Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command

by Gary Grossman

  Things were proceeding on schedule. He figured no more than ten days, maybe less.

  The Great Satan will choke, Haddad said to himself. The fact that he’d also stand to make hundreds of millions of dollars gave him even greater satisfaction. He would not live forever. But his money would continue to finance terror long after.

  Haddad turned the Internet radio station back up and looked at the global market on the CNBC Web site. Another very good day ahead.

  New York City

  Wall Street Journal Offices

  Paul Twardy reported on stock trends. He was watching Pepsico, Coke, and Nestlé again, to see where they would go with the morning bell. He charted sharp rises four days in a row. The trend would be understandable in the summer. But January?

  Twardy was raised in upstate New York, studied business at Wharton, and switched to journalism at NYU grad school. No surprise he could make a business story read like a thriller. He’d written for the Boston Globe, the Philadelphia Inquirer, and Time, where a decade earlier he won a Pulitzer for his cover story on pharmaceutical companies that profited from flu epidemics scares. He exposed two schemes in particular. The award was great, but the magazine lost advertising revenue. He was unceremoniously dropped eight months later. He took his award to Newsweek, then USA Today, and most recently WSJ.

  This story had the same kind of ring to it. But he wasn’t sure why until he heard the last half hour of an off-the-wall radio show on his way into work.

  Thirty-three

  Helena, Montana

  0830 hrs

  The C-37A came to a perfect, short landing and taxied to the opposite end of the runway, dropping Roarke off at the general aviation terminal. As soon as Roarke was clear of the wings, the plane was refueled in preparation of a quick take off.

  A man, bundled up against the cold, met him halfway to a civilian aviation hangar.

  “Mr. Roarke?”

  “Yes.” Roarke’s breath formed a dense cloud in front of him.

  “I’m SGT Amos Barnes from Helena. Sorry for the cold.” He looked at what Roarke was wearing. “I’ve got a warmer jacket inside for you.”

  “Thanks Sergeant.” Roarke shivered. “Feels like I’m going to need it.”

  “A bit colder than D.C.?”

  “Sergeant, the less you know who I am and where I come from the better. Hope that’s okay, but it’s the way I operate.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Now point me to the bathroom and a cup of coffee. I’ve had a really long day and I’ll be happy to hear all about your special guest.”

  As he said this, Roarke turned his phone on. The moment it found a signal and reset to local time a message alert sounded. Roarke waited to listen until after he was alone and finished washing his hands at the terminal sink. He washed them thoroughly until Christine Slocum’s work was completely gone.

  The voice message was brief:

  Sweetheart, word is you’ve been a busy boy.

  Figure you’re en route now, but you’re going

  to want to call me.

  CPT Penny Walker left all the encouragement needed. She had him on You’re going to want to call me.

  “Okay partner, whatcha got?” Roarke asked, now in the passenger seat of a Ford F-150.

  “No hello? Sorry to wake you?”

  “Hello, sorry to wake you.”

  “Fuck you very much, Mr. Roarke. And a good morning to you, too.”

  “Sorry,” Roarke said. “I’m a little bit scrambled up right now.”

  “So I heard,” Walker replied. “You okay, though?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell Katie what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Word of advice. You better, especially considering this other stuff you’re stepping into.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The phone number. The woman. Miss Sex Appeal.”

  “Ah, what do you have?”

  “Well, starting with the basics, if I were still seeing you, I’d be jealous.”

  “You must have something else than her measurements.”

  “I do. Christine Slocum. Age twenty-seven. Magna cum laude Smith graduate in International studies. Interned at the U.N., Smith Barney, and a big ass D.C. law firm with too many names to mention. Apparently she’s a damned good writer, too. A few articles came up through Google, I bet there’s more. Scholarly stuff on the Middle East, American politics, NAFTA. I also found her through some blogs. But all that seemed to stop about eighteen months ago. No bylines since then.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Still researching that. Nothing yet. But I’ll get it.”

  “You’re holding something back, Pen,” Roarke said.

  “Ah yes. Her current employment.”

  All Roarke knew was that Slocum worked on the Hill.

  “Your dear Ms. Slocum is no slouch. She’s a speechwriter for a congressman.”

  This was getting more interesting already.

  “Care to take a guess who she works for?”

  “Nope.” Roarke didn’t need to make anything more public in the truck than he already had.

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Nope.”

  “Christine Slocum is Duke Patrick’s speechwriter.”

  Roarke let the information sink in. Walker thought he dropped off the call.

  “Scott, did you get that?”

  “Sure did. Anything else?”

  “Not yet. Still digging. But look for an e-mail in a while.”

  Roarke ended the conversation with a quick thanks. He considered the last, most essential information that Walker discovered. Christine Slocum is Duke Patrick’s speechwriter.

  As a Secret Service agent, Roarke served the office of the president. As a human being, Scott Roarke was fiercely loyal to Morgan Taylor. So why does the Speaker of House’s speechwriter, the president’s chief critic since Senator Teddy Lodge, make a beeline to me? It wasn’t a coincidence. She was clearly stalking him, ready in every way to take him. Why? he wondered.

  Roarke went to a solitary place, a quiet mental state where his martial arts master had taught him to look for answers. There, he saw Slocum. But it wasn’t the image of her at the gym. It was someplace else; in the wings of a hallway in a far-off memory. Only the sound of the Ford truck crunching on the snow in a parking lot brought him back.

  Roarke knocked gently on the door. It definitely wasn’t the knock of a policeman, CIA interrogator, or army intelligence.

  “Hola, Ricardo. Como ésta?” Roarke’s Spanish was passable, not great. But he thought it might be a good place to start.

  “Uno momento,” Ricardo Perez replied from behind the door.

  Roarke motioned for SGT Barnes and a National Guard private standing vigil to step away. He gave a nod indicating he’d be okay. The young guardsman was reluctant to take orders from the civilian. Roarke looked to Barnes who took care of the situation with a whisper in the soldier’s ear. Roarke didn’t know and didn’t care what he said. He just wanted to be alone and out of earshot of everyone

  Perez unlatched the chain and turned the lock. The two men stood face to face at about the same height.

  Roarke took the lead in Spanish. “Me llamo Scott Roarke.” He offered his hand. Perez, unsure, took it. Roarke then asked in English, “May I come in?”

  Asking permission was like the gentle knock; an indication of the nonthreatening, nonauthoritarian tone Roarke wanted to establish.

  “Sure.” Not knowing what else to do, the gang member volunteered his name.

  “It’s good to meet you, Ricardo. Is English okay?”

  Again, it was all about permission.

  “Yes.”

  “May I sit down?”

  Perez was not used to anyone asking him anything. He lived, let alone, survived in a world of demands with no civility and punishment for disobeying.

  “Sure.”

  Roarke took the chair across from the bed.

 
; Perez sat at the head of the bed, the farthest point from Roarke.

  Roarke reasoned that if this went well, he’d move closer and ultimately they’d be sitting side by side, eating burgers and fries together on the bed, and sharing war stories about their common past. For now, the distance was fine.

  “I work for the president of the United States, Ricardo. I’m not a soldier, though I was one, and I’m not a policeman. I help the president figure things out that can make this country better.”

  Perez listened.

  “I don’t need to tell you, you’re a lucky man to be alive.”

  No response.

  “If your gang experience was anything similar to mine, you can’t go back to any of your family.” Roarke intentionally chose family. “They’ll kill you, Ricardo. They already tried.”

  “Not everyone. Not my brother.” He was opening up.

  “No, not your brother. But they’d have to kill both of you. He’d be too much of a threat.”

  This penetrated.

  “It’s over, Ricardo. It’s over for you, just like it was over for me years ago.”

  Roarke shared some of his story; enough to strengthen the growing trust.

  “Now tell me about you. Start wherever you want. Take your time. Oh, and how about some breakfast? Pancakes, eggs? I’m starving.”

  Thirty-four

  Moscow

  The same time

  It was easier than Arkady Gomenko had imagined. He had all the right stamps that trafficked the world of officialdom, and slipping the letter into the middle of the stack for the late-arriving Yuri Ranchenkov was no problem. Even in the world of e-mail, so much of the bureaucratic process was still accomplished through memoranda. In this case, it provided more deniability, because the lame nephew of the prime minister probably forgot half of what he ordered. And without an electronic trail, Gomenko’s fingerprints (absent from the letter thanks to the gloves he wore) were not on the correspondence in any shape or form.

  Now it was a matter of waiting until Ranchenkov came into work, had his morning coffee, wasted an hour or two, went through his e-mail, and then hit the morning snail mail. Gomenko expected he’d get called in any minute after the ritual.

  Like clockwork: “Gomenko, get in here,” Ranchenkov ordered over the phone.

  “Yes, sir,” the hapless official answered.

  Gomenko walked the long dingy corridor which needed the same paint job that had been forgotten in the Soviet era. He took his time, not looking to be too eager; just the normal functionary who made work last.

  “Good morning, Director Ranchenkov,” Gomenko said, entering the office.

  “What’s good about it?”

  “Apparently very little from your tone.”

  Ranchenkov didn’t share the reason for his displeasure, but Gomenko smiled inside.

  “What are you working on?”

  “The Balkan summary you gave me three weeks ago.”

  “It can wait. I have something else for you,” the deputy director general of internal intelligence said.

  “But you told me it was urgent.” Slogging through a useless report was hardly urgent, but it is what filled his days, months, and years.

  “It can wait another week. I have a most important matter; a request from the Kremlin.” Ranchenkov read from the memorandum without referencing the named author, Petrov Androsky. “You can go to the archives, research this thoroughly, and prepare the report.”

  The beauty of the plan Gomenko had invented is that he was acting under orders that would never be questioned, preparing a report that would never be read—at least in Moscow. It would add to his work week and to his retirement income.

  Just to tickle the tiger, he asked, “Where do I start, I’ve never heard of the Andropov Institute. Is it a school?”

  “I have no idea.” That was true. Ranchenkov had served in the Soviet army for only a short time. He came up through the FSB long after the collapse of Communism. “Some relic, but you’re going to dust off the files and become an expert. The Kremlin,” he still didn’t say who, “requires a full summary. Names, dates, places. Details. I don’t want to see you until it’s finished. I’ll clear you at records.”

  Gomenko collapsed his body in mock disgust. He let out a sigh for effect and left for his office.

  “And it better be finished fast,” Ranchenkov yelled to his underling’s back.

  Spying didn’t get much easier, Gomenko thought.

  Montana motel

  Roarke and Perez were on their second Egg McMuffins from the McDonald’s on North Montana Avenue. They’d already had an order of pancakes and a large McCafe latte. The food had done as Roarke intended—satisfy his hunger and bring them closer together. He now sat at the corner of the bed and listened intently as the gang member was up to how he survived being raped by a truck driver.

  This conversation took the better part of the morning. Roarke was in no rush to get to the heart of the matter. It was far more important to establish a bond with Perez. In time, and with trust, the relevant information would come.

  Just before noon, the young Mara transporter began to describe how he picked up a man at the Houston airport.

  “He came in on a morning flight. He’d been told my license plate and what I’d be driving. I just needed to keep circling the airport until he saw me. On the third time around, this guy flagged me. I pulled over. He had a password and I had the answer. That was it.”

  “What was the password?” Roarke asked, wondering if it would add anything.

  “Pretty simple. I had to hear it a few times. The guy had some sort of accent. It was ‘I’m going to a soccer match. Who’s winning the competition?’ Of course, I needed to have the right answer.”

  “Which was?”

  “Guatemala.”

  “That was it?”

  “No, if he responded, ‘I wish Brazil was still winning,’ I was to let him in. If he got it wrong, I was supposed to still pick him up, start driving north, then find a place and kill him.”

  “He got it right,” Roarke noted.

  “Yeah, but only to try to kill me later.”

  Roarke didn’t jump to that part of the conversation yet. He wanted to take things all in order.

  “Did he speak with you enough to get a sense of where he was from?” Roarke asked. To be more clear he added, “Did he sound like you?”

  “No. He wasn’t Latin. European maybe. He had a roughness to the way he spoke. Without ups and downs. Just flat.”

  Roarke gave a few examples of words and sounds. When he came to a sentence in German, Perez stopped him.

  “Like that.”

  “Are you sure? Roarke tried a few sentences with a Spanish, Russian, and Arabic dialect. He wasn’t as proficient as his friend, CIA agent Vinnie D’Angelo, but it was good enough.

  “No, it was more like that first one. Maybe with a little of the last, too, when he met up with the other guy.”

  “It was a long ride. Did he talk to you?”

  “Only to tell me he needed a bathroom.”

  “Any cell phone calls?” Roarke might be able to track something down.

  “No.”

  “What about stopping for food or coffee?”

  “He had some food with him. I had a lot of coffee. I offered. He wouldn’t drink any.”

  A German Muslim? That was Roarke’s assumption, at least based on the limited variables he was getting.

  “What about when you dropped him off?”

  Perez recounted the event. The other car flashing its lights. The two greeting one another as long lost friends.

  “Whoa. Describe that.”

  “They fucking kissed each other on the cheeks both sides. And talked in that other language.”

  “Did you catch anything? Anything like ‘’Assalamu alikum or Salam Alaikum?”

  “Yes, that Assalamu thing you just said.”

  Now Perez had a question for Roarke.

  “So who the hell were they
? And why did he want to kill me?”

  Roarke stepped very carefully. “In a second.” Roarke thought for a moment. “Ricardo, you must have gotten a good look at the man you drove.”

  “Yes. I kept staring at him in the rearview mirror. Whenever he noticed, he moved away.”

  “And what about the other man? The one he met up with in the parking lot?”

  “Him, too.”

  “Well, to answer your question, they, or someone behind this, wanted to kill you because you could identify them. You’re alive and I need you to do just that—identify them.” Roarke stood up. He had the young man’s full attention.

  “Ricardo, I can help you. I mean really help you. We can give you a new name. A new life. An education. You can be somebody. Put all this behind you. Everything. There’s the army or even college. But it all begins today with what you know.”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Told me, yes. But it’s time for some pictures.”

  “Pictures. I didn’t have a camera.”

  “In a way you did. I’m going to go out and see if the sergeant can find someone in town who can draw well. Maybe we can get a clear picture of the two men based on your descriptions. All you’ll need to do is talk them through it. If we get decent drawings I have a friend who can do miracles with them; maybe even figure out who the hell they are. Think you can?”

  “I’ve never done it before.”

  “You’ve never escaped from a car bomb before either.”

  Moscow

  Later

  Arkady was waved through security in the FSB archives. He was allowed only pads of paper and pencils. No pens, no cell phones, keys, or anything that could hide electronics or cameras of any design. But then again he didn’t need them.

  One archivist pointed him to another until he was convinced he was getting the old-fashioned Soviet runaround.