Executive Treason (12 page)

Washington, D.C.

“What’s up, Louise?” Roarke asked.

“The vice president wants you to see this.” She handed him a CIA briefing on the Ville St. George discovery and the subsequent evacuation.

Louise Swingle greatly respected Scott Roarke, a man who received no public recognition for his work, but who deserved the gratitude of his nation. Roarke was the Special Ops soldier who rescued Morgan Taylor after his Super Hornet took a hit and crashed in Iraq. More recently, he helped prevent a White House coup. Even she didn’t know the depth of his involvement, but Morgan Taylor’s secretary did recognize his importance.

Roarke read the report. It went way beyond the news reports of the Sydney Hotel evacuation. On the second page, he came to a section that detailed the discovery of C-4. The summary explained that the bomb squad took more than four hours to meticulously disassemble the explosive device, expose the critical wiring, and disarm the mechanism. It also noted the cover story. It concluded with the revelation that the President of the United States was scheduled to stay there in August.

“Okay, consider me informed.”

“He awaits,” the 55-year-old secretary said.

“Then buzz me in, Louise.”

Swingle typed a note into her computer. The words simultaneously appeared on a screen on Taylor’s desk. After a moment, the letter “y” showed up on her desktop.

“He’s all yours.”

Roarke tipped two fingers to his forehead in thanks and charged through the door. The CIA report was in his hands.

“Boss.”

“Hello, Scott.” The vice president put down the papers he was reviewing. “You know, part of my job as President of the Senate is to read these damned things. Let me tell you, they don’t pay me enough.”

Roarke let out an agreeable laugh. Taylor got right down to business.

“Let me take those and give you something else to look through,” the vice president said. “Grab yourself a cup of java. Then you have a go at it.”

“Okay.” Roarke gave Taylor the CIA report and went to the pot of freshly brewed coffee.

“You might want something stronger by the time you’re through.”

Roarke raised his eyebrow out of curiosity. If news troubled Morgan Taylor, it was bound to trouble him.

“Is this related to the hotel bomb?” Roarke asked through his first careful sip.

“No. It’s simply turning into a very busy day.”

The vice president invited Roarke to sit in one of the hardwood chairs from Thomas Jefferson’s term that he brought over from the White House. He handed the Secret Service agent a brown folder held together with a metal strip on the left side.

Roarke took the file and rubbed his thumb over the FBI insignia on the cover. Below it, in bold caps, was the warning: TOP SECRET

Before reading he flipped through the time-stamped pages. There were eight in all, and the file was only hours old.

“This feels hot,” he said, trying a joke.

“Don’t burn yourself,” Taylor replied.

Roarke carefully read a summary paragraph. A staff member of the Office for Strategic Initiatives had been murdered in Los Angeles. He didn’t recognize the name. But it already wasn’t good. “A bungled rape.”

The word “bungled” sent the first shiver through him. He looked up at the vice president. Taylor, busy again with his own reading, wasn’t paying attention to Roarke.

Bungled. Roarke thought for a moment. Bungled? There’s something about that word. His right hand automatically moved inside his blue wool sports jacket. With the simple reflexive motion, he felt his holstered Sig. The pressure of the gun heightened his sixth sense. Bungled. That’s how they described the death of Teddy Lodge’s wife. A bungled assassination attempt of the Congressman.

Roarke returned to the report. It contained a combination of the LAPD account of the murder of a Jane Doe, later ID’d as Lynn Meyerson, Washington, D.C. resident. He didn’t know her name, but a biography cleared up exactly who she was and what Meyerson did for a living. Roarke now understood why he was called in.

Next was a report from a name he did recognize: Roy Bessolo. In Roarke’s estimation, Bessolo was the Neanderthal—a boorish, argumentative brute. But he was also a solid FBI field agent. Bessolo wrote a summation of his team’s search of Meyerson’s Washington apartment. They found e-mails on the victim’s computer. The exact transcripts of the correspondences were not specified, but the report indicated that “due to the contents, the agency has sealed the subject’s apartment and an investigation into suspected espionage activities is proceeding.” The use of the word “subject” was also a tip. But to what?

There were no further conclusions.

Roarke closed the folder. Now for some questions.

“Did you know this woman?”

Taylor carefully put the cap on his pen, turned over the papers he was reading, and slowly responded. “I spoke with her on the phone a few times.”

“And your impression?”

“Very smart. Well-liked. Well-connected. I’ve seen a lot like her over the years. Seemed like she could be on a fast track. Congressional material.”

“And these e-mails? What were they? Mulligan’s brief doesn’t say.”

“And it won’t.”

“Dirty laundry to the folks back home?”

“Worse. I’d term them more like contacts. Evans and Mulligan are knee-deep into it now.”

“So what do you need from me?”

“You’re going to tell me how worried Henry and I need to be.”

Chicago, Illinois

Luis Gonzales perused
The
Washington Post
and
The
New York Times
websites. Nothing broke yet. It was only a matter of time.
Maybe on the nightly news
, he thought.
If not there, cable, and eventually Internet bloggers
. He could even arrange for a sketchy leak to cause some chatter. He laughed to himself. These days, so many people could own a big story in so many ways.

Andrews Air Force Base
Suitland, Maryland
Thursday, 21 June

Air Force One was more than an airplane. It was an airborne extension of the government. A flying White House. An office unlike any other in the world.

President George H. W. Bush flew the maiden flight of 28000 out of Andrews on September 6, 2000. The plane bore the distinctive blue, silver, and white look created for President John F. Kennedy’s Air Force One in 1962 by designer Edward Lowey.

The sheer size of the 747s have inspired articles in every major newspaper in America, to books, television documentaries, and a variety of websites. Lt. Eric Ross knew every detail. Yet, not a day went by when he wasn’t impressed by the commanding presence of the planes. Six stories high. The fuselage nearly the length of a city block at 231 feet. A bulge in the nose to handle midair refueling. SAM 28000 and SAM 29000 could slice through the air at more than 600 miles per hour, powered with 56,700 pounds of thrust by each of the four General Electric CF6-80C2B1 engines. The wings carried 53,611 gallons of fuel, accounting for a takeoff weight of 833,000 pounds. They were magnificent machines.

The planes were reconstructed by Boeing with a three-level floor plan.

From aft to stern, Level 1, the uppermost space, contained the cockpit. Behind it was a small galley, a lounge, and then the communications center with a stairway leading to Level 2.

At the front of this level, in what would be the First Class compartment of a commercial 747, was the president’s office, appointed with lightweight, but comfortable furniture. Off to the left, or port side, was a medical station. Farther back was a smaller lounge and stairs, which led below to Level 3. There was another set, which returned to Level 1, and an even larger galley.

Directly in the front of Level 3—the lowest floor—was the Presidential Suite, including compact sleeping quarters. Moving toward the stern, the cargo area was actually split into two levels where equipment, supplies, and any number of specialty items were stored.

Though it occurred shortly before Rossy’s watchful tenure, everyone who served aboard Air Force One knew about the day: January 28, 1998. President Clinton was on a whirlwind Midwest trip. He’d just completed a speech at the University of Illinois in Champaign, and was preparing to take off from Willard Airport for the next leg. As his Boeing 707, tail number 27000, taxied into position, the landing gear slipped off the runway into soft ground. The plane’s engines revved and the crowd watched. But Air Force One’s wheels sank into the muck. President Clinton found alternative transportation on a backup 707 which was flown in. Ever since then, the Air Force established new safety procedures and everyone’s job became much harder, Rossy’s included. The lieutenant was acutely aware of the importance of each detail, whether Air Force One was on the ground or in the air.

Today, he didn’t think he’d be flying, although after 9/11 it was anybody’s guess.

There are generally five ways that an important story makes the news. A reporter is at the scene and files an account. An eyewitness tells a story to a reporter who then reports. A story pops up through a police reporter. A reporter is given an on-the-record tip by a quotable source. The final option is particularly popular in Washington: A story is leaked by an unnamed source.

And that’s the way the first news about Lynn Meyerson hit
The
Washington Post
.

The FBI is investigating the death of a government staffer who may have been employed in a key administration post. The victim, identified only as a woman in her mid-20s, allegedly suffered a fatal knife attack while jogging in a Los Angeles park. A source says the FBI is investigating whether she may also have had information on a security breach at the White House level. Neither the FBI nor Justice Department would comment.

The eight-line
Post
news brief was enough to catch Michael O’Connell’s eye 212 miles away.

The New York Times
New York, New York

O’Connell was a reporter for
The New York Times
. By every account he was on his way to a Pulitzer for his reporting of the Lodge investigation. He’d earned an invitation from then-President Taylor to tag along as the chief executive flew to the Mediterranean to secure evidence that would bring Lodge down. Instead of seeing Lodge’s arrest, O’Connell was a witness to his death.

Unwittingly, the reporter’s glowing coverage of both Lodge and his campaign manager helped further the campaign. Taylor also figured he was the best person to chronicle the real story. His inside account became a series of seventeen front-page stories and the basis for a book that came out on the anniversary of Jennifer Lodge’s death. Not since Woodward and Bernstein had a newspaper reporter been so quickly catapulted to such national, if not international, attention. A residual benefit was that O’Connell now had access to Vice President Morgan Taylor and the man who looked after him the most, Secret Service agent Scott Roarke. He dialed an unpublished cell phone number. It rang twice. “Yes?”

“Roarke,” he blasted into the phone. “O’Connell.” There was no immediate response. O’Connell figured it was either a bad line or the agent was assessing whether he wanted to talk. If he didn’t, it was probably because he’d already made the right call. “Roarke?”

“Yup,” he finally heard through the sound of traffic.

“Are you out on your morning run?”

“Yes.” Roarke was jogging along the Mall. “So, what’s up?”

“Got a question for you.”

“How am I?” Roarke said without breaking stride.

“Naw. You know I don’t care.”

Silence.

“Just read a blurb in the Post. Making the wires now, but without any more details—about a government employee stabbed in Los Angeles. A woman. I thought maybe you might know something about it.”

He waited for a reaction that didn’t come.

“Killed.”

Still no response.

“A woman.”

“And?” Clearly, Roarke wasn’t about to volunteer any information to O’Connell.

“…Information on a security breach at the White House… You don’t see a phrase like that everyday.”

“What?” Roarke said. “What did it say?”

O’Connell knew that What did it say? was a vastly different question than What investigation? He took it as a cue to push more. “Come on, Roarke. What do you know?”

“Haven’t seen the paper yet.”

“So you haven’t heard about a woman in the administration being killed? And nothing about an FBI investigation?”

“What did it say?” Roarke asked sharply.

“See for yourself. Page three.”

A few seconds later O’Connell heard the sound of papers rustling. Must have been a news kiosk nearby. He was certain Roarke uttered a quiet, “Oh, shit.”

“So?” O’Connell asked.

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Not my job.”

“Not your job to help me or not your job to look into it?” the reporter asked.

No reply.

“You know I’ve got to run this down. And I won’t be the only one. A death and a security breach at the Oval Office.”

“It didn’t say that!”

“Pardon me,” O’Connell replied. “The White House. There’s more there.”

“Be my guest,” Roarke said.

“How about an arm’s length relationship. You see what you can find out, we share information. Quietly.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You did it before.”

O’Connell was correct, but it was on Roarke’s terms.

“Come on, off the record, Roarke.”

“On the record. I’ve gotta go. Another time, O’Connell.” Roarke ended the call.

O’Connell stared out into the city room of
The New York Times
, unable to fathom the full significance of the story or that a killer was going to make a bonus because he would soon put it on the front page.

Washington, D.C.
a short time later

Scott Roarke flashed his Secret Service ID to the FBI agent posted at the police tape. He was cleared to move into the building. That’s when he spotted Bessolo climbing out of the van. He sucked in a breath and called out. “Hey, Bessolo!”

Ever since their run-in over whether Congressman Lodge was responsible for his wife’s death, the two had been at each other’s throats. The fact that Roarke had been right didn’t ease the situation. Roarke took it on faith that Bessolo was a smart investigator, maybe one of the FBI’s best, but for some reason he had a bug up his ass over Roarke.

Now Bessolo saw Roarke. If he hesitated to think about what he was going to say, it didn’t help. “Hey, Captain America, what are you doing here?”

“Just what I’m told.” That was enough to give him a free pass. Roarke met the FBI investigator, and together they walked inside. “What do you have?”

“Not quite ready to discuss anything,” Bessolo said picking up the pace. He had no intention of briefing Roarke. First, he’d make a report to his boss. Robert Mulligan would then have to notify the president and then the Attorney General Goldman. “So, Special Agent, how about you just run along and take your conspiracy theories with you.”

“Hey, come on. You know why I’m here.”

The arrival of Roarke immediately changed the game plan. “Look Roarke. You work for somebody. So do I. How about I tell my boss what I come up with. Then my boss bucks it up. Just like it’s supposed to be.”

“Tell your boss what?”

Bessolo realized he’d already said too much. “I gotta go.” The FBI man turned away and continued his walk to the entrance of the apartment building.

“Tell him what?” Roarke shouted on the run. Bessolo stopped again and got right in Roarke’s face.

“That she wore pink panties and played with a vibrator,” he said, hoping that would end it.

Roarke ignored the comment. Instead, he reached for the door handle. “After you.”

The two men walked up the stairs to the fourth floor without another word. When they entered Meyerson’s apartment, Roarke saw that three of Bessolo’s squad were busy working: their second day. Two were cataloguing personal items and a third was at the computer. Roarke assumed they’d already downloaded the computer’s entire memory. Now they were drilling deeper into the details.

“What have you found?” he asked the man on the computer.

The FBI agent looked at Roarke, and then to his supervisor.

“You probably want to see this.” Roarke dug into his pocket and produced his Secret Service ED.

Mark Gimbrone examined the card. It wasn’t enough. He turned to Bessolo for approval. He got the condescending no he expected.

“Okay then, what if I just quietly watch. I don’t get in the way. You don’t get a phone call. Mind if I just look over your puppy’s shoulder then?” Roarke asked Bessolo. “Promise, I won’t disturb him.”

This time, Bessolo shrugged and said, “Look, don’t talk.”

“Thank you,” Roarke answered as impolitely as possible.

Gimbrone went from one program to the next, scanning the in- and out-boxes, the recently deleted messages, and web searches. After ten minutes, Roarke pulled up a chair to get more comfortable. His host seemed to skip a number of things that Roarke showed interest in. The third time it happened, he tapped the screen.

“Mind if we spend a little bit of time on that?”

The FBI man snorted and clicked off the screen.

Roarke leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You don’t know me, do you?”

Without looking, Gimbrone nodded no.

“I didn’t think so. A lot of what I do doesn’t get public notice.”

Gimbrone’s ears perked up. He swiveled his chair around.

“I’m Taylor’s boy. The one who gets to go anywhere and do anything. You might have heard about some of my assignments. None of which, of course, ever happened.”

Recognition spread over Gimbrone’s face. Libya. The Capitol. The man who saved Taylor. The man who stopped Lodge. They all came to mind.

“So, may I please take a look,” Roarke continued in a whisper. “Quiet as a mouse, just like I promised.”

There was no longer any question. He returned to the computer and typed in the command that brought the e-mails back to life. The FBI agent extended his palm, inviting Roarke to examine it closer.

Roarke patted his back in thanks as he read the first e-mail address, the time and date, and a completely incriminating message.

“Holy shit,” Roarke said, suddenly making a friend.

Gimbrone agreed. “And there’s more. Info on pending bills, military intel, travel schedules for the president and the veep. All a bit obtuse, but recognizable.”

“How many are there?”

“Six,” the FBI agent volunteered.

“All to the same recipient?”

“Every single one. From the first ‘how do you do’ to the last, just a day before she left for California.”

Roarke looked around the room. Bessolo’s team was tagging and bagging items. He recognized Beth Thomas. She’d be another good one to befriend. No doubt she was analyzing pictures, dinner receipts, and phone logs; the process could go on for weeks. Meanwhile, the story would take on a momentum all of its own, and even though Vice President Taylor had no hand in Meyerson’s hiring, he’d undoubtedly feel the heat.

Roarke wanted to help, but he wasn’t sure how. As he craned around Gimbrone, the word bungled nagged at him again.
Why
? he wondered.

His thought was interrupted by the vibration of the cell phone in his sports coat pocket. A 617 number. Not Katie’s.

“Hi, Scott. Catch you at a bad time?” It was Katie.

“In the middle of some stuff.” He backed up two steps and turned to the side for a degree of privacy. “Where are you?

“Out.” There was some nervousness in her voice. “But if you’re busy we can talk later.”

Roarke noted the undercurrent. “Is everything all right?”

She hesitated, then answered. “I guess so.”

Roarke hadn’t heard concern in Katie’s voice, even veiled concern, in months. “Need to talk?”

“It can wait.”

There is something. “You can do better than that. What’s up?” He was sure he heard traffic noise. “Where are you calling from?”

“Outside. From a phone at Faneuil Hall. Can you believe it?”