Executive Treason (40 page)

Washington, D.C.
the same day

Roarke ran harder to relieve the stress. Until the various investigative agencies came up with anything on Cooper, he was desk-bound. He started going stir-crazy by the second day. Now nearly two weeks had elapsed since he returned from the field. His mentor Morgan Taylor was out of town and Katie was busy. So he ran.

Sometimes ideas came to him while he exercised. But recently—nothing. He felt braindead. Roarke had gone as far as he could with Touch Parson’s FRT pictures. They were already in wide distribution, courtesy of the FBI. The finances of Cooper’s parents were still being examined, and Morgan Taylor’s idea of planting the story about Cooper’s squad still hadn’t paid off—at least not to his knowledge.

Nothing
, he thought. Roarke hated nothing.

Belgrade, Serbia

“I see no problems with what you’d like to do,” said the armsdealer, known only as Old Serbe. “I’ll give you some choices in a moment.” The grizzled man in a flannel shirt excused himself. This was not the first time he had worked with the American shrink. The Californian willingly paid him in whatever currency he requested. Today they agreed on euros. The exchange rate was more favorable than dollars. After a few minutes, the trader returned with a handful of photographs. “Take a look. You choose the best one.”

After a half hour looking at the prospects, the American picked three possibilities.

“Indeed, my choices, too,” Old Serbe laughed. “Come back in two hours and you shall examine the prospects.”

“Thank you,” said the Los Angeles psychologist. “I’ll do a bit of shopping in the meantime. But I do need to conclude this today. Time is a factor.”

“Undoubtedly. Your satisfaction is my first priority.”

Precisely two hours later they met. It took one more hour to decide on the finalist and conclude the transaction. The Caledonian and the man he hired through Old Serbe went to dinner to discuss the specifics that would change both of their lives.

Washington, D.C.

The Capitol Police were getting their assignments in a morning briefing. Nobody was happy. Extraordinary numbers of protestors were expected to descend on the nation’s capital. Estimates compiled from hotel and airline reservations, combined with assumptions about day-trippers, conservatively edged toward 2.5 million. The vendors and tourist-based businesses might revel in the numbers, but not the police. The names Elliott Strong and Robert Bridgeman were not bandied about warmly. This march was going to cost the District upwards of $12 to 15 million—and that’s if everything went well.

Across town, Duke Patrick worked on his speech. He sat at his dining room table writing in long hand. He studied what he had composed, still not pleased. It had to be inspiring. He needed to rally the crowd in D.C., yet simultaneously connect with the TV audience. Most of all he had to provide the country with a dynamic and authoritative presence: a leader who spoke with the voice of reason amidst growing discontent. He also needed to introduce General Robert Bridgeman.

Patrick tried out the phrases. Nothing felt right yet. He crumpled the latest page of handwritten notes and tossed it toward a small wastebasket. Toward, not in. He missed. His tenth miss in a row.

Patrick always struggled like this. He had to work at getting to his folksy style. Once there, he’d quickly memorize his speech and deliver it as if it were a rousing Sunday sermon. He avoided anything fancy. He was a good old boy. That’s what got him his first seat in the House and what won over fellow Democrats after the last election. His ascension to speaker, number-three in the line of succession, was the affirmation he initially sought. Now he had a new goal.

Patrick tolerated Henry Lamden, but he hated Morgan Taylor. He vowed to do anything to bring him down.

Lamden’s heart attack opened the door to some interesting possibilities. The invitation to introduce General Bridgeman was a pure gift.

Taylor ridiculed me. He did it in the White House.
Never again
, Patrick thought as he tried out another sentence.
Never again
.

Tyler, Texas

Across the country, General Bridgeman was busy with his own speech. His rise to national prominence was on the lips of every political pundit on the airwaves. For someone who was neither a declared Republican nor Democrat, Bridgeman presumed to speak for all the people.

Who’s tired of the way things are? Who’s ready for the way things ought to be? That was the approach he decided to take. He had little concern that the actual presidential primary was years off. Robert Bridgeman was on his own timetable. And who better to lead the charge than a Washington outsider. Four years earlier, Taylor proved that voters still took a shining to military brass. But in his mind, a Marine general outranked a Navy commander any day…particularly August 18.

Washington, D.C.

Katie put down her boxes and suitcases outside Scott’s apartment.

Roarke heard the doorbell as he was toweling off from his shower. He didn’t rush to the door. He never opened it without first identifying who was there; and second, determining if he wanted to let in that who.

He tuned his bedroom TV to AUX. An image appeared, captured by the pencil-thin fiber optic camera he placed within the doorframe.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. Roarke ran to the door, unlocked the dead bolt, and threw it open.

“Katie! Oh my God!”

She responded with equal surprise to the sight of him. “My goodness! I hope you don’t greet everyone like this.” She looked down.

He did the same. “Oh Christ!” He had lost his towel on the way. “Quick! Come on in.”

“No,” she said pushing past him with her suitcases. “You come in.”

Katie kicked the door closed with her foot and took him right on the hallway floor.

Maluku, Indonesia
Sunday, 12 August

“Atef, a question while we eat.”

“Yes, Commander,” the subordinate said.

“You have served me well in the mountains. How shall I reward you in the city?” the insurgent commander asked.

They discussed many things over their tasteless meals, but this was the first time Komari ever asked him what he might want.

“To continue to serve you, sir.”

Komari laughed so hard, he spilled his tea onto his thick, filthy beard. “Spoken like a politician, not a soldier.” He wiped the mess with his shirtsleeve. “Atef, we will take Jakarta and rule all Indonesia. You will be at my side. But you must have expectations. So I ask again, what reward do you seek from me? Money? The power that comes from being a senior secretary?”

“Actually, a bath,” Musah Atef said through a mouthful of overcooked beef with rice.

Komari enjoyed this next laugh even more. Then without warning, he changed the tone with a pointed question. “To bathe your body or to wash away your sins?” To punctuate the directive, he quickly reached down and removed a hunting knife from a sheath in his boot and plunged the blade into the wooden table.

Atef swallowed hard. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Many people will die. Christian women and children among them. Thousands. You will share responsibility for the cleansing of our nation. At some point a thought may enter your mind. ‘Have I done the right thing?’ My back may be turned and you, Musah Atef, would have the occasion to do the work of our enemies.”

“Commander, I am, and forever will be, your instrument. I should die in your service tonight, here and now, if you believe I would ever betray you.”

Commander Umar Komari stared deeply into the dark brown eyes of the young man who sat before him. He saw fear in the young lieutenant he had plucked from a fishing village two years earlier. There was fear where he had expected loyalty.

No
, thought Komari,
this one will not be at my side when we liberate the people.

The New York Times
the same day

Now Michael O’Connell had to decide what to do. He read his notes again. His research fell into two categories: So what? and Holy shit!

The so what side was filled with unsubstantiated reports, unrelated facts, and personal assumptions: not enough on which to base a
New York Times
article. Moreover, if somehow the story did go to print at this point, he’d leave the paper open to libel.

On the other hand, there was the
Holy shit!
factor, filled with the same unsubstantiated reports, unrelated facts, and personal assumptions that, libel or no libel, led to a shocking conclusion.

O’Connell drummed his fingers on the desk. This was too big for him to decide on his own. He took all of his work and marched into his editor’s office.

“I’m on a deadline, go away,” Weaver demanded.

“You say that to everybody,” O’Connell replied and made his un-welcomed way in. “Besides, I need your help.”

“Am I hearing Michael O’Connell correctly? He needs help?”

“Come on, Weaver. Really.”

“Well, I’m just a little surprised. Nothing from you in days. Not a word on paper. Not an e-mail.” The
Times
editor had expected something from O’Connell. “You know, they’ve been asking about you upstairs. I’ve been covering for you. If you can’t make this story work, we’ll get you onto another.”

“That’s the problem. I can make it work. But we have to be dead certain we’re ready to go all the way with it.” O’Connell purposely chose his words.

“Go all the way with it?” Weaver gave up her editing and motioned for O’Connell to sit.

The
Times
reporter outlined what he’d discovered on his initial round of calls.

Taking into account O’Connell’s recent escapade in Russia, Weaver immediately went to the
Holy shit!
side.

“My sentiments exactly.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So what do we do?”

“We don’t run it. But you stay on it. How much time do you think you need?”

“The question we should be asking is whether we’ve run out of time.”

O’Connell’s desk
later

O’Connell based his worry on the notion that Strong had a great deal, if not everything, to do with Robert Bridgeman’s sudden ascent. Another concern came to him. The march on Washington might be more than advertised.

His sense of duty now competed with his duty to country. O’Connell seriously thought about notifying President Taylor, but he was out of town. Maybe Roarke? He dismissed the notion, at least for now. He had to have more.

The reporter typed a quick e-mail and added the web address to the top. He hit send and waited to see whether Elliott Strong would reply.

Ninety minutes later he had his answer, apparently written by Strong’s producer/wife.

Elliott Strong does not consent to interviews.

He conducts them with his listeners.

Thank you for your inquiry.

At least I got a reply, he said to himself. Undaunted, he dialed the number he coaxed out of the sales department secretary at Strong’s syndicator.

After four rings a man answered with a sharp, “Yeah?” It wasn’t Strong.

“Hello. Is Elliott there?” O’Connell asked as if he were the man’s best friend.

“He’s just getting off the air. Wanna hold?”

“Sure.”

The engineer didn’t ask anything else. Most people didn’t have this phone number and the guy seemed like he knew Strong. Besides, he was busy running the audio board. He put the phone down on the desktop and forgot about it.

O’Connell listened to the last few minutes of the afternoon show. That was followed by the sound of doors opening and closing. He was sure he heard Strong in the background talking to a woman. Then, “Who is it?” Something unintelligible was followed by Strong saying, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“Hello.”

“Elliott?” came the greeting from O’Connell.

The host strained to place the voice. He couldn’t. “Who is this? Do I know you?” he asked suspiciously.

“No, but you’ve read my stories on the air. I’m Michael O’Connell. From the New Yuck Times.”

Strong cupped the phone over his hand, but O’Connell could still make out the reaction. “Christ! Why did you give this to me!”

“Sorry, it sounded like a friend,” the engineer apologized.

“Look,” Strong said back on the line and without any of the friendliness he used on the radio, “I have a firm policy of no interviews!”

“Just one question, Strong. Is it pure luck or coincidence that every break in your career came at someone else’s expense?”

Strong answered by slamming the phone onto the cradle. O’Connell was left with a dial tone, but he got more than he hoped. He got a glimpse of the real man.

Washington, D.C.
that night

Roarke and Katie sat across from each other at a cafe near his apartment. They shared a sausage and spinach panini and Caesar salad. She was trying to figure out the best ways to navigate the District. The small Metro map she’d picked up wasn’t helping much.

“Use a driver, or at least a cab,” he said with some concern.

“But I believe in public transportation.”

“I don’t think Bernstein wants you trekking around underground. And I sure as hell don’t.”

“It’s safe.”

“Katie, you’re working for the White House, for God’s sake. There are perks. It’s not going to break the president’s budget.”

“Well, maybe. I’ll probably have too much to carry around anyway.”

“Thank you. Now with that settled, are you coming to an overall opinion yet?” Since she arrived, they hadn’t talked about work. His or hers.

“Overall? I still don’t know why me. I’m not an expert on the Constitution. I’m not a Constitutional attorney. I’ve been reading briefs from real scholars and members of Congress who have given this incredible time and thought, mostly since 9/11.”

“But nobody’s done anything.”

She agreed. “Maybe because there are too many points of view. Too many possibilities to consider.”

“Enter Katie Kessler,” he proudly offered. “You can sort it out. Make total non-partisan recommendations to a Republican administration serving at the pleasure of a Democrat.”

“Makes my head spin,” she said while feeding him a bit of the panini.

“So, back to my question,” he said chewing the sandwich. “Overall opinion?”

“The law is based on an incredibly faulty premise. Stop me if I’ve already told you all of this, but in 1945, after President Truman succeeded Franklin Roosevelt, he decided to change the first line of succession from cabinet to Congress. In fact, he didn’t name a vice president until he ran for re-election in 1948.”

“Really?”

“Really. And without a vice president serving under him, George Marshall, his Secretary of State, would become his immediate successor if he died. Now a couple of relative points. Some claim that Truman didn’t necessarily believe he, or any president, should be appointing his own successor. In a democracy, the position of president is elective, and therefore it should fall to someone who had stood the test of the electorate. He pointed to the Speaker of the House, the leading officer of Congress.”

“But he’s not nationally elected.”

“You’re right.” The speaker is elected every two years by constituents in his district. But he’s elevated to national prominence by gaining the support and vote of the majority of the members of the House.

“But here’s the rub. The 1792 Statute named the president pro tempore of the senate as the first officer in the line of succession, not the Speaker of the House.”

“So why the change for Truman?”

“On the surface, Truman wanted the power to stay with the party of the presidency. The House was more likely to be controlled by the president’s party than the Senate. But there was more to it than that. Truman’s relations with the president pro tem wasn’t, what shall I say, cordial. He was a wily, vindictive powerful 78-year-old named Kenneth McKellar from Tennessee. He was known as a real patronage guy. Truman knew him from the Senate. Not his favorite. On the other hand, Speaker of the House Sam Raybum was a good friend: good enough that Truman was said to have visited Rayburn’s office for a glass of bourbon after he learned he was going to be sworn in as president.”

“Politics,” Roarke sadly concluded.

“And faulty reasoning,” Katie added. “We’ve had long periods since 1947 when the president’s party is not the majority party in either the House or the Senate, or both.”

“So much for Truman’s logic.”

“Right again. And wouldn’t you think that it’s more likely for a cabinet member appointed by a president to continue his policies than a legislative officer with a different political agenda?”

“Makes sense to me.” He was thinking about Duke Patrick right now. “But Truman got his way. What was it like before that?”

“Good question. Let’s go back to 1886. President Grover Cleveland’s vice president died in office. Congress was out of session and according to the 1792 Act, there were no statutory successors to take over if Cleveland croaked or he couldn’t discharge his duties. So Congress reconvened and pulled together The First Presidential Succession Act, which set the line of succession after the veep with the Secretary of State, followed by the rest of the cabinet department heads, in order of their department’s establishment. The 1886 Act required the successor to convene Congress, if it wasn’t already in session, to determine whether or not to call for a special presidential election.”

“It’s getting complicated again.”

“Oh, it’s very complicated and full of holes. Big ones. Like the whole question of who’s an ‘officer?’”

“Meaning?”

“Well, Duke Patrick, for example. Would the House Speaker be considered an officer in Constitutional terms?”

“Of course he is,” Roarke said, totally engaged. “He was elected…”

“Not so fast. The Constitution, Article II, section 1, clause 6 says…”

Roarke smiled. “You really have this down.”

“Stop it. I have it memorized, I’m trying to act like I have it down…clause 6 specifies that Congress may, by law, specify what Officer—capital O—shall act as president if both the president and vice president are unavailable. That’s the foundation of all the laws that followed. But does the Constitution view elected officials as Officers? No one knows for sure how the Supreme Court would ultimately rule. Cabinet members, yes. They’re officers appointed by the president, ratified by the Senate.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, my buddy James Madison and I think officers are those appointed rather than elected.”

“You are good,” Roarke added.

“And there’s more if you’re still with me.”

“Forever.”

Katie liked that a lot. It deserved a kiss, which she gave him by sitting up and stretching across the table.

“Ummm,” he said enjoying his reward.

“Now I know you’re dying to ask me where we stand now.”

“Where do we stand now,” Roarke chimed in.

“On very shaky ground. Here’s why. Under the current law, the 25th Amendment to the Constitution focuses primarily on how the president is succeeded in office, under the terms of the 1947 Act. But did you realize that someone could be bumped out of office?”

“No. How?”

“Imagine there’s a catastrophe. The president, vice president, speaker, and senate pro tem are killed. The Secretary of State is next in line to become the chief executive.”

“I’m with you.”

“Okay, but then the Senate acts very quickly. It elects a new president pro tempore. The senator conveniently bumps the Secretary of State out. But then the House names a new speaker. He, or she,” Katie smiled at the thought, “would bump the Senate president.”

“It’d be chaotic.”

“Worse. We’d have numerous politicians and officers—see the distinction now—laying claim to the presidency. It would have to get settled by the Supreme Court. Not a good time after a tragedy.”

“This is amazing,” Roarke observed.

“I wish I could take credit for it, but the arguments have been around for a long time.”

“Okay. So, in short, it’s a mess. One terrorist strike could throw us into a huge constitutional crisis. How, my dear, are you proposing we get out of it?”

“That, my love, is something I’m still sorting through.”

Glenbrook Royal Air Force Base
New South Wales, Australia
the same day

The down payment was in his account. The remainder would be his very soon. Just a few more details and his work would be done.

Colonel Lewis gave the Air Force One crew and the support team word that they were still a few days away from wheels up. There were rumors that they might have a quick stopover in Kandahar airport in Afghanistan. Is that good or bad? The engineer borrowed the navigation charts from the cockpit. Good.

He mentally calculated the distances and considered the likely flight plan. Better, in fact. Much better.