What little trade remained into the 20th century virtually disappeared with the Japanese occupation in World War II.
The Japanese ousted the Dutch in just under ten days. Initially the conquerors were welcomed. But Japan immediately established an even more brutal rule, marked by further famine, slavery, and executions.
Two days after Japan surrendered to the Allies, Indonesia proclaimed its independence. The government was loosely held together by an unstable coalition dominated by the Socialists and the conservative Muslim Masyumi party.
Sukarno emerged as the first president. He established a “guided” democracy, which fell apart through regional and factional problems. In 1959, he assumed full dictatorial powers, and four years later anointed himself President for Life. He cozied up to Communist China and withdrew Indonesia from the United Nations.
Despite his self-proclamation, Sukarno did not remain president. A 1965 coup d’etat led to the military takeover by General Suharto at the cost of between 500,000 and a million dead. Suharto had opposed the pro-Communist policies, and became first acting president and then president in 1968, supported by students, the Army, and Muslim factions.
He remained in office, re-elected every five years, until he resigned in 1998 amidst allegations of corruption, which were later dismissed.
In recent years, Indonesian governance has changed numerous times. As a result, good PR alternates with reports of terrorism; adventure travel features compete for print space with stories chronicling human rights violations. As for Maluku’s two million inhabitants—they largely live in poverty.
To this day, cloves and nutmeg remain a limited export of Maluku. Commander Umar Komari sowed other seeds—seeds of terrorism. He was driven by personal devils: the desire to punish the world for exploiting the Malukus and slaughtering its people. He was also determined to establish complete Muslim control over the Christian non-believers.
He examined the weapons from the last transaction.
“Pitiful. Barely bows and arrows,” he told his subordinate, Musah Atef.
“Shabu production will pick up. Soon, the Chinese will deliver our missiles. Jakarta will tremble and tumble. We shall have our way.”
“Allah be praised,” the terrorist proclaimed.
His men echoed their reverence with the same words.
Komari had made promises to hungry men: men who followed him for food and believed in his cause. Word spread through the islands. More recruits came daily. His ranks had swelled. Komari scattered his camps and supplies over dozens of islands on the east side of Halmahera and throughout the coves of Maluku’s peninsulas. His enclaves were invisible to many probing satellites, but not all. Arms and food remained the only obstacles between Komari and the coup he planned. Komari would secure both.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
When Henry Lamden ran for office, he had no real conception of how much bad news presidents had to hear. Now, five months into the job, the next phone call was not entirely unexpected.
“Mr. President.”
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Lamden replied. “It’s good to hear your voice. I look forward to meeting you in August.”
“Quite right. I understand we’re to have dinner.”
Lamden had the schedule in front of him. The schedule prepared by Lynn Meyerson. “Yes. It’s in ink on my calendar.”
David Foss was a career politician and Lamden’s senior by a decade. Like the American president, he had military service, retiring with the rank of general from the Royal Australian Army, Royal Queensland Regiment. During his tour of duty he served in East Timor, Malaysia. As a civilian he became a military analyst for Australian television, a political commentator, and eventually the host of a weekly newsmagazine before he launched his own grassroots campaign for political office. Now, nine years later, he was head of the Liberal Party, and Prime Minister of Australia.
There was a “but” coming. The president could sense it.
“Very good. We’ll have much to talk about then. But…”
There it is.
“…there’s something we need to discuss in advance of our session.”
“Certainly, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“As I’m sure you know, a number of years ago Australia entered into the MOU.”
Lamden was familiar with the term, but only because Billy Gilmore made sure he had all the PM’s possible agendas in front of him. MOU referred to the Memoranda of Understanding on Combating International Terrorism. Australia, Malaysia, Indonesia, and Thailand signed the agreement in 2002. The teeth of the bilateral pact came from the commitment to combat terrorist financing and money laundering in the South Pacific, another outgrowth of the 9/11 and Bali attacks.
“Yes,” was all the president said.
“Well, the Ville St. George discovery has us rather concerned. We don’t know who is responsible. However, our neighbors, some of them heavily populated by our Muslim friends, have confidentially shared with us an increase in telephone and Internet chatter that we all deem disturbing. My own intelligence contacts from my Royal Army days claim that all is not well. Al-Qaeda, Abu Sayyaf, Mora Islamic Liberation Front, and many others are growing richer through drug trade. They all seek glory and much more than—what do you typically call it? Fifteen minutes of fame?”
“That’s it.”
“We may strike down one evil serpent, but this Medusa springs forth another…and with it, long tentacles that reach well within our infrastructure. This week, the Ville St. George. Next week, who can say?”
“Truly worrisome, Prime Minister Foss. You have identified a threat that we must join hands to destroy.” Lamden felt the discussion was about to take a more serious turn.
“What a perfect segue, Mr. President. And quite to the point of my call,” Foss replied. “As a signatory to MOU, I am prepared to invoke the terms of the ANZUS Treaty. We view the St. George bomb as an attack, foiled perhaps, but an attack nonetheless. An attack on Australian soil. An attack on the Australian people. Conceivably, Mr. President, even an attack intended for you.”
Henry Lamden couldn’t disagree. “What level of assistance are you requesting, Mr. Prime Minister?” he directly asked.
“Mr. President, nothing short of a greater presence by the Seventh Fleet. We need help covering the territory.”
Lebanon, Kansas
“Try thinking like a liberal. Don’t hurt yourself. But try. Oh, you’ll have to throw all reasoning out the window. But for the next hour, let’s see if you can. It’s open phones, and I want you to call in and try out any bit of liberal logic you have for keeping Lamden and Taylor in office.”
It was another one of Elliott Strong’s games: a reliable trick that would serve to ridicule his targets and rile his audience. For the host, it was a sucker pitch to the plate. His listeners would hit it out of the park.
“No one?” he said, baiting them. “Come now, millions of you out there and no one wants to be a liberal? How did these guys get in office if there’s no one to support them?”
Of course, callers were lined up. He just wasn’t ready to release them.
“Maybe you need a little nudge.” He cleared his throat and added a phone filter to his own voice with the flip of a switch on his audio board.
“Hello, Elliott?”
He cut back to his normal voice. “Yes, you’re on Liberal Notion.” He laughed at his own creativity.
“Yes, I represent the Urban Spotted Owls League,” he mockingly offered.
Then another dialect: “Hello, Elliott, I think we’ve got too many prisons.”
“And I’m a truck driver,” he added as a woman long-hauler on a cell. “I personally feel we should cap interstate highway speeds at 45 mph. That or give California back to Mexico, which would shorten the mileage cross-country.”
Strong gave it a good five minutes. Then he went to his calls. Calls like, “As far as I’m concerned, it’s go
od that the president hired foreign spies. That way the enemy doesn’t have to subscribe to The New York Times.” And, “You want to know why Lamden always looks so good on TV? Just ask his Taylor.”
After an hour, Strong called an end to the fun.
“Stop! I can’t take it anymore! It’s too hard to think so idiotically. I know you’re asking yourself, how do people do it? We’re all the same, but how can we be so different? So different in the same country? How can we see things so clearly, but your liberal neighbor, or your kid’s teacher, or that anchorman, or the bank teller who takes your money, see things so wrong? How do Lamden and Taylor still have their jobs?”
Thanks to the current law, everything Elliott Strong said was protected speech. It didn’t require rebuttal.
“It’s beyond me.” He shuffled some papers. “Gotta go to a commercial. When we come back, I’ll tell you about a call from the White House press office today. You’re gonna love this.”
“So listen to this. A junior level White House press flak calls and says, ‘Mr. Strong, you’ve clogged up our fax lines, and there are too many e-mails for us to conduct the nation’s business.’” The host put extra sarcasm on “the nation’s business.”
“I replied in my most courteous voice, ‘Why, isn’t it the nation’s business to consider what Americans have to say?’
“‘Yes, but….’ the press aide tried to blabber. I’ll spare you the rest of his whining. But let me tell you, I got the same thing from twenty-seven members of Congress today. ‘Can’t do our work. Overloaded the fax machines. Can’t get through the necessary e-mails.’
“Ladies and Gentlemen, citizens of Strong Nation, this is unbelievable. We are the nation’s business. We are their work. We are necessary. We are the boss. Not them. They serve at our pleasure. By our vote. They represent us. We are the constituency. They are the representative arm of the people. Where do they get off? Where in hell do they get off telling you that your letter isn’t necessary? It’s not America’s business?”
Listeners heard Elliott Strong take a long, quenching sip of water.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so wound up. These people. They’re not in charge. They’re not the boss!” he repeated with more conviction. “They are not my boss.
“And this idiot at the White House told me to stop handing out the phone numbers and e-mail addresses. Can you believe that? Their own published numbers.” He cleared his throat to make the next point. “Excuse me, our own published numbers. The White House. Each and every member of Congress. Those are numbers we use to communicate with the government—the government we put there! But guess what? You haven’t done it enough! Let them complain. Let them realize this is just the beginning. Because maybe one in ten thousand of you wrote or called to state why you want a Constitutional Amendment to end this mess. But that’s not enough. They haven’t even seen the iceberg yet, let alone what’s under it.
“Well, I’m keeping the numbers on the website. You go there and get them. No, let me make it easier for you. We’ll go to a commercial and when we come back, I’ll read them to you. And I’ll do it at the top and bottom of every hour. Because this administration is the Titanic, and you’re going to send that iceberg right in its path.
“We’ll be right back.”
Chapter 20
Washington, D.C.
Friday, 22 June
There wasn’t even the question of the president attending the Meyerson funeral in Lewiston, Maine. No one connected with the White House went to the small New England town. No apologies were expected or given. The story had already broken nationally.
First, FBI Director Robert Mulligan dropped the bombshell on the president. Then came the brief Post story. But it was O’Connell’s article in The New York Times, obviously based on an informed source, that gave it a life of its own. He’d pieced enough denials together to fashion a compelling argument.
Neither the White House nor the FBI will comment on the investigation into the death of administration staff member Lynn Meyerson, killed last week in Los Angeles. A source close to the inquiry says that Meyerson may have passed classified information onto Israel’s intelligence agency, the Mossad.
Meyerson, 26, was assaulted while jogging in a public park. Police in Los Angeles are cooperating with the FBI. The victim worked in an administrative capacity in the White House Office of Strategic Initiatives. According to an inside source, she had access to sensitive documents and was in Los Angeles with President Lamden.
O’Connell didn’t report everything he was told, strictly because he couldn’t confirm what the source provided. However, the words he did use said enough to frame an explosive front-page story and one hell of a national tempest.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“We have a problem, Ira,” the Mossad director began. “Sit down and read this.”
Jacob Schecter slid the intelligence briefings across the desk to his number two. The salient points were highlighted with a yellow marker.
“…passed classified information…Israel…spy…White House Office of Strategic Initiatives…inside source-sensitive documents.”
The rest of the briefing, culled from wire-service stories, Washington Post and New York Times articles, and opinion from Mossad agents working inside the embassy in Washington, filled in the details. Everything led Wurlin to the same conclusion that Schecter already made.
“Chantul?”
“Yes, Chantul,” the Mossad chief said without equivocation. “If she left any trail, which is likely, then Evans will discover it. I assure you we will hear from him in the strongest possible terms. And if this should become public, even Evans will not be able to contain the damage.”
“Yes, Jacob.”
“Two immediate things. One, seal all the Chantul files. No one has access. Two, get me information on this woman. Her life, her motives. Everything we didn’t know about her when she was alive, I want to know now. I want to be prepared for the call when it comes. I want information and ammunition. And I want it right away!”
Washington, D.C.
The White House press secretary offered obligatory answers at the morning briefing. “Yes, Ms. Meyerson was employed by the White House Office of Strategic Initiatives…Yes, she handled various materials relating to presidential programs…No, those programs cannot be discussed…Yes, we are working with the LAPD in their investigation of Ms. Meyerson’s death.”
So far even O’Connell hadn’t dug deep enough to uncover names, dates, and places. But President Lamden and his chief of staff, Billy Gilmore, had no doubt they were living on borrowed time.
Evoking the rhythm of Senator Howard Baker’s famed interrogatory during the Watergate Hearings, Lamden demanded of his FBI chief, “What do you know, and when did you know it?”
“We’re just piecing it together now, Mr. President. We don’t wiretap the lines of people who have been cleared. We have to have cause. There was none.”
“And the CIA?”
Mulligan shrugged his shoulders. “If they had, they didn’t tell us.”
National Director of Intelligence Jack Evans had already assured the president there was never a reason to suspect Meyerson.
“Then how the hell did any of you miss this? What kind of lame-ass background check did you do?” Now Lamden yelled louder than any president Mulligan had ever heard. “And what was this woman doing in my White House?”
Lebanon, Kansas
later
“And now this! Oh, there’s trouble in paradise, my friends. Trouble indeed,” Elliott Strong said, raising the controversy to a personal attack on Lamden. “Unless you were lying under a rock in the last twelve hours, you probably heard this one. It’s a doozie. And I wouldn’t want to be Henry Lamden tonight.”
Strong had his New Yuck Times in front of him, but this time he didn’t malign the paper. Instead, he quoted from it. “Front page, no less. And from the renowned Mr
. Michael O’Connell. This is big, my friends. Big.” He read the story verbatim, emphasizing key words to make his point.
“Are you getting this? A member of the Lamden-Taylor dynasty now accused of leaking secrets to an ally. To Israel, no less!”
Listeners heard Strong rustle the pages as he turned to an AP account, then to CNN’s latest online report, and another from Fox News. “We have an unrestrained imperial presidency, and low and behold, another country has its hand in our cookie jar. You’re going to hear shock and denial from the administration. But you tell me. A woman is killed while jogging. She happens to have been—dare I say—a spy?” He added only for legal purposes, but well set off from the rest of the sentence, “…allegedly.”
“So who killed her?” He was fully revved up again. “I bet this is going to prove interesting. A modern-day Mata Hari tries to sell us down the river and she’s killed. Now who would possibly have cause? A rapist in broad daylight? Come now. You think we’re going to buy that story, Mr. President?”
He could just about hear everyone say, No way!
“So tonight, Strong Nation asks: Henry Lamden, who was Meyerson working for? How was she killed? And when are you going to accept the blame that you are responsible? You, Mr. President. You and your cronies. You are the reason that we’re failing as a country. You are what’s wrong with America. You. And you have to go!”
Chapter 21
The White House
“A goddamned Mossad agent in the White House! How?”
“Mr. President, you know it’s not confirmed,” Jack Evans told the president.
“Bullshit. The New York Times reported it. The Post. The networks. And someone inside the FBI told them. What the hell will denials accomplish now? Jesus H. Christ, aren’t these people supposed to be our friends?”
Executive Treason Page 16
