Executive Actions (32 page)

“Good,” Davis said. “Because I have something else for your third column.”

Jack Evans closed the Tripoli report. The CIA analysts had satellite images of Fadi’s building and D’Angelo’s assessment of the objective. Now the job would go to mission strategists. How to get in, where to go once inside. How to extract the files in Fadi Kharrazi’s office, and most importantly how to get out. Evans couldn’t predict whether such an operation would ever go active, but an operational plan had to be developed, even rehearsed.

“A week and no message back from Ibrahim. Who does he think he is?”

Omar Za’eem was used to the tirades through the flimsy wall. Fadi shouted all the time even when he didn’t have anyone to yell at. His voice carried through Lakhdar al-Nassar’s office and out to where Omar sat.

“Lakhdar!” he yelled. “Lakdar, get in here!”

“Yes sir.” The aide rushed into Fadi’s office. He knew the consequences if he dawdled. There was always another assistant in line to move up. Advancement usually came at a high price so al-Nassar prayed daily that his position wouldn’t suddenly become available to his own lackey Za’eem.

“I’m here,” he said. “What can I do?”

“This man Morales. I know nothing more now than I did a week ago.” He started calmly, but his voice rose quickly.

Al-Nassar thought better of answering.

“I have incompetents everywhere!”

“Yes sir.”

“Everything’s going to change soon. Everything. Now get me a tea.”

Lakhdar left and shook his head as he walked up to his assistant. “You heard him!” he shouted to Omar. “Get the man some tea.”

Omar did as he was told and recited the words over and over that he had just heard.
Ibrahim and Morales.
Abahar would need to hear them, too.

Vigran left a message on an answering service. He used a pay phone at a Denny’s outside the District.

“Morales and Gianinni clean. Credits in books. Recent entry 15 August. State Department inquiry on trip to Tripoli through London.”

When he was finished, he wiped the phone clean of fingerprints and hoped he’d never get another request.

President Morgan Taylor was doing what he did best—talking people off the ledge, calmly, clearly, and authoritatively. His hours in the cockpit under extreme pressure gave him the nerves of steel few opponents could match.

If he was dangerous at 35,000 feet and at 1190 mph, he was positively lethal across the table. His eyes never swayed. They locked on his subjects the way his missiles found their targets.

Secretary of State Joyce Drysdale, herself presidential timber, met with the prime ministers of India and Pakistan individually. India’s prime minister, Dr. Rajesh Khosla, and Pakistan’s Zulfigar Sajjad got both an earful of warnings and a list of concessions. In the end, it was the promise of economic aid not U.S. concerns over their weapons of mass destruction, that brought them to the negotiating table with the President of the United States.

Too much depended on these deliberations. Taylor remembered how close Clinton had come to forging a peace between the Israelis and the Palestinians, only to see it end bitterly. This was not going to happen now. Taylor layed out his offers to each of them with little poker play. The deal was this: An immediate military standdown in the region. Agreement by each nation to notify the United States 48 hours prior to any future missile tests within 500 miles of the border. Resumption of air routes between the two countries. In return, the US would guarantee aid in cash, services and goods; additional funding for anti-terrorism efforts; and perhaps most important to the economy of both countries, US financial help through the restoration and full development of free trade zones.

After four long days, which began with obstinate posturing, Morgan Taylor had his peace. On the morning of the fifth day, the President woke early. At 0445 he stepped in front of a single camera in the base’s briefing room. There was a podium in front and an American flag draped behind as a simple backdrop. Outside, a portable satellite uplink beamed the video half way around the world. Morgan Taylor wore a dark blue three-piece suit with a plain white shirt and a dynamic red tie. The American colors on the American President. He’d gotten little rest since he left Washington nearly a week ago, but his weariness was not apparent to the camera now.

It was eight hours earlier on the East Coast of the United States, 8:45
P.M.
the previous night.

“Ready, Mr. President?” asked the network producer who had flown the distance.

“Let’s do it.”

The producer talked to the pool feed master control operator in New York and got the go. “Okay sir, coming to you. In ten, nine, eight…”

The President took his cue and began to address the Republican National Convention.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please excuse me for not being there in person. My day job took me out of town.”

Teddy Lodge hated any time Taylor used the presidency. This was one of them.

He watched the broadcast from Qatar and recognized that if Taylor had good news he’d get some political currency from what he’d accomplished. However, he also believed the benefits to his campaign would be temporary. The country had already begun its psychological shift away from the president. In less than three months, the voters would affirm it.

Everyone in the convention hall watched Morgan Taylor on the huge plasma screen. It had been agreed that there would be no applause or cheering, spontaneous or planned until the president concluded his remarks. So unlike the hoopla surrounding Congressman Lodge’s speech, Morgan Taylor’s was subdued and serious; an address from a statesman rather than a speech from a politician.

The result was quite mesmerizing and unlike any convention appearance on record.

“The possibility of war is much too real,” the president continued. “Guns are aimed. Their safeties off. Missiles have their targets. The American political system will continue. But what of the lives of the people in these two countries? More than a billion in India alone. Another 160 million in Pakistan. That’s why I’m here,” the president explained. “That’s why I am not with you to say thank you in person for honoring me with your nomination. But we live in perilous times where situations dictate how we must act.”

“Today’s winds of war carry more than hatred. They carry radiation far beyond the field of battle. They carry death to innocent people who can’t draw the borders that are in dispute, who can’t pronounce the names of the cities that will be destroyed, and who can’t ask, ‘Why have you done this to me?’”

The president grew even more serious. “There is nothing, mark my words, nothing more important that securing peace. There is no greater goal for a President or a citizen. And so, I am a world away because a majority of Americans put their trust in me four years ago. But I am here as your President for
all
Americans.”

“At this time, I can report to you that we have achieved the peace I sought. India’s Prime Minister, Dr. Rajesh Khosla, and Mr. Zulfigar Sajjad, Prime Minister of Pakistan and I have been talking candidly with one another. That is as it should be. Responsible leaders with their coats off, their sleeves rolled up, and their hands open in greeting. True, they are for from being close friends, but today they are not mortal enemies. We have peace.”

The applause from the delegates began despite the ground rules. But the president, not hearing the return feed, pressed on.

“So please accept my apologies for my absence. I appreciate your confidence and, yes, I proudly accept your nomination.”

And that’s when the cheering for Morgan Taylor erupted and Teddy Lodge threw his glass, smashing it on the TV screen.

P
redictably, the Qatar speech, announcing a fragile peace accord gave the president a needed boost. By Labor Day, it looked like a good old horse race again.

The first debate was scheduled to be held in three weeks. Political analysts now believed the election would rest on the how the candidates faired in their head to head confrontations.

In the meantime, while Morgan Taylor got down to the actual business of running for re-election, Roarke felt his own investigation slow down.

“Come on, Shannon. Give me some news,” he pleaded over a drink at one of the Capitol’s famed watering halls, the formally informal Tabard Inn.

“Stone cold, buddy,” Davis said looking at his own reflection in the mirror lining the wall.

“What are we missing?” Roarke asked just below ear level of Sean O’Reilly, the bartender.

Roarke reached into his pocket for a piece of paper. Finding none, he grabbed a napkin from the bar and started writing.

“What are you doing?” Shannon asked. He held up two fingers for O’Reilly and mouthed, “Two more Coors.” He figured they’d be there for awhile. “And a couple of burgers, too,” he yelled out.

“So what are you doing?”

“Taking another look at our chart.”

Roarke jotted just initials representing all the names. Then he added the lines replicating the connections made on the grease board in his office.

“I’m still stuck on Hoag,” he said.

He circled the abbreviations for Nunes, Marcus, Hoag. “These people knew something.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Davis laughed. “A bungled job to get Lodge out of the running. And then the need to cover up. Hoag was connected, somewhere. But what did Nunes know that we should know? I say we go in with a subpoena and find out.”

“By now nothing will be there.”

“What do you mean?” Davis asked.

The drinks arrived and Roarke held off from answering. Davis thanked O’Reilly, then rephrased his question. “How do you know?”

“I saw them and now they’re gone.”

“Uh oh.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t break in anywhere.”

“‘And that your honor, is my client’s case for the defense.’ So long!” Shannon held up his glass in a toast. “See you in twenty.”

“Hey, asshole, they were sort of open on a desk in front of me.”

“Sort of…”

“Look, I went in inquiring. Nicely. Through a
friend
.”

“Then we can get a subpoena.”

“Too late. My friend says they’re gone. I gotta believe Marcus fed them all to the shredder.”

“So we’re back to suppositions.”

“Right, which don’t mean a flying fuck,” Roarke concluded.

The two men ate their hamburgers, settled up the bill and walked in the fall air toward the Metro station.

“So who wants Lodge dead?” Davis asked returning to the point.

“And why?” Roarke asked softly.

“Well, if we’re trying to come up with names, I’d say your boss,” Shannon blurted out. They stopped. Taylor would have had an easier run at the office against anyone but Lodge. A president certainly had the means. And this president had killed before.

“Not that I think he did,” Davis added quickly looking over his shoulder. No one heard him.

“There’s one basic problem with that notion.” Roarke began to laugh. “If he loses in November it’d probably be the happiest day of his life!”

The two men continued to walk toward the subway. After a run of more jokes at the expense of Morgan Taylor, Davis turned more serious.

“So one more time, just for me. Who wants Teddy Lodge dead? And why?”

Once again Roarke asked, “Why?”

Ibrahim Haddad programmed his computer so encoded messages were immediately expunged. He had another rule: No notes. Nothing that led to him on paper. Ever. And the phone call from Tripoli.
Incredibly stupid.
While he had no doubt that the NSA super computers were completely capable of matching the voice of his caller with a recording of the General Kharrazi’s son, the chance of it being checked was slim to none.

So Ibrahim Haddad believed things were good. With the exception of Marcus, he hadn’t had any direct personal contact with anyone involved in the operation for decades. The last time he could remember doing anything himself was when he wished a well-trained young man goodbye at Heathrow.

Haddad’s only real worry was with the damned fickle American voters. They never seemed to stay with one man.

“Boss, you’re pretty good at spotting targets from high up. I need some help here.”

Roarke had gotten on the president’s schedule with a simple call to Louise Swingle. He hardly ever thought about the immediate access he had to Morgan Taylor. Today he did, and he used it, almost afraid where the conversation would go.

“Depends on the terrain. Have I been over it before?”

“You’ll have to tell me,” Roarke said seriously. “And I need you to be truthful.”

The use of the word “truthful” caught the president off guard. He didn’t say anything, but his mood definitely changed. He put his coffee down and watched intently as Roarke removed a legal pad of paper, a folded poster board and a small wooden easel from a black leather shoulder bag. Roarke unfolded the cardboard and set it up on the stand.

“Have a seat,” he told the president. “This is going to take a little bit of time.”

Taylor scanned the card, a flow chart with familiar names, but lines drawn between them, creating relationships and the basis for Roarke’s explanation.

As Roarke began he noticed that the president’s eyes almost imperceptibly shifted to the name
Hoag
. Morgan Taylor was a very good poker player. He rarely showed his cards, but Roarke recognized a blink when he saw one. He completed his review of the chart and addressed the president.

“If I can put these names together, so can any diehard late night radio talk show conspiracy theorist like Elliott Strong. And you know what? The first person they’ll point at is you.”

“Now wait a goddamned second,” the president huffed.

Roarke continued unaffected. “Look I can’t control what Strong or anyone else might pick up on. On face value, the man who you least wanted to run against was nearly killed. But he lived. And he even gets the nomination. Would he have if his wife hadn’t died?”

The President looked over Roarke’s shoulder into the eyes of Franklin Roosevelt. A portrait of the 35
th
president hung on the wall over the Adams chair. Of all the American leaders, Taylor admired Roosevelt the most. For a man who never served in the military, FDR was a brilliant strategist. His cunning gamesmanship combined with a ruthless desire to crush any enemy. Any. He disarmed political adversaries as well as nations. Roosevelt used his disability to lure foes closer, thinking he could not strike. And they were all wrong.

Roarke broke the president’s concentration. “So you tell me, Morgan, were you involved?

The president slowly turned to Roarke and without hesitation, without emotion, stated in one word the truth. “No.”

Roarke accepted the answer from his friend and smiled. “You knew I had to ask.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Now, something you can’t deny,” Roarke noted. “One name on the board caught your attention.”

The president looked as if he he didn’t understand the question.

“There’s one name on the chart that you focused on. I saw it.”

“Was there?”

Roarke pointed to the right hand column. “Hoag. Steven Hoag. How about you tell me what you know about him, boss?”

The president let out a small laugh, as if to say,
You’re a smart sonofabitch.

“I’m sorry, Scott. I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“It’s extremely sensitive.”

“Like Jennifer Lodge’s brain when the bullet shot through it. Like the kid’s reaction in the crowd?”

Morgan Taylor sighed deeply. Roarke wasn’t making it easy for him.

“Who is he, Mr. President?” Roarke said forcefully.

The president looked at the painting of FDR again.

“Who is he?” Roarke asked again one more time. “Fuck security! Who is he?”

“Want a drink?” the president said, rising to get one for himself.

Roarke declined, waiting for his question to be answered.

The president poured himself a glass of port from a bottle on a silver tray. “Jack Evans should be here for this. He knows more than I do.”

“Who’s Hoag?”

The president took a sip on his way to his desk. He pressed an intercom button on his phone. Louise Swingle immediately answered. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“Louise, have Bernsie take my meeting with the Secretary of the Interior. I’m going to be awhile with Scott.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll call him now.”

The president invited Scott to join him at the couch.

“Many years ago, at the height of the Cold War, the Soviets created a specialized spy school for the most elite students. They called it Andropov Institute after Yuri Andropov. It was the principal training ground of the FCD —the First Chief Directorate of the old KGB. That was pretty well known by us and British intelligence. But lesser known or not known at all were the closed Soviet cities. ZATO, as they were dubbed.”

“ZATO?”

“It’s an acronym. You’re not going to make me try to pronounce it?”

Roarke encouraged him.

The president went to his desk, pressed something underneath in a sequence which Roarke suspected was a coded lock, then opened a drawer. He removed a file that read “Top Secret.” On the first page he found what he wanted.

“Okay, but it won’t be pretty.
Zakrytye administrativno-territorial’nye obrazovaniia
. ZATO.”

“Thank you,” Roarke said, stifling a laugh.

The president reclaimed his seat. “These cities were uncharted on maps and usually named after the closest administrative centers. A simple post office designation helped the mail get through.” He looked at his report again. “Like Krasnoyarsk-26 or Chelyabinsk-45. Most of them were physically closed, surrounded by high concrete walls. Access was permitted only with the most stringent proof. Some of the ZATO cities were designed for the creation and testing of biological warfare. We figure there were at least 40, about ten were devoted to nuclear research and missile testing. But the Soviets ran another 15 ZATO for other purposes. We believe a few served as remote campuses for Andropov I.”

“Which was?”

“Have you ever heard of Red Banner?”

“No.”

“Few people have. Red Banner was a unique division of the Andropov Institute, with very unusual classes.”

Roarke settled into the seat for what he gathered would be a complicated story.

“Red Banner graduated many people with special talents. They offered a variety of courses that couldn’t be found elsewhere. Even Aleksandr Putin went through the school before serving in East Germany. Most relevant was a special curriculum nicknamed Red Banner 101. ‘101’ for introductory. Students went in as Russians. They came out as Americans.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Roarke commented.

“This was total immersion training. The purpose was to graduate men and women who could pass as Americans,” the president emphasized, “in America. That was the purpose: Integration in American life; some as active spies, others as
sleepers
waiting for their assignments.

“The students never knew each other’s real names and many never saw one another again unless they were sent into the field as couples. Oh, and they had a
no fail
policy. That’s not to say you couldn’t fail, but you wouldn’t live long enough to get any remedial work. It was a killer course.”

The president consulted his file before continuing again.

“Scott, let me give you a better picture of their success rate. For a long time, the Russians were pretty inept at getting the basics of American life. They could perfect an accent, drive an automatic, and disappear in a crowd, but it was the little things that confused them. The things that are so, so
normal
for us. Buying the right sneakers or toothpaste or jeans. They couldn’t do it. Too many choices for them. They didn’t even know where to begin. They’d try to haggle. Well, that’s not the American way. They’d take one product not knowing the other is really what they needed. From what I understand, things were so culturally different, most of the spies didn’t even have a clue.

“Just imagine landing here in a space ship and suddenly needing to apply for a house loan or buy a car. That’s what it was like. Way beyond their comprehension. So eventually the KGB wised up and created a program designed to teach Russians the practical fundamentals of American life. Both men and women were enlisted. Sometimes the Soviets trained off site in Moscow apartments. People like Abel or London’s Philby often lectured them. But Red Banner 101 was the main campus.”

Roarke found the story totally fascinating.

“It was an acting job,” the president continued. “The student spies lost their Russian accent, worked American idiomatic expressions into their speech, and became young Republicans or Democrats. Oh maybe they dreamt in Russian, but on the street you’d never know.

“Evans told me he heard from one former asset, that a couple placed here as sleepers even raised a family in America. The wife was East German and he was a Czech citizen. They came to the U.S. from South Africa, via Canada, with a young son.

“Here’s the worst of it. They made a spy out of their nineteen-year-old son while he was a student at Georgetown. Their other kid, born here, didn’t know that mommy and daddy were Russian spies. But I can guarantee you the whole family would have been ready to serve old Mother Russia by the time they were through. And just string it out. The boys could have married and co-opted their wives…and then their children…and their wives. You see how insidious it is?”

Roarke followed the lesson. “This isn’t going to have a happy ending, is it?”