Executive Treason (9 page)

Chicago, Illinois

“You want to know what you can do?” Elliott Strong asked the caller on the tape. It was Gonzales’s second time listening.

“Yes.”

“You are the government,” Strong explained. “Not a liberal congress. Not a president you didn’t elect. Not a vice president you booted out. Not the Supreme Court.” The usual rambling. “You are the government. Do you have any idea what that means? Ever hear of something called an Amendment?”

Gonzales laughed. Strong spelled out the word. Then the host added, “It’s one of the ways you change things. A bit slow for my taste, but it works.” Elliott Strong had been putting ideas in people’s heads for sixteen years, the last six of them as a nationally syndicated host. It was hard for even the most faithful listeners to say they knew much about him. They just liked what he had to say.

Occasionally he dropped a thought or two about how he lifted himself out of the horrible life his parents led. He admitted that they were unskilled migrant workers. Real card-carrying white trash, forced to follow the sun and the seasons to scrape out a pitiful living.

Strong often recalled how he couldn’t wait to escape his parents’ reach. His father beat him until the day he finally fought back. His mother died of emphysema but it was hard for him to care. She never showed any love for him whenever his father was around.

So, according to Strong, he retreated into books. He read everything in sight, from American and world history to travel and political nonfiction. He worked on his speaking voice, realizing he wouldn’t become anything if he couldn’t communicate. He recounted the story every year on the anniversary of his first day in radio.

“It was on my seventeenth birthday. I hitched a ride to Fresno in a navy blue Ford pickup truck that stunk from lousy cigars and nickel beer. I would have gone farther, but when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I said, ‘Pull over there!’ I don’t think he ever came to a complete stop. I jumped out, and he took off. I walked for about a mile or so and came to a radio station. It was a little single-story Navajo white building with bright blue call letters over the door. That, my friends, was Mecca. I marched straight into the offices of that 1,000-watt station and said to the first person I saw, ‘Hi, I’m Elliott Strong. And I’m here for a job.’”

Strong never embellished his story. He always told it the same. “There was a girl. She was twenty-one and beautiful, with a full head of blonde hair done up like Farrah Fawcett’s and lipstick the color of the reddest rose, with lips just as soft. She was unbelievable, but then again, I was seventeen. I’d never seen anyone like her. ‘And you are?’ She asked.

‘Elliott Strong, miss. And I’m ready to start my career in broadcasting.’” This is the point where he always broke up telling the story. “I had dusty overalls on, a plaid shirt and worn boots. She must have wondered which tractor I’d fallen off.”

‘Doing what? Mowing the lawns?’

‘If that’s what it takes. Yes.’

“The secretary took some pity on me. She gave me a soda and went into the general manager’s office and closed the door. I heard some laughter. After a few minutes she came back out, followed by this older man. Maybe he was forty, maybe fifty. What’s a kid know? But he was wiping his mouth, and believe you me, he didn’t get rid of all the lipstick. That’s when I realized she was more than just his secretary.”

‘Gina tells me you’re ready to get into radio, son.’

‘That’s right. I can read real good. You’ll see.’

‘We don’t need anyone new. I’ve got a fine staff here. Some of them have been with me for almost a year. Anyway, it’s ‘I can read really well.’’

‘Thank you. Really well. You’ll never have to tell me that again, sir. Honestly.’

‘No, I don’t imagine I will,’ the manager said. ‘And I don’t need to go anywhere. I can wait for one of your announcers to leave. You won’t have to look around. In the meantime, I gather the grass needs some attention.’

‘See,’ the secretary whispered. ‘He’s cute. Why not?’

“The man nodded. ‘Okay. Overstreet’s the name.’ He offered me his hand.

‘Elliott Strong, Mr. Overstreet. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Here and there.’

‘Well, now you’re here. By your appearance, I’d say you’re pretty comfortable in the great outdoors. That’s where I do need some help. Buck-fifty an hour. Cash, which I think you’ll appreciate.’

‘How much do your announcers make?’

“He laughed. ‘Buck fifty, but we take taxes out.’

‘Sounds fine to me. Keep my seat warm.’”

As Strong told the story, he was doing the graveyard shift in less than four months. By the end of the year, he was also getting a little extra from Gina on the side.

Over the next six years, he earned his high school equivalency and lived the life of a gypsy disc jockey. Fresno to Prescott, Arizona to Bakersfield, California, and on to Sacramento and Phoenix. Along the way, he audited as many college political science courses as possible. When he got bored with straight announcing and spinning records, he moved into talk radio with a bright, witty, fast tongue and a conservative point of view. He found himself in the right place at the right time, when radio made a sharp turn to the right in the mid-1990s.

“That’s right,” the broadcaster continued on the tape. “Amend the Constitution. Just like you did a few years ago. Or don’t you remember that battle? Now there are twenty-eight Amendments. How do you think they got there? Out of thin air? Materializing on parchment in the National Archives?” He was on one of his rants. “As Americans, you decide how to live your lives. We decide. Not somebody waiting for “Hail to the Chief” as a cue to walk down some red carpet…someone whose only connection with the people is through the windows of his stretch limo.

“You decide, my friends, just as all the colonists decided they didn’t want the British to be running things here. They didn’t want to support some clown in a crown thousands of miles away who said, ‘Pay the taxes or go to the stockades.’ And Americans before you said that presidents aren’t kings, so they can’t serve for life. Your parents and grandparents decided that in 1951 when they voted state-by-state to limit a president to two terms. No more dynasties like Franklin Roosevelt’s. No imperial presidents. And how did they do it? By amending the Constitution. For the record, it’s number twenty-two. Go look it up.”

Gonzales heard him take a sip of water.

“Two terms. Not three. Not four. Eight years. That’s all. But look, we’re on the verge of a dynasty again. This Lamden-Taylor thing could take us another twelve years. Count along with me. Twelve more years between them. Sixteen in all. We had Taylor’s first four. Now Lamden-Taylor for four. Who says it won’t be a Taylor-Lamden or Lamden-Taylor switching off for the next eight after that?”

Strong didn’t bother to consider Lamden’s age, which made his argument highly unlikely. Nor did he suggest that perhaps they wouldn’t want to run. He had his agenda and he went for it.

“Did you vote for the repeal of the twenty-second Amendment? I sure didn’t. Nobody has.” He failed to mention that Ronald Reagan actually floated the idea during his term stating, “I have come to the conclusion that the twenty-second Amendment was a mistake. Shouldn’t the people have the right to vote for someone as many times as they want to vote for him?”

There was no response from the caller on the tape. Strong had dropped him well into his speech. But the host still acted as if he was there, appearing to talk one-to-one, but actually reaching millions of individuals.

“So you amend the Constitution. You rewrite the law of the land. You change it. You replace them with leaders we want, not ones who are the poster children of the military-industrial establishment.” A familiar rallying cry for Strong. “Go to our www.StrongNationRadio.com or www.ElliottStrong.com websites. All the e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and fax numbers are there. The White House. The Supreme Court, and each senator and congressman. All of them. You’re going to write them and call them, and tell them how you feel. By Monday morning they’ll get a real sense of what Americans are thinking. What we’re thinking. What we want.” Each phrase came quicker, with more passion, with greater authority. Strong wasn’t asking. He was commanding.

“You can do it!” He slammed his fist down hard. Punctuation. An exclamation point to his lecture.

“You can do it! You live in the greatest nation in the world. You live in America where your voice counts.” He pounded his fist again. “Let’s start acting like God-fearing Americans instead of some third-world peasants. We don’t have to take it anymore. We’ll be right back.”

A commercial for a foreign automaker came up.

Staritsa, Russia

Aleksandr Dubroff looked like any of the other old men digging for mushrooms in the ankle-deep mud. A hint of his denim shirt was visible under his nearly worn out khaki vest.
It’s not worth the money to buy another
, he thought.
After all, how many more years will I be at this? One, maybe two?

His vest, shirt, and worn corduroys were covered by a leather, fleece-lined coat, underneath it all, long johns. He wore his favorite beret, a ragged brown checkered gift from his wife, Mishka, from the last year of her life. The hat, like her memory, fortified him against the early morning chill.

None of his clothes gave away his status. Not that status mattered anymore.

Aleksandr Dubroff had long ago retired from the Politburo, the Central Committee of the now-defunct Soviet Union. At that time he was a good three inches taller than his 5’7″ frame today. He had been one of the elite, a man who set Soviet policy and ran the country. He left, not because he saw the end of Soviet life coming, but because his beloved Mishka needed him. They’d been married for just over forty-six years when doctors told him she would not see their next anniversary.

So Dubroff decided to spend every remaining minute with Mishka. They moved to their state-provided dacha, in the wooded Tver region, about a four-hour car ride outside of Moscow.

Despite Dubroff s diminished stature, he was still strong, a barrel-chested man with bushy, black-as-night eyebrows that jutted out a full half-inch, and a thick salt-and-pepper moustache to match. His face was lined with age, but red cheeks always projected a cheery manner. Over the years, too many people took that for a jovial, soft demeanor. They were wrong—some of them, in fact, dead wrong. As a retirement present to a trusted friend of the Party, Soviet Premier Nicolai Andropov renovated Dubroff’s dacha. That meant he and Mishka would enjoy electricity and a generator, hot running water, and an indoor bathroom. By neighbors’ standards, they’d live in the lap of luxury.

“All the comforts of home,” the Premier told him at his goodbye party. “You and your Mishka should be comfortable.”

Dubroff thought the rest. For as long as she has. But he said, “Thank you, Mr. Premier. I can’t begin to express our sincerest gratitude.”

“No, Sasha. We, the people of this great country, are grateful for your dedicated service. From your defense of Russia to your tireless work for the Party.”

Tireless work for the party said it all and said nothing. Some of the other Politburo members had known of Dubroff s earlier work. Others only heard the rumors. And others still, like Mishka and the other wives, were told to ignore the lies of the West. It was easy to do. Aleksandr “Sasha” Dubroff always looked so cheery.

Now most of his colleagues from the old days were gone. He even outlived the Soviet Union and its measly pension by decades. Had he not created his own savings in Dubai banks, he would have gone hungry years ago.

But now Sasha Dubroff foraged for mushrooms, anonymous to everyone around him. He picked his way through the wetlands, slicing away the dry branches above with his razor-sharp knife.

Every spring and fall, Dubroff returned to the marshes, but not because he really liked mushrooms. It was the hunt—like in the old days when he looked under different kinds of rocks. Here he found Beilee, Podberiozouik, Gorkoshkee, and Maslikyonok.

When he started, an old mushroomer—even older than him—said, “Only the Seeroyejhka—the fresh, edible ones. The pink, lilac, green, red, and maroon-cap mushrooms.”

“How will I know the poisonous ones?” Sasha asked. He knew a great deal about dispensing poisons, but he didn’t care to die consuming any himself.

The old man pointed to some intriguing looking mushrooms with his walking stick. “The ones that are most likely to catch your eye. The ones that you laugh at because they remind you of dicks and balls, or the ones that appear to be umbrellas for dolls. Look, but don’t touch.”

Dubroff explained he had just seen a woman carry those types away. The old man laughed. “Of course, of course. In the hands of someone with the knowledge, the poisons, once dried, can dull arthritis or migraines. But beware if you just add them to your greens. Your salad days will be over,” he joked.

In recent years, Dubroff, like the old man before him, instructed newcomers and tourists in the ways of the dig. Now, he was the old man with the walking stick, the lumbering pensioner who had a simple answer when strangers asked about his work. “Oh, a little of this. A little of that.” No one needed to know more.

Los Angeles, California
late afternoon

“I have something.” The call was from the LAPD lab technician.

“Say again,” Ellsworth radioed.

“Something on the Jane Doe.” He sounded nervous.

“Okay, go ahead.” Ellsworth was a good way crosstown in his squad car.

“I don’t think you want me to do that, sir.”

Ellsworth only needed to be told once. They were on an open transmission—open to other police officers, and open to amateur eavesdroppers.

“Where are you?”

“Heading west on Wilshire. Before Hauser.”

“Copy that.”

The LAPD detective looked in his rearview mirror and waited for a car to pass. He moved into the left lane, continued another short block, then made a sharp U-turn in front of the County Museum. He now headed downtown, due east, toward the LAPD lab.

“I’m about twelve out.”

He flipped on his siren and picked up his pace. A string of lights ahead just turned green.

“Make that ten. See you when I get there. Out.” The call ended.

Cars and trucks pulled to the side as Ellsworth sped downtown. He focused on the one thought foremost in his mind. What the hell is the “something?”

Chicago, Illinois

After a late breakfast, Gonzales returned to his study. He told his men not to disturb him. The art dealer locked the door and logged onto his computer.

With a few fast keystrokes, he was through Google and deep into eBay, searching the rare art auctions for a specific bid on a recently discovered, previously unknown oil painting depicting Konstantin’s Battle at the Bridge of Milva. The unknown artist had captured the grotesque detail of a Russian battle. Gonzales had acquired the oil on canvas some years earlier and now offered it for ten days, with a starting bid of $25,000. Forty-eight hours remained in the auction. It might be priced too high. He wanted to sell it, and perhaps would. But he was most interested whether an Internet bidder got in an offer of exactly $27,777.

He scrolled to the bidding history. One offer at $25K. Not bad. Another at $25,400. Even better. He continued scrolling and saw what he was looking for.

$27,777—a confirmation of a different transaction.

Beside it, an e-mail address that would be dead—like a woman in Los Angeles. He was completely certain of that.

Gonzales smiled at the results. He’d sell the painting for $25.4K, and the job he commissioned was successfully completed. He’d even use the eBay sale to help cover the final payment.

If anything, Gonzales was a man of his word. He typed a new Web address and logged onto the first of four shelter bank accounts, the last one ending up in a secure Lichtenstein bank. It wasn’t in the millions as he had paid before, but then the job wasn’t as big as some of the others. However, if the news broke on the front page of the
New York Times
, he’d pay an additional, agreed-upon bonus.

Gonzales quickly calculated. Over the past year he’d released $2.6 million to the man, each payment going to a different numbered account. And his spending spree wasn’t over yet.

LAPD Lab
Los Angeles, California

“So what is it? Do we know who Jane Doe is?”

“Yeah, and she’s not local. That’s why no missing persons,” the 46-year-old former Northrup engineer reported.

“I ran the fingerprints figuring we’d find her through motor vehicles. Not California. Guess where?”

“Dunno.”

“District of Columbia. Your Jane Doe has a name, too. Meyerson, Lynn. Twenty-five.” He read off the birthdate and address.

“Just moved or visiting friends,” Ellsworth concluded.

“I don’t think so,” Cullin replied. He looked up from his computer and handed a sheet of paper to Ellsworth. A phone number was written on it in longhand. “A few minutes after I made the computer hit, the desk told me I had a phone call. I took it, and this guy asked me who I was and—”

Ellsworth interrupted. “Who you were?”

“Yup. And why I was looking into this particular woman.”

“Jesus, who was it?”

“You’re going to find out yourself. And if you ask me, I think you stepped into some messy shit. That’s the number. After I explained why I made the inquiry, I was ordered to have the investigating officer dial this specific number.”

“You were ordered, who in hell…”

“Now you need to do it,” Cullin said, not answering the question.

“A two-oh-two area code.” Washington? “Come on, Cullin. Help me out here. Who the fuck is it?”

Cullin stood up and motioned for Ellsworth to take the seat. “The Director of the FBI.”

The technician left without another word. He wished he hadn’t been the one assigned to the computer this morning.

“Hello.” Ellsworth began tentatively. He thought about telling his own chief about the call. He’s the one who should be doing this. Whatever “this” is. Ellsworth felt he was way too low on the food chain to know how to talk to the director of the FBI. But the instruction was clear. Call. Right away.

“Mulligan,” the voice answered.

“Sir, I’m Detective Frank Ellsworth, LA…ah, Los Angeles Police Department. I was told—”

“Yes, Detective. Have you talked with anyone?”

“Well, sir, Mehegan. My lab man.”

“We spoke. Anyone else?”

“No sir, but—”

“You will notify your chief and no one else. Is that clear?”

Ellsworth didn’t answer the question. Instead, he challenged the command. “Pardon me, sir, but with all due respect, I believe that will be my department’s call.”

“Detective Ellsworth, it is not your department’s call. It is not your call. You will do as instructed. I’m certain that your supervisors will agree.”

“With all due respect—” Ellsworth began again.

“With all due respect to you, Detective, the woman you found is quite important.”

This silenced Ellsworth.

“My team will be coming in to observe the autopsy and participate in the investigation. The information may be sensitive. Do you understand?”

Ellsworth looked around the room. He was alone on the phone with the head of the FBI, and something was extremely out of the ordinary. He wasn’t sure what to say. He decided to go by the book. “My department will cooperate with the Bureau. We will expect the same in return.”

“Appropriate response, Detective. Now, in the spirit of cooperation, was there anything unusual about the crime scene?”

Chicago, Illinois
the same time

Witherspoon’s phone call triggered a number of reactions from the man who retrieved the message.

Gonzales already knew that the Kessler woman had developed a relationship with the Secret Service agent named Roarke. But the information led him to believe that Roarke was now personally pursuing his man. In his experience, personal vendettas were dangerous—far more dangerous than an investigation in the hands of a nine-to-five civil servant. The latter usually didn’t take his work home. Roarke would look far further, consider possibilities that others would ignore or dismiss. And now Kessler was helping. Luis Gonzales would have to give this thought.