back beyond ten years, but it’s harder to document. With so many airlines gone, who knows what’s even out there. But we’re talking with the companies still around.”

“Including the British and French carriers?” D’Angelo asked.

“On it. Lufthansa, too. The Moscow desk is also running Haddad’s picture for us. Same for Tehran, Baghdad, Damascus, and Riyadh.”

D’Angelo turned to Carr. “What about banking?”

“Working on it. Lots of large transfers through Switzerland and the Islands. Still tracking them. Looks like elaborate precautions. It’s gonna be harder than I thought.”

“Just keep at it.”

Carr didn’t need to say yes.

“Anything else?” D’Angelo asked the group.

Holt shook his head no. The FBI report covered his area. He polled the rest of the team. More no’s.

“Okay, then. Let’s start each day this way and powwow again before we split at night. Remember, consider everything important. Nothing should be viewed as insignificant.”

There was no argument there.

After the team went back to their cubicles, D’Angelo looked at the cards. A picture, though incomplete, was coming together. He decided to make two calls: his boss, and his counterpart at the Mossad.

The Washington Mall

A light summer rain fell. About fifteen network camera operators, representing the major broadcasters, kept their equipment dry with umbrellas and plastic bags. The general’s handlers allowed everyone to put their own microphones on a six-by-eight platform. They could have used a pool feed, but Bridgeman wanted the look of multiple microphones. Elliott Strong would talk about it later.

Robert Bridgeman wore civilian clothes—a navy blue jacket, gray pants, and an open-collar white shirt. He passed up an umbrella, choosing to stand in the elements. The only concession he had to make was to not touch the metal microphones or their stands. It might make for good news, but Bridgeman wanted people to remember what he said, not how he looked if shocked.

There was no formal program or introduction.

“Good afternoon. I won’t keep you out here too long, but maybe the weather is underscoring what I have to say today. We are not living under sunny skies.”

Bridgeman had just begun and he already gave the news hounds a great leadoff sound bite.

“I have only a few words; however, they carry great weight. I believe the United States has lost its compass. I believe the will of the people is not being served. I believe Washington is isolated and our leaders do not want to hear what we, the people, have to say. I believe there is only one way to demonstrate, beyond the shadow of a doubt, how united we stand. I call on all Americans everywhere to join me for a march on Washington. Not just a march…the largest assemblage in the history of the United States. We will show this self-anointed government that it is time to have a national referendum on the presidency. We will show legislators that if they don’t change the rules of succession, we will change who we send to Washington.”

“Join me in our nation’s capital on Saturday, August 18 for a march to bring America back home.”

The whole notion was revolutionary. Every reporter on the spot secretly loved it.

Lebanon, Kansas
that night

Elliott Strong’s phone lines were clogged. People called from every corner of the country. The news, as it was being called, spread across the country like a firestorm, igniting interest in Elliott’s ever-growing Strong Nation.

“So, you heard it. What does it mean to you?” Strong asked at the top of the hour.

Listeners responded as one:

“It’s great.”

“Finally!”

“Somebody’s going to do something about all this.”

“Sign me up.”

“Me, too.”

“I’m in.”

Elliott Strong took dozens of calls. Quick ones. Affirming ones. All supportive. All angry. General Robert Woodley Bridgeman struck an emotional chord, and Strong’s viewers were singing his praises.

The news was also on ABC, NBC, CBS, Fox, and CNN. The daytime roundtable cable shows were making it the central topic. Bridgeman was booked for Larry King at seven. Everyone wanted him. They couldn’t wait to score an interview with a retired Marine war hero who basically called for an immediate national referendum on the presidency. And they wanted to talk to him about whether he was going to run for president.

Now all the principal news organizations were also paying more attention to the radio host who broadcast from the geographic center of the country.

“You march. You go to the Capitol, the Mall, and the White House with General Robert Bridgeman,” Elliott Strong preached. “Not a thousand. Not ten thousand or a hundred thousand. Not a million. Show them what Americans really demand. We do it the Strong way. We do it with five million Strong.”

By the end of his broadcast, the slogan Five Million Strong was embedded in the minds of his listeners.

Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 28 June

According to the doctors at Walter Reed and the lab reports, no toxic substances were evident in the president’s blood,” Mulligan told the president. “Nothing in the White House food or water. Nothing untoward in the White House stock. The short version, sir: President Lamden was not poisoned.”

“Are you absolutely positive?”

“If you’re asking if there is any margin of error, the answer is yes, due to lateness of the toxicology tests. That stated, the labs feel they would have found some evidence if it existed.”

Taylor was relieved. He thanked the FBI chief and hung up. Nonetheless, the possibility that Roarke raised was enough for him to question the procedure and standards for how the President of the United States is safely fed, either in the White House or in White House-supervised kitchens.

Maybe it didn’t happen this time, Taylor considered, but we are vulnerable.

Taylor decided to draft a directive that would result in a comprehensive study of the White House food chain. Where does the food come from? How is it protected? Who oversees the process?

Certainly some procedures existed, but he asked for recommendations to improve the safety standards.

His request went to the Office of Strategic Initiatives. Ironically, it might have gone to Lynn Meyerson’s desk.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

“Are we sharing?” D’Angelo asked. It was a necessary question.

“Sharing means we both benefit. What is the benefit to us?” Ira Wurlin responded over the secure telephone line.

“Perhaps the security of your country.”

The silence on the line from seven hours away indicated how serious the declaration was taken.

“We’re sharing,” Wurlin finally said.

“Then I’ll start. We’ve located Haddad’s home. He fled the country. January nineteenth—possibly after being tipped off, probably after watching the news. His yacht disappeared. Probably scuttled. Haddad has vanished. He laundered money here to Kingdom Come, and we think he’s hell-bent on bringing Israel down.”

“What is the basis of your theory?” the Mossad officer asked.

“My team has been analyzing the papers recovered in Libya. Haddad is not mentioned by name, but there are clear references to a Syrian who worked for Hafez Al-Assad as a go-between with the Russians for the development of sleeper cells. Haddad has also shown up in phone records with the lawyers who represented the dearly departed Congressman Lodge. In our estimation, Haddad could be this Syrian, even though his papers show he became a U.S. citizen thirty-one years ago.”

“So what are we sharing? You seem to have done very well on your own, my friend,” Wurlin said.

“Quite to the point. You will be sharing what you can find from your very well-placed Mossad agents in Syria.”

“You ask a great deal,” Wurlin replied.

“I ask for your cooperation. Nothing less. There is still the issue of Mossad agents in the United States.”

“I thought we put that to rest,” Wurlin said.

“You may have, not the American public.” D’Angelo wanted Wurlin to fully understand the next point. “I’m sure you agree, the press doesn’t need any encouragement.”

“I will see what we can do. We’ll talk soon.”

“When?” D’Angelo asked impatiently.

“Soon.”