Komari enjoyed this next laugh even more. Then without warning, he changed the tone with a pointed question. “To bathe your body or to wash away your sins?” To punctuate the directive, he quickly reached down and removed a hunting knife from a sheath in his boot and plunged the blade into the wooden table.
Atef swallowed hard. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Many people will die. Christian women and children among them. Thousands. You will share responsibility for the cleansing of our nation. At some point a thought may enter your mind. ‘Have I done the right thing?’ My back may be turned and you, Musah Atef, would have the occasion to do the work of our enemies.”
“Commander, I am, and forever will be, your instrument. I should die in your service tonight, here and now, if you believe I would ever betray you.”
Commander Umar Komari stared deeply into the dark brown eyes of the young man who sat before him. He saw fear in the young lieutenant he had plucked from a fishing village two years earlier. There was fear where he had expected loyalty.
No, thought Komari, this one will not be at my side when we liberate the people.
Chapter 65
Now Michael O’Connell had to decide what to do. He read his notes again. His research fell into two categories: So what? and Holy shit!
The so what side was filled with unsubstantiated reports, unrelated facts, and personal assumptions: not enough on which to base a New York Times article. Moreover, if somehow the story did go to print at this point, he’d leave the paper open to libel.
On the other hand, there was the Holy shit! factor, filled with the same unsubstantiated reports, unrelated facts, and personal assumptions that, libel or no libel, led to a shocking conclusion.
O’Connell drummed his fingers on the desk. This was too big for him to decide on his own. He took all of his work and marched into his editor’s office.
“I’m on a deadline, go away,” Weaver demanded.
“You say that to everybody,” O’Connell replied and made his un-welcomed way in. “Besides, I need your help.”
“Am I hearing Michael O’Connell correctly? He needs help?”
“Come on, Weaver. Really.”
“Well, I’m just a little surprised. Nothing from you in days. Not a word on paper. Not an e-mail.” The Times editor had expected something from O’Connell. “You know, they’ve been asking about you upstairs. I’ve been covering for you. If you can’t make this story work, we’ll get you onto another.”
“That’s the problem. I can make it work. But we have to be dead certain we’re ready to go all the way with it.” O’Connell purposely chose his words.
“Go all the way with it?” Weaver gave up her editing and motioned for O’Connell to sit.
The Times reporter outlined what he’d discovered on his initial round of calls.
Taking into account O’Connell’s recent escapade in Russia, Weaver immediately went to the Holy shit! side.
“My sentiments exactly.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So what do we do?”
“We don’t run it. But you stay on it. How much time do you think you need?”
“The question we should be asking is whether we’ve run out of time.”
O’Connell based his worry on the notion that Strong had a great deal, if not everything, to do with Robert Bridgeman’s sudden ascent. Another concern came to him. The march on Washington might be more than advertised.
His sense of duty now competed with his duty to country. O’Connell seriously thought about notifying President Taylor, but he was out of town. Maybe Roarke? He dismissed the notion, at least for now. He had to have more.
The reporter typed a quick e-mail and added the web address to the top. He hit send and waited to see whether Elliott Strong would reply.
Ninety minutes later he had his answer, apparently written by Strong’s producer/wife.
Elliott Strong does not consent to interviews.
He conducts them with his listeners.
Thank you for your inquiry.
At least I got a reply, he said to himself. Undaunted, he dialed the number he coaxed out of the sales department secretary at Strong’s syndicator.
After four rings a man answered with a sharp, “Yeah?” It wasn’t Strong.
“Hello. Is Elliott there?” O’Connell asked as if he were the man’s best friend.
“He’s just getting off the air. Wanna hold?”
“Sure.”
The engineer didn’t ask anything else. Most people didn’t have this phone number and the guy seemed like he knew Strong. Besides, he was busy running the audio board. He put the phone down on the desktop and forgot about it.
O’Connell listened to the last few minutes of the afternoon show. That was followed by the sound of doors opening and closing. He was sure he heard Strong in the background talking to a woman. Then, “Who is it?” Something unintelligible was followed by Strong saying, “Yeah, yeah, okay.”
“Hello.”
“Elliott?” came the greeting from O’Connell.
The host strained to place the voice. He couldn’t. “Who is this? Do I know you?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, but you’ve read my stories on the air. I’m Michael O’Connell. From the New Yuck Times.”
Strong cupped the phone over his hand, but O’Connell could still make out the reaction. “Christ! Why did you give this to me!”
“Sorry, it sounded like a friend,” the engineer apologized.
“Look,” Strong said back on the line and without any of the friendliness he used on the radio, “I have a firm policy of no interviews!”
“Just one question, Strong. Is it pure luck or coincidence that every break in your career came at someone else’s expense?”
Strong answered by slamming the phone onto the cradle. O’Connell was left with a dial tone, but he got more than he hoped. He got a glimpse of the real man.
Roarke and Katie sat across from each other at a cafe near his apartment. They shared a sausage and spinach panini and Caesar salad. She was trying to figure out the best ways to navigate the District. The small Metro map she’d picked up wasn’t helping much.
“Use a driver, or at least a cab,” he said with some concern.
“But I believe in public transportation.”
“I don’t think Bernstein wants you trekking around underground. And I sure as hell don’t.”
“It’s safe.”
“Katie, you’re working for the White House, for God’s sake. There are perks. It’s not going to break the president’s budget.”
“Well, maybe. I’ll probably have too much to carry around anyway.”
“Thank you. Now with that settled, are you coming to an overall opinion yet?” Since she arrived, they hadn’t talked about work. His or hers.
“Overall? I still don’t know why me. I’m not an expert on the Constitution. I’m not a Constitutional attorney. I’ve been reading briefs from real scholars and members of Congress who have given this incredible time and thought, mostly since 9/11.”
“But nobody’s done anything.”
She agreed. “Maybe because there are too many points of view. Too many possibilities to consider.”
“Enter Katie Kessler,” he proudly offered. “You can sort it out. Make total non-partisan recommendations to a Republican administration serving at the pleasure of a Democrat.”