Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  Roarke didn’t need to look at the board. “McAlister,” he said solemnly.

  “Draw your next line, Mr. Roarke. McAlister to Nunes.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Roarke said. “Connect McAlister to Haywood Marcus.”

  “Why?”

  “Marcus’ killer is our very busy and talented assassin.”

  Roarke then put a line through the names of everyone now dead: Jenny Lodge, Alfred Nunes, Haywood Marcus and Steven Hoag.

  “So what’s the connection with this Hoag guy?” Davis pondered.

  “I can’t say. But considering that McAlister and Dolan are related, why don’t we add lines between the two men at the hotel and carry it over to the late Mr. Steven Hoag.”

  Roarke finished and stood back to examine their handiwork. Grease boards helped him see the big picture. This was as big as they get.

  “Four deaths, two trigger men,” Roarke noted.

  “Seems that way. Considering the footprints in Hudson and Idaho. And Dolan also showing up in two places.”

  Roarke examined the board for a long minute. “You know, this requires an incredible amount of planning. Tons of coordination and money. An assassination attempt in Hudson, a successful hit a few days later in Connecticut. Then Nunes’ poisoning out West and Marcus’ death in Boston. What’s intentional and what’s the cover up?”

  “And who’s behind it all?” Davis asked.

  “A very good question. I’d say it isn’t McAlister or Dolan. Someone else. Somewhere.”

  “Someone wanted Teddy Lodge out of the picture, But he also decided to have two people killed who handled his parent’s estate. Why? And instead of eliminating him from the election, his action has the opposite effect.”

  Opposite effect?

  The words hung in the air.

  Did they have the opposite effect?

  Davis kept talking, but Roarke’s mind was elsewhere—on Touch Parson’s photo locked in his desk.

  Quantico, Virginia

  FBI Labs

  “Thanks for the e-mail. I’ll give you an ‘A’ for effort a ‘B’ for results. Good shot of the father. Okay one of the screaming kid. And the yearbook shot’s passable.” Touch Parsons said.

  The computer expert typed in some keystrokes and his work came up.

  Roarke was more than curious. “And…”

  “I got the refinement I needed. You can throw that old rendering out. This is it. And sometime I’d love to compare it against an actual contemporary shot of the guy and see how accurate I am. Feeds the ego. Do you have one?”

  “Oh, plenty,” Roarke affirmed, surprising the FBI computer expert.

  “Well then, I look forward to seeing it. But presto change-o, here goes.” Touch pressed the commands and the age progression began.

  Five minutes later, Roarke had a hard copy in his hand.

  “Not bad. Huh?” Touch boasted.

  Roarke nodded. As he examined the computer rendering, he figured that Parsons was either the very best in the world at this or one of the worst.

  The picture was different from the first. Based on what he extrapolated from his family traits, the hair receded more gradually. The nose was now narrower, while the chin spread and the cheeks rose higher.

  “The picture of the father gave me a whole new way to look at the way his face would widen in his late forties. Still, if I had his mother, I could do more. But even the high school photo helped out a bit.”

  “And you feel pretty damned good about this?” Roarke asked.

  “I’d run it in the newspaper like it was taken yesterday.”

  Roarke could pull any number of pictures from yesterday’s news coverage of Congressman Lodge and not one of them would resemble this man.

  All he said in addition to “thanks” was, “I’ll be back.”

  Outside on his cell phone, Roarke went right to the point. “Meet me back at my office. I have a new photo for you.”

  “Good,” Davis said. “Because I have something else for your third column.”

  George H.W. Bush Center for Central Intelligence

  Langley, Virginia

  Jack Evans closed the Tripoli report. The CIA analysts had satellite images of Fadi’s building and D’Angelo’s assessment of the objective. Now the job would go to mission strategists. How to get in, where to go once inside. How to extract the files in Fadi Kharrazi’s office, and most importantly how to get out. Evans couldn’t predict whether such an operation would ever go active, but an operational plan had to be developed, even rehearsed.

  Tripoli, Libya

  “A week and no message back from Ibrahim. Who does he think he is?”

  Omar Za’eem was used to the tirades through the flimsy wall. Fadi shouted all the time even when he didn’t have anyone to yell at. His voice carried through Lakhdar al-Nassar’s office and out to where Omar sat.

  “Lakhdar!” he yelled. “Lakdar, get in here!”

  “Yes sir.” The aide rushed into Fadi’s office. He knew the consequences if he dawdled. There was always another assistant in line to move up. Advancement usually came at a high price so al-Nassar prayed daily that his position wouldn’t suddenly become available to his own lackey Za’eem.

  “I’m here,” he said. “What can I do?”

  “This man Morales. I know nothing more now than I did a week ago.” He started calmly, but his voice rose quickly.

  Al-Nassar thought better of answering.

  “I have incompetents everywhere!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Everything’s going to change soon. Everything. Now get me a tea.”

  Lakhdar left and shook his head as he walked up to his assistant. “You heard him!” he shouted to Omar. “Get the man some tea.”

  Omar did as he was told and recited the words over and over that he had just heard. Ibrahim and Morales. Abahar would need to hear them, too.

  College Park, Maryland

  Vigran left a message on an answering service. He used a pay phone at a Denny’s outside the District.

  “Morales and Gianinni clean. Credits in books. Recent entry 15 August. State Department inquiry on trip to Tripoli through London.”

  When he was finished, he wiped the phone clean of fingerprints and hoped he’d never get another request.

  US Air Base

  Al-Odaydia, Qatar

  Thursday 28 August

  President Morgan Taylor was doing what he did best—talking people off the ledge, calmly, clearly, and authoritatively. His hours in the cockpit under extreme pressure gave him the nerves of steel few opponents could match.

  If he was dangerous at 35,000 feet and at 1190 mph, he was positively lethal across the table. His eyes never swayed. They locked on his subjects the way his missiles found their targets.

  Secretary of State Joyce Drysdale, herself presidential timber, met with the prime ministers of India and Pakistan individually. India’s prime minister, Dr. Rajesh Khosla, and Pakistan’s Zulfigar Sajjad got both an earful of warnings and a list of concessions. In the end, it was the promise of economic aid not U.S. concerns over their weapons of mass destruction, that brought them to the negotiating table with the President of the United States.

  Too much depended on these deliberations. Taylor remembered how close Clinton had come to forging a peace between the Israelis and the Palestinians, only to see it end bitterly. This was not going to happen now. Taylor layed out his offers to each of them with little poker play. The deal was this: An immediate military standdown in the region. Agreement by each nation to notify the United States 48 hours prior to any future missile tests within 500 miles of the border. Resumption of air routes between the two countries. In return, the US would guarantee aid in cash, services and goods; additional funding for anti-terrorism efforts; and perhaps most important to the economy of both countries, US financial help through the restoration and full development of free trade zones.

  After four long days, which began with obstinate posturing, Morgan Ta
ylor had his peace. On the morning of the fifth day, the President woke early. At 0445 he stepped in front of a single camera in the base’s briefing room. There was a podium in front and an American flag draped behind as a simple backdrop. Outside, a portable satellite uplink beamed the video half way around the world. Morgan Taylor wore a dark blue three-piece suit with a plain white shirt and a dynamic red tie. The American colors on the American President. He’d gotten little rest since he left Washington nearly a week ago, but his weariness was not apparent to the camera now.

  It was eight hours earlier on the East Coast of the United States, 8:45 P.M. the previous night.

  “Ready, Mr. President?” asked the network producer who had flown the distance.

  “Let’s do it.”

  The producer talked to the pool feed master control operator in New York and got the go. “Okay sir, coming to you. In ten, nine, eight…”

  The President took his cue and began to address the Republican National Convention.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, please excuse me for not being there in person. My day job took me out of town.”

  Teddy Lodge hated any time Taylor used the presidency. This was one of them.

  He watched the broadcast from Qatar and recognized that if Taylor had good news he’d get some political currency from what he’d accomplished. However, he also believed the benefits to his campaign would be temporary. The country had already begun its psychological shift away from the president. In less than three months, the voters would affirm it.

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Everyone in the convention hall watched Morgan Taylor on the huge plasma screen. It had been agreed that there would be no applause or cheering, spontaneous or planned until the president concluded his remarks. So unlike the hoopla surrounding Congressman Lodge’s speech, Morgan Taylor’s was subdued and serious; an address from a statesman rather than a speech from a politician.

  The result was quite mesmerizing and unlike any convention appearance on record.

  “The possibility of war is much too real,” the president continued. “Guns are aimed. Their safeties off. Missiles have their targets. The American political system will continue. But what of the lives of the people in these two countries? More than a billion in India alone. Another 160 million in Pakistan. That’s why I’m here,” the president explained. “That’s why I am not with you to say thank you in person for honoring me with your nomination. But we live in perilous times where situations dictate how we must act.”

  “Today’s winds of war carry more than hatred. They carry radiation far beyond the field of battle. They carry death to innocent people who can’t draw the borders that are in dispute, who can’t pronounce the names of the cities that will be destroyed, and who can’t ask, ‘Why have you done this to me?’”

  The president grew even more serious. “There is nothing, mark my words, nothing more important that securing peace. There is no greater goal for a President or a citizen. And so, I am a world away because a majority of Americans put their trust in me four years ago. But I am here as your President for all Americans.”

  “At this time, I can report to you that we have achieved the peace I sought. India’s Prime Minister, Dr. Rajesh Khosla, and Mr. Zulfigar Sajjad, Prime Minister of Pakistan and I have been talking candidly with one another. That is as it should be. Responsible leaders with their coats off, their sleeves rolled up, and their hands open in greeting. True, they are for from being close friends, but today they are not mortal enemies. We have peace.”

  The applause from the delegates began despite the ground rules. But the president, not hearing the return feed, pressed on.

  “So please accept my apologies for my absence. I appreciate your confidence and, yes, I proudly accept your nomination.”

  And that’s when the cheering for Morgan Taylor erupted and Teddy Lodge threw his glass, smashing it on the TV screen.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Washington, D.C.

  Tuesday 2 September

  Predictably, the Qatar speech, announcing a fragile peace accord gave the president a needed boost. By Labor Day, it looked like a good old horse race again.

  The first debate was scheduled to be held in three weeks. Political analysts now believed the election would rest on the how the candidates faired in their head to head confrontations.

  In the meantime, while Morgan Taylor got down to the actual business of running for re-election, Roarke felt his own investigation slow down.

  “Come on, Shannon. Give me some news,” he pleaded over a drink at one of the Capitol’s famed watering halls, the formally informal Tabard Inn.

  “Stone cold, buddy,” Davis said looking at his own reflection in the mirror lining the wall.

  “What are we missing?” Roarke asked just below ear level of Sean O’Reilly, the bartender.

  Roarke reached into his pocket for a piece of paper. Finding none, he grabbed a napkin from the bar and started writing.

  “What are you doing?” Shannon asked. He held up two fingers for O’Reilly and mouthed, “Two more Coors.” He figured they’d be there for awhile. “And a couple of burgers, too,” he yelled out.

  “So what are you doing?”

  “Taking another look at our chart.”

  Roarke jotted just initials representing all the names. Then he added the lines replicating the connections made on the grease board in his office.

  “I’m still stuck on Hoag,” he said.

  He circled the abbreviations for Nunes, Marcus, Hoag. “These people knew something.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Davis laughed. “A bungled job to get Lodge out of the running. And then the need to cover up. Hoag was connected, somewhere. But what did Nunes know that we should know? I say we go in with a subpoena and find out.”

  “By now nothing will be there.”

  “What do you mean?” Davis asked.

  The drinks arrived and Roarke held off from answering. Davis thanked O’Reilly, then rephrased his question. “How do you know?”

  “I saw them and now they’re gone.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t break in anywhere.”

  “‘And that your honor, is my client’s case for the defense.’ So long!” Shannon held up his glass in a toast. “See you in twenty.”

  “Hey, asshole, they were sort of open on a desk in front of me.”

  “Sort of…”

  “Look, I went in inquiring. Nicely. Through a friend.”

  “Then we can get a subpoena.”

  “Too late. My friend says they’re gone. I gotta believe Marcus fed them all to the shredder.”

  “So we’re back to suppositions.”

  “Right, which don’t mean a flying fuck,” Roarke concluded.

  The two men ate their hamburgers, settled up the bill and walked in the fall air toward the Metro station.

  “So who wants Lodge dead?” Davis asked returning to the point.

  “And why?” Roarke asked softly.

  “Well, if we’re trying to come up with names, I’d say your boss,” Shannon blurted out. They stopped. Taylor would have had an easier run at the office against anyone but Lodge. A president certainly had the means. And this president had killed before.

  “Not that I think he did,” Davis added quickly looking over his shoulder. No one heard him.

  “There’s one basic problem with that notion.” Roarke began to laugh. “If he loses in November it’d probably be the happiest day of his life!”

  The two men continued to walk toward the subway. After a run of more jokes at the expense of Morgan Taylor, Davis turned more serious.

  “So one more time, just for me. Who wants Teddy Lodge dead? And why?”

  Once again Roarke asked, “Why?”

  Miami, Florida

  Ibrahim Haddad programmed his computer so encoded messages were immediately expunged. He had another rule: No notes. Nothing that led to him on paper. Ever. And the phone
call from Tripoli. Incredibly stupid. While he had no doubt that the NSA super computers were completely capable of matching the voice of his caller with a recording of the General Kharrazi’s son, the chance of it being checked was slim to none.

  So Ibrahim Haddad believed things were good. With the exception of Marcus, he hadn’t had any direct personal contact with anyone involved in the operation for decades. The last time he could remember doing anything himself was when he wished a well-trained young man goodbye at Heathrow.

  Haddad’s only real worry was with the damned fickle American voters. They never seemed to stay with one man.

  The White House

  Thursday 4 September

  “Boss, you’re pretty good at spotting targets from high up. I need some help here.”

  Roarke had gotten on the president’s schedule with a simple call to Louise Swingle. He hardly ever thought about the immediate access he had to Morgan Taylor. Today he did, and he used it, almost afraid where the conversation would go.

  “Depends on the terrain. Have I been over it before?”

  “You’ll have to tell me,” Roarke said seriously. “And I need you to be truthful.”

  The use of the word “truthful” caught the president off guard. He didn’t say anything, but his mood definitely changed. He put his coffee down and watched intently as Roarke removed a legal pad of paper, a folded poster board and a small wooden easel from a black leather shoulder bag. Roarke unfolded the cardboard and set it up on the stand.

  “Have a seat,” he told the president. “This is going to take a little bit of time.”

  Taylor scanned the card, a flow chart with familiar names, but lines drawn between them, creating relationships and the basis for Roarke’s explanation.