Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  Strong felt he had lectured enough. He lightened his voice, seeking to take the edge off his attack that never once mentioned Israel directly. “There’s room for all of us. I’m not saying don’t support an old ally. But we need to create new ones.” This was Teddy Lodge’s position for anyone smart enough to notice. “New ones,” he repeated. “Nations that will become more important to the well-being of the world. I wish my liberal friends would understand that.”

  Elliott Strong’s circle of friends couldn’t make up a good card game. He always explained he didn’t get out much because he slept when everyone else was awake. And the few daytime hours he had, he spent preparing shows or on the air.

  Most of his outside contact came through e-mails. He used the Internet to find out what was happening in the world, not to help him shape his views.

  Strong’s only real relationship was with his third and current wife, Darice. She doubled as his producer, and like the other women he married, she was mainly around to cook and occasionally screw. Since there was no place to go, she never went out. On the rare occasion Strong ventured beyond Lebanon, Kansas, Darice stayed home.

  He eventually expected there’d be a number-four in his life. When? Maybe after he moved his show to Washington. Strong went to his callers.

  “Elliott, you haven’t said whether you’re going to Washington. What’s the story?”

  Strong shot Darice a cold glance. He wanted to avoid the question. She needed to do a better job screening.

  “Well, I want you to go,” he declared. He gave a cut sign, a slice across the throat. Darice dropped the caller. “On August 18, you and the others will all be our reporters for the general’s great march,” he continued. “You’ll give us the experience of being at the biggest rally ever held in Washington, D.C.” He leaned back in his chair. They’ll have a great deal to describe, he thought.

  “Use your cell phones. Call. We’ll be on the air with nonstop, commercial-free programming. If America wants to hear what’s really going on, they’ll tune to Strong Nation.”

  The New York Times

  Another day at the computer. Michael O’Connell added more words to his hit list:

  Secret. KGB. FSB. Kremlin. Russia. Enemy. Conspiracy.

  Virus.

  Nothing triggered a sensible response, or even supported a reliable hunch.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Years ago, research of this nature would have required Katie Kessler to visit a solid law library, meticulously search through periodicals and papers, call up volumes of law books and scholarly texts, handwrite her notes, then distill the information either in free hand or on a typewriter.

  Now Katie pointed and clicked. She had access to Lexis/Nexis, and the findlaw.com and westlaw.com databases through her Internet connection at home. The ease of it made her decide this is where she’d do most of her work.

  Considering she wasn’t assigned to a current case at work, and given the complicity, though unwitting, of her law firm in a near coup of the Executive Branch, the senior partners wished Katie well. They hoped that her departure for the White House might even help restore their firm’s corporate image.

  Kessler’s web browsing sent her to recent speeches by members of Congress and testimony at open hearings. She downloaded a 2002 article from The Hill, a key Beltway publication, written by California Congressman Brad Sherman, an analysis by Texas Senator John Corayn, opinion papers written by the Congressional Research Service of The Library of Congress, and newspaper articles from The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, and The New York Times.

  Some of her research brought Katie back to the work she’d done on the eve of the inauguration. She re-read Article II, Section 1 of the Constitution, the Presidential Succession Act of 1792, The First Presidential Succession Act of 1886, the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, and the 25th Amendment. After her first pass, she went back and highlighted key words in the passages. Next, she copied them to a master file. She found particular merit in the 1886 Act. Unlike the present law, the succession line went from the president to the vice president, then on to the Secretary of State, followed by the Secretary of the Treasury, the Secretary of War, and the rest of the cabinet. She added an exclamation point in the margin. Interesting, she said to herself. While it was too early to come to any conclusion, she intuitively felt that 1886, dismantled 61 years later, had merit.

  Soon, Kessler would be calling on Chief Justice Leopold Browning. She knew by experience that if she wasn’t prepared to argue her position on firm legal ground, the esteemed Supreme Court jurist would curtly dismiss her…or worse: he’d lecture her to death.

  Kessler vowed to be ready. She looked away from her screen to a calendar on her desk. She traced the dates with her pencil. Not this week. Not next. Maybe the week after. She added a few days for good measure. August 18. She decided Saturday, August 18 would be the date. Three weeks. That’s enough time, she thought. She picked up the phone and dialed the United States Supreme Court. Three weeks. I’d better be ready!

  Maluku, Indonesia

  Commander Umar Komari reviewed the inventory. He now had the weapons he needed—more than he ever imagined, including his prized SAMs, the deadly surface-to-air missiles. He looked to the heavens with tears in his eyes. Muhammad surely approves.

  Komari’s reverie was interrupted by the voice of his lieutenant.

  “Yes, yes. What is it, Atef?” Komari gave permission for only one man to proceed beyond the guards he posted.

  “You wanted a report on the training, sir,” Musah Atef said.

  “Enter.”

  Atef moved the canvas door to the side and walked into the largest tent he’d ever seen. It was decorated with the bed and furniture his men had stolen from a Christian fisherman’s home in a nearby town. Neither the man nor his wife needed it any longer.

  “So spacious. Truly fit for a commander.”

  “Or a president,” Komari corrected him.

  “Yes, but after we take the capitol, you shall have a palace.”

  “Quite so. And do we have the army that will take us there? Are they ready?”

  “Soon. In a matter of weeks.”

  “Not sooner?” Komari asked with annoyance.

  “Please, just a little more time. It would prove disastrous to move too early. The men need more training with the new weapons.”

  Komari turned away from Atef. He recently saw what happened to an army when it wasn’t prepared. An encampment in the Solomons was attacked by Australians or Americans. He didn’t know for sure. Though they had weapons to defend themselves, the men were not ready. A survivor reported that 200 Muslim warriors died trying to figure out how to load their grenade launchers and fire a surface-to-air missile. Their leader, Komari’s older brother Omar, was killed in the assault.

  Komari spoke to Atef with his back to his aide. “One month, Atef. I want to strike on my brother’s birthday.”

  “On my word, we will be ready by then.”

  “Then we will honor Omar’s name with our victory over the infidels, and drive the Christians into the ocean.”

  The White House

  Tuesday, 17 July

  “Mr. President, just a reminder. Dr. Kaplan will be along in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Louise,” Taylor said over the intercom. “I can always count on you to let me know when someone’s going to poke and prod me.”

  The president didn’t want to see the doctor, but Presley Friedman, chief of the Secret Service, reminded him that he had to get tuned up.

  Morgan Taylor hated the invasive procedure. It made him feel like a dog on a leash. But this was one of those things even the President of the United States couldn’t say no to.

  It was over in seven minutes.

  “You may pull up your pants, Mr. President,” the doctor said.

  Morgan Taylor rubbed his butt. Dr. James Kaplan quickly packed his bag and was ready to leave, but Presle
y Friedman held him up. He was on the phone. “Let’s just see if everything’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s not all right. I’ve just been stabbed.”

  Kaplan laughed. “For the record, sir, you’re such a baby.”

  “For the record, Doctor, try being president and see how much you like this.”

  Kaplan let out a louder laugh.

  Friedman missed the exchange. He was talking to the Secret Service communications office. “Done,” he said. “See you in February, Doc.”

  “Every six months, like a good teeth cleaning,” Kaplan added at the door.

  “Teeth, my ass,” the president said to his director of the Secret Service. It was good for another laugh.

  Chapter 56

  The Pentagon

  Arlington, Virginia

  Wednesday, 18 July

  Roarke bolted through the door with a quick, urgent hello. Captain Walker recognized his voice and swiveled around, away from her computer screen, to face him.

  “Well, you’ve certainly been busy,” she began.

  “And?” Roarke said before he was all the way to her desk.

  “Impatient, are we?”

  “Anxious.”

  “Anxious? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Did you get my message?”

  “Of course. But I’m stuck on anxious,” Walker said mockingly. “You know you’re wrong.”

  “Wrong? About what?”

  “The word. You’re looking for eager. You get anxious over fear or frustration, failure or disappointment. You’re anxious if you’re full of worry, dread. Anxiety. See, it’s even part of the same word. Eager is all about enthusiasm, interest. Oh, and desire.”

  “Penny,” he said with a scowl.

  She smiled, but continued. “When you use eager, you’ll often follow it with to, then the infinitive. Anxious gets a preposition. Anxious about. So you’re not anxious about what I’ve found. You’re eager to hear it.”

  Roarke shook his head. “Sony. Maybe I should start again.” She agreed. “Good morning, Captain. How are you today?”

  “Quite fine, in fact, Agent Roarke,” she said, with an exaggerated delivery. “Thank you for asking. And you’ll be happy to know that I’ve been working rather hard since you called from the road yesterday. It’s been productive. I’ve come up with a good deal.”

  Roarke kissed her forehead. “That’s nice,” he said in an equally affected tone. But his eyes lit up and he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Now what the fuck is it?”

  The Army intelligence officer laughed. “Eager are we? Here it is.” She unlocked a drawer and removed a stack of files “Take a look.”

  Roarke obliged, joining Walker on her side of the desk. The top page was a summary of the attack in Baghdad. Pictures followed on subsequent pages. He leafed through them coming to the findings marked U.S. Army EOD/Report/Baghdad, Ghazalia district. It was signed and dated by the EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) senior officer. Walker had highlighted the most important points in a bright yellow marker, which Roarke scanned.

  …anonymous report six…Army Rangers respond…squad entered…command reports pairs cover building quadrants-sudden explosion…estimate 2,000 lbs…remote detonation—building reduced to rubble—brick, furniture, air conditioners, other debris one-hundred yards away—trees ignited—collateral damage—partial destruction of nearby buildings—car hurled by blast into passing truck—RECOVERED unexploded artillery shells, wires… 1st Armored Division secured site…KIA six…

  The remainder of the details included the itemization of body parts, skull fragments, and other coldly clinical information. Roarke let out a heavy and needed sigh. The description put him right in Baghdad, making him an eyewitness. It reminded him of too many things he’d seen himself. He returned to Walker’s findings.

  …dental reports…identities confirmed—exception, US Army Lt. Richard Cooper—search ended—

  It went on, but Roarke had read enough. “Your take, Penny?” There was nothing but sadness in Roarke’s voice.

  She’d read everything a number of times anticipating his questions. “It was a complete investigation. By the book. Thorough forensics. I found no oversights.”

  “And they found no body.”

  “It’s not unusual given the size of the blast.”

  “Is it impossible, though?”

  “It’s not impossible. He could have been at ground zero. Between the heat and the force of the blast, he could have been instantly incinerated.”

  “And if he wasn’t at ground zero? If he was at the opposite end of the blast? Protected somehow. Covered. Behind something that shielded him?” Roarke asked.

  “Possible.”

  “Do we know where he was at the time of the blast? His proximity to the bomb?”

  “Well, now you’re going where I went. We don’t. But apparently no one was at the precise point of detonation based on the SOP that the men moved in pairs.” She pointed to a schematic included in the report. There were X’s for five of the six bodies. All died in pairs except for one GI near the back of the building.

  Roarke’s eyes widened with anticipation. He stared at the layout. “Is that a supporting column?”

  “Looks like it could be,” she responded.

  “And given the fact that only one body was recovered in that part of the building, is it reasonable to believe that Lt. Cooper could have been the other man in the pair…that he could have been protected from the explosion by that column?”

  Penny raised her eyebrow now validating his belief. “He got out. He ran out!”

  “Or he was thrown out by the explosion. Either way, he’s alive!” Roarke concluded.

  FBI Labs

  Quantico, Virginia

  Next, Roarke visited Touch Parsons. He handed over various pictures of Bill, Gloria, and Richard Cooper. “Good boy, Roarke. You even got me different ages.”

  “Of course.” The FBI man had drummed the idea into Roarke. Shots of parents over the years vastly helped map the facial structure of a child into middle age. The last photo of Richard was age 24, in uniform. He asked Parsons to add 13 years to his face, then morph the new extrapolation into various interpretations based on the eyewitness descriptions of Depp.

  “Well, well, I think you’re finally getting it, Roarke,” Parsons said. He moved over two half-filled cups of cold coffee and a plate of Entemann’s coffee cake crumbs to make room for Roarke’s material.

  “Funny, my teachers thought I was a slow learner, too.”

  Parsons said his usual hmm a lot as he looked at photographs. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who this guy really is?”

  “Nope,” Roarke offered.

  “Why did I even ask?” After more hmm’s he continued, “When do you need this by?” He followed up his question even before Roarke could get the answer out. “Why did I even ask? Immediately.”

  “Sooner.”

  Parsons got to work, narrating the entire process for Roarke. “I’ll scan these, then I’ll really start playing. There are remarkable similarities to the sketches. I can see why you think this might be your guy.”

  “Is my guy,” Roarke corrected him with great certainty.

  “Ah, you’re getting cocky. But remember, nothing will hold up in court. But if I do say so myself, you’re going to end up with some fucking incredible pictures that will look great on the front page!”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  The White House

  Thursday, 19 July

  “This is the man you’ve been calling Depp?” Morgan Taylor asked. He studied the Army photograph Roarke brought to the White House.

  “Yes. His name is Richard Cooper and officially he’s dead.”

  “According to?”

  “The United States of America, boss.” Roarke ran the entire story for the president. He concluded by adding, “And we created this monster wh
o’s out for revenge. He’s not just killing people for money. He’s taking jobs that will cripple, maybe even destroy us. That makes him more dangerous.”

  “How so?” the president asked.

  “Because he’s extremely careful. He’s not out to build a bank account. This is a means to an end. Somehow he hooked up with the right person who shares his anger and has ample funds to keep him going.” Roarke now offered another belief that he had kept to himself. “And call me crazy, but I have a hunch it was back in Iraq.”

  Taylor tilted his head to the side and pressed his lips together. There was nothing in the reaction for Roarke to read. He kept his eyes on the president as he walked to his humidor on a table near the wall. Taylor kept a stash of cigars, which he rarely smoked. Roarke watched him light up and take a long puff. Taylor held the humidor open for Roarke, but the Secret Service agent politely declined with a wave of his hand.

  After a second long drag, the president examined his cigar. “You know why I like to smoke, Scott?”

  “Yes, sir, I think I do. It gives you time to think. It makes you slow down.”

  “You do know me. But it also makes me feel like I’m doing something a little bit wrong in the White House. It is a federal building and the laws do not permit smoking.”

  “I’m sure your successor will pardon you.”

  Taylor chuckled. “My successor? Now will that be Henry Lamden if he recovers? Perhaps someone new to the White House after the next election? Or maybe even the Speaker of the House, should something happen to me?”

  Roarke suddenly looked stunned. The thought of Duke Patrick as president had never crossed his mind. But he was next in the line of succession.