Not that Gonzales was really surprised. It was only a matter of time. He thought again about the night he abandoned his last life and identity. He was amazed that it had taken this long. Gonzales blamed the Libyan, Fadi Kharrari. The idiot archived everything. The U.S. Special Forces obviously found files with the name Haddad during their raid.
Anticipating discovery, Haddad left Fisher Island, Florida, on the eve of the inauguration. His computer, like his yacht, went to the bottom of the Atlantic. He counted on the amply compensated cleaning crews to scrub his condo of any fingerprints. All vestige of Haddad’s presence should have been erased in the days after his disappearance.
So they found where Ibrahim Haddad lived. So what. Haddad no longer existed.
Morgan Taylor’s bulletproof limousine, shuttled aboard one of two C-5s, now powered through the highways from Glenbrook Air Force Base to Sydney. Actually, three limos left the belly of the Galaxy transports. Two of them were decoys; one was the true presidential limousine. For nearly sixty kilometers, they jockeyed position in a high-speed shell game. Sometimes decoy number one moved in front. Then an identical car took the lead before it dropped back in favor of one of the others. They made the move so many times that it would have been difficult for an observer to tell which limo carried the president.
As the cars approached The Ville St. George, one limo peeled off and entered the underground garage. The president’s?
The two remaining cars continued at full speed with police and military escort. A kilometer away, the second limousine broke for the Park Hyatt on Hickson Road. The third did the same a minute up the line, pulling into the Marriott Sydney Hotel, a block away from the harbor.
This ruse was the design of Presley Friedman, the president’s Secret Service chief. The St. George was out of the question. He didn’t want to put the president up in the other hotels either; not this trip. But Morgan Taylor needed to stay somewhere, so it was decided he would eventually end up at Kirribilli House.
Since 1957, Kirribilli House has welcomed royalty, heads of state, and Congressional and Parliamentary members, in addition to serving as the residence for the Prime Minister and his family.
Taylor changed modes of transportation in an underground loading dock at the Park Hyatt. He completed his ride in a laundry van.
When it came to safety, the usually boisterous Taylor remained quiet. He didn’t argue with Friedman. Taylor wasn’t the boss of this part of the trip.
“Hello, this is Michael O’Connell. I’m with The New York Times and…”
“I’m sorry. I’m not interested in a subscription.”
O’Connell often got this reaction when he didn’t explain what he did fast enough. “I’m a reporter working on a story about Elliott Strong. Is this Bill Bueler?”
“Yes,” the caller responded with trepidation.
“Well, can I speak with you for a few minutes?”
O’Connell found his first lead through the Grants, New Mexico, Chamber of Commerce. Bueler was an old deejay, presumably around the time that Strong worked at the same station. Now he was a manager at a local McDonald’s.
“Strong, you say?”
“Right. You worked together about eighteen years ago.”
“Can’t help you,” Bueler interrupted.
“Just a few questions.” O’Connell said lightly. “I understand you had the morning shift. Strong followed you.”
“I don’t remember.” It was a cold response.
“Oh? Didn’t you spend some time together?”
“I said I don’t remember.”
O’Connell sensed real hostility. “Mr. Bueler, it’s really a simple matter. Strong’s gone onto become one of the nation’s most popular syndicated hosts. I’m sure that you…”
“It was a long time ago. A lot of people came and went.”
“Strong used Grants as a jumping-off point for a station in Arizona.”
“Once and for all, I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t, Mr. Bueler?”
“Goodbye, Mr. O’Connell.” The former deejay hung up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first session of what we trust will be an historic conference,” Prime Minister Foss said resolutely. “We have a great deal of work ahead. Preliminary sessions with members of our staffs have paved the way. Now it is our job to forge a new South Pacific Alliance — a model for the four corners of the world that will proclaim we stand united against terrorists and those nation states, individuals, organizations, or even corporations that support or shelter them. Ironically, it is an ancient Arab proverb that best describes our union — ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ I see new friends joining us at this table. May we all have the resolve to make the world safer.”
Foss looked around the State Room of the Government House. The Colonial Building, the most sophisticated example of Gothic Revival in all New South Wales, had been closed to the public since Australia’s SASR approved it as the secure site for the summit. In attendance were leaders from seventeen nations including Japan, South Korea, Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, Thailand, Cambodia, the United States, India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. Foss removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
“What do you say we get to work?”
The New York Times reporter tracked down Marcy Ripenberg in Prescott, Arizona. It was a brief call. Ripenberg didn’t want to talk about Strong. But as she hung up, O’Connell was certain he heard the word, “fucker.”
His next series of phone calls focused on a similar set of characters in Phoenix, Arizona — an old program director who was out of the business and another former secretary Strong slept with, Sheila Stuart. She was the first person who was really willing to talk.
“Yeah, he was a real mover and a shaker. And I’m not just talking about his announcing,” she said through a fit of coughs. She sounded like she’d smoked for far too long. “I knew he wasn’t going to spend much time here. Just passing through.” She laughed. “Phoenix and me.”
O’Connell ignored the comment. “Where did you think he was going?”
“To the top. Any way he could.”
“What kind of person was he?”
“He read like crazy. Sometimes I couldn’t get him to put his book down, no matter what I did.”
“And what did he like to read?”
“That’s a very good question. Is this going in the newspaper?”
“Possibly.”
“Oh. You’ll leave out the part about…”
“Yes.”
She coughed more. “Tons of history. I guess it was for his radio show. He was always quoting this president or that president. I couldn’t keep them straight, but Elliott knew them all. And nothing could break his concentration. Not even when I was under the desk when he was…. You won’t use that either, will you?”
“No.”
“On account of my husband,” Stuart added.
“I understand,” O’Connell replied. “But it sounds like you really wish the two of you could have made a go of it.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right. But I wasn’t part of his plans. Never really was.”
“He was that talented?”
“Talented? I don’t know about that. He was good. But he was better than good. He was lucky.”
O’Connell bolded luck on his computer notes. It was the second time he heard it in context with Strong.