Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  Roarke received the nods he desired.

  “Moving on. McAlister got away. Amazingly quickly. We still don’t know how. He leaves his sniper rifle, not even caring. It’s clean as a whistle. Like his entire room. No residual evidence that Bob’s team could submit for DNA testing. Can we agree that this was a professional hit?”

  “Don’t you mean attempted hit,” the vice president asked? “Intended for Congressman Lodge.”

  Roarke looked to the president for guidance. “It’s your show, Scott.”

  Thanks for nothing, he thought. “I’d like to skip that just for now, if I could.”

  “Fair enough,” Poole answered.

  “However, the FBI was able to lift a latent footprint from the wall of the hotel room and another impresison from the hotel parking lot. We suspect they are the killer’s. That same footprint shows up later in the summer thousands of miles away. This is most interesting. It’s in the woods, near where a man is found dead.”

  This earned the Vice President’s interest. He loosened his yellow print tie; always a sure signal that he was getting engaged in the content. “Who? I didn’t know that.”

  “A retired lawyer by the name of Alfred Nunes, on a fishing trip out near Sun Valley, Idaho, Mr. Vice President. A heart attack, according to the coroner. However, a further toxicology report strongly leads us to suspect he was poisoned. And this particular lawyer happens to have been a founding partner in the original law firm that represented the estate of a prominent Massachusetts family. A family named Lodge.”

  “Well imagine that,” the vice president managed. Poole, balding and always looking grim, was a former senator from Maryland and renown as sharp debater on the Hill. Little facts meant big things to him. This was one of them.

  “Now what about the law firm that eventually took over the estate?” Roarke asked. “Low and behold, one of its senior partners shows up dead this summer, too. Haywood Marcus. The press reports it as a robbery-homicide by a gang member. There are no witnesses.”

  An audible “hmmm” from the vice president. Langone and Campanis remained silent.

  “I take a personal interest in this one,” Roarke offered. “I tried to meet Marcus. I wasn’t allowed. As a result I couldn’t question him on archival files that might have been pertinent to our investigation.” Roarke neglected to say that he had actually seen some of the confidential paperwork. “If you want my personal opinion, I don’t think any subpoena could produce them now.”

  “Mr. Roarke, for the sake of argument, there are other explanations to everything,” Vice President Poole argued. “You’re even providing them. A heart attack. A robbery. Even the whereabouts of old files. Things do get misplaced. I presume you are leading up to something?”

  “Yes, I am. The good part. But to summarize, can we agree, based on what I’ve covered so far, that people connected with the Lodge family were killed in a short period of time?”

  “’Killed?’ Mr. Roarke. I don’t believe you’ve established that,” the national security advisor said joining the discussion. “You’d have us believe that on faith.”

  “Point well taken. If I substitute ‘died’?” Roarke asked.

  “Assuming this can be substantiated? ‘Died’ it is,” conceded Campanis.

  This technicality disrupted Roarke’s logical progression. He had to try another approach to make the connection.

  “Does it seem coincidental to you that Mrs. Lodge and two senior partners of two different law firms that represented the old Lodge estate died within three months of one another?”

  “I’ll grant you coincidental,” the vice president allowed. “An interesting coincidence.”

  “Then for the sake of argument, is it possible their deaths, if not all natural—could be related?”

  Campanis and Poole didn’t give any ground. Langone poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the coffee table in front of him, an indication that he was now involved, simultaneously the president put his hands together, a signal to Roarke to tie things up.

  “Gentlemen, I maintain that we have a professional assassin and he isn’t working alone.”

  “Just one moment,” Nathan Langone said. He scribbled some notes on a pad; his first since Roarke began.

  When the secretary of homeland security indicated he was ready, Roarke continued. “Now back to the hotel in Hudson. A short while into the investigation, the FBI establishes that Mrs. Lodge’s killer may have had an accomplice who helped him secure the specific room he needed to take the shot. As I’ve understood from Bob’s briefings, that same man, identified as Frank Dolan, then shows up days later and kills a commuter on a New York bound train. Another hit.”

  “Who’s that?” asked the National Security Advisor.

  “Jack, maybe you can take Arthur’s questions,” Roarke said deferring to CIA Director Jack Evans, knowing that he’d have the answer.

  Evans leaned forward in his seat and whispered, though he didn’t have to. The doors and walls to the Situation Room located in the basement of the White House were soundproof. “The victim was a former Russian spy we had taken in by the name of Steven Hoag. You can look up his obit in The New York Times. He came out of special school in Russia; one we know a good deal about. Red Banner, under the Andropov Institute. This particular agent was taught to be an American, to come here, to blend in, then wait to be activated. He was still a sleeper who was still sleeping when the Soviet Union fell.”

  Campanis sat up straight. He was quite familiar with the legendary Red Banner.

  “I believe he was killed because someone feared he either could or was going to provide us with an important bit of information.”

  “Oh?” the national security advisor commented, now vastly more interested.

  “The identity of another sleeper?” Secretary Langone concluded.

  “Maybe more than one,” was the DCI’s reply.

  “Who?” the vice president and the national security advisor asked in unison.

  Roarke took over again. “I said I was coming to the good part. But before I get to it, I have to admit that we still do not have the proof in our hands to make any of this stick. Not Bob at the FBI. Not Jack at the CIA. And we’re not at the point where the attorney general can follow up. But we think we know where we can find it.”

  “Anyone need a break?” the president asked.

  No one did. Good, Roarke thought. He didn’t want to waste a second. “Now for the audio visual part of my briefing,” he said as he placed his chart on one of two easels in front of a statue of Dwight Eisenhower. “Just take in the connections we’ve established for a moment.” He gave them time to absorb the information in black and white.

  “And I want to play a DVD with footage that you’ve all seen. The moments leading up to and including the death of Mrs. Lodge.

  “The footage was shot by a local cameraman up in the Hudson Valley named Chuck Wheaton. I met him, and in my mind he’s not a crackpoint.” He spoke about Wheaton’s credibility; his full time teaching job, his interest in law enforcement and his sincerity. “Wheaton’s studied this like it was the Zapruder film,” Roarke added. “He’s lived with it for months. Frame by frame. And while there’s some debate even in this room over Wheaton’s theory, I want you to see what the cameraman believes he discovered.”

  Roarke reached for the remote. The TV set was built into a massive bookshelf containing other monitors usually tuned to the all news channels. “I’m going to roll this and talk you through. Look closely. Eventually, I think you’ll see why were all here today.”

  Roarke ran the raw footage at normal speed, then slowed it, pointing to same clues that Chuck Wheaton had shown him. “His deliberate speech…watch his fingers…as if he’s counting. His head. Moving forward. Now! Just as the bullet is fired…. It’s as if he knew.”

  After sixteen straight minutes without comment and numerous passes at the footage, Roarke turned to his audience.

  “Anybody?” Roarke asked. “Nobody?�
�� He held up his hands inviting reaction.

  The FBI director didn’t hesitate. “You know I have a problem with this, Roarke. We can’t take this out. We’ll sound like conspiracy nuts.”

  “I agree,” Bernstein added.

  Roarke focused on Evans. The CIA director gave him a very visible endorsement with a tip of his glasses, but nothing else. Secretary Langone made another notation on his pad. The national security advisor said nothing, but Vice President Poole surprised Roarke when he quietly asked, “Would you mind playing that again?”

  While the footage ran, Mulligan joined Morgan Taylor across the room. “I’m extremely uncomfortable with this, Mr. President,” he said softly.

  “Say what you mean, Bob.”

  “For the record, it’s bullshit. I thought that when Bessolo and Roarke went up to Hudson. And I think the same thing now. You have a lot of faith in your boy here, and he’s done a great job of drawing lines on a board. But he doesn’t have diddlyshit to back it up. Not a damned thing. And quite honestly, if you pursue this course of action without proof, I have to tell you that I can’t be your man. You’ll need to find someone else. Even at this point.”

  The president put his arm on Mulligan’s shoulder and bore down. The FBI chief felt the pressure of Taylor’s fingers.

  “Bob why don’t you put a pin in that until Roarke is finished…before you say something you’ll really regret.”

  “Mister…”

  Morgan Taylor cut him off. “No, Bob,” he said raising his voice. “I don’t want to hear you’re not my man.”

  “But Mr. President.”

  “We’re not finished, Bob. Don’t you want to know what one of your own men has come up with? Thanks, in fact, to you.”

  “What are you talking about?” the FBI chief asked in amazement.

  “Scott,” the president said raising his voice, “I think we’ve seen enough. Why don’t you turn off the TV and bring out those photos of yours.”

  Roarke nodded and went to his locked attaché case. He thumbed through the tumblers until the right digits came up. Roarke took a few moments to make sure he had the proper sequence for the photographs and computer renderings. Then he placed them on another easel, beside the first.

  “The human face is remarkable,” he said seguing to his lecture on age progression photography. “It shows where we’re going and where we’ve been. We can change our expression, but we can’t hide who we are. I’m going to tell you a story about somebody who tried.”

  Roarke finished quoting Touch Parsons. “According to the FBI’s own age progression expert, Duane Parsons, this Boy Scout,” he pointed to the picture of eleven-year-old Teddy Lodge, “and this man,” the recent campaign photo, “are not the same person.”

  “One more time?” National Security Advisor Campanis requested.

  “Right to the point, then. Gentlemen, the man running for president under the name Teddy Lodge is a fake.” Roarke’s stinging declaration seemed to suck the air out of the room. Poole, and Campanis gasped. Even Jack Evans caught his breath at the power of the accusation.

  “What’s more, I believe the real Teddy Lodge died three decades ago. The same for the real Geoff Newman.”

  Roarke recapped the history of Lodge’s traffic accident, the disappearance of Newman at Heathrow, the lack of family pictures, even the death of his high school sweetheart.

  “My god!” Bernsie concluded.

  “He murdered his own wife,” Morgan Taylor said, officially validating everything that Roarke had outlined. “I’ll be damned if he’s going to step one foot into this office!”

  No one spoke for a long moment. Finally the FBI director stood, cleared his throat and faced his the president. “Morgan, I just want you to know, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Thank you, Bob. ”

  The vice president followed Robert Mulligan’s cue and rose. “I’m with you, too.”

  Next it was John Bernstein, who nervously smacked his lips and stood. “What the hell are we going to do? I mean the constitutional ramifications alone are astounding.” His mind raced. “The attorney general has to get up to speed.” Bernsie turned to the president. “Does Eve know anything yet?”

  “Almost nothing. Just that we’re still investigating and we’re making some assumptions. She doesn’t know what they are. You’re right, though, Bernsie. We will have to brief her soon.”

  The president now addressed his secretary for homeland security. “Nathan, we haven’t heard from you yet.”

  Nathan Langone stood up, looking grave.

  “Mr. President, every day I review a staggering number of reports from the department and whatever Jack and Bob have for me. As my predecessor said, ‘They’re not for the fainthearted or timid.’ So if you’re asking do I believe this?”

  “That’s the question,” Taylor stated.

  “I believe that the ways, means, and manner that individuals around the world have devised to disrupt or destroy our economy, our government, or our lives is beyond our wildest imagination. But we must recognize the possibilities when they are presented. Mr. Roarke has done that most effectively. So do I believe?” The head of homeland security put the cap on his green and gold Waterman rollerball, returned it to his jacket pocket and declared, “You’re damned straight!”

  The president gave an appreciative and satisfied nod. “Thank you, Nathan. Now what are you thinking, Arthur?” Morgan Taylor asked the only man who still had not announced his position.

  The national security advisor studied the chart once more. Arthur Campanis then slowly spoke in a monotone voice, with each phrase measured equally.

  “Mr. President, in my opinion we’re sitting on a ticking bomb. I don’t like bombs unless we’ve dropped them. Let’s find out how the hell to defuse this one…and fast.”

  Roarke smiled and took a full, massaging breath of air in. He’d done it. He went straight to Arthur Campanis and shook his hand.

  “Now that we’re on the same page,” the president interjected, “I need everyone’s thoughts on what we can do to beat Lodge before the election. We don’t go public. And absolutely no leaks. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” was the resounding response.

  “Bernsie, you need to shore up the campaign. Work with the party. Maximum exposure. Maximum effort. And fill in Joyce.”

  “Got it,” the chief of staff replied.

  “Bob, get anything that looks like evidence. Eve won’t be able to move without it.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Roarke suddenly let out an “Oh shit!”

  “Yes, Scott?” the president asked. “Something else.”

  “Forget about any DNA matchup with Lodge’s parents. I just remembered another thing. They were both buried at sea. And guess what they died of?”

  “Just tell us,” Bernsie stated.

  “Heart attacks.”

  “Two more for your chart, Scott,” Jack Evans said pointing to the easel.

  “And one more likely deadend for you Bob,” Roarke added. “Parsons recommended I try a dental match. Who wants to bet Teddy Lodge’s early records are gone, too?”

  “We’ll check anyway,” Director Mulligan said, now fully committed.

  “Okay,” continued the president. “I still want to finish the assignments. Jack, I know you’re working the field. You tell me if there are any additional resources I can give you. Ships. Planes. Satellites. Anything.”

  The CIA Chief tipped his glasses again.

  “And George, Stanley, Arthur and Bernsie, clear your schedules. We’ll spend some time together right after this meeting. I want ideas. What can we do if all our attempts fail prior to the immediate deadline.”

  “Meaning the election?” the vice president asked.

  “The election.”

  The room fell silent again.

  “Finally, thank you Scott. You’ve followed this from the beginning. You’ll be involved through the end. Whatever that is.”
/>   “Thank you, boss. But I do have one thought.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t we tickle the tiger.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the chief of staff interrupted.

  “Tickle the tiger, Bernsie,” Roarke repeated not taking his eyes off the president. “Let’s see what happens if we start playing a little a mind game with them.”

  Roarke saw Morgan Taylor’s face light up.

  “If you mean fucking with their heads? I’m already ahead of you.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  The White House

  The Oval Office

  Tuesday 28 October

  “Thank you, Louise.” The president took the call from Wendell Neill. He was not surprised. There really was no reason Lodge should have accepted his invitation. But it was the president’s opening volley, strategically designed to unnerve his opponent. The rejection finally came through Democratic Party Chairman. He was businesslike and direct, but Taylor heard something else in his voice. He recognized it instantly. Distrust.

  He hung up the phone and called in chief of staff.

  “Bernsie, go with me on this for a bit. You’re Lodge. What are you thinking?”

  “Good question. I’m confident. Damned confident. I’m way ahead and there’s nothing that can stop me. So there’s no reason to see you in private. But I’ve just turned down an invitation from the president and I didn’t even ask why he wanted to see me. That would make me a little worried.”

  “Fair assessment. I want him to worry. And he’ll see me all right. I’ll make the opportunity.”

  Washington, D.C.

  2 November

  “Wednesday’s headlines?” How are they going to read?” snapped the host in the first round of his weekly TV program. “I predict it’ll be Taylor disLodged. To you Victor Monihan—columnist for The Philadelphia Inquirer, your take?”