Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  They got the easy part. The cable TV truck was partially visible through another twenty-three minutes of bank transactions. Then it was gone. They missed a shot of the driver. Quick for a cable visit, Bessolo thought. He sent another e-mail out.

  “Can you do me a favor,” he asked as politely as he ever asked anything.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Now that I know what we’re looking for, see if this truck shows up any other day. Also try to spot anyone wearing a cable company uniform. I don’t want to assume that the only time he paid a visit was when he got a good parking space.”

  “Cool,” the young operator said.

  “Roy, you’re gonna love this.” Gimbrone caught Bessolo on the way to his office. They talked as they walked.

  “Something already?” he asked.

  “Yup,” Bessolo’s team member continued. He explained that it took four phone calls to Time Warner to get the information. Ultimately, it was an easy question to answer. “They don’t handle the block.”

  Bessolo stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no way a Time Warner tech would be at Meyerson’s address. Their coverage ends a block away. Comcast has the lock on the block.”

  “How do you know?” Bessolo asked.

  “Her e-mail account. It’s through Comcast, remember?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Bessolo exclaimed. He was mad at his own stupidity.

  “Pardon?” Gimbrone asked.

  “Roarke.”

  “Come again?”

  “That son of a bitch Roarke was right again.”

  Bessolo sent Gimbrone back to the phones. “Make some calls for me. Is there any reason they’d dispatch a technician there? Ask whether a Time Warner employee has any reason to visit her building. A relative? A girlfriend? Hell, even a boyfriend? I don’t care what their orientation is. Just tell me if there’s any reason someone from Time Warner would be parked in front of her building. And get me the records of all their vans for the day. I want every vehicle accounted for between the hours of noon and two.”

  “On it, chief,” Gimbrone said, scurrying down the hall.

  Bessolo closed the door to his office and turned on CNN. He thought more clearly in a room filled with sound. It actually helped him focus.

  Gimbrone’s simple finding suddenly changed everything. This might not be an investigation into a spy ring, at least not one involving Meyerson directly. By all accounts, Meyerson was framed as Roarke suggested. He re-ran the conversation with the Secret Service agent. Was it to draw attention to the president? Or to divert attention from something else? Both could be plausible. He decided to go online and read what was being reported.

  The New York Times

  City Room

  New York, New York

  Israel. O’Connell ran his hand over his chin and pondered the possibilities. Reports of Mossad infiltration into White House affairs had been around for years. He’d read a number of the stories, most notably a 1998 inquiry into alleged hacking of White House computers during intense negotiations on the Palestine peace process. Virtually undetectable chips were said to have been installed during the manufacture of the computer boards bound for the White House. The chips made it possible for outside eyes to tap into the data flow. At risk were communications between the president and senior staff in the National Security Council concerning the major issues. O’Connell learned the information may have been transferred to Tel Aviv as often as two or three times a week.

  There was no doubt in O’Connell’s mind. The young woman’s penetration could be more explosive than imagined. His source sounded completely credible on the telephone and the subsequent noise out of the Capitol bore out the facts. Washington was abuzz over Lynn Meyerson.

  Forget Roarke. I’ll go to Taylor.

  “Hello, Louise, this is Michael O’Connell.” He swallowed hard. “At The Times in New York.”

  “Of course, Mr. O’Connell.”

  “So nice to hear from you again.”

  “Michael. Please. Always Michael. Say, is the vice president available?”

  The automatic armor went up. “No. He’s out of the office.”

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Certainly. I’m sure he’d enjoy saying ‘hi’ to you again, Michael.”

  “It’s actually not a social call.”

  “Well then, can I tell him what it’s regarding?”

  “Yes.” He had to say something. “I would like to confirm some information I received.”

  “Oh? From?”

  Swingle’s attempt to play detective didn’t go anywhere.

  “I really do need to speak to him.” He turned his wrist to look at his watch. “I’m on a deadline.”

  “Like always, Michael.”

  He laughed, realizing that the excuse of a deadline paled in comparison to Taylor’s demands. “Do you think it would be possible?”

  “Look, Michael, why don’t you just tell me what you need. Take the guesswork out of it.”

  “Certainly, Louise. The Meyerson death.”

  “Let me see what I can do, Michael.”

  The Times reporter believed, on reputation alone, that Louise Swingle could produce Morgan Taylor out of a hat. But he didn’t know he’d have to wait longer than expected for his return call.

  “I’ll be right here.”

  “Okay, I know the flowers arrived,” Roarke said in a cheerful voice. “And…?”

  Shannon Davis was on the other end of the phone. “Well, you have one smart lady.”

  “I know that.”

  “And she’s way too smart for you.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil. But can you get to the punch line. I’m driving. And it’s too dangerous giving you the finger.”

  Davis got to it. “Both phones are bugged. Office and home.” The FBI man explained the type of devices and their range. “The transmitter at her apartment can reach two to five miles—maybe more, since she’s high up on Beacon Hill. The one at work is even more troubling.”

  “It can transmit farther?” Roarke asked.

  “Just the opposite, pal. Weaker. Internal. Designed to kick out a signal only across a few floors. Short range, within the damned law firm.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “By the way, we left them in place. No need to tip anyone off.”

  The text message came through Katie’s cell phone. She lit up when she saw it:

  Dinner and kisses. Usual place. 2nite eight-thirty.

  Chapter 23

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Katie was three delicious sips into her Lemon Drop martini when she saw Roarke walk into their favorite haunt, an intimate restaurant at the base of Boston’s Beacon Hill called 75 Chestnut. She’d already licked off some of the sugar on the rim of her glass. He was guaranteed a sweet kiss.

  A new host at the front desk asked, “Table sir?”

  “It’s okay. I’m joining someone.” Roarke scanned the room and found Katie sitting farther inside. She’d purposely left the seat against the wall for him. She’d learned on their first date that’s where he needed to sit. “Right over there,” he told the host.

  Roarke caught Katie’s eyes. He smiled broadly and maneuvered around the other patrons. When he reached the table, he leaned in for a simple peck. Instead she locked him in a deep, passionate, delicious kiss.

  “Mmmm,” Roarke sighed. “That’s your hello?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, smiling.

  “Okay, my turn.” Roarke began to move forward again, but she held a finger up, licked it, traced the martini glass, and placed the sugar on Roarke’s lips.

  “Now,” Katie said closing her eyes.

  They hadn’t been together for nearly two weeks. “I think dinner’s going to be very quick,” he said, taking his first breath.

  For an appetizer, they shared a warm goat cheese and spinach salad with roasted pecan and bacon
dressing. The taste was just right, but the experience wasn’t as sensual as when they came to the main course, lobster scampi over a bed of saffron rice and vegetables. The dessert completely put them in the mood. They fed each other little, sexy spoonfuls of ginger-lavender crème brulee.

  No lingering tonight. Roarke wanted to be within Katie’s deepness. Katie needed Roarke’s strength. They were at each other the moment they walked through her door. Neither worried about the tapped phone. Anyone listening would hear the Dave Koz CD over them. Roarke make sure the phone was right next to a speaker. Anyway, they didn’t care…not as they made love on the floor to the smooth jazz…not as Katie wrapped herself around his waist when he carried her into the bedroom…and not as they gave into each other’s pleasures in joyous moans.

  They made love through the night, resting through need, then awakening again. The smell of the flowers left by the FBI was Roarke’s only reminder that something was wrong.

  Chapter 24

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday, 23 June

  2:15 P.M. EDT

  The Secret Service chief raced through the pages. The protocol was all there. Notify the vice president. Move him. Locate and brief the Speaker of the House, the president pro tempore of the Senate, and each of the cabinet members. Call the chief justice. The same for the National Security Advisor, the NDI, DCI, and the FBI chief. Finally, hand the PR problem over to the White House press office.

  The procedure was the same whether it was in the middle of the night or during the World Series. The only difference was that Presley Friedman decided to tell Morgan Taylor in person. That added an extra seventeen minutes.

  The Secret Service agent guarding the vice president’s residence at the southeast corner of 34th Street and Massachusetts Avenue had just been alerted that Friedman was on the way. Though he didn’t know why, the fact that he was coming at this early hour was an indication it was serious.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Sanchez,” the chief said. The directness hinted there was nothing good about it.

  Another career agent on the inside, Malcolm Quenzel, also alerted to the visit, greeted Friedman in the same manner, and received the same clipped answer in return.

  “Is the vice president still sleeping?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to wake him.”

  “This way, sir,” Quenzel responded.

  It had been three years since Presley Friedman had been inside the VP’s quarters. Although the home was built in 1893, it was still a relatively new vice presidential address.

  For eighty-one years, Number One Observatory Circle was home to whoever served as the Superintendent of the United States Naval Observatory. In 1974, Congress called in the moving vans. The vice president, who until then could live wherever he wanted, would finally have a government pad.

  Not that anyone wanted to rush into it. The roof leaked, there was no central air conditioning, the wiring was not up to code, and the fireplaces were a hazard. While Gerald and Betty Ford were going to be the first to be eligible to move in, they were spared the pain when Richard Nixon resigned.

  President Ford’s VP, Nelson Rockefeller, wisely decided to remain in his own lavish Washington home. So contractors tore into the walls. Three years later, the renovated residence had its first occupants, Vice President Walter Mondale and his wife.

  Now, three decades later, it was Morgan Taylor’s. However, he hadn’t changed a thing since the day he and his wife moved in. That was a sure sign that Taylor really didn’t consider the Queen Anne-style house a home.

  Presley Friedman and the nighttime agent-in-charge walked up the stairs to the second-floor master bedroom. Along the way, they passed paintings of America’s vice presidents, some who had become presidents, including Truman, Johnson, Nixon, and Bush, and others who hadn’t succeeded to the presidency. There was no portrait of Morgan Taylor. Word in the White House was that he banned “the so-called housepainters” from sitting him down.

  At the top of the stairs, Friedman and Quenzel followed a hallway to Taylor’s bedroom. Another agent was posted by the door.

  “The vice president and Mrs. Taylor are still asleep, sir.”

  “Time for a rude awakening,” the Secret Service chief answered. He knocked hard on the bulletproof door. “Mr. Vice President, this is Presley Friedman. I must speak with you.”

  Morgan Taylor was a light sleeper who always bolted awake, a habit left over from his years as a Navy pilot. He recognized the voice. “I’m up, Press. Be right with you.”

  True to his promise, he unlocked the door in under two minutes. He wore an Adidas sweatsuit and sneakers. His breath was fresh and he appeared robust; hardly the look of someone rousted out of sleep.

  “What is it?”

  “Can we talk, sir?”

  Taylor recognized the urgency. “Yes, come with me. Coffee?”

  “Actually, that would be great.”

  Taylor held up two fingers, and Quenzel radioed the request to the kitchen. A pot would be sent upstairs immediately.

  Taylor invited the chief into the study, an austere oak room filled with bookcases that contained a complete library of vice presidential memoirs and biographies. It was a constant reminder to Taylor that he hadn’t started his. He’d already turned down a multi-million-dollar advance, believing he had a great many chapters yet to live.

  Friedman began looking at the titles while they waited for the coffee.

  “You know, Press, the Mondales started the collection of books here,” Taylor said, noting the agent’s interest.

  “No, I didn’t, sir,” Friedman politely responded.

  “The books were in the living room for years. Now there are too many to keep in one place. Hard to believe so much has been written about the worst job in the country.”

  Friedman laughed politely. No doubt the news he was about to share would show up in Taylor’s biography one day.

  The coffee arrived and Taylor closed the door.

  “Well, what’s so important you need to come by in the middle of the night?” He motioned for Friedman to sit down. He didn’t.

  “Mr. Vice President, the president has suffered a heart attack. Less than an hour ago.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  Taylor expected to hear important news, but he never anticipated this.

  “What’s his status?”

  “A coma, sir. You’ll have to speak to the White House doctors. And you’ll need to come with me.” Friedman had faithfully served Morgan Taylor through his term as president, and he didn’t hesitate adding his next comment: “You’re going home.”

  Chapter 25

  Walter Reed Army Medical Center

  Bethesda, Maryland

  the same time

  Henry Lamden lay in the ICU at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. He was incapable of making any decisions, let alone presidential ones. The country needed a president. The Constitution required it. By the time most of America woke up, they would have a new one.

  The issue of presidential disability was first considered by John Dickinson of Delaware during the creation of the Constitution. As the Founding Fathers debated the structure and organization of the document that was to shape the new nation, they conceded that the leader, a president, might not be able to fully or adequately administer the duties because of a “disability.” Once raised, Dickinson simply put forth the question, “What is the extent of the term ‘disability’ and who is to be the judge of it?”

  This was before the authors of the Constitution even came up with the idea of a vice president.

  The issue was further addressed in Article II, Section 1 of the Constitution. The language provided that only the vice president succeeds the president. Beyond the vice president, the precise order of presidential succession has changed over the years. The current law of the land was codified in 1967 with the passage of the 25th Amendment. Once ratified, t
he amendment directly addressed how the president is succeeded, and the means for the vice president and the Cabinet to remove the president from office due to incapacitation.

  Cabinet Room

  The White House

  three hours later

  No one spoke. Some of the men had taken the time to put on ties; most had not. Eve Goldman, the attorney general and the only woman in the president’s Cabinet, had her brown hair down and only a light blush. Everyone looked like they had been rousted out of bed, which is precisely what happened. Not one of the people at the table had been told the nature of the emergency meeting.

  Morgan Taylor entered from the Oval Office. He carried a leather-bound book. The door closed behind him. Odd, thought Goldman. The president should follow…

  Her observation was interrupted by Morgan Taylor clearing his throat as he took his old seat—the president’s seat—at the middle of the oak table.

  “If you’ll pardon my abruptness,” Taylor looked at every one of the Cabinet members, “we have a difficult task. A responsibility. A duty.” There were audible gasps in the room. “President Lamden has suffered a heart attack. Very serious. Life-threatening. He currently cannot function as President of the United States.”

  Taylor stopped, respectful of the fact that the Cabinet members needed time to process the news. Showing equal respect, the cabinet secretaries did not interrupt him. This was not surprising, since most of them had served under Morgan Taylor.

  “Doctors are attending to Henry now.” Taylor’s use of the president’s first name felt completely appropriate in the moment. “I’ve talked to the senior cardiologist on duty. Henry has been unable to communicate since arriving at Walter Reed. As I’m sure you know, the White House has a specialized response team. The chief physician from Georgetown is already on site. Others are on the way from around the country.