“So, we’re alive and well?” Roarke asked without showing any excitement. He knew how labor intensive the process was.
“That’s a matter of semantics, Mr. Roarke.”
Her answer didn’t make sense. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say with those parameters alone, and factoring in a close identity to the sketches, we’re down from tens of thousands to about 650 potential characters. Now throw in your random factor-acting. I cross-referenced high school and college yearbooks, local newspaper archives, even made some phone calls on any of the ones who might have smelled the greasepaint or heard the roar of the crowd somewhere along the line. The list gets smaller, but not by much.”
“So where’s the semantics, Penny?”
“More in your question than my answer.”
He forgot what he had asked. “Wanna help me?”
“You said we’re alive and well.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I like some of the dead guys better. Our man is very much alive, Penny.”
“I’m just sharing data, sweetheart.”
“Pull it all up. I’ll see you later today.”
“Before or after you stop in at the White House?”
“The White House?” Roarke asked. He’d only been there twice since the inauguration.
“Yeah, the White House.”
“Why?”
“Where have you been?” She laughed. “Wait, I know the answer to that.”
“Penny!” There was urgency in his voice now. “What’s happened?”
Chapter 27
“Not once did Taylor say anything about the campaign to get him out!” Strong shouted into the microphone. “Not once did he acknowledge the fact that millions of Americans do not consider him our president any more than we considered Lamden our president.”
He slammed his hand on the table. Actually, Strong couldn’t have hoped for better news. It all played so well, like pieces of a complex puzzle fitting together. He reached for another piece that could be slid into place.
“And another thing. Am I the only one who’s noticed that the whole Lynn Meyerson thing has disappeared from the news?” Strong asked. He raised the question, certain that his listeners would hear conspiracy. “I mean, one day there’s front-page news that an innocent young member of the Lamden White House was killed in an apparent rape in Los Angeles. Then we hear — oh, by the way — maybe she wasn’t so innocent. You see, she could be a spy, leaking classified intelligence to the Israelis. The story starts on the front page. It gets airtime on the news networks. Then what happens? The reports get shorter, the coverage gets slimmer. Lynn Meyerson moves way inside the newspapers. No more pictures. Then she’s off the network news shows entirely. Now? Poof! The story’s completely vaporized. How about that for some instant Washington magic.”
He used one of his mocking voices. “Oh, Elliott, the FBI says she wasn’t a spy. It was just a rumor. Can’t you let the poor girl rest in peace?”
Strong returned to his own voice. “No! No, no, no, I can’t. Look at the facts, people. This woman was taken out! She was killed while she was jogging. I can’t tell you by whom. But I’ve got a short list. Us or them. We wanted her dead, or she was going to turn on her handlers and the Mossad took her out. Read between the lines in the New Yuck Times. It’s all there.” It wasn’t.
He cleared his throat. “As hard as it is for me to admit, this is one time that I’ll have to go with The Times. But just when they start getting into it, what happens? A few calls get made by the White House, the FBI, or the CIA. Why? Because we have to maintain our good relationships in the world.” He didn’t have to say Israel.
“So who’s left to report this cover-up? Looks like it’s me. Apparently no one else is interested in finding out the truth.” Strong knew otherwise. Very soon, other hosts would join the conspiracy bandwagon. Lynn Meyerson would become the lead debate on the beltway talk shows. Her face would return to the front page, and the Internet bloggers would have a field day.
“America, when are you going to wake up?”
Jacob Schecter chose Positano because of access. There wasn’t much. Only one road led to the town. Boats could be checked easily. And Mossad snipers could hold the high ground above the old Mediterranean city.
The food was also good, particularly at Chez Black, right at the base of the steeply terraced town.
This is where Ira Wurlin and Vinnie D’Angelo would meet over pasta, the catch of the day, and the local wine.
Positano sat on a tight cove along the Amalfi Coast. The warm waters of the Mediterranean Sea lapped up onto the small, black volcanic rock beach. The city hugged the wall of a hill, as did many Italian towns. The lowest level, the site of the meeting, was only reachable by foot, small cart, or boat.
Wurlin flew to neighboring Naples and boarded the 1345 Metro Del Mare hydrofoil for the one-hour cruise to Positano.
D’Angelo converged on the meeting via an F/A-18D flight to the USS Harry S. Truman, which patrolled ninety-two nautical miles offshore. From there he hopped a Seahawk to a farm near Amalfi, a few kilometers up the coast. A black Fiat was there to meet him. His driver was a CIA man out of Rome. Though he didn’t see others, he knew they’d be there.
Vinnie D’Angelo was a utility player for National Intelligence Chief Jack Evans. He’d been with him since Evans ran the CIA. No one, including his boss, kept a written record of D’Angelo’s accomplishments. But his ability to write and speak letter-perfect Spanish, Arabic, and Mandarin made him one of America’s most valued intelligence officers.
D’Angelo had served in Army Special Forces. That’s where his professional dossier ended. He was a friend of Roarke’s, though neither man ever talked about their service record. Their most recent collaboration: a little incursion D’Angelo helped throw together in Libya.
Wurlin was already seated at a table at the rear left corner of Chez Black by the time D’Angelo arrived. A bottle of a rustic red sat squarely at the center of the checkered tablecloth. A gentle sea breeze kept the restaurant comfortable. Light early evening waves rolled over the volcanic rocks of Mermaid’s Beach barely twenty-five yards from the restaurant. The calming sound set the tone for the greetings.
“Hello, Vincent,” Wurlin said, rising to greet the CIA agent. Standing was a cue for the two Mossad bodyguards to close the sliding partition that separated their space from the general dining area.
“Shalom, Ira. You look well.”
“Thank you, but not nearly as good as you. I don’t get to travel to the places you do, or get the exercise.”
It was a veiled hint that the Mossad knew D’Angelo took part in the Tripoli assault.
“I am truly sorry that President Lamden has taken ill. What can you tell me?”
“I only know what I’m told. He’s in intensive care.”
“Please convey my prayers and the prayers of my country.”
“I will,” D’Angelo said.
After another minute of awkward conversation, Wurlin looked at the menu.
“Shall we order some dinner?” the Israeli proposed. “The pasta with zucchini is fabulous, or perhaps the day’s catch. Then we can get to business.”
“With all due respect, Ira, my country considers our business more important than a leisurely dinner. If we still feel like eating later, then we’ll order,” D’Angelo said emphatically.
“At least the wine.” It was not a question. He began to pour. “I chose the Lacrima Chrisi from the De Angelis Brothers vineyard nearby.”
“Lacrima Chrisi? Tears of Christ?” D’Angelo asked, quickly translating the Italian.