Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “I’m not on a presidential detail.”

  “But you work for him.”

  “Yes.”

  “You realize Agent Roarke even he needs a subpoena to get in here. And I still think he’d lose out to client-lawyer privilege.”

  “Yes, he would. So would I. But you don’t.”

  There was a long pause between them. During that time Roarke peered straight into her brown eyes. And through them, he saw beauty and life and honesty. In the world he lived, he didn’t see much of that.

  “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly standing up. “I shouldn’t have come here. I had no business asking you to…”

  “Wait,” Katie offered. “Please.” She touched his arm.

  “I need to know more. What are you looking for? Is it political? If it’s political I can’t….”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Then what is it?”she asked.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what you’re looking for?”

  “Well, not really,” Roarke admitted.

  “Oh, and you’re one of the guys who’s supposed to protect the president.”

  “Scary, isn’t it,” he joked.

  This made her laugh. A sense of humor. She liked that.

  “Look, to be perfectly honest, there was something about Witherspoon’s attitude and his manner I didn’t like.”

  She laughed. “You’re not the first.”

  “And it told me he was hiding something.”

  “Not hiding, protecting. We’re a law firm. That’s one of the things we do, Agent Roarke,” she said not smiling anymore.

  “No, it was definitely hiding, Ms. Kessler. And one of the things I do is find things people are hiding, particularly when it comes to national security.”

  “Are we being snippy?”

  He closed his eyes. She was absolutely correct. “I’m sorry, But the congressman barely survived an assassination attempt and now he is under Secret Service protection.”

  “You for real? Gun and all?”

  “…and all,” he answered.

  “And I suppose you can just get Morgan Taylor on the telephone and confirm all of this?”

  Roarke smiled and took out his cell phone from his right vest pocket and held it out to Katie. “Press the number 5 button three times and wait.”

  Now it was a chess game. The telephone was there for her to try, but even Katie Kessler was a little too timid to cold call the President of the United States.

  “Maybe I’ll take a rain check on that.” He returned the phone to his pocket.

  “I’ll say one thing, Agent Roarke. You certainly get to the point,” Katie said.

  “So I’m told, Ms. Kessler.” She smiled. “So what will it be? Will you help?”

  “You haven’t told me what I’d be helping you do.”

  “Find the truth.”

  “About what?”

  “Maybe we’ll discover that by starting.”

  Katie shook her head and picked up a folder from her “Out” basket. “I’m going to regret this, but why don’t you take a walk with me, Mr. Roarke. I have some files I need to put away in the Records Department.”

  Burlington, Vermont

  “Geoff, it’s time I called Neill.”

  Newman smiled at the congressman. “I’m sure Lamden has already downloaded him by now.”

  “Get him on the line and we’ll have a heart-to-heart about the next few months.”

  The Democratic Party chairman was having a bad week. Governor Lamden, the favorite son in the old boy network, was abruptly the also-ran. “Dammit,” Neill complained to Lamden when he called earlier. “This was supposed to be your year.”

  The nomination now belonged to Teddy Lodge and this would be Neill’s last hurrah.

  “He’s on the line now,” Newman announced. He handed the phone to Lodge.

  “Hello Wendell.”

  “Congressman, I hope you received my message of condolence.”

  “Yes, thank you. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.”

  “It’s such a difficult time for you. For us. I gather no breaks in the investigation yet.”

  “Nothing yet. The FBI is keeping me informed.”

  “They’ll find the guy. Give ’em time. And Teddy, I commend you on the way you handled New York and Rhode Island. Showed real dignity.”

  “Thank you and frankly, that’s why I’m calling. I had a chat with Governor Lamden the other day.” Lodge paused, but Neill didn’t acknowledge he knew anything. “And I’ve decided to continue. That said, I believe that Henry would make us stronger. I think he’ll do it and I hope you’ll sell it to the party leadership. You will do it,Wendall?”

  Neill didn’t like the tone he heard. Not one bit.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Katie Kessler stood up on a foot stool and pulled open a cabinet above them. Roarke watched her from behind and was pleased by what he saw.

  “You’re looking,” she noted as if having eyes in the back of her head.

  “I’m admiring,” he corrected.

  “Here, steady this stool, I need to get this one out in the back. It’s pretty damned thick. Oh, and by the way,” she said looking down at him, “when we’re finished, you’re taking me out to dinner, mister.”

  “No problem, counselor.”

  There were eighteen file folders in all. She handed them one by one to Roarke who deposited them on a long work desk near to where he had put his things. Roarke tried to look over her shoulder when she opened them, but was chastised. “Uh uh. Lawyer-client. You stay over there. Other side.”

  He obeyed and sat at one of the workstations. Katie scanned through the files for fifteen minutes. “This is interesting,” she offered at last. “The Lodges already had a will. Drawn by a small Marblehead law firm, Woodruff, Stuart, and Nunes on Washington Street. Signed two years earlier. Nunes is noted as his executor. Everything looks in order. Then in ’75 they wrote a new one with another North Shore attorney, Haywood W. Marcus, who ultimately joined our firm in 1985.”

  “Do you have the new will?”

  “Let me see.”

  She leafed through more tabs on more folders. Many more than Witherspoon had in his office.

  “Hold on,” she said. “Well, yes. This might be it.” She read quickly to herself.

  “What’s it say?”

  “This is fairly boilerplate until here.” Katie tapped on page three, midway down. “Interesting. Marcus got pretty much irrevocable dictatorial powers.”

  “Isn’t that what an Executor is normally granted?”

  “Well, someone must have sold Mr. Lodge a bill of goods. His old Marblehead lawfirm was suddenly out of the picture as Executor. Marcus was in. And as far as I can gather, Marcus just walked in off the street.”

  “People change attorneys all the time?” Roarke asked.

  “Well, yes, but this required a great deal of paperwork. It’s not a bad document. Let’s see, in the event of death,” she read on and shared the bullet points, “burial at sea, memorial monuments at Waterside Cemetary in Marblehead. Trust funds for Teddy. Seems everyone was taken care of. Even Alfred Nunes. She finished scanning the will, then found another document. “Wait a second. There’s something else here. It appears that Nunes contested the new will. There’s a notation. But it doesn’t explain much.” She looked up from the documents and asked, “What happened to the family?”

  “Teddy was in a horrible traffic accident when he was in high school; the only one to survive. It nearly paralyzed him. A day later, probably due to all the stress, his mother collapsed at home and died of a heart attack.”

  “And his father?”

  “He died a year earlier.” Roarke wanted to get more information, but he paused a moment, not wanting to appear insensitive. After clearing his throat he continued. “What grounds did Nunes use to contest?”

  “Well let’s see.” After a minute she found another extract.

&n
bsp; “Okay, here it is. Nunes said he had no prior knowledge of the change of assignment of Executors. According to this letter he was furious.” She continued reading and paraphrasing, “But the County Court declined to hear his complaint since he was not harmed by the terms of the new document. It ended there.”

  “So maybe they had had an argument or something and Oliver Lodge changed his mind.”

  “Or Marcus made a great pitch. He’s a brilliant lawyer,” she said trailing off. Katie was now lost in a clipping of Oliver Lodge, Jr.’s obituary. She returned to a previous document. Then back again to the newspaper clipping. Then back and forth again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking at the dates.”

  “The dates?” Roarke asked.

  “The dates on the will and obit of Teddy’s father.”

  “And…”

  She looked directly at him. “You do have a nice face, Mr. Roarke.”

  “Why thank you. Now what do you have?”

  “Maybe something worth finding.”

  She put the paper down. “Mr. Roarke, the new will is dated just three weeks before Oliver Lodge died.”

  Beacon Hill is known for its intimate, romantic restaurants. Katie picked one of her favorites. 75 Chestnut Street offered a delicious menu with a French Normandy influence. The ambient light was low enough to hide some of her exhaustion and yet accent her eyes, which she realized, almost with embarrassment, were constantly on her companion.

  Katie and Roarke sat in the back, with Roarke taking the wall facing out. She hadn’t been aware of the move, but it was part of his training. Not so much Secret Service, but a residual effect of his other assignments. None that he would be sharing with Katie. His trip to the rest room and the kitchen also followed his training. He always familiarized himself with all of the exits, wherever he went.

  Katie ordered a Lemon Drop Martini. Roarke called for a margarita on the rocks with salt. “Jose Cuervo,” he emphasized.

  “That’s not quite a proper Bostonian drink,” Katie maintained.

  “I don’t think I’d qualify as a proper Bostonian,” Roarke added with little reflection. “Are there still any left?”

  “The old days of the Back Bay Society and Boston Brahmins with their aged scotch and brandy are history. Now it’s exotic martinis. Martinis, Mr. Roarke. Not margaritas.”

  “Okay, okay. Two Lemon Drops,” conceded Roarke. “But make sure the rim’s coated with sugar.”

  “Thank you,” she offered, then turned to the waiter. “And I’ll be ordering dinner as well for ‘The Hulk.’” She batted her eyes at Roarke when the waiter left to get their drinks. “Let me see if I can get you right.”

  Roarke took the challenge. “Okay. No one’s ever tried before. Go ahead.”

  She studied the menu for only a moment. It was obvious to Roarke that she knew the restaurant’s best dishes.

  “I’d peg you for a lamb chop man,” she said putting the menu down. “But I’m not going to let you have it tonight.”

  Was that a devilish smile?

  “No, we’re going for something lighter. Something more me, than you, Mr. Roarke.”

  This woman got to him, quieted him, and touched him unlike any he had ever met. He permitted himself that fleeting whim he had in Washington. Maybe it’s time to start leading a normal life. Leave that other one behind.

  The drinks came. Katie was about to offer a toast, but he interrupted.

  “No, you’re choosing dinner. The toast is mine. To…to,” he paused to weigh his words, “to the Supreme Court. They don’t know what they’re in store for, counselor.”

  “Why Mr. Roarke, you flatter me.”

  “Thank you. You deserve it.” He stared deeply into her eyes. And for the first time since they met, she didn’t have a fast come back. Katie Kessler blushed.

  “Tell me something,” she finally said. “If you hadn’t talked me into pulling the files would you have gotten them yourself?”

  “A very good question. A legal one?”

  “A personal one.”

  “An honest answer then. No,” Roarke admitted.

  “That begs the question. What if your boss claimed National Security?”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Now you’re asking the questions. Very clever, Mr. Roarke.”

  “Thank you, but I was counting on you.”

  “Why would you even think I would help you.”

  “The one thing I know for certain-trust my instincts.”

  “And you can say without a doubt that none of this is political?”

  “It’s not.”

  “That you’re not trying to dig up some dirt to help in November.”

  “No.”

  “That you’re not messing with Lodge’s principal law firm?”

  “No,” he said sharply. His body tensed and voice grow completely serious. “Look, here it is. Real straight. I came to Boston after an assassination attempt of a presidential candidate.”

  “And the murder of…”

  “His wife. Yes. And the fact that the Secret Service was not attached to Lodge yet was the law. Now he’s under our protection. And he could get the job. So, I’m here and your law firm interests me”

  “Interests? Such an interesting word, Mr. Roarke,” She said trying to keep it light. “What’s that mean?”

  He took a deep breath not knowing what he meant. It was an honest response based on nothing more than instinct. “Just that,” he continued more softly. “It interests me.” Roarke let the inflection remain.

  She peered into his eyes. A moment later, not even realizing what she was doing, Katie slid her hand across the table finding his fingers. After a long silence she said, “Maybe we should visit records again.”

  All the tension in his body left and he softened to the feel of her fingers and the sound of her voice. Dinner tonight would be fine no matter what she ordered.

  Tripoli, Libya

  Sami Ben Ali took his time. During his training at Langley he had learned about two agents who hadn’t been patient enough. The CIA even had file photographs, smuggled out of Kharrazi’s Abu Salim Prison, showing what was left of their bodies after being riddled with electrodes, stoned, and beaten until they were put out of their misery with a bullet between the eyes.

  Ben Ali liked living more than anything else. He earned a miniscule salary from Libya, and generous hazard pay from the U.S. Since he wanted to be around to enjoy it in his old age, he moved with utmost care.

  On Thursday, the eve before the Moslem Sabbath, he found what he needed the most. Opportunity.

  Like clockwork, Walid Abdul-Latif ducked out for a late afternoon cigarette break. Earlier, Major Karim Kitan had departed angrily. And since his assistant had reported in sick, no one else was around. Ben Ali had what he calculated as just seven minutes to log onto Walid’s computer. Seven minutes—the time that it took for Walid to go down the hall, take a piss, smoke a cigarette as he always did on the balcony, and return. Seven minutes. That’s all he had.

  Ben Ali cursed General Kharrazi for the lack of better technology in Libya. They were decades behind. The damned computer required more than two minutes to boot up. Two-and-a-half to be precise, out of seven. And all of his next steps were slow, too.

  First he needed to check the pull down file and write the exact order of the last four files that Walid worked on. He figured that would take thirty more seconds. He quickly ran through the rest of procedure in his mind: Allow another ninety seconds to locate the file that Walid had typed. Add a minute to insert a disk, copy and close the file. Another ninety seconds to call up each of the last four files in correct order to cover his tracks, thus hiding his work on the pull-down file menu. Finally, forty-five of the slowest seconds of his life to close each file in the correct order and shut down the computer.

  If Walid smoked at his typical rate, his margin of error was only fifteen seconds.

  He began. The computer churned, sputtered and f
lashed the start-up icons. And as he had planned, he was into the program at the 4 minute and 32 second mark. If only there was time to read the file, he wouldn’t have to leave with a disc. He hated having evidence on him. But in this case, even the slow computer was faster than his ability to scan and absorb the report.

  Then it was time to save the file. “Shit!” he screamed to himself. He had grabbed a floppy disc that was completely full. He scrambled to his desk and rifled through the top drawer. Where the fuck is a disk! Another ten seconds. Fifteen. He hated making stupid mistakes. This was one. At thirty seconds he found a disk, and prayed to Allah and anyone else who would listen that there was room to store the file. He inserted the 3MB disk, imported from the U.S. via Saudi Arabia, clicked on Save As and highlighted the A Drive. Now he was getting nervous. He had never been this careless before. Ten seconds, 20, 30, 40, 50. At 60 seconds the computer was still saving the file. He was now six minutes into his operation and the damned computer wasn’t finished yet. At a minute-fifteen into the process, it finally completed its task. Now to quickly, if such a thing existed on this piece of crap, call up the old files. He checked his list.

  Just as he opened the last file he heard footsteps down the hall. Walid. He wasn’t finished and he had another forty-five seconds to close down.

  In a moment he’d be caught spying in the office of the Libyan leader’s most accomplished son.

  “Walid!” he called out, running into the hall.

  “Yes, I’m coming, what is it? What is it you fool?”

  “I just received a call—a car bomb in the plaza! We have to get out of here. Now!”

  “Who called? The last time it was some idiot trying to scare us all.”

  “I don’t know,” Ben Ali answered, grabbing Walid. “But this sounded real.”

  “Okay, okay. But let go of me you moron.”

  Ben Ali apologized. “Better take the stairs.” As they ran past other offices he yelled for people to evacuate.

  Midway down the flight of stairs Ben Ali stopped. “Shit! I left a cigarette burning on my desk. I have to go back. I’ll be right down.” He bounded up the stairs three at a time, ignoring the foul outburst from Walid.