O’Connell went back to his computer and tried new fields.
Congress, Representative, Senator
“Total speculation now, but for argument sake, Cooper is captured by insurgents. Somehow he talks his way out of being killed and works his way up the system,” Roarke postulated.
“Or an alternative,” Davis added. “He’s taken in by an anti-American individual or family. They get him on his feet and introduce him to people who ultimately lead to Haddad. This could have taken months or years. I’m sure we won’t know what actually happened until we have either Haddad or Cooper in our hands. But with the president’s permission, General Johnson could reopen the investigation of the building blast…”
Everyone waited for the president’s blessing, which came in a concise order. “J3, make it so.”
“Yes, sir,” the general answered.
“Let’s make some progress on this before I board Air Force One for Australia.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Three days, J3.” The general acknowledged the deadline. “Do you have any more, Scott?
“Yes I do.”
O’Connell felt he was on a better track. However, none of the hits seemed dead on. Not yet. As he read through the material he continued to write down other words that came to mind.
Judge, Politician, Businessman, Election He’d get to those later.
“In addition to the training he picked up in the military, which is considerable, Cooper is an accomplished actor,” Roarke explained. “And I mean accomplished. He’s adept at creating truly distinct personas by becoming different people. It’s not just makeup and hair, this guy is incredible.”
Roarke talked through the inevitable silence that followed. “He could probably get credentials to your next press conference and nobody would know it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bernsie gasped. “How the hell do you find him?”
“I don’t,” Roarke said. “We let him find me.”
O’Connell leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He needed a break. The reporter pushed away from his desk, stood, and stretched. I’ve gotta get out of here. He headed out, first grabbing a copy of the day’s paper, which he hadn’t read. Some fresh air and a little coffee.
“How?” the FBI chief asked.
“Through Cooper’s parents,” Shannon Davis said joining the conversation.
“But they think he’s dead.”
“And he’ll stay that way, at least for now,” Roarke explained. “But here’s what we’ve come up with.” Roarke outlined the plan.
O’Connell sat in the corner of the diner with steam rising from his cup of strong black coffee. A piece of coffee cake lay on his plate. Half of the topping was on O’Connell’s red plaid L.L. Bean shirt.
The reporter read nearly every page of the paper, but not from top to bottom. He had his own ritual. First he turned to the domestic political stories, sorting by byline the other reporters he considered closest to their sources. After working his way through those stories he went for global news. Then he was onto business stories with a political slant, the editorials, and the op-ed page. He always finished with a review of the radio and TV appearances by polls.
He followed the Redskins during football season and little other sports. The food pages meant nothing to him. The stocks depressed him. O’Connell didn’t care about Hollywood. The only DVDs he owned were All the President’s Men, The Candidate, The Best Man, and All the Kings Men.
O’Connell could digest The New York Times in twenty to thirty minutes. He also tried to go through The Washington Post and The Washington Times. Recently, he’d been so focused on his inquiry that he skipped his own paper. The same would have happened today if he didn’t feel fried.
The story that most caught his attention was President Taylor’s upcoming trip to Australia. Times correspondents reported on the agenda, which was to solidify the changes in the nuclear proliferation agreement among Southeast Asian countries. The threat of increased terrorist activities in the region made the conference a priority. Unconfirmed rumors of a bomb threat earlier in the summer added to the tension. Sydney police denied the reports, which they attributed to a water main break below the Ville St. George Hotel. However, an unnamed military source indicated that the SASR, the Australian Special Forces Regiment, had carried out a seek-and-destroy mission against a terrorist stronghold in the Solomon Islands. That report remained unconfirmed.
All of this interested O’Connell and he followed the story as it jumped from page one to inside the first section. As he turned the pages his left hand accidentally hit his coffee cup. It went over, spilling the remaining half on the plate holding his cake and the newspaper. “Damn!” he shouted at himself.
Patrons hardly lifted their eyes from their papers, laptops, or books, and no one rushed over to help him. He used the Arts Section to pat down the spill. When his table was sufficiently dry he returned to the paper, forgetting where the article jumped.
O’Connell gave it a rest. He walked over to the counter and asked for a refill. Minutes later he was back at his table finding his place in The Times. Page ten. He slid the paper to the left side of the table and placed his cup and what was left of his pastry directly on a full-page coffee-stained ad on page eleven. He finished reading the story and wondered whether there was anything to the bomb threat. He decided to write himself a reminder. O’Connell automatically reached for a pen in his pocket. It wasn’t there. He had left it at his desk. The reporter looked around. He caught the waitress’s attention.
“One minute,” she signaled.
He sipped his coffee. The second cup was just as bad as the first.
“What’s up?” the waitress asked.
“A pen I can borrow?”
“Sure, here.”
He took her ballpoint and tried to write in some white space on the adjacent page. But the pen wouldn’t ink over the wet paper. O’Connell ate the last of his cake, which partially covered a DIY portion of the same page. Her pen worked where the food had been.
Check with Sydney bureau.
While he scribbled some additional notes, his eye caught the ad copy on the page. It was a simple advertisement. Catchy, he thought. He took another sip of coffee and turned the page.
“He won’t do it!” Bernsie declared.
“I think he will. And as soon as he writes about it, others will pick up on it,” Roarke predicted.
“No way, he’ll see that he’s being used,” the chief of staff maintained.
J3 just laughed. It was as if no time had elapsed. Bernstein the naysayer, arguing with everybody. It was one of the things that made the Taylor White House work. The president had the same feeling, which was why he cut the argument off.
“You’re both right. But O’Connell will do it. We tell him just enough to make it interesting. He’ll want to break it. Then the story will take on a life of its own. The nets will call it another Iraqi blunder. But in order to get it, he has to embargo the privileged information until we have Mr. Cooper in custody.”
Taylor read the room. Everyone seemed to be in agreement except for his chief of staff. “Bernsie, what’s wrong?”
“It’s a bad idea. And it’s dangerous. You’re using the press again. It’ll backfire. It’s…”