The head of the Secret Police read the report again, pacing the floor and swearing at his younger brother.
“He’s up to something. I know how his mind works. But what is it?”
“There are key words, sir. But it is the reference to Hafez Al-Assad that concerns me. What is a dead Syrian President’s name doing in a file of his? And Uday Hussein? Another puzzle.”
Abahar shared the worry, but it remained unspoken. For years his moles informed him that his brother had a secret meeting with Saddam Hussein’s son, Uday, before the fall of Iraq. About what? About this?
Abahar knew that the modern concept of “inherited office” originated with Hafez Al-Assad. In Egypt, President Hosni Mubarak made his younger son, Gamal, a key member in the ruling National Democratic Party. Yemini President Ali Abdullah Saleh prepared his son, Ahmed, to take his place. Saddam groomed his tyranical sons to replace him, just as Mu’ammar Qadhafi had. The same was true for Jabbar Kharazzi.
For Hafez Al-Assad it was an easy ascension. There was only one son to consider. But Jabbar had two.
One day soon, Libyans would have an election after the father/leader’s death, but it would be a one-man race with either Abahar or Fadi as the nominee. Conventional wisdom had it that Abahar would get the nod. And yet, here was a report that linked Fadi with Uday Hussein in the last years of his life, and in a roundabout way Al-Assad of Syria. He came back to the nagging thought again. Two other sons of Arab leaders. One who had aspirations; one who succeeded.
“Be patient. We will discover more,” Kitan promised, “or my man inside your brother’s office will meet the Prophet Muhammad.”
Abahar fixed a cold stare on his subordinate. “And you will be there to greet him.” There was no equivocation in Kharrazi’s voice.
Fadi Kharrazi sought an answer to a trick question. “Do you see me as the ‘trouble maker’ my father and brother do?” he demanded of Lakhdar Al-Nassar over apple tea in his office.
Kharrazi’s aide sipped his drink, stalling as he considered a safe, but proper response. But Fadi laughed before Al-Nassar formulated an answer.
“That is an unfair question, my friend,” he continued in a coldly calm voice. “Of course I am a trouble maker. And why not? I am my father’s son. I tell them what to think. I provide them with the shows they want to watch. They love the American movies I give them. Yet, to my family I am nothing more than the playboy killer.”
Fadi’s tone intensified even as he fought to control it. “And who deserves to be the next president when the General meets Allah?”
Lakhdar swallowed hard.
“He dares consider Abahar. Abahar! A joke. Even the meaning of his name is a lie. More brilliant? More magnificent? A petulant child who lives only because of the guns around him.”
Al-Nassar simply nodded. He knew Fadi’s tempetuous speeches could not be interrupted. They were applauded with loyal listening and undying agreement. The assistant laughed inside. Undying was what he spent a lot of time working on around his beloved mentor.
“No, Lakhdar, Abahar will not replace my father. Not when the Great Satan itself rises in support of the new Libya and all people of the Arab world turn to me in thanks.”
The younger Kharrazi brother was finished pontificating for now. Lakhdar suspected that Fadi had some sort of “arrangement” but he couldn’t possibly fathom the strings that Fadi manipulated beyond Libya’s Mediterranean shores. Lakhdar wasn’t smart enough to figure it out or smart enough to keep quiet about what he did know.
Barely out of Fadi’s office he gossiped with Omar Za’eem. By day’s end, Za’eem carried the vague message back to Walid.
Boston, Massachusetts
Katie Kessler arrived early at Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus, a good hour before most of her colleagues began their day. She wanted to review the Lodge files again. The other night she had given the papers only a cursory scan. Now personal curiosity drove her. She had no reason to meddle in campaign affairs. Katie still believed that’s what it was about. But as an attorney for the firm, she did have access to the privileged information. So why not see what else is there.
The Records Department was dark and quiet. She flicked the lights on and casually pulled the rolling step stoop over to the shelves containing the Lodge family papers. Katie climbed up, repeating what she had done before, laughing aloud at the image of Roarke studying her butt. Katie was lost in that idle thought as she opened the drawer. It slid a bit more easily than the last time. It soon became obvious why.
Three files were missing. The heavy ones labeled Oliver Lodge, Theodore Lodge, and Lodge Estate.
In that single instant Katie felt exposed. The files were pulled for a reason. That meant someone probably knew she had been looking into something that was none of her business.
“Getting a head start on some pressing case?” a voice asked in the doorway.
CHAPTER
20
And pray tell, what are working on, Ms. Kessler?” Haywood Marcus asked in the friendliest of terms. He then added, “The truth, Ms. Kessler. We work with the truth here.”
Katie slowly backed down the steps and smiled.
“I didn’t get back all of my work last week. I’m juggling research for a few cases.”
“All beginning with the letter ‘L?” Marcus asked.
“Only one.” She realized she could not beat such a skilled barrister in argument, so she decided to give him the truth, though stretched a little.”
“The Lodge file.”
“Oh?”
Katie climbed down and walked the eight steps to where Marcus stood. “A Secret Service man came in asking about our work on it. I’m sure you heard. He met with Witherspoon. He bumped into me and asked for directions out. Then he wanted details about the Lodges. In my estimation he was too forward.” That was the truth. Katie just combined two separate encounters. “I got concerned someone might come back, without permission. So I went for the files.” Still the truth. “I may be too late.”
Marcus read her face for the telltale signs. He had an acute ability to detect lying. Liars revealed themselves in the ways their eyes avoided direct contact; how they shifted their weight when they stood; the uncontrolled nervous twitches in their fingers. This woman exhibited none of these tendencies. Somewhat satisfied he softly said, “They’re quite safe. I can assure you.”
Without hesitation Katie answered, “Good. It’s better that they’re are out of circulation.”
“Thank you for your assessment, Ms. Kessler.” He studied her more. He had a smart lawyer here. He hoped she wasn’t a dumb one, too.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have some other cases to pull.”
She confidently walked to a cabinet and pulled the first name she recognized. Her back was turned away from the senior partner.
“Ah, one more thing, Ms. Kessler,” Marcus asked. “If you don’t mind?”
“Yes,” Katie said without facing around. She bit her lip.
“A relevant point about the file you’re reaching for.” His tone grew cold. “Without looking at it.”
Oh God! Katie slowly lowered her eyes and scanned the name on the tab. She lifted it out of the cabinet, inhaled deeply and pivoted on one foot. Her face was only inches away from Haywood Marcus.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“That file in your hand. Tell me about it.”
“May I ask why?”
“Call it a test, Ms. Kessler. A test of your skills as a lawyer.”
Katie handed the two-inch file over to coldest hands she’d ever touched. “Mr. Marcus, I believe it’s a case that you’re intimately familiar with: Mercantile Associates v. Brockton, MA. Toxic waste. We represented Mercantile. State Superior Court dismissed the plaintiff’s motion. But I’ve watched cases similar to this come back through Civil. And the plaintiffs are looking for a favorable judgement based on Super Fund legislation. If you remember the Woburn case, sir. Shall I go on?”
Marcus gl
anced at the paperwork. “Well, well. I see we have a pro-active attorney in our midst. I’m quite impressed. You passed my test. Thank you.”
“Oh no, thank you, Mr. Marcus. And if you’d like, I’ll brief you on actions we can take to prepare Mercantile. Billable hours, I’m sure,” she said with confidence.
“That would be good.”
Katie Kessler left feeling lucky. Damn lucky. She just beat the legendary Heywood Marcus in direct rebuttal thanks to nothing more than luck. She had put her fingers on a case she studied in law school.
As she rounded the hall Katie realized two things. From now on she’d have to be much more careful. And she needed to visit The Marblehead Reporter archives on her own time.
Haywood Marcus also came to a realization. He’d have the girl watched.
New York City
NYPD Midtown Precinct
The phone rang.
God, please let it be something positive, Harry Coates begged. It had been days since anything had come up. Positive or negative.
The New York City detective ran the odds at solving this murder. Slim to none. No apparent motive. So far no witnesses came forward. And worse, the gnawing feeling that somewhere people were working as hard to keep it unsolved as he was to solving it. The ballistics report determined the weapon as a Sig P229. That was not good news. A lot of police departments used P229’s. So did the Secret Service.
He picked up on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Got news for you on that number….” He felt a twinge of relief. Sarah, his computer guru, lived on the net. She could use the system or subvert it to get almost anything. “…But it’s not good.”
Then again, there were some things that even Sarah couldn’t find.
“Shit,” he said.
“But I have an opinion. Want to hear it?”
“Give me anything.”
“Okay. I started with your number. Should have been no big deal. But it was. Right away it was disconnected. I mean right away. Disconnected at the request of the customer. ‘So who’s the customer,’ I ask. Well, I go around and around with the people I know at the phone company who know people who know people and I finally get a name. Nitrogen XL LTD., which as names go doesn’t say a damned thing.”
There was the sound of Sarah taking a sip of water on the other end. Coates wrote down the company name and underlined it.
“Keep going.”
“All right. Then I went digging for anything on the company. The whole Internet, the business profiles, Wall Street, foreign corporations, dba’s, you name it.”
“And?”
“And now I give you my learned opinion. No amount of checking is going to come up with Nitrogen XL LTD. because there is no fucking business in the whole goddamned world called Nitrogen XL LTD., which leads me to believe that you got yourself a contact number for a handler.”
This is exactly what Coates was worried about.
“Looks like you dialed a phone run by the mob, the military, or the government—ours or somebody else’s. I’m presuming that only one other person was supposed to call that number, unless of course they got one of those miserable dinnertime randomly dialed solicitations. You called and they pulled the plug. That’s just my opinion, of course.”
Coates didn’t say a word. But the news fit his growing suspicions. This could be a government hit.
“You there or am I gonna have to run through this all over again?”
“I’m here. Thinking,” he offered.
“You better be. Cause I’ll tell you something else. You don’t know who they are. But they sure do know who you are…now.”
“Thanks Sarah. You’re always so reassuring.”
“No problem. Tell you what. I’ll see if I can hack my way into billing and come up with anything.”
“And that would be illegal.” Coates said for the recording that he now feared was being made somewhere.
“Yeah, you’re right.” And Sarah hung up.
Coates stood and walked to a corner window overlooking 42nd Street. The room was small, awkwardly broken up by a support beam. He leaned against it and looked through the window below. Cross-town traffic was moving pretty well for midday. People outside were enjoying the sun. Political posters dotted the street lamps. From his third floor window he could just about make out the headlines at the corner newsstand.
This is where he came to think things through. If Sarah was right, then the guy on the other end of the line was sitting at a desk occupied 24 hours a day. Which meant more than one person was at that phone. And behind that desk had to be another desk, maybe with a closed door or maybe at another location. That’s where the call would be transferred. But who sat at that desk? Someone important enough to kill the phone line after a quick call from NYPD.
Coates walked to his Captain’s office and told the secretary, “Goin’ to Stamford. I’ll call in.” He picked up his copy of The New York Times. Lodge was all over it. He realized he’d forgotten to vote.
The article was simply headlined, Being Lodge. The nearly daily reports on the Lodge campaign underscored how Michael O’Connell was emerging as his unofficial biographer. He apparently owned the left-hand column of the Times more days than not.
He lives in the haunting presence of death and disappointment, yet time after time, Teddy Lodge emerges victorious over the forces that would bring a lesser man down —not by choice, but by the face cards life constantly deals him. He is a composite Kennedy, with hardships that strengthen him and experiences that harden him. This is the man who runs for president. Or more precisely, the man who doesn’t run away from being president.
O’Connell provided readers with a sense of historical perspective, pointing out that should Lodge move into the White House in January, he’d be the first president since the 1880s to enter as a widower. In all, four presidents were widowers. Jefferson, Jackson, Van Buren and Garfield. He concluded with one simple fact:
None of the widowed presidents ever remarried while serving in office.
Stamford, Connecticut
Harry Coates had three men in Connecticut. They worked with the local police to identify commuters who could have traveled on the 8:10 with Hoag. They talked to everyone at the Stamford station on a morning commute, starting with the 5:40 to Grand Central until the 9:15 A.M. train. They did the same with everyone returning in the late afternoon.
“Were you on the 8:10 today? Yesterday? Last Tuesday? Wednesday?” The police questioned travelers every morning since the shooting. A “no” got them a name and address for the file. A “yes” merited immediate follow-up starting with a picture of Steven Hoag. “Do you know this man? Did you see him on Tuesday morning, the 24th? Did you notice anyone talk to him? Were you sitting next to him? Did you ever spend time talking to him?” And on and on.
In took Coates and the Stamford police three days to identify and interview the fifty-three passengers who boarded the 8:10 with Hoag the day he died.
The inquiry ultimately narrowed to six people standing near Hoag at the station. Three recalled seeing a stranger with him talking about the news.
The descriptions varied. “Tall with a gray suit.” “Medium build, tan pants.” “Light brown hair. No, he was blond.” “Piercing green eyes.” “Blue eyes.” “5’10.” “Definitely 6 feet.”
The contradictions got the investigators nowhere until a Stamford policewoman flagged one man; a Korean doctor named Kim who spoke an affected, precise English. Coates was the third police officer to question him.
“Yes, I remember clearly. I had not seen this man before. He brushed by me impolitely, as I remember. He seemed to know where he wanted to go.”
“And where was that?” Coates asked.
“Close to Mr. Hoag.”
“Are you certain?”
“Oh yes, quite certain.”
“Did you talk with Hoag often?”
“On occasion. He kept to himself. He was often gone for long stretches. I believe he
said his business took him to Europe and Asia. But he always seemed to relish coming home. That’s primarily what we talked about when we did talk. Travel. He had an ear for languages, French, German, Russian.”
“And his work? Did Hoag talk about that?”
“Sure. But the normal stuff. Complaining about the things everyone complains about. The commute, the noise. But really never about his work.”
“Let’s get back to the man who brushed by you. How would you describe him?” Coates continued.
“I’ve told this to the police before.”
“I understand, but I’d appreciate it. And be as detailed as you can.”
Kim closed his eyes as if to conjure up a complete picture. He began his description with his lids still shut and his hands outlining the man in question.
“Taller than me…and you. I’d say 5’11, just shy of six feet. 185 pounds. Solid. That was apparent to me. He had more of an athlete’s build than an executive’s,” he said as he opened his eyes. “Yes, that was obvious.”
Kim closed his eyes again and continued. “Blond. Blue shirt. Red tie. The jacket was blue, double breasted with gold buttons. And he wore tan pants.”
Coates wrote it down unnecessarily. His men had gotten it all before. “Oh yes, one other thing.”
“Yes?” Coates raised his eyebrow.
“He wore boots,” Kim said without any hesitation. “Boots. It didn’t fit the look. I remember thinking that. Big. Not Western, but they were boots. I’m quite clear on that.”
Coates had to ask. “What kind of physician are you, Dr. Kim? You are particularly adept at your descriptions.”
“Ah, very astute question. I’m a plastic surgeon. I have an office at 84th and 2nd. I notice things in people.”
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