Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “Mr. Morales?” The voice came from behind him in perfect English.

  Damn! Number four! The interruption answered all of his questions. Now the best defense was to be startled and unprofessional.

  “What? Who?” He turned to the man who now had a firm hand on D’Angelo’s shoulder.

  “Mr. Morales, you’ll have to come with me,” the voice continued in a deep register. OIS. He appeared to be north of fifty; a hardened military type. Definitely OIS. He wore plain clothes, which meant nothing. D’Angelo pegged him as the supervisor of the younger men who had been tailing him.

  “Excuse me. What do you mean, ‘Come with you?’ Who are you? I’m just…”

  “I’m Major Yassar Hevit. You might think of me as a,” he paused, “policeman.”

  Yeah right, D’Angelo thought. His English was extremely good; his description of his duties all wrong. The man was Secret Police, no doubt about it. A senior officer who reported directly to Abahar Kharrazi.

  “What have I done?” D’Angelo protested predictably.

  “Oh that’s what we’ll talk about.” He glanced at the cameras. “Nikon and a Sony digital. Very nice. I’ll take those.” He snapped his fingers. Man #2 appeared. He brusquely removed the two cameras from D’Angelo, breaking one strap, and handed them over to the Major.

  “Be careful with them. They’re worth a lot.”

  “Of course. We don’t want to ruin your fine work.”

  “Do you have any identification? I’ve heard of kidnappings.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Morales. Despite what your media reports, we are a friendly country. Nonetheless, if it makes you happy, here is my identification.” Hevit flashed it. It was in Arabic. It looked official. And it told D’Angelo little.

  As Hevit closed his wallet and returned it to the pocket of his frumpy jacket, he continued, “And tell me, Mr. Morales. If I hadn’t shown you my identification, what would you have done?”

  The man was obviously taunting him; already showing suspicion and looking for a reason to test his captive.

  “I, I don’t know,” D’Angelo said. “But the books say be careful.”

  “Books?”

  “Tourist books. And the Internet advisories.”

  “You’re either a very, very experienced liar, which if true is something I will find out…” He paused for further emphasis. “…Or you are an extremely naïve American. Personally I’m hoping you’re the liar. It’ll make my day so much more interesting.”

  The major’s entire body grew stronger as he gloated. He grabbed D’Angelo’s arm and nudged him forward. D’Angelo offered no resistance, though he could have killed him with one blow. Now Man #1 joined on the right side, and #3 fell in beside him on the left. Tomás Morales, the American photographer, was now in custody. With one more shove from Hevit they began walking toward some god-awful interrogation room.

  The White House

  “D’Angelo’s been picked up, Mr. President.” Jack Evans always cut to the chase. Especially on the telephone.

  “Situation?”

  “He was taking pictures near the target when he was apprehended. One of our company assets saw him. No commotion. He stayed cool. With luck they’ll release him after listening to his story and looking at the digi pictures.”

  “And without luck?” Morgan Taylor asked.

  “We’ll have a major embarrassment on our hands.”

  “Possibly worse. What about Roarke?”

  “As far as we can tell, he’s all right. We’ll know shortly. We think he’s still at the hotel and D’Angelo was on his own. If he has any inkling he’ll seek out his contact and get our instructions.”

  “Do we know where they took him?”

  “Not yet, but as soon as I hear anything I’ll tell you.”

  The president hung up without a thank you. He looked out the windows onto the South Portico where the birds flew freely. His thoughts went to his trusted men in Libya and not to the overnight poll reported on CNN. It was turning out to be another shitty day.

  Capitol Hill

  Teddy Lodge was happy. Very happy. “I like this speech. It’s the best thing I’ve seen since Jenny’s writing,” Lodge told Newman. “Where’d you find this guy?”

  “This girl,” the campaign manager said snidely.

  “Oh?” Lodge smiled.

  “A poli-sci grad from GW. Mid-20s. Has a nice way of phrasing things. I thought you’d like her work.”

  “Doesn’t completely have my voice yet, but it’s fresh. Forward thinking.”

  “She’s missing some of our message, of course,” said Newman. “But she picked up on your basics. I like where she’s going with tht biblical reference, ‘As we forgive those who trespass against us.’ It’s right on target.”

  Lodge took the speech and began to pace through the office mouthing the words and gesturing for impact. He smiled as he began making the text his own. Ten minutes later he ended up right in front of Newman. “Will this be in shape by the convention?”

  “With time to spare.”

  The congressman returned to the speech and began projecting now. Newman was very pleased it was working out; better than he had first imagined when he heard about the girl from her “sponsor.”

  Billings, Montana

  Governor Lamden hit mute on his remote control. The screen, already crowded with chyron information, news headlines, and bullet points, told the story perfectly. Lodge was ahead. In a few days Lamden would deliver a keynote address at the Democratic National Convention and later Lodge would officially bring the Montana governor onto the ticket as his running mate. He tried to feel happy about it but couldn’t.

  Deep down inside Lamden didn’t trust Teddy Lodge. From that same place in the pit of his stomach he believed that Morgan Taylor was the better man. Part of his affinity for Taylor was their link to the Navy. Lamden served as a lieutenant aboard the USS Enterprise during the last year of the Vietnam War. Taylor, a few years younger, did most of his service in and over the Persian Gulf. The Navy bond united them more powerfully than their different political parties separated them.

  Now, Washington was coming his way more easily. But not the way he intended. He did what he’d been meaning to do for a long time. He telephoned his old friend.

  “Well you old sea lion, calling to lob a torpedo into a sinking ship?” the president said after Louise Swingle announced the call.

  “Not me. I’m smart enough to know that Morgan Taylor doesn’t go into battle unless he’s got enough ammunition to shoot his way out.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve established that I’m not flaming out, how the hell are you Henry? And how’s Samantha putting up with all of your shit?”

  “Feeling okay. she’s excited; already packing up the mansion for DC. I told her to wait a bit. We haven’t even hit the convention yet.”

  “I don’t think this town’s ready for her, Henry. I might have to call up the guard and post them at all of the stores.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Governor Lamden quieted for a moment to collect his thoughts. The president sensed the mood change.

  “Morgan, I wanted you to hear this directly from me.”

  “Yes, Henry,” the president said patiently.

  “I really was up to take you on. It would have been a grand old fight. And in the end you probably would have won again and I would have made my grandchildren proud.”

  “You would have done better than that, Henry.”

  “Thank you. But now there’s a real chance you’re gonna lose this thing.”

  The president cleared his throat getting serious. “Your point, Henry.”

  “I can’t really say what my point is. Except that we’ve been friends for too goddamned long. And I have to be honest with you. There’s something that bugs me about Lodge’s guy Newman. The man’s dangerous.”

  Capitol Hill

  The same time

  Michael O’Connell’s next article was going to be about the
elusive Geoff Newman, the man who maneuvered in the shadows cast by Teddy Lodge.

  O’Connell made his final notes outside of Lodge’s Capitol Hill office. Initially Newman refused to see him. But O’Connell wrote a hand written note to the congressman that got the desired results.

  “Hello, I’m Frannie. Welcome, Mr. O’Connell,” Lodge’s trusted assistant said as she entered the waiting room.

  “Thank you, Frannie.” He made a mental note of her name.

  “Mr. Newman will see you now, Mr. O’Connell. Right this way.”

  “Great.”

  As they walked, Frannie whispered, “You know he hates doing these kind of things.”

  “Oh?” the reporter answered.

  Realizing she had already said too much to a reporter, she tried correcting herself. “Mr. Newman believes that it’s not his job to get attention. But recently it’s been so difficult for the congressman. He hasn’t wanted to be out much in public.”

  “Of course.”

  By now they arrived at Newman’s office. Frannie led him in. O’Connell didn’t wait for an introduction or for Newman to stand or notice him. “Mr. Newman, I appreciate the time. Michael O’Connell.” He held out his hand.

  Newman stood, nodded and took his hand as if it were an inconvenience.

  “Sit down.” Almost painfully he added, “Please.”

  “You’re not comfortable being interviewed,” O’Connell stated as he took out a digital recorder, a pen and a reporter’s notepad.

  “I prefer working behind the scenes, Mr. O’Connell. But I do appreciate all that you’re doing for us on the campaign.”

  “I’m not doing anything for you, sir.”

  Newman realized his faux pas. “I meant to say you’ve taken such care to present an accurate picture during a difficult time.”

  O’Connell tipped his pen as an acknowledgement and went to his questions. The recorder quietly memorialized the interview.

  “You met Teddy Lodge at Harvard Essex. What did you see in each other?”

  “Very good question, Mr. O’Connell. You know how they say opposites attract. That’s what we were. I wasn’t an athlete or an outgoing kid. I kept to my books and pretty much had no friends. I probably wouldn’t have even known Teddy except for the fact that I wrote him after his accident. Eventually I went to see him. We became friends. It’s as simple as that.”

  “How often did you travel to Vermont to visit?”

  “Weekends, generally.”

  “Every weekend?”

  “Not every weekend.”

  O’Connell pressed. “Most weekends?”

  “Many weekends. I think we can leave it at that.”

  “And no one else came along?”

  “He didn’t even want to see me, at first. He didn’t want any friends to come by. The state he was in. Pretty badly hurt. His parents were gone. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “But why you?” O’Connell pressed. “No offense, Mr. Newman, but why did he bond with you?”

  “I was there,” Newman answered sternly. He had obviously taken offense.

  “Only you?”

  “Yes.”

  O’Connell was aware the answers were getting shorter and the atmosphere was becoming more charged. He smiled to lighten the mood and hopefully encourage more.

  “Is that why Mr. Lodge cut off contact with everyone else from those days?”

  Newman seeming to force himself to look directly at O’Connell. “I’m not aware he had.”

  “And you became close. You must have been a big help to him during that period.”

  “I tried. Again, I wasn’t the sort of person who made friends easily. Maybe I felt good because I was needed. But that’s far too psychological for me. It just worked out.”

  “What worked out?”

  “Our friendship.”

  “Teddy never went back to Harvard Essex?”

  “I’m not certain. He had a long recovery,” Newman said staring directly at O’Connell. “He finished high school with tutors.”

  “He abandoned all his old friends.”

  “As I explained. He’d gone through a lot. Maybe everyone reminded him of the past.”

  “Let’s talk about Yale,” the writer said.

  “Okay.”

  “You went there together.”

  “We attended Yale at the same time. We had other friends and Teddy started expanding his realm again.”

  “But you always remained in it.”

  “We had developed a strong relationship and by then we had common interests.”

  “Can you amplify those, Mr. Newman.”

  “Politics. Science. History.”

  “The Middle East?”

  “Yes, thank you. We both studied Middle East politics.”

  O’Connell became acutely aware that in person Newman looked older than the congressman. There were more lines around his eyes. His forehead was full of creases. The veins in his hands flared.

  He scribbled down a single word on his note pad and circled it. “Age?”

  “All of those disciplines are the basis of our work in Congress, Mr. O’Connell. It’s the basis of what makes the congressman such a vital candidate for president.”

  “It’s as if you’ve been preparing for this for a long time,” the reporter observed.

  “Your words, Mr. O’Connell.”

  The President and Henry Lamden were well into their phone call.

  “Talk to your party leadership,” Taylor proposed. “Christ, Henry. Tell them to get rid of Newman. He’s supposed to work for the Democratic Party. You don’t like him, dump the bastard.”

  “It’s not that easy. He’s Lodge’s fucking right brain function,” Governor Lamden complained.

  “Look, I’m not the one to play shrink here. This is only going to come back and bite me on the butt. Remember, I’m running against you.”

  “Morgan, for Christ sake’s. Listen to me. Newman is bad news. And if we get in, Teddy Lodge is going to give him a nice big job. Like Secretary of State. Or Defense. Or Chief of Staff.”

  The president audibly exhaled. “Like I said. Take it to Wendell Neill.”

  “On my opinion? Now what do you think he’d say? ‘Let’s not upset Teddy. He’s on a roll.’ I’d be slitting my own throat.”

  “Then I have no idea, Henry.”

  “I need something I can use,” the governor pleaded over the phone.

  “We’re not having this discussion, governor. I will not use this office to further your political aims.”

  “And risk a sociopath having the ear of your successor?”

  “He’s your problem. Not mine.”

  “No, Morgan. He’s our problem.”

  Capitol Hill

  “Let’s discuss your childhood for a few minutes,” O’Connell proposed. “Very little has been published and—”

  Newman didn’t wait for The New York Times reporter to finish. “That’s because it’s no one’s business.”

  “Perhaps not now. But if Congressman Lodge wins in November and appoints you to a senior level position in the administration, as is rumored, then it is, in fact, everyone’s business. So if you please, Mr. Newman.”

  Newman looked rattled. He didn’t like pointed questions. He was skilled at helping Lodge, but not shaping responses or measuring words for himself. For that matter, he wished he hadn’t agreed to the interview. Once Lodge won he would only speak to the press through official flacks.

  “I truly am not good at this, as I expect you’ve noticed, Mr. O’Connell. But I’ll try.”

  The reporter pointed his pen at him again.” Thank you.”

  “I grew up in Europe. Primarily military bases. My father was in the army and we shuttled between his assignments in Germany, England and some in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Yes. And your parents? Brothers or sisters?”

  “I was the only child and my mother died from cancer when I was nine. My father raised me, or
rather the service raised me. It was hard for him.”

  “He died as well while you were in Saudi Arabia.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

  “A little.”

  “It was a helicopter accident. One of those damned Pave Hawks. The MH-60 K/L, I think. It went down in the dessert.”

  “What happened?”

  “An explosion. That’s all I was told. I still don’t know for certain. The Army. It’s hard to get information out of them. Maybe they’ll find a reason to give it to the congressmen in January.”

  “Point well taken,” O’Connell said as he made another note and underlined it. Helicopter.

  “How old were you?”

  “Just turning fourteen.”

  “And who raised you after that?”

  “I stayed for three months in a school in Germany and then at fifteen, I was sent to Harvard Essex Academy by my father’s uncle, who acted as my guardian.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “No. He passed away shortly after.”

  O’Connell tapped his pen and thought for a moment, then off-handedly said, “You and the congressman seem to share something of a common background.”

  “Oh?” Newman responded.

  “Both of your parents gone while you were the same age. Someone else in charge of your well-being.”

  “I never gave it much thought,” Newman stated through an uncharacteristic smile. “But now that you mention it. Yes. It must have been one of the things that brought us together.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Tripoli, Libya

  “Mr. Morales. Why are you in the Great Jamahiriya?” Hevit circled D’Angelo who was being tied to a chair with his arms behind his back. His shirt, pants, shoes and socks had been removed. The major allowed him to keep his briefs on, but only after submitting to a cavity search. Hevit’s officers pulled the ropes tightly and D’Angelo grimaced. This he couldn’t hide.

  “I’m a photographer.” And I’ve got some great real estate for you in the Everglades, he didn’t say aloud. “Photographing your mosques and museums for a British book company. For Christ sake, it’s all in my papers.”