“Australia SASR disarmed the bomb. They’re going over it now. Could be Abu Sayyaf, al-Qaeda. Don’t know yet. Both scary possibilities. The thing was just waiting for a signal to detonate.”
“Like having a sleeper spy running for president,” Lamden added. “Tell Evans and Mulligan that from now on all announced travel plans are on hold.”
“Got that.”
“What else?”
“Alerts in Indonesia. Terrorist activity. Police disarmed a bomb in a nightclub. No real interest from the news nets here. About a graph or two in the papers.” The chief of staff spoke in short bites. If the president wanted more, he’d ask for it. “Three dead in a suicide bombing in Baghdad. No Americans. Over in Israel, looks like Blanca is digging in. But she’s all but lost the Knesset. I say Israel gets a new leader by next winter.” Was the president listening? “And my Titans are going to kick butt this year.”
This brought the first response from the president. “No way. The Seahawks all the way.”
“Willing to put money on that, Mr. President?”
“So you add it to your memoirs that Henry Lamden bet in the White House?” he joked.
“I have to have something to sell my book.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you decided to work for a boring old president.”
Billy Gilmore shook off the comment. Lamden’s presidency was anything but boring. But the president was looking more exhausted by the week. His doctors had adjusted his blood pressure medication just days before the last trip. Though not widely known, the stress associated with the office necessitated constant medical monitoring. Leveling it out through treatments and medications was on the minds of presidents’ doctors since the formation of the Union.
George Washington’s physicians determined he was inclined to have “gloomy apprehensions.” John Adams and Andrew Jackson suffered recurring attacks of depression. President William Harrison was said to use stimulants to deal with the illnesses that ultimately killed him during his term.
Two months before Franklin Pierce’s inauguration in 1855, Pierce and his wife were in a terrible train accident. Although they only suffered minor injuries, their son was killed—practically decapitated in front of them. The president’s wife believed that God had taken their boy so that her husband would serve without distraction. Pierce maintained it was punishment for his sins. He buried his sorrows in alcohol.
Abraham Lincoln’s “melancholia” has been copiously documented, specifically his bouts of depression following the Union loss at Chancellorsville. Some historians noted that Lincoln even considered suicide.
Calvin Coolidge’s despondency went unchecked largely because he wouldn’t let anyone treat him. And Senator Joseph McCarthy’s vitriolic attacks on Harry Truman sent Truman and his wife to a retreat in Florida. Truman noted that the stress was so intense that he yearned for a simple life running a gas station and waiting for his “quiet grave.” And following a March 1992 physical examination, George Bush’s White House physicians prescribed a more relaxing schedule to combat the stress the president had been under.
For Lamden, pressure came with the political mayhem he brought on himself. After all, he chose to lead a coalition government. Some pundits mused that the nation had its strongest leadership ever. The one-two punch from a pair of decorated Navy warriors made the United States a more formidable force in the world. The administration was experienced, bold, and obviously decisive. Others, like much of the broadcast media, disagreed.
“Now what’s the great vox populi report today?” Lamden asked wanting to get beyond the MDB and into more fundamental “conventional wisdom.”
“Well,” Gilmore continued, almost as an afterthought, “no change from CNN, and about the same everywhere else.”
“It’s not CNN I’m concerned about, Billy. Not the big guys. What about the ducks?”
“The ducks?”
“Yeah, the ducks that are nibbling me to death.”
Gilmore knew exactly what the president meant, but dismissed it.
“They’re not important.”
“Then why do we pay attention to them?”
Gilmore couldn’t answer the question. Presidents did pay attention to polls, e-mails, write-in campaigns, editorials, and what was being said on the street.
“Billy, tell me who’s creating policy in America today?”
“We are,” he quickly offered.
“No. Try again.”
“Okay, officially, the House and Senate—”
“Wrong again,” Lamden interrupted.
“I don’t know. You are.”
Lamden laughed. “If only that were the case.”
Gilmore, Lamden’s strategist through the primaries, didn’t know where this was going, but it was obvious the president was intent on making his point.
“Look, my life’s an open book. CNN, Fox—they’ve all run specials. I’ve been on the cover of Newsweek or Time—what, six times since the inauguration?”
“Seven.”
“Sixty days after the election there was a pretty fair instant book out on me. O’Connell included a chapter in his book. Hell, A&E even did a Biography.”
“That’s all normal.”
“Yes it is, Billy. Taylor had the same.”
“Yeah, so have some key members of Congress, particularly those with over-the-top personalities like Newt and Tip.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?”
“Our lives are open books.” The president paused to consider another thought. “Not a book. A fucking tabloid rag. We can’t take a piss without it showing up at the checkout stand or some cable news show that has thirty minutes to fill. Hell, they’ll spend one segment just trying to figure out if I’ve got a good stream or if I’m down to a trickle. Then the next segment is devoted to what that will mean to the market or a defense appropriations bill. The third segment is an instant Internet poll. And they wrap it up with an analysis of my declining numbers. And you think we make policy? Not on your life, Billy. We react to what’s being said. To polls in the news magazines, USA Today, the networks, and to people tuned in to the Elliott Strongs of the world.
“You’re overreacting, sir.”
“The opposite, Billy,” the president declared, working himself up more. “My acid reflux makes news. But what do we know about the people who write or broadcast the crap? Where’s the Biography of these hate mongers? What about a 20/20 or 60 Minutes expose? Give me just one investigative book about Strong and the others who fall in lockstep behind him. Where are they?” He answered his own question. “Nowhere. And why? The mainstream press is afraid of becoming a target themselves. So these clowns set the national debate every single day and night. They do it pretty much unchecked. You know what’s even scarier?” Gilmore didn’t interrupt the president’s train of thought. “They’re becoming the real voice!”
“Nobody cares, Mr. President.” The chief of staff was trying to calm down the president.
“You are so wrong, Billy. So deadly wrong.” Lamden’s nostrils flared. “Everybody cares! You tell me Limbaugh had no influence on Clinton’s ability to govern? And when some conservative commentators turned on Bush after Iraq, that didn’t affect his presidency?”
Lamden picked up a picture of his grandchildren. He sensed he’d gotten far too agitated. He rubbed his arm for a moment, took a deep breath, and walked the length of the Oval Office before talking again.
“It’s getting so we have elections 365 days a year. Hell, I got voted out of office again last night on Strong’s show.”
“He’s a wacko,” Gilmore quietly said.
“With a huge audience.”
“All sharing one brain.”
“Yes, his,” the president emphasized. “That’s the problem.”
“So you were up last night.”
“I was. On the flight back. And I recommend that we start tracking his broadcasts for our morning news briefings.�
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“Come on, it only legitimizes him.”
“Legitimize him? Billy, he’s already legitimate, with a legion out there. I don’t know what his endgame is. Ego? Ratings? Bigger salary? I can’t tell you that any more than I can tell you anything else about him. But somebody should. That man and his cronies are setting a new national agenda.”
“Which is?” Gilmore asked skeptically.
“A constitutional amendment.”
“Come on. No way.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Mr. President, you know the funny thing about nighttime?” Gilmore said trying to take the edge off the conversation. “No, you tell me.”
“That’s when you’re supposed to sleep. It helps. Rejuvenates you. I recommend you pick up the habit.”
“You better hope I don’t, Billy. Because there’s a lot going on then that we have to pay attention to.”
Chapter 9
Andrews Air Force Base
Suitland, Maryland
Ross walked around the plane that had taken him cross-country.
His 243rd flight.
It was impossible not to be awestruck by Air Force One. No other jet approximated it. In some regard, it was like being aboard an aircraft carrier, the focal point of a flotilla.
On international trips, the twin 747-200Bs travel with at least fourteen other support aircraft. A pair of two C-5 Galaxy heavy transports carry upward of fifty soldiers and staff, and ferry not one, but sometimes two or three bulletproof limousines. The extra vehicles can be utilized as decoys when necessary. In addition, the transports carry a fully outfitted ambulance and as many as three VH-60 helicopters with folding roto blades. Everything is packed inside the massive 35,000 cubic feet of available cargo space. The C-5′s interior is so large that its 121-foot-long cargo floor is one foot longer than the distance flown by the Wright Brothers on their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.
Depending upon the duration and purpose of a presidential excursion, two or three C-17 cargo planes can also be assigned, bearing dozens of troops and additional equipment. Three KC-10 Air Force tankers, modified DC-10s, along with an equal number of smaller KC-135 tankers, keep the entire entourage fueled.
Rounding out the air show is an additional 747 dedicated to the press and an E-4 operational flying command post, ready to be activated as a working hub for the United States government in the event of a national emergency or a nuclear attack.
Ross knew the name of each and every man and woman assigned to the president’s Secret Service detail, both the uniformed officers and those in plain clothes. Their vehicles, equipped with non-standard extras, flew inside the bellies of the C-5s.
The presidential retinue also included about twelve rotating reporters, each of them with their own means to phone home. Air Force One’s crew numbered twenty-six. Including the cooks and the press pool, upward of 102 souls flew with the president.
As many as 1,000 people traveled with President Clinton when he visited Vietnam in November 2000. And as few as one other when President Morgan Taylor’s two-seat F/A-18 became Air Force One when he flew to the Mediterranean prior to the Special Forces assault on Tripoli.
The $650 million that went into getting the two 747s into service was just the beginning. It takes millions more every year for maintenance and upgrades. The exact cost of operating SAM 28000 and 29000 and the associated fleet of aircraft and personnel remains classified.
The 89th Airlift Wing proudly considered it “the safest aircraft in the world.” Air Force Lt. Eric Ross swore by the boast. He was completely certain that if anything was ever wrong, he’d personally know about it. However, it was getting harder and harder to keep track of every detail. That meant that Rossy had to trust others for their correct judgment and professional care. He couldn’t supervise all of the electronics and avionics. And though he didn’t tell anyone, that very fact scared the living hell out of him.
Chicago, Illinois
12:00 Noon CST
Luis Gonzales stepped off the jet way at Chicago’s O’Hare, clutching a brown leather attaché case. The 3-hour and 55-minute flight from Mexico City went quickly, but he still felt exhausted. It wasn’t because of his nonstop United Airlines flight. The previous year had begun to take its toll.
The Spanish-looking Gonzales managed a little sleep in his first-class seat. It was something he wasn’t supposed to do for deeply religious reasons, but of course, no one knew. To the world, or the few people who actually did business with him, Gonzales was an art dealer with a handsome bank account, worldwide clients, and large portfolio. His transactions were mostly anonymous. He rarely appeared at a showing, instead choosing to bid and make his purchases over the Internet or through intermediaries. Gonzales had saved for years, tucking millions into accounts that he rarely touched. He lived a private life, in a Lake Shore Drive condominium that only recently had become his principal residence.
He spotted his driver. He was a big man: 6′5″—impossible to miss.
“Mr. Gonzales, may I take your bag.” He reached for the burgundy tweed Hartmann.
“Thank you, Mr. Alley.”
That was the extent of the conversation. The driver worked for Gonzales for a number of years, and he knew not to talk with him in public.
At midday, they made the thirty-two mile ride in under fifty minutes. The driver parked in front of the twenty-six-story, lakefront building. Gonzales waited for him to open the door. Minutes later, they were both inside the luxurious condo. 19G. Gonzales didn’t speak yet. He needed assurance from his man, who was more bodyguard than driver, that all was well. Like Gonzales’s other assistants, Roger Alley knew how to sweep the surroundings for bugging devices.
“Are we okay, Mr. Alley?” Gonzales asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said after checking with two other guards. “We’re fine, Mr. Gonzales.” The hardest part for the bodyguard and the rest of the staff was remembering their boss’s new name, and their own.
“Good.”
Gonzales was almost 64. But in many ways he was no different now than when he was 10, 20, 30, or 40 years ago.
His deep, commanding voice always got what he wanted. Though the length and color of his hair changed, moustaches and beards appeared and disappeared, and glasses came and went, nothing could ever hide the utter coldness in his eyes.
Gonzales spoke six languages fluently. Spanish, of course. English, French, German, and Russian, plus one that he hid from almost everyone—Arabic.
He didn’t smoke or drink. Personal chefs, who were especially good with knives in and out of the kitchen, catered to his narrow culinary whims. When he did eat out, he never ordered off a standard menu. He shunned small talk. Every word always counted. He only saw women for personal pleasure. They never saw him a second time, which was probably a mutual decision.
Few people knew Gonzales. Those who worked for him never got close. They were loyal to their ruthless boss and recognized they served him at his pleasure—or life.
“What’s happening in the news?” he asked.
“Haven’t heard much today, but I do have the recording you wanted.”
Gonzales walked to his study and closed the door. Once he was alone, Gonzales sat on a Massagenius 702 Electronic Massage Chair, reupholstered in a soft Spanish leather. He adjusted the chair’s incline and stretched out. With one remote, he set the chair back to a slow, relaxing rolling pattern; with another, he turned on the CD that Alley had burned.
Luis Gonzales, formerly Ibrahim Haddad, eagerly listened to the 12-hour-old recording of Strong Nation.
Los Angeles, California
the same time
“No ID. No missing persons yet?” Ellsworth phoned in, hoping for a quick identification. He figured that finding the murderer was going to be next to impossible without serious lab work, but getting a positive ID on his Jane Doe would at least provide a starting point.
“Nothing,”
the overnight supervisor reported without emotion.
“You mean to tell me that after twelve fucking hours we have nothing on a missing woman in Cheviot Hills! A redheaded jogger in the middle of the whitest park in all L.A.?” The L.A. detective was furious.
“Well, we had a little problem.”
Sweet Jesus, we better not blow this, Ellsworth thought.
“We were short because of the Lamden visit. A whole bunch of the force was on OT. After the president hightailed it for the airport last night, command cut them loose.” He kept the real bad news for last. “So the fingerprints haven’t been delivered yet.”
Chapter 10
Boston, Massachusetts
Offices of Freelander, Collins, Wrather
Tuesday, 19 June
One name had been dropped from the law firm’s marquee: Marcus. The decision was costly for many reasons. Reputation aside, the change amounted to $212,453.25 in the redesign of the logo, new stationary, business cards, editorial corrections to all of the website biographies and listings, and the five-foot, gold-plated lettering that hung over the entrance to the building.
Heywood Marcus had represented the Lodge estate. He was also a conspirator in the plot to take the White House. Now he was dead—the work of the man Roarke sought to identify.
Last night, Katie Kessler argued with her lover about the very means he wanted to use to find the killer. As she walked under the new marquee, she considered what she could do to help. Our first argument. Then she laughed to herself. Son of a bitch. He did it again. He’s so damned good at it, too. Roarke made her question things that, less than a year ago, were so easy to decide.
Katie took her lunchtime in the research library where they’d made their initial discoveries together. She stayed there through the afternoon, pouring over Lexis/Nexis research on the use and abuse of FRT technology. She searched for cases where it resulted in bona fide arrests. She read arguments in support from police chiefs and narratives spelling doom from civil libertarians.
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