“The Constitution,” interrupted the host, “does not look at such technicalities.”
General Bridgeman rose up in his chair. He found the camera, glanced away from the host opposite him, and said the most profound words of the interview: “It should.” Meet the Press had been on the air continuously since November 6, 1947. It was the longest-running program in television history: no small achievement in the competitive, cutthroat world of TV news.
Every week, Meet the Press not only reported the news, it made it.
Senator Joseph McCarthy attacked his enemies and defended himself on the program. A young Massachusetts Congressman named John F. Kennedy found a national constituency through his appearances. After leaking the Pentagon Papers, Daniel Ellsberg first came out of hiding in front of the show’s cameras, during a remote broadcast from the NBC affiliate in Boston. Vice President Dick Cheney disclosed the Bush administration had videotape proof of Osama bin Laden’s involvement in the terrorist attacks of 9/11. Every important politician in America used Meet the Press to his or her advantage at some time in their political careers. Today, it was General Bridgeman’s turn, and the next question was inevitable.
“General Bridgeman, many people have appeared on Meet the Press to announce their aspirations for political office. The highest, of course, the presidency. We are years away from an election…”
“A scheduled election,” the general politely inserted.
The host bore down. “As presently enumerated in the Constitution, the first Tuesday following the first Monday in November, General. Every four years. We are more than three years from a presidential election. Will you be on the ticket? And if so, for which party?”
Robert Woodley Bridgeman cocked his head slightly and thought for a moment. “As you have noted, the presidential election is pretty far down the pike. But I intend to take the pulse of the country and determine two important things. Are people happy now? That is to say, will they accept the administration for another forty-two months? That’s roughly one hundred sixty-eight weeks. Twelve-hundred sixty days is a long time, and a lot can happen when people want it to.”
The host began to cut in, but General Bridgeman continued unabated. “We must listen to the will of the country. It was, after all, the people who established the Republic. Let’s just say we’ll see what the people want.”
The host broke for the first commercial, and worried what would happen if it were really left to the people.
A Hotel Room in rural Kansas
“I got your e-mail.” Roarke now traveled with a Treo. “You have some news?”
“Yes. Keeping it simple, you were right,” Katie explained. “They spoke. I think it’s time for that subpoena. I’ll talk to the senior partners and let them know why they should cooperate.”
“Great, honey. I’ll call Mulligan and keep you out of it.”
“Thanks, but you know I’m knee-deep already and…” There was excitement in her voice, which Roarke detected.
“Yes?”
Roarke juggled the cell phone to his right ear. His left was actually still blocked from his underwater fight. It was more of an annoyance than a problem.
“I got an unusual call today.”
“From who?” he asked.
“Well, if you want to know, it was from the president’s chief of staff.”
“Bernsie?”
“Mr. Bernstein?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’s what the boss calls him. Why did he—”
“With a question,” she said. “He wanted to know if I’d be available right away to head up a White House study on possible revisions to the succession laws.”
“What?” Roarke exclaimed.
“Hey, I’m allowed.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. It’s just that…”
“Just what, Mr. Roarke? That I’m in Boston? That I’m seeing you? That—”
“Wait a second, I’m happy for you. This is great news, and I’m not surprised. You deserve it.”
“But you’re upset that he didn’t clear it with you first?” she added.
“I’m not upset. He’s making a great choice. And if you’d let me finish, counselor, my what was leading to a complete sentence: What’s the rush?”
“I suspect recent history, for one.”
“Point taken,” Roarke granted. “So you’ll be moving to Washington?”
“Nope,” Katie replied. “Maybe some trips down, but most of it can be done on the Internet, at law libraries, on the phone. I will have to interview the leadership in both the House and Senate who have already held hearings and drafted bills. And I’ll have to venture back into Justice Browning’s lair.”
“Brave.”
“It does mean I can kiss Freelander, Connors, & Wrather goodbye. Which is fine by me. If I take it…”
“Of course you will.”
“If I take it,” she continued, “there will probably be talk about us.”
Roarke smiled. She was absolutely right. It could get in the way, but of all people, Katie could handle it. “Maybe.”
“Definitely. But the thing that I’m most worried about…” she started to say.
“Yes?”
“…is how you feel about it. Whether you think I’m encroaching on your turf.”
Roarke recognized that this was a serious question that deserved a serious and honest answer. “I think it’ll be a real challenge. I think you should take it. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. And I understand you’re not ready to completely change your life.” He was referring to her reluctance to relocate.
“How’d you get so smart for a man?” she asked quietly. “Thank you.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more,” Katie rejoined. After a beat, she picked up the pace, her nervousness gone. “Again, I don’t know if I’ll take it.”
“You’ll take the job.”
“But if I do, I’ll need clearance to talk with anybody and everybody. I’ll need autonomy. I’ll need to know the White House’s expectations, and I’ll need to be above the politics.”
“Right,” Roarke offered, again in that same tone as before. If one thing was true about Washington, it’s that nothing is accomplished without politics.
Chapter 51
Moscow, Russia
Wednesday, 11 July
Michael O’Connell settled into his room at The National, Moscow’s most centrally located four-star hotel. It’s conveniently situated opposite the Kremlin on Tverskaya, the city’s most chic street, and close to all of the principal locales.
“Public places. Public places only. You have to stay on the tourist routes,” Andrea Weaver had explained before he left. “Otherwise you’ll draw attention to yourself. In the mid-nineties it was wide open. Not so now. Restaurants, museums, or the shopping destinations only.
“There’s GUM Department Store. It’s right next to your hotel in Red Square. Americans are expected to go there and drop lots and lots of rubles on designer labels. It’ll be very busy and the perfect place to strike up a casual conversation with a Russian. But you’re not a woman and your friend knows that. So I’m not sure I’d make a shopping mall the first spot.”
“But wouldn’t that make it a reason to consider it? Because it isn’t the natural place for me to be?” O’Connell asked.
“Possibly,” she’d said, though not convinced. “I’d try the museums. The Pushkin. It has the best collection of European and Impressionist art in Russia, second only to the Saint Petersburg Hermitage. Or the Tretyakov Gallery. Absolutely beautiful masterpieces, more Russian.”
“I wouldn’t do a surreptitious meeting in a museum. Too damned quiet. Where else?”
“Well, outside in Red Square. It’s where everyone starts sightseeing.”
“Yes. Good idea. That’s where I’ll start. He’ll find me there. Then where?”
“You’ll have to play that by ear. “Lenin’s Tomb?”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”
“Restaurant Silla?”
“What kind of food?” O’Connell asked.
“Korean, Japanese, Chinese.”
“No. Too exotic.”
“Guantanamera?” she offered.
“Sounds Cuban.”
“It is. Too un-American. Even for a New York Times reporter.”
“Besides, I need someplace I can speak English.”
“Okay then, the American Bar & Grill. There are two of them. You’ve got your basic burgers and sandwiches.” She’d pulled out a map from her shelf, which O’Connell now had with him. “They’re close to the Metros Mayakovskaya and Yaganskaya. A bit odd, though. They’ve got a Wild West motif: buffalo heads on the wall, saddles, even American road signs.”
O’Connell went back to his original thought: the tourist destination GUM. That’s what he told Andrea. That’s where he decided to go.
Now, with the tourist pamphlets spread out on the bed, he read the history of Gosudarstvenny Universalny Magazin, which in English translates as State Department Store. The building was erected in the 19th century as an exhibition hall and was eventually converted for shopping. At one point in its more than 100-year history, GUM, pronounced GOOM, was the largest department store in Europe. However, calling GUM a department store is actually a misnomer. It’s comprised of hundreds of stores. Many closed in the Communist era, due to the fact that there were so few Soviet-made goods people wanted. Today, it’s an impressive, three-level privatized shopping mall with brilliant glass ceilings, housing many of the world’s most famous chains.
O’Connell didn’t assume that the man who contacted him knew where he would be staying, but he’d certainly count on me hitting the tourist spots.
Still, O’Connell figured that this man, a former something in the Soviet era, had to be old. At least in his late 70s. Maybe even older. So O’Connell would be on the lookout, too, but it probably wouldn’t make a difference. The Russian would find him.
Washington, D.C.
General Bridgeman followed his Meet the Press interview with a stop across town at CNN, where he was only politely received, and then to Fox News, where the anchors enthusiastically embraced him. He talked about the upcoming march on Washington, and gave them usable sound bites that would last the news day.
“I’m considering my options. If you would have asked me the same question six months ago, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But now, America is in peril. We are faced with the prospect of nearly four more years of an unelected administration. Never has this happened. Just take the temperature of the country and you’ll see how people feel. But the White House wants you to put the thermometers away. They’re afraid to read the results. Well, I can tell you, here and now, people are beginning to say that four years is four years too long.”
“You have to admit that the Constitution does not allow for a new election,” the anchor stated.
The general continued so smoothly as to make everything seem entirely plausible. “Have you counted the mail, the e-mail, and the phone calls Congress has been getting on this? Every single one is from a voter. Voters in states across the nation. Red states. Blue states. That’s where the Constitution is changed, state by state.”
“Are you suggesting an Amendment that allows for a recall, General Bridgeman?”
“I would support such a proposal.”
“And for an accelerated presidential election?”
“I would support such a proposal.”
“And would your name be at the top of the ballot?”
“Well, not to beat around the bush, but as I’ve said before, let’s just say we’ll see what the people want.”
The Fox News anchor broke for the commercial and extended his hand to the guest opposite him. “You know, General,” he whispered, “I think it goes without saying that you can count on us for fair and balanced coverage.”
“I was counting on it.”
Damascus, Syria
D’Angelo’s last visit to Damascus was with a Congressional delegation. He’d bleached his hair blonde and passed himself off as a quiet and bored aide to the Senate Commerce Committee. He’d failed to distinguish himself on the trip, and his firing was easily explained to the rest of the group upon their return to the States. During that visit, however, he learned the location of a key al-Qaeda training camp from an Iranian rug dealer whose brother drank too much. The compound was obliterated by missiles two days later. The businessman found 500,000 tax-free dollars in his hotel room the next day.
This time, D’Angelo entered the country as Rateb Samin, an Iranian expatriate stockbroker living in America. He told immigration officials in perfect Arabic that he was on a short holiday and he came to visit the major religious sites. He drew no attention to himself. However, for added impact, he observed Muslim law by praying at the appropriate hours.
Actually, D’Angelo considered the 5,000-year-old Damascus one of the most beautiful destinations he’d ever seen. As the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, founded in the third millennium B.C., Damascus is noted for classic architecture. The buildings date back to the time when the city was the center of the Aramaic kingdom. It thrived through the Greek and Roman eras, and continued to flourish with the Byzantines.
Some scholars maintain that the name is owed to Damaskas, son of Hermes. Others attribute the origin to the myth of Askos or Damas who offered Dionysias a skin (skene), a Damaskene. Still other historians argue that the designation belongs to Damakina, the wife of the god of water.
No matter the correct derivation, Damascus has figured into the Old and New Testaments and the Qur’an. It served as the capital of the first Arab state during the time of the Omayyads in 661 A.D. The Omayyads were dedicated to building a workable infrastructure, organizing the city into districts, and providing potable water to the inhabitants, as well as erecting hospitals, palaces, and churches.
One of their great wonders is the Omayyad Mosque. It was constructed on the site of an earlier Aramaic temple, which, if history served D’Angelo correctly, provided a degree of irony. That temple was dedicated to the Aramean god of the ancient Syrians: the god Hadad.
Chapter 52
Shawnee Mission, Kansas
Saturday, 14 July
Roarke grew anxious. Three dead ends turned into four. Four obvious cases of mistaken identity. Then five. Now they were onto the next target, a possibility in Shawnee Mission, Missouri.
The suspect performed at one of the local community playhouses, The Barn Players. He didn’t seem to have a day job, which certainly fit Depp’s profile. He lived in a recently built three-bedroom house on East Green Gables, traveled a great deal, and had just returned home.
Roarke and Davis trailed him for about an hour. He made stops at the theater, a watch repair store, and now he drove his Mercedes, an expensive car for someone without work, into a parking lot at Town Center Plaza, not far from the Sprint World Headquarters on 119th.
“This looks like as good a place as any,” Davis said.
“Might as well be here,” Roarke agreed.
They held back as the man parked about fifty yards up from the stores.
“Let’s see where he goes, then we’ll move,” the FBI agent added.
Once out of the car, the man walked toward a Sharper Image. “Boytoys!” Roarke exclaimed enthusiastically. It made sense that Depp would want anything and everything on the shelves. But it was his appearance that really made Roarke’s heart race.
“This is the guy,” Davis affirmed. Roarke silently hoped he was right. His height and weight were dead on. Too bad a baseball cap made it difficult to get a closer look at his face.
“Sure you don’t want me to go in after him?” Roarke asked.
“Absolutely not. He could nail you in a second. He doesn’t know me from Adam. I’ll shop around a little, then hang back when he leaves. You stick by
his car. He’ll come around, and when his back is turned to unlock the car door, we’ll nail him.”
The plan was sound. They talked more about whether to call in backup, but ruled it out. It would take another thirty minutes to get more FBI officers to Shawnee Mission from Kansas City, Missouri.
“You just shop. No grandstanding. You have that?” Roarke demanded.
“Hey, it’s one of my favorite stores. No problem.” But Davis was nervous. He hadn’t worked a takedown in years. He sucked in his gut, gave Roarke a salute, then briskly walked to the store. Roarke watched him enter, but that was all he saw—the afternoon glare off the floor-to-ceiling windows obliterated his view. He didn’t like it. Shit! He wished he’d gone in.
Moscow, Russia
the same time
O’Connell was back at Red Square for the third day. He wasn’t used to waiting. He didn’t like it, and now everyone was beginning to look like an old KGB operative. He started each of the two previous mornings feeding the pigeons across from the Kremlin. He hadn’t seen blue sky yet. Smoke from forest and peat fires outside of Moscow made the gray city even gloomier. After an hour’s opportunity to get spotted, he walked to GUM. He spent time going in and out of the stores, visiting only the ones that might be on an American tourist’s itinerary. When that failed, he picked up the Metro at nearby Ploschad Revolyutsii Station and spent the afternoon at the museums his editor recommended.
So far, no one approached O’Connell. Not even another American, which he would have welcomed. By the third day—today—he admitted to himself he was ready to call it quits. Even getting through the typical mess at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport would be a welcomed change. He’d be happier still after his Aeroflot jet touched down at JFK. O’Connell didn’t like playing where the rules were different and so final. And he just kept worrying, what if they think I’m a spy?
Executive Treason Page 33
