Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “Get up. We’re home.”

  They’d landed on top of the FBI building.

  CHAPTER

  41

  Tuesday 14 October

  It was already 0230 when the FBI car dropped him off at his two-bedroom Georgetown apartment. Roarke lived at 2500 Q Street NW, in a brick building on a block of brick buildings next to the Dumbarton Bridge. It gave him a Georgetown address, which wasn’t really important, but the convenience of living next to Dupont Circle. There was a playful message from Katie on his answering machine. It was much too late to call back, although he wanted to. So instead he opted for a shot of his favorite Macallan, the 12-year-old. After just one sip, he poured the scotch back into the bottle Not tonight. I have to stay alert.

  Four hours later Roarke was on the Mall, running in dark blue shorts and a matching T-shirt. He had let his exercise regimen lax and he needed to be in shape. The time also allowed him to think.

  Nothing that he felt, nothing that he heard, and nothing that he had seen would stand any true test. That’s why Bessolo so easily dismissed the video. But Roarke wanted to believe it. He was looking for something to give credence to his gnawing suspicions that originally brought him to Touch Parsons.

  On his sixth mile, just as the morning traffic was beginning to slow down along Constitution Avenue, he jogged passed a bus stop with a vertical poster of a father and a 12 or 13-years old son standing beside a new Mustang. The two were eyeing the car; the father seeing his youth reflected in the windshield, the son visualizing himself older and on his way to a hot date. Beneath the picture was the advertising line, Mustang. See yourself in it.

  Roarke double-backed. The father and the son. He looked at each of them. The resemblance was striking. The picture of the father as he remembered himself younger and the boy as the saw himself older were so much the same, yet different. Older and young, but the same man.

  A smile spread over Roarke’s face. He cut across the grass; sprinting the remaining mile home.

  “Mr. President, a new communication from Sandman.”

  The president was onboard Air Force One, talking on a secure com line to the DCI. Following the debate he extended his stay and brought his campaign to three cities.

  “Substance, Jack?”

  “Keeping things in the simplest of terms, sir, his friends are paying undue interest in a certain political contest of note. I’ll meet you at Andrews when you land. We’ll talk.”

  Sixty-one minutes later, the most sophisticated 747 in the world touched down and came to a roaring stop. The ground crew at Andrews Air Force Base drove the stairway up the to the plane. F-16’s flew overhead and confirmed the airspace was clear before the president was allowed to exit.

  Jack Evans waited in the president’s bulletproof limousine. A minute later the door opened.

  The president extended his hand. “Jack, good to see you. I’ve been looking forward to our conversation.”

  “Likewise, sir.” However, they waited to talk until they were driving down the access road toward the highway. The partition was closed to the front compartment.

  “Here’s what we have. First the flyover. Internally we’ve been following all of Libya’s coverage of the election. They’re greeting Lodge like the Second Coming, predicting that he’ll open the borders again and change the balance of power in the Middle East. It’s unprecedented.”

  “Anything specific?” the president asked without comment.

  “This took a helluva long time to get out. But it also has to do with the Kharrazi clan. You know how the General’s boys basically hate each other?”

  “I love it.”

  “Well, it seems D’Angelo started a family squabble after Abahar Kharrazi’s men picked him up there.”

  “Oh?” “Fadi got wind that he was detained. He was furious. An American, caught taking pictures of his building? Questioned, released, and allowed to leave the country? In a funny way, I don’t blame him. He tried to back channel the photographer. But he didn’t come up with anything he shouldn’t have. The cover is layers deep. But Sandman has given us a name that may be related to the infighting. Someone outside of Libya; possibly here. He’s not sure, but he thinks its Abraham.”

  “Have we heard that name before in connection with Fadi?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Do they talk often?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine. But according to Sandman, when this Abraham hung up on Fadi, the little bastard was fit to be tied.”

  “Is that his first or last name, Jack?”

  “Don’t know. It may not even be right. But we’ll run a check on every Libyan named Abraham living or working in this country.”

  “You asked me to bring in a picture of an adult.”

  “I did?” Touch Parsons asked.

  “Yes you did,” Roarke explained. You said you particularly like taking shots of adults and regressing them into kids.”

  “Oh yeah, I did. But I’m a little busy now.”

  “You’re going to have to do this for me.”

  “Look, Roarke. You’re a nice enough guy with a gun. But I meet a lot of people like you. And I’m really on a deadline. I don’t have time for any more family pictures right now.”

  “If you need a phone call to clear your schedule, I’m sure I can arrange that.”

  “Like I said. I’m busy.”

  Roarke bit his cheek. He stepped away and placed a phone call on his cell phone.

  Parsons ignored him. The bureau needed fast help on a murder case in Houston. He didn’t care who Roarke put on.

  A moment later Roarke held out the phone. “It’s for you.”

  “Look. This was a fun diversion during the summer, but I’ve got real things to work on. So why don’t you take your fucking phone and go protect the president?”

  Roarke still held the phone out, angled it toward him more and nodded.

  “You’re going to want to take it,” he said. “I guarantee you it’ll be quick.”

  “Fuckin’ better be,” Parsons complained grabbing the cell phone.

  “Hello!” he all but yelled into it.

  “Mr. Parsons. This is Morgan Taylor.”

  “Oh shit,” was all that Parsons could get out.

  “Mr. Parsons, Mr. Roarke tells me you have very special skills.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. President,” he stammered.

  “Not at all.”

  “Can I remind you of one thing, Mr. Parsons?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Helping him is helping me.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand that.”

  “He also tells me you’re a bit busy right now.”

  “I did tell him that, maybe not as delicately.”

  “But I understand he’s come to you with another project. I recommend you take the time to listen to him. I think you can get my drift.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They call you Touch, don’t they?”

  “Some do.”

  “Well then, Mr. Parsons. Let’s give whatever Mr. Roarke has for you today your special touch.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you,” Taylor said. After a pause he added to the stunned computer artist, “You can hang up now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He handed the telephone back to Roarke.

  “Let me guess. Some time has suddenly opened up in your work day?” the Secret Service agent said holstering his phone.

  “A change in plans,” Parsons said quietly. “What do you have?”

  Roarke produced a glossy photograph, which Parsons perused for barely a second. “You’re kidding?”

  “No. Deadly serious, as a matter of fact.”

  “This is Teddy Lodge.”

  “Yes, I’m perfectly aware of that. I want to see what you come up with taking him down to say, age eleven.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  Wednesday 15 October

  Pars
ons worked all night while Roarke slept on a couch in the reception area. When he awoke he bought two cups of coffee from the vending machine, offering one to Parsons.

  “Good morning,” he said good naturedly.

  “Yeah.” Parsons was still engrossed on the computer. “Go away. I need another hour.” He smelled the coffee. “Does the java have milk?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then leave it.” Roarke tried to look over Parson’s shoulder.

  “And go away.”

  Chicago

  Lodge loved the sex again. But it was getting more difficult to arrange a rendezvous with the young speechwriter. Newman was keeping him running longer hours; a strategy that was paying off. The polls had him securely 14 points out in front of Taylor. What’s more, the networks predicted that he’d take the state electoral count by as much as 69 percent. The number made him laugh considering what he was doing at the present moment in the presidential suite of the Hyatt Hotel.

  The knock at the door sounded urgent. “Congressman!” It was Newman. ”Time to get up, congressman.”

  “You already are,” Christine giggled.

  “Go away.”

  Newman stood on the other side of the door and and shook his head. This will have to stop.

  Touch Parsons was ready when Roarke returned.

  “Here we go, this time in reverse. I press the way-back machine, thusly,” Parsons said lightly in an homage to one of his favorite classic cartoons. “Voila. The subject as presented.” The picture of Teddy Lodge appeared on the screen. “I called up early archival photos to check against these, but guess what?”

  “I give up.”

  “There weren’t any.”

  “Really?” Roarke said offering nothing more.

  Parsons glared at him. “So I went on instinct and ignored every marker except some shots of him in Congress a few years back. Oh, and there was one picture from Yale on the web. I hope that was okay.”

  Roarke ignored the question. “Keep going.”

  “Now let’s go back in increments. Slowly, regressing every two years over twenty seconds.”

  The years melted away at the rate of six per minute. Forty-eight years old became forty-six, forty-four, and then forty-two. During the second minute Lodge returned to his mid-thirties. Lines from his face relaxed, his body weight lightened, his hair filled out, more for style than aging. And his face narrowed.

  “Now here’s where it gets interesting. We’re at thirty years old by the time we’re through with the third minute. So far I remained pretty damned close to the pictures on record.”

  Roarke noted how handsome Lodge appeared. No wonder he was so popular with women. He had drop dead good looks.

  “And now I’m venturing into relatively unknown territory. The Yale photograph to compare my work against. Watch him in his twenties. His basic features are fully matured.”

  Roarke said, “He’s still pretty recognizable.”

  In the fifth minute Parson’s sequence took away more years. Age twenty-two, twenty, then eighteen. He thinned out more, took on an awkward teenage appearance, but demonstrated where his signature bushy hairstyle originated. “It’s in his eyes, lips and cheeks, too,” Roarke observed. Very distinctive.”

  “Let’s go all the way to eleven now,” Parsons said in the sixth and seventh minute. Here Teddy Lodge became a kid again, a boy with a a cute expression.

  “And there he is.” Parsons turned to face Roarke as he continued. “Teddy Lodge at your target age. Of course, as I said, I ran out of archival photos around age twenty.”

  Roarke couldn’t miss the “of course” part.

  “And I took a little liberty.”

  Roarke raised an eyebrow.

  “You asked me to regress the picture of the congressman to about the same age as the first picture you gave me to age. I said to myself you must have a reason. So here.”

  Parsons keyed in another command. The age regression photograph of Teddy Roarke moved to the left and the original picture of the young Boy Scout appeared on the right.

  “Your two pictures side by side, Roarke. My guess is you wanted to see them together at some point—shall I say out of curiosity.” Roarke didn’t respond. “To see if they looked alike.”

  Parsons dropped his voice and got very serious. “And they don’t.”

  Parsons typed in another string of letters and the screen produced a different comparison: The contemporary shot of Teddy Lodge and the age progression depiction of the scout as a forty-seven-year-old.

  “Nor do these two,” Parsons added.

  One more command and all four pictures appeared on the screen.

  “Care to tell me what this is all about?”

  Newman pounded on the door again. “Let me in.”

  “Whoa, whoa…” Lodge protested as he flung on a hotel bathrobe. “I’ve got company.”

  “I know who’s in here,” Newman said. “Who the hell do you think is pimping for you, for Christ’s sake”

  Lodge opened the door and Newman pushed right passed him. Christine Slocum heard the comment but chose to ignore it. She knew her job. Newman glared at her until she rose out of bed, completely naked, ignoring that fact that he was also in the room. She went to the bathroom and closed the door.

  “Taylor wants to see you,” Newman said holding a phone message slip. “Frannie got the call first thing in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell should I know. It’s totally irregular.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “I’ll send your utmost regrets. No time in the schedule. Only two weeks left.” Newman helped himself to orange juice from the hotel mini-bar.

  “He’s up to something.”

  “Screw him.”

  “Tell Neill to find out and then remind Taylor I’m busy running for president.” He waved his hand in disgust and walked to the bathroom. Newman heard the woman laugh when Lodge entered.

  Christine Slocum was beginning to wear out her welcome.

  “How reliable are your renderings?” Roarke demanded.

  “Are you asking how good am I?”

  Roarke didn’t reply to Touch Parsons’ question.

  “I’m the best in the country. Maybe the world. Now if you’re also asking me if any smart-ass attorney could rip me to shreds on the stand, I’d say I’m probably not your most credible witness. What I do is science; very useful forensic science, but it’s impeachable. Age regression is a very useful tool for law enforcement. For finding kidnapped children, now grown up. But it doesn’t carry any where near the weight that DNA evidence does.”

  “So what we have is just…?” Roarke let his words fade into a question.

  “Some nice artwork that can get you shit-canned for sure; useless against a sharp lawyer.”

  “Forget it as evidence. Just tell me what you think,” Roarke said defiantly.

  “Oh, that’s really easy for me. Our man Lodge here. Based on what I’ve come up with.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got yourself a 100 percent dyed-in-the-wool fake.” Then Parsons smiled devilishly. “It’s out of my bailiwick, but I recommend you see a good dentist immediately.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  The White House

  The Situation Room

  17 October

  Roarke was back with his dog and pony act. His audience would grow larger today. As he looked around the Oval Office, he figured that John Bernstein, notorious for playing devil’s advocate with the president, would be hard to sway. He couldn’t count on any help from Bob Mulligan. And he had no idea what CIA Chief Evans would think.

  Then there were the others. How would the usually reserved Vice President Stanley Poole react? Skeptically, of course. The president only recently told him that he needed to be brought up to speed on an important national security matter.

  Next to him, Nathan R. Langone, a man who had to be concerned. He was the president’s Secretary for the
U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Roarke already knew that the silver-haired fifty-six-year-old ex-Marine, ex-Wall Street broker, ex-FBI Assistant Director started each day with the notion that every rumor could be true.

  Arthur Campanis, Taylor’s national security advisor, would surely be surprised. Here was his biggest challenge. Campanis was a short, stocky man; with closely cropped salt and pepper hair. His role model was President Lyndon Johnson’s Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara, and he lived up to the tough image. As a former under secretary of state, Campanis earned the reputation of a hard-ass negotiator. He cultivated it in Taylor’s administration. The president warned Roarke that Campanis wasn’t going to be an easy sell in the meeting. No shit.

  “I think we’re ready to begin, Scott,” the president said.

  “Okay.” The meeting was “by invitation only.” The participants had been briefed in general terms. Nothing specific. Roarke gauged by their expressions that it wasn’t exactly a friendly crowd. “Hope you don’t mind if I stand and walk around a little,” he said. There were no objections. He had the floor. “In a bit, I’ll show you a flow chart and some footage. But let’s start with the players. Then we’ll go to the video.” It was an old sports joke that didn’t work.

  “Recapping first. June. Hudson, New York. We have a trigger man killing Jennifer Lodge. His name is Sidney McAlister. Beside the hotel register and a cancelled credit card account, there’s no record of him. He’s merely a name. Other than that he doesn’t exist. But what he did is seen around the world. In turn, we know how the fortunes of Congressman Lodge change with the death of his wife. There’s a better than even chance that before the killing he would have lost the New York primary. Because of it, more people come out for him. He pulls in the sympathy vote and he secures the nomination. Are we somewhat agreed on that point?”