By Silent Majority

by Robert Buschel

  Gina didn’t know the man she called the night before. She dialed the number scratched by her late husband on the blotter at his desk. The person at the other end of phone. Nervously, she spoke. She was afraid that the wrong tone in her voice might destroy her plan.

  The phone answered, “Yes.”

  “Do you know who shot my husband in the face?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Mrs. Rock. I wish I could sew it up.”

  In that moment, Gina feared that she was talking to her husband’s murderer. “I don’t know what your husband was working on. I assume you know, since you’re calling me. He must have told you about the Center.” She lied.

  “I need to meet you. Roger wrote a message before he died.”

  “How reliable is it? Was he murdered Mrs. Rock? And the note planted?”

  “I thought you would know.”

  “Now how would I know! I’ve been nothing but loyal to the President and honorable to my country.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

  “You really don’t know as much as I thought, do you Mrs. Rock. Are you talking on your kitchen phone!”

  “No! I’m in Roger’s office,” she replied.

  “Good. Meet me at Abe’s left-foot at six tomorrow morning. Can you wake up that early?” She wondered if he was kidding or was that a code of some kind.

  “Yes, I’ll be there. What about the FBI?”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “The President has assigned two or three agents to watch the house for my protection.”

  “My sweet Mrs. Rock, you have no idea what your husband did for the President, do you? The FBI works for us. You’re not their prisoner. What time do they expect you to leave the house tomorrow?”

  “Eight in the morning.”

  “Good, don’t change it. Slip out and meet me there. Goodnight, Ms. Rock.”

  “Good night. Wait, what’s your name?”

  “Call me, Han.”

  The morning dew was on the grass. The sunlight was white and could not be seen so early. The weather was becoming hotter as the sun rose. Gina Rock was tense as she slipped out the back of her home. She felt she was doing the right thing. She didn’t know what she was doing.

  Gina didn’t take the car parked in the garage. She took Roger’s car that was on the street and slipped into the car, from the passenger side. Crouched down she slipped the key into the ignition. Slowly she rotated the key, as if the car would make less noise that way. Louder than she expected, the engine roared.

  Gina slipped the car in drive and drove half way down the street before she lifted her head up in a normal position. She parked her car in the Metro station and got out. Looking left and right, she saw nobody suspicious following her. She adjusted her frames as she walked onto the platform. The train pulled up as she stepped onto the platform, and she was consciously grateful for not having to wait for it to come. The train was not terribly crowded at a few minutes after five.

  As Gina sat on the train, she had wished she brought a newspaper to cover her face. She was uneasy. She dreamed about how involved Roger was in this whole network for the President. It had to be that. He didn’t kill himself. He was a soldier who went down in service to his President. Moments away from the Lincoln Memorial she resolved, that if the person who met her at Abe’s left leg wasn’t Chinese, she would hand him an alternate note, and run.

  Han, in black, stood at the left leg of Abraham Lincoln. He was almost alone except for a couple of early morning tourists jogging by the steps of the Memorial. Han was a thin man with a strong wiry frame, wore sun glasses, and was in a pissed off mood.

  Han was smoking a cigarette and pacing when two men approached. One man approached from behind, and the other head on. The man in back grabbed Han around his biceps, and said, “Sir, you’re coming with us.” Han stepped forward and threw the man off him. Immediately, the man in front drew a .357 snub nose revolver, and pointed it at Han’s face. “Hey, cut the karate shit. FBI.” Agent Brad Lefkel lowered his gun and showed Han his FBI credentials. “See?” Han was enraged, but knew they had his number. Four more agents walked out from behind Lincoln. One directed him to a four-door sedan on the street. Han took a step, and the agent on the ground came up with his fist to Han’s groin. Two agents grabbed Han by the arms, and escorted him to the car.

  Once Han was ushered away, another Chinese male with a cigarette and dark sunglasses appeared at the left foot of Lincoln. He paced and had a smile on his face—and he was waiting for Gina Rock. Moments later Gina Rock approached the man who stood at the left leg of Lincoln.

  “Hello,” Gina said.

  “Hello, Ms. Rock,” he responded with a slight feigned Chinese accent.

  Gina pulled a .38 caliber gun from her handbag. “Tell me who you are.”

  Startled. The man said he was Han. She relaxed and put the gun back into her handbag. “Here is the message.” She had written it down before the meeting. “I can’t believe it is literally true.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”

  “My husband worked for you?”

  “No, we worked for him.”

  “And he worked for the President?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then I’m proud of him.”

  “You did the right thing, Ms. Rock. Goodbye.” He turned and stepped quickly away.

  After the third meeting Daniel had in the morning, he scribbled on a pad in the oval office. Daniel Carlson had difficulty breaking the melancholy he felt over, what had become a national scandal—Rock’s death.

  Scratching circles on the morning paper that said, Rock’s Suicide Over Affair, Daniel asked himself what was good about the situation. The only answer his mind could come up with is that this crisis would be his last before the election.

  Daniel stopped, glanced upward, and pressed the intercom button.

  “Lynn, call Alan please.” A moment passed and Alan picked up his extension.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Alan?”

  “Hi. Thanks for calling me back so soon.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You’ve read the papers about Rock today.”

  “Sure,” Daniel replied.

  “I’ve got a feeling I’m responsible.”

  “How?” Daniel wondered.

  “I was joking, but I told a friend that Melissa Spark was having an affair with Rock, and the next thing I know is the papers are repeating it, and you are responsible for not stopping them.”

  Daniel would ordinarily have dismissed the concern, but at the morning’s meetings no one could figure out where the leak about Melissa Spark and Rock came from. It was because it was not a leak, it was a lie.

  “Who did you tell?”

  “One person—Marcus Brutowski.”

  Daniel wrote the name above the newspaper headline.

  “Hold on.”

  “Daniel clicked on the intercom, “Lynn, get Director Stone on the phone.”

  “Director Stone?”

  “Mr. President, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re on the phone with my son, Alan. He tells me that we might have a spy following my son. Alan and a few friends were sitting around having pizza and someone blurted out that Melissa Spark and Roger Rock were fooling around and all the nonsense that followed.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Marcus Brutowski.”

  “What year is he?”

  “Alan?”

  “Third year,” Alan said. “He’s from Deerlick, Indiana.”

  “Hmm. Like General Speiser,” Stone said. “I’ll call you back, Mr. President.”

  “Will you see Brutowski again?” Daniel asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Mention that Rock will have a m
emorial in Guantanamo. And Alan, don’t mention my name until this election is over.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Director Stone lifted the phone receiver. He summoned his assistant.

  “What did the President say?” Greenberg asked.

  “He wants us to check out someone who is investigating the Presidency through his son, Alan.”

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  “It might be,” Stone replied. “Did the Rock thing go together okay?”

  “Yes. Very smoothly. We’re interviewing Han who’s giving us the whole breakdown of the auction. You’ll probably want to talk to him yourself.”

  “Where’s the message that Gina Rock gave us?”

  “It’s right here, sir.” Greenberg handed Director Stone the note.

  “It’s literal, isn’t it?” the Director asked.

  “It can’t be, sir.”

  “Oh it is, unfortunately.” After looking at it again.

  Greenberg hesitated for a moment and then cleared his throat. “Don’t we owe it to the President to let him know what he should be expecting? Or, is this a code for a physical attack on the President.”

  “We do owe the President. Make it obvious. Send the message over a NASA satellite. Make it easy enough for a junior aide to pick it up. When Peter Spark gets wind of it, he’ll call here. Then I’ll level with him. In the meantime, tell the Secret Service and everyone else, we have a threat.” Director Stone said.

  “With all respect, sir, why don’t we just do the President a favor and speed the whole thing up and let him get it personally through the center?”

  “Because the President might get the wrong idea if it goes through the center. He may think we’re leveraging him. This way is the best way. I hope he survives it. This is the dirtiest I’ve ever seen. And, it sounds like it’s true.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Chess & Checkers

  The seven o’clock alarm beeped quietly but loud enough to wake the President. President Carlson sat up in his bed and turned the alarm off. When he pulled the sheets and cover off himself, his maroon silk pajamas were exposed. June quickly snatched up more than her share of the blankets. Immediately, upon rising, the President went to his closet and put on a robe. Then he went to his bathroom and brushed his teeth.

  The President leaned down to the intercom by his night-table and pressed, “I’m ready for my session,” he said to the Secret Service man outside his bedroom door. The President’s day began the usual way.

  “Hello, Zulu, this is Yankee,” the voice said into the phone.

  “Go ahead Yankee, the line is sterile.”

  “Drag is coming to a peak. The muscle has been provided. The trainer will confirm. The ink will tell all tomorrow morning.”

  “Good. So much for an invulnerable President. The ignorant will be educated. The silent will be heard.”

  “I just hope the ends justify the means, Zulu. Yankee out.”

  The President’s day concluded in the usual way.

  Peter Spark sat in his office pondering about the next four years in the Carlson Administration, over a brandy. Peter was going to ask for State and probably get it. The election was in the bag.

  His thoughts went to a long winter vacation skiing with Melissa. She deserved a break from politics. What a great wife she turned out to be. Always supportive, even though Peter thought he didn’t deserve it. Her career was supporting Peter’s. The luncheons, the dinners, the museum openings. Peter remembered that Melissa had aspirations to be a teacher. She loved kids. He denied her both, a career in teaching and children of her own. Peter never discussed her wants and desires, not in her realm of desire. It was either, do you want to go to the library opening or the Senator’s birthday party?

  Peter felt neglectful of Melissa at this moment. He contemplated retirement after the second term. Life would get better. There are less social obligations in a second term—his President couldn’t run again. But State, that’s not a job with less time constraints. It was a job that would extend Peter’s influence abroad. It would mean leaving Melissa at home for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Perhaps he would suggest she should be a teacher now. She would need an activity that she could fall in love with, while he was away. He would definitely discuss the option with her. Hopefully, she would be pleasantly surprised at the unexpected support.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Peter said not moving from his desk. It was one of Peter’s aides working late.

  “I just got an interesting transcript that may relate to national security, Mr. Spark.”

  “Where’s it from,” Peter asked, taking the sheet from his aide.

  “Would you believe NASA was doing some weather experiments and didn’t know what to make of it?”

  “Hmm. Let’s see what it says.” Peter put on his reading glasses and stared at the page intently, but wasn’t taking it too seriously. What’s the chance NASA came up with something pertaining to national security? “Hello Zulu, this is Yankee. That means there are two parties involved. Drag has come to a peak. Drag must be the name of an operation and it must be coming to a close. The muscle has been provided. Must be some type of enforcement or strong arm tactic. The trainer will confirm,” Peter thought for a second. “I take it back. Muscle must be another source because, trainer is backing up what muscle is saying or doing. The ink will tell all tomorrow. That must be the newspapers. Something will be in the paper tomorrow. You got this when?”

  “The call seemed to be made two hours ago, sir.”

  “So much for an invulnerable President. The ignorant will be educated. That’s barely a code. The people will learn of some critical information. The silent will be heard. Either that means someone will also shed light on what this information is all about, or people won’t like the information they’re going to read about. I just hope the ends justify the means. Wonderful, that means the information can be fiction. All right, good work. I’ll look into it.”

  “Good night, Mr. Spark.” The aide left the room.

  Peter knew it could be the one thing he and Daniel had feared for years, but it was improbable. The other thing it could be is some manufactured evidence that implicated the President in some wrong doing. A last minute scandal to sway a mass of voters to go the other way. Peter hoped it was the latter. It would be much easier to deal with the fiction than with the truth. No matter what it was.

  The phone rang and Peter answered it on the first ring.

  “Mr. Spark? It’s Kensington at the Post. I think tonight I’m going to earn my money.” Peter was worried. He had a feeling it was related to the intercept he just received.

  “Good, because I’ve been paying you since the Bratton scandal.”

  “I don’t know how much this is going to help. This article has been under wraps for months now. I just found out about it tonight. O’Brady is writing a story, and I don’t know if you know this sir but it claims something unbelievable about the President.”

  The President went into his bedroom and changed into his bathrobe for a late night massage. He walked into the massage room and greeted Bruce.

  “Missed you this morning, Bruce,” Daniel said.

  “Sorry, sir,” Bruce seemed a little disturbed about something. Perhaps personal family life, so the President didn’t want to intrude.

  “I have that pain in my neck again. Will you do that thing you do? Thanks.” Moments passed and Daniel spoke again. “Ying is strong for a little woman, but I really got a kink.”

  “How’s your son coming along in therapy?” Daniel asked.

  “Fine. Much better every day. He wants to get back to work,” Bruce replied. His voice connoted that Daniel hit a source of pain.

  “That’s understandable. Car accidents can do that to someone. He’ll be back to normal soon.”

  �
��I hope so.”

  “You know you seem to brood all the time lately,” Daniel said.

  “I know. It’s Catherine. She’s going through one of her life changes again. She wants to travel.”

  “So go travel with her, Bruce.”

  “She wants to travel by herself,” Bruce replied.

  “Oh, I understand why that might be difficult for you.”

  “You know how it is with wives like ours, sir.”

  “Too well,” Daniel replied and then remained silent as his thoughts drifted to the situations of the day.

  The effects of the massage seemed to be setting in, and the President relaxed as his mind drifted to other ideas besides American politics on the Hill. Ten minutes into the massage there seemed to be a ruckus outside the door.

  “I must see the President immediately!” The voice was heard clearly through the door.

  “The President sees no one!” There was a loud thumb against the wall. “Post 3. . . .” Instantly, a dozen Secret Service men with rifles and automatic weapons teemed the hall.

  “Mr. President, get under the table, sir,” Bruce said. He seemed to reach into a bag. The President wondered what he was grabbing.

  “No, wait a second.” The President recognized the voice through the door. He put his robe on quickly and then opened the door. “What’s the problem, Jasper?” All the President saw was two men pressing another man against the back wall.

  “I’m the Goddamn Chief of Staff!” It was Peter Spark.

  “Let him go,” the President ordered. The Chief of Staff fixed his suit. “Couldn’t this wait until our nightcap?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. President.” The formal approach from Peter struck the President as odd. “I know no one is supposed to interrupt your massages. But they know. They know, Daniel. We have a crisis on our hands.” The two men locked eyes. “This will probably turn the whole election around. We’re in deep trouble.” Daniel Carlson knew what had happened. The Presidency had just become a nightmare. The election road, a gauntlet of embarrassment and explanation. After all these years, President Carlson never would have believed that it would ever be known—it was—and now he would have to deal with the impending scandal.