Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  After the introductions and pleasantries, Sullivan invited Roarke to sit down.

  “Teddy was a great student. I remember him well. He was torn about going to Harvard Essex and he asked me what I thought. I wasn’t his advisor, but he loved English and he was always in after class to discuss the latest books he’d read. He was a big Cheever and Updike fan. I think he even wrote Cheever once and got an answer back. And Teddy had talent, too. He could have been a brilliant writer. But he let a lot of things drop after his parents died. Who knows, maybe he still will. Presidents always write their autobiographies. And Carter wrote a novel.”

  “I see you have him elected already.”

  “Did you see his speech today?”

  “No, did he say he was still running?” Roarke asked.

  “No, which means yes.”

  “So you still follow him.”

  “Well, a bit.” Sullivan showed some disappointment in his voice.

  “Did you keep in touch after Teddy went to boarding school?”

  “For awhile. A few letters. But after the accident I never heard from him again. Not a letter. Not a visit. Never.”

  Roarke understood why his disposition changed.

  “Why not, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Pat. Please, it’s Pat. I was only Mr. Sullivan to my students. Actually ‘Sully.’ You know I retired nine years back?”

  Roarke nodded. “And it looks like you’ve been keeping busy?”

  “Oh?”

  “Traveling. You have quite a collection of tribal masks—from the Amazon and South Africa.”

  “Very good, Mr. Roarke.”

  “Scott.”

  “Scott it is. You’ve traveled some yourself?”

  “A bit.” Roarke stopped short of saying anymore.

  “You asked ‘why not.’ I can only assume that there was too much pain connected with coming home. He was at school in Amesbury, Harvard Essex Academy, when he had his accident and then his mother died. I’m sure he felt responsible for her heart attack. But I don’t know. I’m an English lit teacher, ask a psychologist.”

  “And you’ve never talked to him since?”

  “Oh, I tried when he got elected to Congress. I sent a letter congratulating him and even proposing that I come to Washington to visit. I didn’t hear for awhile. Then I called down. They never put me through. But eventually I did get a reply. Very matter of fact, explaining that the congressman was happy to learn that I was well. Blah, blah, blah. But nothing about my interest in seeing him. And no interest on his part to see me. Now, I can read between the lines pretty well. I am an English teacher, after all. And that letter, written by an aide, was a kiss off.

  “I’m sorry,” Roarke offered.

  “I guess people change.” He tried to conceal his disappointment. “Of course, I still voted for him in the Massachusetts primary and will again in November if he makes it. Especially now.”

  Roarke was about to leave not knowing much more than before he came. At the door, just before the good byes, Sullivan added an aside.

  “Funny thing is, no one I know has heard from Teddy since he left the area for good. Isn’t that a little odd for someone running for president?”

  Roarke had no idea if Lodge would still run, but he had to agree, it was odd.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Hudson, New York

  4:45 P.M.

  Because of the need to question everyone at the hotel, the St. Charles forgave the normal check out times. Roger C. Waterman finally turned in his room key late in the afternoon. He had been extremely cooperative, but he had nothing to offer Bessolo, who wished him well as he setlled up his bill.

  Carolyn Hill also caught him at the door. “You’ll be back soon?” she asked hopefully.

  “Might not be until well after the 4th…” There was that thought again. He could almost taste her. She looked that good to him. As Waterman? he wondered Hell, maybe he’d sweep her off her feet as someone else.

  “…or a few weeks after that,” he continued. “Besides, this place will be a little busy for awhile. I think it’s going to be hard to get a room at the St. Charles considering all of the reporters and police around.”

  Waterman was right about that. The St. Charles was sold out for the next three weeks. Television microwave trucks encircled the Park. Everybody in town would be on camera before they left. But not Roger C. Waterman. It was time for him to disappear; which he did very, very well.

  Marblehead, Massachusetts

  5:10 P.M.

  Michael O’Connell asked pretty much the same questions that Roarke had. He talked to Clara Fraser, and then to Pat Sullivan, and learned about a government guy who’d visited earlier.

  On a whim he decided to drive to the site of the old Lodge home. It was up closer to the Salem line, a few minutes from town.

  Teddy Lodge sold the property years ago. The structure had since been torn down; the land subdivided for a 24-unit condominium complex surrounded by a parking lot. The original trees on the estate were gone and the backyard, which had formerly abutted a forest, now bordered a shopping mall.

  Across the street was an old Tudor style home, probably a good 150 years old. Maybe someone there would remember the family.

  O’Connell waited for traffic to pass, then he ran across the road to see if anyone was home.

  A middle-aged woman answered the door. Yes, she had lived there when the Lodge’s were neighbors. Yes, she knew young Teddy. Yes, she saw the house come down. All of this would go into the next story he filed.

  “Oh, one more thing, Mr. O’Connell,” she said at the door. “My daughter Deborah used to be his girlfriend.”

  “You’re Mrs. Strathmore?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I come in?” he politely asked. “I’d like to find out how I can reach her.”

  The 76-year-old widow lowered her head, then bravely looked at the reporter. “That’s not going to be possible. She died three years ago.”

  “Like I told that New York Times writer, it happened six years ago. A hit and run,” she repeated to Scott Roarke an hour later. “They never found the driver.”

  Roarke learned that O’Connell was also on the trail. He had to assume O’Connell knew about him.

  “Where did this happen, Mrs. Strathmore?”

  “Cambridge. Debbie was teaching at Boston Latin. Six months before her wedding. We’d just sent out the invitations. They never found him. I told you that, didn’t I? He’s still out there. It makes me sick.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he reached over to console her. She was obviously having a hard time telling the story again.

  “Do you mind if I ask whether your daughter had invited Congressman Lodge?

  “Yes, she did. They hadn’t seen one another since high school. When he moved away they wrote one another constantly. Then he broke everything off.”

  “After his car accident?” he speculated.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Roarke ignored the question. He looked around the woman’s house. It was feeling empty. Her husband had died of cancer; her daughter was gone. There were only fading memories where there should be pictures of grandchildren. The notion triggered a question.

  “And he was coming to the wedding?”

  “No. I remember he checked that he couldn’t. But there was no note with it, which was terribly disappointing to Debbie. She never said anything, But I knew she thought it.”

  “Maybe you have some things I can look through.”

  Mrs. Strathmore began rubbing her hands. She must have arthritis.

  “Like what?”

  “Letters or pictures of your daughter and Teddy?”

  Now she began scrunching her fingers in her palms, as if to fight off cramping. Poor woman.

  “Oh, there might be something. I don’t know. I can’t think of anything in particular. If there were they’d be in boxes in the basement. It’s been years. And I lost a lot when the pipes broke.”
<
br />   She realized that Roarke was looking at her hands. “Besides, it’s hard for me to go through things,” she said uncomfortably.

  “I understand.”

  Roarke knew he wouldn’t find anything here. It was just another heartbreaking sidebar to Lodge’s early life.

  By the time Roarke put his feet up on the bed and switched on the TV he’d had it. Between traveling, driving, and interviewing people he was exhausted. He opted for room service and TV at the Marriott in Peabody, about six miles from Marblehead.

  “Dateline” was just beginning. Of course, their lead story was on the death of Jennifer Lodge, though there was nothing new to report. FBI Director Robert Mulligan would not comment on the investigation. The witnesses all told slightly different versions of the same thing.

  The report contained an interview with a few Hudson police officers. Brenner and another that Roarke didn’t get because his lobster roll and New England clam chowder were at the door. By the time Roarke settled up his check and tipped the bellman, “Dateline” was into its analysis of Teddy Lodge’s now historic Hudson speech. He heard snippets before, but found himself completely caught up in it now.

  “We strike partnerships by sharing food and building up economies. We give. We get. We educate the world’s uneducated, we make them intellectually stronger against dictators who would take advantage of their lack of knowledge. We give and we get.”

  Roarke could see why Lodge exerted such power over voters. He came across as a polished and effective communicator, making every word and gesture count. Nothing was out of place.

  “Yes, we give and we get,” the crowd chimed in. “We Give and We Get.” “We Give and We Get!”

  Over and over. It was infectious and hypnotizing because Roarke, like everyone watching, knew what they’d see next.

  “It’s time for a family of nations in a world apart. Time for a family that will last into all of our tomorrows…a family for you…and…”

  Roarke held his breath on the pause. “And…a family for me.”

  He saw Congressman Lodge tilt his head forward for barely a blink of an eye. He wiped a tear with his left hand. Behind him, his wife suddenly straightened up as if in shock. Then she fell backwards.

  No more than a half-second elapsed between the congressman’s last words and his wife’s death.

  Roarke allowed himself the cruelest of thoughts. If only he hadn’t bent forward.

  Burlington, Vermont

  Monday evening

  Teddy Lodge had flown into Burlington via a commuter out of LaGuardia. He sat alone on the plane. If anyone had come close to him, he knew that Newman would run interference. Newman also took care of all the arrangements for Jennifer Lodge’s funeral.

  No one questioned his withdrawal from the scheduled 8 o’clock debate with the Governor of Montana. Seasoned columnists and commentators predicted he’d be back in the running in four years. Virtually every AM radio talk show was filled with public opinion to the contrary. “Teddy should stay in it.”

  A Secret Service driver met them at the baggage claim. After loading up the car, Lodge went straight to his deadly silent house where he poured himself a glass of Fonseco 20-year Port. He lit a fire in the rustic fireplace of his library and fell asleep in front of the flames. Tomorrow New York would vote and he would say goodbye to Jennifer.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Tripoli, Libya

  Tuesday 24 June

  The unseasonable heat rose off the city’s pot hole-strewn cement streets choking the energy out of the people. Without any breeze to circulate the air today, Tripoli swam in summertime perspiration and the stench of rotting garbage. But according to the weather forecasts on General Jabbar Kharrazi’s controlled broadcasts, it was another glorious day in the nation’s capital.

  This was news in the hands of a skilled propagandist. He could control the temperature that was reported to people. It didn’t matter that their own thermometers read 38.8° C or 102° F. If General Kharrazi, the latest self-proclaimed “Brother Leader” said it was the normally comfortable 84° F, then it was comfortable.

  But weather wasn’t on the mind of another Kharrazi just now. The General’s son Fadi slammed his fist on his desk. He had summoned the editor of his newspaper, Al-Fatah, to his offices on the 8th floor of his downtown media headquarters. The man in front of him knew why he was there and was praying he would live to see another day. He might not. He’d made the error of printing an unflattering photograph showing Fadi frowning.

  “Tell me what you were thinking, you imbecile! I should have my father remove you from the face of the earth,” Fadi shouted.

  The photograph showed him with a group of Tripoli businessmen. Unfortunately, it caught Fadi in an awkward, unfriendly pose.

  “I’m sorry, sir. There were no others that were better.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have run it!”

  “But my photographer said you absolutely insisted that we print a photograph from the luncheon.”

  “Not if it’s a shitty photograph!”

  “But your instructions…”

  “If it is no good, you make it better. You have a graphics station; you should have used it. Can’t you think? This makes me look angry. Like I’m plotting to kill them.” Fadi didn’t say what he really felt. “They have to see me as friendly and compassionate. Do you understand that?” he screamed.

  “Yes sir.”

  Fadi stood and walked around the trembling man. He stopped directly behind him and said in a lowered voice, “Kalim, I’m told your children count on the reliability of your salary and your Mercedes for trips. Your wife loves her dresses. And your mistress,” he added laughing, “ah, yes, I’m right aren’t I?” The man nodded. “Your mistress loves the jewelry you give her. Yes?”

  The editor breathed deeply. “Yes.”

  Fadi came around the front of his desk and stood no more than two inches from the editor. “Then I implore you, my friend, to edit my newspaper better.” Then he added, “To your dying day.”

  Lakhdar al-Nassar, one of Fadi’s personal aides, overheard the tirade while filing some papers his boss had left out. He kept his eyes down while Fadi escorted the man out, for al-Nassar, age 35, desperately hoped to make it to 36. He considered himself an obedient servant, but one who knew his place. Meanwhile, Fadi also saw him as one of his “clean up men.” For five years he had pushed around papers during the day and people at night. He exercised power on a trickle down basis. Just as Fadi could make life difficult for others, so could al-Nassar.

  Of course Fadi knew al-Nassar was listening. He loved holding court as he practiced the fine art of fire and ice, learned at the foot of his father. If torture administered by a white-hot iron brought unbearable pain, the threat of prolonged cold on the festering blister usually resulted in complete submission. It was important, the General instructed his two boys, to demonstrate how to demand loyalty. “Always have an audience when you inflict pain, when you threaten infliction, or even when you reward your victim. Otherwise it’s wasted. Your subject may never live to tell the story of his torture, but the witnesses will. And they will fear you and hold onto their precious power in a similar manner. Foremost in their minds will be their loyalty to you.”

  Fadi dismissed the editor and peered over at al-Nassar. His aide gave him an approving smile.

  “Well, Lakhdar, what do you think he will do now?”

  “Surely he will make examples of his own assistants for allowing the photograph to even reach his desk,” Al-Nassar offered.

  “As well he should, my trusted friend,” he said, emphasizing the one word he wanted al-Nassar to retain. The aide got the meaning. “I wonder if we’ll see the name of any of his principal staff in the obituaries tomorrow,” bellowed Fadi.

  Al-Nassar nodded but nothing more. Fadi did not invite laughter from his staff just as his ailing father had taught him. However, Fadi laughed himself, then got back to more personal business. He dialed a phone numb
er and spoke softly. Al-Nassar gathered it was one of his boss’ many women. He continued to pull the files together, but stopped when he caught Fadi’s insistent finger snapping. Looking over he saw that Fadi was shoeing him out with the wave of his hands.

  The aide held up the stack of files and motioned to the cabinets and his incomplete work as if to ask, “What about these?” Fadi had an almost incomprehensible desire to archive any newspaper clip in the Arab or Western press that mentioned him or showed a picture. Lakhdar’s principal duty was to supervise the work and make sure that everything was properly clipped and filed. But Fadi shot an insistent scowl back at him that really meant in no uncertain terms, “Out now and close the door!”

  He left with everything in his hands as Fadi swiveled in his $3,500 Eames chair and whispered something incredibly filthy to the woman on the other end.

  Al-Nassar returned to his desk in the outer office. It had been hours since he peed, even longer since he had a Winston. He stopped long enough to put down his unfinished bundle of work and make for the door.

  Omar Za’eem, another glorified paper pusher, rounded the doorway from the hall, nearly bumping into his superior.

  “Sorry, sir.” Za’eem offered.

  “Don’t be in so much of a rush you fool. Slow down.”

  “Sorry,” he offered again. “It’s just that I have contracts for Mr. Kharrazi. The RTL Television programs he wanted to buy. You know. But of course,” he said for the sake of job security, “you need to see them first.”

  “Not now you idiot,” Nassar proclaimed, establishing his position in the food chain. “He’s busy. Anyway, I need a smoke. Leave it on my desk. I’ll get to it”