Executive Treason (16 page)

“Good. We shall make this the basis for renewed dialogue.”

“I look forward to that, Jacob. But first things first.”

Staritsa, Russia

Aleksandr Dubroff was becoming more proficient. One website would lead him to another. Now he was onto what the Americans called blogs. He discovered a number of them dedicated to Soviet spies. Somehow, more information was showing up about him.

Unspeakable acts? I was loyal to the Party. I was doing my job.

But now he wondered what it all meant. The Soviet Union was gone. The government that had deceived its people for seventy years was relegated to history books…and the Internet. He had served a financially and morally bankrupt government…a government that had murdered its own citizens on a scale that rivaled Adolf Hitler. And Dubroff had been part of it.

For most of his life he felt it was an important part. Yet now, with only mushrooms and computer extracts to measure his remaining time, and his beloved Mishka becoming a distant memory, Dubroff questioned the value of his life.

Dubroff remembered how Mishka would comfort him. She would place his head on her lap, rub his forehead, and stroke his hair when he came home, pained by the work he could never explain. “You are upset, my love. Ask them to transfer you,” she urged him. Finally, he followed her advice. He requested a job in administration. The KGB complied and for sixteen years, from the mid-1960s until the late ‘70s, Aleksandr Dubroff taught at the agency’s spy school. Within five years he was named supervisor of a special curriculum, one that gained prominence in the twilight years of the Soviet Union.

Aleksandr Dubroff was the Chief Intelligence Officer of The Andropov Institute’s Red Banner Curriculum, the man who oversaw the secret Soviet cities known as Zakrytye administrativno-territori-al’nye obrazovaniia.

Washington, D.C.
later

“Can you run through those again a little slower?” Bessolo asked. As a courtesy, the bank allowed him to review the ATM still frames. It saved him getting a warrant. Bessolo managed a hard-pressed “Please.” He was not used to being so polite, but the FBI investigator needed to put on a good face for the video editor. Besides, the twerp on the computer seemed clueless. He might as well be nice.

The disk contained a series of pictures, not continuous moving images. However, played in sequence, there was a degree of movement. The date/time stamp burned into the images helped narrow the search. He looked for daytime activity at Meyerson’s building. Sometimes the view was blocked by a customer who stood at the ATM machine. Other pictures showed a little more. Bessolo scanned for activity across the street that outwardly might seem normal: a delivery truck, a courier, a plumber. The chances of seeing anyone were slim. The ATM camera only snapped an image when a customer inserted a card.

On Roarke’s insistence, Bessolo looked for frames starting from three days before the last e-mail went out. It was tedious work. But an hour into the job he shouted, “There! Behind that woman. Can you make out the van?”

The technician stared at the screen. “Not on this still. Let’s see if it’s in another frame.” He stepped through the next few frames, noting the time code burned into the upper left corner. “It’s lunchtime, so maybe we’ll get lucky.” Bessolo grunted. “Here we go.” He stopped at a frame with a customer turned to the side. For one shot, the camera had an unobstructed view of a white van. “Bingo.” A Time Warner logo was clearly visible.

Bessolo typed an e-mail into his Blackberry and simultaneously asked the young tech for a printout of the frame. When he was finished, he said, “More. Let’s see how long that van stayed there, and who gets in it.”

They got the easy part. The cable TV truck was partially visible through another twenty-three minutes of bank transactions. Then it was gone. They missed a shot of the driver. Quick for a cable visit, Bessolo thought. He sent another e-mail out.

“Can you do me a favor,” he asked as politely as he ever asked anything.

“I’ll try.”

“Now that I know what we’re looking for, see if this truck shows up any other day. Also try to spot anyone wearing a cable company uniform. I don’t want to assume that the only time he paid a visit was when he got a good parking space.”

“Cool,” the young operator said.

“Roy, you’re gonna love this.” Gimbrone caught Bessolo on the way to his office. They talked as they walked.

“Something already?” he asked.

“Yup,” Bessolo’s team member continued. He explained that it took four phone calls to Time Warner to get the information. Ultimately, it was an easy question to answer. “They don’t handle the block.”

Bessolo stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no way a Time Warner tech would be at Meyerson’s address. Their coverage ends a block away. Comcast has the lock on the block.”

“How do you know?” Bessolo asked.

“Her e-mail account. It’s through Comcast, remember?”

“Son of a bitch!” Bessolo exclaimed. He was mad at his own stupidity.

“Pardon?” Gimbrone asked.

“Roarke.”

“Come again?”

“That son of a bitch Roarke was right again.”

Bessolo sent Gimbrone back to the phones. “Make some calls for me. Is there any reason they’d dispatch a technician there? Ask whether a Time Warner employee has any reason to visit her building. A relative? A girlfriend? Hell, even a boyfriend? I don’t care what their orientation is. Just tell me if there’s any reason someone from Time Warner would be parked in front of her building. And get me the records of all their vans for the day. I want every vehicle accounted for between the hours of noon and two.”

“On it, chief,” Gimbrone said, scurrying down the hall.

Bessolo closed the door to his office and turned on CNN. He thought more clearly in a room filled with sound. It actually helped him focus.

Gimbrone’s simple finding suddenly changed everything. This might not be an investigation into a spy ring, at least not one involving Meyerson directly. By all accounts, Meyerson was framed as Roarke suggested. He re-ran the conversation with the Secret Service agent. Was it to draw attention to the president? Or to divert attention from something else? Both could be plausible. He decided to go online and read what was being reported.

The New York Times
City Room
New York, New York

Israel. O’Connell ran his hand over his chin and pondered the possibilities. Reports of Mossad infiltration into White House affairs had been around for years. He’d read a number of the stories, most notably a 1998 inquiry into alleged hacking of White House computers during intense negotiations on the Palestine peace process. Virtually undetectable chips were said to have been installed during the manufacture of the computer boards bound for the White House. The chips made it possible for outside eyes to tap into the data flow. At risk were communications between the president and senior staff in the National Security Council concerning the major issues. O’Connell learned the information may have been transferred to Tel Aviv as often as two or three times a week.

There was no doubt in O’Connell’s mind. The young woman’s penetration could be more explosive than imagined. His source sounded completely credible on the telephone and the subsequent noise out of the Capitol bore out the facts. Washington was abuzz over Lynn Meyerson.

Forget Roarke. I’ll go to Taylor.

“Hello, Louise, this is Michael O’Connell.” He swallowed hard. “At
The
Times
in New York.”

“Of course, Mr. O’Connell.”

“So nice to hear from you again.”

“Michael. Please. Always Michael. Say, is the vice president available?”

The automatic armor went up. “No. He’s out of the office.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“Certainly. I’m sure he’d enjoy saying ‘hi’ to you again, Michael.”

“It’s actually not a social call.”

“Well then, can I tell him what it’s regarding?”

“Yes.” He had to say something. “I would like to confirm some information I received.”

“Oh? From?”

Swingle’s attempt to play detective didn’t go anywhere.

“I really do need to speak to him.” He turned his wrist to look at his watch. “I’m on a deadline.”

“Like always, Michael.”

He laughed, realizing that the excuse of a deadline paled in comparison to Taylor’s demands. “Do you think it would be possible?”

“Look, Michael, why don’t you just tell me what you need. Take the guesswork out of it.”

“Certainly, Louise. The Meyerson death.”

“Let me see what I can do, Michael.”

The
Times
reporter believed, on reputation alone, that Louise Swingle could produce Morgan Taylor out of a hat. But he didn’t know he’d have to wait longer than expected for his return call.

“I’ll be right here.”

“Okay, I know the flowers arrived,” Roarke said in a cheerful voice. “And…?”

Shannon Davis was on the other end of the phone. “Well, you have one smart lady.”

“I know that.”

“And she’s way too smart for you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil. But can you get to the punch line. I’m driving. And it’s too dangerous giving you the finger.”

Davis got to it. “Both phones are bugged. Office and home.” The FBI man explained the type of devices and their range. “The transmitter at her apartment can reach two to five miles—maybe more, since she’s high up on Beacon Hill. The one at work is even more troubling.”

“It can transmit farther?” Roarke asked.

“Just the opposite, pal. Weaker. Internal. Designed to kick out a signal only across a few floors. Short range, within the damned law firm.”

“Oh, shit.”

“By the way, we left them in place. No need to tip anyone off.”

The text message came through Katie’s cell phone. She lit up when she saw it:

Dinner and kisses. Usual place. 2nite eight-thirty.

Boston, Massachusetts

Katie was three delicious sips into her Lemon Drop martini when she saw Roarke walk into their favorite haunt, an intimate restaurant at the base of Boston’s Beacon Hill called 75 Chestnut. She’d already licked off some of the sugar on the rim of her glass. He was guaranteed a sweet kiss.

A new host at the front desk asked, “Table sir?”

“It’s okay. I’m joining someone.” Roarke scanned the room and found Katie sitting farther inside. She’d purposely left the seat against the wall for him. She’d learned on their first date that’s where he needed to sit. “Right over there,” he told the host.

Roarke caught Katie’s eyes. He smiled broadly and maneuvered around the other patrons. When he reached the table, he leaned in for a simple peck. Instead she locked him in a deep, passionate, delicious kiss.

“Mmmm,” Roarke sighed. “That’s your hello?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling.

“Okay, my turn.” Roarke began to move forward again, but she held a finger up, licked it, traced the martini glass, and placed the sugar on Roarke’s lips.

“Now,” Katie said closing her eyes.

They hadn’t been together for nearly two weeks. “I think dinner’s going to be very quick,” he said, taking his first breath.

For an appetizer, they shared a warm goat cheese and spinach salad with roasted pecan and bacon dressing. The taste was just right, but the experience wasn’t as sensual as when they came to the main course, lobster scampi over a bed of saffron rice and vegetables. The dessert completely put them in the mood. They fed each other little, sexy spoonfuls of ginger-lavender crème brulee.

No lingering tonight. Roarke wanted to be within Katie’s deepness. Katie needed Roarke’s strength. They were at each other the moment they walked through her door. Neither worried about the tapped phone. Anyone listening would hear the Dave Koz CD over them. Roarke make sure the phone was right next to a speaker. Anyway, they didn’t care…not as they made love on the floor to the smooth jazz…not as Katie wrapped herself around his waist when he carried her into the bedroom…and not as they gave into each other’s pleasures in joyous moans.

They made love through the night, resting through need, then awakening again. The smell of the flowers left by the FBI was Roarke’s only reminder that something was wrong.

Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 23 June
2:15 P.M. EDT

The Secret Service chief raced through the pages. The protocol was all there. Notify the vice president. Move him. Locate and brief the Speaker of the House, the president pro tempore of the Senate, and each of the cabinet members. Call the chief justice. The same for the National Security Advisor, the NDI, DCI, and the FBI chief. Finally, hand the PR problem over to the White House press office.

The procedure was the same whether it was in the middle of the night or during the World Series. The only difference was that Presley Friedman decided to tell Morgan Taylor in person. That added an extra seventeen minutes.

The Secret Service agent guarding the vice president’s residence at the southeast corner of 34th Street and Massachusetts Avenue had just been alerted that Friedman was on the way. Though he didn’t know why, the fact that he was coming at this early hour was an indication it was serious.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Sanchez,” the chief said. The directness hinted there was nothing good about it.

Another career agent on the inside, Malcolm Quenzel, also alerted to the visit, greeted Friedman in the same manner, and received the same clipped answer in return.

“Is the vice president still sleeping?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need to wake him.”

“This way, sir,” Quenzel responded.

It had been three years since Presley Friedman had been inside the VP’s quarters. Although the home was built in 1893, it was still a relatively new vice presidential address.

For eighty-one years, Number One Observatory Circle was home to whoever served as the Superintendent of the United States Naval Observatory. In 1974, Congress called in the moving vans. The vice president, who until then could live wherever he wanted, would finally have a government pad.

Not that anyone wanted to rush into it. The roof leaked, there was no central air conditioning, the wiring was not up to code, and the fireplaces were a hazard. While Gerald and Betty Ford were going to be the first to be eligible to move in, they were spared the pain when Richard Nixon resigned.

President Ford’s VP, Nelson Rockefeller, wisely decided to remain in his own lavish Washington home. So contractors tore into the walls. Three years later, the renovated residence had its first occupants, Vice President Walter Mondale and his wife.

Now, three decades later, it was Morgan Taylor’s. However, he hadn’t changed a thing since the day he and his wife moved in. That was a sure sign that Taylor really didn’t consider the Queen Anne-style house a home.

Presley Friedman and the nighttime agent-in-charge walked up the stairs to the second-floor master bedroom. Along the way, they passed paintings of America’s vice presidents, some who had become presidents, including Truman, Johnson, Nixon, and Bush, and others who hadn’t succeeded to the presidency. There was no portrait of Morgan Taylor. Word in the White House was that he banned “the so-called housepainters” from sitting him down.

At the top of the stairs, Friedman and Quenzel followed a hallway to Taylor’s bedroom. Another agent was posted by the door.

“The vice president and Mrs. Taylor are still asleep, sir.”

“Time for a rude awakening,” the Secret Service chief answered. He knocked hard on the bulletproof door. “Mr. Vice President, this is Presley Friedman. I must speak with you.”

Morgan Taylor was a light sleeper who always bolted awake, a habit left over from his years as a Navy pilot. He recognized the voice. “I’m up, Press. Be right with you.”

True to his promise, he unlocked the door in under two minutes. He wore an Adidas sweatsuit and sneakers. His breath was fresh and he appeared robust; hardly the look of someone rousted out of sleep.

“What is it?”

“Can we talk, sir?”

Taylor recognized the urgency. “Yes, come with me. Coffee?”

“Actually, that would be great.”

Taylor held up two fingers, and Quenzel radioed the request to the kitchen. A pot would be sent upstairs immediately.

Taylor invited the chief into the study, an austere oak room filled with bookcases that contained a complete library of vice presidential memoirs and biographies. It was a constant reminder to Taylor that he hadn’t started his. He’d already turned down a multi-million-dollar advance, believing he had a great many chapters yet to live.

Friedman began looking at the titles while they waited for the coffee.

“You know, Press, the Mondales started the collection of books here,” Taylor said, noting the agent’s interest.

“No, I didn’t, sir,” Friedman politely responded.

“The books were in the living room for years. Now there are too many to keep in one place. Hard to believe so much has been written about the worst job in the country.”

Friedman laughed politely. No doubt the news he was about to share would show up in Taylor’s biography one day.

The coffee arrived and Taylor closed the door.

“Well, what’s so important you need to come by in the middle of the night?” He motioned for Friedman to sit down. He didn’t.

“Mr. Vice President, the president has suffered a heart attack. Less than an hour ago.”

“Oh, my God!”

Taylor expected to hear important news, but he never anticipated this.

“What’s his status?”

“A coma, sir. You’ll have to speak to the White House doctors. And you’ll need to come with me.” Friedman had faithfully served Morgan Taylor through his term as president, and he didn’t hesitate adding his next comment: “You’re going home.”