His sense of duty now competed with his duty to country. O’Connell seriously thought about notifying President Taylor, but he was out of town. Maybe Roarke? He dismissed the notion, at least for now. He had to have more.
The reporter typed a quick e-mail and added the web address to the top. He hit send and waited to see whether Elliott Strong would reply.
Ninety minutes later he had his answer, apparently written by Strong’s producer/wife.
Elliott Strong does not consent to interviews.
He conducts them with his listeners.
Thank you for your inquiry.
At least I got a reply, he said to himself. Undaunted, he dialed the number he coaxed out of the sales department secretary at Strong’s syndicator.
After four rings a man answered with a sharp, “Yeah?” It wasn’t Strong.
“Hello. Is Elliott there?” O’Connell asked as if he were the man’s best friend.
“He’s just getting off the air. Wanna hold?”
“Sure.”
The engineer didn’t ask anything else. Most people didn’t have this phone number and the guy seemed like he knew Strong. Besides, he was busy running the audio board. He put the phone down on the desktop and forgot about it.
O’Connell listened to the last few minutes of the afternoon show. That was followed by the sound of doors opening and closing. He was sure he heard Strong in the background talking to a woman. Then, “Who is it?” Something unintelligible was followed by Strong saying, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
“Hello.”
“Elliott?” came the greeting from O’Connell.
The host strained to place the voice. He couldn’t. “Who is this? Do I know you?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, but you’ve read my stories on the air. I’m Michael O’Connell. From the New Yuck Times.”
Strong cupped the phone over his hand, but O’Connell could still make out the reaction. “Christ! Why did you give this to me!”
“Sorry, it sounded like a friend,” the engineer apologized.
“Look,” Strong said back on the line and without any of the friendliness he used on the radio, “I have a firm policy of no interviews!”
“Just one question, Strong. Is it pure luck or coincidence that every break in your career came at someone else’s expense?”
Strong answered by slamming the phone onto the cradle. O’Connell was left with a dial tone, but he got more than he hoped. He got a glimpse of the real man.
Washington, D.C.
that night
Roarke and Katie sat across from each other at a cafe near his apartment. They shared a sausage and spinach panini and Caesar salad. She was trying to figure out the best ways to navigate the District. The small Metro map she’d picked up wasn’t helping much.
“Use a driver, or at least a cab,” he said with some concern.
“But I believe in public transportation.”
“I don’t think Bernstein wants you trekking around underground. And I sure as hell don’t.”
“It’s safe.”
“Katie, you’re working for the White House, for God’s sake. There are perks. It’s not going to break the president’s budget.”
“Well, maybe. I’ll probably have too much to carry around anyway.”
“Thank you. Now with that settled, are you coming to an overall opinion yet?” Since she arrived, they hadn’t talked about work. His or hers.
“Overall? I still don’t know why me. I’m not an expert on the Constitution. I’m not a Constitutional attorney. I’ve been reading briefs from real scholars and members of Congress who have given this incredible time and thought, mostly since 9/11.”
“But nobody’s done anything.”
She agreed. “Maybe because there are too many points of view. Too many possibilities to consider.”
“Enter Katie Kessler,” he proudly offered. “You can sort it out. Make total non-partisan recommendations to a Republican administration serving at the pleasure of a Democrat.”
“Makes my head spin,” she said while feeding him a bit of the panini.
“So, back to my question,” he said chewing the sandwich. “Overall opinion?”
“The law is based on an incredibly faulty premise. Stop me if I’ve already told you all of this, but in 1945, after President Truman succeeded Franklin Roosevelt, he decided to change the first line of succession from cabinet to Congress. In fact, he didn’t name a vice president until he ran for re-election in 1948.”
“Really?”
“Really. And without a vice president serving under him, George Marshall, his Secretary of State, would become his immediate successor if he died. Now a couple of relative points. Some claim that Truman didn’t necessarily believe he, or any president, should be appointing his own successor. In a democracy, the position of president is elective, and therefore it should fall to someone who had stood the test of the electorate. He pointed to the Speaker of the House, the leading officer of Congress.”
“But he’s not nationally elected.”
“You’re right.” The speaker is elected every two years by constituents in his district. But he’s elevated to national prominence by gaining the support and vote of the majority of the members of the House.
“But here’s the rub. The 1792 Statute named the president pro tempore of the senate as the first officer in the line of succession, not the Speaker of the House.”
“So why the change for Truman?”
“On the surface, Truman wanted the power to stay with the party of the presidency. The House was more likely to be controlled by the president’s party than the Senate. But there was more to it than that. Truman’s relations with the president pro tem wasn’t, what shall I say, cordial. He was a wily, vindictive powerful 78-year-old named Kenneth McKellar from Tennessee. He was known as a real patronage guy. Truman knew him from the Senate. Not his favorite. On the other hand, Speaker of the House Sam Raybum was a good friend: good enough that Truman was said to have visited Rayburn’s office for a glass of bourbon after he learned he was going to be sworn in as president.”
“Politics,” Roarke sadly concluded.
“And faulty reasoning,” Katie added. “We’ve had long periods since 1947 when the president’s party is not the majority party in either the House or the Senate, or both.”
“So much for Truman’s logic.”
“Right again. And wouldn’t you think that it’s more likely for a cabinet member appointed by a president to continue his policies than a legislative officer with a different political agenda?”
“Makes sense to me.” He was thinking about Duke Patrick right now. “But Truman got his way. What was it like before that?”
“Good question. Let’s go back to 1886. President Grover Cleveland’s vice president died in office. Congress was out of session and according to the 1792 Act, there were no statutory successors to take over if Cleveland croaked or he couldn’t discharge his duties. So Congress reconvened and pulled together The First Presidential Succession Act, which set the line of succession after the veep with the Secretary of State, followed by the rest of the cabinet department heads, in order of their department’s establishment. The 1886 Act required the successor to convene Congress, if it wasn’t already in session, to determine whether or not to call for a special presidential election.”
“It’s getting complicated again.”
“Oh, it’s very complicated and full of holes. Big ones. Like the whole question of who’s an ‘officer?’”
“Meaning?”
“Well, Duke Patrick, for example. Would the House Speaker be considered an officer in Constitutional terms?”
“Of course he is,” Roarke said, totally engaged. “He was elected…”
“Not so fast. The Constitution, Article II, section 1, clause 6 says…”
Roarke smiled. “You really have this down.”
“Stop it. I have it memor
ized, I’m trying to act like I have it down…clause 6 specifies that Congress may, by law, specify what Officer—capital O—shall act as president if both the president and vice president are unavailable. That’s the foundation of all the laws that followed. But does the Constitution view elected officials as Officers? No one knows for sure how the Supreme Court would ultimately rule. Cabinet members, yes. They’re officers appointed by the president, ratified by the Senate.”
“And what do you think?”
“Well, my buddy James Madison and I think officers are those appointed rather than elected.”
“You are good,” Roarke added.
“And there’s more if you’re still with me.”
“Forever.”
Katie liked that a lot. It deserved a kiss, which she gave him by sitting up and stretching across the table.
“Ummm,” he said enjoying his reward.
“Now I know you’re dying to ask me where we stand now.”
“Where do we stand now,” Roarke chimed in.
“On very shaky ground. Here’s why. Under the current law, the 25th Amendment to the Constitution focuses primarily on how the president is succeeded in office, under the terms of the 1947 Act. But did you realize that someone could be bumped out of office?”
“No. How?”
“Imagine there’s a catastrophe. The president, vice president, speaker, and senate pro tem are killed. The Secretary of State is next in line to become the chief executive.”
“I’m with you.”
“Okay, but then the Senate acts very quickly. It elects a new president pro tempore. The senator conveniently bumps the Secretary of State out. But then the House names a new speaker. He, or she,” Katie smiled at the thought, “would bump the Senate president.”
“It’d be chaotic.”
“Worse. We’d have numerous politicians and officers—see the distinction now—laying claim to the presidency. It would have to get settled by the Supreme Court. Not a good time after a tragedy.”
“This is amazing,” Roarke observed.
“I wish I could take credit for it, but the arguments have been around for a long time.”
“Okay. So, in short, it’s a mess. One terrorist strike could throw us into a huge constitutional crisis. How, my dear, are you proposing we get out of it?”
“That, my love, is something I’m still sorting through.”
Glenbrook Royal Air Force Base
New South Wales, Australia
the same day
The down payment was in his account. The remainder would be his very soon. Just a few more details and his work would be done.
Colonel Lewis gave the Air Force One crew and the support team word that they were still a few days away from wheels up. There were rumors that they might have a quick stopover in Kandahar airport in Afghanistan. Is that good or bad? The engineer borrowed the navigation charts from the cockpit. Good.
He mentally calculated the distances and considered the likely flight plan. Better, in fact. Much better.
Chapter 66
Sydney, Australia
Wednesday, 15 August
“Done!” Prime Minister Foss proclaimed.
The pronouncement was followed by silence. The representatives, all of them leaders of their own nations, looked around at one another. Something momentous had happened here, but it was hard to grasp the full significance. Morgan Taylor began to clap. He was joined by the prime minister of Japan. The Indian president joined in. One by one, the heads of state of the rest of the countries applauded. Foss acknowledged the achievement himself by standing and nodding his appreciation.
The formal agreement would be drawn up shortly. The basic language of the pact endorsed Morgan Taylor’s plan to seek and destroy terrorist weapons stores anywhere in the South Pacific. The policy, once ratified by the U.S. Senate, would serve as a blueprint for similar sweeping treaties he hoped to broker in other parts of the world. In its final form, it was titled “The Southeast Asia and Pacific Anti-Terrorist Act,” or SAPATA.
Photographers were called in to record the moment for posterity. Taylor and Foss shook hands for the cameras. They’d successfully hammered out the means to be pro-active. They could take action outside their own borders. They could with a formal invitation. They could do it without a signatory nation’s full approval. It represented a sweeping change in the way the war on terrorism would be fought.
SAPATA would also help stabilize smaller governments: those with insurgent forces they could not uproot themselves. Taylor requested that the countries sign in alphabetical order, based on an English standard. That placed the United States at the bottom. The president wanted to erase any notion that SAPATA was actually a “Taylor Doctrine.” Foss may have felt blindsided by Taylor’s strong-arming tactics at the session, but even the prime minister agreed mutual “defense” agreements were outdated. Today’s global threats required a posture that embraced the notion of mutual “offense.” SAPATA was it.
“Congratulations, Mr. President,” Foss said as Morgan Taylor came up to add his name to the document.
“The same to you, Mr. Prime Minister.”
The two old warriors stood at attention as the still cameras and TV crews shot their pictures. Then Foss explained to the world the momentous step they’d taken together at Government House.
Chicago, Illinois
two hours later
What the hell is this all about? Gonzales wondered after decoding the message encrypted in an eBay bid for classic rock and roll ‘45s. It worried him. Midway through the communiqué was the heart of the problem:
He asked if it was pure luck or coincidence that every break came at somebody else’s expense?
The question was so pointed, so specific.
How does he know?
There was more.
Can you get into The New York Times?
Gonzales could. A complication? he wondered. Yes, but not insurmountable.
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Philadelphia, Detroit, Miami, Buffalo, Indianapolis, and Chicago,” reported Jassim. “Dixon’s personally talked to many of the leading big and tall men’s stores.”
“And?” D’Angelo asked.
“Based on purchases in the last six months, we had likelies in each of those cities. Factor in the exact measurements, and we narrow the possibilities to Detroit, Indie, and Chicago.”
“Any name matches?”
“Let me get Dixon. He can fill you in more.”
Dixon, the CIA liaison to the FBI, was on a call. When he finished, he joined Jassim and D’Angelo.
“What’s the latest on Razak,” Jassim prompted.
“Still nothing one-to-one, but we are assuming he could be using a different name.”
“Correct,” D’Angelo replied.
“Well, based on that last call, I’m down to two cash customers who fit the description of a six-four-to-five-plus Middle Eastern weightlifter. One who gave a name and address and another who didn’t. We’re checking on the one who did. He’s in Indianapolis. Right measurements. Right age. Right look.”
“And the other?”
“Chicago. A guy who shopped earlier in the year at Rochester Big & Tall. He came in wearing summer clothes…in January. He needed a lot to keep him warm.”
The New York Times
the same time
“Can you help me out, Robin?” O’Connell asked one of his friends on the business desk.
“Whatcha want?” the Wall Street writer asked, looking up from her computer.
“I’m working on an article on Elliott Strong.”
“Strong the yahoo?”
“That’s the one. I have his radio stuff down, but I need info on his net value. Can you run down his financials?”
“I don’t know, Mike.”
“Just get me started.”
“I’m on a deadline,” she sai
d.
“You know where to look. Please.” This should have been a simple yes or no. Instead it was a negotiation.
“What do you need?”
“Everything. Loans, leans, holdings, tax history, tax problems, partnerships. The whole nine yards.”
“That’s an awful lot.”
Yup, she’s negotiating, O’Connell thought.
“I hope this isn’t a rush, Mike.”
“It’s a big rush. Weaver is on my ass to get an article out before the march on D.C. Strong’s talking it up on his show.”
“I don’t know, I’ve got this enterprise piece of my own.”
“Come on, get me started.” Time to pay up. “Look, if there’s a solid business angle, we can team up on a sidebar.”
This was just what the business reporter wanted to hear. She smiled thinking she’d gotten the best of O’Connell. She had a lot to learn.
“Okay, but just one hour. I’ll e-mail everything over to you.”
Lebanon, Kansas
that night
“Let’s talk a little about the political parties in the U.S. of A.” Elliott Strong represented neither and attacked both. Some people tried to describe him as a libertarian, but they’d be wrong. Strong defined himself as a cultural conservative, an anti-Beltway, and “the living, breathing voice of the Founding Fathers.”
“They aren’t representing you. They’re not doing the work of Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Washington. They’ve allowed the government to grow to suit their own needs, not yours. They come at it from different sides and say the same things. The Republicans argue against big government, but they’ve added new Cabinet departments and ballooned deficits to the trillions. And the Democrats?” The jab was deliberate. “They’re the greatest social spenders of all time. The Democrats have run up bills we’ll never afford to pay from here to Hyannis Port. Well, maybe not from here,” he joked. “Don’t count on either party to be the loyal opposition. They’re both the loyal resistance: the resistance to the future. They’re not the ones to lead. For God’s sake, they don’t even see where the country is already going; where you want it to be; the nation your children deserve to inherit. There is a man who does see it right, who does see the light. Bob Bridgeman.” He decided Bob sounded better than Robert.
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