Executive Treason (18 page)

Lebanon, Kansas

“Not once did Taylor say anything about the campaign to get him out!” Strong shouted into the microphone. “Not once did he acknowledge the fact that millions of Americans do not consider him our president any more than we considered Lamden our president.”

He slammed his hand on the table. Actually, Strong couldn’t have hoped for better news. It all played so well, like pieces of a complex puzzle fitting together. He reached for another piece that could be slid into place.

“And another thing. Am I the only one who’s noticed that the whole Lynn Meyerson thing has disappeared from the news?” Strong asked. He raised the question, certain that his listeners would hear conspiracy. “I mean, one day there’s front-page news that an innocent young member of the Lamden White House was killed in an apparent rape in Los Angeles. Then we hear—oh, by the way—maybe she wasn’t so innocent. You see, she could be a spy, leaking classified intelligence to the Israelis. The story starts on the front page. It gets airtime on the news networks. Then what happens? The reports get shorter, the coverage gets slimmer. Lynn Meyerson moves way inside the newspapers. No more pictures. Then she’s off the network news shows entirely. Now? Poof! The story’s completely vaporized. How about that for some instant Washington magic.”

He used one of his mocking voices. “Oh, Elliott, the FBI says she wasn’t a spy. It was just a rumor. Can’t you let the poor girl rest in peace?”

Strong returned to his own voice. “No! No, no, no, I can’t. Look at the facts, people. This woman was taken out! She was killed while she was jogging. I can’t tell you by whom. But I’ve got a short list. Us or them. We wanted her dead, or she was going to turn on her handlers and the Mossad took her out. Read between the lines in the New Yuck Times. It’s all there.” It wasn’t.

He cleared his throat. “As hard as it is for me to admit, this is one time that I’ll have to go with
The
Times
. But just when they start getting into it, what happens? A few calls get made by the White House, the FBI, or the CIA. Why? Because we have to maintain our good relationships in the world.” He didn’t have to say Israel.

“So who’s left to report this cover-up? Looks like it’s me. Apparently no one else is interested in finding out the truth.” Strong knew otherwise. Very soon, other hosts would join the conspiracy bandwagon. Lynn Meyerson would become the lead debate on the beltway talk shows. Her face would return to the front page, and the Internet bloggers would have a field day.

“America, when are you going to wake up?”

Positano, Italy
later

Jacob Schecter chose Positano because of access. There wasn’t much. Only one road led to the town. Boats could be checked easily. And Mossad snipers could hold the high ground above the old Mediterranean city.

The food was also good, particularly at Chez Black, right at the base of the steeply terraced town.

This is where Ira Wurlin and Vinnie D’Angelo would meet over pasta, the catch of the day, and the local wine.

Positano sat on a tight cove along the Amalfi Coast. The warm waters of the Mediterranean Sea lapped up onto the small, black volcanic rock beach. The city hugged the wall of a hill, as did many Italian towns. The lowest level, the site of the meeting, was only reachable by foot, small cart, or boat.

Wurlin flew to neighboring Naples and boarded the 1345 Metro Del Mare hydrofoil for the one-hour cruise to Positano.

D’Angelo converged on the meeting via an F/A-18D flight to the USS Harry S. Truman, which patrolled ninety-two nautical miles offshore. From there he hopped a Seahawk to a farm near Amalfi, a few kilometers up the coast. A black Fiat was there to meet him. His driver was a CIA man out of Rome. Though he didn’t see others, he knew they’d be there.

Vinnie D’Angelo was a utility player for National Intelligence Chief Jack Evans. He’d been with him since Evans ran the CIA. No one, including his boss, kept a written record of D’Angelo’s accomplishments. But his ability to write and speak letter-perfect Spanish, Arabic, and Mandarin made him one of America’s most valued intelligence officers.

D’Angelo had served in Army Special Forces. That’s where his professional dossier ended. He was a friend of Roarke’s, though neither man ever talked about their service record. Their most recent collaboration: a little incursion D’Angelo helped throw together in Libya.

Wurlin was already seated at a table at the rear left corner of Chez Black by the time D’Angelo arrived. A bottle of a rustic red sat squarely at the center of the checkered tablecloth. A gentle sea breeze kept the restaurant comfortable. Light early evening waves rolled over the volcanic rocks of Mermaid’s Beach barely twenty-five yards from the restaurant. The calming sound set the tone for the greetings.

“Hello, Vincent,” Wurlin said, rising to greet the CIA agent. Standing was a cue for the two Mossad bodyguards to close the sliding partition that separated their space from the general dining area.

“Shalom, Ira. You look well.”

“Thank you, but not nearly as good as you. I don’t get to travel to the places you do, or get the exercise.”

It was a veiled hint that the Mossad knew D’Angelo took part in the Tripoli assault.

“I am truly sorry that President Lamden has taken ill. What can you tell me?”

“I only know what I’m told. He’s in intensive care.”

“Please convey my prayers and the prayers of my country.”

“I will,” D’Angelo said.

After another minute of awkward conversation, Wurlin looked at the menu.

“Shall we order some dinner?” the Israeli proposed. “The pasta with zucchini is fabulous, or perhaps the day’s catch. Then we can get to business.”

“With all due respect, Ira, my country considers our business more important than a leisurely dinner. If we still feel like eating later, then we’ll order,” D’Angelo said emphatically.

“At least the wine.” It was not a question. He began to pour. “I chose the Lacrima Chrisi from the De Angelis Brothers vineyard nearby.”

“Lacrima Chrisi? Tears of Christ?” D’Angelo asked, quickly translating the Italian.

“I forgot you were a linguist. Quite right. Would you say it’s an unusual choice from a Jew?”

“Not one who is known as a wine connoisseur.”

Wurlin laughed. “I see that the CIA has been extra diligent in its research, too.”

“Always.”

“Well, to the fruits of our labors.”

D’Angelo did not raise his glass and join Wurlin in the toast.

Wurlin ignored the slight and examined the color—a rich, brilliant red. The Israeli then inhaled the bouquet. “Very nice,” he offered. He took a sip and swirled it across his taste buds. “Umm. Real original flavors to this rosso.” He swallowed and took another, deeper taste. “I like this. Did you know that the grapes are descended from vines brought to southern Italy by the Greeks twenty-five hundred years ago?” He enjoyed another sip. “Are you sure you won’t try it, Vincent?”

“We have business, Ira.”

“In time, my friend.” He savored the next sip. “Ah, plum and cedar. Black fruits. It’ll go well with anything on the menu. But more than just the wine, its origin fascinates me. Not to bore you, but the grapes are harvested at the base of Mount Vesuvius. As legend has it, the wines of Vesuvius were named because Lucifer was cast out of heaven here, causing Jesus to cry.”

D’Angelo swirled his glass, though he didn’t take a sip. However, the subtle spices called to him.

“A wine called De Angelis,” the Israeli noted. “It’s so similar to your name. Quite a coincidence that you’re here?”

D’Angelo reached for the bottle and turned the label so he could read it. De Angelis Bros. 2003. “There are no coincidences in our work, Ira. I must congratulate you on your ability. You correctly deduced that Evans would send me.” He spun the bottle around so the label again faced Wurlin. “Very astute. Or maybe it wasn’t a deduction at all. Perhaps the Mossad has eyes and ears deep inside the United States.”

“Oh, Vincent. You give us too much credit.”

Boston, Massachusetts

The black, streamlined Sea Quest Thruster flippers propelled him under the Charles. Ten kicks, then a simple glide. He counted and repeated. The flippers’ center blade channels guaranteed maximum propulsion when he needed it. Right now he was in no particular rush. He was a good swimmer. He had time, and he had the air. He carried a pair of 3000 psi tanks on his back, good for 50 minutes at shallow depth. They were strapped into his Mares Jubilee backpack, which gave needed tank stability against the twisting moves he was bound to make.

His principal concern was staying low enough not to get swiped by the hull of the boats above. It became particularly tricky when he had to pop up to get his bearings, look for the woman’s Laser, only to quickly drop back down. He’d already come close to her, about twenty feet, but he wanted to wait until she was feeling tired. He also plotted where she liked to make her turns. His best opportunity would be about three-quarters of the way across the river, just as she came around the Cambridge side. There, the woman slowed for the first part of her turn, timed her cross under the jib, then shot back, pulling the line hard and leaning over the side. That’s where she would be the most focused and the most off-balance.

He kicked again through the murky, but no longer toxic, Charles.

Katie brought her boat around, setting a course toward the Longfellow Bridge, near the dam that held back the salt waters of the Atlantic. The warm wind blew through her shoulder-length hair. It felt like Scott’s fingers. She wished he had joined her on the Charles. Maybe one day.

Roarke figured everyone at the White House was busy with the transition. That’s why he hadn’t been called. But he resolved never to be so disconnected from work again. He should have checked in or at least listened to the news. Louise wanted him to get a Treo or Blackberry, but he really hated e-mails and text messages. Too many distractions. Now he realized he needed a better way to stay in touch. There was one thing that nagged at him since Walker gave him the news. If the FBI wasn’t already on it, they needed to be.

Roarke checked his watch. 1245 hrs. He could grab a seat on the two o’clock American flight with or without a reservation.
Better write a note
, he thought. He stopped at Katie’s desk at the far end of the living room, a few feet from the apartment entrance. He used her stationery and pen and wrote, Sorry, honey. Got some news. You’ll hear about it. I’ll call you tonight. I love you…more.

He taped the note to a pillow and put it on the floor of her hallway. He felt guilty about rushing out without saying goodbye. Another new feeling. Was it complicating his life or making it better? Better, Roarke told himself.

The scuba diver was barely fifteen feet from Katie on the last pass—close enough to make it in seven or eight kicks. But not this time. Another boat forced him to plunge down and abort.

Katie had been out for almost forty minutes. She was more tired than usual. She felt it as she ducked under the mast and leaned back to balance her craft. Then it came to her. Scott. They’d been up for hours during the night, playing, loving, talking. She really wished he was here now. No, I wished I’d stayed with him. The thought evaporated with the sound of what she believed was a hard knock against her Laser. What? She let out the sail and turned to the left. Simultaneously, an unseen hand came up to her right side, but missed her due to her turn. As the boat picked up speed, the hand, and the diver attached to it, slipped back under the water to wait a few minutes more.

Katie was sure something smacked her hull, but nothing was there. Probably a piece of wood. She looked around to make sure. Only the wake of her boat with the telltale bubbles was behind her.

The diver shook off the vibration he still felt when the woman’s boat hit his air tank. He was lucky. And he learned something. Hands first, not back. The next time he would be more careful. He would do his job and collect his money. He checked his regulator. Twenty-three more minutes of air. More than ample. He’d only need fifteen. He’d go down again, wait the eight minutes or so, and then kill the woman in the Red Sox T-shirt.

Positano, Italy

The interior of Chez Black was empty. The Mossad agent paid the proprietor to keep the interior clear. A “Private Party” sign went up at the entrance. For the next hour, patrons would have to be content sitting outside.

Wurlin’s men also circled the perimeter of the restaurant, observing everyone. Other unseen agents looked through the telescopic sights on their rifles.

D’Angelo leaned forward. “You want to hear it the statesmanlike way or in my words, Ira?”

“I think we can suspend with the formalities,” Wurlin replied.

“My sentiments exactly. Your presence in my country is not acceptable.”

“I could say the same…”

“Stop,” D’Angelo said emphatically.

Wurlin was completely prepared for a dressing down, but not the anger that D’Angelo brought to the table. After all, this is how the game was played.

D’Angelo inched closer. One of the Mossad agents keeping tabs from across the room got concerned. He took a step toward D’Angelo. Wurlin instinctively saw him and shot a sign not to worry.

“Jacob has gone too far this time,” D’Angelo said. “He’s risked everything, and he’s lost. We will demand that he step down, that Israel make a formal, public apology, and that you immediately withdraw all of your other agents operating within our borders.

“Recruiting this Meyerson woman was an unconscionable act of espionage. Within the White House, no less! Never has there been such a blatant attempt to spy on an ally. Never!”

Wurlin opened his mouth again. He was met with a sharp, “No! I’m not finished. Your government has been warned in the past. During the presidencies of Carter, Reagan, both Bushes. Consider this the last warning, Ira. No more. This time there will be consequences!”

D’Angelo moved even closer. “Prior to his heart attack, President Lamden authorized the freezing of all pending legislation relative to Israel.”

“He can’t!” Wurlin exclaimed.

“He did. That was a preemptive move to forestall Congress from cutting off aid altogether. Imagine your world without the United States. And believe me, where Lamden might have controlled the House and Senate, Taylor will have a harder time.

“You went too far, Ira. Too deep. Too close.”

D’Angelo more than made his point. He reached for his wine, took a long, slow sip, and prepared for Wurlin’s denials.

“Vincent,” the Mossad agent began with measured calmness, “you may not accept this, but as a friend I have only the truth for you.” He produced an envelope from his sports coat. “I have a letter signed by Prime Minister Kaplov that swears this Meyerson woman was not a Mossad recruit.”

D’Angelo took the envelope, but did not open it.

“Yes, we received unsolicited e-mails from her. They were sent in a dangerous, open way. Plainly stupid. We never responded. We never proposed a meeting. We never requested information. I suspect you know from traceable and recordable communications that the contact with us provided worthless intelligence. From our point of view, we could have secured the same thing by reading the Drudge Report.”

He now stared at his opposite number from the CIA. “And if you haven’t been informed of that fact, I recommend you ask.”

D’Angelo looked away. He didn’t know, and he would check.

“She is not ours Vincent. And if you want my personal opinion, which you probably don’t, I think we were both set up. This entire affair was orchestrated for public consumption. For your 6 P.M. news shows and your talk-radio pundits. Just look at the commotion in your press. People everywhere are calling for Lamden’s resignation. We’ve heard these broadcasts, too. Hate is spreading in your country. Of course, we’re the target.” Wurlin raised his voice. “The target, Vincent, not the reason!”

D’Angelo remained silent. This was not going the way he assumed. Suddenly he had more questions than answers.

“Come now, Vincent. Uncoded e-mail over the Internet? We’ve done our homework on Meyerson since her death. Phi Beta Kappa. Wellesley. Four-star recommendations. Congressional material. Why would such a smart woman do something so stupid?”

“Late-blooming religious fanaticism?” the CIA agent responded. “Lack of sophisticated knowledge for the rules of the game. We found her with flash paper and a container near a dead-drop. And, as you acknowledged, it’s all on her computer. I can also tell you about the things you didn’t get to see: Internet downloads on Israel defense spending, wire service stories on Palestinian terrorist activities in the past six months, editorials on the reduction of American grassroots support for Israel. Naive, yes. But she was passionate about Israel’s survival, and she worked in a place where she had access to secret, politically damaging intelligence. So, to answer your question: stupid? Perhaps. But Lynn Meyerson was driven by blind allegiance, Ira. That’s what makes a smart person do stupid things.”

D’Angelo finished his rebuttal. Wurlin did not respond immediately. Instead, he poured another glass for himself.

“Perhaps it is time to win back your faith, Vincent.”

D’Angelo cocked his head with interest. This was another unexpected comment.

“What do you have in mind, Ira?” He poured the wine that he had refused to take from Wurlin.

“Well, I believe it’s something your government will be interested in. Considerably valuable information.”

D’Angelo tipped his glass forward, not so much as a toast, but a rapprochement.

“I see I have your interest.” He spoke softer. “Well then, we have information on a man your government seeks. A one-time Romanian national, though he holds no allegiance to that country. Most recently he resided in Florida, at a place called Fisher Island.”

D’Angelo straightened up and fought off a shiver.

“A man,” Wurlin continued, “who went by the name of Haddad. By our accounts he was rather influential in your last national election.”

“What?” D’Angelo asked. “Where’s this information from?”

Ira Wurlin laughed. “Maybe you don’t give us too much credit after all.” He laughed at his own callback. “It’s from authentic Mossad agents inside your country, Vincent. Not make-believe.”