Executive Treason (33 page)

Bill fought back his own tears, determined to finish. “No one else was there. Only the six of them. It took weeks before they cleared out the rubble. They found parts of them, Mr. Roarke. Only parts of them. Arms, legs. Faces blown off.” He stopped one more time to collect his thoughts. “It was a huge explosion. One of the most destructive. You want to know the worst of it?”

Roarke and Davis didn’t need to acknowledge the question. The answer was already on Bill Cooper’s lips.

“We don’t even have Richard back. His body vaporized in the explosion.”

There was a long silence, which no words could effectively fill.

“Oh, we did get a letter from the Secretary of Defense. It was signed by a machine.”

The proud, lonely parents talked about their son for another twenty minutes. For part of the time, he wasn’t dead. Richard Cooper was alive and vibrant.

Eventually, they ran out of things to say, or at least the desire to talk anymore. The Coopers retreated to the quiet sadness that had engulfed them for years. They buried him again, and it was time for Roarke and Davis to leave.

“What will you be able to do with what we’ve told you?” Gloria asked as they approached the door.

They looked at each other, not wanting to lie, yet not able to tell the truth. “We’ll discuss the command issues you brought to our attention,” Davis offered.

“And I promise you, we’ll look at every aspect of the investigation into his death,” Roarke added.

“Thank you,” Gloria Cooper quietly responded.

“There is an additional thing that could help us,” Roarke said.

“Yes?”

“Can you loan us any photographs of you with Richard.”

The Coopers showed their confusion over the request.

“Family shots. Maybe over the years of all of you together.”

“I don’t understand.”

Roarke tried his best to deflect the question, not wanting to explain the real need. “I think the nation owes you a debt of gratitude. You have a story that should be heard. Also, I can tell you right now that you and the other parents of your son’s squad will receive a proper letter. That will happen if I have to go to the president myself.”

Davis swallowed hard. Of all things, that would be the easiest for Roarke to accomplish. But they didn’t know that. They really thought he was with the FBI.

Roarke continued. “It may be of little consequence now, but that’s one wrong that will be righted.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Cooper said, forgetting she’d actually asked a question. She went back for the photographs, taking pictures out of frames that lined the hallway. While she was away, Roarke let his eyes wander around the house. It was decorated with new furniture, original paintings, crystal fixtures, and marble. Everything was beautiful, as if chosen by a designer with little regard to budget.

“Here you are,” she said. She let her hand lovingly graze across the top photograph. “This is the last picture we took together. At our old house.”

Roarke saw proud parents and a handsome son. They stood at the front door of a modest Cincinnati home.

“Our neighbor took it.” She was about to hand it to Roarke when she asked, “We’ll get these back soon?”

“Yes, I promise. Thank you again for inviting us into your home,” Roarke added. He gazed around one final time. “It is magnificent.”

“We can thank Richard,” Bill Cooper volunteered.

“Oh?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he added. “Insurance policies he got abroad. We didn’t know about them, but then Richard always was dramatic. We went from living paycheck to paycheck to having money in the bank. It was quite a surprise to us. But he always said he’d take care of us. I guess he has.” He opened the door for his guests. There was nothing further to say.

West Chester Township, Ohio

Shannon Davis tugged at Roarke’s arm before they were at their rental car.

“What was that all about?”

“What was what?” Roarke looked like the cat that swallowed a canary.

“How long have I known you?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Since service.”

“Yes,” Roarke answered.

“So I can tell when you flash onto something. It just happened in there,” Davis explained.

“When we get in the car,” Roarke said. He tossed Davis the keys.

A block away, Roarke got the third degree again. “So?” Roarke turned in his seat to face the FBI man. “You saw their house. Pretty spectacular for two blue-collar retirees.”

“Cooper said it. Their son’s insurance policy kicked in.”

“For that?” Roarke pointed his thumb in the direction of the house. “That’s more than insurance.”

“Come on, not if he had a million-dollar policy. And what’s to say it wasn’t more?”

“And the premiums? Not on the pay of a Ranger. No, there’s more money there than from an insurance company check. Besides, Cooper said it came from an insurance payment abroad. What’s the chance of that?”

Davis steered to the side of the street and rolled to a stop. “Their son sent the money?”

“Somehow, yes,” Roarke answered. “Stay with me for a minute. He goes into a death trap, furious over the command decision. Everyone dies—well, maybe everyone. His body is never recovered. Assume he survives the bomb blast. The only one. He’s obviously changed by the experience. He comes out vowing revenge. He blames his immediate supervisors. He blames the president. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if we check the record and discover that people involved in the decision to take the building met a rather sudden and tragic end. Okay, he’s officially dead. Figure he wants to come back to the States. But he needs money. He makes some inquiries, probably internationally. What does he do? He acts and he kills people. Cold-hearted. Cold-blooded. He becomes an assassin—a highly paid assassin. Maybe the highest the world has ever known. The new Jackal. He has money in offshore accounts. He sends a little stipend to Mom and Dad.”

“That would be hard to do. The Patriot Act’s banking provisions flag anything over $10,000 from a foreign bank. That’s why there are a lot of transfers for $9,999.00. But even then, it starts getting suspect.”

“Okay, that’s assuming it came in through normal channels. What if it didn’t? What if they were given an offshore account to draw on? What if they got cash? What if a Lamborghini showed up in their driveway and they sold it? I don’t know how, I’m sure you have ways to find out.”

Davis seemed to be on board. “You think they know he’s alive?”

“I don’t know.” Roarke thought for a second. “I don’t think so, unless Gloria and Bill are as good at acting as their son. But I’d say no. Maybe he’ll make an entrance someday, but right now he’s dead. He’s provided for them. That gives them comfort. Beyond that, I don’t know what to think. I’m sure he’s kissed off everyone else who used to be important to him, too. But it’s worth checking. Old girlfriends, teachers, anyone we can come up with.”

“The money still has me stymied. I can’t quite figure how he could have done it without setting off alarms.”

“Maybe he had some help.”

Davis gave the idea some thought. “Like Haddad?”

“Exactly,” Roarke said.

Chicago, Illinois

Luis Gonzales listened to his dreams. Since he was a child he felt the Prophet himself spoke to him through dreams. He saw signs and faces. There were words that showed him the way, and warnings that foretold where he would fail. For years his dreams provided encouragement and comfort. Then, shortly before Teddy Lodge was to ascend to the presidency, they became darker. His sleep turned fitful. His plan failed.

Now his sleep brought new dreams. Millions of people in a wide shot. A thunderous, rumbling crowd but with only one voice. Individuals pop into view. They’re hypnotized by the speaker. Phrases, not sentences. No one blinks. The wide shot again. There’s movement to the crowd. First a gradual wave in one direction. Wider. Suddenly, it changes. A million people scattering in a million directions. The one voice is replaced by shrieks and screams. A wall rises around them: a wall of marble buildings and monuments. Wider still. Smoke begins to obscure the masses. Wider. Now the outline of the United States. Smoke engulfing the entire nation. Then he zooms through the smoke to another part of the world. A flashback. More screams, but this time his own. He is a young man sitting alone in a courtyard, rocking back and forth. Holding a little girl in his arms.

Gonzales suddenly awoke. Everything remained clear: The Prophet speaking to him…connecting present to past…past to present. Today he was Luis Gonzales. In another time, Ibrahim Haddad. He was both the man wreaking havoc and the tortured soul.

He needed his inhaler.

Lebanon, Kansas
Monday, 16 July

“I really do worry about my liberal friends.”

Actually, Elliott Strong had no liberal friends. For that matter, he had few friends at all. But he continued to pummel the enemy. “They’re living in a fantasy world. The liberals complain, ‘Nobody likes us. Nobody. Not the French. Not the British. Germany, no. Japan, no. We’re all alone.’ Well, they’re right about part of that. But do they do anything with the knowledge? No! Well, let me tell you, having alliances with countries that don’t stand by us are a waste of time. Their armies are a joke. Their economies couldn’t last a day without our help. It’s time we all recognize that everything comes down to one little area of the world: one plot of land where the future—whether it’s peace or the end of days—will be determined. Not Europe. Not Asia. Not Africa. The Middle East, people. Wake up to reality. If we’re to survive, we need to make friends with the people we’ve made enemies of. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Forget these Machiavellian wars, people. Islam is spreading, even in the United States. The most recent census? Well, let me give it to you in broad terms. According to the U.S. Department of State, Islam is one of the fastest-growing religions in the country. Within a few years, America’s Muslim population is expected to surpass the Jewish population. Did you get that? Let me say it again slower. Soon, there will be more Muslims in America than Jews. That will make Islam the country’s second-largest faith after Christianity, my friends.

“They’re here in the United States of America. And they’re not leaving. They come as immigrants. About seventy-eight percent versus twenty-three percent who are born here. I can’t give you exact numbers, but best estimates indicate there are approximately six to eight million American Muslims. And if you think this is anything new, read your history books! The earliest Muslims to arrive in this country came as slaves from West Africa in the mid-1550s.

“So what will happen when they become the number-two religion? They’ll demand more. They’ll get their people elected. They’ll get their agendas through Congress—all within their rights as Americans.” He let that thought settle in before continuing. “Their right and their privilege. They’re not going away. How’s that for a reality check? And what are we doing to prepare for this inevitable shift in American culture? I could go to the phones and let you try to guess, but I’ll make it easy for you, because I know what we’re doing for that eventuality. Exactly the wrong thing! We keep supporting the one nation in the world that turns all these people, every one of them, into our enemies.” He finally drew in a breath. “No wonder we’re so damned hated.”

Strong felt he had lectured enough. He lightened his voice, seeking to take the edge off his attack that never once mentioned Israel directly. “There’s room for all of us. I’m not saying don’t support an old ally. But we need to create new ones.” This was Teddy Lodge’s position for anyone smart enough to notice. “New ones,” he repeated. “Nations that will become more important to the well-being of the world. I wish my liberal friends would understand that.”

Elliott Strong’s circle of friends couldn’t make up a good card game. He always explained he didn’t get out much because he slept when everyone else was awake. And the few daytime hours he had, he spent preparing shows or on the air.

Most of his outside contact came through e-mails. He used the Internet to find out what was happening in the world, not to help him shape his views.

Strong’s only real relationship was with his third and current wife, Darice. She doubled as his producer, and like the other women he married, she was mainly around to cook and occasionally screw. Since there was no place to go, she never went out. On the rare occasion Strong ventured beyond Lebanon, Kansas, Darice stayed home.

He eventually expected there’d be a number-four in his life. When? Maybe after he moved his show to Washington. Strong went to his callers.

“Elliott, you haven’t said whether you’re going to Washington. What’s the story?”

Strong shot Darice a cold glance. He wanted to avoid the question. She needed to do a better job screening.

“Well, I want you to go,” he declared. He gave a cut sign, a slice across the throat. Darice dropped the caller. “On August 18, you and the others will all be our reporters for the general’s great march,” he continued. “You’ll give us the experience of being at the biggest rally ever held in Washington, D.C.” He leaned back in his chair.
They’ll have a great deal to describe
, he thought.

“Use your cell phones. Call. We’ll be on the air with nonstop, commercial-free programming. If America wants to hear what’s really going on, they’ll tune to Strong Nation.”

The New York Times

Another day at the computer. Michael O’Connell added more words to his hit list:

Secret. KGB. FSB. Kremlin. Russia. Enemy. Conspiracy.

Virus.

Nothing triggered a sensible response, or even supported a reliable hunch.

Boston, Massachusetts

Years ago, research of this nature would have required Katie Kessler to visit a solid law library, meticulously search through periodicals and papers, call up volumes of law books and scholarly texts, handwrite her notes, then distill the information either in free hand or on a typewriter.

Now Katie pointed and clicked. She had access to Lexis/Nexis, and the findlaw.com and westlaw.com databases through her Internet connection at home. The ease of it made her decide this is where she’d do most of her work.

Considering she wasn’t assigned to a current case at work, and given the complicity, though unwitting, of her law firm in a near coup of the Executive Branch, the senior partners wished Katie well. They hoped that her departure for the White House might even help restore their firm’s corporate image.

Kessler’s web browsing sent her to recent speeches by members of Congress and testimony at open hearings. She downloaded a 2002 article from
The Hill
, a key Beltway publication, written by California Congressman Brad Sherman, an analysis by Texas Senator John Corayn, opinion papers written by the Congressional Research Service of The Library of Congress, and newspaper articles from
The Wall Street Journal
,
The Washington Post
, and
The New York Times
.

Some of her research brought Katie back to the work she’d done on the eve of the inauguration. She re-read Article II, Section 1 of the Constitution, the Presidential Succession Act of 1792, The First Presidential Succession Act of 1886, the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, and the 25th Amendment. After her first pass, she went back and highlighted key words in the passages. Next, she copied them to a master file. She found particular merit in the 1886 Act. Unlike the present law, the succession line went from the president to the vice president, then on to the Secretary of State, followed by the Secretary of the Treasury, the Secretary of War, and the rest of the cabinet. She added an exclamation point in the margin. Interesting, she said to herself. While it was too early to come to any conclusion, she intuitively felt that 1886, dismantled 61 years later, had merit.

Soon, Kessler would be calling on Chief Justice Leopold Browning. She knew by experience that if she wasn’t prepared to argue her position on firm legal ground, the esteemed Supreme Court jurist would curtly dismiss her…or worse: he’d lecture her to death.

Kessler vowed to be ready. She looked away from her screen to a calendar on her desk. She traced the dates with her pencil. Not this week. Not next. Maybe the week after. She added a few days for good measure. August 18. She decided Saturday, August 18 would be the date. Three weeks
. That’s enough time
, she thought. She picked up the phone and dialed the United States Supreme Court. Three weeks. I’d better be ready!

Maluku, Indonesia

Commander Umar Komari reviewed the inventory. He now had the weapons he needed—more than he ever imagined, including his prized SAMs, the deadly surface-to-air missiles. He looked to the heavens with tears in his eyes. Muhammad surely approves.

Komari’s reverie was interrupted by the voice of his lieutenant.

“Yes, yes. What is it, Atef?” Komari gave permission for only one man to proceed beyond the guards he posted.

“You wanted a report on the training, sir,” Musah Atef said.

“Enter.”

Atef moved the canvas door to the side and walked into the largest tent he’d ever seen. It was decorated with the bed and furniture his men had stolen from a Christian fisherman’s home in a nearby town. Neither the man nor his wife needed it any longer.

“So spacious. Truly fit for a commander.”

“Or a president,” Komari corrected him.

“Yes, but after we take the capitol, you shall have a palace.”

“Quite so. And do we have the army that will take us there? Are they ready?”

“Soon. In a matter of weeks.”

“Not sooner?” Komari asked with annoyance.

“Please, just a little more time. It would prove disastrous to move too early. The men need more training with the new weapons.”

Komari turned away from Atef. He recently saw what happened to an army when it wasn’t prepared. An encampment in the Solomons was attacked by Australians or Americans. He didn’t know for sure. Though they had weapons to defend themselves, the men were not ready. A survivor reported that 200 Muslim warriors died trying to figure out how to load their grenade launchers and fire a surface-to-air missile. Their leader, Komari’s older brother Omar, was killed in the assault.