Executive Actions (30 page)

“Fifty-one?” O’Connell commented.

“That’s right.”

“That makes him a few years older than Lodge.”

“So?” Roarke asked.”

“Dunno, just a little odd.” Different ages not in the same class? It was odd, but he left it at that.

Roarke said he’d get everything out in an e-mail after he picked up the pictures. All quid pro quo. “But keep me out of the papers,” Roarke stated, “And I’ll be good to you.”

“A pleasure working with you Mr. Putman.”

“Likewise, Mr. O’Connell.” With that, Roarke recovered his rental car from the Boston Common garage and cruised up to the North-shore.

The report made it from Abahar Kharrazi’s office to his brother Fadi’s desk well after Roarke and D’Angelo had left the country. Each brother had infiltrated the other’s offices at various levels. This time it paid off for the younger brother.

“Tomás Morales. U.S. national. Photographer. Suspected spy. Detained. Questioned. Released.” The brief contained surveillance photographs, detailed reports from his tails, and the summation justifying his dismissal.

Fadi studied the images. He was troubled. Why would an archeological photographer be taking pictures of his street? And his building? Especially an American?

“I want to know who this Morales is,” he shouted to his aide, Lakhdar al-Nassar.

“Find me this man.”

Al-Nassar ran an Internet search. In time, he came up with Collingsworth Publishers in England. His call to Collingsworth confirmed the employment of the man named Morales. Simultaneously, the CIA was notified of a second backtrack from an accented man. In fifteen minutes they had determined that the call originated from Fadi Kharrazi’s media center in Tripoli.

Al-Nassar typed up his findings and presented them to Fadi. The younger heir immediately read the report and threw it back at his assistant.

“I said I want to know who this man is, not who he says he is! This man is not a photographer, he is a spy working for the devil.”

Fadi considered dialing the man in Miami directly, but remembered his last warning. Instead, he encoded a message in a photograph and posted a special notice on e-Bay.

During one of his daily surfs through the net, Ibrahim Haddad saw the tickler. He downloaded the photograph of a 45-year-old Omar Sharif from “Funny Girl.” Embedded within the pixels was a cryptic message from Fadi. As Haddad read it he considered how much Fadi was his father’s son.

He wanted Haddad to know that the Americans had sent someone in. If his brother’s OIS goons were too stupid to recognize it, he certainly wasn’t. Haddad doubted the assumption. Nonetheless, he had long ago realized that their operation had more reason to fail than succeed, so he took everything very seriously, as if his life depended on it.

Haddad had one contact in the FBI so deeply placed he rarely called. Today would be the exception.

At Katie’s house, Roarke fulfilled his part of the bargain. Through a dummy AOL screen name he created, he e-mailed the photograph and information to O’Connell that Penny had sent him. Then he used Katie’s scanner to make jpeg files of the photo of Lodge and his father he’d picked up at Ciccolo’s and the admittedly poor yearbook picture from the classmate. Roarke attached them to a note and fired it off to Touch Parsons at the FBI labs in Quantico.

Later, under the covers and between breaths, he told Katie he had to go back to Washington the next day.

“Not if you can’t get out,” Katie said playfully reaching down and pulling him between her legs. He responded instaneously, as he had so many times over the past two days and nights.

“I really love having you here…and
there
,” she whispered in his ear as they moved. He especially felt the
there
part as she squeezed her muscles around him. It was the first either of them used the word
love
. He knew what she really meant.

“Me, too. But I’ll come again.”

“And again,” she said.

“And again, and again,” Roarke replied.

“I can make sure of that.” Which she did.

“I
call for the delegate vote,” boomed Wendell Neill over the public address system.

Cheers filled the Denver convention center. Posters sporting pictures of Lodge and Lamden bobbed up and down in the aisles. The network cameras caught the wildly enthusiastic demonstration supporting the Democratic Party ticket.

Governor Lamden controlled a great many votes. Although he could have released them, too many supporters had worked too hard to just give them up. Even Lodge agreed. So until the state-by-state delegate count came to South Dakota, Lamden led. But when the Tennessee Democratic chairman stood a rumble began to grow on the convention floor. It started with stomping, then cheers, then the call for “Ted-dy! Ted-dy! Ted-dy!” The chairman tried many times over the next fifteen minutes to regain control of the hall.

Finally, Wendell Neill’s voice cut through. “Will the delegation from Tennessee please cast your votes,” Neill called out.

“Mr. Chairman. The great State of Tennessee, home to the king of rock ’n’ roll—Elvis Presley, the National Football Champions, the Tennessee Titans, and the finest family values in the nation, proudly pledges all of its eighty delegates for the next President of the United States, Theodore Wilson Lodge!”

Before he finished, the room erupted. Teddy Lodge was now the official candidate of the Democratic Party.

Vigran missed the delegate count. He was working late at the FBI.

The senior researcher had computer access to most of the official cases and a few of the unofficial ones. Tonight he searched the data bank looking for any information on Tomás Morales and Adam Giannini; keywords that he’d learned through a discrete telephone answering service.

The request had been urgent; the first one in years.

Vigran cursed the day he first gave in to the caller and his money. Now with his retirement only three years away, he was particularly nervous. But the man, who always remained anonymous, quoted a figure that made the risk worthwhile. He hoped.

Governor Lamden gave a rousing speech on the third night of the convention. The platform had been ratified to Lodge’s specifications. The party called for increased spending on public education, health care reform, alternative energy partnerships with oil producing nations, and a number of initiatives for women, the poor, and the cities. He addressed each of them in his remarks and proclaimed Teddy Lodge as the president who would accomplish them all.

The broadcast networks covered the governor’s speech; their first live telecast from the convention floor since breaking in for the South Dakota-Tennessee vote. The cable news channels offered more. Tomorrow, when Teddy Lodge walked to the podium at approximately 8
P.M.
Mountain time, 10
P.M.
on the East Coast, the networks estimated an audience of 150 million viewers in the U.S. alone.

It was Newman’s idea. “You’re going to be introduced by a woman born on November 22, 1963.”

Lodge figured the date was important. Then it came to him.
Holy shit, it’s brilliant!

“And she’s from Dallas. You’ll be swept along like a second Camelot.”

The congressman loved it. Newman was a brilliant strategist, but this was pure genius. A woman born the day President John F. Kennedy died. November 22, 1963. The anniversary always resonated with Democrats. Well over forty years after the assassination, it still carried incredible emotional impact. “Hell, after she introduces you they might as well swear you right in.”

Alma Franklin, a black city counselor from the Dallas, delivered the keynote address summoning the ghosts of the Kennedys and the promise of the future. When she finished, the crowd erupted in cheers for twelve minutes. Alma won them over and no doubt earned a secure place for her own political aspirations.

Scott Roarke watched on MSNBC from his home in Washington.

Morgan Taylor gathered with Republican Party strategists in the press room. He followed CBS’s coverage, but five networks were turned on.

Katie Kessler tuned to ABC with a glass of her favorite summer wine, a ’97 Kendall-Jackson Merlot.

Chuck Wheaton recorded the speeches on NBC while he was out shooting reactions in Hudson for the Albany affiliate.

Ibrahim Haddad drank champagne and raised his glass in toast to the conservative Fox News Channel for its restrained commentary.

Michael O’Connell roamed the convention floor watching faces and writing notes.

And Haywood Marcus sat on a stool at Locke-Ober, the famous Boston restaurant that catered to people who still wore suits. A TV set was tuned to WBZ, the local CBS affiliate.

At precisely 8:01
P.M.
in Denver the overhead lights dimmed in the convention hall and the Vera-lights shot their patterns across the ceiling. A full band struck up “Fanfare for the Common Man” and a single high-powered beam illuminated a deep navy blue curtain.

The intensity in the house built as curtains on the stage parted to reveal a rich red curtain behind it. The music built, then the red curtain opened to reveal another. This one stark white. Instead of parting, it raised as the light source switched from front to back, silhouetting the tall form of Teddy Lodge through a haze of smoke.

Lodge stepped forward like a conquering rock idol. At the proper tympani crescendo in the music, also perfectly timed, the spotlight hit him full front. Lodge shot his arms into the air in a majestic wave, stealing a scene from a Paul McCartney concert. He wore a blue pin strip suit with a powder blue shirt and the same hand-crafted red tie he had on the day Jenny Lodge died. Some eagle-eyed reporters would note it.

Teddy looked tanned and rested. Slimmer than he’d appeared last on camera. He had let his hair grow out and fans from backstage blew air frontward, giving more life to the moment. Amid all the lighting and effects Teddy Lodge appeared absolutely triumphant.

For fourteen minutes the cheering continued at an ear-shattering pitch. His speech would be secondary. These were the images that would lead the news for days and run on the front pages of newspapers coast to coast.

Like everything else in politics, it came down to who you were and what you believed.

Roarke viewed it as a circus. President Taylor’s staff laughed at the ridiculousness of the staging. But the average viewer couldn’t help but be drawn into the drama and emotion.

“Ted-dy! Ted-dy! Ted-dy!” reverberated throughout the room, cascading into a pounding rhythm.

“Thank you. Thank you. This is all so overwhelming,” Lodge said motioning the conventioneers to quiet down. “Thank you.”

The cheers continued unabated for another two minutes and the congressman cried. He took a handkerchief out and dried his eyes. A news photogrpher for
Time
with a 200mm telephoto lens on his Canon camera pushed in for a close up.

“Please. It’s getting late on the East Coast. People have to get to work tomorrow,” Lodge said playfully. “You’re so wonderful. Thank you.”

At last the convention hall hushed and Teddy Lodge nodded.

Looking to his right where the previous speaker stood, he blew a kiss and said, “I love Alma!” To everyone else he added, “Don’t you?”

The cheers began again. This time for Alma Franklin. The statuesque woman came forward and Teddy Lodge kissed her, held her hand high, kissed her again showing his thanks and gratitude, and then kissed her hand and bid her goodbye. It was great theater, fully choreographed and rehearsed. Alma threw kisses to the crowd and left taking a seat behind Teddy. She’d be in all of the head to toe camera shots of the congressman; an intended reminder of what she brought to the ticket and a focal point where Jenny would have sat.

Teddy gestured a last “thank you” to Alma and then stepped up to the microphones. It was time to begin.

“I…,” he looked around. The move commanded attention. “I…have an idea,” he whispered. The television, radio and Internet audiences caught the words, but the convention audience didn’t. Newman’s perfect staging.

“I have,” he forced his voice louder, “an idea.” He said it a little louder getting attention from the crowd. The media’s microphones picked up the “Shssssses” and the congressman repeated, even louder, “I have an idea.”

“I have an idea how we should live. Now let me share it with you.”

A blanket of silence fell over the room.

“It’s not a radical idea. But it’s different. It’s not a hard idea to grasp, but it will be difficult to achieve. It’s not an idea for some, it has to work for us all.”

From the wings, Newman smiled to himself. Alma’s speech recalled Kennedy. Lodge now spoke to Martin Luther King. He bet the significance would not be lost on the commentators in their analysis.

“I,” he paused with greater emphasis, “have an idea that
will
succeed. Not just because
I
want it to, but because
we
have to.”

“America is at a crossroads. We can choose to live in the world we are given, or make the world we deserve. No longer can we shrink from accepting our responsibility as leader. We must lead. No more can we take from foreign markets. We must give back. And no more can we ignore reality. We must face up to it.”

Roarke dismissed it all as rhetoric, but realized how effectively Lodge was coming off. He’d be impossible to beat, which wouldn’t be so bad. He was already thinking of moving up to Boston.

“I have an idea,” he paused. “I have an idea that we must demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that we are prepared to enforce the law of society on those who would dare do us harm. Yet, we must show that the way out of the shadows is by illuminating those things we don’t understand. The differences between women and men, black from white, rich and poor, and religion from religion, Arabs from Jews, Democrats from Republicans.” He let the last words echo.

Haywood Marcus downed the last of his drink at the bar and slapped a fifty on the counter.

“You leaving, Mr. Marcus?” the bartender asked him.

“Yeah.”

“But Teddy is still speaking.” He tossed his head to the TV screen above.

“I’ll catch it on the news tonight.”

“I wasn’t sure about it before, but he’s gonna make it,” the bartender added.

“He’s been counting on being president for a long, long time,” Marcus said as he folded his jacket over his arm. “See ya soon, Timothy.”

The bartender didn’t hear him. Like everyone else at the bar, his attention was on the TV.

Marcus closed the door to Locke-Ober as Lodge continued to mesmerize his audience.

“For only in the light will we see the path to tomorrow…”

Marcus was up for a satisfying walk. He quickly crossed from Boston’s financial district into the North End and heard Lodge’s speech as he passed the open windows.

Normally in August, the North End was crowded with tourists or kids playing between the closely parked cars. Normally, people were on the streets celebrating festivals devoted to Madonna Della Cava, Madonna Del Soccorso, St. Grippini, and St. Anthony. Normally there was music filling the air and old women leaning out the windows. Normally it was safe to walk along the narrow cobblestone streets that intersected Hanover. Tonight most people were inside watching the convention and
their
candidate, Teddy Lodge.

“Make no mistake, the swords of the United States will stand at the ready. But so will the pen to sign new declarations of peace.”

He heard the thunderous applause echo off the buildings. And he smiled.

“We are a tolerant people, but intolerant of others who conspire against us. To those people and countries, I guarantee, you will fail if you attack America. But to those who want to join in a new age of reason, give us the reason to help you.”

Marcus wondered, as he often did, how he would personally benefit.
A Federal Court judgeship? No, better. Three seats on the Supreme Court should come up in the next four years.
That’s where he believed he belonged.

He was so absorbed in his own future that he didn’t see a young man step out of the shadows. It could have been broad daylight and he wouldn’t have noticed. The Supreme Court was such an awesome dream. It would be his greatest achievement as a lawyer.

The sound of Congressman Lodge’s voice accompanied Marcus down Battery, Fleet, and North Streets. He caught phrases like
“the greater need to build nations up rather than beating people down,”
and
“finding the courage to fight isn’t enough, being brave enough to fonge lasting peace is….”

He didn’t sense the danger coming toward him. He didn’t see the cruelty in the man’s eyes. Now, even the words blaring out of TV and radio speakers in the apartments above didn’t reach him. Haywood Marcus, self-absorbed, focused on his own destiny; the Supreme Court seat, the prestigious black robe, the austere bench, and his place in history.

“I have an idea,”
Lodge’s voice boomed out.

The man approaching Marcus raised his arm. A glint of something shiny caught the street light. Then a compressed pop and a puff of smoke. It was over before Marcus was even aware that he was about to die.

The man, dressed in faded jeans, baggy boxers hanging over his belt loops, and an oversized sweatshirt, now held Marcus’ lifeless body. He quickly slid him by the heels into a doorway and rummaged through his jacket and pants pockets extracting his wallet, credit cards and cash.

He’d use the credit card at a liquor store, then dump everything except the cash in the gutter. He’d done this before. This time he wore beaten up sneakers, not his usual boots. They didn’t work with his outfit. This time he was a gang member. The next time, well, he just wasn’t sure.

“…and my idea includes every living person on the face of the earth.”