Strong’s voice boomed over the airwaves. He slapped his hand on the table and argued, “By my count, we’re ten Constitutions behind!” The talk-show host failed to point out that the notion was dismissed by Jefferson’s contemporary, James Madison, who contended that the mechanism for change was implicit in the way the Constitution was drafted.
“Ten Constitutions behind, my friends. Would we have such an unbelievable situation today if the Constitution had been updated? Would a defeated president be serving as commander in chief? Would he be holding the nation’s highest office?”
Strong raised his hand in the air, conducting himself. As he lowered it, he brought his voice down. “I don’t think so.” Listeners heard him take a deep sigh: one of his trademarks. “Now I’m a realist. My critics might take exception with that, but it’s true. You come to me for the truth. Well, here it is. We’re not going to change the Constitution overnight. I was wrong to suggest it. It was naive, and yes, you heard me right, I was wrong.”
The host fell silent for five seconds. He watched the second hand on the wall clock tick by. “Okay. So what now? We’re days away from the biggest march on the Capitol in the history of the Republic and suddenly I tell you it’s unlikely we can get an amendment through. You’ve booked your planes, you made arrangements to give your kids to the grandparents, the hotel has your credit card number, and crazy Elliott Strong says it ain’t gonna happen? Well, hold on. I started by telling you that I’ve been reading up on my American history, folks. You know I started that when I was just a kid doing the farm reports on the radio outside of Fresno. But I missed something. And this one is going to make you very happy.”
Another five seconds ticked off, which further added to the audience’s anticipation.
“You’re going to demand a recall of the administration! Taylor goes—like he was supposed to. He lost, for God’s sake. And this will be the way you—citizens of a Strong Nation—can hand him his walking papers.”
Glenbrook Air Force Base
New South Wales, Australia
Wednesday, 8 August
He took his break and plugged in his laptop computer. Nothing unusual. Everyday, the Air Force One mechanic checked his e-mail and surfed the Net. Anyone looking over his shoulder would be amazed at his interests: Classic baseball cards, lunch boxes, comic books. His hobby was buying and selling. He did most of his work over eBay.
He scanned the list of new postings for 1955 Bowman baseball cards. Although they weren’t the most valuable cards in the market, collectors considered them unique because of their design. Pictures were framed horizontally in a wood-grain color TV monitor, rather than a typical vertical pose in a plain border.
Finding cards in great condition was the challenge. The 320-card 1955 set was the last issued by the Bowman Gum Company of Philadelphia. The cards are susceptible to easy corner chipping. The slightest flaking on the edges generally leads to exposure of the white cardboard underneath the photograph, which immediately downgrades a card’s worth. Also, the cards were routinely printed off center; another reason why the set, though singularly distinctive, isn’t among the most popular.
The mechanic was only interested in one card: #37 with famed Brooklyn Dodgers’ shortstop, Pee Wee Reese. The card depicted the star third baseman on his right knee. He held a baseball bat upside-down. The name REESE appeared as black capital letters over a white bar. The back had his personal stats and his batting records. The face value, in mint condition was an affordable $150. The card often showed up in Internet auctions. He could have bought it any number of times over the years, but he hadn’t.
He typically logged on once or twice a week to check the postings. He actually found this American hobby fun and a way to turn a buck. But he never completed his Bowman set collection, which would have been worth a little over $5,000. Maybe this trip, he thought.
He scrolled down the postings, expecting this to take no more than a few moments. Three ‘55 Reese cards were listed. One was a more expensive Topps card, two were Bowmans. He read what the collectors had written. The first Bowman advertised a card in fair condition, with an opening bid established at $19.50. The other offered a Reese in better shape and with the following description.
Harold “Pee Wee Reese” Brklyn Ddgr lft hander, Excellent to
Nr Mint—slight grease stain on back smudges birthdate
7/22/18
He almost missed it the first time. On the second pass the Air Force officer’s eyes widened. Lft hander. He looked over his shoulder. No one was nearby. He turned back to the computer screen. Birthdate 7/22/18. He’d waited years for this specific card listing. Now it had come.
He rested his fingers on the keys for three minutes without typing.
Reese threw and batted right-handed and his correct birthday was a day later, July 23.
The asking price was a sensible $111.50. He typed his bid, which was a tad higher.
5,000,000 Euro. Bidder 34423.
He’d thought for years about the exact amount to quote. Today’s price was higher due to the location and heightened security. But the seller obviously knew where he was. Glenbrook. He wanted the job done on the way back home.
He took a deep breath before hitting send. Yes. He was ready. He pressed enter. The information immediately charged through the Internet via a WiFi connection. To anyone else clicking on the auction it would look like a joke. But it was far from it. If the seller accepted the offer, half of the stated amount would be wired into an account under his real name. The remainder would be paid upon the successful completion of the mission.
Considering it might take a few hours before he had his answer, the officer powered down his computer and went back to work.
A few other crew members of Air Force One saw him smiling as he climbed back aboard the plane. Odd, they must have thought. He rarely smiles.
The New York Times
the same day
O’Connell’s four calls to Strong’s syndicator earned him little more than an exercise in futility. His first request was forwarded to the company publicist. No response. The second, for some reason, was routed to an accountant, who couldn’t understand why he got the call. The next two calls went to the president of the company, Charlie Huddle. O’Connell stated his request to the secretary, but was promptly returned to the publicist. He called back, complaining that he wanted to speak directly to Huddle. After being put on hold for nearly five minutes, during which time he had to listen to one of Strong’s broadcasts, the secretary finally punched back only to tell him, “Mr. Huddle is not available, but he recommends you visit StrongNationRadio.com for all information pertaining to the talk-show host.”
That’s where he began. Goddamned runaround! O’Connell spent most of his life discovering new ways to get around functionaries, roadblocks, and corporate assholes. Okay, let’s try the back door, he thought.
He used his cell phone this time, dialed the main number again, and started walking down the hall at a fast clip. The switchboard answered.
“Hello. Sales department, please.”
“Just a moment.”
By the time an assistant answered, O’Connell sounded out of breath—which he was.
“Hi there. Hope you can help me.” He kept walking. He seemed harried. “I’ve got a copy change on a web address for a commercial.”
“So?”
“So, it’s on Strong’s show. Today! Gotta get it right to him. What’s his direct?”
“Just a second, I’ll…”
“I don’t have any time. Got to get this right to him. You have the control room?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“The fucking URL is wrong. The client is going apeshit. If it hits the air that way, we’re gonna have a suit on our hands!”
“Okay, okay. Here it is.” She read off the number from a contact sheet.
“Got it,” O’Connell said. “Thanks.”
“What did you say
your name is?”
He pressed end on his Blackberry and kissed the device. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Kirribilli House
Sydney, Australia
that night
The two men sat and nursed their drinks and puffed on their Montecristos, quite legal in Australia.
“There’s no balls to it yet,” Morgan Taylor told the Australian prime minister. “Until this agreement grows some serious balls, it’s not going to mean a damned thing.”
“Morgan, these people can’t move as fast as you want. They’re afraid.”
“David, there’s an ancient Sephardic expression. You’re either on the train or under it. I want to be on it.”
“I know. So do I, but what do you want to do? Go in and punish Malaysia if they don’t weed out the Kumpulah Mujahedeen? Or the same with the JI in Indonesia? We can’t sanction our allies like that, Morgan.”
“No? Then we might as well hand over the keys to the front door to the enemy. Whoever they are. I’m sick and tired of signing agreements that don’t mean a fucking thing. They get our money. We offer protection. Do they really do anything in return to fight terrorists in their own backyard? No. And, they hate us no matter what.”
“They fear you, Morgan, and they fear the people who can bring them down.”
Prime Minister Foss gently flicked the ashes from his half-smoked cigar into a crystal ashtray. “But, of course you’re right. It’s the reality of the 21st century. We’re allied with sprawling third-world countries that are spread out over thousands and thousands of square kilometers of ocean. The leaders can barely hold on to their own power base let alone keep their enemies in check. In many places, the growth of Islam is outpacing Christianity. Muslim majorities are finally gaining political power. In any given year, Japan may have more terrorist groups than baseball teams, South Korea has its maniac neighbor to the north, and you tell me how much help Pakistan is?”
“They sign everything and do nothing, David.”
“So what do you propose? Another American land grab? I don’t think you’re about to follow Bush.”
President Taylor took his last puff of the night and crushed out his cigar. He leaned across the small table that separated the two men and said, barely above a whisper, “Supply and demand, David. We cut off the supply line that’s arming the terrorists.”
The prime minister frowned. He wasn’t certain what Morgan Taylor was suggesting.
“We’re in a war on terrorism. Who the hell are we fighting? The bin Ladens? Some rogue governments? I don’t know from day to day and I’m the President of the United States with all the military power imaginable. I can order a strike anywhere in the world. But what are my targets?”
“That is the nature of things today.”
“Come on, David. These guys are armed to the teeth. So we cut off their supply.”
“Where?” Foss asked.
“Everywhere. From the source,” Taylor said.
“You’re not planning on bombing gun manufacturers.”
“Bombing them? No. Examining their books, yes. If that’s not possible, then we look at other options.” He didn’t explain the point further. “So, yes, we do go after the mass producers of arms, but also the arms dealers who traffic in them, the governments that help them, the corporations that shelter them.”
Foss was clearly surprised by the proposal. “Morgan, they’ll kill you in your own country. You’re a hunter yourself. I’m even versed on your 2nd Amendment debate-the right to bear arms. They’ll impeach you.”
“Hell, they’re already looking for ways, David. But this isn’t about me. That’s why this needs to be our initiative, agreed upon by our allies.”
Taylor pressed closer. “We destroy cocaine fields in Venezuela. We target planes and ships transporting contraband. Hell, you saw the pictures of Indonesia. I can call the NSA right now and get you another fifty hard targets where weapons are stored in the South Pacific: places where there are enough weapons to wipe out Sydney tomorrow. And I’m not counting the dirty bombs. I have no idea where they’re hidden. Think about it. We’ll really make war on terrorism if we go after the weapons. We out the countries that don’t do it themselves. We give them fair warning. If they don’t solve the problem, we’ll do it for them.”
“WMDs all over again? You don’t want another Iraq.”
“Doesn’t have to be. And I won’t be drawn into that kind of quagmire. We don’t invent a search. We seek, we evaluate, we confirm, we share our discovery with the host government, and then we destroy. Every action is a front-page victory.”
“A Taylor Doctrine?” Foss concluded.
“Absolutely not! It can’t be. It has to come out of our talks. It’s the balls.”
“How do you explain it to the doves in your own party? And what about collateral damage? Civilians will be killed.”
“Yes,” Taylor lowered his eyes. “That will happen. But after every strike, we show what the enemy had in store for us. This is war, David. How many innocent civilians would have died if that C-4 had gone off at the St. George?”
“Hundreds. Probably a thousand or more.”
“And the reaction from Hezbollah or JI?”
“Celebration,” the prime minister admitted.
“So to answer your question about how I’ll do back home? First of all, I’m not calling for individuals to disarm. I’m not shutting down Remington, Colt, or Heckler & Koch. And we’re certainly not planning on bombing Walther in Germany, or Beretta over in Italy. Hell, Beretta is the army standard in the U.S. We’d be shooting ourselves in the foot.”
“Or my Glock factories?” Foss noted.
“Or Glock. Our principal targets are the hiding places. We crash the arms deals, we cut off the money supply worth billions, and most importantly, we take out the stores. We do it with the authority of the agreement forged here and subsequent alliances in Europe, Africa—even the Middle East.”
“We’ll be labeled one-worlders. It’ll play into every conspiracy theorist’s wet dreams,” the prime minister added.
“They’re already calling me every name in the book. But if we’re ever going to succeed at this so-called war, we have to fight it—for better or worse. I don’t know if we can make it better, but I can promise you, if we don’t put some bite into this session, things will definitely get worse. Not temporarily worse. Worse forever.”
The night was coming to an end. Foss extinguished his cigar. He noticed that they’d both finished their drinks. “Another before we call it a night, Morgan?”
“No thanks,” Taylor replied.
Foss rose and started for the door. “May they never claim that two old drunken warhorses concocted this plan. How about we sleep on this a bit? Let’s get together a half hour before the first session and see how it looks in the morning.”
Foss offered his hand to his friend. Morgan Taylor took it and repeated the overarching truth. “David, remember, this can’t be termed ‘the Taylor Doctrine.’ It has to be bigger than that.”
Chapter 63
Glenbrook Royal Air Force Base
Friday, 10 August
The outrageous bid for an inexpensive 1957 Bowman baseball card looked like a teenager’s prank. The anonymous person who posted the card responded accordingly.
Bidder 34423
You express serious offers now. Others will not be considered. EBay was filled with ludicrous offers. This was not one of them. 2,500,000 euros were already transferred from one account to another. This e-mail confirmed the terms of the transaction.
Before clicking off, the Air Force mechanic re-read the message. The answer was contained in simple code on the second line.
You express serious offers now.
Years of training, preparation, and waiting came down to one message: Y-e-s o-n.
Chicago, Illinois
Luis Gonzales made the transfer without a concern for the amount. Some of it wa
s his money, most of it came from long-held accounts funded by special interests in Saudi Arabia and Syria. He’d earned good interest on it. Now it belonged to a highly skilled mechanic.
Amazing. Gonzales thought about the fortuitous turn of events. Lamden’s illness returns the presidency to Taylor. There’s no vice president. Things were better than he planned. It was the perfect political storm, and it would build to Category 5 in a matter of days. He would achieve so much at once—revenge and chaos. All of this was for his wife and daughter, killed by the Israelis because of the Americans. Both nations would be punished, and as a result, a true Palestinian state would rise and the Zionists would fall.
Gonzales admitted this would still take a few years. The American public needed more conditioning. A new president would help propagate the paradigm shift. Then, the map would be redrawn. Money destined for Israel would go to Palestine.
The fee for this part of the operation was insignificant. Two-and-a-half-million euros today, an equal amount when the job was completed. Gonzales considered it a small price to pay a sleeper spy on the job aboard Air Force One.
Langley, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
the same day
“Any progress?” D’Angelo asked Jassim at the start of the day. His team leader did have some new information.
“Actually, yes.” Jassim read from a report culled from FBI and NSA searches. “Ali Razak, came to the U.S. in ‘99 from Syria. No army record, probably because of his height, but according to Interpol, Razak showed up in interesting places at interesting times.”
“Meaning?”
“London. Same date as that big department store bombing. Remember?”
“Yes.” Evans had assigned him as a CIA liaison to the MI-5 investigation.
Executive Treason Page 43
