by David Shobin
“You’re saying I should follow his advice?”
“Within reason. Ask Forbes to commit to a timetable. I mean, if by such and such a time, you’re still concerned, you’ll talk to Dr. Townsend, okay?”
Despite his regal persona, in a bygone era, Bob Meredith would have made poor royalty. He was a hands-on person who disliked being doted upon. He was accustomed to doing for himself, a Protestant Ethic mindset that reflected his working-class southern roots. By extension, that viewpoint also led him to do for others, especially his own family, and particularly for Roxanne. During the first half of their marriage, he responded to her needs to the point where some considered him henpecked. It was a chivalry that bordered on being uxorious.
Meredith’s upbringing made it hard for him to graciously accept the perks of the Presidency. It wasn’t that he thought such things beneath him, or that he wanted to be considered just one of the boys. If anything, he was a leader among men, more chief than Indian. Rather, he was one of those who truly believed that if you wanted something done, you did it yourself. Thus, early in his administration, he made it clear that he was uncomfortable with a staff that openly waited in the wings, ready to pounce at the bend of the presidential finger. While he didn’t mind having ushers bring him things on occasion, he disliked any suggestion of hovering. This was especially true of food. He could pour his own bourbon, thank you, and fill his own pipe.
He had a refrigerator and microwave oven installed just off the bedroom. If he wanted a beer, he’d get it; if he wanted to rewarm his coffee, he’d nuke it. Much to Rocky’s chagrin, he even prepared his own bedtime snacks. She wasn’t keen on the nocturnal aroma of buttered popcorn or the cheesy scent or reheated burritos. He called her a traditionalist, and she called him a nut.
That night, a week after the reelection announcement, Meredith decided that his snack de nuit would be a sausage and egg sandwich. Damn the cholesterol, he told his wife. He was hungry. After putting it in the microwave, he took a quick shower. Five minutes later, he’d toweled off and was in bed, reading correspondence. Soon he put the papers down and wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“It’s not health food, that’s for sure,” Roxanne said.
“I think something’s burning.”
“Maybe you cooked it too long.”
He looked at her, his tone snippy. “Cooked what too long?”
“Look in the microwave, Bob. Your food’s ready. I already heard the timer go off.”
“Don’t start with me, Roxanne!” He threw off the covers and stormed across the room. Seconds later, “Jesus Christ, Rocky! Get in here!”
Her heart sank. Steeling herself for a confrontation, she got out of bed and put on her slippers. The situation was quickly becoming intolerable. In the other room, Bob had opened the microwave door, and acrid smoke curled to the ceiling. He held the door handle and glared at her. Roxanne walked closer, perplexed. In the middle of the revolving dish, the sandwich had been cooked to the point of shriveling. But the stench was coming from its melted plastic wrapper, which hadn’t been removed.
Roxanne smiled wanly. “I guess you didn’t really want that sandwich anyway.”
“Excuse me?” he said, voice rising. “Excuse me! Don’t try to pin this on me! You’ve got some nerve. You know I just got out of the shower!”
Not knowing what to say, Roxanne stood there in battered silence. She was torn between feelings of humiliation and pity. The man she loved was going to pieces before her very eyes. There was a sharp knock on the door, and one of the Secret Service agents poked his head in.
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I heard shouts. Is everything all right?”
“No, it’s not all right!” shot the president. “Some people can’t do a goddamn thing for themselves! Get somebody in here to clean up this mess!”
“Yes, sir.” Watching the president walk away, he turned to Roxanne. “Ma’am, is there anything I can—”
She quickly shook her head, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. She knew her voice was so shaky that she didn’t trust herself to speak. The fact was, there wasn’t a thing the agent could do. She wasn’t sure anyone could. Beyond that, she didn’t want him to see her eyes filling up with tears, tears that were becoming a daily companion.
Okay, Roxanne said to herself, I’ve tried it their way. She’d listened to Mitch Forbes and Amanda Doria.
It was time to do what had to be done. She picked up the phone.
Toronto
From Tunisia, Mahmoud took a plane to Rome and then connected for a flight to Frankfurt. His passport, already stamped with a Tunisian visa, listed his name as Nabil Abu-Zeid, an Egyptian businessman. The Frankfurt flight connected to Dublin. From there, Mahmoud’s Air Canada destination was Toronto.
Where it came to terrorists, particularly those of Middle Eastern extraction, Canadian immigration was very good. They had a comprehensive computer profile of likely suspects and routinely pulled travelers aside for questioning. Mr. Abu-Zeid, however, did not fit the profile. He was respectably dressed, well packed, and he spoke acceptable English.
“What’s the nature of your visit here, sir?” asked the immigration officer.
“It’s a business trip. Some sightseeing, perhaps.”
“What sort of business would that be?”
“Microcircuits,” Mahmoud said, handing the man a worn business card. “Our company makes components for mother boards.”
“Mother boards, now?” the official said. “Can’t say I’m familiar with them.”
“They run a computer’s hard drive. They make the whole thing work.”
“Right.” He looked at the passport photo, then back at Mahmoud. “Great city, Cairo. Whereabouts do you live there?”
“The Garden City neighborhood, near the embassies. Do you know it?”
“No, sir, can’t say that I do.” He returned the passport. Had Mr. Abu-Zeid been unable to specify a location, he would have been detained. “Have a nice stay.”
Mahmoud had no intention of staying in Canada. Canada was simply a way station that facilitated entry into the United States. When, in Tunisia, he learned that his target would be in the U.S., he was overjoyed. He got down on his knees and thanked Allah for this opportunity, even if it should end in martyrdom. What mattered was that he would be striking a blow at the great Satan right in the devil’s own backyard.
Mahmoud rented a car and drove south, toward the American border. The tools he’d trained with had been shipped separately and would arrive later. Now, all he had to do was to safely reach his destination and make a phone call. He’d receive further instructions on where to go and what to do. He wasn’t told how long he’d have to wait, but he’d been told it could be weeks. He still didn’t know his target.
But then, there were a great many possible targets in Washington, D.C.
CHAPTER 14
Roxanne Meredith’s semi-hysterical ramblings about her husband called her emotional stability into question. During the upcoming twelve months, it was crucial that she remain a reliable, levelheaded presence in the whirlwind that was the White House. She was counted upon to be a steadying influence on the most powerful man in the nation. But now, her recent behavior cast doubt on her supportive skills. As her reliability decreased, so did the need to watch her grow. A loose cannon could be catastrophic.
It was therefore imperative to keep an eye on her. In fact, the team was already at work. While it would be simple to watch her in and around the White House, surveillance in other areas was somewhat more difficult. She traveled everywhere in an official White House limousine, and her driver was too loyal to be approached. Yet there were other ways, like electronic bugs, to monitor her movements. But as important as knowing where she went was knowing whom she met, and more significantly, what was said. In the end, her cell phone proved very handy.
Cellular conversations weren’t difficult to monitor. This was usually done through eavesdropping satellites that orbited the ear
th. The government used a sophisticated listening-in software program called ECHELON to monitor cellular and fixed telephone conversations. This employed word-foraging technology that homed-in on key words or phrases for analysis and recording.
Roxanne used an advanced phone made by Qualcomm. Prototypes of new telecommunications equipment were often obtained by American security services. If approved, they were sometimes made available to White House staff or occupants. The first lady, who adored living on technology’s cutting edge, acquired one of the new phones early and carried it with her everywhere. When she wasn’t using it, she always kept it ‘on,” in the standby mode. That made it relatively easy to track the phone’s location. Unless she was actually using the phone, however, the conversation around her was a mystery.
But what their electronics expert did was install a tiny circuit that permitted the phone’s microphone to be remotely turned on. The user could defeat this by using a microphone mute switch, but as Roxanne didn’t suspect that anyone might want to monitor her conversations, she never put one in. Once the phone’s electronics were rewired, both the first lady’s location and her words could be monitored.
Keeping track of Dr. Townsend was much easier. Since he, too, went virtually everywhere by car, it was simple to follow the vehicle’s travel activities. There were number of sophisticated units that used a satellite positioning network. Most were smaller than a paperback novel and could be magnet-mounted under the car within seconds. The GPS was cross-referenced with digital street maps of the entire United States.
Using proper software, the watcher could precisely monitor the car’s time, speed, and precise location. Most of the units could be defeated by bug-sweepers, such as were used daily on the first lady’s vehicle. But inspecting his vehicle for electronic surveillance was the last thought on Dr. Townsend’s mind.
When and if Roxanne Meredith and Jon Townsend met, the watchers would know it. And they could hear every word that was being said.
“The president told me you’d called,” Forbes said to Jon. “He said you wanted to examine him.”
“That’s right, Mitch. I didn’t think it should wait that long.”
“I can appreciate where you’re coming from, but I’d also appreciate your trying to coordinate his activities with me. This is a helluva busy time of year.”
“You’re right,” Jon nodded, “and I’m sorry about that. What I’d hoped to do was block out some time at the hospital for him before I called you.”
“What’s all this about, anyway?”
As succinctly as possible, Jon related what the first lady had described. He hadn’t noticed anything himself, Jon added, but the patient’s wife was certainly a qualified observer. He added that Roxanne mentioned the chief of staff’s reluctance to contact the president’s doctor.
For a moment, Forbes was silent. “Let me be clear on this,” he finally said. “As a human being who likes and respects the man he works for, I want the very best for Bob Meredith. If he has a physical problem, no one—except the first lady—wants it taken care of more than me.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is my job. Sure, I’m human, but I’m also chief of staff. Much as I’d sometimes like somebody else to do the job, I’m the man behind that desk. I’m expected to do what I was hired for. I have a very narrow mandate from the president to advance his policy agenda. Now that he wants a second term, I have to handle that, too. All of which means that I have to assess priorities, mete out time like it’s gold, and do a heck of a lot of juggling.”
“You don’t think his health is a priority?” Jon asked.
“Please, Jon, don’t put words in my mouth. Of course it’s a priority. But whatever’s going on here—if it’s going on—is very subtle, right? I mean, we’re not talking about a heart attack or cancer, right? So, what I said to Roxanne was, let’s not go off half-cocked. If the symptoms she saw continued, okay, then it would be time to bring you in. All I asked her, which I’m also asking you, is to remember what’s at stake here. We’re talking about a man who lives and breathes politics, who expects the people who work for him to make the right decisions.”
The tidal Potomac River begins at the fall line near Washington’s western boundary and ends where the river empties into the Chesapeake Bay. The waters in and around the nation’s capital are bass country, though the entire eighty mile stretch of the lower Potomac offered exceptional all-around fishing. With nearly a dozen freshwater species and as many saltwater fish, anglers had a wealth of choices, from bass and catfish to bluefish and flounder.
Most fishermen were bait casters who flung colorful rubber worms and glittering spinner baits from casting rods. Occasionally, fly fishermen took to the waters. If one understood the fundamentals of tidewater fishing, the results were quite rewarding. The species most sought was the largemouth bass, which were plentiful in the late spring and early summer, when the fish schooled in dense patches of submerged verdure. In the fall, when the aquatic grasses turned brown and lifeless, the bass converged on fallen trees and underwater rock structures.
Jon took up fly-fishing at Dave Saunders’ suggestion. Dave was an avid long-rodder eager to share his skill, a craft acquired through years of plying the trout-filled streams of Idaho and Wyoming. Once assigned to the president’s detail, Dave’s cross-country trips were curtailed. But the nearby Potomac provided an alternative. As soon as he was familiar with the river, Dave encouraged Jon to join him.
With clear skies overhead, Dave and Jon were a foursome with Tommie and Mireille. After a year of fishing the river, Tommie was a tidewater veteran. Dave drove south on U.S. 1 to Arkendale, where they would fish the Potomac’s western bank at Aquia Creek. It was a cool, mid-autumn day in the upper fifties, with only a rare fair-weather cloud scudding across the sky. When Dave parked his van beside the creek, a rented bass boat awaited them. Compared with cramped, tournament bass boats, their craft was a spacious, center console Boston Whaler. After they put Tommie and her wheelchair on board, Dave started the engine, untied the lines, and cast off.
Aquia, one of the Waterway’s larger creeks, had ample stretches of fallen trees, gravel banks, and boat docks to shelter the autumn bass. The four of them would fish the shoreline. Dave gunned the mercury outboard, and they were soon headed upstream. Mireille’s hair was down. As the boat accelerated, the breeze caught her tresses, and their wind-driven strands fluttered like golden streamers.
During a summer squall, a massive oak had been knocked into the creek. It had fallen obliquely to the shoreline, and its sturdy branches extended thirty feet across the water’s surface, and nearly as deep. At this time of year, with the waters cooling, the sunken boughs provided good cover for schooling large-mouths. Dave prepared a flyrod for Mireille while Jon assembled Tommie’s rig.
“Good thing you like to fish,” Dave told Mireille, “because this’ll be a good morning for it. What were your favorite fishing holes?”
“I loved Australia. San Francisco was fun, but I only went twice. I always used real bait, not those creatures,” she said, pointing to the artificial flies on his vest.
“Then you haven’t really fished. Bait fishing is for barefoot boys with cane poles and worms and more time than skill. This is science, artistry, and nature all rolled into one. How’s your fly-fishing technique?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it.”
“Okay, Chef Courtois, stand up and the master will begin the class.”
While Dave showed Mireille the basics, Jon checked out the tackle box. “What do you think we should start with?”
“I’d try the wet flies, say a Zug Bug or a Coachman,” Dave said. “Make sure your line sinks down there, and present the bug as slowly as possible.”
The quantity and colors of flies available dazzled Mireille. “How do you know which one to use?”
“Hit and miss,” Dave said. “Large-mouths aren’t very picky. A lot depends on the conditions and the tides. Yo
u keep switching patterns and colors until the bass tell you what they want.”
Over the next few minutes, Dave worked on Mireille’s fly-casting technique. She was an apt pupil. But it was time for fine-tuned instruction that called for coming up behind her and putting his arms around hers, he deferred to Jon for the hands-on technique. Tommie, meanwhile, already had a nibble. Dave buddied up with her and began some serious fishing.
Jon snuggled up to Mireille and helped her cast. She had a knack for the rod and was soon casting the flies where intended.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“Pretty darn good. Work the line slower and let it sink a little more. Don’t worry about snagging the hook. They all have weed guards.”
Mireille chatted enthusiastically, seeming to enjoy the close-quarters instruction as much as Jon. Just then the line went taut and the rod bent. Mireille let out an excited “Oh!” and Jon jerked the rod back.
“Set the hook!” he said. “Now reel it in—steady, steady.” He backed away to give her space.
“Mireille,” Tommie called, “you got one already?”
“I think so!” she burbled. Dieu, c ’est formidable?’
“Keep reeling, Mireille,” Dave said. “What’re you using?”
“A Coach Dog,” Jon said. “That’s it, bring him alongside.”
With the flyrod bent nearly in half, Jon got the net and scooped it underwater, lifting out a fat large-mouth. “Now that’s a keeper!”
“Whoa, check it out,” Dave said. “We forgot to tell you, first fish buys the beers.”
“Why not?” said Mireille, smiling broadly.
The day began brightly, with everyone whooping it up. For a while fishing was fast and furious, and everyone caught at least one good size fish by nine a.m. Since the boat didn’t have a live well, Dave gill-strung the keepers and towed them from the stern. Mireille paired up with Tommie on the starboard side, while Jon and Dave hung out to port.
By eleven, the action had slowed considerably. Mireille had brought a picnic basket stocked with French fare: pate campagne, pommes de terre Lyonnaise, and crusty French bread, which they liberally washed down with cider. It was a feast.