“This Liberian ship is carrying grenade launchers and an estimated twenty-five hundred automatic weapons, along with Japanese cars. She sailed from Kyoto two days ago. She’s due in Melbourne later this week. What do you want to do, Mr. Prime Minister?”
Chapter 64
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.