Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (19 page)

Helena, Montana

0830 hrs

The C-37A came to a perfect, short landing and taxied to the opposite end of the runway, dropping Roarke off at the general aviation terminal. As soon as Roarke was clear of the wings, the plane was refueled in preparation of a quick take off.

A man, bundled up against the cold, met him halfway to a civilian aviation hangar.

“Mr. Roarke?”

“Yes.” Roarke’s breath formed a dense cloud in front of him.

“I’m SGT Amos Barnes from Helena. Sorry for the cold.” He looked at what Roarke was wearing. “I’ve got a warmer jacket inside for you.”

“Thanks Sergeant.” Roarke shivered. “Feels like I’m going to need it.”

“A bit colder than D.C.?”

“Sergeant, the less you know who I am and where I come from the better. Hope that’s okay, but it’s the way I operate.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Now point me to the bathroom and a cup of coffee. I’ve had a really long day and I’ll be happy to hear all about your special guest.”

As he said this, Roarke turned his phone on. The moment it found a signal and reset to local time a message alert sounded. Roarke waited to listen until after he was alone and finished washing his hands at the terminal sink. He washed them thoroughly until Christine Slocum’s work was completely gone.

The voice message was brief:
Sweetheart, word is you’ve been a busy boy.
Figure you’re en route now, but you’re going
to want to call me.

CPT Penny Walker left all the encouragement needed. She had him on
You’re going to want to call me
.

“Okay partner, whatcha got?” Roarke asked, now in the passenger seat of a Ford F-150.

“No hello? Sorry to wake you?”

“Hello, sorry to wake you.”

“Fuck you very much, Mr. Roarke. And a good morning to you, too.”

“Sorry,” Roarke said. “I’m a little bit scrambled up right now.”

“So I heard,” Walker replied. “You okay, though?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Katie what happened?”

“No.”

“Word of advice. You better, especially considering this other stuff you’re stepping into.”

“Meaning?”

“The phone number. The woman. Miss Sex Appeal.”

“Ah, what do you have?”

“Well, starting with the basics, if I were still seeing you, I’d be jealous.”

“You must have something else than her measurements.”

“I do. Christine Slocum. Age twenty-seven. Magna cum laude Smith graduate in International studies. Interned at the U.N., Smith Barney, and a big ass D.C. law firm with too many names to mention. Apparently she’s a damned good writer, too. A few articles came up through Google, I bet there’s more. Scholarly stuff on the Middle East, American politics, NAFTA. I also found her through some blogs. But all that seemed to stop about eighteen months ago. No bylines since then.”

“Where’s she from?”

“Still researching that. Nothing yet. But I’ll get it.”

“You’re holding something back, Pen,” Roarke said.

“Ah yes. Her current employment.”

All Roarke knew was that Slocum worked on the Hill.

“Your dear Ms. Slocum is no slouch. She’s a speechwriter for a congressman.”

This was getting more interesting already.

“Care to take a guess who she works for?”

“Nope.” Roarke didn’t need to make anything more public in the truck than he already had.

“You’re no fun.”

“Nope.”

“Christine Slocum is Duke Patrick’s speechwriter.”

Roarke let the information sink in. Walker thought he dropped off the call.

“Scott, did you get that?”

“Sure did. Anything else?”

“Not yet. Still digging. But look for an e-mail in a while.”

Roarke ended the conversation with a quick thanks. He considered the last, most essential information that Walker discovered.
Christine Slocum is Duke Patrick’s speechwriter.

As a Secret Service agent, Roarke served the office of the president. As a human being, Scott Roarke was fiercely loyal to Morgan Taylor.
So why does the Speaker of House’s speechwriter, the president’s chief critic since Senator Teddy Lodge, make a beeline to me?
It wasn’t a coincidence. She was clearly stalking him, ready in every way to take him.
Why?
he wondered.

Roarke went to a solitary place, a quiet mental state where his martial arts master had taught him to look for answers. There, he saw Slocum. But it wasn’t the image of her at the gym. It was someplace else; in the wings of a hallway in a far-off memory. Only the sound of the Ford truck crunching on the snow in a parking lot brought him back.

Roarke knocked gently on the door. It definitely wasn’t the knock of a policeman, CIA interrogator, or army intelligence.

“
Hola, Ricardo. Como ésta
?” Roarke’s Spanish was passable, not great. But he thought it might be a good place to start.

“Uno momento,” Ricardo Perez replied from behind the door.

Roarke motioned for SGT Barnes and a National Guard private standing vigil to step away. He gave a nod indicating he’d be okay. The young guardsman was reluctant to take orders from the civilian. Roarke looked to Barnes who took care of the situation with a whisper in the soldier’s ear. Roarke didn’t know and didn’t care what he said. He just wanted to be alone and out of earshot of everyone

Perez unlatched the chain and turned the lock. The two men stood face to face at about the same height.

Roarke took the lead in Spanish. “
Me llamo Scott
Roarke
.” He offered his hand. Perez, unsure, took it. Roarke then asked in English, “May I come in?”

Asking permission was like the gentle knock; an indication of the nonthreatening, nonauthoritarian tone Roarke wanted to establish.

“Sure.” Not knowing what else to do, the gang member volunteered his name.

“It’s good to meet you, Ricardo. Is English okay?”

Again, it was all about permission.

“Yes.”

“May I sit down?”

Perez was not used to
anyone
asking him
anything.
He lived, let alone, survived in a world of demands with no civility and punishment for disobeying.

“Sure.”

Roarke took the chair across from the bed.

Perez sat at the head of the bed, the farthest point from Roarke.

Roarke reasoned that if this went well, he’d move closer and ultimately they’d be sitting side by side, eating burgers and fries together on the bed, and sharing war stories about their common past. For now, the distance was fine.

“I work for the president of the United States, Ricardo. I’m not a soldier, though I was one, and I’m not a policeman. I help the president figure things out that can make this country better.”

Perez listened.

“I don’t need to tell you, you’re a lucky man to be alive.”

No response.

“If your gang experience was anything similar to mine, you can’t go back to any of your family.” Roarke intentionally chose
family.
“They’ll kill you, Ricardo. They already tried.”

“Not everyone. Not my brother.” He was opening up.

“No, not your brother. But they’d have to kill both of you. He’d be too much of a threat.”

This penetrated.

“It’s over, Ricardo. It’s over for you, just like it was over for me years ago.”

Roarke shared some of his story; enough to strengthen the growing trust.

“Now tell me about you. Start wherever you want. Take your time. Oh, and how about some breakfast? Pancakes, eggs? I’m starving.”

Moscow

The same time

It was easier than Arkady Gomenko had imagined. He had all the right stamps that trafficked the world of officialdom, and slipping the letter into the middle of the stack for the late-arriving Yuri Ranchenkov was no problem. Even in the world of e-mail, so much of the bureaucratic process was still accomplished through memoranda. In this case, it provided more deniability, because the lame nephew of the prime minister probably forgot half of what he ordered. And without an electronic trail, Gomenko’s fingerprints (absent from the letter thanks to the gloves he wore) were not on the correspondence in any shape or form.

Now it was a matter of waiting until Ranchenkov came into work, had his morning coffee, wasted an hour or two, went through his e-mail, and then hit the morning snail mail. Gomenko expected he’d get called in any minute after the ritual.

Like clockwork: “Gomenko, get in here,” Ranchenkov ordered over the phone.

“Yes, sir,” the hapless official answered.

Gomenko walked the long dingy corridor which needed the same paint job that had been forgotten in the Soviet era. He took his time, not looking to be too eager; just the normal functionary who made work last.

“Good morning, Director Ranchenkov,” Gomenko said, entering the office.

“What’s good about it?”

“Apparently very little from your tone.”

Ranchenkov didn’t share the reason for his displeasure, but Gomenko smiled inside.

“What are you working on?”

“The Balkan summary you gave me three weeks ago.”

“It can wait. I have something else for you,” the deputy director general of internal intelligence said.

“But you told me it was urgent.” Slogging through a useless report was hardly urgent, but it is what filled his days, months, and years.

“It can wait another week. I have a most important matter; a request from the Kremlin.” Ranchenkov read from the memorandum without referencing the named author, Petrov Androsky. “You can go to the archives, research this thoroughly, and prepare the report.”

The beauty of the plan Gomenko had invented is that he was acting under orders that would never be questioned, preparing a report that would never be read—at least in Moscow. It would add to his work week and to his retirement income.

Just to tickle the tiger, he asked, “Where do I start, I’ve never heard of the Andropov Institute. Is it a school?”

“I have no idea.” That was true. Ranchenkov had served in the Soviet army for only a short time. He came up through the FSB long after the collapse of Communism. “Some relic, but you’re going to dust off the files and become an expert. The Kremlin,” he still didn’t say who, “requires a full summary. Names, dates, places. Details. I don’t want to see you until it’s finished. I’ll clear you at records.”

Gomenko collapsed his body in mock disgust. He let out a sigh for effect and left for his office.

“And it better be finished fast,” Ranchenkov yelled to his underling’s back.

Spying didn’t get much easier,
Gomenko thought.

Montana motel

Roarke and Perez were on their second Egg McMuffins from the McDonald’s on North Montana Avenue. They’d already had an order of pancakes and a large McCafe latte. The food had done as Roarke intended—satisfy his hunger and bring them closer together. He now sat at the corner of the bed and listened intently as the gang member was up to how he survived being raped by a truck driver.

This conversation took the better part of the morning. Roarke was in no rush to get to the heart of the matter. It was far more important to establish a bond with Perez. In time, and with trust, the relevant information would come.

Just before noon, the young Mara transporter began to describe how he picked up a man at the Houston airport.

“He came in on a morning flight. He’d been told my license plate and what I’d be driving. I just needed to keep circling the airport until he saw me. On the third time around, this guy flagged me. I pulled over. He had a password and I had the answer. That was it.”

“What was the password?” Roarke asked, wondering if it would add anything.

“Pretty simple. I had to hear it a few times. The guy had some sort of accent. It was ‘I’m going to a soccer match. Who’s winning the competition?’ Of course, I needed to have the right answer.”

“Which was?”

“Guatemala.”

“That was it?”

“No, if he responded, ‘I wish Brazil was still winning,’ I was to let him in. If he got it wrong, I was supposed to still pick him up, start driving north, then find a place and kill him.”

“He got it right,” Roarke noted.

“Yeah, but only to try to kill me later.”

Roarke didn’t jump to that part of the conversation yet. He wanted to take things all in order.

“Did he speak with you enough to get a sense of where he was from?” Roarke asked. To be more clear he added, “Did he sound like you?”

“No. He wasn’t Latin. European maybe. He had a roughness to the way he spoke. Without ups and downs. Just flat.”

Roarke gave a few examples of words and sounds. When he came to a sentence in German, Perez stopped him.

“Like that.”

“Are you sure? Roarke tried a few sentences with a Spanish, Russian, and Arabic dialect. He wasn’t as proficient as his friend, CIA agent Vinnie D’Angelo, but it was good enough.

“No, it was more like that first one. Maybe with a little of the last, too, when he met up with the other guy.”

“It was a long ride. Did he talk to you?”

“Only to tell me he needed a bathroom.”

“Any cell phone calls?” Roarke might be able to track something down.

“No.”

“What about stopping for food or coffee?”

“He had some food with him. I had a lot of coffee. I offered. He wouldn’t drink any.”

A German Muslim?
That was Roarke’s assumption, at least based on the limited variables he was getting.

“What about when you dropped him off?”

Perez recounted the event. The other car flashing its lights. The two greeting one another as long lost friends.

“Whoa. Describe that.”

“They fucking kissed each other on the cheeks both sides. And talked in that other language.”

“Did you catch anything? Anything like
‘’Assalamu alikum
or
Salam Alaikum?”

“Yes, that
Assalamu
thing you just said.”

Now Perez had a question for Roarke.

“So who the hell were they? And why did he want to kill me?”

Roarke stepped very carefully. “In a second.” Roarke thought for a moment. “Ricardo, you must have gotten a good look at the man you drove.”

“Yes. I kept staring at him in the rearview mirror. Whenever he noticed, he moved away.”

“And what about the other man? The one he met up with in the parking lot?”

“Him, too.”

“Well, to answer your question, they, or someone behind this, wanted to kill you because you could identify them. You’re alive and I need you to do just that—identify them.” Roarke stood up. He had the young man’s full attention.

“Ricardo, I can help you. I mean really help you. We can give you a new name. A new life. An education. You can be somebody. Put all this behind you. Everything. There’s the army or even college. But it all begins today with what you know.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“Told me, yes. But it’s time for some pictures.”

“Pictures. I didn’t have a camera.”

“In a way you did. I’m going to go out and see if the sergeant can find someone in town who can draw well. Maybe we can get a clear picture of the two men based on your descriptions. All you’ll need to do is talk them through it. If we get decent drawings I have a friend who can do miracles with them; maybe even figure out who the hell they are. Think you can?”

“I’ve never done it before.”

“You’ve never escaped from a car bomb before either.”

Moscow

Later

Arkady was waved through security in the FSB archives. He was allowed only pads of paper and pencils. No pens, no cell phones, keys, or anything that could hide electronics or cameras of any design. But then again he didn’t need them.

One archivist pointed him to another until he was convinced he was getting the old-fashioned Soviet runaround.

“Look, perhaps you did not hear who requested this information. I am here on the highest authority of the FSB. This authority can make sure that you will never see the light beyond the bulbs you sit under. If you think that such things ended when we stopped calling one another comrade, you are mistaken. Take me to where I need to go.”

Arkady made sure that his voice carried far down the vast aisles and put fear into anyone within earshot.

“Mr. Gomenko, I am sorry you’ve encountered such difficulty,” said one older man who suddenly entered the area. “My name is Sergei Kleinkorn. I will assist you.”

“Thank you.”

There was something about Kleinkorn that instilled some trepidation in Gomenko.
His age, his manner. His tone?
He was at least in his mid-seventies, though still fit. He had a full head of gray hair and dressed in a perfectly ironed blue suit, white shirt, and a red tie.
His attitude. A commanding attitude.

“I appreciate your help. I am on an assignment from Deputy Director Ranchenkov, acting on orders from the Kremlin.”

“May I see the papers so I can be of greater help.”

It was not said as a question; more as a military request. A former Soviet military request. Without thinking, Gomenko answered, “Yes, sir.”

Kleinkorn read the authorization. He raised an eyebrow upon reading the last paragraph.

“This is ancient history. What is the need for this today?”

“My need is to prepare a report. Beyond that I cannot say.” There were multiple truths in the last statement.

“There are those who would not want the information you seek known.”

“Mr. Kleinhorn,” he stated with authority. “I have a job to do. Will you please lead me to the correct files so I can conduct my research?”

Kleinkorn appeared put out, but waved Gomenko to follow.

Arkady Gomenko rethought how easy spying was.

Helena, Montana

Roarke had all the details Perez could remember. Make and color of the other car, basic age of the driver, and a verbatim of everything that was said on the ride to Montana. That was the easiest part. It consisted of
yes
,
no
, and
stop at next exit
.

He’d gone as far as he could without a sketch. Like clockwork, there was a knock at the motel door.

“Mr. Roarke?” It was SGT Barnes. “Can you come out please?”

Roarke excused himself again. A few steps down the hall the recruiter stood with a young woman, who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen. Before Roarke even dared ask, SGT Barnes said, “Mr. Roarke, this is Cheryl Gabriel. She’s a junior in high school here. The art teacher recommended Cher for your,” he paused, “portraits.”

Roarke nodded to the teenager and gave Barnes a troubled look. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe SGT Barnes really explained things.”

“Oh yes he did.” The teenager offered her hand to Roarke. He took it noting her poise and confidence. “I’m pretty good at drawing people. Wanna see?”

“Yes, but it’s not a portrait of someone in the room, it’s drawing someone, two people, from a description.”

“Oh,” the girl said.

The Secret Service agent was about to dismiss her when she added, “Well, I’d be happy to give it a try. I love to draw. It’s what I’d like to study in college.”

Roarke did like her spunk. She was pretty in a natural way, about five-seven with wavy brown hair. Going to college might be a problem, though. He came to that opinion because her coat was ragged and her winter shoes appeared to be seasons old. He surmised that Cheryl’s family had very little money.

“Maybe I should talk to your parents first and explain what this is all about.”

“I live with my aunt. She’s working at the truck stop. I can try to get her, if you really need.”

“You’re pretty confident.”

“The sergeant told me I could earn some money. How much?”

“You are confident, Miss Gabriel.”

“It’s Cheryl or Cher.”

“Well, Cher, what art school do you want to go to?”

She laughed. “Well, I’ve been looking at Savannah. It’s a lot warmer there in the winter. But really far away.”

“Yes it is. Tell you what, let’s see how you do, then we’ll talk. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Moscow

Gomenko worked under the watchful eye of Kleinkorn. Less than optimum circumstances. It seemed very old school to him. More Soviet than contemporary. But Gomenko chose not to raise eyebrows; not to turn what was reported as a mere government assignment into a suspicious activity worth an archivist’s questions. So the more Gomenko appeared bored and annoyed, the more disinterested his watcher became.

An amazing history began to reveal itself box by box. Later material referred back to early files deeper in the vault. It kept Kleinkorn busy. Since the request was based on the specific name, The Andropov Institute, Gomenko stayed with particular items from the era in question. The mid-1960s until whatever the last box would reveal.

This was Russia pre-computer, born from an era full of enemies real and propagandized, foreign and domestic. It was the Cold War, which Gomenko reasoned would have been more accurately described as the Overkill War. Each side had more weapons than humanly necessary. The vast numbers of nuclear weapons researched, developed, tested, built, and stockpiled in Russia and America created unfathomable power, incredible wealth, and a spy network that concocted elaborate plans. Arkady Gomenko quickly learned that The Andropov Institute was one of them. He also discovered that the Institute had another division as well, with an inspiring, patriotic name: Red Banner.

Red Banner was a school, with teachers, classes, assignments, homework, and a rigorous curriculum, but not one found at any other Soviet academic program.

Gomenko read with disbelief.
How could such a thing exist?
Yet it did with great promise and incredible graduates. They were not identified by anything more than a number, but trained over years. They offered an immense expanding level of influence for Soviet politik and perhaps the collapse of America’s infrastructure without anyone actually pressing “the button.”