The chief of staff rose and threw his hands in the air. “I don’t believe it. You’ve got the fucking French Connection of politics here, and you’re taking a calm coffee break!”
“Oh, quite the opposite, Bernsie. I’m just waking up to the real worry, which we haven’t heard yet. Have we, Jack?” The president turned to his head of National Intelligence.
“You know me too well, Mr. President. There is more. After D’Angelo debriefed us on his meeting with the Mossad, I asked Bob’s boys over at the FBI to check out Haddad’s condo. Right out of Architectural Digest. Every room was designer perfect. Everything was just as he left it the night he disappeared, except for one thing.”
The NDI pointed to the president’s computer.
“There’s a nice empty place on his desk where a big old computer sat. My guess is that it’s at the bottom of the ocean, along with his very expensive yacht. That’s not good news. We would have loved to get our hands on it, because that’s where he must have done all of his correspondence.”
“Phone records. Has Mulligan checked the phone records?” Bernsie appropriately asked.
“Completely. Bessolo, the team leader the FBI sent, went through years of calls from Europe and the Middle East. So far they’re consistent with an importer/exporter. The numbers appear legit. But here’s one you’ll like: There’s a call last year from Lodge’s law office in Boston, too.”
That got everyone’s interest. Suddenly, a back channel that made an important connection.
“Bessolo picked up prints, too. Not ones that match his files. Which either means what we have are bogus, or the ones Bessolo got aren’t Haddad’s. We also have pictures and descriptions.”
“Which all means what?” Bernsie asked.
“For all intents and purposes, we believe that while our man disappeared from sight, he has not vanished from the face of the earth. Ibrahim Haddad is gone, but he could be in the U.S. under another identity—still dedicated to his original purpose.”
“Which is bringing us down.”
“Not really. I think even he realizes that’s not possible. But changing our allegiances in the Middle East? For my money, that was, is, and always will be his ultimate goal.” Evans wanted to drive the point home. “In my estimation, he’s out there, and he’s not finished.”
While this was not good news or even unexpected news, it was apparent that the combined intelligence forces were making progress.
“I don’t mean to state the obvious, Jack, but what about the bank accounts you mentioned. Is anything traceable?” Taylor wondered.
“Yes and no. Some of his money is, in fact, large transactions in the last year. Anywhere from a half a million to millions. Each closely following the date of a completed act.”
“Completed act?” This was Bernie Bernstein’s question.
“Murders, Bernsie. Mrs. Lodge. Marcus. At least two others. Probably dozens more over the years. Cash went its merry way from one foreign account into another, and eventually to God-knows-where.”
“The assassin’s account,” the president stated.
“Yes. But who and where? It’s probably all in his rusting computer at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Can’t we send the Navy to find it?” Again, Bernsie’s question.
“The Atlantic is as much as six miles deep in some places,” Evans replied. “Off Puerto Rico, they call it the trench. Maybe it’s there. Maybe he scuttled it in the Bahamas. We’ll never find it. But we can look for people who came back into the U.S. after the inauguration. People who might match Haddad’s description.”
“You think he’d return?”
“Yes, Mr. President. He’s lived in America for decades. This is where he can most effectively continue. He’s urbane, so we should be looking for him in major cities. He’s rich, so he’ll live high on the hog. He’s back here. He’s just slipped into another life. If we don’t know who he is now, we sure as hell can find out who he was. The Mossad is going to help. It’s at the top of my list.”
The president finished his coffee and looked around the room. This is where he belonged. These are the people he belonged with. He was not going to act like a caretaker. He was going to be the President of the United States. Morgan Taylor buttoned his suit jacket, and stood before his chief of staff and the nation’s intelligence director.
“Make no mistake, the election was stolen from us. Lodge was a fraud. He was elected because of the murders. Had he not been there, we would have beaten Henry.”
“Remember, Lodge wasn’t even Lodge,” Bernsie explained. “He was the sleeper who assumed Lodge’s identity.”
“So noted, Bernsie. But where was the Constitution when we needed it? There was no remedy. Post-9/11, it’s all so different. We tread on very murky legal ground. What would have happened if Lodge had been killed after the election, but before the inauguration? Lamden, too? Who would have been sworn in? Who would have succeeded me on January 20? The Speaker of the House? He’s new to his job, and only there because of the turnover in Congress. Would there have been a new election? These are unknowns, gentlemen. Today, reality resembles fiction movie plots and novels. In my mind, if we’re to be fully prepared to face the tenuous future, we must consider that everything is possible. We’ve learned that the enemy is much more patient than we are. They will wait years. Decades, if necessary. We’re an impatient people. As kids, we became bored with rock songs after a few weeks on the charts. Our children grew up with the pace of Sesame Street. Look at the cuts in commercials—two seconds or less. This is the appetite of the American viewer and the American voter, but not so in the rest of the world. Some will plot with great patience. Some will wait for opportunity. Some have a deep sense of history. They’re concerned with more—much more—than whether they’re the lead story on the news for a while. Yet we think that if our sound bites play often enough, then the world must be agreeing with us. Not so.
“We are going to look to the future, gentlemen. We are going to attack it. We are going to reshape the laws of the land to respond to a world of threats our ancestors could have never imagined.
“You’ve heard the debate about the Constitution, about an amendment intended to remove us. The truth is, these people are partially right. The Constitution must be readdressed, but not to kick our sorry asses out the door. No, we must be better prepared to provide governance and continuity, no matter what surprises our enemies have in mind.”
The president hadn’t intended on turning the briefing into a full-scale study. It all came spontaneously, driven by Evans’s revelation about Haddad. Bernsie took mental notes. Everything Taylor said was on point. The president would need research to sell the idea. He’d need a special, independent White House counsel to vet the options. Someone Taylor could trust. Someone prepared to take the worst that
Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning would inevitably dispense. Someone with no bias. He smiled to himself. He had the perfect person in mind.
Lexington, Massachusetts
FBI Safe House
“Are you up for it, Katie?” Roarke asked.
“Oh, am I ever,” she said.
“It’s going to take a little finessing, but I think it’ll have the desired effect.”
“When?”
“In the morning. Witherspoon is running around in circles. He’s worried. Tomorrow we surprise him. You and me.”
“And the rest of tonight?” Katie asked.
“What do mean?”
Katie took his hand and led him to their bedroom in the safe house. Shop talk was over. “I want to see what you’re up for.” Once the door was closed, she unzipped him. “What’s this?” she asked, kneeling down.
Roarke had become a very giving lover. This seemed too selfish. “No, no, no. Up, let me….”
Her lips closed around him tighter, but her tongue gave away her full intentions. She wanted all of him, and this was only the beginning.
R
oarke sighed. He stood for awhile, but when she realized his legs were getting wobbly, she carefully walked him backward to the chair. Katie’s hands cupped him as he arched up into her mouth. He moved with her now, matching her actions in an equal and opposite way, slowly, gently, until he couldn’t hold it any longer. Then, sensing the moment, Katie was there for him.
He relaxed back into the chair. Katie stood, then slowly and sensually undressed. She took five minutes. The lights in the room were off, but her body was backlit by the moon. She looked so sensual, so appealing, so inviting, that he began to respond.
Katie stepped closer. Roarke reached for her hips. He wanted to pull Katie onto his lap.
“Not yet,” she whispered. She leaned forward and kissed him gently, sharing the tastes. “That’s us.”
“I love us,” Roarke sighed. “Good,” she whispered. “Now me.”
Roarke stood up. He took her into his arms, continued the kiss, and gingerly walked her backward to the bed. He would gladly return the wonderful pleasure she’d given him…and more.
Chapter 40
Boston, Massachusetts
Friday, 29 June
“Damn!” Donald Witherspoon shouted. He nicked himself shaving. Blood oozed down his cheek. He dug through a drawer for a styptic pencil. He dabbed the medicine on his cut and cursed Katie Kessler again. He hated her when she was alive, and she was still able to torment him even though she was dead.
Witherspoon believed his benefactor would be proud. But the man who had paid him to watch Heywood Marcus also paid someone else to watch Witherspoon.
Roarke’s target was sufficiently rattled now. He might expect to meet Roarke again, even FBI investigators. But the way they played it so far, no one came by to Freelander, Connors & Wrather. Until today. Roarke reasoned that the sight of a very-much-alive Katie Kessler would put him over the edge.
Katie and Roarke drove into Boston from Lexington. They parked his rented car in the lot beneath her downtown law offices, and started toward the elevator. “Hey, let’s get a coffee first. We’re way early.” Roarke looked at his watch. 6:35. “Okay.” They didn’t expect Witherspoon for more than an hour. Katie reported that he always made it in at 7:45. Not before. Not after. Like his wardrobe, which was always the same, Witherspoon was a creature of habit.
They took the elevator to the ground floor, walked half a block, and cut across the street.
6:40 A.M. There were just a few people in line at Starbucks. They fell in behind a pair of women, both talking on their cell phones. Roarke automatically scanned the room: three commuters sat on stools at the window reading. Two had The Boston Globe. One read The Herald. A couple seated at a table held hands. A budding office romance? he thought. Satisfied that everything was okay, he picked up the first section of The Globe. There was an account in the right column about some sort of protest march schedule for D.C. He made a mental note to find out more later. He unconsciously heard the women in front order their drinks. “Grande Chai latte with extra foam and a tall skim latte.”
“Anything else?” a perky young woman clerk at the register asked.
“Sure, a pumpkin scone and a cinnamon twist.”
The next thing Roarke caught was the barista repeat the order. “Got it. Grande Chai latte with extra foam and a tall non-fat latte.”
Roarke looked up, not really knowing why. He put the paper back on the newsstand. The aroma of the coffee brought him back to his senses, and he sidled next to Katie. They were next. He kissed the back of her neck.
“Mmmm,” she whispered. The woman at the counter smiled. She thought the same thing Roarke had before. An office romance.
Katie chuckled when she asked, “Do you know what you’d like?” Roarke was still kissing her.
Katie nodded. “Ah, yes.” She realized she answered the question in her head, not the one asked. Kate moved her neck forward and ordered for the two of them. “One tall regular black, one tall skim latte.” She turned around, and into Roarke’s eyes she added, “Nothing else…now.”
The clerk smiled again. “Names?” With a number of cups lined up, Starbucks employees usually relied on customers’ names to get the orders into the right hands.
“The skim—Katie. The tall black is for Scott.”
The man making the coffee repeated the order. He was just a few feet to her right. “Tall black and one tall non-fat latte.”
Roarke reached into his pocket for a ten. He paid and they moved behind the people ahead of them to wait for their drinks.
Kate cuddled up to Roarke, cocked her head to the side, and smiled. “I love your eyes.”
“You do?”
“Yes, because they’re windows into who you are. I think I see further than anyone ever has.”
“I take it you like what you see?”
She patted down Roarke’s black T-shirt under his light summer sports coat. “Yes, I do.” She leaned into his ear, kissed it, and whispered, “And don’t worry. I’ll do exactly as you told me. When he opens the door, he’ll see you sitting at the desk. I’ll be behind the door. He’ll step forward, start talking, then on your cue I’ll say, ‘Hello, Donald.’ That’s all.”
“That’s all you’ll need to say,” Roarke answered. “It’ll hit him all at once.” She nodded. Katie was ready to meet up with Witherspoon again.
The people ahead of them took their drinks. Roarke and Katie stepped forward. The barista was very quick. Perfect for the morning rush.
Roarke whispered in her ear as they stood at the counter, “Then I’ll tell him that he’ll have just one opportunity to cooperate.”
“And I just smile?”
“That’s all you need to do.”
“Katie,” the barista called out. Roarke automatically tilted his head toward the voice. The man smiled as he moved the coffee cups up the line on the stand adjacent to his machine. “The black for Scott is up, too.”
The barista wore a big broad smile, but quickly stepped behind the coffee machine to wipe his steamer. His blonde ponytail whipped around and landed on the collar of his tan shirt. He stood about the same height as Roarke. He was fit. Extremely fit. Roarke detected strong neck muscles and bulk on his arms. The man obviously exercised, but in a more rigorous regimen than the average health club member.
Roarke peered around. The barista caught Roarke’s glance, and his expression changed marginally.
The woman at the register called out a new order. “Venti triple-shot caramel latte.” The barista took the cup and kept his eyes down. He didn’t repeat the order.
Katie grabbed Roarke’s arm. “Come on. Gotta go, Mr. Roarke.”
Roarke uttered a guttural “Yah,” and took the two cups. She continued to talk to him, but the words just floated over him. His mind was elsewhere.
They were at the front door when a simple thing hit him. Skim latte. He’d heard it a lot recently. But most of the country referred to skim milk as non-fat. The guy doing the drinks called back non-fat. From out of state? he wondered.
That alone would not be a problem, but there was something about the man himself. His face. His jaw line. The angle of his nose. The closeness of his eyes.
Outside, more thoughts rushed forward. He felt a coldness that cancelled out the man’s smile. A tight body under his shirt that trumped the relaxed dude manner. Lose the smile. Ignore the ponytail.
Now well outside Starbucks, Roarke stopped.
“Come on,” Katie insisted.
The Secret Service agent ignored the request and sidestepped Katie. He wanted another glimpse of the man. She stopped to see what he was doing.
“Scott!”
Roarke stared into the shop, still ignoring her. Katie walked to his side and saw a dangerous look on his face. She followed his line of sight. Inside, the barista, working much slower now, was also looking at Roarke. He had the same expression. She glanced back at Roarke.
Roarke and the man’s eyes locked in a suspended mo
ment, absent of anyone else.
Roarke’s memory ran through a catalogue of other faces. An insurance broker, an antique’s dealer, a man on a train, a Capitol Police officer. He added an overlay of the man in his sight. When he finished, it settled on one image in Touch Parson’s computer: Depp.
“What?” Katie asked.
Roarke hadn’t realized he actually said the name aloud.
The man mouthed a word back. Roarke!
Roarke shoved his latte at Katie. “Here! Take this!” He bolted for the Starbucks door. His hand was already inside his jacket pocket, his fingertips on his holstered Sig Sauer.
As Roarke swung the door open, Depp launched the venti cup full of hot coffee into the air. It smashed to the ground. The drink splashed up, scalding the customer. She immediately jumped, only to slip on the slick floor. Another woman went to her side and knelt down. Two other patrons crowded closer to help. The commotion served to create immediate mayhem and block Roarke’s quick passage to the counter. Depp tore into a storeroom and out of sight.
Roarke was now fully inside, his gun in his hand. The woman working the counter screamed at the sight.
“Where does that room go?” Roarke shouted.
She froze.
“Where?” he demanded. “Is there a back way out?”
“Yes,” she managed.
“Out to the alley,” the clerk said as he stepped over the downed woman’s legs.
No more questions. Instead of navigating around the people, Roarke vaulted over the center counter. He made a left behind the coffee machine and a quick right to the back room where Depp had gone.
The assassin had a good ten seconds on Roarke and, if training proved right, the benefit of knowing where he was going.
Depp was as surprised as Roarke, and as off-guard. If it hadn’t been for the name on the cups—Katie and Scott, and the mention of Roarke—he might not have even noticed. But, he had learned those names, first Roarke’s, then Katie’s. He also had another advantage. He’d seen Roarke at the Capitol and knew what he was capable of doing.
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