Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  “We’re days away from the biggest political show of force ever to be witnessed in America. You’ll be part of it. You’ll make history. You’ll show the rest of the country and the entire world that we demand change. We demand it now.”

  Bridgeman’s picture was on the cover of Time. Inside, there was a sidebar on Elliott Strong. They printed only what they knew; O’Connell had more.

  The New York Times

  the same time

  O’Connell discovered that in Atlanta, Strong benefited from another timely merger which put him on stations across the state.

  Another announcer was supposed to get the syndication gig, but coincidently, he was the killed in a brutal, unsolved carjacking.

  Paris, France

  an hour later

  Robby Pearlman ran his fingers down the back of his newest conquest and pressed into her. She felt his hardness against her ass and responded with a tired moan. She really wanted to rest and couldn’t understand how he was ready again.

  “In a little while, I’m so tired.”

  He pushed closer to her. She reached back and held him in her hand. “Please. Just a few minutes.” Up until now he had been attentive to her needs and pleasure. But now he showed an insatiable appetite. He rolled her on her back and climbed over her. “In a while.”

  Pearlman wouldn’t stop. It was as if he stalked her and now it was time to take her down. She tried to resist, but couldn’t. He was too strong, too determined. The man she’d spent the last twenty-four hours with suddenly changed. He became a sexual predator.

  “Please! You’re hurting me.”

  Pearlman didn’t stop. He didn’t hear her. And least of all, he didn’t care. He was some place far away.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “What’s the matter?” Katie asked. They were already into their nightly phone call and it was clear to her that Roarke wasn’t himself.

  “Nothing. I’m okay.”

  “Come on, honey, are the bad guys getting you down?”

  He was constantly amazed at how well she read him.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can tell me how you feel,” she offered.

  “How do you know me so well?” Roarke asked in return.

  “I know you because I love you.”

  This was still all so new to him. “And why do you love me?”

  “I love you because I know you so well.”

  With that, Roarke opened up. Tonight, they wouldn’t have a romantic or sexy conversation. This was a pouring out, equal to what Katie had done when she was in Roarke’s arms. He spoke like they were in bed: lovingly, openly, and honestly. Through it all, he blessed the day they met. Katie vowed to catch an early flight out in the morning. It was time she took her research to Washington, time she tried out Roarke’s bed.

  two hours later

  Katie Kessler’s first round of research covered everything from prestigious legal journals to Gore Vidal’s novels. She reviewed Congressional testimony from 2004 and studied fundamental arguments offered by the Founding Fathers. Some of them seemed relevant enough to be heard in the halls of the House and Senate chambers today. When it came to constructing a new framework for presidential succession, there was certainly no shortage of opinion. Kessler read hundreds of briefs: thousands of pages of testimony. But coming up with solid arguments that would stand up to the Constitution was another thing entirely.

  As Katie packed her suitcases and stacked her boxes of research by the front door of her Grove Street apartment, she wondered whether she would be able to accomplish what Congress hadn’t achieved in more than fifty years.

  Recently, many of the country’s greatest legal scholars went to the Capitol to offer their proposals for amending the succession laws. Nothing came of the testimony. Leading representatives filed a variety of bills. Again, nothing happened. Now Ms. Kessler was going to Washington. She asked herself how she could make a difference. It seemed like an impossible task until she had an epiphany. I don’t have to get a bill passed. She needed to deliver the groundwork. Others would supply the muscle for the heavy lifting. By working for the White House, she could approach succession from the inside, much like Harry Truman had in 1947. Another realization came to her. That’s how it gets done! Not when Congress wants it, but when the president does.

  Ideas were taking shape now. They were a combination of disparate thoughts from both sides of the aisle, with a little political dynamite thrown in for good measure.

  It all came down to one experience that occurred before her time. In 1968, when a majority of Americans voted for Richard Nixon, they also voted for his choice as vice president, Spiro Agnew. The majority of the country didn’t want Democrat George McGovern. They got Republicans Nixon and Agnew. Agnew eventually resigned. Nixon chose Ford to replace him. When Nixon resigned, Ford chose Nelson Rockefeller as his vice president. The term that started out with the election of Nixon-Agnew ended with the unelected Ford-Rockefeller.

  This was consistent with the will of the people. But what if something catastrophic happened to the new president and vice president? The Speaker of the House would have become president. Speaker of the House Carl Albert was a Democrat.

  The will of the people? Kessler asked herself again. Presidential succession, no matter what form it takes, should reflect the will of the people.

  To shape her arguments she needed counsel from the other man she’d grown to respect over the past year—Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning.

  Maluku, Indonesia

  the same time

  Komari called himself commander. It wasn’t an official rank in anyone’s army except his own. He established his own rules of discipline and loyalty. He presided over the most undemocratic of court martials, and punishment always came swiftly. In Komari’s world, there was no imprisonment.

  Umar Komari’s force grew by the day. Although the Indonesian government had heard rumblings of his activities, they didn’t consider the insurgent, who confined his operation to the remote islands, a real threat. Anti-Christian sentiment continued to grow, but the occasional report of violence attributed to Komari was far less important to the TNI than maintaining order in Jakarta. That was a mistake.

  Komari hadn’t begun wholesale slaughter of the hated Christians, but his nightly raids were striking fear in the small fishing villages of the Malukus. He killed, stole, and recruited Muslim conscripts, and rewarded them with some of the spoils. His drug production increased, as he knew it would, and his weapons cache expanded. So the would-be commander actually had a command. Soon he would be addressed by a new title. He repeated it in his mind.

  President.

  Sydney, Australia

  Monday, 6 August

  Morgan Taylor listened to the Indonesian leader’s remarks, showing only a blank stare. Since Taylor took office, he’d expressed his disappointment numerous times about Indonesia’s inability to drive terrorists out. Now he was worried that the country was becoming a training ground from which terrorism was being exported. However, nine minutes into the speech, the Indonesian president claimed his government had addressed the problem.

  “Terrorists will find no sanctuary in my country. As we gather under the umbrella of freedom, our military carries on a vigilant search for the last remnants of Jemaah Islamiyyah. We have dealt deadly blows to the rebels. According to the reports I read, we are more safe today than in previous years. I am encouraged by our progress, as you should be.” He continued to spout platitudes for another two minutes, then concluded with a request for substantially more aid.

  “The chair thanks you for your comments,” said Prime Minister Foss, “and now recognizes the representative from the United States of America, President Morgan Taylor.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister Foss.” Taylor turned over his prepared remarks. For a protracted moment, he was back at the town hall meeting at Verona Area High School. What can we do? That was the overridi
ng question he heard that night. He read the same concern on many of the faces in the room now—at least those who weren’t posturing for the sake of the summit.

  Morgan Taylor didn’t have the answer for the Verona bus driver who asked, “What’s America doing to stop them?” The same was true when the Dane County, Wisconsin, law clerk explained that her oldest son had been killed by a suicide bomber in Baghdad, and now she was afraid for her youngest who just enlisted. Tell me what you’re going to do to protect my son.

  He moved onto other issues during the town hall meeting in the gym, but personally, he never moved off the question. He was going to answer it today.

  “With all due respect to the remarks of President Ramelan Djali, the Indonesian leader must recognize that we are his partner in the defense of his country. Is that true, sir?”

  He got an affirmative nod.

  “And as such, we share intelligence.”

  Another yes.

  “Then I think we are in a perfect position to assess that things are not better!”

  Taylor stepped on the gasps. “Sir, there’s nothing to indicate that you’re striking deadly blows. The opposite is true. The United States provides you with weekly, sometimes daily intelligence. You have done little with it. And, sadly, we have done little to encourage you.” Now he broadened his argument. “The same can be said of almost every nation at this table, save Australia which recently struck back in the Solomons. Who else can honestly say they have gone after the terrorists in a manner that would benefit peace?” He looked at every leader at the table. Some averted their eyes.

  Taylor reached behind him. On cue, Secretary of State Poole handed him a folder. “Let me share a number of reports compiled by the intelligence services of the United States government. Some of these will be familiar to President Djali. They paint a very different picture than the one presented here today. Since he didn’t share them with you, I will.”

  The Indonesian was offended. He tried to speak, but Taylor overpowered him. “Mr. President, I’m sure everyone will want to hear from you again. But if you please…” He opened the file and slid a dozen photos across the table in different directions.

  “These satellite photos show terrorist encampments in twenty-three locations. They were taken as long ago as last November and as recently as last week. Each has one or more areas circled in red. Inside those circles are training camps and weapons stores. Mr. Djali’s island country is the perfect setting for playing hide and seek. The same can be said for areas of the Solomons and Malaysia, Pakistan, India, of course, Afghanistan, Thailand, and even Japan. I have satellite photographs of your countries as well.” Poole disseminated them. “They’re not good.”

  Taylor noted the shock in the room as the men and women sorted through the photographs of their countries up-to-date photos that revealed operational terrorist camps.

  “Mr. Chairman, I’m not here to undermine the good intentions of a respected ally,” he said returning to the topic of Indonesia. “However, American lives have been lost in bombings in Mr. Djaili’s country.

  Recent activity makes it undeniably apparent that Indonesia is on the verge of a religious holy war, a jihad against Christian nationals and westerners. It is supported by al-Qaeda funds and the sale of drugs, and it is hardly acknowledged because of corruption within lower levels of Mr. Djali’s government.

  “I suggest that if we’re to claim any victory, it’s time to—as we say—come clean.” Everyone seemed to get the meaning. “Put away your speeches. There are no reporters here. So no more grandstanding. Stop your posturing. We’re here to fight these bastards at the root level—with arms, troops, intelligence, and yes, Mr. Djali, what you also need, hard cash.”

  “Your insinuations are the height of insult,” Djali finally managed. He turned to Prime Minister Foss, “I will not stand for this.”

  Foss didn’t have a chance to respond; Taylor jumped right back into the debate.

  “Mr. President, they are not insinuations and I haven’t intended to insult you, only correct you. But your comment reminds me of President Truman’s meeting in 1945 with Russian’s foreign minister, Vyacheslav Molotov.” He removed his reading glasses and stared at his Indonesian counterpart. “Molotov came to the White House to discuss the future of Poland. Truman believed the Russians were reneging on what Roosevelt and Stalin had agreed upon four months earlier. Russia was imposing communism on Poland. Truman had been warned by Henry Stimson, his Secretary of War, to be careful dealing with the Soviets. Truman dismissed Stimson’s advice and told Molotov that the Russians were not true to their word. ‘We are!’ demanded Molotov. Truman then explained to him, in words of one syllable, exactly why they were not. Molotov argued, as you have, Mr. President, ‘I have never been talked to like that in my life.’ Do you know how Truman responded?”

  Djali raised an eyebrow.

  “‘Carry out your agreements and you won’t be talked to like that.’”

  Morgan put his glasses back on and re-addressed Djaili. “So, Mr. President, why not start over and explain what’s really going on in your country.”

  Djali had been quite unprepared for Taylor’s direct assault, which effectively stripped away all diplomatic formality. With the niceties off the table, Taylor went one very American step further. He added, “This time without the bullshit.”

  The Indonesian reached for his glass of water and took a sip. His hands shook. All eyes were on President Djali as he cleared his throat. “Chairman Foss, members of the committee, I need your help.”

  Paris, France

  Robby Pearlman got the girl out of his life by changing hotels. Even if they bumped into one another later, she wouldn’t recognize him. Pearlman was going to morph into another character.

  A new offer had come in. It was high-paying and risky. The contract was just shy of the amount he received for the business he did in Hudson, New York, a little over a year ago. At first, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take it. Something about it. He’d have to take more chances than normal, work with shoulder-fired missiles, and there would be multiple deaths.

  He considered the dangers while he dyed his hair. Where’s the optimum strike zone? Close-in or far away? Certainly not in full view. A roof? Not a car. He weighed the job against the report he read in The International Herald Tribune. Although not specific, the story about the army investigation reminded him that he could never be too careful or too conservative.

  Roarke’s behind this. He thought about finding and killing the Secret Service agent. He knew where he lived and who he slept with. But, he asked himself, Why take the chance? If he did take the agent out, there’d be others like him. They’d keep coming.

  Another thought about the article nagged at him. It felt more and more like a plant. If it is… He made some adjustments to his latest identity and pulled away from the mirror. He sharpened his focus, looking straight into the eyes of his latest creation. He was moody, quick-thinking, and guarded. The talkative Canadian real estate developer was gone. A critical California psychologist stood in his place. The new guise gave him renewed perspective. An idea slowly formed. It would take some doing, he said to himself. But this job definitely provided an interesting opportunity.

  He pulled his hair extensions back into a ponytail, peered at his reflection again, and decided where he had to go. Belgrade. He had unique contacts in Belgrade. There, he could get meetings with certain people willing to do anything for money. There, he could make his payday and solve his personal problem at the same time.

  Richard Cooper smiled into the mirror, but someone else entirely new looked back.

  Washington, D.C.

  It was their second meeting. This one was at Duke Patrick’s Georgetown brownstone.

  “General,” Patrick said answering the door.

  “Mr. Speaker, so good to see you again. Thank you for having me.”

  “Well, I figured if we’re going to go down this road together, we
sure as hell have to open our homes to one another.”

  “Yes, quite so. I’ve already told Lily that I want to get you down for a good old Texas barbeque after the speech. She’s cleaning the grill right now,” Bridgeman laughed.

  “I’d be delighted. But first things first. Shall we?” Patrick motioned to his study where their conversation would continue. The speaker invited the general to sit down. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “I’m a scotch man. On the rocks.”

  Patrick poured a glass of an average supermarket scotch.

  He handed Bridgeman the glass. “To the future.”

  “To the future together,” he replied.

  Over the next two hours the men discussed how the next administration would take shape and how soon that might actually occur.

  Lebanon, Kansas

  Tuesday, 7 August

  “Hi Elliott, you’ve been talking about it for a while now, but what’s the chance we can get Taylor out? These amendment things take a long time. You gotta go state by state. It could take forever, or at least until the next election.”

  “Good question,” Elliott Strong said to the caller. It took him right where he wanted to go tonight. But that wasn’t a coincidence. The caller was another plant, “…and after re-reading my American history, I’ve come up with some fascinating points. Are you ready for a lesson that will make your head spin?” he asked rhetorically. “Pay attention now.” He could imagine listeners turning up the volume or telling their spouses to be quiet. “Revelations like this don’t come down the pike every day.”

  He rustled some papers unnecessarily. “Here it is. Thomas Jefferson, one of the Founding Fathers, was way ahead of his time. You have to admire the old boy, he really had a sense of what’s going on right now. What is it? Well, Jefferson was worried about the power of the dead over the living. He feared that an unchanged Constitution was the last thing we needed.” He left room for a wow. “Now I’m getting to the good part. He proposed that each generation have a real say in what they needed and that the Constitution should expire after nineteen or twenty years. Twenty years, people! Boy are we overdue. Jefferson wanted us to draft a new one, not just once, but every twenty years!”