Executive Treason (51 page)

The New York Times
Two days later

“This is Weaver,” the
Times
editor answered.

“Ms. Weaver, my name is Roarke. Scott Roarke. I’m with JL the Secret Service.”

“Yes, Mr. Roarke.” She was nervous; distracted. “I know who you are.”

“Can we talk about Michael O’Connell?” Shannon Davis passed along the details, or at least what was known by NYPD, to Roarke.

She had trouble replying. “You heard?” she managed to say.

“Yes, what happened?”

“He was robbed and killed.” Weaver’s voice cracked. “His body was found in the Bronx. Why, for God’s sake?”

Roarke decided to volunteer information: something he rarely offered. “He was on the way to see me, Ms. Weaver. He had something to tell me. Do you have any idea what that was?”

She hesitated. The time it took her to respond told Roarke she did.

“Please. What was it?”

“I can’t,” she said. Andrea Weaver was falling on a useless sword.

“Look, who robs someone in the middle of Manhattan and drives them to the Bronx? He was on his way to see me at the White House. He had something to tell me in person. You know what it was.”

Still silence.

“It’s what got him killed,” he continued. “If you want to help, tell me.”

He could almost hear her thinking.

“It was important enough to cost him his life.”

“The police were here,” she said weakly.

“Did you tell them anything?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I haven’t told you. We’re the press and….”

“He’s dead, Weaver. Michael O’Connell is dead. Because of a story he was working on? Something he discovered? He had to see me. Me! And he pretty much hated me. But still, O’Connell had to come down in person. He didn’t want to do it over the phone. He was grabbing a cab for the airport.” He raised his voice, something Roarke rarely did with a woman. “For that reason alone, I have to assume that it was too important to discuss on the telephone. So, what was it?”

“But the robbery?”

“Come on.”

“And the Bronx?”

“He was dumped there.” An uneasy thought started forming in his mind. The taxi driver. It evaporated as soon as she spoke.

“What’s your e-mail address?”

“My e-mail?” he responded.

“I’ll send you the story Michael was working on. I’ve only got part of it. We got hit by a weird computer virus the other day. His computer got fried, most of my files were lost.”

The e-mail dumped into Roarke’s mailbox a minute later. He opened it and read what remained of Michael O’Connell’s last story. It was a saga that began years ago on a California back road and led to U.S. Route 281 in Lebanon, Kansas. Time after time, according to the report, Strong’s career advanced, as if orchestrated by an outside force.

The next two pages were a jumble of words. The computer gibberish cleared up midway through O’Connell’s description of his trip to Russia. The reporter intimated that a famous American radio talk-show host may have been there as well. The article became incomprehensible again. Roarke scanned ahead until he came to a section, which covered Andropov Institute’s Red Banner curriculum, where Russians and Middle East agents were trained to become Americans. Michael O’Connell made the leap of faith that the sleepers could have found their way to positions in the U.S. media, including radio. The loosely connected dots formed a picture of Elliott Strong.

Roarke sat back in awe. Of course,
The Times
couldn’t print the story. In its current draft, it was largely composed of hearsay and supposition. But in Roarke’s mind, it was true. All of it.

The Secret Service agent considered what happened. O’Connell put out feelers. Word got back to Strong, or O’Connell talked to him directly. Given O’Connell’s reputation, Strong, or whoever he worked for, considered O’Connell too much of a threat. So he was killed.

Roarke printed the story and ran up to the Oval Office. “Louise, is he in?”

“He’s with the NDI.”

“Good. Buzz him.”

Roarke started for the door.

“Scott, you can’t…”

But he could, and Louise knew it.

“Boss!”

Louise barely got word to the president when Roarke was through the door. Few people in the world could get into the Oval Office on a sprint.

“Scott, we are in the middle of something.” Jack Evans and the president were working on strategies that would take out more terrorist camps around the world. Roarke got to share a great deal of Morgan Taylor’s presidency, but not this. The intelligence director turned over the map, which earmarked targets. “I’d appreciate it if you would wait a few minutes.” It wasn’t really a request.

“I can’t, sir.”

When Roarke added sir, even the president knew the seriousness.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Okay, let’s have it.”

“Mr. Director, this is for you, too.” Evans blinked acceptance. “You know I got that call from Michael O’Connell.”

“Yes.” The president was also all too aware that O’Connell had been killed.

“He had to talk to me. It was urgent. I know why.”

Taylor looked at Evans. They both sensed the conversation was going to take a turn for the worse.

Roarke handed both men a copy of the reporter’s virus-scrambled article. “O’Connell’s editor sent this to me. It was his last story…I think the one he died for.”

The president and his chief intelligence officer eyed the article.

“Str+@dvjfhg Ties fr Stro8fg Opinions” By MicEt#) NB1 0′C890$$11, Sn. P37dOfal Wr9ftr

Roarke explained why it was hard to read.

“But what’s this say?” Evans asked.

“‘Strong Ties for Strong Opinions,’ By Michael O’Connell, Senior Political Writer.”

“And?”

“I believe O’Connell had first-hand information that Elliott Strong is a foreign agent.”

Roarke left. Evans remained. It was clear that President Taylor and the National Director of Intelligence were now going to talk about the new crisis and not the agenda Jack Evans had set.

“We’ll have to vet this with Mulligan and our sources from the old KGB,” the NDI stated. “I’ll also call Jacob Schecter and see if he can shed any more light on this.”

“And when we determine it’s true—that the whole damned thing is true?” the president asked. “What then? Strong is the extremists’ messiah.” He reflected on his appraisal. “No, that’s understating it. He’s the voice of a whole new movement, which makes Bridgeman the front man and Patrick, God only knows!”

“Maybe you’ll want me to deal with this, Mr. President.”

There was a coldness to Evans’ delivery and the message behind it. It was a calculated declaration, which required no further response from the president.

Chez Black Restaurant
Positano, Italy
three days later

Vinnie D’Angelo and Ira Wurlin were seated at their old table behind the sliding partition. They were there at the behest of their superiors. No one except Guiseppie, the waiter of nineteen years, or Mr. Black, the legendary proprietor of Chez Black, would be allowed in. And that wouldn’t be for a while.

D’Angelo wasted no time getting to the point of the meeting. Once again, the topic was Israeli agents working in the United States. The American CIA agent did all the talking. Wurlin spared the denials. D’Angelo’s information was unassailable. When D’Angelo finished laying out the foundation he simply said, “Ira, you’re going to solve a problem for us.”

Lebanon, Kansas
Monday, 3 September

“Last caller. Hello, you’re on Strong Nation.”

“Elliott, now that Taylor is back in the White House, what do you think our chances are of really getting him out?”

Strong smiled into the mirror in front of him. He loved calls like this, especially at the end of the night. It gave him a chance to pontificate, and that always went over well with his listeners.

“Our chances? This isn’t a game of chance. We’re not spinning a wheel here, hoping our number comes up. Anyway, the basic rule of gambling is the house always wins. In this case, it’s been the White House. But here’s what I think. From now on, no more house rules. We’re a few votes closer to having our debate on a recall. And I’ll tell you plain and simple, we are going to win that battle. That’s how we’ll get Taylor out. That’s how we’ll steer our country into the future.”

The host’s closing music, Don’t Back Down, was creeping up under him as the second hand ticked toward the hour. He timed his goodbyes perfectly.

“That’s it. Good night, good morning, good luck, good day. Remember, together a Strong Nation is ours.” Elliott Strong signed off.

Strong never went straight to bed after his late-night show. He was too wound up. He had a routine that worked, though. First, he checked his e-mail. There’d be the usual spam that got through filters, an occasional note from his syndicator, and some correspondence from corporate executives who were aligned with his politics. Tonight, there was also a note from Duke Patrick’s office—a vitriolic rant about Taylor that went nowhere, and a leak from another source on the Hill about a senator who might be willing to throw his support to Bridgeman for the right payback.
Interesting
, he thought.
The defections begin
.

However, while Strong projected bravado on the air, he inwardly recognized that something wasn’t right. He had been warned to expect breaking news from the march. Nothing occurred. Bridgeman remained an item in the news, but if an incident was supposed to put him over the top, it failed to transpire. Aside from a sketchy report about a shooting near the Washington Monument, everything was calm. The status quo returned to the country and Taylor was president again.

Strong leaned back in his chair and reflected on the recent events. What went wrong? First, Taylor’s airplane crash should have put Patrick in the White House. It didn’t. Lamden re-emerged. That turned him into a hero and Bridgeman’s coverage was eclipsed by what happened a few blocks away. Then the biggest surprise of all. Taylor returned from the dead!

What the hell went wrong
? he wondered. He couldn’t answer the question himself. And in the days since the march, Strong hadn’t heard from the one man who might know. Maybe tonight.

He logged onto eBay to check the bidding of some paintings he’d never buy. He was looking for a specific price on a special painting, Richard Merkin’s Chariot. It wasn’t there. If it had been, the amount would have provided him with a phone number to call for one-time use. Months often went by between contacts, sometimes years. But there should be…

The last part of Strong’s nightly routine before sleeping was walking his dog, Grant. At 4:30 A.M. the Labrador retriever was at the door, waiting in anticipation.

At that hour, or any hour for that matter, Lebanon was quiet. No one was around to tell Strong to use a leash. Grant bounded out. He ran in circles, checked his favorite scents, then twenty yards down the street he found a tree to claim as his own.

By the time Strong caught up with his dog, he noticed that Grant was staring into the darkness, sniffing the air. The playful three-year-old was easily distracted by squirrels, cats, and mice. He barked. “Come on, leave them alone.” The dog barked again, but didn’t move. “Shhh,” Strong said automatically. There were no houses nearby, no neighbors to distract, but there was still something about a dog barking in the middle of the night that prompted the response.

Grant ignored him. Untethered, he took off into the darkness to chase down whatever was tempting him.

Strong continued his walk, feeling refreshed in the cool morning air. There was already a hint of fall from the north. Strong smiled inwardly. It’ll be okay in the morning. Another beautiful September day: one day closer to the next election.

He noticed that Grant had stopped barking. Strong whistled. His dog didn’t respond. He whistled again. No sounds, not even crickets. He clapped his hands and called out, “Grant! Come!”

The ELCAN SpectrlR SP50B Thermal Weapon Sight was designed for Homeland Security, police, the military, and other professionals. It utilizes heat-imagery technology: true “see-in-the-dark” infrared vision which can reveal what the human eye can’t. It works in rain and fog, dust and smoke, and, of course, in the dead of night.

The SpectrlR can distinctively detect a moving target up to 650 feet away. It works by separating living, breathing objects from their surroundings by reading their heat signatures.

Security forces at nuclear plants, oil refineries, and port authorities have added the night-vision scope to their arsenals. Interestingly, the scope can be hooked up with a wireless RF video-port to provide realtime remote viewing. Mounted on an AR15 assault rifle with an extendable shoulder stock, and in the right hands, it served as the perfect nighttime sniper weapon.

It was unfortunate about the dog. The shooter liked dogs. He had one just like him back home.

The man had been in the area for two days, scouting and determining how to complete his mission. No one had seen him. No one would.
Odd,
he thought,
coming to this Lebanon. He had done the same thing in the country with the same name.

He wanted the perfect shot. The dog delayed his first attempt along the road. Now his target faced him full-on. He lined up the crosshairs between his target’s eyes. One bullet. One fraction of a second between life and death. One more voice silenced, caught on TV, beamed out on 2.46 Hz through a scrambled command RF link.

Elliott Strong looked off into the darkness. He had an awareness of a flash, like a firefly. It was something so uniquely American. He’d never seen it back home as a child in Syria, nor in Russia where he had been trained. So American…

The Israeli sniper slipped further into the darkness and disappeared. There were dangers working in the United States, but this time Ira Wurlin assured him everything would be fine.

The Oval Office
Tuesday, 4 September

This was Katie’s meeting. In attendance were President Morgan Taylor, Bernsie Bernstein, White House counsel Brad Rutberg, Attorney General Eve Goldman, Secretary of the Treasury David Jaburi, and Lynn Myerson’s old boss—Office of Strategic Affairs chief Michael Safron. Everyone was seated in a circle. Katie shared the couch with Goldman.

She chose a conservative gray suit, her mother’s pearls, and low black heels. That was a conscious decision. The last thing she wanted to do was trip in front of the president.

Taylor welcomed everyone. “Thank you for coming. I think the events of the last year, let alone the past few weeks, underscore the need for this dialogue. Our goal is to formulate and advance a new approach to the line of succession; one that ensures that the objectives of an elected administration can withstand a crisis and the nation can count on a stable transition. We’ve weathered two rocky tests of the current law. I think we can all agree that in the post-9/11 era, the process needs reinventing.”

Katie had a simple yellow pad on her lap. The president set up the agenda perfectly, as promised.

“Ms. Kessler has, under my instructions, thoroughly researched the law and listened to learned opinion from the Hill. I dare say, she’s also probably gotten an earful of contrary, partisan viewpoints. We’re ready to hear your thoughts. Ms. Kessler.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Katie remained seated. It seemed appropriate. Besides, Roarke advised her not to stand over Taylor. “I appreciate the confidence you’ve expressed in me. I hope I live up to your expectations.”

“Oh, you will. I’m a good judge of character.”

Katie smiled inwardly.

“As you noted, since September 11, 2001, we have lived in an age faced with the possible decapitation of the United States government. Mass terrorism, or as we’ve recently seen, even smaller acts of executive treason, bring into question the flaws in the Succession Act of 1947.

“Of course, it will not be the Office of the President that makes any change. It is clearly Congress’s constitutional right, granted by Article II, Section 1, Clause 6, modified by the 25th Amendment. But I believe the proposal I have for you today takes partisanship out of the equation, and speaks to the greater need—continuity of leadership and continuity of policy.

“This is a new approach: a variation on earlier iterations, but clearly something different. It correctly addresses the longstanding constitutional debate over the definition of ‘Officer,’ and it eliminates a scenario whereby an acting president could be bumped. It sidesteps the potential for the Speaker of the House or president pro tem of the Senate from having to resign his position to serve as president, and it provides solutions for succession—should a president-elect be killed following an election and before the inauguration.”

In years past, such a notion would have been unthinkable, let alone unspeakable. Today it has to be considered.

“I weighed many of the ideas already on the table. There have been some very thoughtful bills offered up; notable proposals from Representative Brad Sherman, Senators John Cornyn and Trent Lott, as well as propositions from a wide range of groups, including The Continuity of Government Commission.”

Eve Goldman, the only one in the room making notes, raised her pencil tip. “Excuse me, but do you have a sense of whether any of these proposals would stand a constitutional test?”

“The fundamental question, Attorney General. In my estimation, the more carefully crafted bills would. But are they the right proposals and would they even get out of a conference committee? After all, many sidestep Congressional leadership, so why would the House or Senate leadership basically vote themselves out of a job?”

“Oh?” Secretary Jaburi responded. “How so?”

“Well, that’s the political side of this whole debate and well beyond my experience.”
What experience
? she thought. Katie reached into her attaché case and removed spiral-bound copies of a position paper. “Sticking to the basics, I believe what I’m about to propose is legally sound. My proposal addresses two main points: First of all, it preserves the Office of President from a catastrophic attack against Washington; second, it assures that a president can emerge to lead the nation.”

Katie had just cleared the land for the political bomb she was about to drop.

“I propose that the Speaker of the House and the president pro tempore of the Senate be removed from the line of succession.”

Bernsie gasped.

“It’s not without precedent,” she continued. “This was the law from 1886 to 1947.”

“Then we sell it in that way,” Bernsie said, relieved that they could rely on some history.

“Well, there’s more.” Here goes. “I also recommend that the order not fall to the Cabinet secretaries.”

“Then who on God’s earth becomes president after the vice president?” he stammered.

“The president or president-elect—directly following a national election—will nominate a well-respected, above-reproach candidate outside the fundamental operation of the government and even outside of Washington, D.C., as next in line after the vice president. This could be a former president or vice president, a governor, a former key cabinet member or someone equally experienced and worthy. The nominee would be subject to Senate confirmation and once confirmed, receive regular intelligence reports and Secret Service protection.”

“But, your recommendation would put someone in line who hasn’t been elected. At least the speaker and the president pro tem are elected officials,” the Office of Strategic Affairs chief complained.

“Not nationally, Mr. Safron. They become national figures only through their elevated positions in Congress,” Eve Goldman noted. “In that sense, they’re nominated peers and confirmed through majority vote, just like the secretaries of state, defense, right through the cabinet.”

“Thank you, Attorney General,” Katie said appreciatively. “I should add that the creation of a president-designate post would be subject to the same Congressional scrutiny, perhaps more.”

Bernsie decided to listen. No further interruptions.

“Preferably, he or she would represent the party of the elected president,” Katie contended. “This is crucial. Every four years, the direction of the federal government is determined by the public’s decision in the voting booth. I’m sorry, Mr. President, but if the nation votes Democratic, they should have a president from that party.”

“Apology accepted,” Taylor said lightly. “And vice versa.”

“Yes, sir. By having a qualified, informed, and pre-confirmed president-designate in the wings, we are assured that America can survive even the most cruel and deadly attack imaginable.”

Katie needed a sip of water.

“Ms. Kessler,” the president said.

“Yes?”

“You have some backup you want us to read?” He pointed to Katie’s lap. She’d forgotten to hand out the paperwork.

“Oh, yes.” She passed copies to everyone.

“What do you say you give us a few minutes to review this?”

Katie obliged. She poured herself a glass of water, then waited while everyone absorbed her written arguments. After nearly five minutes, Morgan Taylor broke the silence. “Questions? Comments?”

Eve Goldman went first. “You seem to have covered the issue quite thoroughly. But I see you also have other designees. Can you talk about them?”

“Certainly. Just as my proposed changes to the Succession Act establishes a president-designate, I think we should consider one for a vice president. The VP-designate would also be subject to Senate confirmation and live outside the metropolitan D.C. area.”

“So you would completely eliminate the secretary of state, the attorney general, the homeland security secretary, and other cabinet members from the line?”

“I would. Currently, they have to resign their offices in order to be sworn in. Consider what the law is now. Assume that the president dies. Those next in line—the vice president, the speaker, and the Senate pro tem are also killed. The secretary of state becomes acting president. But the House of Representatives could immediately vote in a new speaker of the house. Maybe that person is from a different political party than the president, maybe not. But the new speaker, according to the 1947 Act, can bump the acting president out. The former secretary of state is now out of a job. In a nutshell, that’s the issue of ‘bumping.’ My approach avoids that possibility.”

Brad Rutberg nodded his overall acceptance of the plan, but still asked, “How do you convince Congress?”

“I don’t. I help frame the arguments. I think the president carries it to the nation directly. We’ve seen the fragility of the office and the strength of the institution; the best of what works and the inherent flaws in what doesn’t.” She carefully avoided mentioning Duke Patrick by name. “The president tells the American people that the need to protect the Office far outweighs any individual’s job in Congress or the cabinet. The future is too precarious to rely on an antiquated practice, at least in my estimation.”

Katie was finished. She’d made her case. Successfully?

“Ms. Kessler…” Taylor slowly started.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Have you run this by Chief Justice Browning?” He raised his eyebrow. This would be the real test.

Katie smiled confidently. “As a matter of fact, I have.” The room fell completely silent. “He wishes I’d come to work for him instead of you.”