The president looked at Bernsie, who took a seat.
“Starting with a general fact…the Israelis have their spies in the United States, just as we have ours in their country. We try to protect against their infiltration. They do the same. We succeed more often than not. They find some of ours. Usually, no one gets hurt.”
“To the point, Jack. What about Meyerson?” the president asked.
“They’re knee-deep in a lot of agencies. But not here. At least not with her. Meyerson is not theirs.”
The president closed the folder without reading a word. “You’re certain?”
“Let’s just say I believe what Wurlin has reported to D’Angelo. I’d prefer to look Jacob in the eyes, but that’s not going to happen. I believe it was your man Roarke who thought it in the first place.”
“Yes, it was. It didn’t earn him any new fans with the FBI, though.” President Taylor stood up, circled his desk, and sat on the edge. Evans stood over him a few feet away.
“So we make a definitive joint statement. We put this to rest,” Taylor said.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. President, the story has taken on a life of its own. It’s going to be hard to mitigate it,” Bernsie said.
“Tell you what, Bernsie: You find a way. Say it often enough and loud enough and make it stick.” The president now stood and raised his voice. “A young woman was set up to embarrass this administration. It may have contributed to Henry Lamden’s heart attack. And I’m not about to be dragged down by it. End of story.”
“There’s more, Mr. President,” Jack Evans said. “Wurlin gave us something; call it a tip. Political good will to help balance the ledger.”
“Oh?” Bernsie said, already feeling right at home back in the Oval Office.
“He gave D’Angelo a name he thought we’d be interested in and a story to go with it.”
“Will I know the name?” Taylor asked.
“No, but you’re going to be very interested in the story.”
Luis Gonzales wasn’t his favorite identity. He missed Miami and the life he lived as Ibrahim Haddad. The weather in Florida was more to his liking. It reminded him of the Mediterranean of his youth. And though he was a faithful Muslim, if only behind closed doors, he yearned for the ease at which women in Miami Beach were attracted to money…and the men who had it.
In addition to being rich, Haddad was also mysterious enough to make him desirable to some women. When finished, he rewarded his companions for their service. Diamonds. A necklace, earrings, a pin. They would all get something — except a second visit. This is the way it had been for decades. In Chicago, his guards did his bidding. They found women in their mid-30s, brunette, hair trimmed at the neckline, no taller than five-five or five-six. They always had the same look. Nobody with dyed hair. That would be obvious to him, and there would be consequences for making that mistake. They bought the jewelry, they took the women home after, and they made it abundantly clear that no one should ever return.
Haddad used women and dismissed them. In Miami, his urges were met more frequently. It was definitely more difficult in Chicago. This was true partly because of the different nightlife, and partly because Gonzales wasn’t as visible as Haddad.
Tonight his needs were being met again, fast and emotionless in a hotel suite. Throughout the lovemaking, or more aptly, fucking, Gonzales insisted on keeping the radio on to a talk show. His consort tried to get him to tune to something more appropriate. But like everything else in his life, he controlled this moment, too. He never drifted too far, and when he did, it was to only one memory that he never shared with anybody.
“Thomas Jefferson, people. These are Thomas Jefferson’s words, not mine. Thomas Jefferson, one of the founding fathers. Write it down. E-mail it to your friends. It’ll be online at www.StrongNationRadio.com. But its real power comes in the telling,” Elliott Strong emphasized. “And I quote, ‘Experience hath shown, that even under the best forms [of government] those entrusted with power have, in time, and by slow operations, perverted it into tyranny.’”
The talk show host cleared his throat for effect, and continued with a greater sense of urgency.
“‘Perverted it into tyranny,’ ladies and gentlemen. ‘Tyranny.’”
Strong brought his voice down at the end of the quote, but he wasn’t finished. ‘Unless the mass retains sufficient control over those entrusted with the powers of their government, these will be perverted to their own oppression.’” He paused to let it sink in. “Thomas Jefferson. Makes me think he’d calling in if he could.”
The number of Strong’s listeners had spiked over the past week. Ninety-five new stations signed onto his daytime lineup, 107 to his overnight show. Strong spoke to the nation, and like Father Coughlin so many years before him, Elliott Strong was now speaking for the nation.
“Tyranny, ladies and gentlemen. Tyranny of those entrusted with the awesome powers of their government. Our government. You’re finally getting it, aren’t you? We’re in the middle of ‘Spygate’ and the big cover-up. We’re governed by an unelected government. And now Taylor sits like the king atop a Capitol Hill of lies. He does not represent our interests. He does not represent the people of the United States. And we cannot let him determine our future. It is time to raise your voice louder. It is time to end the perversion. It is time to end the tyranny. It is time to end the oppression. It is time to change the Constitution. And it is time to recall the president!”
As he listened to the Internet transmission, Dubroff pondered his immediate problems.
The American Embassy? No, out of the question. Brush an American businessman or a tourist? Leave a note? Absolutely not. He had to be more resourceful, even in today’s Russia.
These were the concerns that kept him awake at night. Who? How? Perhaps he could get word out through a friend. No. Everyone’s dead. Besides, he’d built his career on the foundation of never trusting anyone.
So who and how haunted him. His worry grew with every hour he lay awake.
Gonzales moved faster to the rhythm of the words on the radio. He thrust harder as the talk show host emphasized more. He felt the pressure inside, and the need to release just as the host finished.
“To recall the president!” was nearly drowned out by his own scream of pure, selfish pleasure.
“Haddad,” Evans said. “Ibrahim Haddad. Exporter. Lived on Fisher Island, off Miami Beach.” The president picked up the nuance.
“Lived?”
“Lived,” the intelligence chief continued. “Past tense.”
“Lived as in no longer lives?” Bernsie asked.
“Lived as in no longer lives there. He disappeared the night of January nineteenth along with his very seaworthy boat and his staff. The implication is that he died in a boat accident. That’s the connection that I think we’re supposed to make.”
“Before we get to the rest, and I assume there is more…”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“What is Jacob Schecter’s connection with this Haddad?”
“None. According to the Mossad, Haddad is a businessman with strong ties to the Middle East and bank accounts a mile long. The Israelis started watching him in the mid-seventies, when he was seen with Hafez al-Assad in Syria, and later his sons. He was also photographed in Iraq with Udai Hussein, and later in Libya.”