According to the doctors at Walter Reed and the lab reports, no toxic substances were evident in the president’s blood,” Mulligan told the president. “Nothing in the White House food or water. Nothing untoward in the White House stock. The short version, sir: President Lamden was not poisoned.”
“Are you absolutely positive?”
“If you’re asking if there is any margin of error, the answer is yes, due to lateness of the toxicology tests. That stated, the labs feel they would have found some evidence if it existed.”
Taylor was relieved. He thanked the FBI chief and hung up. Nonetheless, the possibility that Roarke raised was enough for him to question the procedure and standards for how the President of the United States is safely fed, either in the White House or in White House-supervised kitchens.
Maybe it didn’t happen this time, Taylor considered, but we are vulnerable.
Taylor decided to draft a directive that would result in a comprehensive study of the White House food chain. Where does the food come from? How is it protected? Who oversees the process?
Certainly some procedures existed, but he asked for recommendations to improve the safety standards.
His request went to the Office of Strategic Initiatives. Ironically, it might have gone to Lynn Meyerson’s desk.
“Are we sharing?” D’Angelo asked. It was a necessary question.
“Sharing means we both benefit. What is the benefit to us?” Ira Wurlin responded over the secure telephone line.
“Perhaps the security of your country.”
The silence on the line from seven hours away indicated how serious the declaration was taken.
“We’re sharing,” Wurlin finally said.
“Then I’ll start. We’ve located Haddad’s home. He fled the country. January nineteenth — possibly after being tipped off, probably after watching the news. His yacht disappeared. Probably scuttled. Haddad has vanished. He laundered money here to Kingdom Come, and we think he’s hell-bent on bringing Israel down.”
“What is the basis of your theory?” the Mossad officer asked.
“My team has been analyzing the papers recovered in Libya. Haddad is not mentioned by name, but there are clear references to a Syrian who worked for Hafez Al-Assad as a go-between with the Russians for the development of sleeper cells. Haddad has also shown up in phone records with the lawyers who represented the dearly departed Congressman Lodge. In our estimation, Haddad could be this Syrian, even though his papers show he became a U.S. citizen thirty-one years ago.”
“So what are we sharing? You seem to have done very well on your own, my friend,” Wurlin said.
“Quite to the point. You will be sharing what you can find from your very well-placed Mossad agents in Syria.”
“You ask a great deal,” Wurlin replied.
“I ask for your cooperation. Nothing less. There is still the issue of Mossad agents in the United States.”
“I thought we put that to rest,” Wurlin said.
“You may have, not the American public.” D’Angelo wanted Wurlin to fully understand the next point. “I’m sure you agree, the press doesn’t need any encouragement.”
“I will see what we can do. We’ll talk soon.”
“When?” D’Angelo asked impatiently.
“Soon.”
Chapter 39
“Bernsie, I want you back.” Bernie Bernstein glanced around the Oval Office, noting how Lamden and his wife had redecorated the room. It was warmer than Taylor’s days, full of flowers and grandchildren’s pictures. He wasn’t surprised to see more photographs of democrats and JFK’s famed desk, the one that John-John and Caroline played under.
“Mr. President, I’m flattered, but it’s not going to look good. You can’t dump Lamden’s key staff so quickly.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Bernsie.” Morgan Taylor leaned across the desk he inherited and rubbed his hands together. “If I cared about what looks good, I wouldn’t be inviting a tired, overweight, contrarian asshole like you back into public life. But the fact of the matter is that I plainly don’t care. I need you here.”
“What about Gilmore? He’s pretty damned knowledgeable.”
“He’s not you. And that’s his admission. He’s willing to step aside. Besides, he likes the consultant money.”
Bernstein laughed. “I don’t know, maybe that’s the job I want.”
“Look, the chief of staff is either going to be my wife or you. Honestly, I think I argue less with you.”
Bernstein laughed. Morgan Taylor had a wonderful relationship with his wife. “Come on,” he said. “The real reason is I don’t complain when you swear and smoke.”
Bernie “Bernsie” Bernstein had been President Morgan Taylor’s sounding board for the previous four years. He sided with the president only half the time, but he always helped Taylor reach the right political, moral, and diplomatic decisions. He left the White House when Henry Lamden took office. Unlike some of the Cabinet members who stayed on, there was no place for Bernstein, so he accepted a longstanding offer to teach law part-time at BU.
“What about my commitments, Mr. President?”
“I already called your dean. You’re excused.”
“You did what?” Bernstein said, only partially surprised.
“Halfond was okay with the arrangements,” the president said.
“What arrangements? Nobody told me.”
“I said that you’d be available to lecture once in a while to students here. We’d set up a special governmental studies program. He was quite impressed and saw the promotional possibilities in it.”
“He said yes before you asked me?”
Taylor turned serious. “Bernsie, I really need you with me. I don’t know how long it’ll be. Maybe for the long haul.”
That answered Bernstein’s immediate question. “Doesn’t look good?”
“Don’t know for sure. Based on what the doctors tell me, coming back to work full time may be out of the question.”
“A few things for you then, if you don’t mind.”
“Shoot.”
“You have to come clean on everything you know about this Meyerson investigation.”
“Agreed.”
“We work out a plan to patch up your differences with Congress. They’re on the other side of the aisle.”
This request was harder. “I’m asking you to come back as chief of staff, not White House magician,” Taylor responded.
“You agree to try.”
“I’ll try.”
“And finally, you promise, you absolutely promise, that you’ll listen to me.”
Taylor laughed. “Listen to you? Are you fucking kidding?” Taylor finally sat down at the famous presidential desk. He pushed back into the leather seat, realizing it wasn’t the right fit, but he could live with it. “No way!”
Bernsie smiled. He was feeling happy to be back in the thick of it. Things were just the way he liked them. “Mr. President, I’ll take the job.”
With that business behind them, Morgan Taylor moved onto his next meeting. He invited in the intelligence czar. Jack Evans was only half surprised to see Bernsie Bernstein.
“Bernsie,” he said in greeting.
“Mr. Director,” the newly reinstated chief of staff replied. “Like old times.”
“Only worse.” He had a folder with him that he put on the president’s desk. The comment wasn’t a joke.
Taylor opened the folder, but did not look at it.
“I’ll save you the heavy reading, Mr. President. Let me fill you in about D’Angelo’s meeting with Ira Wurlin, number-two in the Mossad under Jacob Schecter. They had a face-to-face talk about the Meyerson allegations and our own issues with their spy apparatus operating here.”