Executive Actions (50 page)

W
ashington belonged to Teddy Lodge. An army of Lodge supporters had descended days earlier for the pre-Inaugural dinners, parties and fireworks. Now, all told, probably 450,000 admirers and string-alongs were in town for the revelry. Close to a half million spenders. Washington was happy.

Another two thousand reporters were on hand to cover everything from the important to the uneventful. In the past two weeks, they’d devoted an enormous amount of coverage to the president-elect’s prospective cabinet appointees. Lodge himself called local talk shows to push his team and his agenda. He handled unknown callers like they were lifelong friends. They loved him.

Lodge also appeared supremely confident on the morning network news shows, laughing his way through softball questions. The customary honeymoon had begun.

A few reporters took snipes at Morgan Taylor for dropping off the radar scope. But most Americans showed almost no interest in the the outgoing president.

This was exactly what President Taylor had counted on.

“Hello?” the vice president-elect said as he answered the phone in his suite at the Willard just down the street from the White House.

“Henry, it’s Morgan. I hope I’m not disturbing your celebration.”

“Why no, Mr. President,” he said as he put down his nightcap. “I’m just getting ready for bed. It’s going to be a full day tomorrow.”

“Oh, it certainly will be. May I start it a bit earlier for you?”

“Of course, but…”

“I’d like to speak to you confidentially at the White House. Oh-eight-thirty. And Henry,” the president’s tone changed. “I do mean confidential.”

“But, Mr. President…”

“My way, Henry.”

The governor was suddenly aware that the call had the distinctive echo of a mobile transmission, with a slight delay and a digital quality. He felt a rumble in his stomach. It was the kind he used to feel before battle. The governor finished his scotch with one gulp.

“Your Secret Service detail will be at your door fifteen minutes before and lead you out.”

“Morgan this sounds serious.”

“Oh-eight-thirty, sharp!”

The line went dead. Lamden poured himself another scotch, taller than his first and wondered,
What in God’s name is going on?

The president, wearing a Navy flight jacket and faded blue jeans, sat at his desk in the forward compartment of Air Force One. He and his two most trusted associates. Bernsie and Jack Evans, were reading English translations of the
Ashab al-Kahf—
People of the Cave
—
pages delivered to them by the CIA translators. The portions that dealt with Andropov Institute were the most intriguing.

The original of each page was copied onto the back of the typed translation. Then the English side was signed and dated by two people—the translator and J3—to confirm authenticity. Many of the pages were typed on original Andropov letterhead, the formal home of the Red Banner curriculum.

Taylor made specific notes in the columns of various pages and wrote general thoughts on a yellow legal pad. Undoubtedly, this would be his last flight in Air Force One. He was making every minute count.

After reading each page, he handed it to Evans, who in turn absorbed it, then passed it to John Bernstein.

“It’s amazing Fadi even kept these,” said the chief of staff.

“Ego,” Morgan Taylor explained not even looking up.

“But not even in a vault?

“The president’s right,” acknowledged Evans. “Supreme arrogance. But he might not have known the detail in these papers. Remember, he acquired this well-hatched plan as a hand-me-down only a short time ago. Plus, our intelligence on Fadi shows that he’s wildly impulsive and impatient. He runs his media conglomerate with an iron fist. He’s impetuous and as we’ve seen, very greedy. And like many megalomaniacs, he collects and archives everything he ever touches.”

“Could any of this be a plant?” the chief of staff asked.

Jack Evans voice boomed, “Bernsie, the only thing that was planted, was the seed of this scheme a long, long time ago.”

“You have to admire the patience of the planners,” the president said. “Decades of waiting.”

“And millions of dollars,” the CIA director added.

“Yes, lord knows how much,” the president said. Then he softened. “I wonder if Lodge had been the Democratic front runner all along, whether Jennifer Lodge would still be alive?”

Evans weighed the question and framed a response. “Maybe. But he wasn’t. Short of waiting four more years, he needed to jump start the nomination. Which he did. And if, by some reason it wasn’t this year, or this wife, then next election. Who knows he even might have been willing to sacrifice a child. He was a deep sleeper. As deep as they get.”

“Maybe not as deep as they get, Jack,” the president offered quietly. He just finished reading another excerpt that had been underlined in red by one of the CIA translators.

“Someone who works for or with Fadi is tracking more graduates from Red Banner. You’re not going to like the areas they’re into. Here, read.”

Evans took the paper. After a minute he exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!”

“This is amazing. They’ve earmarked state legislatures, corporations, federal bureaus. The courts.”

“Currently seated judges?” John Bernstein asked horrified.

“Don’t know. There’s a lot of research to do. This is going to have to go to Bob for the FBI to vet.”

“And it was all part of the Russian strategy from the 1970s,” the president explained. “Infiltate the very fabric of American society. Then wait for instructions.”

“You knew this kind of thing went on,” Bernsie inquired.

“Yes. To some extent. Not anything of this magnitude. Most of the Red Banner sleepers were never activated. When communism tanked in the early ’90s, they just curled up and got comfortable with the lives they had in the States. They made America work for them.”

“Except maybe the ones that weren’t Russian. Lodge and some of the others didn’t swear allegiance to Mother Russia. They never had to. They went to school with Russians, but these young men…”

Evans interrupted, “And probably women….”

“…and women,” the DCI acknowledged. “These men and women have been time bombs with very, very long fuses.”

“And since they weren’t Russians they didn’t give a flying fuck about the demise of the Soviet Union,” Bernsie concluded. “Commuter students.”

“And when another sleeper decided to come forward about one of his classmates…” Evans continued.

“Like Steven Hoag…” Bernstein added.

Evans nodded. “Yeah. We suspect he was going to finger Lodge or Newman. But somehow the command was tipped off and they decided to take him out. Maybe from good intel. Maybe from a leak.” That last bit of news was particularly disturbing.

“So, gentlemen. Tell me Lodge’s ultimate goal?” the President asked.

The chief of staff spoke first. “He’s a brilliant physicist. I’d say nuclear technology gets in the hands of more Arab countries.”

“What about Israel?”

“I wouldn’t want to be an Israeli citizen and count on the U.S. for help,” Evans figured. “The whole balance of power would shift to the Palestinians. Open elections for a few years inside Israel and not one seat in the Knesset would be held by a Jew. They’d have their own state and Israel, too. From the inside.”

“But now that we have the evidence, we stop it,” the President said noting the clock at the front of the cabin. “Fadi looses out to his brother and goes on the endangered species list and we get Lodge.” He stopped just short of adding,
If there’s time.

CNN led the midnight news with a report on the plans for the inaugural, the parade that would follow, and a review of Teddy Lodge’s turbulent and successful year. A commercial break followed, then a brief reader with no video about an apparent missile attack at an undetermined number of radar facilities in Libya.

An unnamed Pentagon source indicated that F/A18’s deployed from the USS
Carl Vinson
carrier task force over-flew Tripoli.
Four SAM’s were fired at the Navy jets from Libyan launchers, but failed to bring down any planes. The Americans struck the missiles installations in self defense, destroying them. It was the first engagement between the U.S. and Libya in years,
the report concluded.

But Ibrahim Haddad knew this was not just an fly-over that turned sour. This was a surgical strike.
The call from Tripoli. Now the news report. Taylor was behind this.
He’d have to leave.
Tonight. Now!

Haddad ignored the clothes. He had a full wardrobe where he was going. However, he did take $100,000 in cash from his bedroom safe and removed his computer hard drive. Although he had a complex Silicon Valley program that automatically rewrote over any deleted files, Haddad didn’t want to risk leaving even broken remnants in the hands of some young CIA hotshot nerd.
No, this will go to the bottom of the ocean.

He closed the door to his apartment for the last time. Two of his bodyguards were already watching the entrance. Together, they road across the opulant Fisher Island grounds on a golf cart, reaching his dock in five minutes. Four of his men always slept on his yacht in shifts. They were all awake when he stepped on board.

“Cast off,” he ordered. Before Haddad settled in his cabin, they had the moorings unlashed and were quietly slipping out of the harbor.
Patience
was well out to sea within fifteen minutes of the first report on CNN. Any of his neighbors still awake were too busy watching television to notice his departure.

Another CNN viewer up at that hour also believed that there was more to the story than initially reported. Henry Lamden, a decorated Navy veteran himself, now suspected that Morgan Taylor had been there for the action. He was a shrewd politician. But he was an even better commander. And now Lamden couldn’t wait for his meeting with the president. He was more excited about that possibility than being sworn in as vice president in less than twelve hours.

T
he phone rang four times.

Hello?” Katie Kessler said stirring from her sleep.

“Ms. Kessler? Kate Kessler?” an unrecognizable voice asked.

“Yes.” she said forcing herself to some semblance of consciousness.

“I’m calling for the employer of your
friend
.”

Katie bolted upright. “My friend?” She resisted asking the obvious.

“He’s fine.” The news woke her up fully. “But his
employer,
has requested that you bring everything you’ve been working on to a meeting that he’s set up in the morning. Take down this flight information.”

“Flight?” Katie asked.

“You’re going to Washington,” the monotone voice told her.

“Wa—wait.” She flicked on her light and found a paper and pencil. The lead broke and she carried the phone over to her desk and pulled a pen from the middle drawer. She had expected a call from Roarke days ago, but none had come. “Okay, ready.”

“Yes,” was all she got back.

“Where am I going? Who will I…”

“You’ll see when you get there,” the man interrupted. “You’re booked on American out of Logan at 7:00
A.M.
You have a meeting in Georgetown at 9:30. You’re expected.”

“But…”

“A car will be waiting outside your apartment at 5:45 to pick you up. Another will be in DC when you arrive. 9:30,” he repeated. “You’ll have fifteen minutes to make your argument. Do you understand?” The man on the phone stated.

“Well, I—”

The line went dead.

Katie composed herself.
Make your argument? What the hell’s that supposed to mean. “Make your argument.”

And then it came to her along with the realization that she’d get no more sleep tonight.

Headwinds slowed Air Force One considerably. A winter storm over the Atlantic set the 747 on a circuitous route. Morgan Taylor would be late for his meeting with the vice president-elect.

Air Force One buffeted the turbulent head winds that were costing precious time. Hours they’d never get back. Given the delays, Morgan Taylor would need to helicopter straight to the Capitol. Louise had the good sense to send a business suit on the outbound flight.
At least he’ll look good for whatever happens.

During the night the president’s staff had been busy communicating over secure satellite phones, faxes and e-mails to the vice president, Cabinet members and the intelligence community.

Taylor still intended to see Governor Lamden. As the next in the line of succession, Lamden needed to understand what was about to go down. It would be complicated and disruptive, appearing much like the insurrection they were seeking to abort. The nation would look for fast answers, often in the wrong places. The people needed a calm voice to explain things. But before that, the Supreme Court had to consider the basic constitutional issues. That’s where Morgan Taylor decided the Kessler woman would come in. Roarke said she was up for the job. The whole country would soon find out.

Katie gave great thought about the correct outfit for the day. She tried on four different choices from her closet, finally settling on a conservative black skirt that landed just below knee length, a slate gray silk blouse accented by the set of pearls her mother had given her when she graduated Harvard. The black heels and full length black overcoat completed the ensemble.

She looked in the mirror one last time.
Not bad. Now if I only knew how the attorney general will react.

The driver was downstairs to meet her as promised. 5:45
AM
. She didn’t know he’d been there all night; as much an FBI body guard as a chauffeur.

“This even beats picking up a Zipcar on Phillips Street to get across town,” she nervously joked. But the man said nothing beyond the most serious
“Good morning”
she’d ever heard.

“Maybe he’s right,”
she thought on the way to Logan.
It is going to be a very serious morning.

Katie’s plane touched down twelve minutes ahead of schedule at Reagan Washington National. As planned, she was met at the gate by a driver she took this time to be Secret Service. He was all business; totally different than Roarke.

“Ms. Kessler?”

“Yes.”

“Identification please.”

“You first.” she said.

The man reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a government ID.

She examined it and saw his revolver as he returned the wallet.

“Now you.”

Once satisfied he escorted her to a Towncar with darkened windows. A second agent equally ice cold sat in the driver’s seat. “Breakfast?” he said looking at her in the rear view mirror.

“No thanks. But we have a few minutes. I sure could use a computer with Internet access before we get where we’re going.”

Seven minutes later she was escorted into the Pentagon and cleared through security. An officer led her to an office with a sign General Jonas Jackson Johnson.

What did they call him?
She remembered.
J3.
Katie wondered if he was here or with Scott.
And where was Scott?
She pushed her personal thoughts away and set her mind on the screen in front of her. Her fingers attacked the keyboard going straight to a U. S. Constitution website that detailed the U.S. Codes. She worked for forty minutes until her escort told her in no uncertain terms they had to leave.

Her driver stopped directly in front of an immaculate 18
th
Century three-story brownstone with muted red wood trim. He unlocked her door with the push of a button, but remained at the wheel. “Right in there, Ms. Kessler. Number 304.” Katie stepped out clutching her black leather Coach attaché case.

She glanced across the street and noticed two other Lincolns pulling into an illegal parking space reserved for a fire hydrant.

Compose yourself,
she said to herself.
You can do this. She’s just the Attorney General of the whole United States.

Katie looked at her watch. It was 9:30 exactly.
Here goes.
She walked up the five brick steps as confidently as possible and rang the bell.

She heard footsteps, then “Yes, yes,” from inside.

A well-tailored older man opened the ornate hand carved oak door.

“Hello,” he said.

She didn’t recognize him.

“Hello. I’m Kate Kessler, an attorney. I was,” she swallowed hard, “asked to come here for a meeting. And you are?”

“This way please.”

She bit her lip and said to herself,
Stupid. He’s the valet. Or the butler.
Katie vowed to do better with the next introduction.

The man led Katie into a stately study lined with rich cherry wood paneling. The room looked and felt austere. There were portraits of men whose reputations were as old as the wood. Famous men. Jefferson. Madison. Monroe. Lincoln. But also on the walls were classic movie posters in matching wood frames. Beautiful original prints celebrating films that dealt with the law—“Anatomy of a Murder,” “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and “The Verdict.”

Katie examined the artwork, feeling the room was surprisingly more masculine than feminine.
Presidents and movie posters? An odd combination.
A voice broke her concentration.

“I live between two worlds, counselor.”

She turned to the sound of a man’s voice and gasped.

“On one hand, the historic and irrefutable. On the other, the imagined and dubious. Fact and fiction, Ms. Kessler. Two completely different worlds, yet in law inextricably related. Facts can be debated and refuted. And fiction can be made to look like the truth. So where is the truth? I presume you’re here to present some.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” she answered respectfully. Katie shifted her attache case from her right hand to her left and extend her palm. “Katie Kessler. Thank you for seeing me.”

“You’ve picked an inopportune time,” the man said taking her hand.

“It wasn’t my choice. I was told to meet with…” She stopped. Nobody had actually said who she’d be meeting. She had
assumed
it would be the attorney general. A false assumption was not a good way for a lawyer to begin.

“As was I,” the man affirmed. He studied her the way he studied everyone who came into his chambers. It was said that he had an uncanny sixth sense about people. He could read them instantly, see through their lies and slice through their defenses. That’s why Leopold Browning was Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.

At age sixty-seven, Justice Browning projected a vital and commanding image for the court; younger than most of his colleagues, wiser than his seniors. He was a Democratic appointee, but respected on both sides of the aisle his constitutional wisdom. He wore a sharply tailored black suit, no pinstrips, no cuffs; all straight lines. He offered the inviting face of a college professor, but he had eyes of an astute investigator. And the eyes scared her. They told Katie she needed to be succinct; completely and unequivocally. He was a precise man, not given to small talk, and especially mindful of his time and duties ahead.

“I really do have a busy day, young lady,” he said as he motioned for her to sit down opposite his desk. “You’ve come here at the president’s request, and yet you do not work for him or the White House. So I am at a loss. If you know anything about me, I do not like entering a session, any session unprepared. So you have me at a disadvantage and that, Ms. Kessler, makes you someone I already do not like.”

Katie sat down uncomfortably.

“Chief Justice, it is not important that you like me. It is important that you listen to me.”

“Begin, counselor,” he commanded. “You now have twelve minutes left of my precious time. It better be important.”

“I can assure you, Chief Justice, that this is of the utmost importance.” She chose her words carefully now.
No opinion. Just state it.
“A number of areas to cite, sir. Amendment 14, Section 3, also Article II, Section 1.”

The nation’s Chief Justice sat motionless, tempting her to continue but with an unsettling gaze that warned her to beware.

“Do you want it paraphrased or the precise words, Chief Justice?”

As an Illinois prosecutor, Browning gutted opponents who blind-sided him. As a District Court Judge he would slam the gavel down at the first hint of legal theatrics. When he became a Federal Judge he’d find ways to rule attorneys in contempt if they colored anywhere outside the lines. Now he presided over the highest court in the land and Katie realized that no matter how hard she tried to frame her opening remarks, she had led off with the wrong line. She knew it by the way his nostrils flared and his body stiffened. She saw it in the eyes boring into her.

“Direct and accurate, counselor.”

“Chief Justice, ‘no person except a natural born citizen, or a citizen of the United States, at the time of the adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the office of President.’ There is more to the Article, but that is the applicable portion.”

She waited for the inevitable reaction. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

To his credit, the chief justice didn’t raise his voice, he simply pronounced, “Ms. Kessler, this conversation is over.” Browning abruptly stood.

Katie did not.

“I said this conversation is over.”

“Sir, according to my watch,” she checked, “I have eleven and a half minutes remaining. If you would be so kind.”

“You have come to my house on the day of the Inauguration, within hours of the time I am to administer the Oath of Office. And you supposedly bring into question Article II, Section 1 of the United States Constitution. I don’t like jokes.”

They stared at each other for a good fifteen seconds. Katie struggled to keep focused on the angry eyes that were drilling into her.

He’s testing me,
she hoped.
He stopped telling me to leave
. Katie believed this would be either the moment she would win a personal reprieve to continue or she would lose her chance.
I have to keep talking.

“Chief Justice, you and I both received a phone call from a very high level.” She was on shakey ground here, but she continued. “That request deserves utmost respect and I deserve the courtesy for you to listen to me,
not
evaluate me.”

Browning didn’t smile, his face never changed. But he did slowly sit down again. “Courtesy granted. I believe you have ten and a half minutes left, counselor.”

For the second time this morning, the knock at the door had the tell-tale feel of the Secret Service. A heavy hand.

“Governor.”

The voice confirmed it.

“Coming.” he answered. Henry Lamden was dressed to be sworn in, but he was headed elsewhere. He grabbed his topcoat, kissed his wife goodbye. They’d meet at the Capitol.

“The White House?” the governor quietly asked once he was in the hallway. By now it was almost an hour later than the time Morgan Taylor had set for their meeting. He showed his concern asking again, “The White House?”

The agent ignored the question and indicated they should proceed to the stairwell.

“Not the elevator?”

“No, this way, sir.”

Another Secret Service officer stood at the exit with the door open.

“Are we going to the White House?” he asked again.

“We’ll find out in the car, sir.”

The answer indicated the Secret Service didn’t know themselves.

Lamden recognized that was the best he’d get, so he stopped asking.

Three minutes later they were on the way to Pennsylvania Avenue heading toward the White House. But once they cleared the guard house, Lamden was met with another surprise. The agents opened the door to the car and swiftly walked him to the South Lawn and a waiting Sikorsky helicopter with Marine markings.