He sucked in a breath. The cold air filled his lungs. No going back now, he thought. But there was also no going forward without serious help.
Ricardo Perez made the most important choice of his life. He turned the door knob and entered.
The White House
The same time
“Mr. President, I’m still thinking. I’ve got one hundred reasons for saying no.”
“You only need one to make it yes. I want you,” Morgan Taylor told General Johnson. “Look, J3, there has never been a better time than now. I’m not into trying to make history, just run things more efficiently and not fuck up the world. But this is the right thing to do. And you’re the best man for the job.”
“I’m a soldier, not a politician. I can design, evaluate, and task a mission. I’ll tell you straight to your face whether you’re making a good decision or your head is up your ass. I’m you’re man for that. You’re paying me to be your national security advisor. And honestly, you couldn’t have picked anyone with more experience. For vice president? Keep looking, Mr. President. The country wouldn’t elect me.”
Morgan Taylor smiled. He expected the push back from General Jonas Jackson Johnson. What surprised him was that they were having a conversation about it. J3 could have just come in and said, “No fucking way. Now for today’s agenda.” He hadn’t. So the general was open to it.
“The country doesn’t have to elect you, Jonas. I’m appointing you. Who’s going to object on the Hill? It would be foolish for Patrick to try. This is a slam dunk. And, you’d still head up National Security. It’s a perfect way to streamline and save some salary.” The last comment was sure to help in the confirmation hearings.
“And you think the country is going to be happy with a standing general as veep?”
“You’ll need to hang up that uniform, at least for now. Think of it as a way to pick up another retirement package. And who knows, you just might like the feel of a good suit. It fit Washington well. Grant and Ike, too.”
“They were presidents.”
“I guess I am getting ahead of myself,” Taylor said. The comment had double meaning.
“You son of a bitch,” J3 exclaimed. “You’re trying to put me in place to run in three years. Did you crack your head that badly when you got shot down in Iraq?”
“And you’d be happy to see Duke Patrick sitting in that seat?” Taylor swung around and pointed to his chair which was tucked under his desk. “Of course you’d make a great candidate. A distinguished military career, a proven leader, head of National Security, vice president. Damned straight!”
“I’m not a politician,” the general said again.
“Good. The nation doesn’t need another politician. Look around. No one’s complaining about any shortage. There are thousands of them. There’s only one of you. You’re the man I want in the job.”
Ciudad del Este, Paraguay
There’s an age-old myth. The Arabic language has no word for compromise. There is victory. There is defeat. War and Peace. All extremes. But the West has argued that there is nothing in the middle. And because of it, it’s widely believed that Muslims will not negotiate. In fact, that’s not true, though it makes for good copy. The word compromise exists. Over the millennia, compromise has brought families together to form tribes, and tribes together to create nations.
However, compromise was no longer in Ibrahim Haddad’s vocabulary. Compromise? There is no compromise. He would never know happiness again. His wife and daughter were long gone. Enemy missiles had done their work. Now there was only the satisfaction of seeing his vision come true.
For more than thirty years, he plotted to exact revenge. He wanted Israel to suffer as a result of the withdrawal of U.S. support. But his plans failed. Now he was running out of time. Personal time. His coughing worsened. His inhaler helped less and less. He required oxygen more frequently. Doctors told him he had emphysema. It would get worse.
So this would be his last strike. He would honor his family in the deaths of Americans. The great Satan would be on its knees, struggling with its own economic and social collapse, and then the Arab armies could do what it wanted with Israel. Yes, I will live to see it.
The Pentagon
“So what do you want me to do?” the army recruiter asked MSG Tom Quinn over the phone. “This guy could tear out of here if he thinks we’re stalling him.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” Quinn said. “Feed him, play cards with him. I’m sure you can keep him busy for a while.”
The master sergeant hung up the phone in his second floor Pentagon office and whispered to himself, “That was the weirdest call I’ve ever had.” The enlisted man looked out of his Pentagon office window on to the parking lot wondering what to do. “Just plain weird.”
On first blush he thought it was a crank call. The story was just plain wacky. Still, as part of the DOD intelligence team, Quinn went by the book. Check out the source.
Quinn quickly confirmed that the phone number and the name of the caller were legitimate army. Next, he reviewed the recruiting officer’s full file from the database. Nothing out of sorts.
He now wondered just who to report this to. Local Montana police? Army Intelligence? Who? Just then his answer walked by his cubicle.
“Captain, sir.” Quinn stood up. “Do you have a sec?”
“Sure, Tom,” CPT Penny Walker replied. She was holding a folder with more information for Roarke.
“What’s up?”
“I took a call from a recruiting officer a few minutes ago. A Montana storefront that doesn’t get much traffic on a snowy day. But in comes a guy, a young Latino with a wild ass story.”
The blonde army captain was curious, partly because she always liked a good story, but mostly because it was her job to be curious. “And?”
“And he said someone had tried to kill him the day before.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t go that far.”
“Does he want to go to the local police?” Penny asked.
“No. The guy said he couldn’t.”
Can’t or won’t, she wondered. “Okay, start again. He walks into an army recruiting office and…”
“And there’s more. He felt he wasn’t just walking into an army recruiter, he saw it as walking into an official U.S. government office, not to enlist but to talk directly to Uncle Sam.”
“Make this easier for me, sergeant.”
“He asked for asylum.”
“Holy shit.”
“He’s probably an illegal. Maybe even a gang member. A real fish out of water in Montana.”
“What does he want?” Walker asked pointedly.
“Protection.”
“Why the fuck does this guy need protection?”
Quinn checked his notes. “He claimed he was transporting a ‘package,’ as he called it.”
“A ‘package’?”
“A man. He drove someone all the way from Texas to Montana. He figures it was some suit who just entered the country and needed to go somewhere without being noticed. Not Hispanic. And not a young guy. Someone older, well dressed. Maybe Middle Eastern. After he dropped him off, he was given instructions to drive somewhere in the boonies and meet up with another car.”
Walker’s mind raced to an alert that came across her desk while she was on Roarke’s case.
“Where did you say he picked this guy up?”
“Texas.”
“Where in Texas? What city?”
He looked at his computer notes. “Houston. Probably a bureau matter, not for us…except…”
“Except what?” Penny asked.
“He said that when he reached the other car it was burning. He got out and saw that the driver was dead. That’s when his own car blew up.”
Walker came around to Quinn’s computer screen. “Give me that number, sergeant,” she said urgently. “And print out your notes. All of them. Word for word.”
MSG Tom Quinn took in a relieved breath.
“Yes, sir.” Now it was someone else’s problem.
Minutes later
“Johnson.” It was J3’s one-word hello on the phone, sure to fluster any would-be flunkies, congressional aides, or as he liked to say, media weenies, from trying to get anything past him.
“General, this is Walker, CPT Penny Walker, DOD intel.”
“I know who you are.”
He was clipped and intentionally impolite. Penny Walker expected as much. She’d met the general at Pentagon functions and knew his manner well.
“I assume you’re calling for a reason,” he continued.
“Yes, sir. That’s why I skipped command.”
“I’d say you did. What is it?”
“Something very interesting. I think it may be related to the Houston shooting.”
General Jonas Jackson Johnson suddenly showed interest. “Go on.”
“Sir, a young Latino gang member, or presumed gang member, walked into a Helena, Montana, army recruiting office. He wasn’t there to sign up. He wanted protection.”
“Protection. Why?”
“Try asylum. I’ll give you my theory in a moment. But this was after he finished transporting a man, he presumed to be Middle Eastern, from George Bush Intercontinental to a truck stop in the middle of Montana. He was paid $5,000 in cash for the delivery, then sent alone down a remote country road an hour away. The next thing—kaboom.”
“Kaboom?”
“The damned car blew up. Fortunately, the driver was out.”
J3 was writing it all down. He’d already flagged key words. Middle Eastern, cash, and explosion. Together they were lethal. He could see where this was going.
“He’s only alive today because he saw another car he was supposed to meet up with—or what was left of it—burning on the road. Lucky he got out of his when he did. That’s when it exploded. The driver of the first vehicle was not so lucky.”
“A MANPAD or missile?”
“He doesn’t think so. More likely a bomb on a timer that was set when he dropped off his passenger.”
“Have you talked to him?” asked General Johnson.
“No, a sergeant down the hall took the call fifteen minutes ago. The recruiter is keeping the subject busy in Helena. But the guy’s panicky. He doesn’t know if he can trust anyone.”
“You said a gang member.”
“Yes, sir. By the sound of it MS-13 or a splinter group.”
“Dangerous sons of bitches. Here and south of the border.”
“That’s what I understand, sir.”
Penny sensed the wheels turning. “You think that recruiter can buy a little more time and keep this guy occupied? Some java, travel folders. Someone like you to keep him busy?”
She chuckled. “I’ll talk to them. I’m sure they can come up with ways.”
“Good.” Another pause from the president’s national security advisor. “Captain, how quickly can you meet me?”
“Upstairs?” She was referring to General Johnson’s Pentagon office. “In five-to-ten depending on the elevator traffic, sir.”
“No. The White House.”
Twenty-one
Washington, D.C.
Jim Vernon’s taxi pulled up to the Marriott Metro Washington on H Street, NW. The chain-link fence manufacturer was getting in two hours late to the hotel. The weather out of the Midwest delayed the afternoon flights for hours. Because of another stop he made, he missed the opening session of his convention and the chance to meet with potential clients. But that didn’t bother the salesman who looked to be in his mid thirties. He was very good; very, very good at what he did, and there was really no need for him to attend.
Vernon was single, eligible, and desirable. He got laid a lot. At last year’s convention, he slept with three different women, all married, and all who dreamed about a second night they never got. Nor did they get their phone calls answered. Still, each of the women returned, hoping to satisfy their year-long fantasies.
Before Vernon was halfway through the lobby, he had committed every face in sight to memory. There were four conventioneers hanging outside The Metro Grille to the left. A couple and their two children stood talking with the concierge to the right. Straight ahead, a pair of bellhops waited for work. Past them at check in was a woman who shifted her weight from one leg to the other.
Vernon carted his black Samsonite suitcase forward and quietly fell in line behind her. She wore an expensive black leather jacket set off by two dangling pearl earrings. A set he had given her twelve months ago. Her red hair fell just below her shoulders, standing out against the black of her jacket and complementing the color of her powder-blue blouse. His eyes drifted down. She wore a short black pencil skirt which emphasized strong, sexy legs. Her Pradas gave her an extra inch and a half, which placed her neck right at Vernon’s lip level.
The salesman inhaled. He recognized the perfume. Pleasures by Estee Lauder. Very nice, he thought. He leaned forward and whispered in the woman’s ear. “Bar or minibar?” He pressed up against her ass. She felt him and without turning around, smiled. He gently kissed the back of her neck, taking in more of the perfume.
The forty-six-year-old saleswoman leaned her head to the right, inviting more. This was sexier than her fantasies. The desk clerk handed her the room portfolio. Though distracted, she examined it. “Room 314,” she said just loud enough for Vernon to hear. “And may I have an extra key?” she asked the desk clerk.
“Certainly, Mrs. Michaelson.” The clerk fulfilled the request. “Have a nice stay.”
“Oh, I will,” she replied. “She pushed up against Vernon, felt his hard cock and slipped her card key in his hand. “As a matter of fact, I’m looking forward to jumping right into bed.”
The clerk, oblivious to the exchange, just smiled and looked to the next guest. “May I help you, sir.”
Vernon stepped forward and indicated that he’d be paying in cash.
“I’ll still need a credit card on record.”
“No problem.” He had one just for the occasion; only this occasion, bought at CVS and loaded with cash.
Minutes later, Jim Vernon checked into his room. That was all he did there. He quickly walked down the two flights of stairs and inserted the electronic key card into Mrs. Michaelson’s door. She was already in bed and so very ready.
Her hair was enough to turn him on. He loved redheads. True redheads. Lily Michaelson was the real deal. She pleased him a great deal the year before. Depending on how hungry she was, he might not need to look any further to the other women on his list.
Blocks away
Roarke and Katie lay in bed. He held her, but nothing more. He was exhausted from his trip. A weather delay in Chicago cost him a connection, which meant a later flight into Reagan.
There was something else that kept him from making love with Katie. An inner voice distracted him with a “come find me” attitude.
Katie played with the hair on his chest and talked softly and lovingly to him. It took a few minutes before she realized he wasn’t paying attention.
“Scott, are you with me?”
“Yes, baby,” he finally answered.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.”
“I mean a real talk.”
Roarke shook the other voice out of his head. “Yes.” It wasn’t very sincere.
“Is this what our life is going to be like?”
“What do you mean?”
“This. I don’t feel you with me. You’re here and not here at the same time. You didn’t even know I was talking to you.”
It was all true. “I’m sorry.”
“You have only one thing on your mind. There’s no room in there for me, is there?”
He half expected the question. “Of course there is.” Roarke swallowed the words.
“You know what you’re really great at?” she asked.
“What?”
“You’re a really great lover and you’re really great at your job. But yo
u’re a terrible liar.”
Katie Kessler was right. Even though he loved her…even though they planned for a future together, there was almost no room for her right now. This man—Cooper, who had threatened her life as well as Roarke’s, was more present than she was.
“I want you back.”
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
“Really back. Heart and soul.”
Roarke sighed heavily. He looked over to her and nodded. “I love you.”
“I know that.” Katie rolled up under his arm and nestled her head on his chest. “I love you more. But I’m afraid of losing you, and…”
“You won’t.”
“And I’m afraid you’ll lose me if we don’t get back what we have,” she said sadly. “It’s so hard to be this much in love and be so afraid of having it disappear in an instant. It’s too hard for me.”
Roarke understood. He understood completely. It’s not that he was in a serious line of work. That part was true. But, he made it more dangerous. He put himself on the line for the president of the United States. In doing so, he put Katie’s life in jeopardy.
He was convinced Cooper was alive. And as long as he was, Katie’s fears would be inescapable.
The image of Richard Cooper returned to Roarke’s head. He was laughing.
Katie’s mind was working on something, too.
Lily Michaelson swore her throat tickled when she came. It was the second time, the second way. Jim Vernon was an aggressive, hungry lover. Now it would be her turn. Over and over again. It was better than she remembered. More exciting than anything she had at home. It would end again in the morning, or if she was luckier, in a few days.
Vernon slipped his cock out of her and rolled on his back. She reached down and felt him; felt their shared wetness, then reached for her own. She would start, then he would take over—she hoped —just as he had last year.
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 14