Roarke read the report. It went way beyond the news reports of the Sydney Hotel evacuation. On the second page, he came to a section that detailed the discovery of C-4. The summary explained that the bomb squad took more than four hours to meticulously disassemble the explosive device, expose the critical wiring, and disarm the mechanism. It also noted the cover story. It concluded with the revelation that the President of the United States was scheduled to stay there in August.
“Okay, consider me informed.”
“He awaits,” the 55-year-old secretary said.
“Then buzz me in, Louise.”
Swingle typed a note into her computer. The words simultaneously appeared on a screen on Taylor’s desk. After a moment, the letter “y” showed up on her desktop.
“He’s all yours.”
Roarke tipped two fingers to his forehead in thanks and charged through the door. The CIA report was in his hands.
“Boss.”
“Hello, Scott.” The vice president put down the papers he was reviewing. “You know, part of my job as President of the Senate is to read these damned things. Let me tell you, they don’t pay me enough.”
Roarke let out an agreeable laugh. Taylor got right down to business.
“Let me take those and give you something else to look through,” the vice president said. “Grab yourself a cup of java. Then you have a go at it.”
“Okay.” Roarke gave Taylor the CIA report and went to the pot of freshly brewed coffee.
“You might want something stronger by the time you’re through.”
Roarke raised his eyebrow out of curiosity. If news troubled Morgan Taylor, it was bound to trouble him.
“Is this related to the hotel bomb?” Roarke asked through his first careful sip.
“No. It’s simply turning into a very busy day.”
The vice president invited Roarke to sit in one of the hardwood chairs from Thomas Jefferson’s term that he brought over from the White House. He handed the Secret Service agent a brown folder held together with a metal strip on the left side.
Roarke took the file and rubbed his thumb over the FBI insignia on the cover. Below it, in bold caps, was the warning: TOP SECRET
Before reading he flipped through the time-stamped pages. There were eight in all, and the file was only hours old.
“This feels hot,” he said, trying a joke.
“Don’t burn yourself,” Taylor replied.
Roarke carefully read a summary paragraph. A staff member of the Office for Strategic Initiatives had been murdered in Los Angeles. He didn’t recognize the name. But it already wasn’t good. “A bungled rape.”
The word “bungled” sent the first shiver through him. He looked up at the vice president. Taylor, busy again with his own reading, wasn’t paying attention to Roarke.
Bungled. Roarke thought for a moment. Bungled? There’s something about that word. His right hand automatically moved inside his blue wool sports jacket. With the simple reflexive motion, he felt his holstered Sig. The pressure of the gun heightened his sixth sense. Bungled. That’s how they described the death of Teddy Lodge’s wife. A bungled assassination attempt of the Congressman.
Roarke returned to the report. It contained a combination of the LAPD account of the murder of a Jane Doe, later ID’d as Lynn Meyerson, Washington, D.C. resident. He didn’t know her name, but a biography cleared up exactly who she was and what Meyerson did for a living. Roarke now understood why he was called in.
Next was a report from a name he did recognize: Roy Bessolo. In Roarke’s estimation, Bessolo was the Neanderthal — a boorish, argumentative brute. But he was also a solid FBI field agent. Bessolo wrote a summation of his team’s search of Meyerson’s Washington apartment. They found e-mails on the victim’s computer. The exact transcripts of the correspondences were not specified, but the report indicated that “due to the contents, the agency has sealed the subject’s apartment and an investigation into suspected espionage activities is proceeding.” The use of the word “subject” was also a tip. But to what?
There were no further conclusions.
Roarke closed the folder. Now for some questions.
“Did you know this woman?”
Taylor carefully put the cap on his pen, turned over the papers he was reading, and slowly responded. “I spoke with her on the phone a few times.”
“And your impression?”
“Very smart. Well-liked. Well-connected. I’ve seen a lot like her over the years. Seemed like she could be on a fast track. Congressional material.”
“And these e-mails? What were they? Mulligan’s brief doesn’t say.”
“And it won’t.”
“Dirty laundry to the folks back home?”
“Worse. I’d term them more like contacts. Evans and Mulligan are knee-deep into it now.”
“So what do you need from me?”
“You’re going to tell me how worried Henry and I need to be.”
Luis Gonzales perused The Washington Post and The New York Times websites. Nothing broke yet. It was only a matter of time. Maybe on the nightly news, he thought. If not there, cable, and eventually Internet bloggers. He could even arrange for a sketchy leak to cause some chatter. He laughed to himself. These days, so many people could own a big story in so many ways.
Chapter 17
Air Force One was more than an airplane. It was an airborne extension of the government. A flying White House. An office unlike any other in the world.
President George H. W. Bush flew the maiden flight of 28000 out of Andrews on September 6, 2000. The plane bore the distinctive blue, silver, and white look created for President John F. Kennedy’s Air Force One in 1962 by designer Edward Lowey.
The sheer size of the 747s have inspired articles in every major newspaper in America, to books, television documentaries, and a variety of websites. Lt. Eric Ross knew every detail. Yet, not a day went by when he wasn’t impressed by the commanding presence of the planes. Six stories high. The fuselage nearly the length of a city block at 231 feet. A bulge in the nose to handle midair refueling. SAM 28000 and SAM 29000 could slice through the air at more than 600 miles per hour, powered with 56,700 pounds of thrust by each of the four General Electric CF6-80C2B1 engines. The wings carried 53,611 gallons of fuel, accounting for a takeoff weight of 833,000 pounds. They were magnificent machines.
The planes were reconstructed by Boeing with a three-level floor plan.
From aft to stern, Level 1, the uppermost space, contained the cockpit. Behind it was a small galley, a lounge, and then the communications center with a stairway leading to Level 2.
At the front of this level, in what would be the First Class compartment of a commercial 747, was the president’s office, appointed with lightweight, but comfortable furniture. Off to the left, or port side, was a medical station. Farther back was a smaller lounge and stairs, which led below to Level 3. There was another set, which returned to Level 1, and an even larger galley.
Directly in the front of Level 3 — the lowest floor — was the Presidential Suite, including compact sleeping quarters. Moving toward the stern, the cargo area was actually split into two levels where equipment, supplies, and any number of specialty items were stored.
Though it occurred shortly before Rossy’s watchful tenure, everyone who served aboard Air Force One knew about the day: January 28, 1998. President Clinton was on a whirlwind Midwest trip. He’d just completed a speech at the University of Illinois in Champaign, and was preparing to take off from Willard Airport for the next leg. As his Boeing 707, tail number 27000, taxied into position, the landing gear slipped off the runway into soft ground. The plane’s engines revved and the crowd watched. But Air Force One’s wheels sank into the muck. President Clinton found alternative transportation on a backup 707 which was flown in. Ever since then, the Air Force established new safety procedures and everyone’s job became much harder, Rossy’s included. The lieutenant was acutely aware of the importance of each detail, whether Air Force One was on the ground or in the air.