Executive Treason (4 page)

Washington, D.C.
minutes later

“Mister…” the DNI hesitated over the telephone. This was still hard for him to get right, “…vice president.”

“Yes, Jack.” Morgan Taylor responded to the Director of National Intelligence. “You don’t sound happy.”

“I’m not. We have a situation developing in Sydney.”

“The evacuation at the St. George?” The vice president had seen the news. “Am I correct to assume there’s no water main break?”

“Right. I hope the story sticks long enough to disarm about twenty bricks of C-4.”

“Any idea who?” Taylor asked.

“No. Maybe there will be some signatures in the work. But my educated guess is al-Qaeda. Maybe Abu Sayyaf. And if you want my two cents?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think it was intended to go off today or tomorrow.”

The vice president’s mind raced. “The Ville St. George. Isn’t that one of the hotels designated for presidential visits?” He hadn’t stayed in it yet, but he was certain it was the venue for the upcoming nuclear proliferation conference. The session was already on Lamden’s calendar, though not officially announced.

“Right again.”

“August?” Taylor said after putting it all together.

“Yes, sir.” Evans acknowledged. “It’s a miracle some house electrician found the device now. SASR says it had enough battery power to keep the Energizer bunny going for years.”

“Give me the wide shot, Jack. Short-term, long-term impact.”

“In the immediate, all the Rip Van Winkle houses will be off limits for you and the president until they’re turned upside-down. Long-term, millions around the world in security upgrades, from initial construction through identity checks on the lady who changes the toilet paper.”

Morgan Taylor suddenly remembered the president was in one now. “Henry?”

“On the road as of seven minutes ago,” the nation’s chief intelligence officer answered. “We implemented Rolling Thunder as soon as we heard.”

“Wise decision.”

“Has Congressman Patrick been informed?” The vice president referred to the new Speaker of the House, Duke Patrick.

“Next on the list.”

“What’s Homeland Security saying?”

“Nothing yet. But I don’t think you and the president will be able to take a piss without your boys looking over your shoulders.”

There was a knock at the door. “Mr. Vice President.” Taylor recognized the voice of his principal Secret Service detail.

“Like clockwork, Jack,” he said over the phone.

“Thank you. Secret Service wants you at the White House until the president is safely back. I’ll have the Speaker driven there as well.”

Taylor didn’t relish spending any more time than necessary with Congressman Patrick, but protocol dictated. Patrick, a self-made man and a fast decision maker, retired twelve years earlier from Dynlcom, a multi-billion dollar Internet provider, with a billion of its profits. Taylor should have liked him, but politics drove them apart. Patrick went into Congress as a Republican, then five years ago recast himself as a “modern Democrat.” That meant that as Democrats go, he was way right of center and suddenly someone to watch. Duke, as he liked to be called, wasn’t even the kind of Democrat that Lamden could wholeheartedly embrace, but he was the man that the party looked to for the future. As speaker of the House, he was also number three in the order of Presidential Succession.

“Mr. Vice President!” the voice came more forcefully through the door.

“Yes, yes. I know. I’ll be right with you.”

“Get going, Mr. Vice President, I’ll keep you posted,” Evans stated.

“Before I go, give me your real sense, Jack.”

Evans always appreciated Morgan Taylor inviting his personal appraisal. It often told more than some of the hard facts. “We got a lucky break, Morgan. No immediate danger to Henry,” he used first names only with Morgan Taylor. “Next time we might not be so lucky. The enemy is getting smarter.”

“But who’s the enemy, Jack?”

The national intelligence chief answered before the blink of an eye. “Nothing’s changed. Everyone.”

Morgan Taylor wasn’t good at being vice president. He knew it. What’s more, most of the press within the Beltway also knew. Hell, I should have just gone fishing! he constantly told himself.

After running the country with the intensity with which he flew his Navy F/A-18s, this job was the worst. A typical day: Presiding over the Senate…enduring the hours of posturing from young jerks he’d all but thrown out of the White House…shaking hands and not meaning it.

Morgan Taylor hated it, but it wasn’t the kind of job you simply retired from. He accepted it for two reasons. First, he admired Henry Lamden. The second and real reason, decided in the instant that Lamden asked him, was that he had unfinished business. He claimed it was professional. Reporters speculated it was more personal. He was determined to find out who was responsible for stealing his presidency. Teddy Lodge was the end to the means, but not the means itself. Someone else had patiently manipulated the political process for more than forty years. He had failed, which Taylor assumed would be hard for a man who counted on winning.

The same could be said for Morgan Taylor.

He won at Annapolis, graduating in the top ten percent of his class. He won in the air, as an aircraft carrier Super Hornet commander. He won on the ground, coming out alive after a crash landing in Iraq. That was thanks to a man who remained close to him today. He won in business as an executive for Boeing. He won in the Senate, and he won the presidency.

Now 54, Taylor kept to a military regime and a military look. His weight remained a relatively fat-free 195 pounds, and his hair was no longer than when he was in the Navy. He exercised like he’d go hungry without it and kept current in the cockpit of almost everything the Navy had in the air.

While he wore black pinstriped Brooks Brothers suits during work hours, he couldn’t wait to get into loose-fitting turtlenecks, khakis, and a Navy flight jacket. Sometimes he wished he could chuck the suits in his closet altogether. He got close, but when Lamden asked him to remain in government, he unpacked his suits and sent them back for a pressing. For his Senate confirmation hearings, he wore his favorite, which was really hard to tell since they all looked the same.

Taylor testified that the country could not rest. When asked for proof, Taylor couldn’t provide any. In fact, all the evidence in hand pointed to a one-time plot. But Morgan Taylor reminded the senators of the Islamic terrorist attack in February 1993. Their bomb below the World Trade Center towers damaged but did not destroy the buildings. Eight years later, with greater resolve and a deadlier plan, al-Qaeda brought down both massive towers. “The same could happen with the United States presidency.”

“No, this is not a time to breathe easier. Not a time to celebrate,” he told the senators. “Not a time to think the country is safe. The American political process is the target now. The goal is to undermine America’s foreign policy, destroy ties with our allies, and demolish our infrastructure. Our standing in the world can collapse like the World Trade Center towers.” What he didn’t say was, of course, the guiding political principal of the Moslem world: The day the Great Satan falls, the State of Israel disintegrates.

It was all so clear to Morgan Taylor. The press was right. It was personal.

So, Taylor accepted Henry Lamden’s call. He testified before Congressional investigative committees, at his Senate confirmation hearings, then raised his right hand and once again swore on the Bible to uphold the Constitution of the United States, which he had done his entire military and political life. In doing so, he became the first ex-president ever to move into the number-two seat.

The new president gave Vice President Taylor wide-ranging, though not public, powers to do it. And he allowed Taylor to keep a unique asset on the payroll: a man by the name of Scott Roarke.

FBI Labs
Quantico, Virginia

“No, no, no. His jaw is bigger. Wider.”

Secret Service Agent Scott Roarke slid his deep black coffee to the side of the standard issue metal desk, and leaned closer to the computer monitor. He pointed to the image on the screen—the work of FBI photo age-progression expert Duane “Touch” Parsons.

“Broaden it. And a bit more angular, Touch.” Roarke said.

He’d spent a good deal of time with Parsons, whose nickname fit perfectly. Parsons had the knack. It was his touch that had convinced Roarke, and, in turn, President Morgan Taylor, that Congressman Teddy Lodge was not the man he claimed to be. Visual evidence, although not court-worthy, was in Parson’s age-progression photographs.

Parsons lived at his computer day and night. Despite his weakness for Krispy Kreme donuts, ever-present at his desk, Parsons remained trim and fit. Roarke didn’t know when or how he stayed in shape. Maybe he’s just one of those guys with a fast metabolism. Whatever the case, Scott Roarke was happy he was at the computer.

Now the two men worked on another, perhaps more complex, though completely related, puzzle.

Ever since Roarke was a kid, plucked from a petty theft by an L.A. beat cop and given the choice to straighten out under the tutelage of a renowned Tae Kwon Do master or go to jail, Roarke listened to people in uniforms and experts. They took the form of drill sergeants in the army, officers in Special Forces, FBI investigators who really did know how to read evidence like the back of their hands, and most of all, his boss and mentor, Morgan Taylor.

These were the kind of men Roarke related to. And for good reason: He lived to see another day because of them. Yet, most of his experiences were not recorded in any official reports. Not his missions to China, Iran, Iraq, or Afghanistan. Not his work in uniform. Not his assignments in plainclothes.

Roarke stood six-feet even. He had a tight, muscular frame, but nothing that would draw attention to his strength. He always traveled with a Sig Sauer P229, but his smile disarmed almost everyone. His laugh did even more. And his flirtatious wit made him an extremely eligible bachelor.

Only a few women had actually gotten close to the small scar under his chin. These days, there was one woman in particular.

Roarke’s dark brown hair showed no signs of gray. He hoped it would stay that way for a while. He was 38 years old.

Roarke and Taylor shared a bond that superseded any visible delineation of duty—and for good reason. Roarke had saved U.S. Navy Commander Taylor’s life in Iraq after a missile took out his fighter. Years later, then-President Taylor gave Roarke a strictly off-the-books job of coordinating counter-terrorism intel under a cloaked White House operation called “PD 16,” for Presidential Directive 1600. Roarke was the charter member. Actually, he was the operation’s only member. He moved about freely with Taylor’s permission. Considering what he’d recently accomplished, the new chief executive wasn’t about to change the natural order of things. Taylor’s going-forward “arrangement” with Henry Lamden included the continued funding of Roarke’s basement office.

Like always, Roarke was on his own. He clocked in at the Secret Service, but unlike the 900 other agents, he had special privileges and other duties. Most important to him, he didn’t have to wear a tie. Next, he never had to stand vigil for endless hours while the president and other key members of the executive branch did everything from make speeches to screw their wives or girlfriends. He also didn’t have to talk into his sleeve to other bullet-stoppers stationed around their perpetual targets. And he only reported to one man: Morgan Taylor.

Roarke had thought about giving it all up. A year ago, he was close to looking for a high-paying security job in the private sector. That was before he vowed—like Taylor—to clean up some unfinished business.

So Roarke continued to work in the shadows, poring over the reams of public testimony and classified documents that followed the death of President-elect Lodge more than four months earlier.

The assassin who killed Lodge had posed as a Capitol policeman. Ballistics had proven that an officer with fake ID pulled the trigger. Roarke was certain that he was the same man who shot Lodge’s wife nearly a year ago—the very act that propelled a sympathy vote and swept Lodge past Taylor in the election. He also placed the assassin at three other murders.

While the FBI had developed its profile, Roarke quietly considered his own. Age 30-35, yet able to pass as almost anybody 20 to 60. Expert marksman. So good that people initially thought he blew the assassination of Teddy Lodge, when in reality he accurately hit his target, Mrs. Jennifer Lodge. An actor of sorts, with the ability to effectively disguise himself. Trained in dialects, allowing him to blend in with no notice. Definitely the muscle, probably not the brain.

The evidence pointed to a man with honed athletic abilities, a convincing manner, and an incredible understanding of forensics. With the exception of quite literally two missteps—a latent foot impression against a hotel wall in Hudson, New York, and another thousands of miles away along a riverbank in Utah—he left no clues. A professional, Roarke considered, with very special training, including the precise eye of a marksman. But there was something extra-remarkable about him. Roarke looked for a pattern in his work. Bold strikes in the middle of the day—a main street, a riverbed, inside a commuter train, and even under the Capitol Rotunda. Every hit was different. There were no common denominators, except for the killer’s keen ability to change appearances almost instantly.

As time wore on, Roarke developed an odd sense of admiration for the man’s talents. He knows it all. That means he was a great student with a great teacher. No, he decided. Different people, from different disciplines taught him…trained him. While the FBI had their own profilers on the investigation, Scott Roarke was coming to his own conclusions. This was a man who was not only the perfect killer, he was a talented actor. He had two classical skills. Roarke realized he needed to look in two places to find him.

The man had murdered Lodge’s wife, key in the plot to manipulate the congressman’s rise to power, ultimately Lodge himself, and God only knows how many others. Taylor said it all after the inauguration of Lodge’s successor and running mate: “Find the assassin, and we’ll find the man behind him.”