A draft of the amendment was already working its way through Congress where political wars were going to be fought over more than just language. The fundamental concept would take one of the country’s most powerful men out of the Number Three position in the order of succession; something that Duke Patrick, Speaker of the House, didn’t like at all. And he liked Morgan Taylor even less.
Taylor embraced Katie Kessler’s plan for establishing the office of president and vice-president-in-waiting. These positions would be held by presidential appointees and would serve only upon the death of both the president and his vice president. They would live outside the District and be afforded Secret Security protection and daily White House briefings. Taylor presented the idea to the public before the holidays. His aides were still selling it up, but the country seemed to be behind it.
The plan sought to guarantee the stability and sanctity of the executive branch should Washington be the target of a catastrophic attack that eliminated the heads of state, the Speaker of the House, the president pro tem of the Senate, and the cabinet. This was one of Taylor’s “unthinkables” that he’d acted on. But from Patrick’s point of view, and his power base, it bumped the speaker—it bumped him—way down the line.
“So when do I get into the debate?” Patrick asked. It was apparent the decision was less his. It belonged to the people with him in the sauna.
“Formally, after Taylor’s State of the Union. But you start tickling the tiger now. A few calls to the White House. The Daily Show likes you. You go there. We find the right news talkers to go on. You mention the concerns, never personal, of course. All for the benefit of the country. Then you’ll hit it hard.
“It will look personal, like I’m an opportunist just out for my own hide.”
“No, it won’t,” Williamson said in an even tone.
“How?”
“You’re going to offer to step down as Speaker of the House,”
“What?” Patrick was completely flabbergasted.
“You offer. It will diffuse any concern that this is self-serving. You won’t have to.”
“And if you’re wrong and I do?”
“That’s easy to answer,” Williamson said. He looked over at Aderly.
The powerful Washington senator smiled. It was the convincing, photo-perfect smile that helped him win elections. “You become a more viable, more honorable candidate come primary season in two years. You make a lot of money in speaking engagements, and then the nation elects you president of the United States.”
Patrick wasn’t so sure.
“Don’t look so worried, Duke,” the lobbyist added. “This will be very scripted, starting with a speech at the Jefferson Memorial. You’ll be, well, very Jeffersonian.
“Scripted? I write my own speeches,” Patrick blustered.
“Not any more.”
“But…”
Williamson was in total control. “Don’t worry. We’ve got someone to write it for you.”
“I always…”
“Everything must be carefully choreographed,” Aderly explained. The election is still three years out. We’ll take care of you.”
“Who?”
“Someone already in your office. A woman named Slocum.”
“Christine?” Patrick felt an immediate stirring at the thought of the attractive legislative aide. He tried to casually cover himself with his towel, but not before his problem was apparent.
“You’re not the first to notice her,” Aderly laughed.
Duke Patrick was clearly the most powerful man in the House of Representatives, but right now he felt like a pawn, played by two great masters. They were naked in the sauna, conspiring like old Roman senators. But once in the White House, he would remind them who was in charge.
“We’ll time everything. We’ll whisper in ears, plant op eds that raise your visibility, and get you all the airtime you’ll need,” Williamson said. “The blogs and the radio talkers will all be behind you. And TV. Then there will be real noise. Hell, maybe we’ll even have you switch your party affiliation. Now that’ll make news.”
“Put a bead in that,” the Democrat Aderly said.
Patrick pursed his lips and nodded. On some levels it was like the old days. Party bosses made the decisions and played puppet master. Mayors, governors, congressmen, and even presidents. However, Congressman Duke Patrick’s run for the White House would be crafted by a committee of two scoundrels. They’d market and elect a winner. It was all detailed in a confidential white paper prepared by Williamson’s Center for Strategic Studies, a think tank that Patrick knew very little about. And yes, switching parties was an active scenario.
“Now, let’s review some talking points you can go with right away,” Aderly said in his booming voice. “This will be great.”
Seven
The Oval Office
The day was going to end as it began. With hard, harsh words.
“Good evening, President Hernandez. I’m sorry that this call is coming so late. I appreciate your time now.”
“No hours shall ever get in the way of our friendship,” the former importer, now president of Mexico, lied.
The CIA reported that Oscar Hernandez’s imports were not always legal. Taylor had been fully briefed before their first meeting a year ago. Hernandez had made multimillions in contraband—drugs and weapons. Much of his profit was earned at the expense of U.S. citizens—many of whom were now dead from overdoses or gangland assassinations.
“Thank you for that. Mr. President, you’re on a speaker phone and General Johnson is with me.”
J3 offered only a curt hello. He’d hadn’t perfected pleasantries yet.
“I’m honored to be on with both of you,” Mexico’s president noted. “My chief of staff, Elder Cabrera, has joined me.”
Cabrera said hello. But before they lost more time with small talk, Taylor went on point.
“Mr. President, I will start with geography we are both familiar with.” There would be no interruption for five minutes.
“We share a two-thousand-mile border that is porous. By conservative estimates, a quarter of a million illegal aliens, many of them Mexican nationals, enter the United States from other-than-official border crossings. Mind you, that two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand estimate is conservative, even though illegal immigration has slowed. A more accurate account suggests a half million to a million. You know how border states like Texas and Arizona feel. It’s not pretty.”
“We wish it were otherwise, Mr. President.
“Agreed,” Taylor said instantly shutting down a response. “Two years after 9/11, the U.S. Border Patrol apprehended”—for this he consulted his notes—“39,215 illegals and OTMs.” Other-than-Mexicans required no explanation. “The next year, the number increased to 65,814. Three years later, twice that number. Now it’s doubled again.
“Our records show that while many crossing the border are admittedly hard working men and women seeking to make an honest living for their families, many are not. More than 20 percent of illegals entering last year had criminal records. Twenty percent, Mr. President.
“They come through Mexico, though their countries of origin vary. Honduras, Brazil, Paraguay, El Salvador.” Morgan Taylor paused so his next point—the object of the call—would truly sink in. “They come from other countries as well. Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, and Pakistan.
“Mr. President, the problem is twofold. By not controlling your side of the border between our two great nations, you have created a terrorist freeway—a Highway One to the United States. Highway One with hundreds, if not thousands of off ramps.
“We detain. You don’t control. We disarm. You allow re-arming. We move to close the entrance points. You even publish and distribute guides for those who seek to enter. We deport. You turn them around and point them back north.
“Specifics, must be on your mind, Mr. President. So, I will give them to you. A Juarez television station, on more than one occasion, reported th
at suspected terrorists have paid taxi drivers to take them across the border. Their destination—Sante Fe, New Mexico. But if that is unsubstantiated, then the crossing of Mahmoud Youssef Kourani was not. He was smuggled into the United States in 2001, caught and pleaded guilty to providing material support to Hezbollah. Kourani was not a hard-working itinerant Mexican. Kourani was an Iraqi national; a man on the FBI’s terrorist watch list; an Al Qaeda operative. He had been in Mexico. In Sabinas Hidalgo, just southwest of San Antonio. I believe your wife came from there, Mr. President.” Taylor had done his homework. “She still has family in town. Think about whether your nieces and nephews are safe?
“In the time since we arrested Kourani, we have learned a great deal, Mr. President. There are more active Al Qaeda cells in Mexico. The Department of Homeland Security gave this information to your intelligence officers eighteen months ago. You’ve made no arrests, Mr. President. Not one. Not in a year and a half.
“Here is what is happening. Arab nationals with known terrorist Al Qaeda connections set up shop in your country. They change their Islamic surnames to Hispanic sounding names, obtain false identification, learn to speak Spanish, and then pass themselves off as determined immigrants. They are not migrant workers simply trying to better their lives.” Sarcasm slipped in. Taylor delivered it quite deliberately. “Oh, and they come here, too, on Aeromexico flights under false passports, claiming to be college professors looking for jobs. We have a dead one in a Houston morgue right now.”
Taylor heard muffled chatter on the phone as President Hernandez and Secretary Cabrera conferred. Up until now there had been nothing new to Taylor’s rant. But this new information was dramatic.
“Mr. President, may I….”
“I’m not finished yet. Believe me, you’ll want to hear me out.”
Taylor and General Johnson noted a frustration on the other end of the phone.
“At least three gangs are known to be assisting these sleeper spies,” Taylor continued. “And yes, they are sleeper spies, Mr. President. I assure you they have not come to Texas to take in the Superman ride at Six Flags.” More sarcasm. “They have thrived in El Salvador, Paraguay, and Brazil, but they also flourish in the Mexican state of Chiapas, along your border with Guatemala. It seems you have a problem to the south as well as the north.
“There, the Maras run their smuggling operations, which includes people, drugs, and weapons.” Taylor wanted to bring Hernandez personally into the conversation, but he resisted. “They travel north on a cargo train, which departs every week out of Tapachula.” More homework now. “Your father’s hometown, Mr. President.
“Now to my most important point. Both our nations signed a “Declaration of Security in the Americas” at a Special Conference on Security of the Organization of the American States. That was in 2003 before either of us took office. But our predecessors considered it an important agreement. As I’m sure you recall, it recognized that the hemisphere faces more than traditional threats. We are confronted with global terror, which requires a multidimensional response.”
“Mr. President!” Hernandez tried to cut in.
“That response?” Morgan Taylor continued; his voice more resolute. “You and I both know the answer. I recently helped forge a new security doctrine in Southeast Asia. You have seen the results. We strike at terrorist strongholds, weapons supplies, and training camps, just as President Obama did in taking down bin Laden. But even we have been lax when dealing with the Republic of Mexico.”
Morgan Taylor drew a long breath. “President Hernandez, that is about to change.”
Five minutes. That’s the time it took to dress down the leader of Mexico. The country was currently one of America’s greatest problems and certainly its closest.
“Mr. President,” Hernandez managed, “you can accept that there is more than one hundred twenty-five years of standing good will at risk. So grant me the privilege of a rebuttal. You do a disservice to our great nations if you do not.” The fifty-eight-year-old ex-smuggler was known as an expert debater. Morgan Taylor expected a counter argument. He was going to get it.
“Your assessments are not correct. You assert that the Maras are cooperating with Al Qaeda. Not in my country. Contrary to your police reports and intelligence provided by your historically flawed CIA analyses, they are not a centralized organization. They do not have the kind of infrastructure that would support a relationship with an outside organization, let alone a nonindigenous one.
“Moreover, the Maras do not have an anti-American agenda. They are, without a doubt, criminals. But they are committing no political crimes. They are not terrorists.”
An intelligence report on Taylor’s desk told him that historically Hernandez had solid ties to the Maras. The Mexican president’s protestations meant nothing.
“Come now, my friend,” Hernandez continued. “The Maras are disorganized and terrible with details. They’d make the worst partner for Al Qaeda, which is highly security conscious.
“As I acknowledged, the Maras are criminals. Perhaps deadly criminals, but they are not enemies of the State. Not ours or yours. Should you attempt any breach of our border to strike at these gangs, you will undoubtedly cause the death of hundreds, if not thousands, of my countrymen. Women and children included. The elderly and the pregnant. It will not solve your problems, Mr. President. It will increase them. You will succeed only in creating a new enemy. Examine your recent history to see that I’m correct.”
The Mexican president paused, but not to allow Morgan Taylor a chance to re-enter the conversation. He used the moment to add a sharper tone to deliver and read Cabrera’s notes.
“There are no terrorist training camps, Mr. President. Your hard targets are elsewhere. Not the Republic of Mexico. You cannot seriously consider Mexico farmland or our bustling cities home to terrorist bases. I repeat, Mr. President, the United States has no targets in the Republic of Mexico.
“We do, however, have a border crisis. For that, you are right. And who’s to say that OTMs, the name you so readily apply—and an offense all its own—are not a problem. But I suggest you look to the north. Canada has more accessible routes to the United States. It shares two borders with you. Alaska and the mainland. And those borders receive less scrutiny than ours. It seems your immigration authorities prefer the warm weather.
“Fly your drones elsewhere, Mr. President. Mexico is not your enemy unless you make it so.”
Now it was Morgan Taylor’s turn again. Hernandez would not have the last word.
“You must be familiar with the name Adnan G. El Shukrijumah, Mr. President,” Taylor blasted. He repeated the name. “Adnan G. El Shukrijumah.”
Taylor picked up a file and read a summary.
“Known Al Qaeda. Suspected in the planning of 9/11. Positive ID in Honduras, July, 2004, meeting with the leaders of Mara Salvatrucha. Shukrijumah had reportedly sought entry routes into the United States through Mexico. From Matamoros to Brownsville, Texas.”
Morgan Taylor lifted his eyes from the report. “This Al Qaeda operative, who you maintain would have no reason to do business with the Maras, tried to acquire radioactive substances to manufacture a dirty bomb. A bomb they intended to transport through your nation to mine. A nuclear bomb, Mr. President.”
Taylor’s voice was now far sterner than Hernandez’s. “Our bilateral agreements state that we share security responsibilities along our border. If it is not bilaterally maintained, then it will be unilaterally enforced. We will act. The Maras will be targeted and removed with extreme prejudice. We will take the battle to them. That is our course of action. If you have another, I recommend you make it operational within fifteen days. Fifteen days, Mr. President. Not a moment longer.”
Taylor ended the call with a request that his best regards be conveyed to the president’s wife. The hollow pleasantry was returned and the Mexican president hung up.
“Well, J3?” Morgan Taylor asked.
“We shall see what we shall see,”
General Johnson replied.
“In two weeks you may very well be implementing this.” Taylor held a folder in his lap. It detailed an executive command that would far exceed what Morgan Taylor hinted on the phone.
The National Security Advisor was well acquainted with the plan. He’d written it.
Eight
Washington, D.C.
The J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building
At ten that night, Curtis Lawson stopped in to say goodnight to Director Mulligan. He had his trench coat over his right arm and leather gloves in his left hand. It had been another long, exhausting day. He knocked on the door, well aware that the head of the FBI would be at his desk.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“Lawson.”
“Come on in, Curtis,” the director said to his number three.
Mulligan was at his feet to greet Lawson, one of the senior African American men in the bureau. The chief kept a file on the forty-two-year-old up and comer. It was filled with praise that might eventually work into a recommendation to the president for the head job. Praise that noted his management ability, his award-winning marksman awards, and his achievement as a Rhodes Scholar.
Curtis also had great looks and the body of an NFL quarterback. Quite a contrast to the older, balding director he had been working under for six years.
Bob Mulligan poured a glass of aged Bacardi 8 rum. “Join me in a nightcap, Curt? We’ve been through the ringer today.”
“No thanks, sir. Too wasted and I still have a stop to make on the way home. Gotta pick up some things for my kid.”
Lawson definitely appeared tired. The events of the day in Houston sent the entire bureau into a frenzy, and Mulligan had put Lawson in charge from the first alarm. This pleased Lawson for a few reasons. He’d been on the outside of other recent key investigations, solely working off gossip, which he valued. Now, finally, he was on the inside.
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