Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  Parsons laughed. “Well, well, you are learning. It’s only taken you a year.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not telling you it’s unreliable. But it comes down to photographs. Take the Pakistan program, for example. In ’04 they issued readable passports and national IDs that utilized finger and face biometric technology. They could ensure proper identity verification with a swipe of the card and see if it set off any alarms in counter-terrorism databases. Viisage got the contract. They’ve been able to use face-recognition technology to conduct one-on-one searches against forty million archived images. Forty million, Roarke. But real pictures as the base line.” He turned his chair back toward the computer. “I’m still making cartoons for you.”

  Roarke fully understood. After saying thank you, he walked out the door, thinking that the only photo he’d probably get of Depp would be when he was dead on a slab in the morgue.

  Chapter 49

  Verona, Wisconsin

  Wednesday, 4 July

  Morgan Taylor kept Henry Lamden’s appointment with the people of Verona, Wisconsin. It was the first of the semi-regular town meetings Lamden promised to hold. Taylor didn’t expect he’d be half as good as Lamden at these events, but it was important to demonstrate that the coalition government worked.

  Verona bubbled up from the Office of Strategic Affairs: a recommendation of Lynn Meyerson. She’d discovered that Verona, barely five miles from Madison, was the self-proclaimed “Hometown USA” of America.

  “It’s the perfect place to kick off your town meetings,” she told President Lamden months earlier. “Imagine: ‘Hometown USA.’ It doesn’t get any better than that.” She explained that Verona earned the name in 1966, after an army detachment in Vietnam adopted Verona as their “foster village,” representing the spirit of American life. “It all began when a GI named Ronald R. Schmidt thanked townspeople for sending the local newspaper, The Verona Press, to him overseas. The newspaper printed his letter of appreciation. They loved the fact that Schmidt said getting the paper was one of the few things he had to look forward to. Well, the town rallied around the entire troop and, lo and behold, the moniker ‘Hometown USA’ was invented.”

  Lamden had enjoyed the story and appreciated Meyerson’s political savvy. Ironically, neither the president nor his aide was onboard Air Force One as it touched down in Madison. The day, the parade, and the town meeting belonged to Morgan Taylor.

  “Good evening,” the president said in greeting. Nearly 1,000 of Verona’s 8,912 residents were packed into the Verona Area High School. Taylor thanked the mayor and other notables by name for making him feel so welcome. “First, let me tell you that President Lamden says he’d much rather be here than in his hospital bed.” The line received some light applause. “The food is better.” More reaction. “And, although he looks good in a gown, I know he’d rather be wearing something like this.” Taylor unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a “Hometown USA” T-shirt. The gym erupted, and Morgan Taylor said a silent thank you to Lynn Meyerson.

  “But in life, we don’t always get to make the choices we’d like. So you’ve got this old warhorse, and I hope I’m a good substitution.”

  The crowd applauded until Taylor insisted they stop. “Enough! Most of you didn’t vote for me!” The comment brought even more applause. He won them over. What a gratifying feeling.

  “Okay, what do you say I hold court for a while, then I’ll take your questions?” For the next twenty minutes Taylor gave a solid, off-the-cuff assessment of the first six months of the new administration. He talked about the positives and the negatives, the spirit of cooperation, and the attacks on White House policy. He took the citizens of Verona around the world, talking about Middle East tensions, the fragile peace between Pakistan and Afghanistan, and the upcoming summit. Taylor concluded with an appeal for support. “Something happened a few years back. Reason got supplanted by hatred; the calming voice has been replaced by stinging criticism. It’s the same everywhere. New York to Los Angeles, El Paso to Verona. It’s ruining our country. We are a nation divided by anger, increasingly intolerant and hopelessly driven by rhetoric. We used to have statesmen in government; people who answered the call for public service. Now, I honestly don’t know why anyone would even consider running for public office.

  “I can’t fix this with a signature on a bill anymore than Congress can legislate it. I’m afraid it’s up to you to change the political climate. Blow the ill winds away and welcome the goodness that made America great…welcome it back into your hearts and your homes, your community and your country. It’s time. And what better place to start than right here in ‘Hometown USA.’”

  On one hand, it was a pure political play. On the other, it was the absolute truth. Verona agreed. There was no better place to start.

  Morgan cut off the applause again. “I promised to take your questions. How about we start with a graduating senior?”

  The president fielded questions about the environment, Medicare and Social Security, and even the Packers. Then a 64-year-old, gray-haired man ambled up to the microphone and nervously asked a question. He was hard to hear through the lingering laughter from Taylor’s response about Green Bay.

  “Again, if you could,” the president said. “A little louder.”

  “Yes. My name is Nicholas Petchke. I drive the bus to the school.”

  Taylor tuned out his accent and keenly listened for the gist of the question.

  “I came from a place where children were killed by suicide bombers, and yet the United States waited years to help. Schools like this were not even safe. Everyone was a target. Now I am here in America. I have a good life. But I am afraid; afraid because I see terrorism coming closer; afraid that America’s own people will have to wait years for help, too.” The entire gymnasium fell silent as Petchke concluded. “Mr. President, I ask: What’s America doing to stop them?”

  Morgan Taylor stood some forty to fifty feet from the immigrant, but it felt like the man was breathing into his face. “Well…” he began. But well wasn’t good enough. Neither was a stock answer, nor a stump speech. Taylor turned around and reflected a moment. The American flag served as a backdrop. He pointed to it.

  “Mr. Petchke, you came to this country for the freedom that flag represents, and now you believe that the dangers of the world have followed you here. Regrettably and undeniably, it is true. If I argued otherwise, every paper in the country, including your own Verona Press, would prove me wrong. What’s America doing to stop them? That’s your question?”

  He heard a “Yes, sir” across the gym.

  “Not enough.”

  A woman stood from her bleacher seat close to him. She identified herself as a Dane County clerk. “Mr. President, I lost a son in Iraq to a car bomb. My youngest, a graduate this year from this very high school, has just enlisted.” She fought her tears, wanting to finish her thought. “Please tell me the same thing won’t happen to him. Tell me what you’re going to do to protect my son.”

  It wasn’t simply the woman’s question, or the man’s, not merely a clerk’s or a bus driver’s. It was America’s question. Tell me what you’re going to do to protect my son? Morgan Taylor didn’t know.

  Chapter 50

  Russia

  Anyone expecting Aleksandr Dubroff to take the most direct route to Moscow would have been wrong. Recognizing that he might never be able to return home, he was in no particular rush to get where he was going. Besides, purchasing a ticket for St. Petersburg to the northeast would draw less suspicion from the FSB. But Dubroff wasn’t going to St. Petersburg. He got off at Bologoe, 164 km away, had a quiet dinner, purchased a round-trip ticket to Yaroslav, and waited for the eastbound train. Late in the evening he checked into the Kotorosl Hotel, about a ten-minute walk from the Yaroslavl Glavny train station. He produced an identity card—a fake, complete with a bar code, date of birth, and home address. It identified him as V. A. Zastrozhnaya, a grocer fro
m Pskov. Dubroff picked up the card hours earlier from a retired forger who was quite surprised to see him. It had fallen out of the pocket of the real Zastrozhnaya, was copied, then returned. The forger prayed that the favor made them even, and this would be the last he’d ever see Dubroff.

  The next day, “Zastrozhnaya” returned to the train station and headed south to Aleksandrov. The train ride was pleasant enough. His two-day stay at the Hotel Ukraina was even better. He visited the town, which was his namesake. It had a fascinating history. In the 16th century, Aleksandrov was the unofficial capital of the Russian State under Tsar Ivan IV, a man better known as Ivan the Terrible. For years, the city was recognized as the Russian Versailles, the home of great royal treasures. It was also noted for its prisons, and the horrors its inhabitants endured. Dubroff lost himself in the history and the remarkable Italian architecture. He visited Aleksandrovskaya Sloboda, the Tsar’s former residence and one-time Kremlin, which now served as a museum and nunnery. He avoided conversations with locals, keeping a keen eye out for anyone possibly following him. To the best of his knowledge, no one was.

  On the third day, Dubroff continued the remaining 112 kilometers to Moscow, just under two hours. He still traveled as Zastrozhnaya; Aleksandr Dubroff had completely disappeared. Here he checked into the Sovietsky Hotel, a ten-minute drive from Red Square. He booked a third-floor room facing Lenningradsky Prospect. He regularly peered outside through the break in the two drapes to see if the Federal Security Service posted anyone across the street. Dubroff decided not to go out for another day. That should allow for enough time, the old agent thought.

  FSB Headquarters

  Moscow, Russia

  “We lost him, sir.” The younger FSB agent was fidgety, and with good reason. He was facing Yuri Ranchenkov in the downtown offices of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti at Lubyansky Proyezd. He was up enough on recent history to know that some of the people who entered these chambers never left. Life—or death—was returning to the buildings that once housed the KGB.

  “He’s an 88-year-old pensioner! What do you mean you lost him?”

  Sergei Ryabov explained what had happened. It didn’t go well.

  “He tells someone he’s off to see a sick friend in Saint Petersburg. Does he book a train to St. Petersburg? Does he arrive there? No! Why? Because he had no intention of visiting a relative of his wife’s. None of his relatives, or his wife’s relatives, are still alive. It’s all in his fucking biography!” Ranchenkov threw it at the bungling agent. “If you had read it, you would have known!”

  Ryabov stood at attention.

  “He stopped somewhere. Bologoe? Chudovo? Tosno? Did you check for anyone bearing his description? Did you look in any other cities along the way?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He slipped through your fingers like sand. Will you remember that this man is a master at what he does? Even though he hasn’t practiced his craft for years, he hasn’t lost it. You better hope that you have a tenth of his ability if you are to make lieutenant…or live.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. Without asking, he knelt down to pick up the papers.

  “You will find Aleksandr Dubroff before he is out of our reach. When you find him, you will report directly to me. You will not do anything on your own. That way, we shall discover what the traitor plans to do.”

  United States

  Roarke followed President Taylor’s orders. He called his friend from the service. Shannon Davis was very much like Roarke, but blonde and two inches taller. While Roarke went into the Secret Service at Taylor’s behest, Davis joined the FBI. They remained close, and kept a running score of who broke the rules more. Right now, Scott Roarke was in the lead.

  They figured if they fanned out from Washington, hitting the closest locations first, they could cover the country in two weeks.

  The first stop was Maysville, Kentucky, a small town southeast of Cincinnati along the Ohio River. The subject was a high school football coach and history teacher. History was important to Maysville. The Underground Railroad, the pathway to freedom for many slaves, passed through Mason County, Kentucky.

  After an hour’s observation, from the school to home, Roarke and Davis concluded they could cross the first man off the list. He was a model citizen with a great deal of responsibility and no time to take off.

  They had a similar experience at another river town to the south. Their second suspect resided in Knoxville, Tennessee. He was a lineman for the phone company and one glance eliminated him. He’d put on thirty pounds since his years in the service. Apparently his acting career hadn’t worked out, either.

  Next, Starkville, Mississippi. The two men split up, one checking out the subject at work, the other looking into his family. Bob McCallum looked like he might be their man. His flexible hours as a part-time cop made him suspect. Even more interesting was his work with the Starkville Community Theater. Roarke caught his picture on a poster for Arturo Ui. It made his skin crawl. He looked like Depp. He had the intensity and coldness Roarke had seen in person. His pulse quickened. The play was that night. He bought two tickets at the box office.

  Meanwhile, Davis stopped by the police station, where he asked to talk to McCallum. He was told he wasn’t in. “He’s doin’ that weird play this week,” the desk sergeant reported.

  “I was in the service with him. Just passing through,” Davis said. “I bet he hasn’t changed a bit.”

  The police officer grimaced. “Guess you haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bob?”

  “Yes.”

  “He lost an eye. Cancer. Just awful for awhile, but he’s still at it. Say, what’s your name?”

  “Ah, Davis.” Shannon had already backed up to the door. “Look, tell him hello. I’ll try to see him later.”

  “I probably won’t catch him until later in the week.”

  “That’ll be great. Thanks.”

  Davis left and met Roarke at Cappes Steak House. Roarke was excited to see him. He had a copy of the poster with McCallum’s picture.

  “I think we’ve got him. And guess what? He’s on stage tonight.” He produced two tickets.

  “I hope you didn’t spend money on these,” Davis said.

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Well, unless we’re looking for a one-eyed sharpshooter, I think we should order dinner and hit the road,” Davis explained.

  “Damn!” Roarke uttered. He looked at the picture and let out a long sigh.

  “Sorry, buddy. I’ll have the bureau double-check, but I think we’re three down, four to go.”

  Lebanon, Kansas

  “Friends, here we are at a crossroads. General Bridgeman is going to go to Washington. Are you going with him? Arm-in-arm. Are you going to show the country that we don’t need an election year to be heard? That our voice counts right now? That the administration does not have your confidence and never had your vote?”

  Elliott Strong added more timber to his speech. “General Robert Woodley Bridgeman supports you. Do you support him? One by one, members of Congress have contacted the good general since he made his announcement on this show. One by one, they are taking the time to listen to what he has to say. One by one, they are coming to believe that change must occur, and that three-and-a-half years away is too long.”

  Elliott Strong had launched what amounted to a countrywide political movement. The national media had picked up on the wave of excitement emanating from the center of the country. Thanks to radio, General Robert Bridgeman was heading for the front page.

  Washington, D.C.

  NBC News, Studio A

  Nebraska Ave. NW

  “Today, on Meet the Press, retired Marine Corps General Robert Woodley Bridgeman,” the host began. “General Bridgeman served in Operation: Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan and Operation: Iraqi Freedom, where he was wounded in battle and decorated with the Purple Heart. He also has
been honored with the Navy Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal. He has been recognized for his command of mountain and urban warfare, and now, as a civilian, he represents a growing coalition.” The host stopped, and turned into a two-shot on another. He faced General Bridgeman across the table.

  “A coalition of what, General? I know I’m not the only one scratching my head in recent weeks, wondering who and what you represent. You have emerged as something of a phenomenon on the public scene. What is your message?”

  “Well, first and foremost, thank you for having me on today,” the general said, slowly and with warmth. He smiled and stretched out both hands, as if to welcome the audience. The TV director, Ben Bowker, cut to a single shot, which accentuated the expression. “It’s a fair and appropriate question. I am, of course, a civilian. My title, these days, is one of a retired serviceman. And I thank you for employing it. But in truth, I am just Bob Bridgeman. A regular guy who’s seen an awful lot. Maybe too much for one man in a lifetime.”

  The host could have jumped in to focus the answer, but he decided to stay out and see where this was going.

  “I love my country. I proudly served in the armed forces for twenty-six years. Since retiring, which in itself is hard for me to grasp, my wife has been trying to get me out of the house. She says I’m far too young to hang it up,” he joked. “Well, she’s right.” Bridgeman suddenly turned serious. “I have seen our nation slip and slide into a quagmire of political uncertainty. After all, do we really have an elected official leading the United States?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but we do. There was a legal election and the succession acts, enumerated by the United States Constitution, provided us with a stable and orderly process.”

  “Stable and orderly is quite correct. But now, with Mr. Taylor in the White House, we can’t really say that he is the man most voters or electorates wanted. Can we?” It was not a question, and he pressed on. “At no other time in American history has a defeated candidate assumed the role of president. Yes, duly appointed vice presidents have succeeded presidents following their death, but not one who was nominated only minutes after the inauguration.”