Executive Actions (28 page)

“Sure and I’ll throw in another print or two.”

As the images printed out the FBI photo expert asked, “By the way, you know what’s a lot of fun to do?”

“What?”

“Going in the opposite direction. Taking an older person and regressing him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Going backwards. There’s not a lot of call for it. But it’s fun.”

Roarke laughed. “I bet.”

When the photos were completed, Parsons slid them in an envelope backed by a cardboard. “You don’t have to come back in. You know you can scan and e-mail me whatever other pictures you find.”

“That’ll help. And thanks again. I had no idea how this whole process worked.”

They shook hands and Roarke left with the age progression photographs of a man he had never seen before in his life.

T
hey came together like a furnace. So much heat and intensity had been building for weeks. No longer able to deny one another, Katie and Roarke melted together, seeking each other’s tastes and finding unknown pleasures. The two individuals as one in total, exquisite rapture.

Katie surrounded Roarke in every imaginable way; first with her arms and with her legs. And then with all of the tenderness she had. He was lost in her deepness, and she felt how he expanded within her. Roarke explored her feelings, taking Katie to the edge and holding her there with delicate moves and long kisses.

Katie’s breasts cupped perfectly in his hands. Her body, beautifully matched to his, moved rhythmically and sent waves of excitement through both of them. She tightened around Roarke and was aware that he seemed weightless above her; his arms supporting his sculptured body, making loving effortless.

She whispered to him, “You’re a perfect fit.” It was the first complete sentence in more than an hour.

Neither partner had ever experienced such pleasure, with an insatiable desire to give more. Four hours went by suspended in time and outside of reality. Finally, Roarke fell asleep inside of Katie, snuggling from behind her after an intense explosion. But Katie would not let him rest for long. She woke her lover by gently pressing against him and he grew to love her again.

At nine o’clock they showered. It gave them the opportunity to use their eyes and feast on their bodies another way. This brought more gratification and in turn, satisfaction as their gentle caresses turned to petting and rubbing. Scott had never known such a woman. Katie had never given herself in such a way to any man.

They hungered for each other, but Katie insisted on preparing some actual food, which they ate, dressed only in T-shirts. The pasta was complemented with a Kendall Jackson Cabernet. They didn’t finish any of it.

“I love getting lost inside of you,” Roarke said as he slid back.

“You’re not lost. You’re found,” Katie whispered. She pulled her legs tightly around him, transferring all of her pleasure to Roarke. This wasn’t just sex. She experienced beautiful sensations when he was inside her, but more than that, she could feel his love. With the intensity of both she came again.

The next morning they showered once more and had fun applying lotion on one another’s hidden places. After getting dressed, Katie kissed Roarke goodbye with unreserved passion.

“There’s an extra key in the top right hand drawer of my dresser. It’s there for you to use when you come back later.” Then she softened her voice. “You will be back later.” It was a statement, not a question.

“This afternoon. I need to go to Marblehead while you’re at work. But I’ll be home with dinner on the table.”

“My goodness, the man cooks, too.” She kicked up her heel and left. Roarke realized he needed another hour’s sleep.

“Good morning,” the president said cheerfully as he entered the Cabinet Room from the door leading directly to the Oval Office. He instantly read the room. He caught the long face from his CIA Chief. “Or is it?

“I’m afraid not, Mr. President,” the CIA Director immediately volunteered. “India test fired another short-range missile last night.”

“Sweet Jesus. Give me more.” The president looked to his chief of staff, John Bernstein, and shoke his head.

“An Agni II, with a range of some 1,800 miles, capable of carrying a 200-kiloton boosted-fission warhead. It could take out a target almost anywhere within Pakistan. All in all, not good.”

“Any warning to Pakistan this time?”

“No.”

“They’re all lunatics!” the president swore. “A few years ago they got so close to settling this thing. Now, they’re back in the same fucking mess.” Taylor made no attempt to hide his anger. “Okay, at least tell me they gave
us
a heads up. I don’t care if it was ten minutes. Khosla promised me.”

“Nothing,” the DCI said.

“What the hell is he thinking?” he asked no one in particular.

The secretary of state entered the discussion. At 52, Joyce Drysdale was the senior woman in the Taylor administration. Though she let her hair go white, she gave the impression of a woman in her 30s. She was well-versed in contemporary American history, a dynamic speaker, and strong leader. As the former president of the University of Washington and author of a trio of books on the Vietnam War, she could command attention. Some people had her running for president in four years.

“Rest assured that Pakistan is bound to have a response. I’d say Sajjad will be launching his own tests within a few days. Right along the border. Hopefully not over it. We should notify the prime minister that the U.S. does not view that as a good idea.”

With that, the meeting evolved into a twenty minute exchange of ideas. It ended when the president called for some specific thoughts. Jack Evans posed a possibility. “You’re Khosla and Sajjad. How about accepting an invitation from the President of the United States to come to Camp David and hash this thing out?

John Bernstein argued against it. “Like being called to the principal’s office?”

“That bad, Bernsie?” the DCI questioned.

“Yeah, Jack. It’ll look like an old-fashioned scolding. There’s no way they’d walk into that.”

“You all agree?” Taylor asked.

“Afraid so,” added the president’s secretary of state.

“Then maybe you could go, there,” the DCI noted. “It’ll send a strong message that you’re willing to get directly engaged. It wouldn’t hurt back home, either.” He didn’t need to explain what he meant by the last comment. Though the CIA director stayed out of such things, the political upside was immediately obvious to everyone.

As the president thought about the idea, he saw that his SecState did not concure.

“Joyce, you don’t like Jack’s proposal. Why?”

“Mr. President, it’s a risky step before we even exhaust exploring lower level talks through our ambassadors. They should be the ones to formally open the door.”

“Which won’t lead anywhere,” Bernstein argued.

“Which
probably
won’t lead anywhere,” she asserted. “But it’s a step we have to take. But borrowing from what Jack had to say, what if you call them. You ask Prime Minister Khosla to meet with Ambassador Shayne in New Delhi and for Prime Minister Sajjad to sit down with Ambassador Medinica in Islamabad. They communicate the gravity of the situation and carry in the president’s message.”

“And this message is?” Bernstein asked acerbically.

“That their actions endanger not only themselves, but the entire world,” the secretary of state added.

“Oh, that’ll make them stop. They’ll say, ‘Thanks for the call. You know we just forgot.’” Bernstein threw up his hands. “Come on, Joyce, they’ve got their fucking fingers on the button. You think a lecture from a United States ambassador is going to help? These are people who are hell bent on destroying one another.”

“Precisely and we cannot allow that!” she argued.

“Which means what?” Bernstein shouted.

“That the fleet parks in the Indian,” added Secretary of Defense Norman Gregoryan as his first comment. “USPACOM shows some muscle. That’s a message they’ll get.”

The president encouraged open discussion, but this was going too far.

“Thank you for all for that lively exchange. Now here’s what
I
propose.

“Joyce, I want you to go to New Dehli and Islamabad to lay the ground work for a subsequent trip that
I
will make. And you will tell Dr. Khosla and Mr. Sajjad exactly that. That I
will
follow. But we’ll meet on neutral ground, in Qatar. In your call to Prime Minister Sajjad you will indicate that this president would view his government’s testing of its Ghauri or M-11 missiles as an unnecessary escalation. In other words, don’t up the ante. Tell them both, as far as I am concerned, there is nothing more serious, with the exception of terrorist threats to the United States, than the dangerous course these two countries are proposing by their actions. Tell them that I will announce a trip to our military base at Qatar for no later than ten days from today to meet with our commanders in the Gulf and Qatar. But the purpose of this visit is to sit down with Khosla and Sajjad. We will do it in secrecy and we will stay there until we have a solution.

“Norman, I will see the troops there, too. You can set that up. But coordiante the dates with Joyce for this meeting. That is why I’m going. To Jack’s earlier point, hopefully that will provide its own benefits. Bernsie, you’ll have to get into the calendar. It’s going to throw a big monkey wrench into everything.”

“Including the convention,” the chief of staff noted.

“Quite possibly.”

“But Mr. President. You have to be at the convention.”

“Let’s hope I can, Bersnie. Now, Norman and Joyce, the only way this is going to lead to any meaningful result is if
we
put something on the table. This has to be worthwhile to each of them.”

Demonstrating his detailed grasp of geopolitical issues, Morgan Taylor ran through the options. “You’ll have to help me through this, but in terms of Pakistan, maybe we slack off on our insistance for a new election. Sajjad should welcome that. What was our last grant for education? Only around $5 million. That’s pretty insulting. Work up a viable package.”

“And if they want us to backpeddle on our pursuit of their drug trade?” the secretary of state asked.

“That’s not on the table,” the president said without any equivocation. “But more money to fight the Taliban. Yes. More money for Emergency Relief and Migration Assistance. Yes. Whatever it takes to get them to see we’re serious. This has got to be a visible win for Sajjad, given the threat from India.

“Now for Dr. Khosla. Same questions. What will it take? More assistance in non-military nuclear research? Determine the shortcomings of the old Bush proposals? Can we can improve upon them? More money for HIV/AIDS vaccinations? And market incentives? It’s about time we face it, India is one of the six major powers in the world. We should publicly acknowlege that.” The president laughed as his shared his next thought. “Nothing like telling somebody they’ve got one of the world’s biggest dicks.”

Everyone laughed, including Joyce Drysdale and Attorney General Eve Goldman.

“Okay, those are my general ideas. Give me the specifics and do it quickly. Maybe I can help stabilize this mess before the country puts us all out to pasture.”

“Mr. President,” John Bernstein insisted, “Please. Can’t this wait until after the convention? State can start setting it up now. I’m sure Joyce could use the extra time. Then you you go as soon as you’ve accepted the nomination.”

“No,” the president declared. “This can’t wait.”

Taylor allowed another few minutes of debate, however his mind was made up.

“One thing—for all of your memoirs. I’m not doing this for any polls. Got that?”

They understood.

“If necessary, Bernsie, I’ll address the convention from the road.”

“That’s never been done before,” the chief of staff added.

“Yeah,” the president said as he concluded the session. “Maybe this time someone
will
listen.”

“I’m looking for old photographs for an article on the Lodges’,” Roarke explained to the Executive Director of the Marblehead Chamber of Commerce.

“Oh, you and everyone else,” the 54-year-old full time spokesperson for Marblehead tourism replied in a thick New England accent. “I’ve had people from the networks asking and a reporter fellow from
The New York Times
. Wish I could help you, but we don’t archive anything like that. Try the newspaper.”

“Already did.”

“Give the
Globe
, a call. I don’t have a contact for you. But they’ve got an extensive archive. And then there’s Cronin at the
Herald
. Try him.”

Roarke thanked the director and called the archivist at
The Boston Globe
. The librarian checked and came up with nothing. Next he called
The Boston Herald
.

He got the same message. “Sorry. Our photo library really starts with Mr. Lodge’s visits to Boston once he was a congressman. We also have the typical AP pictures from Washington, but nothing from his Marblehead days,” the archivist explained. “But you may want to check with BU. They’ve got the old
Record American
morgue.”

“BU?” asked Roarke.

“Boston University. Down on Comm Avenue.” Cronin gave him the contact number and directions, which didn’t help much. Boston’s meandering one way streets meant that three right turns rarely deposited anyone where he started. Still, Roarke made it there.

The archivist at the school listened to Roarke’s pitch. He had Roarke wait a good ten minutes, only to return with bad news.

Roarke finally decided to check with Lodge neighbors. And the best way to do that was to drive back up to Marblehead to canvass the streets. That took the better part of the day. And everywhere he heard the same story. “We don’t have any,” or “We can’t find any.”

As he passed a newsstand he saw a copy of
The New York Times. The reporter, what’s his name, O’Donnell. No, O’Connell. He may know.

From a phone booth at a gas station on Pleasant Street, he called the paper, hoping to get O’Connell. The chances were slim considering how reporters used voice mail to screen their calls. On the fourth ring, a recording triggered and Roarke left a message.

“Hello, you don’t know me,” he started. “But I’m calling to ask a favor.” The rest would all be a lie.

“I’m Reuben Putman, calling on behalf of the Democratic Convention and we’re desperately looking for a photograph of Congressman Lodge’s family for a documentary that will be running before his speech. It’s scheduled for Thursday during the convention. I’d appreciate a call if you have anything or if you could steer me in the proper direction. I’m in Boston and I’ll be checking into the Parker House. You can leave a message for me there after three today.” For good measure he added, “And maybe I can help you, too.” That should guarantee a call back.