Right now it didn’t matter that she really knew nothing about her lover; that he failed to call her all year long; that he never even mentioned the company he worked for. She was lost in exquisite pleasure. And quite frankly, Lily Michaelson, wife, mother of two from Buffalo, New York, and PTA president probably wouldn’t have given up the moment even if he whispered in her ear that he was a cold-blooded murderer.
Twenty-two
Washington, D.C.
9 January
Roarke peddled his exercise bike with full resistance. It was a conscious way to deal with his feelings. Maybe Katie’s move to Washington had been a mistake. Everything was overwhelming—her White House appointment, the danger he brought to her life, the physical intensity of their relationship.
Roarke desperately wanted her, but now he needed to concentrate on work and shake the cobwebs from his mind.
Penny Walker was a huge help. He’d get more out of his friend Shannon Davis at the FBI, too. He just needed to beat Cooper to a kill. Roarke was convinced it was going to happen.
As he toweled down, Roarke looked through the Washington Post. A story in the metro section caught his eye. An interesting story. Particularly the line at the end.
Jason Trumbolt will be interred Thursday at Arlington National Cemetery during a private service. In lieu of flowers, friends are encouraged to make donations to The Iraqi War Veterans Fund for the Disabled.
He reread the account from the top. A lobbyist for Northrop had dropped dead on the Metro. He was a decorated Iraqi Freedom war vet, since retired, and a senior consultant for one of the leading aerospace contractors.
The obit noted that Colonel Jason Trumbolt served in Iraq. It was enough for him to stop peddling and call Walker at the Pentagon.
“Penny, it’s Roarke. Have you seen the…”
“Paper? Yes. Trumbolt?”
“Yes. Was he?”
“Yes he was. High up on the command. I’ve already put in a request for an autopsy. No fast cremation this time,” she said, referring to Roarke’s report from Montana.
“Shit. Right here in D.C.!” Roarke exclaimed. “Yesterday! Blocks away.” Roarke was close. “Pen, I have to know who’s left. Who he still has to get to?”
“I’m trying. But I hit a wall. Some of it’s classified. You know anyone who can help me cut through the bullshit?”
Of course Roarke did. His boss, the president of the United States. But Captain Walker also knew the president now. General Johnson had seen to that. It was a separate matter and, as far as she knew, it didn’t involve Roarke.
Roarke finished the conversation and jumped off his bike. He nearly ran down a woman in blue tights.
“Excuse me!” he offered in apology.
The woman smiled. “No problem.”
It barely took Roarke a second to remember her. The blonde from a week before. He figured she was in her late twenties, like Katie, but different. There was a calculating edge to her; disguised but there. It made him instantly uncomfortable.
They stood facing one another. Roarke apologized again.
“It’s totally okay,” she said. “I like meeting great looking guys at 40 miles per hour.”
He laughed. “I’ll slow down next time.”
“Not on my account.”
As he walked away he thought about her comment. It seemed completely seductive and absolutely intended.
Washington, D.C.
Later
Curtis Lawson took a long lunch. Instead of ordering a sandwich from the FBI commissary and taking it at his desk, or going to one of the nearby restaurants, he opted for a scallops-and-clam chowder at McCormick & Schmick’s at Ninth and F Street. It wasn’t because of a craving. During a meeting with the director, he was texted with a come-on for a new mortgage rate of 2.055 percent.
“Absurd!” he said. Lawson deleted it, complaining to Robert Mulligan that the damned cell phone solicitations, even on unlisted numbers, were getting worse. “I’m about ready to throw the damned thing out the window.”
The FBI Chief agreed. Since spam filters blocked almost all of the garbage coming through the e-mail server, many spammers switched to text messaging. The FBI was even investigating sales personnel at phone stores who were selling newly activated numbers on the side to third parties.
But it wasn’t spam. It was a message definitely intended for Lawson, the assistant director, and no one else. It was his cue to take a lunch.
Lawson got there at 2:05. He aimed for a particular barstool, but a man was sitting there, talking with a fellow worker over lunch. Lawson had seen them before on the Hill. They were young legislative aides, a year or two out of George Washington Law School. Not wanting to be noticed, he simply faded back a little, ordered an iced tea, and pretended to read the newspaper he’d brought along.
Twenty long minutes later they left, and Lawson saddled up to the seat even before the bar was clear. If the drop had been made, it would be under the counter; easy to extract. Lawson placed the newspaper on his lap. That gave him the opportunity to feel for the note. It was, taped up. After his lunch arrived, he placed a napkin on his lap, over the newspaper, and recovered the folded piece of paper with a simple tug. He neatly slid it between the pages of the day’s Washington Post. Lawson was back at the office by 2:05. There he read the nine-word note. If it fell into anyone’s hands it might look like a Super Bowl tip. But decoded it really belonged on the front page.
Twenty-three
The White House
“Mr. President, not many people penetrate my armor. Fact of the matter is that I really don’t let people even near. My whole life I’ve listened to command and authority. And no doubt, I’ve given my fair share of orders to those under me. I’ve tried my damned best to make decisions based on intel and instinct. Now, out of nowhere, you have me reaching for something I’m just not used to doing.”
General Jonas Jackson Johnson was one of America’s most decorated soldiers. As a wartime general he could dispassionately deal, live with, and compartmentalize the most weighty go/no-go decisions responsibly and dispassionately. And as the president’s national security advisor, he was privy to unspeakable truths about real-world dangers.
But four days ago Morgan Taylor asked him the most profound question of his life. It required an honest, emotional response, for it rose above rank. It touched his heart; a place a warrior avoided.
“You have it within you, J3,” the president replied. Believe me, you use the same strength of character you have always relied on. The difference is, you sleep a lot less at night and you have to listen to the voices of everyone who has carried the weight of the nation on their shoulders from the beginning of the republic. At least that’s how I see it.”
“You ask a lot from me.”
“No doubt about that.” There was only seriousness in President Taylor’s reply. “All that you are will come to bear. You will learn and you will grow. And should it become necessary, you will lead. General Johnson, how about making some history with me?”
Through the conversation the president and the general had been sitting across from each another. Morgan Taylor was at his desk. J3 in a chair facing him. Suddenly, General Johnson realized that his reply required him to come to attention. He stood, straightened his uniform, and looked deeply into the eyes of the president of the United States.
Sensing the importance of the moment, Morgan Taylor also stood.
“Mr. President, your offer demands more from me than I have ever delivered. Patience I have never had for bureaucracy. The ability to let things roll off me, which is not my nature. The requirement that I listen to multiple points of view rather than act on my own experience. And the need to be damned nice in polite company. Hell, I might even need to learn how to dance.”
“You can be sure of that,” Taylor laughed.
“You’re asking the wrong man to do all these things.”
“I’m asking the man most qualified.”
“Well, you finally got that right,
Mr. President. That’s why I’m ready to be your vice president.”
Morgan Taylor flashed the biggest smile he’d had in a long, long time. “Jonas,” the president said, using the general’s first name for probably the very first time, “You’re out of uniform. Go buy a new suit and get ready to face Congress.”
The FBI
The same time
In the world of holy shit, this was holy shit.
FBI agent Shannon Davis stopped short when he scanned the critical daily report assembled for him based on key search words. Some extracts were aimed at his ongoing investigations; others were requested by Scott Roarke. In this case it served both their needs.
Prior to Davis receiving the report, the agency search engine scoured more than 3,000 local newspapers, 3,500,000-plus blogs, 8,300 law enforcement agencies, as well as state and regional crime databases. In this particular case, it filtered 2,434,212 people with the same last name, 1,l54 in the target state, 152 in the county of interest, 22 in the local municipality, and 2 on the street in question.
In general, the name in question was Cooper. Specifically, Bill and Gloria Cooper. Today there was an exact hit on Gloria Cooper in the right state, on the right street, and the right city—Chester Township, Ohio.
It would have been an innocuous notation to anyone but Shannon Davis and his friend in the Secret Service, Scott Roarke. But it was anything but innocuous.
Shannon was on the phone within seconds after reading the 911 report vacuumed up by the powerful agency computers.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he said as Scott Roarke’s cell phone rang. On the fourth ring Roarke answered.
“Hello, Shannon,” Roarke answered, seeing the caller ID. Roarke was walking to the White House after his morning workout at the YMCA gym at Seventeenth and Rhode Island. “What’s up?”
“Got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“Probably not for the phone. Let’s just say the mother of a soldier presumed to be killed in Iraq popped up in a small police report today in…”
With that, Roarke made a quick about-face on K Street and headed to the FBI headquarters. “I’ll be there in fifteen. Dig up anything else you can. Whatever it is, it’s relevant!” Roarke hung up. His sudden change of direction was noted by only one person. A woman. Christine Slocum who walked quite casually, but intently, a half block behind.
Shannon Davis’s FBI office at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue could have been anybody’s. Barely 250 square feet. White walls. Three filing cabinets. A view of The Corporation for Public Broadcasting Building across the street. However, Shannon Davis didn’t need much more than his computer and his intellectual curiosity. In the hands of a talent investigator, these tools were often more powerful than the bureau’s standard-issue Glocks.
“Pretty interesting, Scott.”
“For damned sure,” Roarke replied. He read the simple Chester Township police report again.”
Distress call; F. Gloria Cooper, age 67. Possible stalker sighted outside residence. No direct contact. Black Lincoln Navigator. No ID on license plate. WM. Estimated late ‘30s. No positive ID. Woman reports individual resembled family’s deceased son; killed in Iraq. Officers sent to scene. No report of suspect. No further action taken.
Davis referred to his notes for the rest of his briefing.
“We’ll have a transcript of her 911 call. It’s bizarre. She didn’t want her husband involved. She was distraught, as if she’d seen the dead. This could prove he’s not.” The FBI agent turned to Roarke. “Would he be that stupid to go back and see his mother?”
“Not his mother, but his roots,” Roarke answered. “Richard Cooper was trying to connect with his roots. Seeing his mother was an accident. A mistake he’s not likely to make again. You can be sure he’s put on six hundred miles on since then.”
“Six hundred? To where?” Davis asked.
“Right here. Cooper is back in Washington. He’s been busy. Check the obit page in today’s paper.”
That evening
The Mansion on O Street
“I want to know how to see trouble coming,” Katie said.
The comment caught Roarke off guard. At first he thought it was the mojito speaking, not his beautiful girlfriend.
“You what?” Roarke asked.
“I want to be more prepared.”
“Why?”
“Oh because someone…many someones…have tried to kill you, just two, three, oh, four times by last count. I was stalked as a result of being with you and I didn’t have a clue how to notice things.”
Katie and Roarke were having dinner in one of the most unusual hotel restaurants in Dupont Circle, let alone the entire district. The Mansion on O Street had more than one hundred rooms and dozens of secret doors leading into bedrooms and down winding hallways. The establishment was actually four 1890’s brownstones linked together. Its eclectic clientele came from all walks of life: authors, musicians, politicos, corporate executives, K Street lobbyists, and club members and their guests. The management never disclosed the identity of the hotel clientele. Even more unique, the mansion is filled with floor-to-ceiling art and memorabilia. Every glass, plate, salt and pepper shaker, painting, and trinket is for sale. The only things not tagged for purchase: the priceless collection of electric guitars autographed by legendary rockers.
Given the surroundings, Roarke figured this was a perfect location for lesson number one.
“Okay, I get it.”
“Then take me out to a shooting range. Get me a gun. Teach me…”
“Slow down. To jump out of the way of an oncoming bus you have to see it first. Let’s work on those skills.”
“What skills?”
“Making you more observant. More aware.”
Roarke took in the room again. They had been seated in the middle of the restaurant on the one night of the week that it was actually open to the public. It was not the best position, but it gave him a view of the most open area. In front of Katie, three rows of tables and a standing bar for wine and cocktails. At dinnertime, the restaurant was alive. It was the perfect place to be seen or get lost in the crowd.
“All right Ms. Kessler, school’s open,” Roarke offered. He leaned in a bit. “Don’t actually look anywhere, but take mental pictures of everything you can. Use word associations. Note manner, attitude, clothing…if people are paying attention to one another or not. Count steps to the entrance, find escape routes, question why people are together and who doesn’t belong. And keep talking the whole time.”
Katie automatically turned her head slightly.
“No, no, no. No real peeking. It all has to be while you’re engaged in normal conversation. You talk, you gesture, you take it all in.”
“Well, Scott,” she began marching her fingers to his hands and up his arms. “Let’s talk about something else. Like after we’re through with dinner.”
“Okay,” Roarke said, thinking the lesson was suddenly over.
“I want to take you back to my apartment,” she said coyly.
“Oh?”
“Then I’m going to undress you very, very slowly.” Her fingers marched up farther and her foot, now freed from her shoe, caressed his leg. She moved across the table, closed her eyes, and kissed him on the lips.
Roarke automatically closed his eyes. When he opened, Katie inched back. That’s when he saw her glance ever so slightly from side to side as if to see if her kiss drew what would be natural observations.
“Oh, you’re good,” he whispered, impressed with her technique.
“Shhh,” she said, “I’m talking.” Her foot went back to work under the table. “First I’ll unbutton your shirt, though one day I just want to rip it open. You put your arms down and it’ll drop to the floor. Then I’ll unbuckle you. No problem there. I can do it in the dark. But we’re going to leave the lights on…for both of us.”
Katie worked her toes up higher. Scott was definitely into the conversation.
&n
bsp; “Your pants will fall down. Then your underwear, unless, of course, they get stuck along the way. If so, trust me, I’ll help. It might require bending down. And while I’m there, if my hands aren’t busy, I’ll take your socks off. One by one. You know my rule.”
“Can’t be naked with socks on.”
“Good boy.”
“And then,” he managed to say.
“And then?” She suddenly pulled back laughing. “And then I get your cell phone out of your pants pocket and throw the damned thing out the window so it doesn’t interrupt us while I fuck your brains out!”
Roarke laughed, too.
“I’m serious,” Katie said.
“How about I mute it before you get to the belt buckle?”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay,” she replied, flipping her hair, which gave Katie a chance to check out more of the room. Then, with a smile, Katie Kessler was back to business. “Wanna know what I saw?”
“Go.”
Katie began describing people in the room with astounding detail. “Over your right shoulder is a couple on their first date. Awkward conversation; no touching. I’d say he’s a year or two out of law school, probably working on the Hill, not for a law firm.”
“Why?”
“If he were at a firm, at his age and level, he’d be there until midnight. So he has the look of a lawyer, but he’s definitely not with a firm. She’s a legislative assistant he picked up. No more than twenty-three and very Midwest.”
“Assess the threat.”
“No threat.”
“Go on.”
“Another table over are three guys, mid-twenties. They keep splitting their attention between the game on the monitors and watching the waitress’s ass, the one with the short black hair. And when we came in you checked out her ass as well, Mr. Roarke. Looking for concealed weapons?”
“Always.” That part was very true. “Back to the guys. Are you sure they’re not doing that as a cover, trading off keeping an eye on us?”
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 15
