Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  “One hundred percent, counselor?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Now tell me what you’re wearing.”

  Chapter 47

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  D’Angelo put down his coffee mug on the left side of his desk, away from the computer hard drive. He pressed the power button and waited for his start-up programs to load.

  When his sign-on page came up, he typed in his password. It also happened to be his childhood dog’s name. Moments later, the overnight e-mail dumped into his file from the secure CIA server. The one that quickly caught his attention had no body, just a subject from a web address he immediately recognized:

  Want to take a trip? Ira. “Yes!” Vinnie D’Angelo yelled. No one heard him, however. After the first day, he beat everyone else in to work. The CIA agent immediately dialed a classified phone number, which connected him to an office in Israel.

  “Shalom,” the voice answered after one ring.

  “D’Angelo,” was the simple reply.

  “Well, hello,” Wurlin said. “I expected I’d be your first call of the day. Do you ever sleep?”

  “I sleep. Usually when I’m staring at our surveillance reports on the Mossad. You think you can give our boys something interesting to write about?”

  Wurlin laughed. “You’re only seeing what we want you to see.”

  D’Angelo suspected there was a good deal of truth in the remark. The Mossad was one of the world’s most effective spy agencies—somedays, the best. “Well then, tell me something I don’t know.”

  Now Wurlin added a solemnity to his voice. “There is a man. He can be found in Damascus. He may have information you seek. He worked inside the Capitol under Hafez Al-Assad. I’ve been told he was privy to who came and went and, to some extent, who said what. He has indicated that he remembers certain things that you might find important.”

  “Why?” It was always important to understand the motivation of people who felt compelled to reveal national secrets to a foreign government. Money was the worst reason. It made everything suspect.

  “He believes that fundamentalists are going to do great harm to Syria…that for Syria to survive as a modern Islamic state, it needs Western friends. You’re about to become one.”

  He doesn’t want money. “When can we meet?” D’Angelo asked. He clicked on his desktop calendar.

  “You will meet this man in Damascus in three days. Have you been there before, Vincent?”

  “No,” D’Angelo quickly stated, never wishing to volunteer information. Even to Wurlin.

  “Well, there is a great deal for you to see. You’ll especially want to take in the Omayyad Mosque.”

  Lebanon, Kansas

  Elliott Strong was clearly the most influential talk-radio host in the nation, conservative beyond definition, successful beyond the competition. Nobody on the left could touch him. But there was nothing new about that.

  Liberal or progressive hosts pretty much faced an uphill struggle. Their primary challenge: attract like-minded listeners to talk radio, and away from news, classical, oldies, and rock stations.

  Generally speaking, they weren’t as good as their ultra-conservative counterparts at manipulating the facts and turning public opinion in their favor. Only a few influential voices emerged. No superstars like Limbaugh or Strong. Why? Because too often they used humor, a poor defense against hate. They appealed to logic, easily dismissed by the opposition. When a progressive host succeeded in building a constituency, he or she, became a target, systematically ridiculed, criticized, demeaned, and, if possible, destroyed. Many didn’t have the stomach for it. Most willingly stepped out of the line of fire.

  Strong loved letting his rage fly. “Look, I know you liberals don’t like me. You’ve taken great pains to label me the king of hate radio. You think by calling me that you’ll rally support for yourself. You think that hate will get your leftist buddies in Congress all worked up. You go on and on, whining how Elliott Strong needs to be muzzled. Well, my friends, let me tell you. It’s not going to work. Hate’s not the issue—truth is, and I’m the king of truth. You come to me for the truth. I’m here to give it to you. It doesn’t get any simpler than that, not if you care about your country. So listen to old Elliott, the real heir of America,” he said mocking the progressive radio network.

  “Now, let’s talk about the truth. Here’s what the liberals and the centrists are doing.” Strong stepped up the pace. “They’re attacking me, which I really don’t give a damn about. But I do care that they’re trying to discredit a true patriot—General Bridgeman. When liberals can’t defend their own flimsy positions, and they can’t admit that all they care about is tax and spend, tax and spend, tax and spend, they go after the messengers. Well, Mister Taylor”—Strong rarely called him president and always stretched out Mister—“we do have a message for you: You and your imperial cabinet don’t represent the American people. You do not represent the majority. Give America back to the people. It’s not yours!”

  Strong felt he had stirred the pot enough for a while. “Let’s go to the phones.”

  All the lines were lit up. He’d have another entertaining show, heard across the country and online around the world.

  Andrews Air Force Base

  Suitland, Maryland

  Air Force One gently lifted off the ground with President Morgan Taylor in the forward compartment of Level 2. He’d said his hellos to Rossy, Colonel Lewis, and the rest of the crew before takeoff. Now he wanted to get caught up on his reading. Taylor brought aboard a file from the CIA. It was marked Libya. Operation Quarterback, Post Game.

  In it were copies of materials extracted from the raid in Tripoli, and a summary of opinion collected by Jack Evans.

  Original documents were in Russian and Arabic. Taylor perused the English translations. He was most interested in information pertaining to Russian sleeper spies trained at Andropov Institute under the Red Banner 101 program. The names Teddy Lodge and Geoff Newman were highlighted throughout the document. The president skipped them now. He wanted to re-read the sections that dealt with other sleeper spies still at large in the United States. The documents indicated the presence of men and women trained to advance in state legislatures, Fortune 500 corporations, the media, federal bureaus, Congress, and the courts.

  There were five different references. Nothing specific anywhere. Evans had gone to former KGB agents now residing in the U.S. for information. Either no one had anything or they weren’t talking. The U.S. Ambassador to Russia made specific inquiries to the FSB, but the intelligence chief of the new Russian spy agency claimed to have no knowledge of other sleeper spies.

  And yet, here was the red flag in the recovered documents. Elected officials, businessmen, who knows? Nearly a President of the United States.

  Taylor wondered whether he had any latitude under the Patriot Act to intensify a national search.

  The Pentagon

  Arlington, Virginia

  “Okay, Penny. What do you have?”

  “Nothing you’re going to get anymore.”

  Ordinarily, Roarke enjoyed the playful, sexual tension from his former partner. Not today. He’d been through too much recently. He nearly lost Katie, and Depp got away.

  “Right,” he grunted over her shoulder.

  She swiveled around in her chair, away from the computer screen. “You’re no fun anymore.”

  “Sorry. Can we just get to what you’ve found?”

  Captain Walker took Roarke’s hands and looked deeply into his hazel eyes. “Scott, I know you better than almost anybody in the world. I know when you’re hurt and when you’re angry. I even know when you’re ready to kill. But before I tell you what I’ve found, which you’ll want to discuss with your friend Parsons, let me ask you one important question.”

  Her warmth broke through his concentration. He didn’t say yes, but he gave her a trusting smile
.

  “You don’t have to go after him, Scott. You have so much more in your life now. We can give all this to someone else. Let the FBI track him down, bring him in, or take him down. You finally have someone you love, someone who makes you happy. Why don’t you just go to her?” Penny choked on her own words and squeezed his hands, showing how much she cared. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. But now there’s someone more important than me.”

  Penny could still touch Roarke, almost as deeply as Katie. He nodded, stifled an affirming sigh, and smiled at her.

  “You know, I’m a very lucky man. You’ve reminded me. I promise you, if I need help, I’ll call for the cavalry. I want to get Depp, and if both of us walk away alive, all the better.” He let go of her hands. “Does that help?”

  “No, you asshole,” she chided him. “But I’m sure it’ll be the best I’ll get from you! Now here, take a gander.”

  The captain swiveled her chair back around and punched up a master file she’d assembled. “I’ve sent each of the pictures and backup information I’m about to show you over to your buddy. He’ll do more with it than I ever could. But if you want my two cents…”

  “I do,” he interrupted.

  She smiled again. “I thought I’d never hear those two words from you,” she said, speaking into the computer screen.

  “Oh, you’ll trick some innocent fool into saying them, someday,” he added. “Besides, I think Parsons wants to meet you.”

  “Oh? Tell me more.”

  “Later. Show me what you have,” he appealed.

  “Okay, like you’ve said, we’re looking for a man highly trained in the fine art of killing. He’s also an accomplished actor, probably professionally or collegially trained. Proficient in makeup and dialects.”

  “Right, and…”

  “I followed up on schools, then I thought, how do you go from acting to military service?”

  Again, Roarke asked a simple question. “And?”

  “Where are you likely to find practical training in both disciplines?”

  “I’ll bite.”

  “Come on. Think, sweetheart. Acting and military training?”

  “Well, not the Army. Special Forces doesn’t have a program of that sort. Neither do the Marines or the Navy. As far as I know, same for the Air Force. I’d have to check if the Pentagon or the NSA has anything.”

  “Think….”

  “Help me out, captain.”

  “ROTC, Agent Roarke. ROTC. He’s in college. The service is helping pay for school. I don’t know, maybe he realizes he’s not going to really make it as an actor. He advances, moves into one of the special forces divisions.”

  “How do you run this down?”

  “I’m already on it. I cross-referenced ROTC against schools with theater arts departments. I was amazed at how many smaller arts colleges have military programs. About eighty-five schools out of more than seven hundred.”

  “Pretty daunting,” he offered.

  “Damned straight. I started limiting the years, sending out e-mails to each of the schools, and lighting candles every night.”

  “At first?”

  “I didn’t get very far. But I realized I was going at it ass-backwards. I needed to run a military search on theater majors who entered through ROTC.” She clicked her mouse on an on-screen icon, and her computer took her to the first of ten pages of names.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed as she quickly scrolled through the pages.

  “About twenty-five hundred names in the last fifteen years. From there, it’s just a process of elimination. “I adjusted the search to match your estimates for height and weight.” She went to her pull-down menu and clicked onto another file. The list got shorter.

  “Next, I entered tighter age factors. No one younger than thirty, no one older than forty-two. You’ve run into the guy. Safe enough?”

  “Safe enough.”

  She clicked again, another page came up with fewer names.

  “Caucasian.” Another mouse click.

  Now there were only a few dozen names. “Still a lot. So I went one by one. I tossed out the upstanding citizens in the group who had a day job and a solid record. I eliminated anyone living at the poverty level, and I chucked the NASCAR driver in the group.”

  Roarke gave her a glance that asked why?

  “Not available for hits on most weekends.”

  Walker clicked on the menu a final time. “Here’s what I ended up with: eight strong possibilities. I sent pictures of seven of them over to your buddy Parsons for further analysis.”

  “What about the eighth?” Roarke asked.

  “No need. He looked good until I found out the guy died in Iraq.”

  This was better news than Roarke expected. Seven solid leads. He was about to congratulate her when he thought of a question.

  “Did you cross-check their acting experience in school? Any idea what their teachers might remember about them?”

  “Very good question.” Penny paused, then added sarcastically, “Of course I did!”

  “Care to tell me?”

  “Most of them did better in the theater of battle. A couple had some promise. But what do I know? I always fall asleep at plays.”

  Hickam Air Force Base

  Honolulu, Hawaii

  Hickam Air Force Base shares landing strips with the adjacent Honolulu International Airport. It suffered extensive damage and losses, both personnel and equipment, when Japanese planes rained bombs on December 7, 1941. In October 1980, Hickam AFB was designated a National Historic Landmark for its significance in the first day of World War II, and as a staging area for the ultimate defeat of Japan.

  Air Force One was on its final approach, two miles out from Runway 4R, the 9,000-foot runway at Hickam that handled wide-bodied jets. Colonel Lewis was in communication with Honolulu Tower. All other traffic was held up as he gently landed SAM 28000. Nothing took off or landed until the president’s escorts were also safely down.

  Once on ground, Air Force One taxied to the Hickam side of the airport and came to a stop. A gangway was rolled up. The presidential retinue quickly appeared at the door. They took in the fresh salt air, then walked down the steps to meet the base commander. After the perfunctory salutes and greetings, the commander ushered them into two waiting limos for a short drive to Pacific Air Force Headquarters. While they made the ride, another 747 landed. Prime Minister David Foss and key members of his government were onboard.

  Taylor chose the location—a mid-point, accessible on short notice, with none of the security risks that accompanied a more public visit. The plan was to talk about their next meeting. The one scheduled in Australia.

  They all sat at one table. No one wore ties. There would be no photographs to record the session.

  The president asked the leading question. “Are you positive it’ll be safe?”

  Prime Minister Foss, a veteran like Taylor, was not thrown by the directness.

  “I cannot guarantee that, Mr. President. But I recommend that we make no public announcement about a change in venue. We simply make a last minute switch, passing up the pre-announced location for a secondary destination.”

  Taylor looked around the table. J3 agreed. The same for the secretary of state. “One you can guarantee?”

  “One that we are able to completely sweep. Believe me, this incident has taught us a great deal.”

  “It’s taught all of us, David.” It was the first sign that the session was going to be productive. “No chances anymore.”

  Aboard Air Force One

  the same time

  “Just about fueled up,” Rossy said over the field phones from under the plane.

  “Roger,” Lewis replied. He wanted to stay close to his bird until fueling. Only then would he try to catch a little rest. The president’s primary pilot would be back at work in two hours, checking every compartment. Rossy would be on the line with him. The two
of them were a team. They relied on each other to make Air Force One work. No chances was also Lewis’s rule. No chances.

  Lt. Ross believed in the same thing.

  Chapter 48

  FBI Labs

  Quantico, Virginia

  Tuesday, 3 July

  “Here’s what I want you to do, Touch. Add a sandy brown ponytail to each of these guys. Give ‘em all tans, and narrow their eyes. Make them colder. Can you do that?”

  “I can do anything, Roarke. But if you’re trying to turn these guys,” he pointed to the computer screen, which had snapshot-size photos of the seven “into your suspect, then you’re going at it ass-backwards. The whole idea behind FERET is not to turn someone into the person you want. We try to find a match for the person he could be like we were doing before. Then you throw this stuff away and get real evidence.”

  “I got that, but this time I saw him. As close as I am to you right now.” Roarke stood beside Duane Parsons, who was at his console. “His guard was down, and he sure didn’t expect to be recognized.”

  Roarke leaned into the screen. He rested his left hand on the photo analyst’s chair, and pointed with the right to the eyes. “It’s in the eyes. Fix that, and we might get closer to knowing who this guy is.”

  “I can make his damn dick three inches longer if you want, but like I said, it’ll mean diddly squat if you get to court.”

  Roarke stepped back. He was getting worked up, and he was pushing too hard. “Sony.”

  Parsons swiveled his chair around. He felt Roarke ease up a bit. “Look,” he offered, “you want him. He’s bad news. He kills people pretty artfully. But because I don’t have a real picture to go on, we won’t get much more than false positives, matches that look promising but don’t deliver. So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll make the changes you want and give you the prints. Then go do your thing. If you do some good surveillance work and e-mail me good pictures—”

  Roarke completed the sentence. “Then you’ll be able to run a real match. I know. I know.”