Executive Treason (31 page)

The old man grimaced with pain. He blinked once, uttered just one word, then closed his eyes. Even through his thick Russian accent it was distinctive enough to be understood. But it made no sense.

Shawnee Mission

As the man awkwardly rose to his feet, Roarke got a better, closer look. The features were slightly different. His eyes were bluer. He had a thin, but unmistakable scar above his lip. Most importantly, the man didn’t show a hint of recognition of Roarke. Not a glimmer of the defiance he expected. It wasn’t just good acting.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“FBI,” Davis said, which kept Roarke quiet. A crowd was beginning to draw around. Someone had called the Shawnee Mission police; a siren sounded from a few blocks away.

“Why?”

“Are you Charles Corbett?” Davis said, coming around front now.

“Yes,” he managed.

“Former Army Special Forces.”

“Yes.”

“You’re wanted for questioning for—”

“No,” Roarke said under his breath.

Davis quickly glanced over, still keeping his gun on Corbett. “He’s not Depp,” Roarke said. “Are you certain?”

Roarke gave him an almost disappointed, “Yes.” He holstered his pistol, then stooped down and picked up the man’s shopping bag. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure?” Davis asked again. His gun was still on the man. “Absolutely.”

The local police car rolled into the Town Center Plaza parking lot. Davis returned his Colt to his shoulder holster. “We’re going to have some explaining to do.”

“Yes, I know.” The song Corbett had been humming finally came to him. A Broadway tune, not an oldie. He must have been practicing for a play. The Impossible Dream.

Moscow

O’Connell quickly drifted back in with a group of people making for an exit. Once clear, he decided not to return to his hotel. Instead, he went to St. Basil’s Cathedral to do something he hadn’t done in years—pray. He prayed that he would get out safely, and he prayed that he could figure out what the old man meant.

Moscow

O’Connell IM’d the international desk for any news on a shooting at GUM. The editor pulled up an extract. “Something. Not much.”

“What?”

The
New York Times
editor copied the text and sent it. According to a carefully worded Izvestia report, a Chetchnian terrorist was tracked by Russian security from Red Square to the GUM department store, where he was shot.

O’Connell IM’d another question. “Was he killed?”

The response. “No mention.” Then a question from the editor, who’d suddenly become curious. “Why?”

O’Connell quickly typed in, “Just checking.” He shut his laptop down and packed it in his attaché case. He hailed a cab for the airport, anxious to leave Russia. One word played in his mind the entire ride. It echoed through the long wait at the terminal, and it was with him as he finally fell asleep on the nonstop flight home.

Lebanon, Kansas

Elliott Strong chastised his listeners. “I’m telling you right now, you better book your hotel. Three weeks. If you wait much longer, you’ll be sleeping on the Mall…which wouldn’t be so bad,” the talkshow host offered with a half laugh. “George Washington’s troops camped out there. So did Lincoln’s Union forces. The Bonus Army in the 1930s.”

Every night he nudged his audience more. The printouts on his desk, sent to him by a friend on the Hill, confirmed the point. Hardly a hotel room was left within the Beltway. General Bridgeman’s army was taking form. The networks estimated as many as two-and-half-million protestors were making travel plans for August 18. Strong was right. They were running out of beds.

He switched tones. “Now I just want to hear from people who are going.” He gave the call-in phone numbers. “Open lines tonight. Hello, you’re on the air.”

“My wife and I are,” the first caller said.

“Where are you coming in from?” The accent should have been enough to give it away, but the host loved letting people say where they lived. It reinforced the national reach of his show.

“Outside of Mobile.”

Strong acknowledged the affiliate station the caller listened to. He didn’t have to memorize them. They were always on-screen.

“What’s the schedule, Elliott? I haven’t heard much about that.”

“It’s online. We have the link to General Bridgeman’s website. It starts with a prayer at 10 A.M, the Pledge of Allegiance, ‘The Star Spangled Banner,’ a rock concert until noon, and then the general speaks.”

“You’re introducing him, right?” A perfect question.

Strong looked at his watch and smiled to himself. “Oh, thank you, but I think General Bridgeman deserves someone far more worthy than me.”

Washington, D.C.
the same time

They met for dinner at Washington’s Hotel Tabard Inn, a quaint Victorian watering hole and eatery made famous long before novelists like John Grisham wrote about it. The maitre’d placed them in a discreet room up a short flight of tin-lined stairs. Many secretive meetings had been held in this room with presidents and men who would be presidents, political enemies who broke bread together, and allies who broke their promises to one another. If only these walls could talk. So many conversations, so much strategizing, and so much lying over Grilled Hereford Ribeye, Marinated Ostrich Steak, and Rack of Lamb.

Duke Patrick wasn’t sure what it would be tonight. Still, the invitation intrigued him.

Patrick, the Speaker of the House, was the first to arrive. He passed the time with a vodka martini. Normally he could pack away a half dozen and not slur a line of speech. Tonight, he would make one last.

The general arrived with no fanfare. He was quietly led up the stairs by the owner, assured that they would not be bothered except for the food order, which he would personally handle.

“Well, well, Congressman Patrick, it’s so good to see you,” General Bridgeman said. He opened his arms to the speaker, who stood to greet him.

“General,” Patrick said tentatively. He rejected the bear hug and opted for a handshake.

“No, please. First names. I never want to hear you say ‘General’ again.” He let out a laugh. “Unless it’s in public.”

Duke Patrick didn’t find the comment humorous. “If you don’t mind, let’s keep it at the general and congressman level for awhile,” Patrick said, not giving into the cordiality.

“Well, that would be fine, but I’m sure we’re going to find we have a lot in common before the evening is out.” Bridgeman motioned to the owner, who had stayed at the door. “Scotch on the rocks, please.” Once they were alone, Bridgeman took his seat. Patrick joined him, trying to figure out what political advantage he could garner from the unexpected meeting.

The White House
the same time

The chief of staff asked to have dinner with the president. He had a good deal to go over, and there never seemed to be enough time during the day. They were hardly into their first course, a simple arugula and pear salad, when Bernsie launched into his agenda.

“You’re being skewered on the air.”

Taylor kept chewing.

“They’ve accused you of just about everything from a cover-up to a coup.”

The president still chomped away.

“Especially on radio. They want you out. They want a Constitutional amendment, and they can get it.”

The president wouldn’t give up his salad.

“Remember the recall in California? How quickly did they get Gray Davis out of office? Four months? Three? Less? Do you think you’re immune?”

Morgan Taylor put down his fork.

“They can do it. You want to know how?”

The president nodded.

“We can thank prior administrations. They pretty much dismantled everything that guaranteed fairness in the media. It worked for Republican and Conservative administrations until now. These days they’ll go after anyone because it makes for good ratings.”

Taylor eased back in his chair. “Go on.”

“A handful of corporations own 100 percent of the broadcast outlets and 90 percent of the cable companies. They own newspapers and radio stations. They own the billboards that the shows are promoted on, and when they decide to go after someone, there’s no fighting back because they don’t have to provide any airtime.”

“So how do we throw these broadcasters off the air?”

“Throw them off? Don’t even try to go there. They’ll all hide behind the First Amendment. They exist and thrive because they have the right to be on the air. In good conscience, both sides of the aisle said, ‘Okay, we’ll get rid of all this regulation. Who needs a multitude of opinions? The people will decide what they want to hear and who they want to hear it from.’

“And what do we have? On a national scale, there’s Elliott Strong. But locally, some of them are even worse. If you can believe it, there’s a guy in North Dakota who goes after the church, the NAACP, and the Jews. In Georgia, there’s a host who espouses a manifesto directly from the Klan. We have news directors who won’t report the news unless it represents their owner’s point of view, and stations that have no community affairs because a) they’re not required to; b) they’re programmed from miles away; and c) the operators probably don’t give a damn what’s going on. All together, radio and most of the TV talk is filled with hate beyond anything ever known. Congratulations, Mr. President, you’re the most loathed person in the ether. And if you haven’t noticed, radio isn’t the only place where you’re the main course for these media monsters. The worst of it is that the way the laws are currently written and enforced, there’s no way to cut them off.”

Taylor smiled. “You phrased that just a certain way, Bernsie. Complete the thought.”

The president followed his argument perfectly.

“Well, you’re right. I’m working on an idea. In its purest form it’s very simple. Implementation could take some time.”

“What do they say about me? I’m all ears.” The president referred to his defining feature, which political cartoonists found endless ways to caricature.

“Okay, here it is. Require opposing points of view again. The worst of them will be gone, unable to stand up to any real political debate.”

Morgan Taylor pushed his food aside and asked a White House waiter to hold the main course.

“Bernsie, I’m quite aware of these guys, but realistically, America’s hooked on opinion. Arguing it, listening to it, and I dare say even complaining about it. We’re too far down the line to turn back the clock. And hell, for a long time, I thought these guys were on my side.”

“If they were, they’re not any longer.”

“You’re right about that,” the president admitted.

“And, we need to change that. You need to change that. Make a policy issue.” Bernstein stopped, but only to phrase his next comment correctly. He delivered it in a whisper. “You owe it to President Lamden.”

Morgan Taylor did not rush to answer, so his chief of staff went on. “Try this on for size. Call for the resignations of every FCC commissioner, no matter who they are—even your appointments. Then reconsider them on a one-by-one basis. After that, meet with the majority and minority leadership of the House and Senate. Bring in the chairs of the Communications Committees and Subcommittees, too. The Secretary of Labor can determine whether the giant media conglomerates fail to meet the test of any anti-trust laws, and the attorney general can examine the holdings of all these vertically integrated companies.”

Bernstein hardly paused to take a breath. He was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock. “I’ll get you lid-tight examples—and I mean lid-tight ones—on TV station abuses that under the Fairness Doctrine would never have happened. We’ll revisit the deregulated license renewal procedures and prosecute clear violations. Finally, you order a Justice Department review of station news operations and call for the drafting of a new Doctrine. You can announce all of this at a press conference after your trip. Hell, if Janet Jackson’s tit was worthy of front-page news, then let’s strip the whole industry bare!”

The president politely listened to Bernstein. When his chief of staff finished, Taylor pointed out, “Just one problem, Bernsie.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s not our party’s fight.”

“It has to be somebody’s,” Bernstein replied. “Because if we don’t do something, it’s going to get a whole helluva lot worse.”

U.S. Interstate 735 North

A summer storm pelted the rental car on the way to the airport. The rhythmic whoosh of the windshield wipers lulled Shannon Davis into a deep sleep. Roarke was at the wheel. He aimed an air-conditioning vent at his face to help him stay awake. He also tried to find a radio station worth listening to; the choices were either country music or talk. One show in particular seemed to be everywhere up and down the AM dial. He gave up on AM and chose an FM jazz station. But Roarke didn’t listen. He kept replaying an old conversation with Penny Walker that was still fresh in his mind.

“Eight strong possibilities,” Penny Walker had said. “I sent seven of them over to your buddy Parsons for further analysis.”

“What about the eighth?” Roarke remembered asking.

“No need. The guy died while on a mission in Iraq.”

Roarke shut off the radio. “Damn it!” he said aloud.

Davis stirred. “What?” He’d only been asleep for ten minutes. It felt like ten hours. “Are we there?”

“No. But we may have another stop.”

“There’s no other stop.”

Roarke checked his rearview mirror, signaled, slowed down, and pulled off onto the side of the road. “Here—you drive.”

“Why? What?”

“I need to talk to Walker, and I need to concentrate.”

“Okay?” Davis said, not hiding his confusion. They switched positions. “Still heading to the airport?”

“Yes…no…probably.” Roarke hit speed dial on his Treo. “Hell, I don’t know.”

“It’s a little late, Agent Roarke.”

“Sorry, Penny, but I need you to go back to work. Please,” Roarke pleaded over the phone. He was not cheerful. “Come on….”

“Look, sweetie,” she said, “I get it, but if we’re going to start from scratch, it’ll take more than a quick trip tonight. Give a girl a break. Come home, we’ll do this together tomorrow.”

“We don’t have to start over, Penny. I just need background on the last guy.”

“What last guy? You checked out all seven.”

“Yes, but it’s number eight I want.”

“Number eight? There is no number eight. Just seven. Remember?”

“Seven live ones. But you had an eighth that you threw out.”

“Because he was dead! KIA!”

“I want to see the details in his file, Penny.”

“He’s dead and I’m tired.”

“Penny….”

Capt. Walker fell silent for a moment.

“Penny, I need it. I need you to get it for me. I’m tired, too. I’m pissed off. You’re only twenty minutes away and I have to find this guy. Please!”

“Okay, okay. You still carrying your Treo?”

“Yes.”

“Then sit tight.”

“About how long?”

“Roarke, you just got me out of bed at home. You do remember where that bed is.” There was a seductive edge to her comment. Then she got sharper. “And it’s not in the Pentagon! I’ll e-mail you with anything I can find. Hometown, parents, who he took to the prom. Whatever I can dig up. Now leave me alone!”

Walker hung up, and Roarke turned to Davis. “We’re on.”

“How soon?” he asked. “And where to?”

“Dunno. She’ll let us know where.” The bigger question was who? Would she find anyone who might be able to lead them to a dead soldier?

By the time they returned the car to the airport drop-off, it was too late to get a plane out. The last of the night’s outgoing flights to the Washington or Baltimore area left at 10:40. Roarke and Davis opted for two rooms at the Marriott, located on the property a few minutes away. Roarke sent Shannon to bed, warning him to be ready to roll at 0500. Once in his room, Roarke ordered a club sandwich from room service and waited.

Sixty minutes passed. Roarke was tempted to call Walker at her office, but he resisted. Don’t bug her. At 0030, an hour later for Capt. Walker in Virginia, the e-mail arrived on his phone. Roarke pushed his half-eaten sandwich to the side and read the full file. There wasn’t much. He finished it in three minutes. However, another e-mail followed with more…then another. Penny Walker was going much further than he expected.