Executive Actions (44 page)

As a member of the Special Forces, Slange had no equals. He was a 6’ combination of pure muscle and intellect. That’s why he had the command.

Aplen liked him the most. He shared the Special Forces spirit and, like Slange, had a survivor’s instinct. Alpen was a Missouri boy, age twenty-nine, an avid hunter and the son of an Olympic rifler. He excelled at everything. Aplen was the best marksman in the Special Forces, the strongest swimmer, and the quietest commando. He hardly spoke. Most people never knew he was around even when he was at work.

Gardner was the brain in the group and yet the one most easily bored. That’s why Harvard didn’t offer enough challenges. He sought more excitement and turned to the military. When he found the basics too mundane he discovered Special Forces school in Florida. Finally Gardner had a place to express himself physically and mentally. At age thirty-one, he was on his first real mission. He’d already memorized everything about the plan and was eager to go.

Recht, age 30, always chewed gum. Ordinarily a superior wouldn’t allow it. But for Recht, there were special allowances. He could make a radio out of wrappers and used his ABC gum like solder. Recht was a ham radio operator by nine. He had an internet TV station at fourteen and a patent for a collapsable parabolic reflector when he was fifteen. It was the only one ever registered with two key components found in a pack of Juicy Fruit.

At age twenty-six, Sgt. Wil Jones was the “kid” of the group. But experience made up for age. Jones could double everyone’s job and kill without prejudice. Slange knew his skills and was alive today because of them.

General Johnson had one additional point to make, but the president cut him off.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, J3,” he said.

“Certainly, Mr. President.”

“I should explain to everyone what we have in mind for Lt. Recht and Sgt. Jones,” Morgan Taylor began. “They’re the cameramen. They’ll be shooting the entire time. I want them protected as if they were what we were goddamned looking for. This entire mission must be on camera. Every second of it. It’ll come back simultaneously to command and also archived on DVD. I want to see live pictures, focused on the operation and then on the man carrying the files, once they are in our control. No camera cuts. From the time they leave the deck of the
Vinson
right through their return.

“That camera isn’t going to stop down for anything. The entire operation, for better or worse, will be documented.”

Everyone understood. The president could not be accused of creating a diversion merely to hold onto his office. Not by Democrats, not by Kharrazi. The evidence had to be totally verifiable. Morgan Taylor’s place in history, let alone the very foundation of the president-elect, would rise and fall on what the cameras revealed.

“The floor is your’s again, General.”

“Thank you, sir. My men will be coming back with more than just one set of files.”

He had everyone’s undivided attention.

“We’re going to load up every fucking thing we can put our hands on.” J3 smiled at the attorney general. “Pardon my French, Ms. Goldman, but we want everything there is. Everything.”

There was no disagreement at this table today.

“Scott. Stay for a moment, please,” the president asked as Roarke was preparing to leave.

“Yes boss.”

After everyone cleared the room, leaving their folders for shredding, only Morgan Taylor and Scott Roarke remained.

“Wondering why you’re here?”

“No question in my mind. My guess is that you want one person holding the goods.” He smiled at his friend. “I’d say that was me, sir.”

“You got that one hundred percent.”

“And I’ll hand deliver it to you right here.”

“You won’t have to go that far, my boy.”

Now Roarke was confused.

“You’ll give them to me in the Med.”

“What!” Roarke exclaimed. “You’re completely craz—” Taylor held up one hand to stop him in mid sentence.

“Aboard the USS
Carl Vinson
,” the president finished stating.

“You can’t.”

“Oh, I think I can. And I will.”

“You’re the President of the United States of America. Not a fucking Top Gun anymore.”

“Unless you’ve forgotten, Scott, I am
the
Top Gun—Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces. And there’s a coup going on. I want to be the first to see the evidence. The very first. And then I’m going to hunt down the entire ring of conspirators if it’s the last thing I do—in office or out.”

Roarke settled into his chair in the briefing room and laughed.

“You’re really going to do it.”

“You bet your sweet ass,” the president said.

B
y no means did Jack Evans consider the insertion routine. “But surprise will be on our side. It’s the exfiltration where we could have problems. Hopefully the little diversion we have planned will help,” he told the president.

“And the damned weather?” the president asked. “The latest?”

“Not good and not getting any better.”

“What’s the worst conditions we can accept as operational?

“Something better than what they’re getting. I’ll get the risk assessment and then we can make the decision.”

The morning briefing then went onto India and Pakistan and a suicide bombing outside of the U.N.

FOUR DEAD IN TERRORIST SUICIDE BOMBING.

Ibrahim Haddad put the paper down.
The whole idea was to stay alive and see change through. Not die by blowing yourselves up,
he thought.
These people. What was the benefit in that? Such a stupid way of trying to accomplish the goal.

Haddad considered himself smarter than the martyrs who disintegrated in an instant of misplaced glory. He had plotted for decades, strategizing for the day at hand; a day that would begin to reshape the allegiances of the world. Yet, he would have to be patient.
A few more weeks, that’s all.
The new president would need time to redraw the map.

Roarke joined up with the team at the staging area in Kentucky. He was weeks behind in training, but he only needed to master the basics: Where to go once he jumped off the chopper. What to do when he got inside. How to get out safely with his package in hand.

For any typical civilian, it would have been impossible to assimilate into a tight unit on a critical mission. But Roarke was not a typical civilian. He was in excellent physical shape. While the rigors didn’t bother him, the weather did. He knew the reputation of the Black Hawks in less than ideal conditions. It was the unspoken worry among the team.

Roarke had one more concern. What could he tell Katie. The answer was—very little.

“Hi, hon,” he started in a call from a telephone booth.

He hadn’t seen Katie in weeks, although they spoke regularly.

“Hey, you. Where are you now.”

“Visiting.” That was their shorthand for him not being able to talk. “Then I’ve got an errand to run.” Which meant he’d be busy for awhile.

She didn’t speak up, mostly out of fear. Roarke read the sign.

“I’ll be okay.”

“I understand,” she said. Then Katie corrected herself. “No. No. That’s completely wrong. I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it. I haven’t seen you. When you call, you can’t…” She hesitated knowing she should be careful.

“I can’t. I wish I could.” Roarke didn’t like hiding things from Katie.

He heard a deep sigh. “I wish you could, too.” Her voice trailed off. “And I can’t do anything to help.”

They were both silent.

“Katie?”

“Yes.”

“There may be something.”

“Yes?”

“Something you can do.”

“Okay?”

“Well…” He had to be careful. They were on an open line. “Let’s just call it Civics 101.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, You must have a copy of the U. S. Constitution at home, right?”

“Sure. Only in about twenty of my law books. Why?”

“Read it and think about our discussion a few weeks ago. I’ll get back to you later.”

“But…”

“That’s all. Just read it. And think of me. I’ll call you later, bye bye, sweetheart.”

Katie hung up and peered out her Beacon Hill apartment window. The late afternoon sun was beginning to silhouette the buildings across the Charles and cast a warm glow on the water. She took a deep breath and replayed the exchange she’d just concluded. After flashing on how nice
sweetheart
sounded, Katie thought about what he’d said.
“The U. S. Constitution. Read it and think of our discussion.”
After the a few minutes she racked her focus from the river onto her own reflection in the glass and smiled broadly.
That son of a bitch. He’s just enlisted me.

“Read it.”
That’s exactly what she did. Over a cup of coffee. Over many cups and into the evening. She read the Constitution of the United States like she had never read it before.

Katie dove into the words, losing herself in their magnificence, their poetry, their brillance and simple eloquence.

It was a document for all time; living, breathing, full of the American character, so hard for much of the world to comprehend.

Katie immersed herself in the rhythm, the texture and the meaning. She thought she knew what she was looking for, but she didn’t know if it existed.

It was as if James Madison was speaking directly to her; affirming the basic goodness of the republic and the foundation of laws. She moved through the context to subtext, what the words said and what they implied, from the primary laws of the land enumerated in the Bill of Rights through the subsequent amendments.

The first ten amendments were proposed to legislators of the existing states by the First Congress on September 25, 1789. Ten of the original states ratified the amendments between 1789 and 1791. Amazingly it wasn’t until 1939 that the legislatures of the three remaining thirteen states, Massachusetts, Georgia, and Connecticut, ratified the Bill of Rights.

Katie continued reading. The 11
th
Amendment on Judicial powers, the 12
th
enumerating how electors shall meet in their respective states and vote by ballot for president and vice president. The 13
th
established in 1865, abolishing slavery. She stopped on Section 3 of the 14
th
Amendment.

Unconsciously Katie underlined the last phrase,
“shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof.”
Was it something Scott had said or her own uneasy feeling?

She read on for hours. Sleep was beginning to overtake her when she came to the 25
th
Amendment. It was one of the last Amendments,
“proposed by the Eighty-ninth Congress by Senate Joint Resolution No. 1, approved by the Senate on Feb. 19, 1965, and by the House of Representatives, in amended form, on Apr. 13, 1965, and finally ratified by the states in 1967.”

At first she read it casually, then she read it again. And once more. By the time the phone rang Katie already had filled eleven pages of a yellow pad with notes. It was Scott and she was grateful for the break. She checked her desk clock, a simple art deco repro from Restoration Hardware. 12:15
A.M.
She’d been working for more than nine hours.

“Katie, honey, I’m sorry I’m getting back to you so late.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been just doing some light reading. That thing you
mentioned
.”

“Oh, and are you enjoying it?”

“Like never before,” she explained. “It’s beautifully written. Really. Amazing what you’ll find in it.” She suddenly realized she was excited. Very excited. “Look, I better go, I’ve got a lot to think about.”

Roarke smiled. Special Forces now had another team member.

F
or the sixth straight week Teddy Lodge met with prospective cabinet appointees. He was partial to liberal Democrats, Ivy Leaguers and think tank brains. A few newspaper reporters and some of the more conservative Sunday morning political quarterbacks observed that he was shaping a remarkable team of eggheads who could bore America’s enemies to death; a potent left wing rubber stamp and not a leader among them.

Women. Blacks. Latinos. They were just what the president-elect wanted. And none of them were Jewish.

Ibrahim Haddad fell asleep with the day’s
New York Times
on his lap. He slept peacefully, dreaming of the changes that would come one month to the day when the new president would take the oath of office.

The cheering crowd. The band playing “America the Beautiful”…

Haddad watched it high and above, as if on a catwalk over a giant stage. It was all a wide shot. A blur of faces. Full of grandeur and excitement. This was Haddad’s dream every night for decades; automatic, programmed, controlled and willed into his subconscious, complete in every detail.

Speeches ushering in a new era. Troops marching past the grandstand….
He zoomed closer in his mind’s eye. From wide shot to medium. Faces still unrecognizable, but images he so desired to come true that he began to become aroused in his sleep.

Jets soaring overhead. A man slowly coming to his feet….

Now closer. Faces almost discernable.
A man now stood before tens of thousands of people at the Capitol steps. His right hand raised, his left hand on a book. The Bible.
Haddad smiled in his sleep.
The Bible.

The masses quieting. The words echoing.

Closer. The man who would be president.
“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute…”

Closer.
“…the office of President of the United States…”

Closer, his face almost recognizable.
“…and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend…”

Haddad was throbbing with anticipation.
“…the Constitution of the United States.”

He often climaxed with the excitement as the man before the crowd proudly proclaimed,
“I do.”

But tonight his sexual arousal snapped short of completion, replaced by an aching in his chest, the pain of an asthma attack.
The face. The face!
His dream, suddenly transformed into an unrecognizable nightmare.

Haddad lurched forward in his bed, violently awakening. He reached for an inhaler in the drawer of his marble-topped nightstand. He filled his lungs with two blasts of Ventolin. Then two more. The attack subsided, but he still couldn’t shake the image of
that face.

“We’re just sitting on our asses. When the hell are we going to go?” Bernsie demanded.

“Not yet!” J3 bellowed.

General Jonas Jackson Johnson didn’t ordinarily argue with civilians. Especially Morgan Taylor’s trusted right hand man, John Bernstein. But then J3 was not about to lose any advantage in this operation.

“Mr. President, I’m sorry, but the weather is still a fucking mess. We can’t get a decent look-see from our birds and the high winds—they’re running 80–85 miles an hour, put the Black Hawks in jeopardy.”

“Mr. President,” the chief of staff sounded exasperated. He turned to General Jackson. “If this doesn’t work, then what’s Plan B?”

“Plan B? We use our fuckin’ Friends and Family calling card and ask Mr. Fadi Kharrazi to please send us the fuckin’ files via fuckin’ Federal Express. Jesus, there is no fuckin’ Plan B, Bernsie. And pardon my fuckin’ French.”

The tension had been building for weeks. An argument was probably inevitable.

“Gentlemen,” the president spoke softly. His delivery carried very easily across the near empty Situation Room. “J3, your colorful language, notwithstanding, Bernsie has a good point.”

“Respectfully, Mr. President,” the general solemnly and now politely offered, “we have run alternate scenarios. Nothing is acceptable short of our primary objective: vertical insertion by helo, strategic distractions”—J3’s term for pinpoint bombing of neighboring intersections—“and an assault on the target. And for that I need those fucking winds to die down!”

Bernstein thought quickly. “There’s got to be some way. We had a man inside before, can’t we get others back in? They hang around the building after it closes. They break in.”

“‘Mission Impossible’ style, Bernsie?” the President quipped. “They rip off their latex Arab masks and repell down the walls to waiting motorcyles?”

“Mr. President. I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“Your concern is noted and appreciated,” J3 said. “We have fourteen days. I’ll consider every option available to us.”

“Thirteen. If you want to stop Lodge
before
he’s sworn in,” Bernstein reminded everyone. “Just thirteen days.”

“Bob, a question for you,” the president said shifting the conversation to the FBI chief.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“One word. Abraham.”

Mulligan had the information in front of him. “Some 12, 000 possibles. We’re trying to narrow it down, sir.”

“Find this guy and we’re a step closer to finding the assassin.”

The FBI chief swallowed hard. “I don’t think anyone here disagrees, but…”

Morgan Taylor abruptly stood. The act stopped the FBI director in mid-sentence. “Thirteen days, Bob. As the chief of staff reminded us, you also have just 13 days.”

Mulligan added another sixty-five field officers, to the search. No one was told why they were only questioning men named Abraham. They were merely informed that they had only twelve days to narrow the list and zero in on someone who was apparently important enough to be brought in before the outgoing president left. “We’re looking for someone presumably rich, at least 60 years old. With a current passport. Middle Eastern.”

The FBI chief misled his own people as a cover explaining it was a top priority investigation into an Al-Qaeda arms smuggling operation.

With an elaborate, but cryptic nationwide manhunt on it wasn’t surprising that a source inside the bureau tipped off
The New York Times
. No one took special interest except Michael O’Connell.
What’s the old man up to now?

“Hello, Director Mulligan,” he said after being put through.

“Hello, Mr. O’Connell.”

“Thank you for taking my phone call, sir.” He set a friendly tone.

“You’re welcome, Mr. O’Connell,” FBI chief answered cooly.

“A few questions, if you don’t mind?”

“If you don’t mind not hearing any answers,” Mulligan offered in response.

“Fair enough.” The reporter noticeably toughened. “There’s a major investigation going on. Nationwide.”

Robert Mulligan did not answer.

“Sources tell me it may involve a search for a Middle Eastern man.”

“I do not respond to questions based on unnamed sources, Mr. O’Connell.”

“You investigate crimes based on tips, Director?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I investigate stories based on tips.”

Again no response.

“I also understand that this search was possibly ordered at a very senior level.” Morgan Taylor’s name was not mentioned.

More silence.

“The reason for locating this man is unknown by even the people looking for him.”

O’Connell could hear Mulligan’s breathing, the only indication that he was still on the line.

“Can you comment?” the reporter finally asked.

“Mr. O’Connell,” the FBI Director said, measuring his words very carefully. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. The Bureau is involved in a myriad of investigations. I couldn’t even begin to comment. I’m certain you understand.”

“Can you deny the report?”

“Is there a specific crime you’re talking about, Mr. O’Connell?”

“I don’t know. Is there?”

O’Connell ignored the redirect. “Do you deny that such an order for the investigation came from you?”

“I can categorically deny that such an order came from me.”
Whoops.

O’Connell seized on the slip.“Then there is a manhunt?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did say that the order didn’t come from you, it came from someone else. Higher up?”

“Mr. O’Connell,” Mulligan said trying to regain ground, “this is not a police state. We do not round up people at the whim of the FBI Director.”

“Or
anyone
else, Mr. Director?”

It was O’Connell’s most pointed comment.

“I hope I’ve answered your questions.”

“Well, I…”

“Perhaps another time, Mr. O’Connell. Good bye, now.”

Mulligan rested the phone on the cradle no more than two seconds before dialing the White House.

“Louise, it’s Mulligan. I need the president,” he somberly said.

“Yes, Mr. Director. I’ll see if he can speak with you.” A minute later she was back. “Connecting you now, sir.”

“Mr. President,” Mulligan began.

“Still am,” Taylor joked with a degree of gallows humor. “What’s on your mind, Bob.”

“I’d like to meet with you and the attorney general. Immediately.”

Ibrahim Haddad was also getting a call from a phone booth in Arlington.

“You might be interested,” the caller explained, “that friends are looking for a Middle Eastern man with
means
. Approximate age, mid-sixties. California, Arizona, Texas, Louisiana, New York, maybe to Florida.”

“Oh,” was all that Haddad offered in response.

“Someone with the name Abraham.”

“Spell that, please.”

“Abraham with an ‘A.’”

“I think you have the wrong number.” Haddad said hanging up the phone.

FADI!
he swore to himself.

Mulligan made it to the Oval Office in under twelve minutes. The president postponed signing a proclamation honoring a Michigan 4-H Club. Bernsie was present, having gotten the call from Morgan Taylor to join him, “Pronto!” So was the AG, Eve Goldman.

“Well Bob, you wanted an audience. You’ve got it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I got a call from
The New York Times
regarding the net we cast.”

“Is that unexpected?”

“Not entirely. And the cover seems to be working.”

“Seems to be working?” the president didn’t fail to catch the exact meaning of the words.

“The call was from O’Connell, the reporter following Lodge.” Mulligan took a deep, telling sigh. “I don’t think he buys the story completely. I stopped him one question short of you.”

The president glanced at Attorney General Goldman. She was in the Oval Office to make certain every move the president made was on sound legal ground.

“Go on,” the president requested.

“You’ve brought the AG up to date?”

“I have,” Taylor answered. “What did you give him?”

“Nothing.” He paused. “Which was everything…unstated.”

The attorney general made notes, then asked, “Will he go with the story?”

“Of course he will.”

“When?” she asked.

“Soon,” Mulligan replied. “He’ll talk to his source one more time. Probably miss today’s deadline for tomorrow’s paper. I suspect the day after tomorrow. Front page.”

“Mr. President, I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this is for you,” John Bernstein offered. “We have to shut him down!”

“Be careful, Mr. Bernstein,” the attorney general warned. “It’s you who are on dangerous ground with talk like that.”

“I can just see the way he’ll write the story. You’ll be dead, Mr. President.”

“You made your point, Bernsie. Bob,” the president calmly asked. “What kind of reporter is this O’Connell?”

“Arrogant. Egocentric. And smart. He’s a rising star in the press. Sees himself as a modern-day Woodward or Bernstein. He’s already been booked on the Sunday talkers.”

“And what kind of
person
is he?”

The question caught Mulligan unprepared. He looked to the others in the room, totally uncertain how to answer it. “I don’t really know, sir.”

“Then we shall see.” Taylor walked to his desk and handed the telephone to the FBI director. “Get him on the phone.”

“Call him?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Now?”

“Now, Bob.”

Mulligan complied, dialing a number in his notes.

“Put it on the speaker, Bob.”

The FBI chief pressed the button marked Spkr and everyone heard, “You’ve reached Michael O’Connell’s desk. Leave your number, the time you called and a message.”

The president gave him a cut sign. Mulligan hung up and Morgan Taylor gave another order. “Try Louise. She finds everyone.”

At the president’s request, the FBI director called on the services of the ever-reliable Louise Swingle.

Minutes later, after going through the news desk, she called “a friend” in Virginia whose job it was to track everyone’s cell phone numbers. The president’s phone beeped twice. Morgan Taylor pressed his speaker button. “Yes, Louise.”

“I have Mr. O’Connell for the director.”

“Thank you. Put him through.”

The president nodded approval to Bob Mulligan who engaged line one.

Without indicating he was in the White House he said, “Hello, this is Bob Mulligan.” Everyone listened over a speaker phone. They were certain it would be
interesting.

“Director Mulligan, I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you. Or at least so soon. I take it you’ve re-thought our conversation and you have something you’d like to really say?”

“Well, not exactly, Mr. O’Connell,” Mulligan replied.

“What do you mean? And are we on a speaker phone? I’d prefer if…”

The president pointed at himself and nodded.

“You are on a speaker and there’s someone who’d like to talk with you.”

O’Connell was quiet.

“He’s right here. Hold on.”