Executive Treason (36 page)

Taylor read the room. Everyone seemed to be in agreement except for his chief of staff. “Bernsie, what’s wrong?”

“It’s a bad idea. And it’s dangerous. You’re using the press again. It’ll backfire. It’s…”

“How much different is it from what my predecessors have done?” Taylor argued. “You gave me the lecture yourself. So the big difference is they fed radio and TV shows to get and stay elected. Remember the conservative commentator who was paid in ‘04? Whole agendas were pushed without disclosing that fact. We’ll just be feeding a reporter a true story to catch a fucking killer.”

Even Bernsie had to take note of the difference.

“Well then, gentlemen,” Morgan Taylor said, “Mr. O’Connell doesn’t have an end to his Pulitzer prize-winning tome yet. Why don’t we help him find it?”

The New York Times

O’Connell suddenly shivered. He clenched his fists and held his breath. It was as if a bolt of lightning electrified him with awareness. He stared out at the rest of the patrons. Everyone was calm, self-absorbed, and unaware of his epiphany.

The words! He tore through
The Times
trying to find the page again. He went so fast he missed it the first time. There! He patted down the page. Son of a bitch! Everything connected: What the old Russian said and what he meant…the political implication and the tremendous impact on the country.

It was there in his own newspaper—in bold Times New Roman over the otherwise blank page: the last two words of a simple print advertisement. The first word, uttered by the Russian; the second word, which completed the thought. Connected, they gave him his answer. Strong Nation.

Walter Reed Army Medical Center
Bethesda, Maryland
Thursday 2 August

“Good morning, Mr. President. Early day?”

“They’re all early, and they’re rarely good,” Morgan Taylor joked. “How’s the president doing?” he asked the head cardiologist on Henry Lamden’s team.

“A little stronger. You’ll be starting the day for him. Mrs. Lamden doesn’t usually come by until oh-nine-hundred these days.”

The doctor led Morgan Taylor to President Lamden’s heavily guarded room. The president was sleeping, but he had more color in his face than the last visit. Taylor gently rested his hand on Lamden’s arm. “Henry,” he whispered.

Lamden stirred, opened his eyes, and slowly focused on his visitor. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Have you ruined everything yet?”

“No, but I haven’t been at it long enough. Give me time.” Taylor wished he hadn’t said that. “How you doing?”

“Been a lot better. But that’s when I was twenty. It’s been downhill from there.”

“Oh, cut the crap, you’ll be back in the hot seat. I’m just keeping the damned thing warm for you.”

Lamden breathed deeply. “Not so sure, Morgan. The doctors may want to go back in.” He’d already had quadruple bypass surgery two weeks after the heart attack. “They’re not saying very much. Too afraid of what the stock market will do or that you’ll load the place back up with your Republican friends.”

Morgan Taylor laughed, but he actually wanted to have a serious conversation. He stepped away from the bed and quietly asked the doctor, “Can you give us a few minutes?”

“Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Once they were alone, Taylor pulled a chair over to Lamden’s bed. “Henry, I’m heading to Australia in a couple of hours and I want to talk over some strategy.”

“Oh?”

“I have a two-stage plan for the conference that will play a whole helluva lot better if it’s from both of us.”

“A plan? Does Foss know anything? It’s his ball game.”

“No, but I have a feeling he won’t be the problem. It’s some of the others.” Taylor explained what he had in mind. It actually made Henry Lamden sit up.

Andrews Air Force Base
later that day

“Mr. President.”

Lt. Eric Ross was at the base of the gangplank to greet him. “Afternoon, Rossy. Everything shipshape?”

“Yes, sir. Next stop Honolulu. Then onto Sydney.”

“You’re with us the whole way?” the president asked.

“I wouldn’t miss this trip for the world.”

Washington, D.C.

After a short discussion, it was decided that a Pentagon spokesperson would make the call to
The New York Times
reporter.

“Mr. O’Connell, this is Nanette Lambert with the Army Office of Public Affairs. I’d like to give you first crack at a story.”

O’Connell hated when some government functionary called in with a useless pitch. He blamed himself for even answering. “Sorry to waste your time, but I’m on a deadline.” O’Connell was already sorting through his initial Internet searches on Strong and he definitely didn’t want to be distracted by a pitch on a puff piece. Besides, he was miffed Taylor never called him back. “I’m not the one you want anyway. You need to speak to someone in features.”

“Mr. O’Connell, you are the right person. The story concerns an investigation. That’s something of your specialty,” the career officer explained.

Investigation definitely caught his attention. O’Connell clicked to a clean screen on his computer to make notes. “On the record, Ms…?”

“Lambert, Nanette Lambert. Lt. Lambert. And no. Call it deep background. The rest is up to you. Agreed?”

O’Connell thought for a requisite moment. “Agreed.”

“Okay, in brief, we’re reopening an inquiry into a bombing in Baghdad that occurred a number of years ago. A special forces team went into an apartment building. The entire team was killed. Do you recall the story?”

“Not off-hand.”

Lambert read the next words off a script. She needed to get it right. “All the officers and enlisted men were accounted for—except one. We’re unlocking the files.” She stopped there to allow O’Connell to catch up on his keyboard.

“Where did you say you’re calling from?”

“The Pentagon. Army Office of Public Affairs. I am an unnamed source. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes. And when was this? I’ll need dates.”

“I’ll give you all the basics.”

“Why are you reopening this particular investigation?” Lambert read again from her script.

“There were some unanswered questions. We’re doing this on behalf of the family of one of the soldiers.”

“And his name is?”

“Lt. Richard Cooper. That’s Cooper. C-o-o-p-e-r.”

O’Connell rested his hands on the computer keys. A bell went off: a bell he didn’t like. He suddenly felt he was being used. “Why me?”

“We thought this was your kind of story, Mr. O’Connell.”

“And who exactly is the we?”

“Off the record?”

“If that’s the only way to get it.”

“Off the record, Mr. O’Connell, a friend across the river.”

Aboard
Air Force One

“Morning, Colonel.”

“Well, good morning, Mr. President,” Colonel Peter Lewis said. “Mind if I join you?”

Morgan Taylor stepped into the cockpit. “Our pleasure.” Lewis got an agreeable nod from his co-pilot, Air Force captain Barnard Agins.

“Take a seat, Mr. President,” Agins said. “I’ve been meaning to stretch my legs.” The co-pilot removed his headphones and slid his seat back. The president stepped to the side, allowing Agins to pass. In thanks, he patted him on the back.

Morgan Taylor slid into the seat and scanned the display. He didn’t need any explanations. Taylor kept current with flight ops, if only through computer simulators. He read the fuel gauge and altimeter and precisely saw where they were via the GPS—over the South Pacific

Even though Morgan Taylor hadn’t asked, Lewis knew what the president really wanted.

“Sir, it’s been a while. Would you like to fly her?” Air Force One was on autopilot.

“Yes, sir,” said the former Navy commander.

Taylor fastened his safety belt, grabbed hold of the yoke, and gave Lewis a thumbs-up to disengage the autopilot, transferring control of the 747 to the president.

“She’s all yours.”

Taylor didn’t answer, he just smiled.

Only one person noticed a change in the way the plane handled—Lt. Eric Ross. Rossy’s senses were attuned to the plane more than anyone’s. He was in an aft compartment when the president took control. He felt a slight surge of power and an almost imperceptible dip in altitude. After a second, he relaxed. Confident that all was well, he returned to his favorite reading—tech updates from Boeing.

The New York Times

The library shelves were filled with biographies and autobiographies of Limbaugh, Savage, Franken, O’Reilly, Hannity, and other talk-show hosts. But no one had written anything comprehensive about Elliott Strong. O’Connell quickly learned that a number of publishing houses had approached the Kansas-based talker, however Strong rejected every offer and threatened to sue anyone who proceeded with an unauthorized biography in print, on A&E, or in magazines. Until recently, the established media hardly cared.

So Michael O’Connell went back to the tried-and-true method for his initial research. He made phone calls.

The
New York Times
reporter soon discovered that none of the individual radio stations that had employed Strong during his ascension were still run by the same owners. No matter the size, the stations now belonged to media conglomerates that acquired them in the media buying frenzy that followed deregulation.

Many of the radio stations weren’t even operated in the local communities they served. They were programmed from miles away.

A call to a main station number might trigger an answering machine or an automatic transfer to an office in another town.

That point was no more clearly demonstrated than in January 2002, when a train transporting 10,000 gallons of anhydrous ammonia derailed in Minot, North Dakota. O’Connell learned that the contents spilled, sending a toxic cloud into the sky. Authorities who responded to the danger attempted to warn residents to stay indoors. However, when they called the six local commercial radio stations, no one was there to make an announcement. The stations were automated and programmed remotely.
So much for local radio
, thought O’Connell.

Some congressmen used the Minot case to explore the impact of the 1996 Telecommunications Act. The facts were clear. The law prompted consolidation. Roughly 9,000 out of 10,000 existing radio stations across the U.S. were bought and sold at least once within a five-year period, including the stations where Strong worked.

Minot was allowed to happen. And Elliott Strong remained an enigma.

The reporter had no previous concept of the impact of deregulation. He vowed to find a way to work it into his story. That still left him with an immediate problem. Where do I go now?

Lebanon, Kansas

There wasn’t going to be a hotel room left in Washington between August 15 and 19. The Bridgeman March accounted for every bed, except those already booked by vacationers.

Anyone dawdling found themselves either out of luck or forced to stay north of Baltimore or deep in Virginia.

“I warned you,” Elliott Strong said to his listeners. “But hey, we’ve secured permits from Parks and Recreations, so bring your sleeping bags. The Mall’s all yours.”

Estimates for the march now exceeded two million. Almost half would have to sleep on the grass. The entertainment was booked and the networks were already adjusting their lineup. Dateline and Primetime Live put in requests to follow Bridgeman through the day. CNN and Fox committed their anchors to non-stop coverage. Ironically, there would be more live programming for the one-day march, which was really a rally, than the networks devoted to the last two party conventions. Strong gloated. All this for a political movement that didn’t exist much more than a month earlier.

Elliott Strong smiled into the mirror that sat on his desk. “Sixteen more days,” he said. “I can’t wait.”

The New York Times

Strong’s early history was a matter of public record, posted on www.elliottstrong.com. It was a story he often told on the air. O’Connell read how Strong talked his way into his first radio job by mowing the lawn and how, by being in the right place at the right time, he earned an on-air shift. After that, there was truly no biographical information, only a list of radio stations that carried Strong Nation. When the Fresno station, now owned by one of the nation’s largest holders of radio properties, couldn’t help him, the reporter phoned the local Fresno newspaper.

That call, and the two that followed, eventually put him in touch with a senior residence, where the station’s general manager now lived.

O’Connell waited on the telephone for nearly ten minutes until the person at the front desk pulled the retiree away from lunch.

“Hello!” Overstreet yelled into the phone. The old, but booming, radio voice startled O’Connell.

“Hello, Mr. Overstreet?”

“What?”

“Mr. Overstreet?” he asked louder, realizing the old man was hard of hearing.

“Yes, who’s there?”

O’Connell explained. He finished the thought with, “…and I’m calling regarding Elliott Strong.”

“Who?”

“An announcer you hired years ago. “Strong. Elliott Strong.” By now O’Connell wrote off the interview.

“Strong, you say?”

“Yes.”

“The kid?”

The reporter was surprised. “Yes, yes. The kid. Do you remember him?”

“Of course I do. He was boffing my secretary behind my back,” he laughed. “Didn’t know for the longest time. Did he tell you I canned them both?”

O’Connell ignored the question.

“Then he left her waiting at the bus station while he high-tailed it out of town.”

“I didn’t know that. Do you remember her name?”

“I remember the dimple on her left cheek. And I’m not talking about the one she could see in the mirror. Of course I remember her goddamned name! Sally. Got to give it to the kid. He surprised the hell out of me.”

“Is she still around?”

“Nope. She married some car salesman in town. Funny about things. Heard she died in a car accident years back.”

O’Connell was disappointed. “What else can you tell me about the kid?”

“Luckiest guy in radio.” Then Overstreet opened up.

Chicago

Luis Gonzales’s fortune was built on the sales of artwork—both legitimate and illegal. While money bought everything and everyone he needed, information was also a highly valuable commodity. Certain facts came from people who thought they were contributing to Middle East think tanks, but they were actually reporting to Gonzales via shell organizations.

He also had moles inside the government. A new message just arrived for him from an officer in the FBI.

Gonzales decoded the message, contained in an eBay sales posting. As each word formed, his body tensed more. Even though his informant didn’t understand the significance of the communiqué, the impact was profound.

Florida rez subject of fed conspiracy.

Agency investing. Subject: Haddad, Ibrahim.

Not that Gonzales was really surprised. It was only a matter of time. He thought again about the night he abandoned his last life and identity. He was amazed that it had taken this long. Gonzales blamed the Libyan, Fadi Kharrari. The idiot archived everything. The U.S. Special Forces obviously found files with the name Haddad during their raid.

Anticipating discovery, Haddad left Fisher Island, Florida, on the eve of the inauguration. His computer, like his yacht, went to the bottom of the Atlantic. He counted on the amply compensated cleaning crews to scrub his condo of any fingerprints. All vestige of Haddad’s presence should have been erased in the days after his disappearance.

So they found where Ibrahim Haddad lived. So what. Haddad no longer existed.

Sydney, Australia
Friday, 3 August

Morgan Taylor’s bulletproof limousine, shuttled aboard one of two C-5s, now powered through the highways from Glenbrook Air Force Base to Sydney. Actually, three limos left the belly of the Galaxy transports. Two of them were decoys; one was the true presidential limousine. For nearly sixty kilometers, they jockeyed position in a high-speed shell game. Sometimes decoy number one moved in front. Then an identical car took the lead before it dropped back in favor of one of the others. They made the move so many times that it would have been difficult for an observer to tell which limo carried the president.

As the cars approached The Ville St. George, one limo peeled off and entered the underground garage. The president’s?

The two remaining cars continued at full speed with police and military escort. A kilometer away, the second limousine broke for the Park Hyatt on Hickson Road. The third did the same a minute up the line, pulling into the Marriott Sydney Hotel, a block away from the harbor.

This ruse was the design of Presley Friedman, the president’s Secret Service chief. The St. George was out of the question. He didn’t want to put the president up in the other hotels either; not this trip. But Morgan Taylor needed to stay somewhere, so it was decided he would eventually end up at Kirribilli House.

Since 1957, Kirribilli House has welcomed royalty, heads of state, and Congressional and Parliamentary members, in addition to serving as the residence for the Prime Minister and his family.

Taylor changed modes of transportation in an underground loading dock at the Park Hyatt. He completed his ride in a laundry van.

When it came to safety, the usually boisterous Taylor remained quiet. He didn’t argue with Friedman. Taylor wasn’t the boss of this part of the trip.

The New York Times
the same time

“Hello, this is Michael O’Connell. I’m with
The New York Times
and…”

“I’m sorry. I’m not interested in a subscription.”

O’Connell often got this reaction when he didn’t explain what he did fast enough. “I’m a reporter working on a story about Elliott Strong. Is this Bill Bueler?”

“Yes,” the caller responded with trepidation.

“Well, can I speak with you for a few minutes?”

O’Connell found his first lead through the Grants, New Mexico, Chamber of Commerce. Bueler was an old deejay, presumably around the time that Strong worked at the same station. Now he was a manager at a local McDonald’s.

“Strong, you say?”