Roarke fully understood. After saying thank you, he walked out the door, thinking that the only photo he’d probably get of Depp would be when he was dead on a slab in the morgue.
Chapter 49
Morgan Taylor kept Henry Lamden’s appointment with the people of Verona, Wisconsin. It was the first of the semi-regular town meetings Lamden promised to hold. Taylor didn’t expect he’d be half as good as Lamden at these events, but it was important to demonstrate that the coalition government worked.
Verona bubbled up from the Office of Strategic Affairs: a recommendation of Lynn Meyerson. She’d discovered that Verona, barely five miles from Madison, was the self-proclaimed “Hometown USA” of America.
“It’s the perfect place to kick off your town meetings,” she told President Lamden months earlier. “Imagine: ‘Hometown USA.’ It doesn’t get any better than that.” She explained that Verona earned the name in 1966, after an army detachment in Vietnam adopted Verona as their “foster village,” representing the spirit of American life. “It all began when a GI named Ronald R. Schmidt thanked townspeople for sending the local newspaper, The Verona Press, to him overseas. The newspaper printed his letter of appreciation. They loved the fact that Schmidt said getting the paper was one of the few things he had to look forward to. Well, the town rallied around the entire troop and, lo and behold, the moniker ‘Hometown USA’ was invented.”
Lamden had enjoyed the story and appreciated Meyerson’s political savvy. Ironically, neither the president nor his aide was onboard Air Force One as it touched down in Madison. The day, the parade, and the town meeting belonged to Morgan Taylor.
“Good evening,” the president said in greeting. Nearly 1,000 of Verona’s 8,912 residents were packed into the Verona Area High School. Taylor thanked the mayor and other notables by name for making him feel so welcome. “First, let me tell you that President Lamden says he’d much rather be here than in his hospital bed.” The line received some light applause. “The food is better.” More reaction. “And, although he looks good in a gown, I know he’d rather be wearing something like this.” Taylor unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a “Hometown USA” T-shirt. The gym erupted, and Morgan Taylor said a silent thank you to Lynn Meyerson.
“But in life, we don’t always get to make the choices we’d like. So you’ve got this old warhorse, and I hope I’m a good substitution.”
The crowd applauded until Taylor insisted they stop. “Enough! Most of you didn’t vote for me!” The comment brought even more applause. He won them over. What a gratifying feeling.
“Okay, what do you say I hold court for a while, then I’ll take your questions?” For the next twenty minutes Taylor gave a solid, off-the-cuff assessment of the first six months of the new administration. He talked about the positives and the negatives, the spirit of cooperation, and the attacks on White House policy. He took the citizens of Verona around the world, talking about Middle East tensions, the fragile peace between Pakistan and Afghanistan, and the upcoming summit. Taylor concluded with an appeal for support. “Something happened a few years back. Reason got supplanted by hatred; the calming voice has been replaced by stinging criticism. It’s the same everywhere. New York to Los Angeles, El Paso to Verona. It’s ruining our country. We are a nation divided by anger, increasingly intolerant and hopelessly driven by rhetoric. We used to have statesmen in government; people who answered the call for public service. Now, I honestly don’t know why anyone would even consider running for public office.
“I can’t fix this with a signature on a bill anymore than Congress can legislate it. I’m afraid it’s up to you to change the political climate. Blow the ill winds away and welcome the goodness that made America great…welcome it back into your hearts and your homes, your community and your country. It’s time. And what better place to start than right here in ‘Hometown USA.’”
On one hand, it was a pure political play. On the other, it was the absolute truth. Verona agreed. There was no better place to start.
Morgan cut off the applause again. “I promised to take your questions. How about we start with a graduating senior?”
The president fielded questions about the environment, Medicare and Social Security, and even the Packers. Then a 64-year-old, gray-haired man ambled up to the microphone and nervously asked a question. He was hard to hear through the lingering laughter from Taylor’s response about Green Bay.
“Again, if you could,” the president said. “A little louder.”
“Yes. My name is Nicholas Petchke. I drive the bus to the school.”
Taylor tuned out his accent and keenly listened for the gist of the question.
“I came from a place where children were killed by suicide bombers, and yet the United States waited years to help. Schools like this were not even safe. Everyone was a target. Now I am here in America. I have a good life. But I am afraid; afraid because I see terrorism coming closer; afraid that America’s own people will have to wait years for help, too.” The entire gymnasium fell silent as Petchke concluded. “Mr. President, I ask: What’s America doing to stop them?”
Morgan Taylor stood some forty to fifty feet from the immigrant, but it felt like the man was breathing into his face. “Well…” he began. But well wasn’t good enough. Neither was a stock answer, nor a stump speech. Taylor turned around and reflected a moment. The American flag served as a backdrop. He pointed to it.
“Mr. Petchke, you came to this country for the freedom that flag represents, and now you believe that the dangers of the world have followed you here. Regrettably and undeniably, it is true. If I argued otherwise, every paper in the country, including your own Verona Press, would prove me wrong. What’s America doing to stop them? That’s your question?”
He heard a “Yes, sir” across the gym.
“Not enough.”
A woman stood from her bleacher seat close to him. She identified herself as a Dane County clerk. “Mr. President, I lost a son in Iraq to a car bomb. My youngest, a graduate this year from this very high school, has just enlisted.” She fought her tears, wanting to finish her thought. “Please tell me the same thing won’t happen to him. Tell me what you’re going to do to protect my son.”
It wasn’t simply the woman’s question, or the man’s, not merely a clerk’s or a bus driver’s. It was America’s question. Tell me what you’re going to do to protect my son? Morgan Taylor didn’t know.
Chapter 50
Anyone expecting Aleksandr Dubroff to take the most direct route to Moscow would have been wrong. Recognizing that he might never be able to return home, he was in no particular rush to get where he was going. Besides, purchasing a ticket for St. Petersburg to the northeast would draw less suspicion from the FSB. But Dubroff wasn’t going to St. Petersburg. He got off at Bologoe, 164 km away, had a quiet dinner, purchased a round-trip ticket to Yaroslav, and waited for the eastbound train. Late in the evening he checked into the Kotorosl Hotel, about a ten-minute walk from the Yaroslavl Glavny train station. He produced an identity card — a fake, complete with a bar code, date of birth, and home address. It identified him as V. A. Zastrozhnaya, a grocer from Pskov. Dubroff picked up the card hours earlier from a retired forger who was quite surprised to see him. It had fallen out of the pocket of the real Zastrozhnaya, was copied, then returned. The forger prayed that the favor made them even, and this would be the last he’d ever see Dubroff.