Executive Treason (39 page)

The New York Times
the same day

O’Connell’s four calls to Strong’s syndicator earned him little more than an exercise in futility. His first request was forwarded to the company publicist. No response. The second, for some reason, was routed to an accountant, who couldn’t understand why he got the call. The next two calls went to the president of the company, Charlie Huddle. O’Connell stated his request to the secretary, but was promptly returned to the publicist. He called back, complaining that he wanted to speak directly to Huddle. After being put on hold for nearly five minutes, during which time he had to listen to one of Strong’s broadcasts, the secretary finally punched back only to tell him, “Mr. Huddle is not available, but he recommends you visit StrongNationRadio.com for all information pertaining to the talk-show host.”

That’s where he began. Goddamned runaround! O’Connell spent most of his life discovering new ways to get around functionaries, roadblocks, and corporate assholes.
Okay, let’s try the back door
, he thought.

He used his cell phone this time, dialed the main number again, and started walking down the hall at a fast clip. The switchboard answered.

“Hello. Sales department, please.”

“Just a moment.”

By the time an assistant answered, O’Connell sounded out of breath—which he was.

“Hi there. Hope you can help me.” He kept walking. He seemed harried. “I’ve got a copy change on a web address for a commercial.”

“So?”

“So, it’s on Strong’s show. Today! Gotta get it right to him. What’s his direct?”

“Just a second, I’ll…”

“I don’t have any time. Got to get this right to him. You have the control room?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“The fucking URL is wrong. The client is going apeshit. If it hits the air that way, we’re gonna have a suit on our hands!”

“Okay, okay. Here it is.” She read off the number from a contact sheet.

“Got it,” O’Connell said. “Thanks.”

“What did you say your name is?”

He pressed end on his Blackberry and kissed the device. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Kirribilli House
Sydney, Australia
that night

The two men sat and nursed their drinks and puffed on their Montecristos, quite legal in Australia.

“There’s no balls to it yet,” Morgan Taylor told the Australian prime minister. “Until this agreement grows some serious balls, it’s not going to mean a damned thing.”

“Morgan, these people can’t move as fast as you want. They’re afraid.”

“David, there’s an ancient Sephardic expression. You’re either on the train or under it. I want to be on it.”

“I know. So do I, but what do you want to do? Go in and punish Malaysia if they don’t weed out the Kumpulah Mujahedeen? Or the same with the JI in Indonesia? We can’t sanction our allies like that, Morgan.”

“No? Then we might as well hand over the keys to the front door to the enemy. Whoever they are. I’m sick and tired of signing agreements that don’t mean a fucking thing. They get our money. We offer protection. Do they really do anything in return to fight terrorists in their own backyard? No. And, they hate us no matter what.”

“They fear you, Morgan, and they fear the people who can bring them down.”

Prime Minister Foss gently flicked the ashes from his half-smoked cigar into a crystal ashtray. “But, of course you’re right. It’s the reality of the 21st century. We’re allied with sprawling third-world countries that are spread out over thousands and thousands of square kilometers of ocean. The leaders can barely hold on to their own power base let alone keep their enemies in check. In many places, the growth of Islam is outpacing Christianity. Muslim majorities are finally gaining political power. In any given year, Japan may have more terrorist groups than baseball teams, South Korea has its maniac neighbor to the north, and you tell me how much help Pakistan is?”

“They sign everything and do nothing, David.”

“So what do you propose? Another American land grab? I don’t think you’re about to follow Bush.”

President Taylor took his last puff of the night and crushed out his cigar. He leaned across the small table that separated the two men and said, barely above a whisper, “Supply and demand, David. We cut off the supply line that’s arming the terrorists.”

The prime minister frowned. He wasn’t certain what Morgan Taylor was suggesting.

“We’re in a war on terrorism. Who the hell are we fighting? The bin Ladens? Some rogue governments? I don’t know from day to day and I’m the President of the United States with all the military power imaginable. I can order a strike anywhere in the world. But what are my targets?”

“That is the nature of things today.”

“Come on, David. These guys are armed to the teeth. So we cut off their supply.”

“Where?” Foss asked.

“Everywhere. From the source,” Taylor said.

“You’re not planning on bombing gun manufacturers.”

“Bombing them? No. Examining their books, yes. If that’s not possible, then we look at other options.” He didn’t explain the point further. “So, yes, we do go after the mass producers of arms, but also the arms dealers who traffic in them, the governments that help them, the corporations that shelter them.”

Foss was clearly surprised by the proposal. “Morgan, they’ll kill you in your own country. You’re a hunter yourself. I’m even versed on your 2nd Amendment debate-the right to bear arms. They’ll impeach you.”

“Hell, they’re already looking for ways, David. But this isn’t about me. That’s why this needs to be our initiative, agreed upon by our allies.”

Taylor pressed closer. “We destroy cocaine fields in Venezuela. We target planes and ships transporting contraband. Hell, you saw the pictures of Indonesia. I can call the NSA right now and get you another fifty hard targets where weapons are stored in the South Pacific: places where there are enough weapons to wipe out Sydney tomorrow. And I’m not counting the dirty bombs. I have no idea where they’re hidden. Think about it. We’ll really make war on terrorism if we go after the weapons. We out the countries that don’t do it themselves. We give them fair warning. If they don’t solve the problem, we’ll do it for them.”

“WMDs all over again? You don’t want another Iraq.”

“Doesn’t have to be. And I won’t be drawn into that kind of quagmire. We don’t invent a search. We seek, we evaluate, we confirm, we share our discovery with the host government, and then we destroy. Every action is a front-page victory.”

“A Taylor Doctrine?” Foss concluded.

“Absolutely not! It can’t be. It has to come out of our talks. It’s the balls.”

“How do you explain it to the doves in your own party? And what about collateral damage? Civilians will be killed.”

“Yes,” Taylor lowered his eyes. “That will happen. But after every strike, we show what the enemy had in store for us. This is war, David. How many innocent civilians would have died if that C-4 had gone off at the St. George?”

“Hundreds. Probably a thousand or more.”

“And the reaction from Hezbollah or JI?”

“Celebration,” the prime minister admitted.

“So to answer your question about how I’ll do back home? First of all, I’m not calling for individuals to disarm. I’m not shutting down Remington, Colt, or Heckler & Koch. And we’re certainly not planning on bombing Walther in Germany, or Beretta over in Italy. Hell, Beretta is the army standard in the U.S. We’d be shooting ourselves in the foot.”

“Or my Glock factories?” Foss noted.

“Or Glock. Our principal targets are the hiding places. We crash the arms deals, we cut off the money supply worth billions, and most importantly, we take out the stores. We do it with the authority of the agreement forged here and subsequent alliances in Europe, Africa—even the Middle East.”

“We’ll be labeled one-worlders. It’ll play into every conspiracy theorist’s wet dreams,” the prime minister added.

“They’re already calling me every name in the book. But if we’re ever going to succeed at this so-called war, we have to fight it—for better or worse. I don’t know if we can make it better, but I can promise you, if we don’t put some bite into this session, things will definitely get worse. Not temporarily worse. Worse forever.”

The night was coming to an end. Foss extinguished his cigar. He noticed that they’d both finished their drinks. “Another before we call it a night, Morgan?”

“No thanks,” Taylor replied.

Foss rose and started for the door. “May they never claim that two old drunken warhorses concocted this plan. How about we sleep on this a bit? Let’s get together a half hour before the first session and see how it looks in the morning.”

Foss offered his hand to his friend. Morgan Taylor took it and repeated the overarching truth. “David, remember, this can’t be termed ‘the Taylor Doctrine.’ It has to be bigger than that.”

Glenbrook Royal Air Force Base
Friday, 10 August

The outrageous bid for an inexpensive 1957 Bowman baseball card looked like a teenager’s prank. The anonymous person who posted the card responded accordingly.

Bidder 34423

You express serious offers now. Others will not be considered. EBay was filled with ludicrous offers. This was not one of them. 2,500,000 euros were already transferred from one account to another. This e-mail confirmed the terms of the transaction.

Before clicking off, the Air Force mechanic re-read the message. The answer was contained in simple code on the second line.

You express serious offers now.

Years of training, preparation, and waiting came down to one message:
Y-e-s o-n.

Chicago, Illinois

Luis Gonzales made the transfer without a concern for the amount. Some of it was his money, most of it came from long-held accounts funded by special interests in Saudi Arabia and Syria. He’d earned good interest on it. Now it belonged to a highly skilled mechanic.

Amazing. Gonzales thought about the fortuitous turn of events. Lamden’s illness returns the presidency to Taylor. There’s no vice president. Things were better than he planned. It was the perfect political storm, and it would build to Category 5 in a matter of days. He would achieve so much at once—revenge and chaos. All of this was for his wife and daughter, killed by the Israelis because of the Americans. Both nations would be punished, and as a result, a true Palestinian state would rise and the Zionists would fall.

Gonzales admitted this would still take a few years. The American public needed more conditioning. A new president would help propagate the paradigm shift. Then, the map would be redrawn. Money destined for Israel would go to Palestine.

The fee for this part of the operation was insignificant. Two-and-a-half-million euros today, an equal amount when the job was completed. Gonzales considered it a small price to pay a sleeper spy on the job aboard Air Force One.

Langley, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
the same day

“Any progress?” D’Angelo asked Jassim at the start of the day. His team leader did have some new information.

“Actually, yes.” Jassim read from a report culled from FBI and NSA searches. “Ali Razak, came to the U.S. in ‘99 from Syria. No army record, probably because of his height, but according to Interpol, Razak showed up in interesting places at interesting times.”

“Meaning?”

“London. Same date as that big department store bombing. Remember?”

“Yes.” Evans had assigned him as a CIA liaison to the MI-5 investigation.

“Portugal, when the air base was hit.”

“Is he tied to Hezbollah?”

“No record of it. No associations with known terrorist organizations either. Just sightings of a really big man at both places.”

“He’s hard to hide. Ultimately that should work in our favor. It would have been hard to keep Shaq a secret in Miami. Razak has to show up again.”

Jassim added his hope, then noted, “He’d make the perfect bodyguard. Don’t you think?”

“Haddad!” Vinnie D’Angelo concluded. “You’re right.”

“Guess, what? We’ve got a positive ID on him from people in his building in Florida. Right off his driver’s license photo.”

“California?”

“Yeah, we tracked that down. Probably his point of entry. A job there years ago? I don’t know. Not yet. We’ll find out. There’s no police record. Tax report from a year ago is clean. Nothing filed yet for this year.”

“Because?”

“I don’t know. Out of country? Dead?”

“You wish,” D’Angelo joked. “Try a new identity.”

“Which brings me to my next point. I don’t think Razak is his real name.”

“Why?”

“Because of its meaning in Arabic.”

“Which is?” D’Angelo asked.

“Protector. This guy wears his job like a label. We find him, we find Haddad.”

This made D’Angelo even more convinced. “Get his picture and fingerprints out to every police database. And while you’re at it, let’s have conversations with every big men’s shop in the country.”

“Beg your pardon?” Jassim asked.

“Razak sure isn’t running around naked. The man has to dress. It’s the obvious place to check. Rochester Big and Tall. Lots of others. Fax that picture to every single one by the end of the day.” D’Angelo was pleased with Jassim’s work. “And you’re right. We find him, we find Haddad.”

Sydney, Australia
Saturday, 11 August

While Morgan Taylor outlined his proposal, Foss studied the presidents, prime ministers, and premiers. The Pakistani president was the first to express his outrage.

“Are you suggesting American B-ls will be dropping bombs in my country on the suspicion that I am harboring terrorists? If you are, Mr. President, then this summit is over!”

A similar complaint was made by the Indonesian president. “I have never heard of such a thing. The other day you complained that I’m not doing enough. Now you say that my borders are meaningless to you.”

India joined its neighbor Pakistan’s objections. Malaysia agreed. Even New Zealand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Foss allowed everyone to express their positions. He did it with a certain degree of delight, knowing that Morgan Taylor would not give in. He never did.

When the fury died out, Prime Minister Foss addressed the group. “The President of the United States has offered a radical notion. If action is taken solely on the authority of an American president, be it Morgan Taylor, President Henry Lamden, or their successors, then I join you in unconditionally voting this down.”

He was answered by a chorus of, “Here, here!”

“However,” he said with authority, “taken as the will of a majority of signatory nations eager to seek out and destroy the very forces that threaten us, then I wholeheartedly embrace Mr. Taylor’s proposal.” He stunned the room back into silence. “We are living on borrowed time. There’s not a woman or man among us who isn’t at a loss for the ways and means to combat terrorists. They have crossed our borders, either legally or illegally. They are hell-bent on bringing us down one way or another. They are patient. They have vast resources to build stockpiles of arms and to recruit followers. Unarmed, they can be swatted dead. Armed, as they are, we are the ones who face oblivion. President Taylor proposes that we change the rules of engagement. Is that what you really object to? I, for one, want to hear more.” Without asking for a consensus, he nodded to Taylor.

“Mr. Prime Minister, fellow members of this esteemed league of nations, I am not the world’s policeman and I don’t want to be. However, we have a global enemy. Undeniably, this enemy is hiding in your countries. I know they are in mine. They build their armies and traffic their weapons. But too often, we wait until after they’ve struck to track them.”

Taylor cocked his head, a signal to Jack Evans. The U.S. National Director of Intelligence was ready with a handful of poster boards, which he put on the table in front of the president. Taylor slid one to his right, another to his left, and two across the table. Another dozen remained in front of him. “I’ve shared other satellite photographs with you. These were taken in the last twenty-four hours. You may not be able to identify the locations, but they are all from the countries represented here. Once again, weapons caches and encampments are circled. In most cases, these locations are out of reach of your own troops. So they remain in operation.

“These photos, and ones like them, are regularly sent to your military commands. You tell me what action has ever been taken? With the exception of an airstrike by Australia barely a month ago—none. The SASR destroyed the stronghold in the Solomons where the attack against our summit was planned. Were there any objections to that reprisal?”

Taylor reminded everyone how the remote-controlled bomb was discovered quite by accident at the Ville St. George. “We’re all alive today because of chance. Nothing more. How much longer can we play the odds? And yet you have no interest in annihilating the very forces that seek to kill you? You have no interest in at least destroying their weapons stores?”

Thailand’s leader had been studying one of three photographs that showed areas within his country. He lifted his head. “If the Chair will allow a question?”

Foss saw that Taylor was willing to relinquish the floor.

“You have a way of making a convincing argument, Mr. President. I have never seen these photos, or any like them. I assure you, I will speak with my commanders about this oversight. It will be corrected immediately.”

No one dared asked what that meant.

He continued, “Suffice it to say, I am troubled, but I need to understand more. Tell us how this strike force could work. Why wouldn’t it be a United Nations force?”

“Because we want it done in our lifetime,” Taylor said without a hint of humor. “I would like to believe that our own alliance will serve as a model to the U.N. But with Russia’s increasing proclivity toward censure and the profits they earn through arms sales, forget it.”

“We’d have to explain a great deal to our people. I’m not sure how to do it,” admitted the Thai leader.

“Tell them the truth,” Taylor replied. “You commit yourself to the fight. The United States will provide you with the necessary, irrefutable intelligence to act. But then you must act. If you do not, within twenty-four hours—under the jurisdiction of the agreement I hope to forge—an international force will do the work for you. You will then have the ability to announce that you accepted the invitation of the international strike team. It is a face-saving consideration. Make no mistake, this is a zero-sum proposition. We are past the point of options.” Morgan Taylor raised his left index finger and Jack Evans produced another satellite photograph. He stood and personally walked it over to Prime Minister Foss.

“This Liberian ship is carrying grenade launchers and an estimated twenty-five hundred automatic weapons, along with Japanese cars. She sailed from Kyoto two days ago. She’s due in Melbourne later this week. What do you want to do, Mr. Prime Minister?”