Executive Actions (19 page)

They drank all of Nunes coffee and pissed it all away. And then Powder poured from his thermos. And on it went until mid-afternoon.

After sharing sandwiches Nunes caught his breath. “Alfred, are you all right?” Dr. Powder asked. It took a moment for the old lawyer to respond. He suddenly felt a wave of extreme apprehension pass over him. He looked up, as if he heard some far away sound and then shook it off.

“I’m okay now. I, I just felt displaced. I’m fine,” he said slurring his words slightly. “Now where we were, ah yes, the courtroom performance of Edward J. Reilly during his defense of Bruno Hauptmann in the Lindbergh case.”

Powder picked up the conversation, but stopped in mid-sentence when he noted that Nunes’ face was twitching and his left lip drooped.

“Alfred, you really don’t look good.”

“Oh, nonsense. I haven’t felt this alive in years.” Which, of course, wasn’t true. Nunes began to realize his face was simultaneously feeling numb and twitching uncontrollably. And his stomach was queasy.

Nunes hadn’t even realized he had let a minute slip by before responding.

“You’re not well,” my friend. “I better get you some help.”

Another minute before Nunes responded.

“Yes, yes. You’re right. Please go,” he said, gripping his chest. “My heart. I believe I’m having a heart attack.” His heart was pounding irregularly and powerfully.

Professor George Powder leaned closer. “Alfred you do look terrible.”

“Please, go now. I need a doctor.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Powder declared rising up over his recent acquaintance.

Nunes, doubled over twisted his head and peered deeply into Powder’s brown eyes. They were no longer friendly, no longer warm. He was vaguely aware that Powder, straightened up, looked cold and cruel, not a bit arthritic. And he appeared to have gained two inches.

“Sodium morphate.” Powder began, “It’s an absolutely wonderful substance to work with.”

Nunes listened and watched through his increasing pain.

“You never came across it in one of your distinguished cases, Alfred? I’m surprised.”

Nunes looked confused.

“Probably not the thing a country lawyer would. Anyway, Alfred, it’s quite beyond the scope of most coroners. You see the toxin is nearly impossible to identify. The symptoms it produces are most often associated with heart attacks. Just what you thought. And old men do get heart attacks, even when they’re fishing.”

Powder sat down again, directly opposite Nunes. “Sodium Morphate is light and compact. You weren’t aware of it at all in the coffee I served, were you?”

Nunes was writhing.

“Of course you weren’t, Alfred. I like it when I’m not in a rush because it takes anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours. And we did have such a lively discussion while I waited. Wouldn’t you agree?” he added with a laugh.

“Well, once in your body, it goes after the active cells—the ones feeding your body chemicals. And then it expands to six times its mass. That means it stops your active cells from getting energy. The result, which you’re currently experiencing, is that your heart and brain strain and eventually shut down. As sodium morphate does its particular dirty work it metabolizes into your body’s natural chemicals. Voila. It disappears in the victim.”

Nunes was in terrible pain. He doubled over and then started shaking.

“Ah, and you’re the victim, Alfred. Feel the convulsions?” Powder said coldly. “I imagine they’re very uncomfortable. You’ll be interested in knowing that Sodium Morphate is quite historic. The Mafia endorses its use, though I can’t quote exact cases for you. The British forces were rather fond of the drug for assassinations in World War II. But the Bay of Pig conspirators screwed it up when they tried to kill Fidel Castro. Well, I can see I don’t have time to go into that now.”

“All in all,” he added as Nunes was dying, “It’s a marvelous substance. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Nunes barely managed a faint, “Why?”

“Was that ‘why?’ Alfred? Why? Oh, it’s all about an old client of yours we failed to discuss. I suppose time was not on your side.”

Nunes died with an utterly confused expression on his face.

Powder gathered his things together. He washed his thermos bottle in the stream, removed all other visible signs that the old lawyer had had a companion, and left.

Like his vitae and his license, his name was a complete fabrication. He had picked Powder specifically for this job and rather enjoyed the humor in it. The stories he shared with Nunes were true, but they were not the scholarly interpretations of the law by a retired teacher. They were the musings of an assassin with a great many identities who just read a lot.

H
aywood Marcus only carried his briefcase. He left Boston early in the morning and intended to return in the evening. Haddad was not pleased about seeing him after all these years, but he granted him a one-hour audience over lunch at his Fisher Island condo.

Marcus wore a lightweight cotton-linen blend three piece pin stripe suit; the perfect summer travel outfit. It hardly showed a wrinkle.

The lawyer also loved the theatrics the suit provided. It did a lot for a man, especially a lawyer in court. He could take off his jacket in mid argument and still look masterful. He could slip his century old pocket watch out, open up the gold case, slowly check the time, then return to a witness, while holding every member of the jury spellbound. The suit was also Marcus’ armor. He felt more secure wearing it. It gave him the air of authority he wanted today.

Ibrahim Haddad’s men were waiting for Marcus when his ferry docked at Fisher Island. They didn’t identify themselves, but they stood out. They had on loose-fitting warm-up suits. Marcus assumed they carried an assortment of firepower under the zip-up jackets.

Marcus followed them to a golf cart. One of the two drove, the other sat facing backward. Watching. The ride took ten minutes and covered acres of picturesque Fisher Island. They passed condominium towers owned by television hosts and actresses, retired doctors, bankers and stockbrokers, and younger people with fast cash. They drove around launches that housed multi-million dollar yachts. One of them, a 64-foot Aleutian AC-64, with a top speed of 22 knots, belonged to Haddad.

Marcus never sailed on it. And never wanted to. He’d heard stories; all rumor he hoped, but enough to tell him he didn’t want to castoff with Haddad.

“Good afternoon, my friend,” Haddad said welcoming the Boston attorney with out-stretched arms.

“Hello Ibrahim.” Marcus returned in a warm hug.

“How many years? Thirty. No, nearly 35. And you look as young and fit as ever, Marcus.”

“Thank you. As do you.”

“Oh no. But I don’t expect honesty from a Boston lawyer. Just a good argument.”

They both laughed. Haddad escorted the visitor into a pure white Florida room with a brilliant Southeast view of the harbor. “We’ll be comfortable in here. July is not the time for outside conversation.” Haddad was also always concerned about any potential eavesdroppers, though there were none today.

As soon as they sat down Haddad rang for his chef. Almost all of his meals were cooked by a Frenchman on his payroll for two decades. “Louis has prepared exceptional fare for us today.”

“Why, yes,” the handsome 54-year-old chef explained through his accent. “Beluga caviar on a potato split in half no bigger than a quarter. Eggs Florentine swimming under a delicious hollandaise sauce, followed by a pineapple, strawberry sorbet. And, of course, coffees of your choice. Oh, to start, a peach sparkling wine.” Haddad didn’t want to waste good French champagne on Marcus.

“Sounds delectable,” the lawyer said.

“Then we begin,” the chef added.

The discussion covered years of nothingness while the men were served. Every time Marcus tried to get to his agenda Ibrahim Haddad chided him, “Oh not now, my friend. Let us eat and enjoy ourselves before business.”

Finally, with only ten minutes left to the hour reserved by Haddad, he snapped his fingers. All of his men quickly left the room.

“Now that we are alone, listen to me carefully,” the Miami businessman said sharply. “You will never call me again. You will never see me again. Today, we have talked—you and I—about a potential buyer I seek for my boat. But you have changed my mind. It would not be advisable given the tax issues. Do you understand.”

There was only one possible answer for Marcus to give. His suit offered him no protection. “Yes.”

“Now tell me in two minutes why you dared come here.”

Marcus was a brilliant lawyer. He was usually the one intimidating others. Now he felt the power of a greater adversary. He choked on his first few words. “Ibrahim, I’m sorry if I violated our confidences. But I believed this was too important to discuss over the telephone.”

Haddad looked at his watch.

“A Secret Service Agent came to the office,” the lawyer managed. “He may have seen some of the Lodge legal work.”

“Stop,” Haddad proclaimed. “You think I need you to tell me who is prying? There are actually two. One I read every day in
The New York Times.
The other, I understand is, as you say, a Secret Service man.”

Marcus was aghast.

“Don’t be surprised, my friend. You’re not the only one at your establishment that I employ. Or do you think so highly of yourself that you were irreplaceable all these years?”

Haywood Marcus, never lost for a word, could not speak.

“So here’s what you do from now on. And pay strict attention. You will refrain from speaking with me
unless
I initiate contact. And only then in the proscribed manner. You will continue to do as I say, when I say it. And you will now leave.”

Haddad stood, towering over the seated visitor. “Oh, and by the way,” he added as an after thought, “Thanks to your failings, I’ve decided to take care of some loose ends. Tidying up some. Haywood, don’t be one of them,” Haddad said.

Haddad turned to leave and raised a finger. “One additional thing,” he added. “My men will give you a tour of my yacht.”

Marcus stiffened. Haddad smiled.

“Oh come now. It’s not what you think. You’ll need to write me a note about why I shouldn’t sell. Leave it with my men. It’ll memorialize our business today. Then go.”

Marcus caught himself nodding well beyond the time that Haddad was out of the room. He was unaware that Haddad’s men had entered.

“This way,” the biggest of the two men demanded.

Marcus rose out of his chair, never so scared in his life.

“H
ey, Scott, can you come back up? I want to show off what I just got you,” Katie said clearly.

Very few people had this particular cell phone number. Roarke had given her specific instructions. “Use it only if it’s important. No, make that very important. Otherwise call the answering service. If it is business related, and it better be, keep your conversation under 18 seconds. And I do mean 18 seconds. Time the call. Those are the rules.”

“But it’s digital service. Nobody can listen in,” she argued.

“Yeah, right.”

“It all sounds so cloak and dagger serious.”

“Eighteen seconds.” And with that, Katie understood he was serious about his phone calls. Now she was on one. She watched the seconds tick by.

“Great honey,” Roarke answered from Washington. “Sounds like fun. Dinner usual place tonight. Eight. Bye.” Click.

Roarke had an unmarked Secret Service vehicle drive him from the White House to Reagan National. Within ninety minutes of hanging up with Katie, he was on the shuttle to Boston. An hour later he was waiting for her at 75 Chestnut—the
usual
place. The only place they’d been to together to eat.

Katie walked in precisely on time. She looked especially radiant in an navy blue suit from Ann Taylor that flattered her in every possible way. Her phone call provided the perfect excuse for him to come up. He wanted to visit anyway, but this made it all the easier.

Roarke had a Lemon Drop Martini waiting for her at the bar. She nestled up to him and surprised him with a gentle kiss on his cheek. He slid up to her ear, with a kiss in return and whispered, “Whatcha got?”

“I’m fine,” she answered coyly pulling away. “And you?”

“Hungry. Let’s get a table.” Roarke put a twenty down for the tab and signaled to the hostess.

After some playful dialogue Katie leaned forward. “You asked if I remembered anything else that might be relevant in the Lodge files.”

“Yes”.

“Well, I did. Nothing legal. But something very interesting. Newspaper clippings.”

“Yeah, I saw some of the headlines. Piano recital. Boy Scouts stuff. So?”

“Do you remember seeing when they were from?”

“No, they were just clippings.”

“Clippings of headlines without stories and stories without pictures. And all torn raggedly.”

Roarke perked up. “Why?”

“That’s what I wondered. Things are removed because we
don’t
want a record of them. This was intentional. They were ripped against the grain. Badly.”

“Keep going.”

“I figured they were from the Marblehead paper, so I went to their archives. I figured Teddy was around age 13 or so in the one I really remembered. I started with the papers in the fall of ’73. I was a little off. He was 14. I found it. Page 11, from a paper on October 17, 1974. It was there on the microfilm.”

“What was there?”

“You
were
looking for a picture, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have one for you. A young Teddy Lodge at his Eagle Scout ceremony.

“Fantastic. What’s it look like?”

“See for yourself.” She took a manila envelope out of her leather attaché case and began to raise it up over her lap. Roarke shook his head “no” and pointed downward with his right hand and put his left under their table. She followed his direction and slid it to him.

He took it and squeezed her hand in thanks.

“Can you tell me why it’s so important?”

Roarke hesitated.

She squeezed his hand back and rested them on his lap. He had an immediate reaction.

“Look,” he said trying to resist the wave of pleasure he was feeling, “I can’t tell you what’s going on, because I don’t know. All I have is a vague feeling. And feelings are signals to me. I listen to them. But the picture may help.”

“How?”

She inched her fingers up his thigh. “What are your feelings telling you now, Mr. Roarke?”

He slowly let out a breath of air. She knew exactly what he was feeling.

“You do listen to your feelings?”

The young waiter came to the table, in Roarke’s estimation, just in time.

“Would you like to hear the specials for tonight?”

They hadn’t even looked at the menu yet. “A few more minutes if we could,” Roarke said.

“Sure. Take your time.” The waiter noticed that Katie was leaning forward and her hand was under the table. “No rush.”

He started walking away and Katie stopped him.

“Actually, we’ll start with some appetizers.” She told him what she’d like and he left.

Roarke smiled. “He saw where your hand was.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Yes he did.”

“Well, I’m sure he’s seen worse.”

Roarke laughed and focused on her eyes. They were sparkling.

After enjoying the moment Roarke said, “Well then, back to work. Do you have anything else?”

“Oh my God, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Marcus removed the Lodge folders. All of them.”

She saw his expression drop.

“Oh, come on silly, he found me in the archives. I had a perfectly good reason for being there.”

Roarke stopped listening. Shivers rippled through his spine. She was compromised. Katie smiled at him, trying to make the moment easier. Roarke’s senses heightened. He looked passed her eyes, over her shoulder, to the bar behind her, about twenty feet away. Reflected in the mirror was a man who looked out of place at 75 Chestnut. He was leaning over a short drink that hadn’t been touched. For a split second he appeared to be studying them in the mirror. When Roarke locked on him the man hastily disengaged. It was enough of a sign to convince Roarke one of them was being followed.

The appetizers arrived. A country paté full of flavor and a delectable Maryland crab cake, prepared with a spicy remoulade and in a crispy, but flaky crust. The crab cake in particular bordered on the erotic. It was deliciously moist and succulent inside. They both felt a certain sexiness about the texture, yet from entirely different points of view. After the first bite, Katie decided to add to the moment. She cut a portion with her fork and fed it to Roarke. He automatically closed his eyes and no longer simply tasted the food. He lost himself in the sensuality of the flavors and where it was taking him. He returned the favor to the equal delight of Katie.

As he fed her, Roarke watched the man at the bar. Dark. Maybe late-30s. Solid body. Very solid. He wore a black crew neck shirt and black loose fitting linen sports coat affixed by the middle button. Black pants. Dark glasses. He went back to the jacket. It was probably one size too big for him. Enough to hide a gun.

Roarke put a name on his adversary. Giving the man an identity made him human; someone he would take seriously, even deadly seriously. This man would be Crabbe, in honor of the first course.

“Katie, excuse me. Gotta make a quick trip to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

In one motion, Roarke rose and slide the manila envelope under his jacket. He ignored Crabbe and walked to the back of 75 Chestnut and into the men’s room. He went to the only stall, opened the envelope and removed the microfilm print of the photograph. The quality was questionable, but there was young Teddy Lodge getting honored as an Eagle Scout. He wore a proud smile with his chest puffed out and his shoulders raised. Lodge’s merit badge sash was filled with the honors he earned on his way to Eagle. He looked like a soldier whose ribbons distinguished his battles, only these were for such achievements as swimming, lifesaving and good citizenship. Roarke realized he never wore the commendations he’d earned in the service. Like this one now, most of his assignments were never formally acknowledged.

He put the photograph in his inside jacket pocket and ripped up the envelope into small pieces. It took three flushes to get it all down. When he finished he returned to the table, catching Crabbe peripherally. He hadn’t moved or touched his drink.

“Sorry. So, what are we having for dinner?” he asked Katie.

“Well, this time, I have my eye on the lobster lasagna,” she said. “The waiter took one to that couple.” She nudged her shoulder toward a table to the right. “Looks scrumptious.” She paused, “Like you.”

“Well, the lobster it is.”

“Lobster lasagna,” she corrected.

He missed the compliment, his mind was elsewhere, figuring and planning on what to do about Crabbe when it was time to leave.

The dinner was a delight. Katie’s recommendation was superb. The lobster’s shell was placed on top of layers of pasta filled with lobster amidst an ocean of tomato-cream sauce. If it was too rich, neither Katie nor Roarke minded. It was the way they fed each other that made it so enjoyable. For dessert they chose another appealing creation, the tiramisu. Katie considered the evening quite romantic, except for times when Roarke seemed distracted. The dinner was filled with soft and sensual foods; intentional choices that she hoped would serve as the appetizer for the rest of the evening.

As they ate, they talked about themselves and what filled their lives.

“I worked too hard at college,” Katie explained. “I never had any free time at Smith. Everyone else spent weekends in New Haven or New York. I lived in the library for four years. I gained weight, forgot about friends and ignored men.”

“Something changed. You’re tanned, you obviously exercise and I don’t feel ignored,” Roarke said.

“Thank you, Mr. Perceptive. I sort of came out of my shell at Harvard Law School. I met a med student who was the polar opposite. Everything came easily to him. He could touch a text and come away knowing the material. And that’s what he did to me. The trouble was I stopped studying and started playing. I guess I’m catching up for lost time.”

Katie took a sip of Dolce, a delicious late harvest desert wine from Far Niente vineyards in Napa. Roarke preferred his port, a 20-year-old Fonseco. “A long story short, it took me an extra year to get through Harvard.”

“And your med student?”

“He became a doctor and as far as I know he’s now practicing on someone else,” she said laughing. “But he did teach me a thing or two. I picked up sailing because of him. I exercise pretty rigorously. And I developed into the woman who sits before you.”

“Who is most delightful,” Roarke dared to say.

“And you, Mister Roarke. Is there
anything
you can tell me about yourself?”

The question he always avoided answering.

He hesitated and looked everywhere but at Katie.

“Oh come now, it can’t be that hard.”

His eyes met hers. He smiled. He actually wanted to tell her.

“You’re something. You know that?”

“I know. But we’re not talking about me. Now where were you born?”

Roarke took a big sip of his drink and gave in.

“I was born in Phoenix.” And he stopped.

“Well that clears it all up.” She made a gesture in the air jokingly and said, “Check please.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “You win. My father was a long haul truck driver and my mom did every odd job imaginable during the year so she could take off summers. We’d all drive back and forth across the country. I have vivid memories of those great stretches of road—through Utah, Colorado, Wyoming. I loved it. A lot of country music and laughing together.”

“When I was ten, my father’s company went under and he took another job at a company based in Canoga Park, California, just outside of Los Angeles. We moved and it was pretty hard on me. The neighborhood was rough and we lived in a shitty tract house. My father always said it was temporary. But we never left.”

“They’re still there?”

“My dad is. Retired. My mom died,” Roarke said sadly.

Katie watched his whole physique, totally contained a moment ago, change. She sensed the presence of a young boy inside this hardened man.

“I’m sorry,” she said taking his hand.

“Me, too. Cancer. She was a two-pack a day smoker. It was awful.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen. Not a fun time. Of course, my dad had to keep driving. He was away about twenty-five days out of every month, so I kind of became a latch key kid and a surrogate son to a neighbor down the street. They basically took over and it wasn’t quite good enough.”

“What do you mean?” Katie asked.

“I lived in gang territory.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Hispanic and Black turf. Block by block. And I couldn’t ever seem to get to school or back home without trouble. I did learn how to run fast,” he added with a chuckle. “But a lot of times I didn’t get away. So, just to stay alive, I took up with some white kids I’d never otherwise hang around. And I picked up all the bad things you can imagine.”

Roarke paused. He was ready to stop, having told her far more than he ever felt possible.

“You really want to hear this?”

Katie squeezed his hand and caressed his fingers with her thumb, encouraging him to continue.

“Summers were okay because I’d go on the road with my dad. Before I had my license he had me driving the semi while other truckers kept an eye out for police and radioed us if I had to pull over and switch seats. Hell, I think I was only fifteen. And it was the most fun I ever had. I got damned good at driving the thing at 90.”

“During my junior year at school the gang stuff got worse. I’d been a decent student up until then, but it all went to shit. One day I got caught running out of a 7-11 with some awful donuts I lifted. Donuts. A big heist. Well, I ran right into a police car. I mean right smack into it as it was pulling up. The clerk came screaming out of the store. I threw the donuts at him and tried to take off. Now here’s where it gets interesting. A cop got out, grabbed me by the arm, got my right hand and put me in some sort of hold. Not a hard one, but I couldn’t move. I’d never seen anything like it before. I was completely immobilized. He told me to give him money for the donuts, which I did, and then he asked me to get in the back of his cruiser. He wasn’t really asking. I’m cleaning up the story a little.”

“I’m sure you are. Go on,” Katie pronounced with real interest.