Executive Treason (38 page)

The Indonesian was offended. He tried to speak, but Taylor overpowered him. “Mr. President, I’m sure everyone will want to hear from you again. But if you please…” He opened the file and slid a dozen photos across the table in different directions.

“These satellite photos show terrorist encampments in twenty-three locations. They were taken as long ago as last November and as recently as last week. Each has one or more areas circled in red. Inside those circles are training camps and weapons stores. Mr. Djali’s island country is the perfect setting for playing hide and seek. The same can be said for areas of the Solomons and Malaysia, Pakistan, India, of course, Afghanistan, Thailand, and even Japan. I have satellite photographs of your countries as well.” Poole disseminated them. “They’re not good.”

Taylor noted the shock in the room as the men and women sorted through the photographs of their countries up-to-date photos that revealed operational terrorist camps.

“Mr. Chairman, I’m not here to undermine the good intentions of a respected ally,” he said returning to the topic of Indonesia. “However, American lives have been lost in bombings in Mr. Djaili’s country.

Recent activity makes it undeniably apparent that Indonesia is on the verge of a religious holy war, a jihad against Christian nationals and westerners. It is supported by al-Qaeda funds and the sale of drugs, and it is hardly acknowledged because of corruption within lower levels of Mr. Djali’s government.

“I suggest that if we’re to claim any victory, it’s time to—as we say—come clean.” Everyone seemed to get the meaning. “Put away your speeches. There are no reporters here. So no more grandstanding. Stop your posturing. We’re here to fight these bastards at the root level—with arms, troops, intelligence, and yes, Mr. Djali, what you also need, hard cash.”

“Your insinuations are the height of insult,” Djali finally managed. He turned to Prime Minister Foss, “I will not stand for this.”

Foss didn’t have a chance to respond; Taylor jumped right back into the debate.

“Mr. President, they are not insinuations and I haven’t intended to insult you, only correct you. But your comment reminds me of President Truman’s meeting in 1945 with Russian’s foreign minister, Vyacheslav Molotov.” He removed his reading glasses and stared at his Indonesian counterpart. “Molotov came to the White House to discuss the future of Poland. Truman believed the Russians were reneging on what Roosevelt and Stalin had agreed upon four months earlier. Russia was imposing communism on Poland. Truman had been warned by Henry Stimson, his Secretary of War, to be careful dealing with the Soviets. Truman dismissed Stimson’s advice and told Molotov that the Russians were not true to their word. ‘We are!’ demanded Molotov. Truman then explained to him, in words of one syllable, exactly why they were not. Molotov argued, as you have, Mr. President, ‘I have never been talked to like that in my life.’ Do you know how Truman responded?”

Djali raised an eyebrow.

“‘Carry out your agreements and you won’t be talked to like that.’”

Morgan put his glasses back on and re-addressed Djaili. “So, Mr. President, why not start over and explain what’s really going on in your country.”

Djali had been quite unprepared for Taylor’s direct assault, which effectively stripped away all diplomatic formality. With the niceties off the table, Taylor went one very American step further. He added, “This time without the bullshit.”

The Indonesian reached for his glass of water and took a sip. His hands shook. All eyes were on President Djali as he cleared his throat. “Chairman Foss, members of the committee, I need your help.”

Paris, France

Robby Pearlman got the girl out of his life by changing hotels. Even if they bumped into one another later, she wouldn’t recognize him. Pearlman was going to morph into another character.

A new offer had come in. It was high-paying and risky. The contract was just shy of the amount he received for the business he did in Hudson, New York, a little over a year ago. At first, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take it. Something about it. He’d have to take more chances than normal, work with shoulder-fired missiles, and there would be multiple deaths.

He considered the dangers while he dyed his hair. Where’s the optimum strike zone? Close-in or far away? Certainly not in full view. A roof? Not a car. He weighed the job against the report he read in
The International Herald Tribune
. Although not specific, the story about the army investigation reminded him that he could never be too careful or too conservative.

Roarke’s behind this. He thought about finding and killing the Secret Service agent. He knew where he lived and who he slept with. But, he asked himself, Why take the chance? If he did take the agent out, there’d be others like him. They’d keep coming.

Another thought about the article nagged at him. It felt more and more like a plant. If it is… He made some adjustments to his latest identity and pulled away from the mirror. He sharpened his focus, looking straight into the eyes of his latest creation. He was moody, quick-thinking, and guarded. The talkative Canadian real estate developer was gone. A critical California psychologist stood in his place. The new guise gave him renewed perspective. An idea slowly formed. It would take some doing, he said to himself. But this job definitely provided an interesting opportunity.

He pulled his hair extensions back into a ponytail, peered at his reflection again, and decided where he had to go. Belgrade. He had unique contacts in Belgrade. There, he could get meetings with certain people willing to do anything for money. There, he could make his payday and solve his personal problem at the same time.

Richard Cooper smiled into the mirror, but someone else entirely new looked back.

Washington, D.C.

It was their second meeting. This one was at Duke Patrick’s Georgetown brownstone.

“General,” Patrick said answering the door.

“Mr. Speaker, so good to see you again. Thank you for having me.”

“Well, I figured if we’re going to go down this road together, we sure as hell have to open our homes to one another.”

“Yes, quite so. I’ve already told Lily that I want to get you down for a good old Texas barbeque after the speech. She’s cleaning the grill right now,” Bridgeman laughed.

“I’d be delighted. But first things first. Shall we?” Patrick motioned to his study where their conversation would continue. The speaker invited the general to sit down. “What’s your pleasure?”

“I’m a scotch man. On the rocks.”

Patrick poured a glass of an average supermarket scotch.

He handed Bridgeman the glass. “To the future.”

“To the future together,” he replied.

Over the next two hours the men discussed how the next administration would take shape and how soon that might actually occur.

Lebanon, Kansas
Tuesday, 7 August

“Hi Elliott, you’ve been talking about it for a while now, but what’s the chance we can get Taylor out? These amendment things take a long time. You gotta go state by state. It could take forever, or at least until the next election.”

“Good question,” Elliott Strong said to the caller. It took him right where he wanted to go tonight. But that wasn’t a coincidence. The caller was another plant, “…and after re-reading my American history, I’ve come up with some fascinating points. Are you ready for a lesson that will make your head spin?” he asked rhetorically. “Pay attention now.” He could imagine listeners turning up the volume or telling their spouses to be quiet. “Revelations like this don’t come down the pike every day.”

He rustled some papers unnecessarily. “Here it is. Thomas Jefferson, one of the Founding Fathers, was way ahead of his time. You have to admire the old boy, he really had a sense of what’s going on right now. What is it? Well, Jefferson was worried about the power of the dead over the living. He feared that an unchanged Constitution was the last thing we needed.” He left room for a wow. “Now I’m getting to the good part. He proposed that each generation have a real say in what they needed and that the Constitution should expire after nineteen or twenty years. Twenty years, people! Boy are we overdue. Jefferson wanted us to draft a new one, not just once, but every twenty years!”

Strong’s voice boomed over the airwaves. He slapped his hand on the table and argued, “By my count, we’re ten Constitutions behind!” The talk-show host failed to point out that the notion was dismissed by Jefferson’s contemporary, James Madison, who contended that the mechanism for change was implicit in the way the Constitution was drafted.

“Ten Constitutions behind, my friends. Would we have such an unbelievable situation today if the Constitution had been updated? Would a defeated president be serving as commander in chief? Would he be holding the nation’s highest office?”

Strong raised his hand in the air, conducting himself. As he lowered it, he brought his voice down. “I don’t think so.” Listeners heard him take a deep sigh: one of his trademarks. “Now I’m a realist. My critics might take exception with that, but it’s true. You come to me for the truth. Well, here it is. We’re not going to change the Constitution overnight. I was wrong to suggest it. It was naive, and yes, you heard me right, I was wrong.”

The host fell silent for five seconds. He watched the second hand on the wall clock tick by. “Okay. So what now? We’re days away from the biggest march on the Capitol in the history of the Republic and suddenly I tell you it’s unlikely we can get an amendment through. You’ve booked your planes, you made arrangements to give your kids to the grandparents, the hotel has your credit card number, and crazy Elliott Strong says it ain’t gonna happen? Well, hold on. I started by telling you that I’ve been reading up on my American history, folks. You know I started that when I was just a kid doing the farm reports on the radio outside of Fresno. But I missed something. And this one is going to make you very happy.”

Another five seconds ticked off, which further added to the audience’s anticipation.

“You’re going to demand a recall of the administration! Taylor goes—like he was supposed to. He lost, for God’s sake. And this will be the way you—citizens of a Strong Nation—can hand him his walking papers.”

Glenbrook Air Force Base
New South Wales, Australia
Wednesday, 8 August

He took his break and plugged in his laptop computer. Nothing unusual. Everyday, the Air Force One mechanic checked his e-mail and surfed the Net. Anyone looking over his shoulder would be amazed at his interests: Classic baseball cards, lunch boxes, comic books. His hobby was buying and selling. He did most of his work over eBay.

He scanned the list of new postings for 1955 Bowman baseball cards. Although they weren’t the most valuable cards in the market, collectors considered them unique because of their design. Pictures were framed horizontally in a wood-grain color TV monitor, rather than a typical vertical pose in a plain border.

Finding cards in great condition was the challenge. The 320-card 1955 set was the last issued by the Bowman Gum Company of Philadelphia. The cards are susceptible to easy corner chipping. The slightest flaking on the edges generally leads to exposure of the white cardboard underneath the photograph, which immediately downgrades a card’s worth. Also, the cards were routinely printed off center; another reason why the set, though singularly distinctive, isn’t among the most popular.

The mechanic was only interested in one card: #37 with famed Brooklyn Dodgers’ shortstop, Pee Wee Reese. The card depicted the star third baseman on his right knee. He held a baseball bat upside-down. The name REESE appeared as black capital letters over a white bar. The back had his personal stats and his batting records. The face value, in mint condition was an affordable $150. The card often showed up in Internet auctions. He could have bought it any number of times over the years, but he hadn’t.

He typically logged on once or twice a week to check the postings. He actually found this American hobby fun and a way to turn a buck. But he never completed his Bowman set collection, which would have been worth a little over $5,000.
Maybe this trip
, he thought.

He scrolled down the postings, expecting this to take no more than a few moments. Three ‘55 Reese cards were listed. One was a more expensive Topps card, two were Bowmans. He read what the collectors had written. The first Bowman advertised a card in fair condition, with an opening bid established at $19.50. The other offered a Reese in better shape and with the following description.

Harold “Pee Wee Reese” Brklyn Ddgr lft hander, Excellent to

Nr Mint
—
slight grease stain on back smudges birthdate

7/22/18

He almost missed it the first time. On the second pass the Air Force officer’s eyes widened.
Lft hander
. He looked over his shoulder. No one was nearby. He turned back to the computer screen.
Birthdate 7/22/18
. He’d waited years for this specific card listing. Now it had come.

He rested his fingers on the keys for three minutes without typing.

Reese threw and batted right-handed and his correct birthday was a day later, July 23.

The asking price was a sensible $111.50. He typed his bid, which was a tad higher.

5,000,000 Euro. Bidder 34423.

He’d thought for years about the exact amount to quote. Today’s price was higher due to the location and heightened security. But the seller obviously knew where he was. Glenbrook. He wanted the job done on the way back home.

He took a deep breath before hitting send. Yes. He was ready. He pressed enter. The information immediately charged through the Internet via a WiFi connection. To anyone else clicking on the auction it would look like a joke. But it was far from it. If the seller accepted the offer, half of the stated amount would be wired into an account under his real name. The remainder would be paid upon the successful completion of the mission.

Considering it might take a few hours before he had his answer, the officer powered down his computer and went back to work.

A few other crew members of Air Force One saw him smiling as he climbed back aboard the plane. Odd, they must have thought. He rarely smiles.