“We’ll be right back.”
Chapter 20
There wasn’t even the question of the president attending the Meyerson funeral in Lewiston, Maine. No one connected with the White House went to the small New England town. No apologies were expected or given. The story had already broken nationally.
First, FBI Director Robert Mulligan dropped the bombshell on the president. Then came the brief Post story. But it was O’Connell’s article in The New York Times, obviously based on an informed source, that gave it a life of its own. He’d pieced enough denials together to fashion a compelling argument.
Neither the White House nor the FBI will comment on the investigation into the death of administration staff member Lynn Meyerson, killed last week in Los Angeles. A source close to the inquiry says that Meyerson may have passed classified information onto Israel’s intelligence agency, the Mossad.
Meyerson, 26, was assaulted while jogging in a public park. Police in Los Angeles are cooperating with the FBI. The victim worked in an administrative capacity in the White House Office of Strategic Initiatives. According to an inside source, she had access to sensitive documents and was in Los Angeles with President Lamden.
O’Connell didn’t report everything he was told, strictly because he couldn’t confirm what the source provided. However, the words he did use said enough to frame an explosive front-page story and one hell of a national tempest.
“We have a problem, Ira,” the Mossad director began. “Sit down and read this.”
Jacob Schecter slid the intelligence briefings across the desk to his number two. The salient points were highlighted with a yellow marker.
“…passed classified information…Israel…spy…White House Office of Strategic Initiatives…inside source-sensitive documents.”
The rest of the briefing, culled from wire-service stories, Washington Post and New York Times articles, and opinion from Mossad agents working inside the embassy in Washington, filled in the details. Everything led Wurlin to the same conclusion that Schecter already made.
“Chantul?”
“Yes, Chantul,” the Mossad chief said without equivocation. “If she left any trail, which is likely, then Evans will discover it. I assure you we will hear from him in the strongest possible terms. And if this should become public, even Evans will not be able to contain the damage.”
“Yes, Jacob.”
“Two immediate things. One, seal all the Chantul files. No one has access. Two, get me information on this woman. Her life, her motives. Everything we didn’t know about her when she was alive, I want to know now. I want to be prepared for the call when it comes. I want information and ammunition. And I want it right away!”
The White House press secretary offered obligatory answers at the morning briefing. “Yes, Ms. Meyerson was employed by the White House Office of Strategic Initiatives…Yes, she handled various materials relating to presidential programs…No, those programs cannot be discussed…Yes, we are working with the LAPD in their investigation of Ms. Meyerson’s death.”
So far even O’Connell hadn’t dug deep enough to uncover names, dates, and places. But President Lamden and his chief of staff, Billy Gilmore, had no doubt they were living on borrowed time.
Evoking the rhythm of Senator Howard Baker’s famed interrogatory during the Watergate Hearings, Lamden demanded of his FBI chief, “What do you know, and when did you know it?”
“We’re just piecing it together now, Mr. President. We don’t wiretap the lines of people who have been cleared. We have to have cause. There was none.”
“And the CIA?”
Mulligan shrugged his shoulders. “If they had, they didn’t tell us.”
National Director of Intelligence Jack Evans had already assured the president there was never a reason to suspect Meyerson.
“Then how the hell did any of you miss this? What kind of lame-ass background check did you do?” Now Lamden yelled louder than any president Mulligan had ever heard. “And what was this woman doing in my White House?”
“And now this! Oh, there’s trouble in paradise, my friends. Trouble indeed,” Elliott Strong said, raising the controversy to a personal attack on Lamden. “Unless you were lying under a rock in the last twelve hours, you probably heard this one. It’s a doozie. And I wouldn’t want to be Henry Lamden tonight.”
Strong had his New Yuck Times in front of him, but this time he didn’t malign the paper. Instead, he quoted from it. “Front page, no less. And from the renowned Mr. Michael O’Connell. This is big, my friends. Big.” He read the story verbatim, emphasizing key words to make his point.
“Are you getting this? A member of the Lamden-Taylor dynasty now accused of leaking secrets to an ally. To Israel, no less!”
Listeners heard Strong rustle the pages as he turned to an AP account, then to CNN’s latest online report, and another from Fox News. “We have an unrestrained imperial presidency, and low and behold, another country has its hand in our cookie jar. You’re going to hear shock and denial from the administration. But you tell me. A woman is killed while jogging. She happens to have been — dare I say — a spy?” He added only for legal purposes, but well set off from the rest of the sentence, “…allegedly.”
“So who killed her?” He was fully revved up again. “I bet this is going to prove interesting. A modern-day Mata Hari tries to sell us down the river and she’s killed. Now who would possibly have cause? A rapist in broad daylight? Come now. You think we’re going to buy that story, Mr. President?”
He could just about hear everyone say, No way!
“So tonight, Strong Nation asks: Henry Lamden, who was Meyerson working for? How was she killed? And when are you going to accept the blame that you are responsible? You, Mr. President. You and your cronies. You are the reason that we’re failing as a country. You are what’s wrong with America. You. And you have to go!”
Chapter 21
“A goddamned Mossad agent in the White House! How?”
“Mr. President, you know it’s not confirmed,” Jack Evans told the president.
“Bullshit. The New York Times reported it. The Post. The networks. And someone inside the FBI told them. What the hell will denials accomplish now? Jesus H. Christ, aren’t these people supposed to be our friends?”
The Director of National Intelligence decided to bite his tongue. Besides, he didn’t have the freedom to interrupt this president the way he did the last, who was sitting beside him. He let Henry Lamden do what he needed to do: fume. That was Billy Gilmore’s advice to him in the hall.
“I’m this close.” Lamden held his forefinger and thumb almost together. “This close to throwing their ambassador right out on his ass and canceling — what do we give them? Four billion a year in aid?”
“More,” Gilmore added. “Six-point-three billion. About seventeen million a day.”
The number made Lamden, a die-hard supporter of Israel, even more furious. “In my fucking White House! How the hell did this happen? Will someone tell me?”