Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

So Roarke did what he always did to calm himself. He exercised. His work out, long overdue, included the best of his Army Special Forces training and everything the gym could offer. Deep down inside a voice told him to be ready. That voice never failed him.

  Another voice called to him as well. Katie’s.

  He dialed her as he jogged home with the hand’s free earphone in his ear.

  “Hi, Katie,” he said barely revealing he was running. “How are you, sweetheart?”

  “I could be better if you were somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Someplace warm and cozy.”

  His mind went exactly where she intended. Roarke unknowingly stopped and leaned against a tree, feeling himself get excited. On a call of this nature, he didn’t even worry about the extended time they talked. No government secrets here, only his own.

  “Right now,” she continued.

  “Right now?” he asked.

  “Right now. Wanna come?”

  “Hmmm. Oh, I wish I could. But I have to see what’s going to go down tomorrow. And I suppose I have to do my civic duty.”

  “The shuttle can get you here by dinner,” she cooed.

  “Soon. I just can’t now.”

  The mood had passed and he renewed his run toward Georgetown.

  “Tell me. You’re in Lodge country. What’s everyone talking about up there?”

  “A Globe editorial claimed that people shouldn’t place too much emphasis on the debate. That the whole campaign just caught up with Teddy. The Herald’s front page was ‘Hodge Podge Lodge.’ And they tore into him.”

  “And on the street?”

  “Still all Lodge, I’d say. Local boy. He’s got the Kennedy magic. Massachusetts will go for him. All New England. Maybe New Hampshire will be close. Otherwise, no change up here.”

  “What do you hear?” she asked.

  “Florida definitely still Lodge. Georgia, the Carolinas, Virginia. I just don’t know. It’s shifting to the Prez. I think Pennsylvania and New York are solidly Lodge’s, though. It’s gonna be the mid west and west coast that decide this thing.”

  “And when it’s over?”

  “Hey, maybe you’ll come down and visit me. But better hurry. There may not be much opportunity to score you an insider’s tour of the White House.”

  “But you’ll still be there.”

  “Not after my talk with Newman Sunday night.”

  “You didn’t make nice nice with the potential new landlords?”

  “No. I can’t say I did.”

  “Very bad boy. Well, don’t forget my law firm had represented Teddy. So maybe I’ll be the one who arranges the next tour.”

  Roarke stopped again. For a moment he had forgotten how they had met. The circumstances. The tête-à-tête. And the attraction.

  What if she were right? What if Teddy Lodge really became president?

  Katie continued to flirt with him, but Roarke had tuned out.

  Tripoli, Libya

  Tuesday 4 November

  Omar Za’eem did all of Sami Ben Ali’s heavy lifting. Pity he’d never be able to thank him personally for all his help.

  Abahar’s spy dutifully reported his findings to Walid Abdul-Latif. Abdul-Latif, in turn, typed up the details of the conversation for his boss, Major Bayon Karim Kitan, who presented them to Abahar Kharrazi. Sami Ben Ali would read them first.

  He got his opportunity earlier than expected. Walid received a phone call that he needed to respond to immediately.

  “I have to go out. I’ll be back in a few hours,” Walid said. He grabbed his gun and his billy club.

  “Where are you going?” Sami asked nonchalantly.

  “None of your business.” But Walid would tell him anyway. He had to brag.

  “If you have to know, it’s time to explain some things again to a group of whining students at Nasser University,” he said swinging his weapon.

  A few years ago, thirty-two students from Nasser were reportedly arrested for converting to Christianity. They were blindfolded, tied together and taken to prison. Challenges to General Kharrazi’s beliefs. Most people learned. Some didn’t. People like Walid were quite ready to correct their behavior in the name of the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. Undoubtedly a few students would land in Abu Salim Prison for a time. Others might not even see graduation, ever.

  Once alone, Sami got to work. He knew that Za’eem had made progress. Now to download the report and clean his tracks afterwards. This time he did it faster, quickly catching a key word: Ashab al-Kahf, and then saving the file.

  When Walid didn’t return by 1830 hrs, Sami assumed he was raping one of his female captives or taking delight in clubbing a man. So he left. Amazing that after all of his years undercover in Tripoli, it all came down to one computer disc.

  The last directive Sami Ben Ali received from Langley was simple and to the point. “Call home. Want to hear from you. Maybe we’ll visit as soon as we know where.”

  It was the “as soon as we know where” that kept him up at nights these last few weeks. The words had long ago flamed into nothingness; burned and gone when he ignited the flash pad they’d been written on. But they were burned into his consciousness. “Soon” actually meant “urgent.” And “know where” was all about identifying precise details about a hard target. Apparently this was tremendously important information for Evans. Very important. Sami would trade it for a ticket out of Libya.

  First things first. He had to get word that he had something. And he had to be careful. Then, when it was safe, he’d hand over the entire report.

  As he walked through the maze of Tripoli’s shops and restaurants in the souk, he thought of Detroit and football season. He’d like to take in a game again at Ford Field and have a cold beer. The Lions didn’t have to win. He’d be happy simply being there.

  But to get there, he’d have to be careful. There was always the possibility of being watched.

  Tonight it looked clear. No one seemed to be following him as he made his way to a favorite bookstore in the bazaar.

  A bell attached to the door clanged when he entered. No one bothered looking at him and Sami Ben Ali didn’t make eye contact with anyone else. The shelves were lined with decades’ old dog-eared editions of “approved” historical books, Islamic religious texts, and Arabic folklore. He meandered around for ten minutes, then approached the front desk.

  Like many booksellers in the area, Hamid Salim Sahhaf bought, sold, traded and bartered his stock. He claimed to have read every volume. Whether or not it was true, he certainly knew their location on the shelves.

  “Do you have a 1920s edition of Gilgamesh,” Sami asked politely.

  “Why, yes I do,” the old man answered. “Three copies. But I’m afraid that you won’t be happy. Many of the etchings are missing in the oldest one. Fine ones, too. A big book on the third shelf down that aisle.” He pointed to a row at the far end of the room, away from the door. “All the way on the left.”

  “Thank you,” Ben Ali said, bowing politely. He casually walked through the store, between dusty shelves, which smelled of the mildew eating away at many of the books. At the back was one row that dead-ended against the wall. That was where he was told to go.

  In relative short order he found what he was looking for. Not the copy of Gilgamesh with the etchings missing, but one directly to the right.

  He removed it, began leafing through the pages and stopped at page 134. He turned his back to aisle and quietly read. The story, one of the oldest in the world, always fascinated him.

  According to the epic legend, Gilgamesh, born one-third mortal and two-thirds god, was a Sumerian king around 3,500 B.C. The story was passed down for generations by word of mouth, then, possibly in seventh century B.C., recorded in Akkadian cuneiform symbols onto twelve clay tablets. Sami loved the story and its characters, finding personal meaning in Gilgamesh’s quest to understand his true purpose and sense of self.

  Without any one n
oticing, he casually folded up a quarter inch of the lower right hand corner of page 134 and folded down the upper left corner of page 179. Sami Ben Ali had just left two numerical messages. “Found what I was looking for. And I want out.”

  After a few minutes he picked up the larger tattered edition he had been directed to, skimmed through it, then looked at the third book. Five minutes later he nodded in a manner that would make any observer think he was finally satisfied. He tucked the last book under his arm and returned to the front to pay.

  Now for the customary haggling over the price. This took a good three minutes. Hamid Salim Sahhaf and Ben Ali settled on the middle ground. Sami left as pleased as the old man; each convinced that he had out tricked the other for the best price.

  Ben Ali settled into a restaurant a few doors down from the bookstore. He ordered a green apple tea, lit up a cigarette, and opened his book as if to read it. In actuality he was back to work; taking everyone in to see who might be lingering or watching. A sixth sense told him someone was out there.

  CHAPTER

  48

  Election Day

  Tuesday 4 November

  Jack Evans arrived at Langley at his usual 0545. It took him an hour to digest the overnight reports. One message in particular caught his eye. Sandman reported in. It took only 15 seconds to gather the importance of the message. He called to his driver to bring his car around. They’d be heading to the White House early today.

  “Want to stop and vote on the way back, sir?” the driver, a fifty-eight-year-old CIA officer named Si Marvin asked. “They say the race is closer than predicted. I think the Chief can use your vote.”

  The morning polls reported a virtual dead heat.

  “You get me there as often as you can, Simon. The way I feel right now, I think it’s only fair I vote a hundred times.”

  Marvin had no idea what Evans was talking about. But he laughed and put the pedal to the metal.

  Ibrahim Haddad pulled the lever on his district’s voting machine. The old punch cards with the chads that decided the Bush-Gore election were retired following a primary in March 2002. Now Miami-Dade County, Florida used computers.

  Haddad, an American citizen for more than thirty years, actually liked to vote. But this election was special. He cast his ballot for a man who would, as he’d promised in his campaign speeches, “Change the world.” He voted for Congressman Teddy Lodge and walked out of the voting booth happier than he’d ever been.

  Michael O’Connell correctly figured he’d be on the road election day. He voted for Lodge ten days earlier using an absentee ballot.

  Detective Harry Coates cast his vote for the congressman, as did St. Charles Hotel employees Carolyn Hill and Anne Fornado.

  With what Police Chief Carl Marelli and Chuck Wheaton knew, they went row “A” for President Morgan Taylor.

  The Idaho State Policeman, Duke Hormel said he liked the president, but he and his wife voted for Teddy Lodge.

  Touch Parsons was the first in line at his polling station. He was on the President’s side, especially now. So were the rest of Taylor’s key advisors and bureau heads.

  Katie Kessler had always voted Democrat until today. And Scott Roarke who tended to make up his mind in the voting booth didn’t abandon his boss.

  In Burlington, Vermont, Geoff Newman voted just ahead of Teddy Lodge. The news cameras followed them as far as they could up the walkway to Ward 6’s booths located at Edmund’s Middle School.

  The same was true in Washington when Morgan and Lucy Taylor cast their ballots.

  And, in the complete privacy of a makeshift voting booth in Precinct 48, the so-called “tree” and “poet streets” district of Billings, Montana, Governor Lamden did precisely what his heart told him to do.

  One man heavily involved in the election process didn’t vote. For that matter, he wasn’t on any registration rolls. Not as Roger C. Waterman or Frank Dolan or Dr. George Powder. The man was anonymous again, driving leisurely across the country, ignoring the early election reports on his radio in favor of a satellite station playing authentic bluegrass.

  The CIA director had to wait for the president to return from a scheduled breakfast after voting. Evans sat in the West Wing, sipping some freshly brewed coffee, not once letting his briefcase out of his hand.

  When the president charged into the White House he said, “Jack, you’re in a bit early this morning.”

  “Something to share with you, sir.” He offered no hint of small talk. Morgan Taylor read the signs.

  “Come right in.”

  Once the door was closed Evans didn’t wait for an invitation to begin.

  “A message from Sandman. He found what he was looking for.”

  Neither man had sat down. They stood eye to eye, barely two feet from one another.

  “What is it?”

  “We don’t know yet. He gave us the sign that he had located exactly what we needed. Hard copies.”

  “Any hint?”

  “Our instructions to him were explicit. He contacted us in the manner prescribed if and when he located information. But with the chance he could be watched we have to be careful.”

  “So when?” The president asked. And why the hell didn’t this happen earlier?

  “It’ll take a drop. An e-mail is too risky. He doesn’t have a satellite phone. So I’ve got to think about this. But he knows where it is and presumably what it is. Oh, and there’s one more thing he communicated.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Sandman wants out. But if he suddenly disappears people will notice. It could raise suspicions. Tip the Kharrazi’s.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “We’re very close and he’s far away. That puts us slam bam in the middle of a shit sandwich,” Evans explained. “It’s hard to pass the information and we can’t get Sandman out.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  The Constitution of the United States provides for a popular vote for president. But the overall national numbers are secondary to a candidate taking a majority of the important states. Winning a state means you’re awarded the Electoral College votes. Add enough of those votes up and a candidate becomes president.

  On the Monday following the second Wednesday of December, each State’s Electors convene in their state capitals to cast their electoral votes for president and vice president. Larger states hold more electoral votes; smaller states fewer. The system is flawed. A candidate can win the plurality of national votes, but not earn enough state Electoral College votes to move into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Al Gore could still bend an ear on that topic. He won the national vote in 2000, but George W. Bush came out ahead in the electoral numbers.

  The same scenario threatened to keep the Taylor-Lodge election in limbo for hours. It was definitely going to be a close call today. One state could make a difference.

  Voting picked up in the late afternoon. People went to the polls on their way home after work, following school car pools, and before the late shift began. Instant polls shed no new light on where it would end up. The final hour of votes from commuters would decide it.

  All of the networks, independent stations and news organizations continued the policy of not reporting precinct, city or state results until the polls were closed in each time zone. By 7:00 P.M., as initial tallies began coming in, graphic boards behind the anchors lit up. Blue for states going to President Taylor. Red for Congressman Lodge. Some of them switched back and forth since the earliest numbers didn’t necessarily reflect the ultimate direction of the entire state.

  New England was assuredly Lodge country, as predicted. Even conservative New Hampshire. So was New York. But Pennsylvania, first given to Lodge went to Taylor. The same for Delaware and Maryland. The President also took the District of Columbia and the Southern states in the Eastern Time zone, with the exception of Virginia and North Carolina.

  As the polls closed in the Midwest, the same flipping occurred. Consequently, no one could accurately
predict the outcome. Fox got caught twice trying to make a reliable prediction only to see the numbers swing. NBC and its affiliated news channels decided not to call a state until 50 percent or more of the vote was in. CBS said it for everyone. “We might as well settle in. It’s going to be a long, nerve racking night.”

  Two hundred seventy out of a possible 538 Electoral College votes are required to win. At 11:30 Eastern Time, Morgan Taylor had 237 to Teddy Lodge’s 196. A half hour later, the close results from Colorado, Montana, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah. And still no winner. 249 Taylor. 216 Lodge. Both within striking distance.

  The Western states would decide the election. Together, Washington and Oregon carried 18 Electoral votes. The President was projected to capture those, which would leave him just three electoral votes short. California’s 55 were a toss up. The state posted a record turnout, but early precinct results failed to show a decisive trend. San Francisco and Los Angeles went to Lodge. Orange County and San Diego belonged to the President. The critical votes would be in Central and Northern California, but due to downed phone lines and computer issues, they were slow to be reported.

  And this is how it went. Up and down for the next two hours.

  “Wine country to the Oregon border will go to Congressman Lodge,” offered CNBC. The anchor circled the massive land area south of San Francisco, north of L.A. on his tele-strator. “Now this is where it’ll come down to. California’s Central Valley. The region is composed of eight counties: Fresno, Kern, Kings, Madera, Merced, San Joaquin, Stanislaus, and Tulare, amounting to ten percent of California’s population. To put it another way, the Central Valley outranks 20 states in population.

  “One portion of one state. Roughly three million voters will decide for the entire country who will serve as president.”

  Of course, Fadi Kharrazi didn’t understand any of the process. He watched the numbers rise and fall over a satellite feed of CNN International. He believed that many commentators were merely Taylor’s paid mouthpieces; that they’d only report what they were told. How things would soon change. In his naïve view of American free speech, he wondered which members of the press the new president would fire first.