Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  At the front of this level, in what would be the First Class compartment of a commercial 747, was the president’s office, appointed with lightweight, but comfortable furniture. Off to the left, or port side, was a medical station. Farther back was a smaller lounge and stairs, which led below to Level 3. There was another set, which returned to Level 1, and an even larger galley.

  Directly in the front of Level 3—the lowest floor—was the Presidential Suite, including compact sleeping quarters. Moving toward the stern, the cargo area was actually split into two levels where equipment, supplies, and any number of specialty items were stored.

  Though it occurred shortly before Rossy’s watchful tenure, everyone who served aboard Air Force One knew about the day: January 28, 1998. President Clinton was on a whirlwind Midwest trip. He’d just completed a speech at the University of Illinois in Champaign, and was preparing to take off from Willard Airport for the next leg. As his Boeing 707, tail number 27000, taxied into position, the landing gear slipped off the runway into soft ground. The plane’s engines revved and the crowd watched. But Air Force One’s wheels sank into the muck. President Clinton found alternative transportation on a backup 707 which was flown in. Ever since then, the Air Force established new safety procedures and everyone’s job became much harder, Rossy’s included. The lieutenant was acutely aware of the importance of each detail, whether Air Force One was on the ground or in the air.

  Today, he didn’t think he’d be flying, although after 9/11 it was anybody’s guess.

  There are generally five ways that an important story makes the news. A reporter is at the scene and files an account. An eyewitness tells a story to a reporter who then reports. A story pops up through a police reporter. A reporter is given an on-the-record tip by a quotable source. The final option is particularly popular in Washington: A story is leaked by an unnamed source.

  And that’s the way the first news about Lynn Meyerson hit The Washington Post.

  The FBI is investigating the death of a government staffer who may have been employed in a key administration post. The victim, identified only as a woman in her mid-20s, allegedly suffered a fatal knife attack while jogging in a Los Angeles park. A source says the FBI is investigating whether she may also have had information on a security breach at the White House level. Neither the FBI nor Justice Department would comment.

  The eight-line Post news brief was enough to catch Michael O’Connell’s eye 212 miles away.

  The New York Times

  New York, New York

  O’Connell was a reporter for The New York Times. By every account he was on his way to a Pulitzer for his reporting of the Lodge investigation. He’d earned an invitation from then-President Taylor to tag along as the chief executive flew to the Mediterranean to secure evidence that would bring Lodge down. Instead of seeing Lodge’s arrest, O’Connell was a witness to his death.

  Unwittingly, the reporter’s glowing coverage of both Lodge and his campaign manager helped further the campaign. Taylor also figured he was the best person to chronicle the real story. His inside account became a series of seventeen front-page stories and the basis for a book that came out on the anniversary of Jennifer Lodge’s death. Not since Woodward and Bernstein had a newspaper reporter been so quickly catapulted to such national, if not international, attention. A residual benefit was that O’Connell now had access to Vice President Morgan Taylor and the man who looked after him the most, Secret Service agent Scott Roarke. He dialed an unpublished cell phone number. It rang twice. “Yes?”

  “Roarke,” he blasted into the phone. “O’Connell.” There was no immediate response. O’Connell figured it was either a bad line or the agent was assessing whether he wanted to talk. If he didn’t, it was probably because he’d already made the right call. “Roarke?”

  “Yup,” he finally heard through the sound of traffic.

  “Are you out on your morning run?”

  “Yes.” Roarke was jogging along the Mall. “So, what’s up?”

  “Got a question for you.”

  “How am I?” Roarke said without breaking stride.

  “Naw. You know I don’t care.”

  Silence.

  “Just read a blurb in the Post. Making the wires now, but without any more details—about a government employee stabbed in Los Angeles. A woman. I thought maybe you might know something about it.”

  He waited for a reaction that didn’t come.

  “Killed.”

  Still no response.

  “A woman.”

  “And?” Clearly, Roarke wasn’t about to volunteer any information to O’Connell.

  “…Information on a security breach at the White House… You don’t see a phrase like that everyday.”

  “What?” Roarke said. “What did it say?”

  O’Connell knew that What did it say? was a vastly different question than What investigation? He took it as a cue to push more. “Come on, Roarke. What do you know?”

  “Haven’t seen the paper yet.”

  “So you haven’t heard about a woman in the administration being killed? And nothing about an FBI investigation?”

  “What did it say?” Roarke asked sharply.

  “See for yourself. Page three.”

  A few seconds later O’Connell heard the sound of papers rustling. Must have been a news kiosk nearby. He was certain Roarke uttered a quiet, “Oh, shit.”

  “So?” O’Connell asked.

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not my job.”

  “Not your job to help me or not your job to look into it?” the reporter asked.

  No reply.

  “You know I’ve got to run this down. And I won’t be the only one. A death and a security breach at the Oval Office.”

  “It didn’t say that!”

  “Pardon me,” O’Connell replied. “The White House. There’s more there.”

  “Be my guest,” Roarke said.

  “How about an arm’s length relationship. You see what you can find out, we share information. Quietly.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You did it before.”

  O’Connell was correct, but it was on Roarke’s terms.

  “Come on, off the record, Roarke.”

  “On the record. I’ve gotta go. Another time, O’Connell.” Roarke ended the call.

  O’Connell stared out into the city room of The New York Times, unable to fathom the full significance of the story or that a killer was going to make a bonus because he would soon put it on the front page.

  Washington, D.C.

  a short time later

  Scott Roarke flashed his Secret Service ID to the FBI agent posted at the police tape. He was cleared to move into the building. That’s when he spotted Bessolo climbing out of the van. He sucked in a breath and called out. “Hey, Bessolo!”

  Ever since their run-in over whether Congressman Lodge was responsible for his wife’s death, the two had been at each other’s throats. The fact that Roarke had been right didn’t ease the situation. Roarke took it on faith that Bessolo was a smart investigator, maybe one of the FBI’s best, but for some reason he had a bug up his ass over Roarke.

  Now Bessolo saw Roarke. If he hesitated to think about what he was going to say, it didn’t help. “Hey, Captain America, what are you doing here?”

  “Just what I’m told.” That was enough to give him a free pass. Roarke met the FBI investigator, and together they walked inside. “What do you have?”

  “Not quite ready to discuss anything,” Bessolo said picking up the pace. He had no intention of briefing Roarke. First, he’d make a report to his boss. Robert Mulligan would then have to notify the president and then the Attorney General Goldman. “So, Special Agent, how about you just run along and take your conspiracy theories with you.”

  “Hey, come on. You know why I’m here.”

  The arrival of Roarke immediately ch
anged the game plan. “Look Roarke. You work for somebody. So do I. How about I tell my boss what I come up with. Then my boss bucks it up. Just like it’s supposed to be.”

  “Tell your boss what?”

  Bessolo realized he’d already said too much. “I gotta go.” The FBI man turned away and continued his walk to the entrance of the apartment building.

  “Tell him what?” Roarke shouted on the run. Bessolo stopped again and got right in Roarke’s face.

  “That she wore pink panties and played with a vibrator,” he said, hoping that would end it.

  Roarke ignored the comment. Instead, he reached for the door handle. “After you.”

  The two men walked up the stairs to the fourth floor without another word. When they entered Meyerson’s apartment, Roarke saw that three of Bessolo’s squad were busy working: their second day. Two were cataloguing personal items and a third was at the computer. Roarke assumed they’d already downloaded the computer’s entire memory. Now they were drilling deeper into the details.

  “What have you found?” he asked the man on the computer.

  The FBI agent looked at Roarke, and then to his supervisor.

  “You probably want to see this.” Roarke dug into his pocket and produced his Secret Service ED.

  Mark Gimbrone examined the card. It wasn’t enough. He turned to Bessolo for approval. He got the condescending no he expected.

  “Okay then, what if I just quietly watch. I don’t get in the way. You don’t get a phone call. Mind if I just look over your puppy’s shoulder then?” Roarke asked Bessolo. “Promise, I won’t disturb him.”

  This time, Bessolo shrugged and said, “Look, don’t talk.”

  “Thank you,” Roarke answered as impolitely as possible.

  Gimbrone went from one program to the next, scanning the in- and out-boxes, the recently deleted messages, and web searches. After ten minutes, Roarke pulled up a chair to get more comfortable. His host seemed to skip a number of things that Roarke showed interest in. The third time it happened, he tapped the screen.

  “Mind if we spend a little bit of time on that?”

  The FBI man snorted and clicked off the screen.

  Roarke leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You don’t know me, do you?”

  Without looking, Gimbrone nodded no.

  “I didn’t think so. A lot of what I do doesn’t get public notice.”

  Gimbrone’s ears perked up. He swiveled his chair around.

  “I’m Taylor’s boy. The one who gets to go anywhere and do anything. You might have heard about some of my assignments. None of which, of course, ever happened.”

  Recognition spread over Gimbrone’s face. Libya. The Capitol. The man who saved Taylor. The man who stopped Lodge. They all came to mind.

  “So, may I please take a look,” Roarke continued in a whisper. “Quiet as a mouse, just like I promised.”

  There was no longer any question. He returned to the computer and typed in the command that brought the e-mails back to life. The FBI agent extended his palm, inviting Roarke to examine it closer.

  Roarke patted his back in thanks as he read the first e-mail address, the time and date, and a completely incriminating message.

  “Holy shit,” Roarke said, suddenly making a friend.

  Gimbrone agreed. “And there’s more. Info on pending bills, military intel, travel schedules for the president and the veep. All a bit obtuse, but recognizable.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Six,” the FBI agent volunteered.

  “All to the same recipient?”

  “Every single one. From the first ‘how do you do’ to the last, just a day before she left for California.”

  Roarke looked around the room. Bessolo’s team was tagging and bagging items. He recognized Beth Thomas. She’d be another good one to befriend. No doubt she was analyzing pictures, dinner receipts, and phone logs; the process could go on for weeks. Meanwhile, the story would take on a momentum all of its own, and even though Vice President Taylor had no hand in Meyerson’s hiring, he’d undoubtedly feel the heat.

  Roarke wanted to help, but he wasn’t sure how. As he craned around Gimbrone, the word bungled nagged at him again. Why? he wondered.

  His thought was interrupted by the vibration of the cell phone in his sports coat pocket. A 617 number. Not Katie’s.

  “Hi, Scott. Catch you at a bad time?” It was Katie.

  “In the middle of some stuff.” He backed up two steps and turned to the side for a degree of privacy. “Where are you?

  “Out.” There was some nervousness in her voice. “But if you’re busy we can talk later.”

  Roarke noted the undercurrent. “Is everything all right?”

  She hesitated, then answered. “I guess so.”

  Roarke hadn’t heard concern in Katie’s voice, even veiled concern, in months. “Need to talk?”

  “It can wait.”

  There is something. “You can do better than that. What’s up?” He was sure he heard traffic noise. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Outside. From a phone at Faneuil Hall. Can you believe it?”

  “What about your cell?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “Look,” she said instead. “You’re busy. It’s just a question. It can wait.”

  Roarke rubbed his chin with his free hand. They hadn’t been together for a while. Maybe he could hop a flight later in the day.

  “Hey, you, I can be through in a bit. Wanna play this weekend?”

  “Do I!” she exclaimed. “Really?”

  “If you want me.”

  “In every possible way.” She rushed to the next question. “How soon?”

  Roarke continued to chat with his cell in his left hand. Since he didn’t want to take his ear off the phone to check his watch, he simply stepped forward to the computer screen. Windows displayed the time on the extreme lower-right corner.

  “…Two fifteen. I could be on the four-thirty. Meet you at our usual for drinks, say at…”

  He stopped in mid-sentence, peering closer to the screen. The time. He looked at his watch, then the screen again. Two fifteen. He reached forward to tap the screen, wanting Gimbrone to see what he just noticed. But the agent pushed Roarke’s hand aside, not allowing his finger to touch the liquid crystal monitor. The minute flipped to 2:16.

  “At?” Katie asked. “Oh, hello? At?”

  After the long pause, Roarke continued, but his focus completely shifted. “Sorry. Gotta get back to you,” he said abruptly forgetting her concern. “There’s something I have to look into.”

  The White House

  the same time

  The president’s secretary cleared Robert Mulligan right in again. Not wanting to waste any time, Mulligan removed a folder from his briefcase the moment he stepped into the Oval Office.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Bob.”

  The pleasantries were over.

  “I take it you have more?”

  “Yes. We found a request for a meeting in one e-mail. A time. A date. A place.”

  “Spare me the guessing. Where?” Henry Lamden demanded.

  “Los Angeles, Mr. President. Around the time Meyerson was killed. That could be why she carried lipstick on her run.”

  “What?”

  “To put a message in for a dead-drop.”

  “Have you found any reply from a handler?”

  “Online, no. But considering she was sending messages out on her PC, I’m not surprised. However, we did find some tape stuck under a park bench near where she was killed. It was right where another jogger reported seeing her sit down the day before.”

  Neither man had taken a seat. Mulligan passed the folder to the president, but Lamden didn’t open it. Instead, he went to his desk and held up the morning Post.

  “You want to tell me how the story got out, Bob?”

  Mulligan knew this was co
ming.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You better find out.”

  The director already had a team scrutinizing phone logs in and out of the bureau, but he decided that it would be better to agree now. Lamden had every right to be upset. Only the FBI knew about Meyerson’s correspondence.

  “While I have your undivided attention, Bob…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How the hell did you clear this woman for office?” the president demanded. “No background checks? No hint of a personal political vendetta? Resentment? Nothing showed up?”

  “We investigated Meyerson before she came to the White House. Everything was clean—her family, her school, all of her contacts. No Zionist leanings. But apparently we missed one thing. One very important thing.”

  “You’re damned right you did.”

  Roarke spun around and searched for Bessolo. He caught the field investigator in the bedroom, examining lipstick containers he found deep in Meyerson’s dresser. “Hey, Roy, I need you to look at something.”

  Roy? Roarke never called him Roy before. “What?”

  “Just come here.”

  Bessolo hated the idea of cooperating with Roarke, but he was smart enough to know that Roarke would ultimately get anything he requested.

  “What now?”

  “The e-mails. You should see a couple of them. The most recent.”

  “Already have.”

  “Then check them out again. Particularly the last two or three.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Okay, then, but I need Gimbrone to print them out for me,” Roarke said.

  “They don’t go anywhere!”

  Bessolo’s inclination was to throw the Bobbi Brown lipstick container on the floor to show his anger. But everything was considered evidence.

  “Nothing leaves here.”

  “Sometimes I think you stepped out of the wrong building.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Natural History instead of the FBI.”

  Bessolo didn’t get it.

  “Nevermind. Can you just do this the easy way for a change? Allow Gimbrone to print out the damned e-mails for me.”