Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  “You’re being skewered on the air.”

  Taylor kept chewing.

  “They’ve accused you of just about everything from a cover-up to a coup.”

  The president still chomped away.

  “Especially on radio. They want you out. They want a Constitutional amendment, and they can get it.”

  The president wouldn’t give up his salad.

  “Remember the recall in California? How quickly did they get Gray Davis out of office? Four months? Three? Less? Do you think you’re immune?”

  Morgan Taylor put down his fork.

  “They can do it. You want to know how?”

  The president nodded.

  “We can thank prior administrations. They pretty much dismantled everything that guaranteed fairness in the media. It worked for Republican and Conservative administrations until now. These days they’ll go after anyone because it makes for good ratings.”

  Taylor eased back in his chair. “Go on.”

  “A handful of corporations own 100 percent of the broadcast outlets and 90 percent of the cable companies. They own newspapers and radio stations. They own the billboards that the shows are promoted on, and when they decide to go after someone, there’s no fighting back because they don’t have to provide any airtime.”

  “So how do we throw these broadcasters off the air?”

  “Throw them off? Don’t even try to go there. They’ll all hide behind the First Amendment. They exist and thrive because they have the right to be on the air. In good conscience, both sides of the aisle said, ‘Okay, we’ll get rid of all this regulation. Who needs a multitude of opinions? The people will decide what they want to hear and who they want to hear it from.’

  “And what do we have? On a national scale, there’s Elliott Strong. But locally, some of them are even worse. If you can believe it, there’s a guy in North Dakota who goes after the church, the NAACP, and the Jews. In Georgia, there’s a host who espouses a manifesto directly from the Klan. We have news directors who won’t report the news unless it represents their owner’s point of view, and stations that have no community affairs because a) they’re not required to; b) they’re programmed from miles away; and c) the operators probably don’t give a damn what’s going on. All together, radio and most of the TV talk is filled with hate beyond anything ever known. Congratulations, Mr. President, you’re the most loathed person in the ether. And if you haven’t noticed, radio isn’t the only place where you’re the main course for these media monsters. The worst of it is that the way the laws are currently written and enforced, there’s no way to cut them off.”

  Taylor smiled. “You phrased that just a certain way, Bernsie. Complete the thought.”

  The president followed his argument perfectly.

  “Well, you’re right. I’m working on an idea. In its purest form it’s very simple. Implementation could take some time.”

  “What do they say about me? I’m all ears.” The president referred to his defining feature, which political cartoonists found endless ways to caricature.

  “Okay, here it is. Require opposing points of view again. The worst of them will be gone, unable to stand up to any real political debate.”

  Morgan Taylor pushed his food aside and asked a White House waiter to hold the main course.

  “Bernsie, I’m quite aware of these guys, but realistically, America’s hooked on opinion. Arguing it, listening to it, and I dare say even complaining about it. We’re too far down the line to turn back the clock. And hell, for a long time, I thought these guys were on my side.”

  “If they were, they’re not any longer.”

  “You’re right about that,” the president admitted.

  “And, we need to change that. You need to change that. Make a policy issue.” Bernstein stopped, but only to phrase his next comment correctly. He delivered it in a whisper. “You owe it to President Lamden.”

  Morgan Taylor did not rush to answer, so his chief of staff went on. “Try this on for size. Call for the resignations of every FCC commissioner, no matter who they are—even your appointments. Then reconsider them on a one-by-one basis. After that, meet with the majority and minority leadership of the House and Senate. Bring in the chairs of the Communications Committees and Subcommittees, too. The Secretary of Labor can determine whether the giant media conglomerates fail to meet the test of any anti-trust laws, and the attorney general can examine the holdings of all these vertically integrated companies.”

  Bernstein hardly paused to take a breath. He was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. “I’ll get you lid-tight examples—and I mean lid-tight ones—on TV station abuses that under the Fairness Doctrine would never have happened. We’ll revisit the deregulated license renewal procedures and prosecute clear violations. Finally, you order a Justice Department review of station news operations and call for the drafting of a new Doctrine. You can announce all of this at a press conference after your trip. Hell, if Janet Jackson’s tit was worthy of front-page news, then let’s strip the whole industry bare!”

  The president politely listened to Bernstein. When his chief of staff finished, Taylor pointed out, “Just one problem, Bernsie.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s not our party’s fight.”

  “It has to be somebody’s,” Bernstein replied. “Because if we don’t do something, it’s going to get a whole helluva lot worse.”

  U.S. Interstate 735 North

  A summer storm pelted the rental car on the way to the airport. The rhythmic whoosh of the windshield wipers lulled Shannon Davis into a deep sleep. Roarke was at the wheel. He aimed an air-conditioning vent at his face to help him stay awake. He also tried to find a radio station worth listening to; the choices were either country music or talk. One show in particular seemed to be everywhere up and down the AM dial. He gave up on AM and chose an FM jazz station. But Roarke didn’t listen. He kept replaying an old conversation with Penny Walker that was still fresh in his mind.

  “Eight strong possibilities,” Penny Walker had said. “I sent seven of them over to your buddy Parsons for further analysis.”

  “What about the eighth?” Roarke remembered asking.

  “No need. The guy died while on a mission in Iraq.”

  Roarke shut off the radio. “Damn it!” he said aloud.

  Davis stirred. “What?” He’d only been asleep for ten minutes. It felt like ten hours. “Are we there?”

  “No. But we may have another stop.”

  “There’s no other stop.”

  Roarke checked his rearview mirror, signaled, slowed down, and pulled off onto the side of the road. “Here—you drive.”

  “Why? What?”

  “I need to talk to Walker, and I need to concentrate.”

  “Okay?” Davis said, not hiding his confusion. They switched positions. “Still heading to the airport?”

  “Yes…no…probably.” Roarke hit speed dial on his Treo. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “It’s a little late, Agent Roarke.”

  “Sorry, Penny, but I need you to go back to work. Please,” Roarke pleaded over the phone. He was not cheerful. “Come on….”

  “Look, sweetie,” she said, “I get it, but if we’re going to start from scratch, it’ll take more than a quick trip tonight. Give a girl a break. Come home, we’ll do this together tomorrow.”

  “We don’t have to start over, Penny. I just need background on the last guy.”

  “What last guy? You checked out all seven.”

  “Yes, but it’s number eight I want.”

  “Number eight? There is no number eight. Just seven. Remember?”

  “Seven live ones. But you had an eighth that you threw out.”

  “Because he was dead! KIA!”

  “I want to see the details in his file, Penny.”

  “He’s dead and I’m tired.”

  “Penny….”

  Capt. Walker f
ell silent for a moment.

  “Penny, I need it. I need you to get it for me. I’m tired, too. I’m pissed off. You’re only twenty minutes away and I have to find this guy. Please!”

  “Okay, okay. You still carrying your Treo?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then sit tight.”

  “About how long?”

  “Roarke, you just got me out of bed at home. You do remember where that bed is.” There was a seductive edge to her comment. Then she got sharper. “And it’s not in the Pentagon! I’ll e-mail you with anything I can find. Hometown, parents, who he took to the prom. Whatever I can dig up. Now leave me alone!”

  Walker hung up, and Roarke turned to Davis. “We’re on.”

  “How soon?” he asked. “And where to?”

  “Dunno. She’ll let us know where.” The bigger question was who? Would she find anyone who might be able to lead them to a dead soldier?

  By the time they returned the car to the airport drop-off, it was too late to get a plane out. The last of the night’s outgoing flights to the Washington or Baltimore area left at 10:40. Roarke and Davis opted for two rooms at the Marriott, located on the property a few minutes away. Roarke sent Shannon to bed, warning him to be ready to roll at 0500. Once in his room, Roarke ordered a club sandwich from room service and waited.

  Sixty minutes passed. Roarke was tempted to call Walker at her office, but he resisted. Don’t bug her. At 0030, an hour later for Capt. Walker in Virginia, the e-mail arrived on his phone. Roarke pushed his half-eaten sandwich to the side and read the full file. There wasn’t much. He finished it in three minutes. However, another e-mail followed with more…then another. Penny Walker was going much further than he expected.

  At 0112, after e-mailing Penny a thank you, Roarke logged onto Orbitz. He booked two tickets to Columbus, Ohio. He called the front desk for a 4:30 wake-up call. The last thing he remembered was willing himself to sleep.

  “Rise and shine,” Roarke said over the phone. “We’re out at oh seven fifteen on Delta to Columbus. We get into Cincinnati at 12:01.”

  “Got it,” a tired Shannon Davis replied. Roarke heard a big yawn. “And then?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the way. You ready?”

  “Yup. Your guy’s still dead, right?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Chapter 54

  Sunday, 15 July

  Roarke spoke from memory just above the din of the jet engines. His notes were in his attaché case. Davis leaned into him and sipped a virgin Bloody Mary. Roarke was in mid-thought.

  “High school in Cincinnati. College in Chicago. ROTC. Then a distinguished service record. Army Rangers. He was sent to Iraq. While on a patrol, his squad was lured into an apartment building. They thought they were freeing hostages. It was a trap. Once they were inside, terrorists remotely detonated a bomb. Everyone was lost.”

  “Jesus.” Davis remembered reading about the deadly attack. “So he’s dead.”

  “On paper,” Roarke observed. “We’re going to talk to his parents about his life.”

  West Chester Township, Ohio

  They drove up a beautiful, tree-lined street in the Cincinnati suburb of West Chester Township, roughly twenty miles from downtown. West Chester was emerging as one of the fastest-growing and most desirable communities in the U.S. The homes ranged in value from under $200,000 to a half-million and up.

  “Just ahead,” Davis said, acting as navigator in their latest rental car, ironically, a blue Kia sedan.

  They rolled up to a custom-built, three-story brick and wood colonial on Hidden Oaks Road. “Nice digs,” Roarke observed. He wrapped up a half-eaten club sandwich and took the last swig of to-go coffee.

  “You bet.” The house definitely appeared to be on the high-end of the homes in the area.

  The lawn was immaculate, with seasonal flowers outlining a walkway through the quarter-acre front lawn. The entrance, faced with warm white shale, welcomed the two unannounced visitors. “This place takes real money to keep up,” Davis concluded.

  But another feeling came to Roarke. “I have a strange sense of déjà vu,” Roarke volunteered as they got out of the car.

  “Meaning?”

  “That I feel his touch here.”

  “How so?” asked Davis, coming around the car.

  “Hard to describe.” Roarke continued to stare at the striking home. “It’s not the house that’s similar, not at all. It’s the feeling. It reminds me when I visited a woman in Massachusetts last year. Her place was simple. She was the mother of Teddy Lodge’s high school girlfriend. She died in a hit-and-run accident. The killer wasn’t found.” Roarke stopped and completed the thought directly to Davis. “Imagine that.”

  “The work of your infamous Mr. Depp?” Davis asked.

  “Not impossible.”

  “Well, then, let’s meet Bill and Gloria Cooper and see what happens to that feeling.”

  The humidity hit them halfway to the house. But both men couldn’t take their jackets off. Visible guns, even holstered, were not a good way to say hello.

  Roarke rang the doorbell. “Coming,” they heard from inside. A beautiful inlaid wooden door opened a few moments later.

  “Hello,” said a rather formal, almost stiff woman. She looked to be in her early seventies.

  “Mrs. Cooper?” Roarke asked.

  She sized up the visitors and didn’t like what she saw. “Yes,” she said coldly.

  “My name is Scott Roarke.” He turned to Davis to do the rest of the introductions, which deftly spared him from actually saying where he worked.

  “And I’m Shannon Davis, from the Federal Bureau of Investigations.” He produced his ID.

  This reinforced her instant dislike. She barred the door.

  “Mrs. Cooper, we’d like to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  Davis looked behind him and down the street, a move which suggested the conversation really should move inside. “It’s about your son.”

  “Considering you’re from the government, Mr. Davis, you know full well he died years ago in Iraq. There’s nothing more to talk about.” Her voice cracked. Tears were just behind her bitterness.

  “Yes, we know that. We’d just like to learn more about him, what he was like as a boy, what his aspirations were.”

  “Why?”

  They knew this question would come, and they had rehearsed the answer. Davis continued to take the lead.

  “Leadership characteristics, Mrs. Cooper. He had such special talent, from football to theater. And he gave his life for his country.”

  “You took his life.”

  “We know what happened, Mrs. Cooper. We’d like to talk about it,” Roarke tendered.

  After a long thought, where Davis was certain she would close the door on them, she finally stepped aside. “Come in, I’ll get my husband.”

  The New York Times

  New York, New York

  Michael O’Connell walked into his editor’s office, dumped his backpack on the floor, and parked a rolling Travelpro suitcase against Andrea Weaver’s wall.

  The city desk editor looked up and smiled. “I don’t suppose you have a story yet?”

  He’d called two hours earlier from customs. He didn’t get into anything at that time. “No.”

  “Any chance you’ll be coming up with one soon?” Weaver asked quite seriously.

  “Not unless you’d be interested in a one-word story.”

  “What do you mean?”

  O’Connell launched into an explanation, including the Chechen cover story.

  “That’s all you got? That’s all he said?”

  “That’s it. I still don’t know who the hell he was.”

  “Are you sure you heard him right?”

  “I think so. He had a thick accent, but it’s not as if he gave me a lot to memorize.”

  “I don’t get it. It must have been something else,”
Weaver proposed. “Have you checked with any translators? It probably isn’t even English.”

  “I swear to God. That was all he said. It was in English. But I will check.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. Do you think it’s some kind of threat?”

  “Don’t know. But I think he would have added missiles or bombs to it.”

  “And he’s dead?”

  “I didn’t stick around to find out. But I think so.”

  “You sure he didn’t whisper anything else?” Weaver asked.

  “Look, we didn’t have a chance to go out for a drink. He got fucking shot!” The reporter exhaled deeply. “Apparently, the FSB was onto the man. I’m lucky I got away.”

  “Tell you what,” she recommended. “Go to the Internet. Type in the word, add any other fields you can think of, and see if something registers.”

  He’d already planned on doing that.

  “I think you better consider all the possibilities,” she added. “You have an expensive trip to account for.”

  O’Connell picked up his bags and left, not worrying about the cost of the trip, but the cost of not finding out what the man meant. He headed straight for his desk in the City Room. He ignored the e-mails and started with Google.

  “Okay, Ivan,” O’Connell said to himself, “what the hell were you trying to tell me?” He typed in the letters and waited to see what his first search produced.

  West Chester Township, Ohio

  Roarke and Davis were led into an airy living room with a vaulted ceiling. Gloria Cooper then excused herself to talk to her husband.

  Roarke’s eyes wandered from the cherry cabinets and leather furniture that defined the room, to the French doors leading to the backyard. He looked through the glass. A garden pathway led past a small stream. The property stretched on into the woods, which bordered the Cooper’s home. It all appeared beautiful and, to Roarke, pristine.

  Roarke turned back to the room. It was dark and cold, and although it was completely decorated, it also had an unused quality about it. The focal point was a shale fireplace. Above the mantle was a large photograph of a young man in a uniform, set off by an ornate frame. Richard Cooper.