Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 12

  “We should look at every major city that sits down river of a dam,” Bernsie stated.

  “We do,” said Norman Grigoryan. “Every day. And not just because of this alert. In the twentieth century, levees failed more than 140 times. They’re an aging system. Ones built and inspected by the Army Corps of Engineers may be more reliable than those locally constructed and maintained. But they’re all on our scope.

  “For example, in Northern California there’s the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta. It’s not all that different than New Orleans,” Grigoryan explained. “Levee breaks there could seriously affect the water supply for twenty-two million Californians. Right where those rivers meet and dump into San Francisco Bay. I’m sure you won’t remember, but in 1997, one hundred thousand people were evacuated when fifty California levees broke. Twenty-four thousand homes were destroyed. Eight people were killed.”

  “So it’s a likely target.” Bernsie pointedly said.

  “Only if it’s one of many. Not on its own. More likely, The Tennessee Valley Authority. TVA alone controls thirty-two major dams. More that are smaller. The good news is that the larger dams, one hundred fifty feet plus, can likely hold unless hit by a small nuclear device. They are also the best protected in the country. The small ones are where the real danger resides. Soon we’ll see winter snowmelts, and according to the computer models, we can expect heavier than normal rains in the Midwest this spring. The levees should be considered a prime target. The downstream death toll would be very high.”

  “And its impact on the greater society?” Taylor asked rhetorically. They all knew the answer. Devastating.

  “What other likely targets?” Bernsie wondered.

  “Sewage treatment plants,” continued National Security Advisor General Johnson.

  The men reacted predictably to the thought of massive sewage spills.

  “No joke. If sabotaged, sewage could seep into groundwater aquifers and pollute fresh water supplies for a long time.” He stretched out the word for maximum impact.

  “Seems like it’s a lot of work,” Mulligan offered. “Wouldn’t be my choice of a target.”

  J3 nodded affirmatively.

  “Airports and shipping ports?” asked Bernsie.

  “Viable targets, but I wouldn’t send geologists, biologists, or chemists to take out those targets.

  “Then what about power lines? The big ones?”

  “Same, Bernsie. We need to stick with strategic targets that are in our terrorists’ wheelhouse. If customs and border had taken down a munitions expert, then this conversation would be a whole helluva lot different. These people are here to deny us the use of something we need. I believe the end game is much greater than the attacks themselves.”

  “And what is that?” Morgan Taylor stood up and looked out the window overlooking the Rose Garden.

  “Over the last eighteen months, the presidency itself has been assailed. First through the election process, second through the media. I think the target hasn’t changed,” General Johnson charged.

  Taylor bowed his head. “It’s all about faith in the government. Destroy that faith and you destroy everything America stands for and what we represent to the rest of the world.”

  “Exactly, Mr. President.” J3 now addressed him more as the Commander-in-Chief. “I believe they want to create the kind of havoc that will make a typical natural disaster look like a walk in the park…a crisis on such a grand scale that FEMA, the National Guard, and local authorities together couldn’t begin to contain. If that happens, the gangs and the private militias take over. God help us if that day comes.”

  The thought stung everyone.

  The meeting broke up. Everyone had an assignment. As the room cleared, Morgan Taylor tapped General Johnson on the shoulder. “Stay for a few more minutes, will you?”

  “Sure, Mr. President.” He knew not to ask why.

  Bernstein politely ushered the FBI director, the director of National Intelligence, and the secretary of Homeland Security out, then returned to the Oval Office. He took a seat next to the president. The couch remained open for J3. He didn’t wait for an invitation to sit. Morgan Taylor had something on his mind.

  “General.”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Congressman Duke Patrick’s office

  The Rayburn Building

  Christine Slocum was surfing the net, looking for breaking stories that the Speaker could comment on. Since she was Duke Patrick’s new principal speechwriter, she helped create media opportunities for him in print, on air, and via social media.

  Slocum, a drop-dead beauty with long straight blonde locks usually tucked up in a conservative bun, was careful when and where she let her hair down. She did it with the last Democratic presidential candidate in the privacy of his hotel rooms. A little over a year ago, she wrote for Congressman Teddy Lodge and slept with him. She was very, very good at both.

  She was a true political predator. Sexy, powerful, tremendously capable, cold, ruthless, and wild in bed. She had no aspirations to emerge from behind-the-scenes, but she was groomed to rise to the top. Groomed by a man she never met, but who made all the right doors swing open for her and provided enough money to retire for life at thirty. The problem, unknown to her, was that most people who came in contact with this man never lived to fulfill their dreams. Only his.

  After an hour, she checked her e-mail. There were notices about committee hearings, opinions on bills, editorials and op eds from a dozen newspapers, a few press inquiries, and a heads-up about an eBay sale she might be interested in.

  After she worked her way through the work correspondence she opened the eBay listing. Slocum collected Beatles memorabilia. Apparently there was something special coming online she might want. On the surface, the alert was for low numbered tickets from the Beatles Shea Stadium concert. But it actually gave her more specific information which pleased her a great deal.

  The White House

  Roarke’s basement office

  Roarke reached for the phone. Penny Walker’s number at the Pentagon came up on the caller ID.

  “Whatcha get?” he asked.

  “No hello, just what did I get?”

  “I’m impatient.”

  “Impatient was one thing you never were,” she giggled. “But you did give me up too fast.”

  “My bad. But enough of memory lane. What road are you going down today?” Roarke leaned forward ready to take notes

  “Remember Rockport, Massachusetts?”

  “Memory lane again.”

  “You’re lucky I remember it, sweetheart, because that’s the only reason I pinged on Charles Messinger.”

  “Who?”

  “One of your dead guys,” she explained. “Car accident driving home from a business luncheon in Rockport.”

  “So?”

  “So a healthy guy just drives into the Atlantic?”

  “It happens,” Roarke said.

  “Yeah. Sure it does. And who cares, except his wife. But you should care, Mr. Roarke. You should care because Charles V. Messinger was a colonel in the U.S. Army. One of the people who served under him was a lieutenant.” She paused to make sure Roarke followed her. “A certain Lieutenant Richard Cooper.”

  “Oh, my God!” Roarke exclaimed. His nagging feeling returned. “How did you say Messinger died?”

  “He drove into the drink. Possible heart failure.”

  “Ten to one it wasn’t.”

  “We’re going to have to prove that.”

  “Can you send…” Roarke didn’t have to complete the sentence.

  “I already called in an army medical team to examine the body. He’s not scheduled for burial for another two days.”

  “What about this business meeting. Who was it with?”

  “You’re right on the ball, Sherlock. I’m checking that out. According to his office, there was a French businessman on his calendar. A Monsieur Peter Le Strand.” />
  “Who I bet doesn’t exist,” Roarke concluded.

  “So far.”

  “Penny, I love you.”

  “No you don’t. If you loved me, you’d still be fucking me. You sure can’t live without me, though.”

  Roarke had to agree.

  “There’s more,” Walker said.

  “I can’t even imagine,” Roarke answered.

  “Messinger was about middle in the chain of command in Iraq the day that Cooper was ordered to take the building. Wanna hear about what happened to some of the others?”

  Roarke wrote everything down. She told him about LT Don Nicholson, who died in a small airplane crash; Major Gerald Fox, dead rappelling off a cliff. Walker went through the untimely demise of two sergeants, one named Riverton, another Sandeman. And a judge in Minneapolis yesterday. Also U.S. Army retired.

  “He was in court when he collapsed. I talked to the clerk myself. She said he was trying to write something down. He got as far as three letters. She has no idea what they refer to. Want to know what they were?”

  “Yes?” Roarke begged.

  “Three little letters. A C, an O, and another O. Then the judge lost consciousness.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Roarke couldn’t believe it. “Cooper really is alive.”

  “And the Honorable Lawrence Beard of the U.S. District Court in Minneapolis is dead as a result. All vets related to Cooper’s case. Now you want to hear the really interesting part?” she added to pique his interest.

  “The rest wasn’t?”

  “Not as much as this. They generally died in the order of their rank. He’s been working his way right up the ladder.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “That was exactly my reaction, but I put it more delicately.”

  “Who’s left?”

  “Well, sweetheart, that’s what I’m working on.”

  “You better hurry.”

  Seventeen

  Washington Sports Club

  Washington, D.C.

  6 January

  Ten more. Nine. Eight. Scott Roarke was counting off the crunches left. He started with four hundred.

  It was hard keeping up with the demanding Special Forces workout. Harder every year—twelve since he’d been out. But recent experience told him all he needed to know. Gotta stay in shape. Remaining physically fit was absolutely necessary.

  As he slowed down to the final few sit-ups, Roarke noticed a woman; a beautiful woman in a form-fitting red leotard. She was working out directly opposite him on an elliptical machine. In an oddly sexual moment, she let out a relieved gasp at the end of her drill. It came at the same moment as Roarke’s.

  Roarke hadn’t seen the blonde before. He was sure he would have noticed, even though he wasn’t looking.

  The Secret Service agent made instant assumptions, as he always did. He assigned a name to the dynamic body. Scarlett. For the actress Scarlett Johansson. He often used easy-to-remember Hollywood names. Then again, he’d certainly have no trouble recognizing and remembering her anytime.

  Scarlet smiled at him, noting that they’d shared some pain…or pleasure. He returned the greeting and that was that.

  Roarke went to the weights. When he finished, she was gone. Not that he was interested in her, but he was half surprised she left so quickly.

  Minutes later, in the shower, the image of the woman in the leotard came to mind. No. He willed away the thought. Roarke was truly, madly, and deeply in love with Katie. As far as he was concerned, there’d never be another.

  Outside, the January cold slapped Roarke hard and another face formed before him. He hoped that today he’d get even closer to the person who really filled most of his conscious thinking— Richard Cooper.

  Roarke was oblivious to a pair of eyes that followed him from across the street. The blonde. Christine Slocum, was watching him. She’d made first contact, as ordered.

  An hour later

  “Got another for you.” Penny Walker stayed the night at her Pentagon office. She was glad she did. Another name on her list came up dead. Major Gene Wesley, veteran of Iraq. Right place. Right time. Right assignment.

  “I think you’ll want to check this out yourself,” she said on the phone. “It’s recent. Watch for my e-mail and be ready to travel.”

  Eighteen

  Moscow

  Gomenko struck out at Cult the night before. Apparently references to American jazz chased away his potential conquest. Tonight, he was at Yuri’s, a smaller establishment closer to his apartment. He was only half watching a soccer game on the TV monitor when a tired patron took the bar stool next to him.

  “Hello,” he said. “What’s on?”

  “Another old game.”

  The man watched for a half minute until he recognized it. “Ah, the match against Germany. We win.”

  “We always win in the reruns.”

  Once again, the state was trying to control the media as best it could. It included pushing patriotic gymnastics and soccer wins like in the old days. Most of it came off silly.

  “Ready for a refill?” the stranger asked.

  Gomenko got his first look at the man. He was eight, maybe ten years younger, but unshaven and not particularly well dressed. For a moment he wondered if the look was deceiving. After all, these days everyone and everything was worth questioning. Even the women he picked up.

  “Maybe in a bit.” He decided to lose himself in the game and leave the newcomer to his own drink, which ended up being a glass of deep, red burgundy.

  The man examined the color of the wine, took in the aroma, swirled the drink, and sipped.

  Gomenko couldn’t ignore the ritual. He had to ask. “Good?”

  “Just awful. But it’s going to make a cheap vodka taste so much better by comparison.”

  Arkady laughed. His bar companion was all right.

  After an hour of small talk, which included yelling at the German team unnecessarily since the outcome had been decided years earlier, the conversation turned to the women at the bar. The women who had been ignoring them all night.

  “You’d think we’re invisible to them. Not even the time of day.”

  Arkady had the same general feeling. But midway through the comment, he lifted his head out of his drink and stared into the mirror. The man had his vodka at his lips, nodding agreement to his own pronouncement. “Not even the time of day,” he repeated.

  Arkady didn’t take his eyes off the reflection of the man. He replayed the aside. Invisible to them. Then the next sentence. Not even the time of day.” The words were precise. There was no mistaking them. They required a reply.

  Arkady whispered the words he memorized years ago. He said them automatically and without any emotion. “And in ten years, they’ll be whores wishing they had a man at home as good as us.”

  Then he waited, nervously. What would the stranger say next? The Russian felt his leg shaking. He willed it to stop.

  The man raised his drink. “A toast,” he proposed to the women, who in fact looked very attractive and were simply out for a good time together. “Here’s to the ones who get away and don’t even know it.”

  Gomenko had one more reply. Direct and unmistakable. “Fuck them.”

  It was a conversation that could have played out between any two men and meant nothing. But between Arkady and CIA agent Vinnie D’Angelo it meant a great deal.

  Light talk turned from women to weather, to the old soccer game on TV, and eventually to Moscow’s worsening traffic. All safe topics. Through the conversation, Gomenko never learned the name of the stranger or his identity.

  Russian? He spoke like a Russian, but he was not a Muscovite. Perhaps he came from farther North.

  The man was on his third drink, Arkady on his fourth, when the years of waiting came to an end. To everyone else, they looked like two drunken friends, talking nose to nose. But the stranger suddenly cut to business and sounded completely sober.

  “Tell me about the man who ran Red Banner.”
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br />   Five years of discrete payments. First, ten thousand U.S. Then twenty, twenty-five, and thirty. And last year another $35,000 in discreet accounts. All for waiting. Now he would have to work for the money. This required another stiff vodka. He signaled the bartender for a double.

  Arkady gasped. Why would he ask about the long-gone KGB facility? The secret Soviet city where Russian spies were trained to pass as American and infiltrate U.S. institutions, corporations, and even government. A realistic version of hometown U.S.A. in the middle of the U.S.S.R. Even today, it was better not to talk about Red Banner.

  Vinnie D’Angelo, one of the CIA’s most valued agents, squeezed Gomenko’s arm. It was not a friendly gesture. He was letting the Russian know that this was non-negotiable business.

  “We need to know about a former chief intelligence officer at KGB. Aleksandr Dubroff.”

  We? We had to be the CIA, Gomenko’s paymaster. He shivered. The money was real. So were the risks, which suddenly became greater. And Dubroff? He knew that name. Dubroff was a legend. So were his means. However, there was no record of his accomplishments. At least as far as Gomenko knew.

  “It will be very hard.”

  D’Angelo squeezed harder and smiled broadly. “You want to live to enjoy your savings?”

  “Yes.” Arkady answered. “I will try.”

  The CIA agent made his point. He lightened his grip. “Dubroff was trying to get information to us when he was intercepted and killed at the Gum Department Store in August. I need to know what he had. Why he was talking to an American reporter. I want to know who he trained. The names of his protégés. In particular, a Syrian named Haddad. Can you remember that?”

  In spite of the liquor, Arkady’s head completely cleared. He committed all of the questions to memory and answered, “Yes.”

  “Good.” D’Angelo raised his glass in a mock toast.

  A loud cheer from the TV broke their chain of thought. The Russian team scored the winning goal against the Germans…again. D’Angelo used it as a cue to slap Gomenko’s back and clink his glass. From then until the end of the evening, there was no more talk about the Cold War–era colonel who plotted to infiltrate America with KGB spies.