Upon becoming president, Henry Lamden agreed to Morgan Taylor’s first recommendations: that the FBI director remain at his post; the same for three other key cabinet members—Secretary of State Norman Poole, Attorney General Eve Goldman, and Homeland Security Secretary Norman Grigoryan. However, Lamden made two notable changes. He elevated CIA Chief Jack Evans to the higher post of National Director of Intelligence and appointed David Jaburi, a second-generation American and devout Muslim, as Secretary of the Treasury. It was a calculated move designed to demonstrate how America embraced people of all faiths. The fact that Jaburi worked with Eve Goldman, a Jew, was a positive lesson to the Muslim world.
“Go ahead, Bob.”
“Sir, a junior member of your Office for Strategic Initiatives was killed last night.”
Lamden tensed.
“Who?” the president quickly demanded.
“A young woman. I only met her once myself. Lynn Meyerson.”
Lamden closed his eyes, lowered his head, and whispered, “Oh, my God.” Without looking up he asked, “How did it happen?”
“She was jogging in L.A. Apparently stalked and attacked. We’re still looking at the initial evidence.”
“She left my suite to go running. I gave her time off,” the president said in a self-confession.
“Yes, Mr. President. I know.”
The president’s shoulders collapsed under the impact of the news. He thought about Lynn’s promising future, now gone. Her energy. Her desire to succeed. He buried his face in his hands. “Tell me what happened.”
“As you noted, she left the Century Plaza Hotel shortly before your departure. She was seen running down Avenue of the Stars to Pico Boulevard and into a local park. At some point, she cut into an adjoining golf course. That’s where she was assaulted.”
“My God! I drove right by there on the way to the airport.” Henry Lamden looked up. His voice cracked as he continued. “How did she die?”
“She was stabbed, sir.” He paused, as if reading the president’s mind. “And no, we do not believe she was raped.” He paused. “Though it appeared that was intended.”
“So there was a witness who interceded?”
“Possibly.”
“But he still took the time to kill Lynn?”
“Yes. And we don’t know why.”
Mulligan turned to a page of his own notes, scanned them, exhaled, and mustered the courage to proceed with what he had to say.
“Mr. President, I have to ask you something. If, after you hear my questions, you believe you should consult White House counsel, then I advise you to do so.”
The president’s mood suddenly changed. Armor went up. “Say what you mean, Bob.”
“I need to ask what every reporter will also be asking you. Three important questions.” Mulligan was a former prosecutor, a devilishly manipulative courtroom attorney. He had his cross-examination down. He fixed an unblinking stare on the president, trying to read his very thoughts.
“There have been hundreds of similar deaths this year that the media will show no interest in. This one is different. The victim worked for the government. She worked in the White House. And she worked for the President of the United States. You.”
“Get to your questions, Mr. Director.” Lamden now showed dismay over where Mulligan was heading.
“Mr. President, did you have any relationship with this worm—?”
“No!” the president shot back before the final word was off the FBI chiefs lips. “That’s one. Next.”
“Sir, can you shed any light on why anyone would want to harm Ms. Meyerson?”
“No, I cannot. For Christ sake, she was the most liked person here. Two.”
“Did she have access to any classified information?”
This caught him off guard. “Classified information? Well, I suppose a lot of what she touched could be considered classified. Hell, she was in Strategic Planning. Where are you going with this, Bob?”
Protocol usually demanded you never answered a president’s question with another question, but Mulligan did.
“What kinds of things, Mr. President?” He voice was more urgent.
“Schedules. Strategies. Secrets.”
The president locked onto the eyes that were scrutinizing him. It was a look that Robert Mulligan would long remember. It was still, serious, and final.
“Mr. Director, Lynn Meyerson was a fine young woman with a bright future. She was a trusted aide with access to the President of the United States. And, as you damn well know, almost everything we talk about in the Oval Office could be considered classified until it’s in the press. Now before you hear another word from me, it’s your turn. What the hell is going on?”
Chapter 14
Washington, D.C.
FBI Agent Roy Bessolo parked his customized black Suburban on Columbia Road NW, directly across the street from Meyerson’s apartment. It was his second time up the hill today. His first was a drive-by surveillance run on his own. Now he had his entire team.
Meyerson lived alone a few blocks from Dupont Circle, in a one-bedroom walk-up. Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a century-old five-story brick building on 18th Street in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. Higher priced condos lined the street. Meyerson’s building hadn’t been converted yet.
“There it is,” Bessolo told his passengers. “Right over the video store.”
His team assessed the exterior. Chunks of brick and mortar had fallen away. Workers had tried to patch the facade with plaster, but the structure desperately needed work. Individual air-conditioning units hung from windows, indicating that there was no central HVAC.
“I’ve got the specs.” Earlier, Bessolo pulled the name of the owner, the money he owed on the building, and information on all the occupants. They were 20-something students: some from Georgetown and GW, a few of the “bridge and tunnel crowd” from the University of Maryland, a collection of junior hill staff, and some young attorneys. Bessolo ordered up more detailed information on each of the tenants, including what they paid in rent, their personal debt, and whether they had any record. Meyerson’s monthly rent was $1,980. She had no roommate. She’s getting hosed, he thought. Bessolo was the father of a 23-year-old daughter and he worried about such things. It was the only sympathy he’d show for Lynn Meyerson that day.
“We wait here until we have the warrant. Then we move.” Bessolo was pissed. He was ready to go and the fax was still to come. He took the time to review procedure.
Roy Bessolo issued his instructions the way he did everything: military, direct, monotone. And what his voice didn’t say, his appearance did. Marine crew cut. Marine physique. Marine barrel chest. The only “ex” was his active duty status. He was as strong today as he was at the peak of his training.
“Let’s go through this once more.”
The team had already reviewed their assignments, but Bessolo was a stickler for proper procedure.
“Thomas. You start with the head. Tag prescription medications, illegal substances, birth control pills. Everything. Then you’ve got the subject’s bedroom. All the drawers. What’s visible and what’s not. Hidden compartments. Everywhere.”
“Everything, everywhere,” said Beth Thomas, one of the FBI’s brightest criminologists, and the only woman in the bureau to hold a PhD in the subject.
“Shik, you’re in the kitchen and living room. Drawers, cabinets, bookcases, desk. Over, under, around, and through.”
“Behind?” asked the agent.
“Behind,” Bessolo answered. “Anything outside the bedroom is yours.” Bessolo knew his man would not miss a square inch. Agent Dan Shikiar was the team’s most detail-oriented agent.
“And Gimbrone, get into her computer fast but carefully. Watch out for any embedded viruses that could be set as traps. I need to see what’s in there. Pull up everything on the subject’s computer. Read, copy, report. In-boxes and outgoing.”
“Yes, sir,” the third member of the team acknowledged. Like the others, Mark Gimbrone was an expert. His discipline: hacking and cracking.
“Thirty minutes, people. I want a continuous narrative. I’ll be monitoring each of you.” The team’s microphones were all fed to distinct digital tracks in the black, windowless van. “I want to know that this woman is cleaner than a baby’s butt.” He left out the important fact that she was no longer alive; a calculated deceit in order not to color their thinking. “Am I clear?”
He got the obligatory affirmation he sought. “One bit of intel for you, the rest you fill in for me: Our subject works for Uncle Sam. Find me anything that compromises her. Or give me your assurance she’s on the home team.”
The fax machine started to print out the court authorization. Bessolo grabbed the sheet when it finished printing. “The United States District Court for the District of Columbia says one, two, three—green light!”
One by one, the team exited the tricked-out van parked in front of a bank. Beth Thomas was the last to leave. She ducked back in when the others were out of earshot.
Bessolo shot her a confused look. “Agent Thomas?”
“Just a question, sir. Off the record?”
At first, Bessolo showed annoyance. But since he openly encouraged his team to speak their mind, he acquiesced. He reached over and paused her discreet audio channel on the computer recording. “Two minutes.”
“Less,” she began. “You always told me to keep my radar up. Well, my radar’s up. Warrant aside, are we examining a crime scene or spying on a citizen?”
“We have an assignment. That’s all you need to know.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
She knew he lied very, very well.
“Same answer on the record, Roy?” she asked using her boss’s first name.
“Agent, do your job. And don’t ignore anything. You go in with an empty canvas and paint me a fucking Rembrandt.”
He pointed the computer mouse at the record icon and left-clicked. The conversation was over.
“Scott…”
The phone call caught him while he was walking into the Pentagon. Recognizing the voice, he stopped just shy of security and returned outside. It was Louise Swingle, the vice president’s secretary. She kept him plugged into relevant administration issues. Morgan Taylor insisted on it, and the new president had agreed. Roarke’s access to breaking information was critical.
The conversations were always lighthearted and cryptic.
“What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“About to see Penny.” Swingle knew all about Captain Penny Walker. She was one of Roarke’s deep contacts inside the Pentagon and an old girlfriend.
“Are we conducting business today?” she asked mockingly.
“Nothing but.”
Roarke wanted to see if Penny could run a search on military veterans who might overlap one or more aspects of Depp’s profile. She was a master detective assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency, who did all of her work on one of the Pentagon’s most interconnected computers.
“But if you need me now…” he began.
“No, just wanted to know if you heard the rumors?”
“Rumors? Nothing beyond the hustle out of L.A. a few days ago.”
Her sudden switch to business clearly suggested this wasn’t a conversation to continue on an open line.
“Why don’t you hit home later.” Home was the vice president’s office. “There’s something else.”
Louise Swingle never said anything that didn’t have meaning.
“You sure this can wait?” he asked.
“Yes, but don’t take all day. Bye-bye.”
With that he hung up and proceeded to security. Even his Secret Service ID didn’t earn him a quick pass. Not these days.
“Okay, Penny, do your stuff,” Roarke said after the preliminary explanation.
Penny was a slender, 5′6″ blonde beauty. Her looks always made men take notice; Roarke had. But her uniform usually made them stop and think twice. Roarke hadn’t. She was a U.S. Army captain assigned to intelligence. Two years earlier they had had a whirlwind relationship, all sex and no romance. At the time, it was what both were aching for. However, Penny understood that Roarke needed more than she would ever give him. That’s why she was happy he’d found Katie Kessler.
Walker finished typing. “Anything else you can think of?”
Roarke looked over her shoulder at the parameters he provided for her search: Caucasian. Ex-military. Marksman. Age range 28-40. Nothing more than possibilities. She also included approximate height and weight variables, and a composite picture created by Touch Parsons.
“Will the computer ignore the picture if it comes up with positives on these assumptions alone?”
“If that’s what you’d like.” She altered her typed prompts. “You know how I like to make you happy.” She looked back and blew Roarke a kiss.
“Then add in theatrical makeup as another parameter.”
“Geez, you’re easy these days,” she cooed. “She must be very, very good.”
“She is,” Roarke said smiling. “And thank you.”
Walker sighed. “Oh, what could have been.” She turned back to the keyboard. “Well, sweetheart, since I struck out with you, at least let’s see if I can come up with Mister Wrong.”
Antiguilla
The sun beat down on the pristine white sand at Antiguilla’s Cap Juluca resort. The British West Indies facility is tucked away on a private self-contained enclave, spread along two miles of the Caribbean coast. Singles and couples alike flock to the Moorish villas, feasting in the five-star restaurants, working halfheartedly in the fitness center, diving, surfing, water skiing, sailing, or finding other more personally gratifying indoor sports.
Some of the vacationers were sprawled out, engrossed in paperback editions of Tom Clancy, Michael Palmer, Vince Flynn, and Dan or Dale Brown books. It might be another month until the next great beach reads were due, but here in paradise it was perpetually July.
One strikingly beautiful woman sitting on a straw mat spotted a snorkeler emerging from the 85-degree water. She was awestruck by his 6-foot-plus frame, a magnificent physique, his blonde locks, hairless body, and his drop-dead good looks.
She wondered what he did. He was obviously successful. Lawyer. No. Maybe a professional athlete. A quarterback. She wished she knew sports better. He could be anything, she thought.
Part of her evaluation was right. He was successful and very athletic. In fact, a few nights before, he’d been a jogger. But after catching a 10 P.M. plane from LAX to Miami, and then a connecting flight to Antiguilla, he became someone else entirely.
If the woman, wearing only a bikini bottom, were lucky, she’d never discover what he actually did for a living.
Now, with his eyes fully adjusted to the glare, he saw her. He read her unmistakable interest from twenty yards away. He laughed to himself. A redhead. Imagine that.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” she replied with a flirtatious smile. She lowered her eyes: a coy signal that he could do the same.
When she looked up again, the woman noted that he had taken her cue and found what she had invited him to see. Soon the stunning redhead would hear that this great catch out of the sea was a shark. He’d even have a convincing conversation with her about his career as a lawyer, or rather the identity that he’d stolen. Most importantly, over the next week, he’d show her a very good time. All on his dime. After all, money wasn’t a problem.
Chapter 15
Washington, D.C.
Shik used his small lock pick to open Meyerson’s 800-square-foot apartment.
“We’re in,” he said for the recording. “Let’s get to it.”
The team split up according to assignments, each making instant value judgments about the woman and her life.
Beth Thomas went straight for the bathroom. To a woman, the bathroom said a lot. This is where the FBI agent would formulate the personal side of the subject. The bathtub caught her eye. “We have a guilty pleasure here or a bad back. Whirlpool Spa connected to her tub.” Her search of the medicine cabinet produced a bottle of a muscle relaxer. “Five mg Flexeril. Vicodin, too. Ten mg. It’s a back issue.” There were also decongestants. “Allergies,” Thomas continued reporting. She noted condoms and essentials from a Bobbi Brown makeup kit. Most of the things were missing. “The medicine cabinet doesn’t have everything I’d expect. Subject is likely away.”
Bessolo radioed up. “Any Estee Lauder?”
She looked again. “No. Why?” Bessolo didn’t volunteer an answer.
Shik had his screwdriver out, and removed the plates on each of the wall sockets. Wearing a light on his cap, he peered inside each one. Next he checked the light fixtures. From there he went to the living room, examining the telephone and fax machine. He set up a small black box next to them. The onboard LEDs remained green. No bugs or wireless cameras. “Living room is clean.” He followed the same routine in each of the other rooms.
Beth Thomas ignored him when he came into the bedroom. She was busy with her own analysis. “Walls patched up. Hardwood floors worn, but recently polished. I’d say she cares about her bedroom, but doesn’t have money to work with. Assumption: She needs more money, or is afraid to spend what she has.” Her walls were painted in a light blue, the ceiling in white. She’d hung a poster depicting Wellesley College in its fall splendor, and tacked on a cork board, a collection of pictures that she’d taken with government officials and international leaders. So far, these were the most interesting finds.
Executive Treason Page 12