Executive Actions (45 page)

“Okay. But…”

“Mr. O’Connell,” Taylor said.

“Yes. Who is this?” he answered sharply.

The people in the Oval Office lowered their eyes. They could only imagine the expression that was about to come over the reporter’s face.

“Mr. O’Connell, this is Morgan Taylor.”

The president smiled at the silence that usually came after the pronouncement. “Mister O’Connell are you there?”

“Ah, yes, Mr. President.” He obviously recognized the voice.

“Mr. O’Connell, are you all right?”

“Yes. I just didn’t expect to be talking with you,” he said awkwardly.

“I understand. I’m used to that.”

“I guess you would be, Mr. President.”

“Well, Mr. O’Connell, Bob Mulligan’s been filling me in and I have a little proposition for you.”

“Yes, sir?” he paused. “This really is Morgan Taylor?”

“No doubt in my mind,” the president joked. “You can call me back if you’d like.”

“Ah, this is fine, sir.”

Talking to the president was a humbling experience, no matter who you were.

“Good then. As for my proposition. How would you like the story of a lifetime?”

John Bernstein gasped audibly. Bob Mulligan was equally surprised. But Attorney General Eve Goldman grinned. She knew exactly where the president was going. He was about to erase any and all suggestion of impropriety. Forever.

“Well, you have my undivided attention. What is it?”

“Not on the telephone, Mr. O’Connell.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll have to come down to my place.”

“Your place?”

“The White House, Mr. O’Connell. And I have two non-negotiable stipulations.”

“Which are?”

“Number one. No one knows.”

“I have to tell my editors.”

“Positively no one.”

“But I’ve got to say something.”

“Tell them…” the president thought for a moment. “Tell them you’re meeting an
inside
source. They don’t get much more inside than me.”

O’Connell let out a nervous laugh. “No, I don’t suspect they do, sir. And the second?”

“You hold the article you were working on. The one you spoke with Director Mulligan about.”

“Now wait, I’m too deep into it and I know….”

“I said non-negotiable, Mr. O’Connell. The president raised his voice above a friendly level. “And the truth is that you know nothing. Believe me, if you want to be the one who breaks a story far bigger than you can ever imagine, you will do
precisely
as I say.”

When O’Connell failed to answer, the president prompted him. “I need to know now.”

O’Connell spoke very quietly. “You know, in other countries, this is how people like me end up disappearing.”

“Quite right, Mr. O’Connell. But this is the United States of America and I am offering you alone the opportunity to be on the inside of a tremendous story, no matter what happens. So your answer is?”

“I agree to your terms.”

“A wise career decision,” Taylor said with a laugh. “Now get yourself down here by breakfast.”

“And again you tell no one; positively no one knows.”

“You have my word, Mr. President.”

“Oh, one more thing.”

O’Connell was quite slow on the comeback only offering a faltering, “Yes?”

“Pack for all sorts of weather. You’ll be away for awhile.”

“W
elcome, Mr. O’Connell,” the president said with a calculating grin and a fiercely strong handshake. “Welcome to the
Taylor
White House.”

The reporter smiled nervously, half believing he was being drawn into the web of a black widow spider. “Thank you, I think.” This was their first official meeting, although O’Connell had been at a number of White House press conferences, fairly well back in the pack.

“You can put your things down near the bureau. I hope the Secret Service didn’t give you too much problem with your bags.” Of course everything had been checked by scanner and then by hand.

“It’s a different world, sir. They’ve got to consider all of the possibilities.”

The reporter slung his backpack down and took off his olive green winter parka. He wore a light gray turtleneck sweater, black dress pants and a gray wool sportsjacket with black leather elbow pads.

“You’re a good reporter. Have you figured out why you’re here?” the president asked.

“I’ve run a few possibilities.”

“Oh, Mr. O’Connell, I don’t think you have a clue. Take out your pad. I’ve cancelled my next two appointments. And you’ve got a lot of writing to do.”

The president loosened his red and blue striped tie, took a seat in the John Adams chair, which held no meaning for the reporter, rested his feet on the coffee table and proceeded to light up a cigar.

“The first thing you’ll learn about me is that I don’t give a flying fuck about the smoking laws inside this office.” He took a puff.

“Why do I sense there’s more coming, sir,” the thirty-four-year-old reporter managed, suddenly taking a liking to the man.

“More? Oh there’s lots more.” Morgan Taylor laughed through a cloud of smoke. “Is it bothering you?” he asked.

“No. Thank you for your concern.”

“You’ll find me concerned about a lot of things. Like the laws of this country.” He took a satisfying puff. “Even the ones I break.”

“The laws, sir?”

“Well, one in particular.”

Another long drag of his cigar.

“According to the constitution, the president is supposed to be a natural born citizen of the United States.”

He let the concept hang in the air just like his smoke.

“That’s correct. But you didn’t call me here for a discussion in civics.”

“Oh, quite the contrary, Mr. O’Connell. The constitution is the very foundation of our opening discussion.”

And with that blunt of an introduction, Morgan Taylor began telling Michael O’Connell everything he knew and even some of the things he believed. It was a soliloquy that broadsided the
Times
reporter. Yet, for the first time in his professional career, O’Connell didn’t have to ask a single question. He just listened and wrote faster than he ever had in his life.

While Michael O’Connell was trying to keep up with the president’s litany, Scott Roarke boarded an Air Force C-32A Executive Transport from McGill. The modified Boeing 757-200, generally reserved by the Air Force 89
th
Airlift Wing to ferry the U.S. Vice President, members of the Cabinet and Congress, and other government officials, offered a level of luxury that Special Forces never received. The passenger manifest logged a group of congressional aides enroute to Germany for a tour of Ramstein Air Base. But not a single staff member was on that plane.

Ramstein, home of the 86
th
Airlift Wing (AW), would be an intermediate stop. Roarke and the other members of the Special Forces team would rest at the base, waiting for a break in the weather. It was expected that they’d deploy to the
Vinson
in three days.

Their plane lifted off at 0830, escorted by three fully armed Air Force versions of the Super Hornets, equipped with long-range APG-70 radar. The planes’ targeting pods also contained a laser designator and tracking sytem that direct the onboard AIM-7F Sparrow missiles, AIM-9L Sidewinder missiles, and AIM 120 AMRAAM missiles. The F/A-18F’s two-man crew were extra insurance that General Jackson ordered.

They flew south down the Gulf of Mexico, then banked left and crossed over Miami air space, seven miles above the exclusive residential community of Fisher Island.

Ibrahim Haddad hadn’t been sleeping well recently. He was sipping a second cup of morning coffee to keep himself awake, smoking his third cigarette and watching the contrails of four planes streaking high overhead out across the Atlantic. They looked like little dots with long white tails.
“Military,”
he reasonsed before opening up his newspaper.

The front page of
The Miami Herald
carried a story about Teddy Lodge’s likely liberal cabinet choices. They had enthusiastically supported his candidacy and hardly missed a day without another Lodge report. Today’s pleased him, but Haddad couldn’t finish reading. He knew why. His attention span was diminished due to lack of sleep.

All of his planning and strategizing was coming to fruition. With his life’s principal work nearly complete, what role was there for him in the years ahead? An even harder question, would his benefactors no longer view him as an asset, but consider him a liability?
That would be unfortunate
, he thought as he crushed out his last cigarette. He would need to reaffirm his value, maybe even awaken another sleeper he had acquired and prepare for a new ascension. Ibrahim Haddad had many at his fingertips. One for each branch of the American government.

Yes, he would start a new game with a new identity. After all, Haddad was, by his own estimation, smarter than any of his adversaries and each of his three successive employers over the years.

Katie Kessler had never been more determined to research the law. She linked into Internet sites at Harvard Law Library, Georgetown University and even the Library of Congress. Now she had two notebooks with case histories in the right columns and her questions and suppositions on the left.

Katie took a leave of absence from Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus. It was just short of a resignation. She’d probably never return. The question she pondered now was,
Where will all of this lead me?

One person she didn’t bother saying goodbye to was Witherspoon. That very act kept her departure from being reported to Ibrahim Haddad. Witherspoon was on Haddad’s payroll, but the Miami man was clearly overpaying for his services.

“Mr. Lodge, we hear that you haven’t talked to the president since the debates.”

CNN scored the president-elect 11 days prior to the inaguration and the host got right to the point.

“Well, I’m sure Morgan Taylor is a busy man with things to do.”

A few blocks away Taylor watched alone in the Oval Office. “You better believe I do,” he said to the TV.

“Undoubtedly he’ll have last minute pardons to grant and some goodbye speeches; the usual. We’ll get together on January 20
th
. That’s soon enough?”

“And when you do see him, what will you say?”

“What anyone in my position would say.

“Thank you for all that you’ve done for America. Now may I please have the keys to the House.”

The host laughed. “And the fact that President Taylor hasn’t made overtures to you? What does that say?”

“It means I want you to worry, you sonofabitch!” the president declared to the screen. “Worry about everything.”

“To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what he’s thinking. You’ll have to ask him,” Lodge told the anchor.

“We have. The formal word from the administration is, ‘No comment.’ To me, that suggests he has some real issues with you. Do you have any idea what they are, Congressman?”

Lodge politely offered, “No. I don’t,” and then he stopped and wondered.
What was going on? It was too quiet.
He missed the newsman’s next question, which made him look awkward.

“Congressman?” the moderator had to ask.

Morgan Taylor walked right up to his television monitor and stood face to face with his opponent. “I’m getting to you, aren’t I? Just wait.”

“Congressman?”

“Yes, sorry. You had me thinking for a moment.”

When the stage manager announced, “Clear,” a few minutes later, Teddy Lodge quickly shook the host’s hand, thanked everyone on the crew, and hurried out of the CNN Washington studios onto First Street, N.E.

“Nice job,” Newman whispered to Lodge.

“Oh, cut the crap.” They brushed passed three TV reporters waiting for a quick sound bite and into the raw January air. The temperature hadn’t gone above 20 degrees in days and neither Lodge nor Newman had overcoats. Once in the warmth of their limo Lodge pressed the button to raise the glass between the driver and passenger compartment.

“We go on the offensive,” Lodge began, obviously pissed at his performance. “Set up interviews with Mulligan at the Bureau. Evans at CIA. If they meet and it’s cordial we leak that we’re actively asking them to stay on—for now. If they brush us off, then word gets out that we’re looking for replacements. And we call Taylor. He won’t respond, so we get indignant and embarrass the motherfucker. Let the lame duck shoot himself in the foot.”

“Good,” was all Newman managed before Lodge started again.

“Make the calls today. I sucked out there and I want to turn this around. Get me on
The Today Show
Monday morning. 7:35. There are a lot of woman watching home alone after sending the kids off the school.”

Newman beamed. Lodge certainly knew his constituency.

“Mulligan,” the FBI director said to Louise Swingle. “I need the man again.”

The fifty-four-year-old White House secretary put him right through with her usual effeciency.

“Yes, Mr. Director.”

“Mr. President, I just received a phone call from Newman.”

“Oh?”

“Said he wants to chat. I suspect that means he’s interested in sounding out my intentions to stay or Lodge’s intentions to keep me. What do you want me to do?”

The president let out a single, short laugh. “Well, it appears that Lodge is trying to reclaim some political high ground after stumbling this morning.”

“Yah, looked that way to me, too.”

“You’re a policeman, Bob. Spook him out a little. This could be interesting.”

“I thought you’d want me to do that. I have just the guy to do it, too.”

“Who’s that?” Taylor was intrigued.

“Someone he’d be surprised to see in the room. Roy Bessolo, the agent in charge of the investigation in upstate New York. I’ll have him ask a few pointed questions. We’ll see what happens.”

“You know pissing him off will cost you a job in the new administration.”

Mulligan’s voice deepened. “What new administration, Mr. President?”

Most of Ramstein Air Force Base’s mission history is classified. It’s headquarters of the Department of Defense’s European Command, America’s muscle in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. That means the U.S. Air Force gets to park its hardware there. During certain “operations” the planes are a lot lighter on their return than when they took off.

Bragging rights have included official and unofficial missions in support of Operations Desert Shield, Desert Storm, air protection over Bosnia-Herzegovina, the NATO-led air war over Kosovo, air strikes against the Taliban and Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Security begins with the Ramstein website. Nobody gets further than the home page without permission. It continues right to the front gate and the airspace overhead. Roarke had been there before, but nobody would find the paperwork to support the stopovers.

The twin-engine jet touched down softly at 2135 local time, having traveled close to the edge of its 5,500 mile range. The C-32A taxied directly into a hanger, which was then locked tight. Only then did the door open and the members of the Special Forces disembark. For now, this was a black op, although the president had explained the mission to one reporter.

The hanger would be their home until they received their orders to move on. No one was allowed outside. No one inside. Specially prepared food had been brought in via a catering truck. There would be no alcohol during the stay. They’d be living on low carbs, fruits, vegetables and high protein until they completed their assignment.

The six member team talked to no one other than Colonel Sam Langeman. And Slange, as he was always called, only talked to J3 at McGill’s super secretive Integrated Battle Command Center (IBCC), located in a sub basement of a nondescript five story communications building. So far Slange was the only member of the Special Forces squad who’d ever seen the 10,200 square foot room, enclosed in forty-five inches of concrete wall and ceilings. The others were about to learn a little bit about it.

“Okay. Grab some java and sit down.” It was just short of an order, but Slange made sure it sounded like one. He had assembled his squad—Aplen, Gardner, Recht, Jones along with the President’s man, Roarke. When they were all seated he began.

“We’ve trained to be self sufficient. But there will be extra eyes and ears watching out for us,” he said. Slange began describing the complex Command Center in general terms. Enough to give them some added confidence. Not enough to cause harm if the enemy ever found out. Even though these men were the elite, they didn’t need to know what they didn’t need to know. There was always the threat of capture and torture.

“This ain’t a place you’ll be able to go trick or treating,” he quipped. “First there’s a set of security doors,” There were three. “Then a steep hike down a 200-yard ramp pitched at a 20-degree angle. That’ll lead you to a pair of fifteen-inch steel blast doors at either end. And I’m afraid it wouldn’t qualify as handicapped accessible. One person enters at a time and the doors close two-seconds after you enter, whether or not you’re all the way in.”

“Hey Aplen, you can count to two, right?” Recht joked.

“Shut the fuck up!” Aplen countered. The men simultaneously broke into a chorus of “woos” at Recht’s expense.