Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “So? We can count on Poertner?” Lodge asked.

  “Finally,” Newman replied. “He’ll make the announcement at the photo op. But it’s going to cost a Cabinet post.”

  “Fine if he helps deliver New York.”

  The endorsement of the Governor of New York was important. The photograph they’d soon pose for would make tomorrow’s Albany Times Union along with the rest of the breaking news. Newman had staged it like everything else in the campaign. One step, then another. All of them leading right up to the White House.

  After the announcement from Governor Poertner, the schedule called for Lodge to drive the 35 miles due south to Hudson. Later in the day he’d have pre-arranged meet-and-greets in Kingston and Poughkeepsie, dinner in Newburgh with $1,000 contributors, and a late evening arrival in Manhattan.

  Teddy Lodge was used to the grind and Jenny was his perfect companion. She was nine years younger, a Vassar graduate and the very picture of a first lady. They had been married for only three years and she had kept her job as a features editor for Vanity Fair until the primaries began in earnest. Children would follow. They’d have the first babies in the White House since Jack and Jackie.

  Jenny was a statuesque brunette, 5’10”, and magnificently proportioned. She could easily carry off everything in a model’s closet with elegance and grace. She was particularly partial to Isaac Mizrahi suits and Bobbi Brown makeup, but she looked great in casual clothes, too. Some gossip columnists predictably compared her to Jackie Kennedy, in taste, manner and appearance. And like Jackie, she could stand out in a crowd or look totally at ease on her husband’s arm.

  Men loved her and women envied her. She always had the right word for everyone and with her keen editing skills, she helped Teddy craft his speeches.

  They met at a Democratic fundraiser she had been invited to attend. Whose idea was it? She tried to remember, but couldn’t. A freelance photographer she met at the magazine? A guy named Garrison or Harrison?

  “Come on Jenny, you’ll have a good time. Who knows, maybe the man of your dreams will come along,” she was told.

  Somehow she scored a free table right in front of the congressman’s. “Hello,” said Mister Right.

  She was drawn to his deep brown eyes, capped by thick eye-brows. His voice seduced her. His character overwhelmed her.

  They saw each other the next night and the next. Jenny couldn’t put her finger on it. It almost seemed preordained. But it was wonderful…and fast.

  Her friends couldn’t believe the match. Religion: Both fairly non-practicing Protestants. Compatible astrological signs: He’s a Gemini; she’s an Aquarius. Sushi lovers. Both into skiing and sailing. Similar taste in authors: Clancy and Grisham for sheer fun. Halberstam for history. Similar dislikes: Olives, SUV’s and bad grammar.

  Teddy was good with his words. But Jenny’s writing helped him put his ideas into memorable prose. About the only thing they disagreed on was when to have children. And his rumored temper, never seen in public, was always in check with her. The only hint to the pressure he felt was his restless sleep. She explained to herself that he had a great deal on his mind, including the stressful job he was applying for.

  Their friends were mostly hers. Teddy had no close buddies from childhood and no living relatives. Their social life was marked by must-attend political dinners and receptions at least three times a week. He rarely made plans with colleagues and preferred to do his exercising alone.

  He was outwardly dynamic and inwardly private. Jenny felt she was lucky to win him—a trophy husband. And yet she was acutely aware of how little she really knew him.

  When she thought about it, they shared no leisure time with anyone else. They traveled only to campaign and never for pleasure. Not Europe, not even Israel. Especially Israel, which she maintained would solidify his political future.

  “It’ll look good if we go there before the election,” she said no more than a week ago. She had recommended it before, too. “Then we can visit Egypt, Syria, Iraq, and Jordan. No one could accuse you of not knowing the names of the world leaders.” He laughed at the reference Jenny made to the way a reporter ambushed George W. Bush in the 2000 presidential campaign.

  “After the election, honey,” he always answered. “How about first I win here, then I take on the rest of the world.”

  There was something about the phrase. Appealing. She played with it. In time, she rewrote his aside as, “We can all be part of changing the world.”

  “All be part of changing the world? It has a nice ring to it. I like it,” he told her. Jenny recommended he put it to the test on the road. The first time she heard it was at an impromptu press conference in Illinois. It worked. He incorporated it into his stump speeches and it played well with the crowds. It sounded optimistic and youthful. Teddy Lodge would lead a generation forward, helping to change the world. Jenny wanted to be there with him.

  As they drove down Route 9, pockets of people came out to wish the candidate and his wife well. Teddy liked rolling down the window and waving. His campaign manager knew it meant more votes and until the Secret Service detail was assigned to him as the official Democratic candidate he’d be free of endless rules and an armed entourage.

  Newman scanned a schedule sheet and glanced at his watch.

  “How we doing, Geoff?” Lodge asked.

  “Five minutes off.” The driver flashed his headlights twice. The New York State Police car escort immediately speeded up.

  Newman punched a phone number into his Nokia. He called an advance man in Hudson.

  “Newman here,” he said jumping in as soon as he was connected. “TV?” Lodge listened and saw that Newman angrily shook his head at the answer; obviously not what he intended to hear. “Just a stringer? Shit. Then tell him he better be ready to roll. And stay in fucking focus!”

  Jenny, who had been enjoying the scenery, now glared at Newman and then her husband. She hated the way her husband’s strategist treated people.

  Lodge squeezed her hand and whispered, “He’s just trying to keep us on schedule.” He kissed her cheek, then shot a quick and angry frown at Newman.

  Newman had managed all of Lodge’s campaigns since he ran for class president in college. Now, like then, he was always in the background; working, manipulating, calculating. Jenny called it something else: Scheming. However, her husband had undying confidence in Newman and she had to live with it.

  She tried her best to smile at Newman, but nothing genuine came across.

  “Geoff. It’ll be okay,” Teddy calmly said. “Go easier on people.”

  Jenny was pleased.

  Newman relaxed his tone on the phone. “Sorry. The congressman just has an important new position speech today and we need to make the greatest impact possible.”

  There was peace in the car. And with that Lodge took five pages out of a file folder sitting on his lap and checked the order. His handwritten notes were on the side. He scanned ahead to page three, studied the words intently, then mouthed them silently to get the precise cadence. This had to play just right.

  Tripoli, Libya

  The same time

  Fadi Kharrazi’s desk calendar had three dates circled. Today was one of them. The other two were later in the year.

  This was a private calendar, representing a personal schedule; unknown to all but one other man. Fadi put a large “X” through the circle and smiled. He was assured by his associate that the other dates would come and go with equal success.

  The Western press reported little about him. In fact, there was virtually nothing to report. They had few inside sources, little real information, and hardly a notion of what made Fadi Kharrazi tick. That’s why the CIA wanted to learn more about the son of the latest Libya leader. But since the violent revolution that ousted Colonel Mu’ammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi, they hadn’t been able to effectively penetrate the inner circle of the man who succeeded him—General Jabbar Kharrazi—or the organizations of his two sons Fadi and Abahar. Howe
ver, they were getting closer.

  It should have been easier with regard to Fadi Kharrazi. He kept himself in the public eye as head of the state’s principal television channel and newspaper. But Libya’s press was no more free under the new regime than it was in Qadhafi’s day, even after tensions lessened between Libya and the West. Fadi, known for his closely cropped beard, a trademark cigar and tailored Italian suits, cultivated his public image, while keeping his real persona far from the headlines.

  His holdings were estimated in the hundreds of millions of dollars; much of it blood money.

  Rumor had it that he participated first-hand in the coup that brought his father to power. Under the influence of too much French brandy, he was said to have boasted how he personally shot five of Qadhafi’s senior lieutenants in the back. These pronouncements never made the street. The women he told this to always disappeared after he raped them.

  Fadi found other sports interesting as well. However, he often confused “the rules of the game” with one of his favorite pastimes, human target practice.

  Shortly after the revolution, he oversaw Libya’s national soccer league. He wasn’t the most popular executive in the international governing board of the FIFA, the Federation International Football Association. On one occasion at a state exhibition game he ordered his bodyguards to shoot at spectators chanting epithets about his father. Dozens were reportedly killed on the spot. FIFA considered removing Fadi from the league, but since no one filed a complaint, for obvious reaons, and the family-run press failed to corroborate the story, the matter was dropped as heresay.

  Later, when Fadi’s team lost to Iran, he dismissed the team’s manager, had Army officers cane the players on the soles of their feet and threatened them with a jail sentence if they lost again. Since this was not witnessed by FIFA officials, and only rumored by other teams, it also failed to warrant anything more than a harsh telephone rebuke.

  Two months later, Fadi’s team was defeated by Kazakhstan. This was not a good thing. It eliminated Libya from World Cup competition. The team’s fate was unclear. However, the following year, Libya fielded an entirely new team. After a good deal of debate, FIFA refused to seed them in international competition, citing vague human rights violations.

  And through it all, Fadi Kharrazi projected another image. With his inviting open eyes and a broad smile, the son of the newest gangster dictator was looked upon as a smart and dynamic media mogul. Of course, this was no surprise to anyone. He controlled everything that was reported about him.

  His newspaper published only what he or his father deemed printable. His TV station offered only a mix of propaganda, sports and movies. Viewers generally saw pirated American action movies. Saturday nights were the biggest, filled with old Jet Li, Vin Diesel and Schwarzenegger films, with the exception of True Lies, banned because of its depiction of Arab terrorists.

  By all standards of common decency, Fadi Kharrazi was an evil man. What was troubling to the spooks at Langley, and ultimately the White House, was that General Kharrazi might be seriously ill, perhaps dying, and Fadi was in the line of succession, to which he proclaimed al Hamdulillah—“Thanks be to God.”

  His only competition was his older brother, Abahar, Arabic for more brilliant, more magnificent. Abahar headed Libya’s new secret police, and according to American intelligence reports may have already been anointed as first in line to replace his father in the event of his death.

  The stage was set for a bloody family power struggle, but Fadi had acquired, through a complex transaction, a plan so secret that neither his father nor brother knew about it. This plan, foremost in his mind, was finally coming to fruition and it would assure his accession as the next strongman of Libya and eventually the entire Muslim world. It had a decades old operational designation, though he failed to recognize the legendary significance of the name. Ashab al-Kahf.

  Hudson, New York

  12:52 A.M.

  Carolyn Hill fluffed up the pillows while Roger C. Waterman examined his latest purchases. The pair of brass picture frames in his hands looked pretty beaten up. “How much do you think these will fetch in New York?”

  The hotel maid was taken by his question. She liked Mr. Waterman, found him attractive, polite and interesting; so much nicer than most of the hotel’s guests. And he was single. If he kept coming to Hudson maybe they could have dinner at Kozel’s, a three-generation old family-owned restaurant, arguably the area’s most popular establishment. But why would he ever be interested in me? she wondered. He lives in New York and he’s so successful.

  “I don’t know,” she answered.

  “Come on. Take a guess. What do you think?” he said. “Ten dollars? More?”

  Carolyn really had no idea. “Ah, $25 each? What did you pay for them?”

  “I picked them up for fifteen. The tarnishing here on the bottom can be polished out. But the patina, the overall aging quality, that’s what caught my eye. Displayed with the right pictures, I’ll get more than $200 each in New York.”

  “You think that much?”

  “Easy.”

  “No way, they’re just old picture frames.”

  “Not after I’m through with them. But maybe I won’t sell them. Maybe I’ll bring them back for you.”

  Waterman got the smile he intended. He enjoyed flirting with her. She was attractive, probably around 27 or 28 years-old and obviously single. No wedding ring. But then again, he already knew that the brown-eyed, brown-haired attendant wasn’t married, at least not anymore. He learned that vital piece of information in the hotel bar, the place where things like that can be discussed with little fear of it coming back around. The bartender told him she divorced her husband just after their son was born six years ago. “I bet she’s a screamer, that one,” the bartender said, wishing he had first had knowledge.

  True or not, Waterman did sense that Carolyn Hill hid a powerful sexuality under her hotel uniform. A sexuality that he fantasized exploring one day.

  “Now you better get going,” he said good naturedly. “Everyone’s heading out for a good spot to watch.”

  “Thanks. I’ve got some more work to do here. But my mom’s holding a place up front.” She actually wanted to stay longer and talk with Mr. Waterman. Instead, she took her cue. “I’ll see you later.?”

  “I hope so,” he threw in for good measure. No doubt she would be a delightful distraction. Maybe later tonight. But then he dismissed thought. He couldn’t. Not this trip.

  “But aren’t you coming out?” she asked. “To see the congressman?”

  “No. Not really into politics.”

  “We don’t see many people like him in Hudson. Think he can win?”

  “Who knows. Enjoy the show, though. Now, bye. I have to take a shower and get some work done. Go. Shoo,” he joked to move her along. It was time for her to leave and time for Waterman to get to the things on his agenda, too.

  Today Carolyn was running a little bit late. Of course, he knew that. She was finished with his floor now. After the speech she’d return to do the third. Waterman knew that, too, just as he knew everything about her schedule. Two hours on the 2nd floor followed by a one hour break. One-and-a-half on the 3rd floor. Then another round after lunch for all of the rooms that had a late check out, starting on three and wrapping up on two. He had taken everything into consideration when making all the plans.

  Police Lt. Joseph Brenner stepped out of his Camaro cruiser and saw the man he needed. He had double-parked next to a makeshift parade float prepared by the Democratic volunteers from the area. In a few minutes the candidate would be arriving and he wanted to make sure everything was ready.

  “Morning, Mitch,” Brenner said, brushing his thinning hair back with his fingers. Mitch Price was the only man in a blue blazer and white pants. He looked like he belonged on a yacht. And for the next hour, he was the skipper. Price was in charge of organizing the placement and spacing of everyone in the parade. He was also owner of Mitch Motors and Vic
e Chairman of the Columbia County Democratic Party. His jobs overlapped nicely. Price was in the people business.

  “Morning, lieutenant.”

  “Everything on schedule?”

  “Like clockwork,” Price acknowledged.

  “No problems with anyone,” Brenner stated more than asked.

  Price had a clip board in his hand, but he didn’t have to look at it. “I’ve got the Boy Scouts lined up at the Morrison’s Hardware, the VFW up at there at the First Baptist, the kids in the bands down at Promenade Hill. The official cars are already lined up in front of the train station. And the trucks from Rogers and Hostradt come down in ten minutes. Oh, and the Greenport ambulance is on Second and Warren. Now that you’re here, we have a lead-off car.”

  Mitch Price had been in charge of Hudson parades for years. He supervised every detail. The signal to assemble would be three bursts from Brenner’s siren. It was always the same.

  “We’re just fine here, Joe,” Price added. “All we need now is the congressman and we’ll get rolling.”

  “He’s about twenty minutes out,” the policeman volunteered. “He’s got a trooper leading him. Probably needs to hit the head at Washington Hose.” That was the nearest downtown fine station. “Then we’ll push off. All in all, looks like one, one-fifteen at the latest.”

  Price tapped his watch. It was five minutes later than he wanted, but since he couldn’t control Lodge’s schedule, there was nothing he could do.

  Brenner heard a crackle on over his police band radio and excused himself. He was getting an update, which confirmed the time he just posted with Price.

  Over the next few minutes, Price pulled everyone together. The drummers pounded their street beats. The firetrucks rolled into place. Suddenly, a siren cut through the air, followed by cheers. A “gumball” rotated on the New York State trooper’s squad car coming down Warren. He pulled a U-turn at the foot of Warren and First Street. A white Lincoln Towncar behind it did the same.