“Yeah, I read it this morning.”
“And how does it strike you?”
“Sad.”
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are two Teddy Lodge’s. The public one and the private one. The public falls in love with the handsome, dynamic born-again Kennedy. Those of us who’ve worked with him in Congress know that’s he’s shrewd and manipulative. But that’s no reason for us to permit an assassin to get a good shot at him again. Now that he’s under our protection, I’d like to know if there’s anyone from his past who might not want him as President.”
“I still don’t think I’m right for this.”
“Just head up to his home town. See what happens.” The President held a finger to his lips. “Quietly.”
“With all due respect, you sure this isn’t about a certain standing President’s job security?”
Morgan Taylor stood at attention then went to his desk. He returned with the day’s editions of The Washington Post, The New York Times, and The Baltimore Sun. Each of the papers had a picture of Jennifer Lodge in her husband’s arms.
“We need to find out who did this, Scott. It’s about him. Not me.”
CHAPTER
10
Miami, Florida
10:59 A.M.
Fisher Island residents coveted their isolation. Although they lived barely a mile from the heart of Miami Beach, it sometimes seemed like an ocean away. In some ways it was. The only way to reach either the luxurious homes or the magnificent golf course was by boat. The car ferry shuttled back and forth from the mainland every fifteen minutes. Those who could afford it also had the option of coming and going as they pleased on their own yachts.
Ibrahim Haddad was one of them. He bought his palatial estate in the late 1990s. The 8,500 square foot two-story home contained soaring vaulted ceilings, interior gardens, a stately mahogany library, a computer run kitchen, and an array of satellite dishes. Haddad rarely entertained or invited neighbors over. He, and his staff of four—more body guard than domestic help—lived in relative seclusion. He eschewed membership to The Fisher Island Club, an invitation only facility and golf course. He dined at home, swam in his 50-foot long pool and exercised in his personal gym.
At age 63, Ibrahim Haddad was an enigma to the Fisher Island community. No one really knew him, though they could see him coming. His 6’4” frame made him stand out and his voice, deep and husky, reinforced an air of self-confidence. He kept his gray hair closely cropped and dyed his pencil thin moutstache a deep black. While his face could look open and inviting from a distance, his eyes projected coldness up close. He could actually appear pleasant to anyone who got a brief glimpse of him. But they were few and far between.
For the first two years he lived in Fisher Island, members of the club tried to figure him out. In time, even they grew tired of the sport. Haddad was too hard to read.
His habits wouldn’t have suited the club crowd anyway. He didn’t smoke or drink. He refused to order off a standard menu and he disdained small talk. He never married or dated in the normal sense. He used women as needed; and even then on his terms, in hotel suites, never at his own home. And only once. Those who did know Haddad, and the list was short, considered him ruthless; ruthless enough never to cross. The people who worked for him followed the same rule, even more cautiously.
Ibrahim Haddad finished his morning tea, checked his watch. He pressed a button and the semi-circular doors of a nine-foot cabinet peeled aside revealing a huge Sony hi-def television set. Another button on his remote turned the television on to the coverage in New York.
New York City
Essex House Hotel
11:00 A.M.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Congressman Lodge said quietly. “I have prepared a statement. I don’t think I’ll be up for any questions.”
Reporters and camera crews from New York’s major newspapers and the nation’s television networks and news syndicates listened to the man at the far end of the Kennsington Conference Room on the second floor of the Central Park South hotel. On another day, these same people would be clawing over one another to shout out their questions. Today they were utterly quiet and respectful.
Lodge began with obvious difficulty. “Yesterday my wife Jennifer was killed by an assassin. The man is still at large. You have his description. I hope to God that you’ll help the FBI find this man. Please,” he strained to say. “I want him brought to justice for what he did yesterday.”
The still cameras clicked. Dozens of them…hundreds of pictures would be exposed on film or digital chips before the congressman offered his thanks and left. Yet, every photograph would look exactly like the other; painfully sad.
“This man intended to shoot me. In doing so he would have usurped the election process; taken your voice away. He failed at that. He succeeded, however, in taking my wife from me.” The congressman broke down. No one dared speak.
The White House
that same time
President Taylor watched from the White House. Seven television monitors in the Oval Office were tuned to the news. CNBC, MSNBC, CNN, NBC, ABC, CBS, and Fox News.
“He’s going to stay in. I can feel it,” the president said to his chief of staff.
“I don’t know, Mr. President. He could just wait four years or even eight,” John Bernstein offered.
“No, Bernsie. He’s going for it now. Just look at him. He’ll play this out. And triple jump over Lamden right to the convention,” the President said dispassionately.
Taylor paced in the back of the room waiting for Lodge to pull himself together. Under his breath he said, “He’s good. He’s really good.”
The president used the remote to turn the sound down. “Okay. Enough of him. We’ll figure out what to do with Lodge. What happened overnight in India?”
Morgan Taylor was the 12th American president to deal with unrest between India and Pakistan. He focused on it as much as his predecessors did on Israel and Palestine. And he had about as much success.
Once more, the news was not good and it wasn’t getting any better. The tenuous rapprochement between the two nations, begun during the Bush administration, was just too fragile to last. Over the past century, there was simply more history of war, than there was of peace.
Pakistan’s nuclear program was based on a general desire to match India’s. At first it was research. Then plutonium production. Actual atomic bomb development eventually followed, then testing. Finally launch systems came on-line.
For decades most of the world ignored what was largely a battle of words between the two nations that had formerly been one. It became easy to forget the thousands of deaths attributable to the 50 years of tension and outright war.
According to the CIA reports that President Taylor now received, India had between 60 to 120 weapons of mass destruction. Pakistan’s output of bombs was estimated at more than 65, with another four to six added to the arsenal every year. The overkill was grotesque and if ever unleashed, the entire world would be embroiled.
In reality, neither country could survive victory, let alone defeat. Yet, a war that could obliterate a life-long enemy from the face of the earth was still appealing to some generals. That’s what made the danger very real.
Morgan Taylor kept an open channel to the leaders of each country, hoping that calmer minds would prevail. In turn, they privately tried to control their own military and prayed that the United States President could prevent any conflict from intensifying to a full-scale war. But it was getting more difficult. Internal revolts in Pakistan staged by fundamentalists threatened the region. And predictably, India intensified its efforts, building up reserves on the border, which according to CIA Director Jack Evans’ written report this morning, only inflamed the situation.
Morgan Taylor looked even further down the line. Should Pakistan, with its splinter regimes and myriad political ideologies, fall into the hands of Muslim fundamentalists, t
he terrorist possibilities became enormous. But perhaps even more likely was that Pakistan might one day enter into an unholy alliance with another Muslim nation, and provide them with nuclear technology or weapons. The result could destabilize the Middle East or worse. And if President Morgan Taylor knew one thing for certain, it was that Israel would strike quickly and first against any Arab neighbor that acquired the bomb.
“So let’s have it, Bernsie.”
“According to DCI, his satellites show another 20,000 troops on the way. Convoys and trains. They’re taking up positions along a 600 mile front.”
“Total numbers?” the president asked.
“Roughly 50,000.”
“Damn it. This is turning out to be one fucked up year.”
When Teddy Lodge left the podium the room was silent. There were none of the cheers and applause that always accompanied him. Everyone respected his privacy. The press was informed by Newman that the only reason he faced them today was to enlist the public’s help in apprehending his wife’s killer. Teddy said nothing about the campaign. And as a result, the reporters had their story. They knew what Teddy Lodge was going to do. He’d wait for the New York voters to speak.
Geoff Newman walked beside Lodge down the hall. Secret Service agents were at their front and back. “Just the right tone,” Geoff Newman said out of earshot of the agents. “Pushed all the right buttons.”
“Shut up, for God’s sake. This isn’t the time or the place.” the congressman shot back.
One Secret Service agent turned. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Yes. I’m just upset.”
Newman held back a half a step and didn’t say another word.
Outside, the newly assigned Secret Service made a path for the congressman to the limousine parked in front of the Essex House. Lodge politely acknowledged the well-wishers and their cameras with a simple nod and a hand in the air.
Newman opened his mouth, then thought better of saying anything. A Secret Service agent was driving. Another was in the front seat.
They pulled into traffic along 59th Street and drove to Laguardia for the flight back to Vermont and Jenny’s funeral.
After they merged onto the East Side Highway ten, Newman said in a low voice not to be overheard, “No more press for the rest of the week. We’ll decide on Saturday about the Sunday talk shows. They’ll all want you. But there will be ground rules. We’ve got to manage this very carefully from here on out.”
Hudson, New York
1:34 P.M.
“I don’t like this one bit,” the FBI field chief said to his team. Bessolo was pissed. He felt they should have more by now. “Look people. We’re going over everything again. But slower. I want prints. I want hairs. Fibers. Find some of his fucking cum. And I need more than a blind alley on his Galil. This guy’s not as good as he thinks. He’s slipped up somewhere. Find it!”
Bessolo had confidence in the investigators he brought to Hudson even though he talked to them like a Marine drill seargent facing a squad of wet recruits. He also believed that the FBI lab could turn the slimmest shred of evidence into something worth pursuing.
The FBI Laboratory had been around since 1932. Bessolo ran his corner of it as if it would lose its funding tomorrow unless his people personally delivered.
Unfortunately for everybody, after the first 22 hours they had nothing.
“We’re trying Roy,” said Neal Berkowitz, his DNA expert. “It’s as if a guy was here for a month and vaporized. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
They had been through 301 thoroughly. First photographing every square inch, then meticulously examining the blankets, pillows, rug, towels and curtains for hairs, tissues, saliva, skin flakes, and even for the semen that Bessolo demanded. Any residue could prove important. Hair examination could determine race even if disguised through bleaching or dyeing. Fingernails could help plot a biological profile of the assassin. But so far they had nothing for the Forensic Biology section to work with; no samples to send to the new DNA facility in Manhattan.
Latent, or hidden fingerprints would hold clues. These prints, left by hands or bare feet of a person are likely to be the most valuable piece of information gathered at a crime scene. But there were no latent prints. Nor were there any visible prints, those transferred to foreign substances such as grease, blood or dust. There simply were no fingerprints to photograph with the T-Max 400J film at f/8 they’d brought. None to send to Quantico via satellite for cross-referencing.
Everything had been wiped clean with expert attention, the patience of Job and a combination of ethanol/Phenylphernol, which Berkowitz easily identified as everyday Lysol.
“We’re dealing with a real pro, Roy,” the agent concluded. “He’s not a lunatic. There’s purpose to this. This guy knew what he was doing. Except for the fact that he bungled his shot.”
Marblehead, Massachusetts
2:45 P.M.
Roarke followed Route 1A up the coast to Marblehead. He did a little better than the speed limit in his rented Mustang from Hertz. The car demanded a little pressure on the gas, but Roarke didn’t want to get nabbed by any local police. Taylor had been very specific. “Quiet.”
His first stop was Marblehead High. O’Connell’s article was beside him with key words underlined; each a name or a reference to a possible lead: the high school; Debbie Strathmore, Lodge’s first girlfriend, Mehrman, the retired radio interviewer; and the Boy Scouts. Roarke also hoped to get some answers about the disposition of the family estate.
None of this was his strong suit. Roarke liked working the field, staying out of sight. This put him in the public eye. But he had his orders.
He parked near the bank, across the street from the school and locked his Swiss made Sig Sauer P229 in the glove compartment. He preferred the Sig to the standard Secret Service issue Uzi with its 20 rounds. Just personal taste…touch…and feel. No one took exception. In fact, few people argued with Roarke for any reason. They didn’t know much about the president’s man, but reputation preceded him.
Roarke crossed the parking lot to the front entrance. He was old enough to be the father of any of the kids. He wondered if that would ever happen.
It had been years since he’d been in a high school. Times had surely changed. Uniformed guards replaced Student Service monitors in the halls. And knives and guns were pulled instead of punches. Marblehead High was peaceful compared to most other schools in the country, but too many nice schools had been the scene of horrible crimes. No school board could take a chance anymore.
“Hello, I hope you can help me, Ms. Fraser.” He read the name Clara Fraser off the nameplate on her desk in the administration office.
“Yes?” the 60-something secretary answered without emotion.
“My name is Roarke. I’m with the Secret Service in Washington.”
“Is anything wrong here?”
“No, no, no. This is just routine. We’re guarding the congressman now and…”
She interrupted. “A little late, don’t you think.”
He ignored the comment. “We were just assigned.” This was already getting beyond the “quiet” inquiry the President wanted.
“I suppose you have some identification, Mr….”
“Roarke. Yes. Here.”
He produced his photo ID. Clara Fraser peered at the picture, at Roarke, at the picture again, and once more at Roarke.
“Looks official,” she commented.
“I can assure you it is.”
“Then what would you like?”
“Some help finding some people who might remember Congressman Lodge when he was a student. Maybe some of his school records, too.”
“Well, Mr. Roarke, we’re not allowed to show you any school files,” she said gesturing behind her. “Massachusetts State Law prohibits us.”
“But perhaps there’s a teacher who knew him; someone I can speak with.”
She thought for a moment. “No. I think everyone’s gone.”
<
br /> “Then someone who’s retired and might still be living in the area?”
“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
Fraser went into the principal’s office and closed the door. About five minutes later, it opened for a moment, then closed again. About fifteen minutes later a vibrant, man appearing to be in his early forties came out, followed by Frasier.
“I’m Dr. Huddleston, the Principal.”
“Dr. Huddleston, thank you. I’m Roarke and…”
“Yes,” he interrupted more out of enthusiasm than bad manners. “Ms. Frasier explained. I’m sorry we can’t help with Mr. Lodge’s academic record.”
Roarke noted that Fraser positioned herself directly in front of the ‘L’s,’ as if to block them from view.
“But I do have a telephone number for you,” the principal continued. He handed over a green 3x5 card on which he’d written a name and address. “Pat Sullivan. Theodore Lodge’s English teacher. He lives about three miles from here. No one else is around. It’s hard to keep people in education these days, Mr. Roarke.”
“Thank you,” Roarke said.
“He was everyone’s favorite teacher. I’m sure Pat will have some stories to tell you. He sure could give you an earful about me. We all had him.”
Roarke thanked the principal and made a mental note of precisely where the Lodge file was likely to be kept. He considered recovering it at night, but figured the last thing the president needed was a burglary at a Democratic rival’s high school. No, a break in would not be good. He’d have to make friends on the inside for anything he really needed.
Sullivan lived in a weathered two-story New England shaker facing the harbor. Roarke knocked on the retired teacher’s door three times before a 75-year-old man opened it.
Sullivan wore a green turtle neck sweater and jeans. Roarke instantly saw why students liked him. He had energy and character, sparkling blue eyes and a handshake that said he was happy to meet you. Sullivan was easily twenty years more youthful than his age and probably could still be teaching if he wanted to. But a quick assessment of the hand-carved masks that lined his hallway walls told Roarke that Sullivan now spent most of his time traveling.
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