Executive Actions (26 page)

“Hello, I’m Frannie. Welcome, Mr. O’Connell,” Lodge’s trusted assistant said as she entered the waiting room.

“Thank you, Frannie.” He made a mental note of her name.

“Mr. Newman will see you now, Mr. O’Connell. Right this way.”

“Great.”

As they walked, Frannie whispered, “You know he hates doing these kind of things.”

“Oh?” the reporter answered.

Realizing she had already said too much to a reporter, she tried correcting herself. “Mr. Newman believes that it’s not his job to get attention. But recently it’s been so difficult for the congressman. He hasn’t wanted to be out much in public.”

“Of course.”

By now they arrived at Newman’s office. Frannie led him in. O’Connell didn’t wait for an introduction or for Newman to stand or notice him. “Mr. Newman, I appreciate the time. Michael O’Connell.” He held out his hand.

Newman stood, nodded and took his hand as if it were an inconvenience.

“Sit down.” Almost painfully he added, “Please.”

“You’re not comfortable being interviewed,” O’Connell stated as he took out a digital recorder, a pen and a reporter’s notepad.

“I prefer working behind the scenes, Mr. O’Connell. But I do appreciate all that you’re doing for us on the campaign.”

“I’m not doing anything for you, sir.”

Newman realized his faux pas. “I meant to say you’ve taken such care to present an accurate picture during a difficult time.”

O’Connell tipped his pen as an acknowledgement and went to his questions. The recorder quietly memorialized the interview.

“You met Teddy Lodge at Harvard Essex. What did you see in each other?”

“Very good question, Mr. O’Connell. You know how they say opposites attract. That’s what we were. I wasn’t an athlete or an outgoing kid. I kept to my books and pretty much had no friends. I probably wouldn’t have even known Teddy except for the fact that I wrote him after his accident. Eventually I went to see him. We became friends. It’s as simple as that.”

“How often did you travel to Vermont to visit?”

“Weekends, generally.”

“Every weekend?”

“Not every weekend.”

O’Connell pressed. “Most weekends?”

“Many weekends. I think we can leave it at that.”

“And no one else came along?”

“He didn’t even want to see me, at first. He didn’t want any friends to come by. The state he was in. Pretty badly hurt. His parents were gone. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

“But why you?” O’Connell pressed. “No offense, Mr. Newman, but why did he bond with you?”

“I was there,” Newman answered sternly. He had obviously taken offense.

“Only you?”

“Yes.”

O’Connell was aware the answers were getting shorter and the atmosphere was becoming more charged. He smiled to lighten the mood and hopefully encourage more.

“Is that why Mr. Lodge cut off contact with everyone else from those days?”

Newman seeming to force himself to look directly at O’Connell. “I’m not aware he had.”

“And you became close. You must have been a big help to him during that period.”

“I tried. Again, I wasn’t the sort of person who made friends easily. Maybe I felt good because I was needed. But that’s far too psychological for me. It just worked out.”

“What worked out?”

“Our friendship.”

“Teddy never went back to Harvard Essex?”

“I’m not certain. He had a long recovery,” Newman said staring directly at O’Connell. “He finished high school with tutors.”

“He abandoned all his old friends.”

“As I explained. He’d gone through a lot. Maybe everyone reminded him of the past.”

“Let’s talk about Yale,” the writer said.

“Okay.”

“You went there together.”

“We attended Yale at the same time. We had other friends and Teddy started expanding his realm again.”

“But you always remained in it.”

“We had developed a strong relationship and by then we had common interests.”

“Can you amplify those, Mr. Newman.”

“Politics. Science. History.”

“The Middle East?”

“Yes, thank you. We both studied Middle East politics.”

O’Connell became acutely aware that in person Newman looked older than the congressman. There were more lines around his eyes. His forehead was full of creases. The veins in his hands flared.

He scribbled down a single word on his note pad and circled it. “Age?”

“All of those disciplines are the basis of our work in Congress, Mr. O’Connell. It’s the basis of what makes the congressman such a vital candidate for president.”

“It’s as if you’ve been preparing for this for a long time,” the reporter observed.

“Your words, Mr. O’Connell.”

The President and Henry Lamden were well into their phone call.

“Talk to your party leadership,” Taylor proposed. “Christ, Henry. Tell them to get rid of Newman. He’s supposed to work for the Democratic Party. You don’t like him, dump the bastard.”

“It’s not that easy. He’s Lodge’s fucking right brain function,” Governor Lamden complained.

“Look, I’m not the one to play shrink here. This is only going to come back and bite me on the butt. Remember, I’m running against you.”

“Morgan, for Christ sake’s. Listen to me. Newman is bad news. And if we get in, Teddy Lodge is going to give him a nice big job. Like Secretary of State. Or Defense. Or Chief of Staff.”

The president audibly exhaled. “Like I said. Take it to Wendell Neill.”

“On my opinion? Now what do you think he’d say? ‘Let’s not upset Teddy. He’s on a roll.’ I’d be slitting my own throat.”

“Then I have no idea, Henry.”

“I need something I can use,” the governor pleaded over the phone.

“We’re not having this discussion, governor. I will not use this office to further your political aims.”

“And risk a sociopath having the ear of your successor?”

“He’s your problem. Not mine.”

“No, Morgan. He’s our problem.”

“Let’s discuss
your
childhood for a few minutes,” O’Connell proposed. “Very little has been published and—”

Newman didn’t wait for
The New York Times
reporter to finish. “That’s because it’s no one’s business.”

“Perhaps not now. But if Congressman Lodge wins in November and appoints you to a senior level position in the administration, as is rumored, then it is, in fact, everyone’s business. So if you please, Mr. Newman.”

Newman looked rattled. He didn’t like pointed questions. He was skilled at helping Lodge, but not shaping responses or measuring words for himself. For that matter, he wished he hadn’t agreed to the interview. Once Lodge won he would only speak to the press through official flacks.

“I truly am not good at this, as I expect you’ve noticed, Mr. O’Connell. But I’ll try.”

The reporter pointed his pen at him again.” Thank you.”

“I grew up in Europe. Primarily military bases. My father was in the army and we shuttled between his assignments in Germany, England and some in Saudi Arabia.”

“Yes. And your parents? Brothers or sisters?”

“I was the only child and my mother died from cancer when I was nine. My father raised me, or rather the service raised me. It was hard for him.”

“He died as well while you were in Saudi Arabia.”

“Yes,” he said. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

“A little.”

“It was a helicopter accident. One of those damned Pave Hawks. The MH-60 K/L, I think. It went down in the dessert.”

“What happened?”

“An explosion. That’s all I was told. I still don’t know for certain. The Army. It’s hard to get information out of them. Maybe they’ll find a reason to give it to the congressmen in January.”

“Point well taken,” O’Connell said as he made another note and underlined it.
Helicopter.

“How old were you?”

“Just turning fourteen.”

“And who raised you after that?”

“I stayed for three months in a school in Germany and then at fifteen, I was sent to Harvard Essex Academy by my father’s uncle, who acted as my guardian.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No. He passed away shortly after.”

O’Connell tapped his pen and thought for a moment, then off-handedly said, “You and the congressman seem to share something of a common background.”

“Oh?” Newman responded.

“Both of your parents gone while you were the same age. Someone else in charge of your well-being.”

“I never gave it much thought,” Newman stated through an uncharacteristic smile. “But now that you mention it. Yes. It must have been one of the things that brought us together.”

“M
r. Morales. Why are you in the Great Jamahiriya?” Hevit circled D’Angelo who was being tied to a chair with his arms behind his back. His shirt, pants, shoes and socks had been removed. The major allowed him to keep his briefs on, but only after submitting to a cavity search. Hevit’s officers pulled the ropes tightly and D’Angelo grimaced. This he couldn’t hide.

“I’m a photographer.”
And I’ve got some great real estate for you in the Everglades,
he didn’t say aloud. “Photographing your mosques and museums for a British book company. For Christ sake, it’s all in my papers.”

“You are a liar, Mr. Morales. But tell me more lies. Are you working alone?”

D’Angelo took his time. Giving up Roarke was not a risk. They knew he hadn’t come into the country alone. “Of course not.” He did avoid adding,
Like you don’t know.
However, D’Angelo volunteered, “My writer is with me.”

“And his name?”

“Adam Giannini. He’s back at the Bab Al Bahr. Hopefully still sound asleep.” He struggled with his ropes.
If he knows what’s good for him.

Hevit nodded to someone on the other side of what D’Angelo figured was a two-way mirror.

“And tell me about these photographs you take,” the Major asked sharply. The cameras had been examined for any secret components and given back to Hevit.

“Beauty shots. Architectural sites.”

“Oh, with such good story-telling, I’d think you were the writer, Mr. Morales. Mr.
Tomás
Morales,” Hevit said emphasizing the first name. “I suppose you speak Spanish, too.”

“Fluently.”

“And this morning? Exactly which mosque were you photographing this morning?” the Major asked sharply.

“I wasn’t.”

“Then what did it have to do with your work?”

“City streets. People. I always overshoot. I’m a freelance photographer.”

“Freelance?” Hevit was unfamiliar with the term.

“I sell pictures. This is how I earn my living. One client sends me to take pictures. But I take advantage of every situation. I’m always shooting. Maybe I can sell a picture to someone else.”

“Like your government?” Hevit shouted right into D’Angelo’s face.

“No. Like a magazine or another publisher!” D’Angelo locked his eyes on Hevit. “It’s not everyday an American gets a visa to visit Libya.”

“This is the Great Jamarhiriya!” Hevit declared. “You will kindly refer to it by its proper name.” The major’s manner was anything but kind. He paused in thought, then continued stone cold. “An American photographer for a British book company. That doesn’t strike you as odd? It certainly does me.”

“Call them.”

Hevit slapped D’Angelo hard.

“You are not to tell me what to do,” he yelled. “Do you understand?”

D’Angelo wanted to rub the side of his face but he couldn’t. This bastard really hurt him. When he didn’t answer quickly enough, the major hit him again. Harder.

“Do you understand?”

The tactic was fairly standard. The interrogator pushed his suspect, hoping to provoke him into either committing a chargeable offense or revealing himself. D’Angelo wouldn’t give him the pleasure of either.

“Yes.”

“You have no rights here, Mr. Morales. Not you or your friend. You can’t go running to your embassy for sanctuary. You have no embassy. So you will answer my questions one by one.”

He continued. “Isn’t it odd? You an American?”

“No, sir,” D’Angelo said looking down, forcing tears. A soldier would face his enemy. A photographer would be scared.

“And why would they hire you then?”

“They like my work. They’ve hired me before. I’m a damned good photographer.”

“You are indeed damned,” the major laughed. “A photographer, I’m not so sure.”

“Please believe me,” D’Angelo said, promising to himself that one day he would get back at the sadistic major.

“Why should I. You are a worthless spy to me. I could kill you now.”

“Sir, please call my employers,” D’Angelo pleaded. He hoped his sincerity would be convincing enough. Of course the Libyans would call Collingsworth in Oxford and in time they would be connected to a specific executive who would confirm his cover and ersatz history. But no doubt he’d be made to suffer before that would happen. D’Angelo was prepared.

“And these photographs,” Hevit demanded, dangling the cameras in front of him. “I suppose if I develop the film I would see exactly what you say is here?”

“Yes…”
You fucking shithead.
“But you can look at some now. One of the cameras is digital. You can scan through the shots. They’re stored on the computer chip.”

“Ah, modern technology. We are not so lucky here,” the Major added. “All right, then. Show me your pictures.” He tipped his head to an officer to untie his hands.

Roarke rang D’Angelo’s room for the fourth time since lunch. Something was definitely wrong. The night before, D’Angelo told him not to worry if he didn’t come back by 1200 hours. He’d be out shooting around town. But it was already past 1400.

When he went to the lobby to look for his partner, he noticed two men checking his movements. He didn’t acknowledge that he saw them for fear it would reveal his own expertise. However, he could tell that things had changed for the worse. He believed that D’Angelo was in custody for some reason. He might even be compromised. If that were the case, then so was he.

Roarke approached the concierge. “Excuse me,” he said loud enough for the others to hear. “I’m looking for my friend Mr. Morales. Have you see him?”

“No sir. Not this afternoon.”

He got the same answer from the desk clerk and a bellhop.

“Thank you,” Roarke said politely. “If he does come in, tell him I’ll be back around 1600 hours.” He tipped them both.

“Of course, Mr. Ginney.” D’Angelo had been right about one thing. They still couldn’t get his name straight.

Roarke stepped outside. The two men casually followed him, spacing themselves by about thirty feet. At the first intersection he got a good look at Number One, whom he called “Laurel.” The man was thin, dressed in a white linen suit that was a size too big for him and desperately needed a cleaning. Midway down the street he bought a pack of gum from a child and caught sight of Number Two. This character was a sweaty, little man with a gut that hung over his belt. He would be “Hardy.” Both underpaid cops or members of Kharrazi’s security force.

They tailed him badly. But Roarke made it easy for them. If D’Angelo were in trouble he’d do better to look all the more innocent. He did have an emergency contact and he casually made his way to the location.

O’Connell’s editor at
The New York Times
read his four-page story about Geoff Newman sent via an e-mail file. He complained in a quick reply that it didn’t contain enough new information to make the paper. He’d seen most of it before. “Michael, you have to do better.”

O’Connell didn’t like missing a good by-line. The coverage in the paper was one thing. The checks when his articles rolled out to the syndicate were another. As far as he was concerned, Newman blew a nice payday for him.

The reporter dated and filed the article in his Lodge campaign bin and turned to his notes. He definitely needed more. Maybe the party’s chief, Wendell Neill could help him out or Governor Lamden. Or maybe the U.S. Army.