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.
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.”
Chapter 79
“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.