Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  Roarke stepped closer, utterly transfixed. He turned away only when he heard the footsteps of the Coopers coming into the room. Roarke and Davis had been alone for five minutes. Gloria Cooper obviously had used the time to convince her husband to come downstairs and listen to the visitors.

  “Mr. Davis, Mr. Roarke, this is my husband, Bill.”

  “Hello,” he said. Roarke gave him a quick study. Five-eleven, once taller, 210 to 220 pounds. High cheekbones. Thin lips. Short hair. Not unlike the man in the photograph.

  “Mr. Cooper, thank you for inviting us into your house without any notice.” Davis continued to do the talking for the team. “We appreciate it.”

  Davis restated the lie that brought them there. Mrs. Cooper invited them to sit down on the couch. The conversation started awkwardly. The Coopers were visibly guarded.

  Roarke remained quiet through the first five minutes, encouraging them with smiles and nods. He continued to look around the room, often coming back to the picture above the fireplace.

  “Richard got the acting bug in high school?” Roarke finally asked.

  “Yes,” said Bill Cooper. “He was a great football player, but in the off-season he discovered acting through Moeller’s improvisation group.”

  “Moeller?”

  “Moeller—it’s a Catholic school that had a powerhouse football program for years. Probably will again. But while he was there, it lost ground to other schools and Richard tried acting. He loved it. Pretty soon, he told us he needed more than what Moeller offered.”

  “Yes, but remember what he said?” Mrs. Cooper asked her husband. “He wanted to do important plays and grand roles.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed. “Grand roles, so he told us he wanted to transfer.”

  “I remember sitting in our house, not here, our old house, and talking to Richard about his choices,” Mrs. Cooper explained. “We didn’t really understand theater. We sure knew football. Everybody in Cincinnati does. After all, Bill was a running back in high school. That’s where I met him. And Richard had all his talent—”

  “And more,” Bill added.

  “But we didn’t want to tell Richard what to do. Not that he would have listened,” continued Gloria Cooper. “He was always so headstrong. So one day he announced that he wanted to apply to a high school across town. The School for Creative and Performing Arts.”

  Bill Cooper picked up the story. “He felt he would get more out of a theater program than sports. That’s where he went. He did every play he could and never looked back at football again. He said he wanted to go into acting. He checked out colleges and chose Northwestern. He got a partial scholarship, but he still needed more help. We wouldn’t have been able to do it without that.”

  Roarke held onto that thought for a moment. The Coopers were certainly living well. Very well for a retired auto mechanic and dental hygienist, he judged. He made a mental note to have their financial records pulled.

  “Army ROTC?” Davis asked.

  “Yes, they helped pay for school,” Bill said, suddenly losing his enthusiasm. “I wish…” He stopped short of completing the thought. He reached for his wife’s hand, but she pulled away.

  Roarke immediately sensed the change of heart. He steered the conversation back in a lighter direction. “Tell us about the plays he did.” He wanted to learn about specific roles.

  It was a better place to go. Gloria Cooper found happier thoughts again. “Oh, everything. More improvisation, musicals, dramas.” She went on to list his credits-Shakespeare, Ibsen, Miller.

  Roarke memorized them all. Important plays and grand roles. After the Coopers shared more recollections, Roarke was ready to return to Richard Cooper’s early Army training, but in a less direct way than Davis had chosen. “Now, ROTC isn’t quite the ticket to Broadway.”

  Mrs. Cooper looked at her husband. He waved her off. He wasn’t prepared to tell the story.

  “As we said before, we needed the money,” she stated. “Richard told us that it would help him.”

  Bill Cooper interrupted. “They trained him to kill. And then they took him to Iraq. He never did another play.”

  Tears formed in Mrs. Cooper’s eyes, but only for an instant. The coldness she exhibited at the door returned. She willed the tears away. Her resolve drove the next thought. “I’ll tell you what your government did to our boy,” she said directly. “It’s in all his letters. You took his dreams away from him. You killed his spark, his joy. Oh, not at first. He couldn’t wait to get back, to find his way to New York or Los Angeles. But, as so many of his friends died, I felt like he was driven by something awful. His letters got more depressing. He wanted to leave and he couldn’t. So I think he acted his way through what he had to do. God only knows what that was. He never told us. And then one day, the boy we raised was gone.”

  The New York Times

  “Damnit!” O’Connell cursed. The word produced too many random hits.

  Weapon. Bomb. Army. Navy. Air Force. Submarine.

  Spy.

  He ate at his desk, trying other word combinations. O’Connell didn’t know whether he’d even recognize a clue if he stumbled onto it.

  West Chester Township, Ohio

  The Coopers recounted the horrific story that Roarke had read about the night before. It was tenfold more difficult to hear in person.

  “It was an afternoon in September 2004.” She gave the exact date, something Roarke already had in his file. “Richard was part of an Army Special Forces squad that was sent to clear out Iraqi terrorists from an apartment building in Baghdad. I still don’t know who they were. Sunnis or Shiites? They’re all the same to me,” Gloria said, dissolving into tears.

  Bill cleared his throat and continued for her. “Richard and his buddies were lured into the building. It was pretty crazy just before the election. Everyone seemed to have a gun and Americans were being picked off right and left. It was insidious. They never should have been sent in. A CNN reporter said so. I have the tape. Apparently they heard that from a colonel who admitted it after the fact. After the fact! Why didn’t he make that decision before he sent those boys in? They pleaded with their commander. The whole thing was up in the air for an hour. The news interviewed someone who said that they were being pushed in to show the Iraqi Interior Ministry that the U.S. was fully committed. Well, the order stood. Richard and the others did what they were told.”

  Gloria squeezed her husband’s wrist. “Richard was one of six. All brave boys. All with dreams, too. All with parents like us, still wondering who in their right minds could have ordered them into that death trap. No more than a minute after they went in, the apartment building exploded. Five floors. The whole thing collapsed in seconds.”

  Bill fought back his own tears, determined to finish. “No one else was there. Only the six of them. It took weeks before they cleared out the rubble. They found parts of them, Mr. Roarke. Only parts of them. Arms, legs. Faces blown off.” He stopped one more time to collect his thoughts. “It was a huge explosion. One of the most destructive. You want to know the worst of it?”

  Roarke and Davis didn’t need to acknowledge the question. The answer was already on Bill Cooper’s lips.

  “We don’t even have Richard back. His body vaporized in the explosion.”

  There was a long silence, which no words could effectively fill.

  “Oh, we did get a letter from the Secretary of Defense. It was signed by a machine.”

  The proud, lonely parents talked about their son for another twenty minutes. For part of the time, he wasn’t dead. Richard Cooper was alive and vibrant.

  Eventually, they ran out of things to say, or at least the desire to talk anymore. The Coopers retreated to the quiet sadness that had engulfed them for years. They buried him again, and it was time for Roarke and Davis to leave.

  “What will you be able to do with what we’ve told you?” Gloria asked as they approached the door.

 
They looked at each other, not wanting to lie, yet not able to tell the truth. “We’ll discuss the command issues you brought to our attention,” Davis offered.

  “And I promise you, we’ll look at every aspect of the investigation into his death,” Roarke added.

  “Thank you,” Gloria Cooper quietly responded.

  “There is an additional thing that could help us,” Roarke said.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you loan us any photographs of you with Richard.”

  The Coopers showed their confusion over the request.

  “Family shots. Maybe over the years of all of you together.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Roarke tried his best to deflect the question, not wanting to explain the real need. “I think the nation owes you a debt of gratitude. You have a story that should be heard. Also, I can tell you right now that you and the other parents of your son’s squad will receive a proper letter. That will happen if I have to go to the president myself.”

  Davis swallowed hard. Of all things, that would be the easiest for Roarke to accomplish. But they didn’t know that. They really thought he was with the FBI.

  Roarke continued. “It may be of little consequence now, but that’s one wrong that will be righted.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Cooper said, forgetting she’d actually asked a question. She went back for the photographs, taking pictures out of frames that lined the hallway. While she was away, Roarke let his eyes wander around the house. It was decorated with new furniture, original paintings, crystal fixtures, and marble. Everything was beautiful, as if chosen by a designer with little regard to budget.

  “Here you are,” she said. She let her hand lovingly graze across the top photograph. “This is the last picture we took together. At our old house.”

  Roarke saw proud parents and a handsome son. They stood at the front door of a modest Cincinnati home.

  “Our neighbor took it.” She was about to hand it to Roarke when she asked, “We’ll get these back soon?”

  “Yes, I promise. Thank you again for inviting us into your home,” Roarke added. He gazed around one final time. “It is magnificent.”

  “We can thank Richard,” Bill Cooper volunteered.

  “Oh?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” he added. “Insurance policies he got abroad. We didn’t know about them, but then Richard always was dramatic. We went from living paycheck to paycheck to having money in the bank. It was quite a surprise to us. But he always said he’d take care of us. I guess he has.” He opened the door for his guests. There was nothing further to say.

  Chapter 55

  West Chester Township, Ohio

  Shannon Davis tugged at Roarke’s arm before they were at their rental car.

  “What was that all about?”

  “What was what?” Roarke looked like the cat that swallowed a canary.

  “How long have I known you?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Since service.”

  “Yes,” Roarke answered.

  “So I can tell when you flash onto something. It just happened in there,” Davis explained.

  “When we get in the car,” Roarke said. He tossed Davis the keys.

  A block away, Roarke got the third degree again. “So?” Roarke turned in his seat to face the FBI man. “You saw their house. Pretty spectacular for two blue-collar retirees.”

  “Cooper said it. Their son’s insurance policy kicked in.”

  “For that?” Roarke pointed his thumb in the direction of the house. “That’s more than insurance.”

  “Come on, not if he had a million-dollar policy. And what’s to say it wasn’t more?”

  “And the premiums? Not on the pay of a Ranger. No, there’s more money there than from an insurance company check. Besides, Cooper said it came from an insurance payment abroad. What’s the chance of that?”

  Davis steered to the side of the street and rolled to a stop. “Their son sent the money?”

  “Somehow, yes,” Roarke answered. “Stay with me for a minute. He goes into a death trap, furious over the command decision. Everyone dies—well, maybe everyone. His body is never recovered. Assume he survives the bomb blast. The only one. He’s obviously changed by the experience. He comes out vowing revenge. He blames his immediate supervisors. He blames the president. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if we check the record and discover that people involved in the decision to take the building met a rather sudden and tragic end. Okay, he’s officially dead. Figure he wants to come back to the States. But he needs money. He makes some inquiries, probably internationally. What does he do? He acts and he kills people. Cold-hearted. Cold-blooded. He becomes an assassin—a highly paid assassin. Maybe the highest the world has ever known. The new Jackal. He has money in offshore accounts. He sends a little stipend to Mom and Dad.”

  “That would be hard to do. The Patriot Act’s banking provisions flag anything over $10,000 from a foreign bank. That’s why there are a lot of transfers for $9,999.00. But even then, it starts getting suspect.”

  “Okay, that’s assuming it came in through normal channels. What if it didn’t? What if they were given an offshore account to draw on? What if they got cash? What if a Lamborghini showed up in their driveway and they sold it? I don’t know how, I’m sure you have ways to find out.”

  Davis seemed to be on board. “You think they know he’s alive?”

  “I don’t know.” Roarke thought for a second. “I don’t think so, unless Gloria and Bill are as good at acting as their son. But I’d say no. Maybe he’ll make an entrance someday, but right now he’s dead. He’s provided for them. That gives them comfort. Beyond that, I don’t know what to think. I’m sure he’s kissed off everyone else who used to be important to him, too. But it’s worth checking. Old girlfriends, teachers, anyone we can come up with.”

  “The money still has me stymied. I can’t quite figure how he could have done it without setting off alarms.”

  “Maybe he had some help.”

  Davis gave the idea some thought. “Like Haddad?”

  “Exactly,” Roarke said.

  Chicago, Illinois

  Luis Gonzales listened to his dreams. Since he was a child he felt the Prophet himself spoke to him through dreams. He saw signs and faces. There were words that showed him the way, and warnings that foretold where he would fail. For years his dreams provided encouragement and comfort. Then, shortly before Teddy Lodge was to ascend to the presidency, they became darker. His sleep turned fitful. His plan failed.

  Now his sleep brought new dreams. Millions of people in a wide shot. A thunderous, rumbling crowd but with only one voice. Individuals pop into view. They’re hypnotized by the speaker. Phrases, not sentences. No one blinks. The wide shot again. There’s movement to the crowd. First a gradual wave in one direction. Wider. Suddenly, it changes. A million people scattering in a million directions. The one voice is replaced by shrieks and screams. A wall rises around them: a wall of marble buildings and monuments. Wider still. Smoke begins to obscure the masses. Wider. Now the outline of the United States. Smoke engulfing the entire nation. Then he zooms through the smoke to another part of the world. A flashback. More screams, but this time his own. He is a young man sitting alone in a courtyard, rocking back and forth. Holding a little girl in his arms.

  Gonzales suddenly awoke. Everything remained clear: The Prophet speaking to him…connecting present to past…past to present. Today he was Luis Gonzales. In another time, Ibrahim Haddad. He was both the man wreaking havoc and the tortured soul.

  He needed his inhaler.

  Lebanon, Kansas

  Monday, 16 July

  “I really do worry about my liberal friends.”

  Actually, Elliott Strong had no liberal friends. For that matter, he had few friends at all. But he continued to pummel the enemy. “They’re living in a fantasy world. The liberals complain, ‘Nobody likes u
s. Nobody. Not the French. Not the British. Germany, no. Japan, no. We’re all alone.’ Well, they’re right about part of that. But do they do anything with the knowledge? No! Well, let me tell you, having alliances with countries that don’t stand by us are a waste of time. Their armies are a joke. Their economies couldn’t last a day without our help. It’s time we all recognize that everything comes down to one little area of the world: one plot of land where the future—whether it’s peace or the end of days—will be determined. Not Europe. Not Asia. Not Africa. The Middle East, people. Wake up to reality. If we’re to survive, we need to make friends with the people we’ve made enemies of. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Forget these Machiavellian wars, people. Islam is spreading, even in the United States. The most recent census? Well, let me give it to you in broad terms. According to the U.S. Department of State, Islam is one of the fastest-growing religions in the country. Within a few years, America’s Muslim population is expected to surpass the Jewish population. Did you get that? Let me say it again slower. Soon, there will be more Muslims in America than Jews. That will make Islam the country’s second-largest faith after Christianity, my friends.

  “They’re here in the United States of America. And they’re not leaving. They come as immigrants. About seventy-eight percent versus twenty-three percent who are born here. I can’t give you exact numbers, but best estimates indicate there are approximately six to eight million American Muslims. And if you think this is anything new, read your history books! The earliest Muslims to arrive in this country came as slaves from West Africa in the mid-1550s.

  “So what will happen when they become the number-two religion? They’ll demand more. They’ll get their people elected. They’ll get their agendas through Congress—all within their rights as Americans.” He let that thought settle in before continuing. “Their right and their privilege. They’re not going away. How’s that for a reality check? And what are we doing to prepare for this inevitable shift in American culture? I could go to the phones and let you try to guess, but I’ll make it easy for you, because I know what we’re doing for that eventuality. Exactly the wrong thing! We keep supporting the one nation in the world that turns all these people, every one of them, into our enemies.” He finally drew in a breath. “No wonder we’re so damned hated.”