The next morning they showered once more and had fun applying lotion on one another’s hidden places. After getting dressed, Katie kissed Roarke goodbye with unreserved passion.
“There’s an extra key in the top right hand drawer of my dresser. It’s there for you to use when you come back later.” Then she softened her voice. “You will be back later.” It was a statement, not a question.
“This afternoon. I need to go to Marblehead while you’re at work. But I’ll be home with dinner on the table.”
“My goodness, the man cooks, too.” She kicked up her heel and left. Roarke realized he needed another hour’s sleep.
The White House
Cabinet Room
Thursday 14 August
“Good morning,” the president said cheerfully as he entered the Cabinet Room from the door leading directly to the Oval Office. He instantly read the room. He caught the long face from his CIA Chief. “Or is it?
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” the CIA Director immediately volunteered. “India test fired another short-range missile last night.”
“Sweet Jesus. Give me more.” The president looked to his chief of staff, John Bernstein, and shoke his head.
“An Agni II, with a range of some 1,800 miles, capable of carrying a 200-kiloton boosted-fission warhead. It could take out a target almost anywhere within Pakistan. All in all, not good.”
“Any warning to Pakistan this time?”
“No.”
“They’re all lunatics!” the president swore. “A few years ago they got so close to settling this thing. Now, they’re back in the same fucking mess.” Taylor made no attempt to hide his anger. “Okay, at least tell me they gave us a heads up. I don’t care if it was ten minutes. Khosla promised me.”
“Nothing,” the DCI said.
“What the hell is he thinking?” he asked no one in particular.
The secretary of state entered the discussion. At 52, Joyce Drysdale was the senior woman in the Taylor administration. Though she let her hair go white, she gave the impression of a woman in her 30s. She was well-versed in contemporary American history, a dynamic speaker, and strong leader. As the former president of the University of Washington and author of a trio of books on the Vietnam War, she could command attention. Some people had her running for president in four years.
“Rest assured that Pakistan is bound to have a response. I’d say Sajjad will be launching his own tests within a few days. Right along the border. Hopefully not over it. We should notify the prime minister that the U.S. does not view that as a good idea.”
With that, the meeting evolved into a twenty minute exchange of ideas. It ended when the president called for some specific thoughts. Jack Evans posed a possibility. “You’re Khosla and Sajjad. How about accepting an invitation from the President of the United States to come to Camp David and hash this thing out?
John Bernstein argued against it. “Like being called to the principal’s office?”
“That bad, Bernsie?” the DCI questioned.
“Yeah, Jack. It’ll look like an old-fashioned scolding. There’s no way they’d walk into that.”
“You all agree?” Taylor asked.
“Afraid so,” added the president’s secretary of state.
“Then maybe you could go, there,” the DCI noted. “It’ll send a strong message that you’re willing to get directly engaged. It wouldn’t hurt back home, either.” He didn’t need to explain what he meant by the last comment. Though the CIA director stayed out of such things, the political upside was immediately obvious to everyone.
As the president thought about the idea, he saw that his SecState did not concure.
“Joyce, you don’t like Jack’s proposal. Why?”
“Mr. President, it’s a risky step before we even exhaust exploring lower level talks through our ambassadors. They should be the ones to formally open the door.”
“Which won’t lead anywhere,” Bernstein argued.
“Which probably won’t lead anywhere,” she asserted. “But it’s a step we have to take. But borrowing from what Jack had to say, what if you call them. You ask Prime Minister Khosla to meet with Ambassador Shayne in New Delhi and for Prime Minister Sajjad to sit down with Ambassador Medinica in Islamabad. They communicate the gravity of the situation and carry in the president’s message.”
“And this message is?” Bernstein asked acerbically.
“That their actions endanger not only themselves, but the entire world,” the secretary of state added.
“Oh, that’ll make them stop. They’ll say, ‘Thanks for the call. You know we just forgot.’” Bernstein threw up his hands. “Come on, Joyce, they’ve got their fucking fingers on the button. You think a lecture from a United States ambassador is going to help? These are people who are hell bent on destroying one another.”
“Precisely and we cannot allow that!” she argued.
“Which means what?” Bernstein shouted.
“That the fleet parks in the Indian,” added Secretary of Defense Norman Gregoryan as his first comment. “USPACOM shows some muscle. That’s a message they’ll get.”
The president encouraged open discussion, but this was going too far.
“Thank you for all for that lively exchange. Now here’s what I propose.
“Joyce, I want you to go to New Dehli and Islamabad to lay the ground work for a subsequent trip that I will make. And you will tell Dr. Khosla and Mr. Sajjad exactly that. That I will follow. But we’ll meet on neutral ground, in Qatar. In your call to Prime Minister Sajjad you will indicate that this president would view his government’s testing of its Ghauri or M-11 missiles as an unnecessary escalation. In other words, don’t up the ante. Tell them both, as far as I am concerned, there is nothing more serious, with the exception of terrorist threats to the United States, than the dangerous course these two countries are proposing by their actions. Tell them that I will announce a trip to our military base at Qatar for no later than ten days from today to meet with our commanders in the Gulf and Qatar. But the purpose of this visit is to sit down with Khosla and Sajjad. We will do it in secrecy and we will stay there until we have a solution.
“Norman, I will see the troops there, too. You can set that up. But coordiante the dates with Joyce for this meeting. That is why I’m going. To Jack’s earlier point, hopefully that will provide its own benefits. Bernsie, you’ll have to get into the calendar. It’s going to throw a big monkey wrench into everything.”
“Including the convention,” the chief of staff noted.
“Quite possibly.”
“But Mr. President. You have to be at the convention.”
“Let’s hope I can, Bersnie. Now, Norman and Joyce, the only way this is going to lead to any meaningful result is if we put something on the table. This has to be worthwhile to each of them.”
Demonstrating his detailed grasp of geopolitical issues, Morgan Taylor ran through the options. “You’ll have to help me through this, but in terms of Pakistan, maybe we slack off on our insistance for a new election. Sajjad should welcome that. What was our last grant for education? Only around $5 million. That’s pretty insulting. Work up a viable package.”
“And if they want us to backpeddle on our pursuit of their drug trade?” the secretary of state asked.
“That’s not on the table,” the president said without any equivocation. “But more money to fight the Taliban. Yes. More money for Emergency Relief and Migration Assistance. Yes. Whatever it takes to get them to see we’re serious. This has got to be a visible win for Sajjad, given the threat from India.
“Now for Dr. Khosla. Same questions. What will it take? More assistance in non-military nuclear research? Determine the shortcomings of the old Bush proposals? Can we can improve upon them? More money for HIV/AIDS vaccinations? And market incentives? It’s about time we face it, India is one of the six major powers in the world. We should publicly acknowlege that.” The president laughed as his shared his next though
t. “Nothing like telling somebody they’ve got one of the world’s biggest dicks.”
Everyone laughed, including Joyce Drysdale and Attorney General Eve Goldman.
“Okay, those are my general ideas. Give me the specifics and do it quickly. Maybe I can help stabilize this mess before the country puts us all out to pasture.”
“Mr. President,” John Bernstein insisted, “Please. Can’t this wait until after the convention? State can start setting it up now. I’m sure Joyce could use the extra time. Then you you go as soon as you’ve accepted the nomination.”
“No,” the president declared. “This can’t wait.”
Taylor allowed another few minutes of debate, however his mind was made up.
“One thing—for all of your memoirs. I’m not doing this for any polls. Got that?”
They understood.
“If necessary, Bernsie, I’ll address the convention from the road.”
“That’s never been done before,” the chief of staff added.
“Yeah,” the president said as he concluded the session. “Maybe this time someone will listen.”
Marblehead, Massachusetts
“I’m looking for old photographs for an article on the Lodges’,” Roarke explained to the Executive Director of the Marblehead Chamber of Commerce.
“Oh, you and everyone else,” the 54-year-old full time spokesperson for Marblehead tourism replied in a thick New England accent. “I’ve had people from the networks asking and a reporter fellow from The New York Times. Wish I could help you, but we don’t archive anything like that. Try the newspaper.”
“Already did.”
“Give the Globe, a call. I don’t have a contact for you. But they’ve got an extensive archive. And then there’s Cronin at the Herald. Try him.”
Roarke thanked the director and called the archivist at The Boston Globe. The librarian checked and came up with nothing. Next he called The Boston Herald.
He got the same message. “Sorry. Our photo library really starts with Mr. Lodge’s visits to Boston once he was a congressman. We also have the typical AP pictures from Washington, but nothing from his Marblehead days,” the archivist explained. “But you may want to check with BU. They’ve got the old Record American morgue.”
“BU?” asked Roarke.
“Boston University. Down on Comm Avenue.” Cronin gave him the contact number and directions, which didn’t help much. Boston’s meandering one way streets meant that three right turns rarely deposited anyone where he started. Still, Roarke made it there.
The archivist at the school listened to Roarke’s pitch. He had Roarke wait a good ten minutes, only to return with bad news.
Roarke finally decided to check with Lodge neighbors. And the best way to do that was to drive back up to Marblehead to canvass the streets. That took the better part of the day. And everywhere he heard the same story. “We don’t have any,” or “We can’t find any.”
As he passed a newsstand he saw a copy of The New York Times. The reporter, what’s his name, O’Donnell. No, O’Connell. He may know.
From a phone booth at a gas station on Pleasant Street, he called the paper, hoping to get O’Connell. The chances were slim considering how reporters used voice mail to screen their calls. On the fourth ring, a recording triggered and Roarke left a message.
“Hello, you don’t know me,” he started. “But I’m calling to ask a favor.” The rest would all be a lie.
“I’m Reuben Putman, calling on behalf of the Democratic Convention and we’re desperately looking for a photograph of Congressman Lodge’s family for a documentary that will be running before his speech. It’s scheduled for Thursday during the convention. I’d appreciate a call if you have anything or if you could steer me in the proper direction. I’m in Boston and I’ll be checking into the Parker House. You can leave a message for me there after three today.” For good measure he added, “And maybe I can help you, too.” That should guarantee a call back.
Roarke was about to hang up but then added an irresistible compliment. “And by the way, great job on your articles. Fascinating backgrounders. Bye.”
He returned to Boston and drove, up and over Beacon Hill to the Parker House, one of the city’s famed hotels. Roarke produced an ID and credit card in the name of Putman, a rarely used alias, and checked in. After programming the room telephone so he could call in for messages, he decided to grab another hour’s rest before returning to Katie’s. He figured he’d need it.
Just before 5 P.M. the phone rang waking him up from a deep, heavy sleep. In his disorientation, Roarke almost missed the call. “Hello,” he said in the strongest voice he could muster.
“Hello, Mr. Putman?”
Roarke had to think a moment. “Ah, yes.”
“This is Mike O’Connell. You asked me to give you a ring.”
Roarke forced his eyes open and focused. “Yes, yes. Thank you. I’m so sorry if I put you out. I know it’s not quite regular to be asking for help like this.”
“Well, it’s a bit unorthodox, but under the circumstances, I understand. And as you said, maybe you’ll have something I might need.”
Roarke smiled. He took the bait. “Possibly.” Roarke said aloud.
“But in answer to your question, I’m having the same problem. It’s the damnedest thing. I can’t find a picture to save my life.”
“Yeah.” Roarke agreed.
“Or his family.”
Of course there was one photograph, but Roarke decided not to offer it up. “I’ve gotta finish this doc with sketches. It’s impossible.”
“We’re both in the same boat, then.” O’Connell suddenly had another idea. “But while I have you on the phone, maybe you can help me out with some solid info on Lodge’s head guy, Newman.”
“What do you mean?” Roarke asked. He shook off the tiredness. This could prove interesting.
“Newman.”
“Yeah? What about him?”
“He just sort of came out of nowhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“I interviewed him and got a bit of his history. But not much. I’d sure like to be able to write a solid backgrounder on him. But I don’t have enough to fill a column. And the man may be the next chief of staff.”
Roarke scribbled the name Newman on a hotel pad next to the phone.
The reporter continued. “The Army’s been pretty tight-lipped about his father and the helicopter crash and I don’t have time to run the Freedom of Information Act up their fucking asses to get at it. Maybe you can feed me something. Not for attribution, of course, unless you want it”
Roarke added Army, father and copter crash to his paper. Certainly he could open doors where O’Connell couldn’t.
“Look, keep me out of the papers. But here’s the deal. I’ll look into it. I have some connections, but you have to find me a picture.”
“Give me a day.”
“You got it,” Roarke said. “And I’ll see what I can deliver, too.”
He didn’t feel one bit guilty using the reporter. O’Connell had been fueling Lodge’s campaign for two months. It was about time that Morgan Taylor got something in return. “You can reach me here for the next few days. Let’s talk tomorrow, say at five o’clock.”
“Oh, and one more thing, while you’re at it.”
“Yes,” Roarke said.
“Newman’s date of birth. Can you get that, too?”
“I’ll try.”
O’Connell agreed and hung up. Roarke immediately dialed the office of the Secretary of the Army at the Pentagon. With luck he’d have his information well before twenty-four hours. He hoped that in return, O’Connell would press his sources to find a photograph. Touch Parsons needed more.
O’Connell liked having someone on the inside. He was proud of himself and didn’t question how easily Putman fell into his lap. Unfortunately, even though he was a top-flight journalist, he failed to double-check the veracity of his new source. He probably wanted to be
lieve Reuben Putman because they struck a deal. Possibly it was because he still thought far too much about writing a bestseller on the election. Whatever the reason, it blinded him. Which, of course, Roarke counted on.
O’Connell logged onto Google.com and began a series of searches, which constantly narrowed. He typed in Marblehead and added additional parameters: restaurants, fire stations, hot dog stands, clubs and organizations, anywhere he might find photographs of the Lodges. He also cast a net for high school yearbooks. He was surprised he hadn’t tried that before.
He printed out 53 telephone numbers of possible contacts and began calling.
At the same time, Roarke was on the phone with the Pentagon. He spoke with an old friend, Captain Penny Walker, a tireless bloodhound who could dig into the deepest hole and come up with gold. She worked with the Secretary of the Army and Roarke knew all of her skills first hand. In an internal investigation six years earlier, Walker and Roarke discovered a white supremacist faction that had been recruiting members at Fort Bragg. Roarke had infiltrated the group and continued to work undercover with Cpt. Walker, but in an entirely different manner. They ended their affair early, yet remained devoted to one another.
She worked on-line while speaking to Roarke on the phone. “Newman, William. 2nd Lieutenant. Deceased. Let’s see what comes up. And I’m not talking about you, honey,” she said punching in the last variable to her initial entry.
“That’s a relief,” he said. “I’m not sure if I even could.”
“Oh, has Mr. Happy been busy recently?”
“Captain!” he chided her. “Stick to your search.”
“You’re no fun anymore. But okay. Here we go.” She began reading the results. “Newman, um, only 6,411. Give me a sec, I’ll cut through this.”
She typed in Germany. Next, the approximate years of service.
“Got it down to four.”
“Anything else I can use?”
“Yeah. Add helicopter accident—some sort of crash, I don’t really know, as the cause of death.” He heard her fingers race across the computer keys.
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