Executive Actions (20 page)

“Well, I got very, very scared. Scared about what my dad would do. And scared that I had blown it. Basically, I wasn’t a bad kid. Maybe he sensed it. The cop just watched me in the rear view mirror. We must have sat there for ten minutes before he turned around and said something.”

Katie followed the story word for word. “What did he say?”

“He gave me a choice. Go to jail, where he figured I’d be rather unhappy. Or drive across the valley to see a friend who he said would straighten me out.

“Now I didn’t know who the ‘friend’ was, but the idea of jail wasn’t on the top of my list. He said I had to make up my mind by the time he returned to the squad car after giving the clerk my money.”

Roarke’s lips were dry from all of his talking. He finished his glass of port, wiped his mouth and asked, “Are you sure I’m not boring you?”

“Oh, no. Tell me. What happened? Who’s the friend?”

“He came back with a coffee for himself and a donut for me. Jesus, that surprised me. And he asked if I’d made a decision. I was slow on the uptake. I saw his eyes in the mirror close. ‘Sorry, kid, you’re going to jail.’

“I said, ‘Wait, wait! Please!’ We sat there for another few minutes. Finally he said, ‘A few minutes ago you wanted donuts real badly. Not hungry now?’ Well, I started crying. ‘Okay,’ I said. And I had a bite. We still sat there and then I gave him, what do they call it, the magic words?”

“‘I’m sorry?’”

“That’s exactly what I told him. I saw him crack a smile and then we left. After about a mile I asked who we were going to see.”

“Who was it?”

“He didn’t say a word. We got on the freeway and drove for a good twenty-five minutes. A few blocks before stopping he told me, ‘You can take a bus to here.’ He pointed to the intersection. ‘It’s about ninety minutes each way. Twice a week. If I hear you’re not coming and you don’t have a fucking good reason, I’ll throw your ass in jail so fast you won’t know what happened.”

“So where?”

“An academy for martial arts.”

“Karate.”

“Actually Tae Kwon Do. And it changed my life.”

“We walked in and he spoke to an Asian man about 5’8” who didn’t look particularly strong. I learned differently. He walked over to me and bowed. Not knowing what to do, I automatically bowed back. ‘Very good,’ he said in a Korean accent. ‘He’ll make a good student.’ He bowed to the policeman and went to a display counter where he pulled out a traditional white uniform for me. ‘Here, put this on. It will fit.’ Apparently he was used to the cop hauling in students.”

“This is incredible,” Katie said excitedly. Who was he?”

“His name is Jun Chong, and he’s one of the leading martial arts masters in the country. His Tae Kwon Do classes are based on respect, discipline, character building and oh yes, self defense. And he is incredible.”

“So you did it? You went right into it?”

“Instantly. And was I ever bad. But I went there every week. Not twice a week, but four times a week. I trained every chance I had except when I was on the road with my dad. And my grades went up. I developed confidence. And word got around, too. The townies stopped messing with me. I never even had to fight to prove myself.”

As Katie listened she became more aware of the strength and power of the man opposite her. His muscles pushed at the seams of his shirt and jacket sleeves. His face appeared rugged and tight. She imagined him naked and became breathless at the thought. But his eyes still gave him away as the sensitive boy who got caught by the policeman. Katie leaned across the table and kissed him.

“What’s that for?”

“That? That’s for
starters
,” she said with a coy smile. “Now go on. You’re still only, what, seventeen?”

“Right,” Roarke said smiling. “That was nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There’s more where that came from, but go on.”

“Well, okay.” He was flustered and liked it. Recovering he said, “Let’s see. During a demo my senior year I saw an army guy talk to Master Chong. I didn’t pay too close attention until my Master signaled for me. I’d just broken three separate boards with three kicks while jumping in the air and not touching the ground. Two were held to the side, another higher up. I ran over and bowed and he said, ‘Mr. Roarke, meet Lieutenant Cutler. He wants to talk to you.’”

“I didn’t know it then, but apparently he was from a place called ‘The Fortress,’ Fort Bragg, North Carolina,” Roarke explained. “A fairly foreboding location I came to know quite well. Army Special Operations Command. Abbreviated USASOC. Apparently my martial arts training gave me a leg up for his particular line of work.

“Which was…”

“Same question I asked.”

“And he said?”

“‘None of my business unless I made it my business.’”

“Oh that answers everything.”

“He told me I had to accept the job offer on faith. That I was ready and that he wanted me. I said I needed to talk to three people first.”

“Three?”

“My father. Master Chong. And a policeman in Canoga Park.”

“What did they say?” Katie begged.

“My dad said he was sorry he hadn’t been there for me, but I should do what I needed to do. Master Chong bowed at the waist, put his right palm over his left fist in greeting and said I should serve my country. And the policeman, Jim LaRosa, hugged me like I was his own son and cried. He had paid for all of my studies. All of them.”

Tears formed in Katie’s eyes and soon spilled down her cheeks. Roarke reached over and kissed them away. He continued quietly. “Two years later I went into the field and there wasn’t a desert hole or a jungle high hide where I didn’t think of LaRosa and how much he helped me.”

Katie fought back more tears and flashed a confused look. “A jungle what?”

“A high hide. A place to hide, way up. Usually waiting for animals. But I tracked the two-legged kinds. The ones with guns.”

“Where?”

“That’s one thing I can’t really talk about.”

“What did you do?”

“That’s another. But I can tell you one thing,” her eyes sparkled through her tears. “I saw a lot of the world for free.”

“Oh you,” she said pulling one hand away to dab her cheeks with the napkin. “Well, now you’ve settled down for a nice safe job like protecting the President of the United States.”

He laughed. “Yeah. But it comes with a really great 401K.” Roarke leaned across the table again and kissed her. This time on the lips. And this time they both lingered, exploring each other’s senses, tastes and smells.

When he opened his eyes he asked, “Ready, Katie?”

“Oh yes,” she said, answering a number of questions at the same time.

R
oarke stood and casually glanced in the direction of the man he dubbed Crabbe. Even through his story telling he had been aware of Crabbe’s mannerisms and mood; everything about him was suspect.

Using the simple distraction of putting his wallet away, Roarke allowed himself a moment to study Crabbe’s features. In an instant he was convinced he could provide a complete and accurate description. He also noticed the man was also prepared to leave. His bill was paid. Cash. And most importantly, he never touched his drink. Crabbe was sober and ready to move. If he came in following Katie, he was definitely going to leave with Roarke.

Outside, Roarke and Katie made a left up Chestnut Street toward Beacon Hill. A few paces took them to Charles Street where Roarke knew he’d quickly be able to hail a cab. At the corner he casually moved his arm around Katie, turning her body slightly. She smiled, but Roarke’s motives were purely professional. He maneuvered himself to look back down the street. Crabbe was no more than twenty paces behind them. Their eyes briefly met and Crabbe slowed down and checked his watch in a highly transparent diversion.

Roarke angled back to Charles Street and struck his hand up to signal a cab. Katie smiled more.
No walk home up the hill. Tonight we’ll get way passed the front door.

But when the brown and white Boston Cab pulled up, Roarke quickly opened the door, let Katie take a seat and then whispered, “You go home. There’s a man following us.” He handed her a twenty. “I’ll call you later.” Roarke tapped the roof twice. The cab began to roll even before he closed the door on his startled date. Now he searched the street for Crabbe.

“Okay where are you?” Roarke whispered. Crabbe was gone.

He retraced a few steps, looked into an empty alley, and then back down Chesnut Street.
Damn.
The authentic Back Bay street lamps actually offered little illumination. Primarily they were there for the ambiance. Roarke could have used more right now. That’s when he caught a shadow crossing under a tree at the corner of Chesnut Street and Mugar Way. He dashed down the street only to realize he had made an error and lost time. He had pursued a man walking his dog.

Roarke focused his senses. Footsteps behind him.
Too short and deliberate,
he thought. He was right. He stepped aside to let an elderly woman pass.

Roarke double-backed again up Chestnut. That’s when it happened. From his blindside, behind and to the right.

Roarke was lifted off his feet and slammed against a parked van with the full force of the Crabbe. He fell to one knee with a pain racking through his left shoulder. The assailant had emerged with a running start from between two brownstones. Seconds ago Roarke was on the offense. Now he was off balance, unable to quickly steady himself. He felt cold steel pressed into his side; a thin rod, probably a silencer in the hands of a hired killer. Roarke knew it would be a painful mortal shot, but from where it was held, not an instant death. His mind raced through purely defensive moves and then to something more practical.
Get Crabbe to talk.

“You’re not going to want to make a mess here,” Roarke said with no fear in his voice. “Witnesses are all around.”

“Shut up!”

Crabbe had a deep, dangerous, cold-blooded voice.

“Let’s see,” Roarke said daring to continue his taunt. “You followed me? No. You followed the girl. Right?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Crabbe said louder than he should have. The outburst told Roarke what he needed to know.

“So you know she talked to me. That’s what Marcus wanted to find out. But you weren’t supposed to be noticed. So you fucked up. And now you have to do something about it.”

Roarke struck another nerve because Crabbe bore the gun further into his side. The Secret Service agent winced at the pressure.

“I’d say you have a problem.”

“Get up,” Crabbe demanded. He stepped back giving Roarke room to rise, but the gun was still on him.

“And now we’re going to go somewhere,” Roarke said as he slowly got to his feet.

“You bet your sweet ass.”

By rising Roarke had been able to re-position his body so the gun, in Crabbe’s right hand, was more on his back, no longer pressing into softer flesh. He could maneuver.

In those few seconds, Roarke had enough time to size up his enemy. He sensed that Crabbe was worried. He’d blown it. He should have disappeared and he didn’t. Now he had to do something about it. Roarke assumed they’d take a walk across Storrow Drive to the Esplanade along the Charles River. In the moonless night, Crabbe would cover his tracks. But he wouldn’t get that chance. With one swift move, Roarke stepped slightly forward and to the side. He pushed his right elbow back sliding Crabbe’s gun off its mark. He swung his body around to the right, bringing his left hand down on Crabbe’s wrist.

Roarke’s right hand also went for the gun. He could have done it blindfolded. It was a classic move. With his thumb on Crabbe’s palm and his fingers on the top of his hand, he drove the gun back towards Crabbe’s body in an unnatural and instantly crippling way. The pressure of the two hands working against Crabbe’s fragile bones, and a corresponding twisting action to the right and the weight of Roarke’s forearm coming down on his wrist, forced Crabbe to release the weapon. They both heard the bones split.

Crabbe felt the excruciating pain pulsate through his body.

Roarke then kicked the gun into the street, but that allowed Crabbe to get a half a step jump on him. Crabbe was in no position to fight, at least until he had the advantage again.

Cars honked as he darted between a VW and an Explorer on Mugar. Roarke hesitated, allowing the cars to pass before he followed.

Crabbe jumped a two-foot fence onto Storrow Drive. He raced around six or seven cars, getting side-swiped by one, but he continued with about twenty yards on Roarke.

Roarke was in great shape. So was Crabbe. The man ran through his pain until he got about midway through an open expanse of the Esplanade in front of the Hatch Shell where the Boston Pops play during the summer. Roarke saw him stop and kneel as if trying to remove something from his pant leg.

There were only ten yards between them now. The light from a car heading around a curve on Storrow Drive squarely hit Crabbe. For barely an instant Roarke saw the glint of metal from a snub nose gun.

Instinctively, Roarke dove to his right, counter to where he bet Crabbe would shoot. Crabbe’s perspective was left to right and he would almost assuredly expect his adversary to move the same way. His mistake. The bullet missed him by three feet.

Crabbe responded to the sound of Roarke rolling and immediately adjusted his aim. Another bullet struck the ground near him. Too close; only inches away. During his roll, Roarke reached for his Sig Sauer P229 under his jacket, then reconsidered. Crabbe got off another shot. Three misses, not unexpected since he was firing with his left hand.

Roarke knew he had one chance; two at the most. But if he fired and missed in the dark, Crabbe would see the flash and know exactly where he was. With the cars speeding by in the background it was hard to sort out forms in the foreground. But Roarke calculated where Crabbe would be. He reached inside his left vest pocket and put his hands on a pen, a special order from BingShot, an Internet site. The functional blue ballpoint had dual purpose, which became obvious with the twist of the top. A two-and-a-half inch 42052 stainless steel blade extended. For $5.00 Roarke had a silent weapon which he didn’t hesitate using.

Roarke needed one distraction, if only for a moment. He grunted, ducked and rolled to his right. Crabbe heard the sound and shot wide and behind him. Roarke rebounded with a silent back flip to a crouching position. He dove low and fast directly into Crabbe’s blind side and stuck the knife into his side, twisting as he pushed. With his other hand he applied a penetrating pinch to Crabbe’s wrist, which released the gun. Crabbe tried to reach for it, but this was his fourth mistake of the night. It only drove the knife deeper, severing vital arteries. The assailant crumbled to his knees, looking at nothing in particular. Then he slumped to the ground, dead.

Roarke quickly searched the body for identification. He discovered a wallet. It was impossible to clearly see what was inside, but it appeared that Crabbe carried different identity cards. Roarke put it in his pocket and ran down the Esplanade toward the Longfellow Bridge.

Roarke would have a great deal of explaining to do. But he preferred to talk to the FBI over the Boston Police.

Roarke slowed down when he reached Cambridge Street. He caught his breath and called FBI Director Robert Mulligan’s direct line, dictating the names he found in the wallet for the bureau to run.

A few minutes later Roarke called Katie who nervously answered the phone on the first ring. “Scott?” It had been twenty minutes since Roarke rushed her into the cab.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Look, I’m heading back home. I’m awfully sorry about tonight. I really wanted to spend more time with you, but I had say goodbye to our
friend
.”

Katie listened carefully. He was not all right. Something was wrong, but she took his cues and waited.

“I’ll give you a shout. Okay?”

“Okay,” she offered tentatively. “And you’re sure you’re—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be back in town soon, let’s play then. Let me know if anyone says anything about our
friend
.”

An awful possibility abruptly struck her.
Did Scott kill the man?
Then she thought something more worrisome.
The man could have killed Scott.

“You be careful,” she pleaded.

“I will. I promise. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

He ended the call and watched her pass by her front window three stories above Grove Street. He wasn’t leaving. Not yet. He decided to watch Katie’s apartment for the night. This last episode came a little too close for comfort. He considered the possibility of pulling her into an FBI safe house, then decided against it. Crabbe had followed Katie, but he got what he wanted. He saw that she was having dinner with the Secret Service agent. That’s what he would have reported. Better she simply go back to work and not raise any suspicions by her absence. Crabbe’s death would read like a robbery to everyone except Haywood Marcus. And Bob Mulligan would get a judge to approve a wire tape.

Katie peered into the night sky, then slowly closed her curtains. She looked beautiful in silhouette against the backlight of her room. Roarke watched, longing to be with her as the lights went out,

“Thanks for coming by, Governor,” Lodge replied. “Burlington isn’t the easiest of commutes.”

“No problem Teddy. I’ve been looking forward to sitting down with you.”

“Anything to drink?”

“A beer will do. Coors if you have it.”

The congressman nodded to Geoff Newman who gave him a high sign that he’d be back with the beer.

“And take your time, Geoff,” Lodge said.

“He’s always around,” the Congressman confessed. “Sometimes it drives me crazy. I still don’t know where I’ll put him once
we’re
in the White House.”

“‘Once we’re in,’ Congressman?” Governor Lamden observed. “I’ve heard that you’ve spoken to a number of potential running mates.”

“For show, Henry. The job’s yours. Like I told you and Wendell, I know we can win
together
. We can beat Taylor and we can beat him good. I’m not so sure if anyone else could make it as my running mate. Maybe Reeves from Kentucky. But just between us, I doubt it. The two of us—that’s a different story.
We can
take the country. We can help the party and bring more Democrats into the House and Senate. And we can really change the world.”

“Are you giving me one of your campaign speeches, Congressman?”

Lodge didn’t like being lectured. All manner of friendliness evaporated.

“Henry, I’m giving you the chance to get your fucking name on a political button,” he shouted. “You can be Vice President of the United States. Take it or leave it.”

Newman entered the room. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Your drinks. Or would you prefer pistols at dawn?”

“Oh, I see you’ve been listening. We’re fine, Newman,” Lamden declared. “The Congressman is just insistent that I become the second most powerful man on the face of the earth. I had my sights set on being number one.”

“What do they say, Henry?” Newman said. “One heartbeat away. It’s still closer than anyone else.”

The governor forced a smile. He glanced at Newman wondering,
Who really will be number two?
Then he said, “You have yourself a running mate, Congressman.”

Lodge smiled. He’d won again.

“Tell you what. Let me propose a toast,” Newman added as he passed the drinks around. “To the next President and Vice President of the United States. Lodge and Lamden.”

Lamden faced both Newman and Lodge. There was awkward silence, then the governor lifted his glass. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

The bell chimed as the elevator door opened to the main reception area for Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus. Katie Kessler stepped off with three other people. She breezed passed the reception desk and walked down the hall toward her office.

“Good morning, Miss Kessler.”

The voice belonged to Haywood Marcus.
Oh shit!
He intercepted her near a conference room; an intended encounter that Katie read right through.

“Good morning, Mr. Marcus,” she said with a grin. Katie juggled her pocket book and brief case to free up a hand for shaking.

Marcus took it and studied her for a moment through an insincere smile. He didn’t read any nervousness in his associate. She was calm, friendly, and perfectly relaxed. Apparently she had a quiet evening. But he’d wait for the report from his man to find out more.
Odd though, he hasn’t called yet
.