Executive Actions (12 page)

Coates went on to the next number on the list. It had a 201 area code. New Jersey.

The number rang twice. A man curtly answered, “Yes?” It was a cold, official sounding voice; the kind of impatient “Yes” that a police chief gives a subordinate or a high ranking military officer gives to an enlisted man. Coates automatically sat up straight. The voice repeated, “Yes?”

Coates began just as authoritatively. “This is Detective Harry Coates, NYPD.”

Silence on the other end, but the line stayed open.

“Your number was in a wallet we found today…”

He stopped, but the voice remained quiet. He completed the sentence. “…on a dead man.”

The phone line went dead. Then the dial tone returned.

Coates leaned back in his uncomfortable wooden desk chair. He’d been hung up on. He tapped his pen on the paper and circled the number three times. “Now it’s getting interesting,” he said aloud.

He redialed the New Jersey number. It rang 15 times, but no one picked up. Then he called a precinct extension.

“Sarah. I have a number I need you to track down.” He rattled it off. “I’ll call from the road. Get me everything you can.”

He thought about the voice on the line again. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind; none of them good.

Lt. Brenner was feeling way out of his league. The FBI had totally taken charge. Their fingerprint experts were crawling over every square inch; their photographers were creating a multi-image portrait of the scene that could rival a high-priced David Hockney lithograph. “Hell, it looks like they have an analyst for every goddamned towel,” he complained to his chief.

Chief Marelli wasn’t exactly happy either. First, a murder, seen around the world happened right in front of him. Second, he felt he had been lax. And third, he didn’t prevent the assassin from escaping.
The Register Star
raised the same questions for two straight days.

Brenner was in the middle of complaining about the feds when when Marelli asked him to be quiet. An idea was bouncing around in his head and he wanted to clear his mind. The chief looked outside his office window at 327 Warren Street.

“Talk to me about the parade. It got thrown together pretty quickly?” Marelli asked never taking his eyes from the cars below.

“Yes,” Brenner asserted. “We got the word ten, no eleven days ago. The 13
th
, I think

Wednesday the 13
th
. The State Police called us.”

“Thursday the 13
th
. It was Thursday, in the afternoon,” Marelli said correcting him.

“Right. Thursday. It’ll be on the phone log. But I remember, because I’d just come back from the dentist.”

Brenner began to outline the events. “The call from Albany. The District Commander. Then I alerted the mayor’s office. He got Randy Quinn at the Chamber of Commerce involved and they began planning the parade. There were all sorts of things going back and forth. Which direction to march.” Up or down Warren? Where the speeches would be? At Promenade Hill or at the Park? Finally, Lodge’s advance man or campaign manager, someone, looked at the Park and thought it was too small. He wanted the platform right in the intersection of Park Place and Warren so more people could see. After that it was all the coordinating.”

Brenner paused, keenly aware that Marelli was playing with a notion. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the window. “Where are you going with this, Chief?”

“Thursday the 13
th
,” he repeated.

“Thursday. Right. The 13
th
.”

“Terrific.”

“What’s terrific?”

“Your memory.”

“I’m confused.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll fill you in when I make more sense out of it myself,” the chief said. Marelli left and walked up the three blocks to the St. Charles.

Michael O’Connell really enjoyed digging. The writing, which he was great at, still didn’t touch the thrills of the legwork. He loved reaching into the past through the eyes of witnesses, helping them see things they didn’t even realize were there.

He spoke to Teddy Lodge’s piano teacher about his music lessons, his Boy Scouts leader about his merit badges, and the town librarian to see what he used to read.

With what he had, O’Connell pieced together an article of an all-American in the making. A standout. The athlete. The public speaker. The daredevil. The Eagle scout. The neighborhood kid who delivered
The Boston Globe
on his bike at six in the morning. He helped his father at the office and his mother at home. About the only thing he ever gave up was piano.

All of this was going into his Wednesday story. He’d be short on personal pictures. He’d take heat from his editor on that. But he e-mailed digital shots of everything else he could put his hands on—pictures of the schools, Teddy’s teacher Pat Sullivan, his Marblehead hangouts, the church where he met for Boy Scouts. The profile of the congressman as a youngster was filling out nicely.

Depending upon what happened in the New York State primary today, there’d be even more interest in Teddy Lodge tomorrow.

It only took Anne Fornado a few minutes to check the records for Chief Marelli. The original file cards had been sent to the FBI crime labs at Quantico, but Anne had the computer reservation and the check-in confirmation.

“Here it is, Chief,” she paused as she scrolled the screen down. “The reservation was originally made on June 13
th
, yes, the 13
th
at 8:34 at night.”

Her face was buried in the computer screen so she didn’t see Marelli’s disappointment. “And he checked in on June 14
th
around midnight.”

“Damn it,” the chief let out.

“What were you looking for?” the St. Charles Hotel manager asked.

“I don’t know. I had a hunch,” he said emphasizing his disappointment. “And it was wrong.”

He started out of the hotel office, then stopped.

“What has me confused is how he checks in the next day after his reservation and gets the very room he needs to pick off the congressman? What’s the chance of that? This place is always booked this time of year.”

Anne threw her hands up. She’d seen a lot of disappointment over the past few days. Nothing she’d done had helped anyone. She returned to her computer and studied the reservation again. The chief’s question was a good one.

“We have trouble,” the man said over a secure line. “Book Man was taken out in New York this morning.”

“What?” answered another.

“Shot twice on his train. NYPD is on it.”

“Contained?”

“No. Book Man had our number in his wallet. A local detective called.”

“Jesus Christ! You’d think he’d memorized that,” the man complained. “So what does NYPD have?”

“Don’t know. I’ll get an asset inside to check for sure. No doubt though. It was a hit,” the man making the call said.

“When was Book Man’s next contact due?”

“Soon. Three weeks. We were arranging a meeting on his next trip. He’d been hinting that he might have something for us. He had to think about it. He didn’t rush it and,” he paused realizing his mistake. “Neither did we.”

“Any idea what it was?” the second man asked flatly.

“He said it was about school.”

“School? Jesus.”

“I know. We should have pushed this up.”

“And the cop? What do you think he gathered after calling the number?”

“Depends on how good he is,” the first voice answered. “It won’t lead him anywhere. We pulled it. But I’d say there’s a better than average chance he’ll narrow the possibilities and come knocking on your door.

“That may be a little hard.”

The last time the director checked, the CIA was still rather difficult to get into.

It was official 30 minutes after the New York polls closed. But reporters had predicted it all day. Congressman Teddy Lodge was the winner. He swept the state taking 205 of the state’s 294 delegates. Lodge also captured 28 of Rhode Island’s 33 delegates.

Two days ago, the primaries belonged to Governor Lamden. As the McLaughlin panel conceded, the press liked Teddy, but pollsters put him in second. Now all that was history. Democratic voters made another decision on Tuesday. They liked the way Teddy handled himself. He was the man they wanted to represent their party.

However, there were no celebrations at campaign headquarters; nothing more than quiet gratitude. Everyone waited for a statement to come from Geoff Newman.

At 9:33, Newman stepped in front of a bank of microphones and cameras in the ballroom of the Sheraton Burlington Hotel.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a brief statement.”

That was camera-speak for get your cameras and tape machines rolling. He waited an extra beat to make certain the crews were feeding picture and sound.

“Congressman Lodge genuinely appreciates the outpouring of support today. To the citizens of New York and Rhode Island he has asked me to convey a most heartfelt thank you. And to the rest of the nation, he also wants you all to know how much the phone calls, e-mails and expressions of sympathy for Mrs. Lodge have meant to him. He will never forget your caring. Thank you.”

With that Newman spun around and walked away without further comment.

For a split second no one could speak. What did he say? What was that? He appreciated the votes. What the hell did that mean?

Suddenly a dozen voices replaced the silence in a barrage of questions. The reporters shouted over one another. A few tried to follow, but local police held them back.

“Mr. Newman, will the congressman accept the Democratic nomination?”

“Is he going to stay in the race?”

“Has he decided to drop out?”

“Geoff, when can we talk to him?”

Newman heard them all and smiled. However, he wasn’t going to feed the wolves anymore tonight.

O
mar Za’eem walked through the narrow streets of Tarabulus, known to Westerners as Tripoli. He passed the poster-size portraits, too numerous to count, of General Jabbar “the Almighty” Kharrazi. As he strolled toward the centuries-old souk, or bazaar, Omar wondered what other Middle East capital cities were like. This is the only one he’d ever seen.

Tripoli, though spread out, is walkable. The city, built on the ancient ruins of Oea, was founded as early as 7th Century
B.C.
by the Phoenicians, captured by the Romans in 1
st
Century
B.C.
and then taken by the Arabs in 7
th
Century
A.D.
It served as an important trans-Saharan trading route, and a strategic Mediterranean port. As such, Tripoli was long sought by imperalist European nations.

The Spanish took it in 1510, then granted Libya to the Knights of St. John, who held it until the Ottoman Turks captured it in 1551. From 1711 until 1835, Tripoli was the seat of the Karamanli dynasty, which ruled most of the land encompassing Libya. For years a lawless Tripoli became the refuge of the Barbary pirates who engaged the U.S. from 1801-1805 in the Tripolitan War and gave rise to the lyric in the Marine Hymn, “to the shores of Tripoli.”

In 1911, Tripoli passed into the hands of the Italians and later became capital to the Italian colony of Libya. The Axis-controlled country was seized by the British during World War II, which eventually brokered a deal for Libya’s independence. In 1951, under the leadership of King Idris, Libya established a federal monarchy and a constitutional democracy.

Libya began to prosper when oil was discovered in 1959. Exxon found rich deposits of exceptional quality crude, which shifted the entire economic picture of the land. Considering that the country’s principal port lies just across the Mediterranean from Europe and close to Gibraltar and access to the Atlantic, Libya suddenly had the money to solve its long-standing problems.

But the money became attractive to others, too. Particularly a young army colonel named Mu’ammar Al Qadhafi.

When King Idris left Libya for medical treatment in 1969, Crown Prince Hasa ar Rida was left to watch the homefront. He was ill-prepared for Qadhafi and his followers who led an almost effortless coup.

At first Qadhafi helped Libya, a nation he called
Al Jamahiriya al’Arabiya al-Libiya ash-sha al-ishtrakia
or the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. He fostered nationalism over religion and developed a system of free education for all Libyans. He also wiped out the existing social and political system, established a dictatorship of his own making and fostered state-sponsored terrorism.

Qadhafi became an enemy of the United States, an ally of the Soviet Union and a pariah within sectors of the Arab community. Kharrazi’s rule improved Arab relations after he ousted Qadhafi, but he did nothing to further the lives of the people of Libya.

A decade before Omar was born, Tripoli was emerging as a world-class city with a growing middle class moving into new homes that couldn’t be built fast enough. An improved public works system brought running water in to people who had never known it and took sewage out. Super-highways, similar to American Interstates, paved the way for more urban sprawl, while international businessmen flew into a modern airport. But things were different these days, thought Omar.
Dangerous. Even worse under General Kharrazi
.

The lights were on now. But there was no guarantee they wouldn’t be in another few hours. The government controlled the electrical grids and provided power to Tripoli on an on-off basis.

Restaurants, shops, hotels, television—never knew when the power would flicker out. That’s why the outdoor markets were still the center of life in Tripoli.

This bankrupt capital, once considered the “white bride of the Mediterranean Sea,” was in decline. Citizens who once owned their own businesses, more than one house, and a second car found such things banned by edict.

In a country formerly known for its fine medical schools and college scholarships, students now went to schools that lacked electricity, heating, books, and even desks.

Salaries were frozen according to law. Wages were generally paid every four-to-six months and only lasted a few days. Loans were literally impossible to secure.

Towns outside of Tripoli suffered from even more neglect. Sewage puddles backed up from clogged drains. In many apartment buildings, elevators shafts were cemented in because no one could afford the equipment or the upkeep.

Food was often rationed in this country rich with oil. People waited years for telephone lines. Inflation pushed 30% annually. The transportation system had collapsed and public services remained neglected. Only the older generation spoke foreign languages.

Omar Za’eem continued his walk through the workshops of the al-Harir souk where weavers hunched over their timeless looms, fashioning striped cloth in vibrant colors. Where proud Libyans sold cherished family heirlooms to buy food. Where children no older than six begged drivers to let them clean their windshields in exchange for a few dinars.

He nodded to men in the teahouses who sat inhaling their narghile, a honey-scented addictive tobacco smoked through a water pipe. The high was stimulating and masked the pain of day-to-day life. This was as it had been for hundreds of years; something beyond Abahar’s power to change when he assumed control. But other things would.

Omar knew the first rule of personal survival. Everyone had to be extremely careful about what was said in public. As they drank their heavily sugared green mint tea and lulled themselves into fantasies with puffs of the narghile, patrons constantly looked over their shoulders. Trust could be bought and sold for little more than a pack of cigarettes. Many countrymen who didn’t follow that rule disappeared.

Omar knew their lives weren’t the same today. The family structure, long ago an essential part of the Libyan national character, had broken down, and he knew that many of their children lay dying in hospitals, with useless Arabic proverbs over their beds proclaiming,
“Martyrs are better than all of us.”

The General would soon die. His reign pitifully, but fortuitously short. And Omar believed that Abahar, not Fadi deserved to sit in his place. That’s why he risked his young life, spying on one member of the first family on behalf of the other.

Bessolo closed down the parking lot at the St. Charles on Monday. He was pissed that he hadn’t done it earlier. By Sunday night there were literally hundreds of scuff marks and dusty imprints on the blacktop surface. The FBI field agent in charge called the hotel manager after he noticed a security camera focused over the corner of the building. The camera fed a five-inch monitor at the front desk, but no tape deck. Then he remembered seeing cutaways of the crowd in the news tape. There must have been dozens of people with home video cameras. Maybe someone’s coverage would include shots of the parking lot. Maybe they’d get really lucky and see video of the killer leaving.

By Thursday morning he had six tapes in his hands that contained other angles of the podium and the confusion after the shooting. An unexpected surprise in one of the tapes was a shot of the St. Charles parking lot. Beth Thomas recommended that the desk match up the cars with the hotel patrons. Check-in required that they list the make and model of their vehicles. Seven cars belonged to Hudsonians who were on hand for the congressman’s speech. Six belonged to the firemen on duty at J.W. Edmonds Hose Co #1. Nine were hotel staff. That left twelve more cars to identify. They were able to put a name to ten of them. Two more were unknown. None, of course, belonged to McAlister.

Beth was working in the parking lot where the two mystery cars still remained. Fortunately, it hadn’t rained in a few weeks and there was a significant layer of dust on the ground.

“Roy. Get on down to the parking lot. I have something for you to see,” she keyed into her walkie talkie. “And don’t even think of coming within ten feet of me!”

“Roger that,” Bessolo said. He radioed his senior photographer to get up on the roof. “I want this fully recorded. You get everything she’s doing on tape with the closest shot you can.”

“Beth,” he said calling back on the run to the parking lot, “we’re going to get some shots from above. You let us know when we can come closer. This thing has to be recorded. Now what the fuck do you have?”

“An indentation that looks like it’s off the same shoe in 301. Looks like,” she repeated. “Not sure yet. I need to isolate this. If there’s so much as a mild breeze, this thing is lost.”

Everyone froze for ten minutes as Beth leaned over the imprint. She took her time, like a jeweler adjusting the works of a fine watch. Few others would have had the patience to explore the ground in such detail. Beth liked to earn her money and she didn’t mind the attention. Bessolo’s team watched and waited for her signal.

“It’s Lamden,” Newman announced to his boss. “You should take his call now. It’s been four days.”

“I suppose so.”

Newman held the phone for him. Theodore Lodge took measured paces across his living room. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except his campaign manager since his New York press conference. Not even the president.

“Hello, Henry,” he said softly.

“Hello, Ted.”

Henry Lamden was a well-respected career politician. And he was a maverick. Of course, coming from Montana, such things were allowed. He talked like a cowboy, walked like a cowboy, wore a Stetson, and often spun yarns instead of holding conversations. The grizzled 66-year-old lawmaker could ride and rope. He also could fight hard, as he had on the Gulf and in the campaign.

“Hello, Ted. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. I hope you understand why I wasn’t up to taking your calls before,” Lodge replied.

Lamden pushed ahead without further personal comment.

“Or course, but you’ve got a decision to make. There are a lot of people waiting to know what you’re gonna do. And I’m at the top of that list.”

“Yes, I’d say you are.”

“You’ve got the numbers, Ted. What are you going to do?”

Lodge closed his eyes. “Would you like me to concede?”

“Jesus, don’t ask me that. You got most of New York and Rhode Island. The nomination is yours if you want it. It’s got to be your decision, not mine.”

Newman couldn’t hear what the governor was saying, but he knew from Lodge’s comments that this was a seminal deliberation.

“I’ve been trying to find meaning in all of this, Henry. It’s been a difficult week.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help….” The governor’s words trailed off. He really did hate losing. It wasn’t part of his character. He had won every seat he’d ever run for and he had been just one primary away from narrowly winning the party’s nomination for president.

“What was that, Henry? You were saying?”

The mood was changing. The governor could feel it. It was pure business now.

“What are you going to do, Congressman?”

Lodge walked the wireless telephone over to a green leather armchair in his study. “That’s a very good question, Governor. I know what the convention would like to see.”

“You’ll have to help me with this,” Governor Lamden stated.

“A unified ticket,” Lodge explained. “Unbeatable in my estimation.”

The governor understood from friends on the Hill that Congressman Lodge could be coldly direct. He was now experiencing it first hand. Lodge had turned on a dime from the grieving widower to the calculating pol.

“And who’s on top?”

“Yes, I suppose that is the big question,” Lodge added “Who’s on top? But for purely argument’s sake, Governor, if you’re not, what would you do?”

Lodge heard a prolonged sigh. “If you’re asking me to join you as vice president, I’ll have to think about that.”

“You do that, Henry. It may be as close as you’ll ever get to the Oval Office.”