Executive Treason (30 page)

“From who?” he asked.

“Well, if you want to know, it was from the president’s chief of staff.”

“Bernsie?”

“Mr. Bernstein?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s what the boss calls him. Why did he—”

“With a question,” she said. “He wanted to know if I’d be available right away to head up a White House study on possible revisions to the succession laws.”

“What?” Roarke exclaimed.

“Hey, I’m allowed.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. It’s just that…”

“Just what, Mr. Roarke? That I’m in Boston? That I’m seeing you? That—”

“Wait a second, I’m happy for you. This is great news, and I’m not surprised. You deserve it.”

“But you’re upset that he didn’t clear it with you first?” she added.

“I’m not upset. He’s making a great choice. And if you’d let me finish, counselor, my what was leading to a complete sentence: What’s the rush?”

“I suspect recent history, for one.”

“Point taken,” Roarke granted. “So you’ll be moving to Washington?”

“Nope,” Katie replied. “Maybe some trips down, but most of it can be done on the Internet, at law libraries, on the phone. I will have to interview the leadership in both the House and Senate who have already held hearings and drafted bills. And I’ll have to venture back into Justice Browning’s lair.”

“Brave.”

“It does mean I can kiss Freelander, Connors, & Wrather goodbye. Which is fine by me. If I take it…”

“Of course you will.”

“If I take it,” she continued, “there will probably be talk about us.”

Roarke smiled. She was absolutely right. It could get in the way, but of all people, Katie could handle it. “Maybe.”

“Definitely. But the thing that I’m most worried about…” she started to say.

“Yes?”

“…is how you feel about it. Whether you think I’m encroaching on your turf.”

Roarke recognized that this was a serious question that deserved a serious and honest answer. “I think it’ll be a real challenge. I think you should take it. I’m proud of you, sweetheart. And I understand you’re not ready to completely change your life.” He was referring to her reluctance to relocate.

“How’d you get so smart for a man?” she asked quietly. “Thank you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more,” Katie rejoined. After a beat, she picked up the pace, her nervousness gone. “Again, I don’t know if I’ll take it.”

“You’ll take the job.”

“But if I do, I’ll need clearance to talk with anybody and everybody. I’ll need autonomy. I’ll need to know the White House’s expectations, and I’ll need to be above the politics.”

“Right,” Roarke offered, again in that same tone as before. If one thing was true about Washington, it’s that nothing is accomplished without politics.

Moscow, Russia
Wednesday, 11 July

Michael O’Connell settled into his room at The National, Moscow’s most centrally located four-star hotel. It’s conveniently situated opposite the Kremlin on Tverskaya, the city’s most chic street, and close to all of the principal locales.

“Public places. Public places only. You have to stay on the tourist routes,” Andrea Weaver had explained before he left. “Otherwise you’ll draw attention to yourself. In the mid-nineties it was wide open. Not so now. Restaurants, museums, or the shopping destinations only.

“There’s GUM Department Store. It’s right next to your hotel in Red Square. Americans are expected to go there and drop lots and lots of rubles on designer labels. It’ll be very busy and the perfect place to strike up a casual conversation with a Russian. But you’re not a woman and your friend knows that. So I’m not sure I’d make a shopping mall the first spot.”

“But wouldn’t that make it a reason to consider it? Because it isn’t the natural place for me to be?” O’Connell asked.

“Possibly,” she’d said, though not convinced. “I’d try the museums. The Pushkin. It has the best collection of European and Impressionist art in Russia, second only to the Saint Petersburg Hermitage. Or the Tretyakov Gallery. Absolutely beautiful masterpieces, more Russian.”

“I wouldn’t do a surreptitious meeting in a museum. Too damned quiet. Where else?”

“Well, outside in Red Square. It’s where everyone starts sightseeing.”

“Yes. Good idea. That’s where I’ll start. He’ll find me there. Then where?”

“You’ll have to play that by ear. “Lenin’s Tomb?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”

“Restaurant Silla?”

“What kind of food?” O’Connell asked.

“Korean, Japanese, Chinese.”

“No. Too exotic.”

“Guantanamera?” she offered.

“Sounds Cuban.”

“It is. Too un-American. Even for a
New York Times
reporter.”

“Besides, I need someplace I can speak English.”

“Okay then, the American Bar & Grill. There are two of them. You’ve got your basic burgers and sandwiches.” She’d pulled out a map from her shelf, which O’Connell now had with him. “They’re close to the Metros Mayakovskaya and Yaganskaya. A bit odd, though. They’ve got a Wild West motif: buffalo heads on the wall, saddles, even American road signs.”

O’Connell went back to his original thought: the tourist destination GUM. That’s what he told Andrea. That’s where he decided to go.

Now, with the tourist pamphlets spread out on the bed, he read the history of Gosudarstvenny Universalny Magazin, which in English translates as State Department Store. The building was erected in the 19th century as an exhibition hall and was eventually converted for shopping. At one point in its more than 100-year history, GUM, pronounced GOOM, was the largest department store in Europe. However, calling GUM a department store is actually a misnomer. It’s comprised of hundreds of stores. Many closed in the Communist era, due to the fact that there were so few Soviet-made goods people wanted. Today, it’s an impressive, three-level privatized shopping mall with brilliant glass ceilings, housing many of the world’s most famous chains.

O’Connell didn’t assume that the man who contacted him knew where he would be staying, but he’d certainly count on me hitting the tourist spots.

Still, O’Connell figured that this man, a former something in the Soviet era, had to be old. At least in his late 70s. Maybe even older. So O’Connell would be on the lookout, too, but it probably wouldn’t make a difference. The Russian would find him.

Washington, D.C.

General Bridgeman followed his
Meet the Press
interview with a stop across town at CNN, where he was only politely received, and then to Fox News, where the anchors enthusiastically embraced him. He talked about the upcoming march on Washington, and gave them usable sound bites that would last the news day.

“I’m considering my options. If you would have asked me the same question six months ago, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But now, America is in peril. We are faced with the prospect of nearly four more years of an unelected administration. Never has this happened. Just take the temperature of the country and you’ll see how people feel. But the White House wants you to put the thermometers away. They’re afraid to read the results. Well, I can tell you, here and now, people are beginning to say that four years is four years too long.”

“You have to admit that the Constitution does not allow for a new election,” the anchor stated.

The general continued so smoothly as to make everything seem entirely plausible. “Have you counted the mail, the e-mail, and the phone calls Congress has been getting on this? Every single one is from a voter. Voters in states across the nation. Red states. Blue states. That’s where the Constitution is changed, state by state.”

“Are you suggesting an Amendment that allows for a recall, General Bridgeman?”

“I would support such a proposal.”

“And for an accelerated presidential election?”

“I would support such a proposal.”

“And would your name be at the top of the ballot?”

“Well, not to beat around the bush, but as I’ve said before, let’s just say we’ll see what the people want.”

The Fox News anchor broke for the commercial and extended his hand to the guest opposite him. “You know, General,” he whispered, “I think it goes without saying that you can count on us for fair and balanced coverage.”

“I was counting on it.”

Damascus, Syria

D’Angelo’s last visit to Damascus was with a Congressional delegation. He’d bleached his hair blonde and passed himself off as a quiet and bored aide to the Senate Commerce Committee. He’d failed to distinguish himself on the trip, and his firing was easily explained to the rest of the group upon their return to the States. During that visit, however, he learned the location of a key al-Qaeda training camp from an Iranian rug dealer whose brother drank too much. The compound was obliterated by missiles two days later. The businessman found 500,000 tax-free dollars in his hotel room the next day.

This time, D’Angelo entered the country as Rateb Samin, an Iranian expatriate stockbroker living in America. He told immigration officials in perfect Arabic that he was on a short holiday and he came to visit the major religious sites. He drew no attention to himself. However, for added impact, he observed Muslim law by praying at the appropriate hours.

Actually, D’Angelo considered the 5,000-year-old Damascus one of the most beautiful destinations he’d ever seen. As the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, founded in the third millennium B.C., Damascus is noted for classic architecture. The buildings date back to the time when the city was the center of the Aramaic kingdom. It thrived through the Greek and Roman eras, and continued to flourish with the Byzantines.

Some scholars maintain that the name is owed to Damaskas, son of Hermes. Others attribute the origin to the myth of Askos or Damas who offered Dionysias a skin (skene), a Damaskene. Still other historians argue that the designation belongs to Damakina, the wife of the god of water.

No matter the correct derivation, Damascus has figured into the Old and New Testaments and the Qur’an. It served as the capital of the first Arab state during the time of the Omayyads in 661 A.D. The Omayyads were dedicated to building a workable infrastructure, organizing the city into districts, and providing potable water to the inhabitants, as well as erecting hospitals, palaces, and churches.

One of their great wonders is the Omayyad Mosque. It was constructed on the site of an earlier Aramaic temple, which, if history served D’Angelo correctly, provided a degree of irony. That temple was dedicated to the Aramean god of the ancient Syrians: the god Hadad.

Shawnee Mission, Kansas
Saturday, 14 July

Roarke grew anxious. Three dead ends turned into four. Four obvious cases of mistaken identity. Then five. Now they were onto the next target, a possibility in Shawnee Mission, Missouri.

The suspect performed at one of the local community playhouses, The Barn Players. He didn’t seem to have a day job, which certainly fit Depp’s profile. He lived in a recently built three-bedroom house on East Green Gables, traveled a great deal, and had just returned home.

Roarke and Davis trailed him for about an hour. He made stops at the theater, a watch repair store, and now he drove his Mercedes, an expensive car for someone without work, into a parking lot at Town Center Plaza, not far from the Sprint World Headquarters on 119th.

“This looks like as good a place as any,” Davis said.

“Might as well be here,” Roarke agreed.

They held back as the man parked about fifty yards up from the stores.

“Let’s see where he goes, then we’ll move,” the FBI agent added.

Once out of the car, the man walked toward a Sharper Image. “Boytoys!” Roarke exclaimed enthusiastically. It made sense that Depp would want anything and everything on the shelves. But it was his appearance that really made Roarke’s heart race.

“This is the guy,” Davis affirmed. Roarke silently hoped he was right. His height and weight were dead on. Too bad a baseball cap made it difficult to get a closer look at his face.

“Sure you don’t want me to go in after him?” Roarke asked.

“Absolutely not. He could nail you in a second. He doesn’t know me from Adam. I’ll shop around a little, then hang back when he leaves. You stick by his car. He’ll come around, and when his back is turned to unlock the car door, we’ll nail him.”

The plan was sound. They talked more about whether to call in backup, but ruled it out. It would take another thirty minutes to get more FBI officers to Shawnee Mission from Kansas City, Missouri.

“You just shop. No grandstanding. You have that?” Roarke demanded.

“Hey, it’s one of my favorite stores. No problem.” But Davis was nervous. He hadn’t worked a takedown in years. He sucked in his gut, gave Roarke a salute, then briskly walked to the store. Roarke watched him enter, but that was all he saw—the afternoon glare off the floor-to-ceiling windows obliterated his view. He didn’t like it. Shit! He wished he’d gone in.

Moscow, Russia
the same time

O’Connell was back at Red Square for the third day. He wasn’t used to waiting. He didn’t like it, and now everyone was beginning to look like an old KGB operative. He started each of the two previous mornings feeding the pigeons across from the Kremlin. He hadn’t seen blue sky yet. Smoke from forest and peat fires outside of Moscow made the gray city even gloomier. After an hour’s opportunity to get spotted, he walked to GUM. He spent time going in and out of the stores, visiting only the ones that might be on an American tourist’s itinerary. When that failed, he picked up the Metro at nearby Ploschad Revolyutsii Station and spent the afternoon at the museums his editor recommended.

So far, no one approached O’Connell. Not even another American, which he would have welcomed. By the third day—today—he admitted to himself he was ready to call it quits. Even getting through the typical mess at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport would be a welcomed change. He’d be happier still after his Aeroflot jet touched down at JFK. O’Connell didn’t like playing where the rules were different and so final. And he just kept worrying, what if they think I’m a spy?

Shawnee Mission, Kansas

Roarke drew his Sig from his shoulder holster and brought it down to his side. He didn’t want to be caught with it in the open, yet at the same time, he couldn’t be unprepared. “Nobody come, nobody come,” he whispered.

Roarke ducked down and went between the rows of cars until he got a good twenty-five feet closer to the store. It took six cars before he lost the sun’s reflection. He leaned against a Ford Focus. His gun was flat to his stomach with the safely off. He thought he could see his man browsing. Davis was behind him and off to the side.

Two minutes. Three. Roarke wished that he had gone to the bathroom before they started the surveillance. Stupid, he thought. Four minutes. Come on already. Don’t you read the catalogue? You should know what you want! Five. That’s when he saw his man making a purchase at the counter.

Roarke took that as the cue to get back into position. This is where it would happen. This is where he would take down Depp. Right here. Right now.

Moscow, Russia

It came from out of nowhere. A little shove from the side, and a hint of a thickly accented “Excuse me.”

“What?” O’Connell turned to his left, but no one was there. Then he looked ahead. Yes. O’Connell caught a glimpse of a man, an older man, already steps ahead of him heading through Red Square in the direction of GUM. He wore a tweed sports jacket with worn elbow patches, black slacks, and dirty, beat-up shoes. He walked slowly, occasionally giving a fleeting, yet thorough, glance back.

The reporter’s heartbeat quickened. That’s him! He had been right. Red Square and GUM. O’Connell congratulated himself for his skills as a spy, then quashed the thought. That’s not who he was.

No quick movements. Do what you’ve been doing, he said to himself. Finish feeding the pigeons and go shopping. When he picked his head up again, the man was gone. He remembered what he had been wearing. The man also had a newspaper rolled up in his left hand. A gun?

O’Connell was suddenly overwhelmed by fear. He found his man.

So had Sergei Ryabov of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. A tip from a bell captain at the Sovietsky, one of dozens of hotels he visited, paid off. It seemed money still talked louder in Russia than threats. Ryabov paid 200 U.S. dollars for the information, which led Ryabov to Aleksandr Dubroff in Red Square. He spotted Dubroff walking among the tourists feeding the pigeons. He observed him for five minutes when he thought he saw Dubroff make contact. A brush pass? A comment? Possibly. He held back. Dubroff continued through the landmark square. Ryabov looked for the man he bumped, but he lost him. Ryabov decided to stay with Dubroff. He knew he should call Deputy Ranchenkov, but he wanted to redeem his standing; he wanted to bring in the traitor himself.

Shawnee Mission

The man stepped off the curb. He wore jeans and an unzipped black leather jacket. He held a Sharper Image shopping bag in his left hand, keeping his right hand free. Roarke never took his eyes off that hand: the hand that would go for his gun.

He waited for the cars to go by, then crossed to the parking lot. Roarke was able to get a partial view through the window. Watch his gun hand. Davis was twenty steps away, at a slight angle, suggesting he was heading to a car parked a few spaces away. He slowed down and reached inside his jacket for his pistol, the 10-mm Colt.

A few more seconds. Roarke ran the possibilities. Keep down until he’s at the door. Can’t make a sound. No reflections in the tinted window. Same for the side mirror. Roarke looked over his shoulder for a split second to see what his subject could use as cover. Damn, a van’s pulling out!

The man in the baseball cap halted. A woman with two kids backed out. They could see Roarke. He slid his gun under his jacket. The driver seemed to take forever, actually seven attempts to make what was a three-point turn.

Roarke’s target waited, but now the van blocked his view. He lost his line of sight on the gun hand. Roarke hoped that Davis had a clear view, if not a clear shot.

Moscow

By now, O’Connell knew the layout of GUM. The shops opened at 8:00 A.M. and, among the busiest were the ones that sold Krasny Oktyobr (Red October) Chocolates and the lacquered wood Matroishka dolls. Roarke went into the store he thought would work the best: Gallery Bosco di Ciliegi, with its rows and rows of clothes. The boutique was crowded with foreign posh shoppers excitedly browsing through the stylish clothing.

O’Connell entered, knowing the Russian would find him again. He went directly to the far end of the store, where a mirror provided him with a good way to see who came in. He surmised that the man would take his time, first making certain it was safe to enter. He would not rush forward. He would approach calmly.

O’Connell considered how times had changed. Russia was becoming increasingly closed and more secretive. The hammer and sickle were long gone, so were the daily fears of American missiles. But even his newspaper reported on an almost daily basis how the new regime embraced the return of autocracy. Citizens again served the State, not the other way around. Initially, the political shift was blamed on Russia’s own war on terrorism. Yet, in too short a time, power consolidated in the hands of a virtual dictatorship that could fight anarchists, or any enemies within, with greater effectiveness. That’s what Michael O’Connell thought about as he held up a leather jacket into the mirror. That’s what went through his mind when he saw the old man saunter into Bosco di Ciliegi.

Shawnee Mission

Roarke heard some humming as the man got closer. An oldie. What was it? He tried to concentrate on getting Depp, but the name of the song was bugging him. A few more seconds. What the hell is the song?

The subject rounded the back of the car. Roarke knelt behind the rear and saw his own reflection in the green Toyota parked next to the Mercedes. He quickly adjusted, but the move meant he gave up his vantage point. Roarke heard a bag rustle and the sound of keys. Bag’s on the ground. Keys in his hand. Then the unmistakable quick beep of the wireless lock unlocking. Roarke stood up and stepped out from behind the Mercedes.

“Stop!” he shouted.

“FBI!” Davis yelled from the front. “Freeze!”

Roarke didn’t anticipate what happened next.

Moscow

The man stopped to examine a few items of clothing: a woman’s silk scarf, an argyle cashmere sweater, a sports jacket. He appeared to leisurely work his way to the far end of the store. The reporter kept his eye on the mirror. Something new caught his eye. Another man rushed in through the entrance to Bosco di Ciliegi, looking as if he were late for something. He frantically scanned the room.

A frumpy jacket, loose pants. The man was totally out of place, even to O’Connell’s thinking. He was definitely searching for someone. Christ! O’Connell automatically turned to the side, away from the new man.

Where’s…? He caught sight of the old man who brushed him in Red Square. He was a few rows away, walking toward him, seemingly unaware of the danger. O’Connell caught his eye and nodded his head slightly. The no was instantly understood. O’Connell cocked his head in the direction of the other man, now fifteen feet away. The old man was able to see his reflection in a store mirror.

O’Connell watched as his contact quickly broke right, putting racks of clothes between him and the second man. Suddenly, a gun was out.

Russians automatically froze. It was impossible for anyone not to recognize the distinctive demand to “Halt!”—which the old man did not heed.

Shawnee Mission

The man froze in place. Roarke issued his next order. “Drop the keys and raise your hands!”

“What?” the man said.

“Arms out. Lie down, face on the ground.”

The man’s left hand went up slowly. His right hand remained at his side.

“I said, on the ground! Arms out. Legs spread. Now!”

Davis was now ten feet behind and off to the side, avoiding Roarke’s potential direct line of fire.

The man was still looking down. He hadn’t moved yet, and his hat obscured most of his face.

“FBI! Do as he says. This is your last warning.”

The quarry looked to his left, to Davis, and back to the right, to Roarke. Roarke lowered his gun, aiming at the man’s kneecap. “You’ll be on the ground one way or another.”

The man knelt, stretching his left arm forward, but his right was not.

“Arms out!” Roarke demanded!

“I can’t!” the man finally said.

“I said arms straight out!”

“I can’t!” There was desperation in the man’s voice.

Acting? Roarke wondered.

“For God’s sake, man, I’m disabled!” The man did his best to get into the spread-eagle position between his car and the Toyota, but his right arm wouldn’t move where Roarke demanded.

With the man on the ground, Roarke stepped closer to cover him. Davis closed in from behind. He shoved the man’s right arm forward and patted him down.

“He’s clean.” With his knee grinding into the man’s shoulder blades, Davis pulled his hands together and threw on the handcuffs.

“Okay, now up!” Roarke ordered. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Moscow

A shot rang out as the old man made for the door. The old Russian stumbled into a group of Canadian tourists. There were screams. O’Connell froze, waiting for the policeman to find him. But a store manager tackled the gunman. The old man continued a few steps into the common area, finally crashing into a food cart of Krasny Oktyobr Chocolates.

Some people froze; others darted in every direction. O’Connell joined the runners trying to escape. Nobody really knew what to do or what had happened. O’Connell saw the old man on the ground. He stayed with the flow, pushing closer. O’Connell calculated that he only had a moment before the policeman would be on him. He leaned over. The Russian was bleeding, but he was still alive, laying on his side. His eyes were open, but cloudy. A pool of blood formed, soaking the crushed chocolates. O’Connell was a foot from his face.

“It’s me. Michael O’Connell,” he whispered.

Nothing. He inched closer. “O’Connell. You needed to see me.”

The man’s eyes widened. He managed a glimpse of recognition that seemed to say, I know.

O’Connell glanced over to the store. He saw that the policeman was engaged in a heated conversation with the man who had tackled him. He produced a badge.

With more urgency, O’Connell asked, “Please, what can you tell me?”

“Move out of the way,” the policeman called out in Russian. Those who could understand him moved. Others didn’t.