Executive Actions by Gary Grossman Page A

and it fell to the gym floor. The caller was gone by the time he picked it up. The screen read “Caller ID unavailable.” He punched in a number from memory. It was a line that was also private and skipped the master switchboard.
    A woman’s voice answered the phone warmly. “Hi, honey. Thanks for getting back to me.”
    “Hi sweetheart,” Roarke said. “Everything okay?”
    Roarke topped off at six feet. He was muscular, but with more of a swimmer’s physique or the body of someone skilled in the martial arts, which he was. Chest hairs flowed over his t-shirt and his biceps pushed at the threads. Roarke’s open smile set him apart from other Secret Service agents with coldness chiselled on their faces. And although he had a slight scar under his chin, he was approachable; more friendly-looking than dangerous. He kept his dark brown head of hair a little longer than required, but clipped his sideburns short. He exuded an air of confidence, though he was quieter than people would at first expect. Roarke also had a flirtatious manner, which came out when he felt comfortable with people. To all others he always remained on guard.
    “Fine,” she said, “but I miss you.”
    “Me, too.”
    “I thought you’d call me this morning and I wouldn’t have to call you,” she said.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Well, as long as we’re talking now, that’s all that matters.”
    “Yeah,” Roarke added.
    “So…”
    “So.” Roarke said wiping the perspiration from his brow.
    “So, can you come by this morning?”
    “I guess.”
    “Say ten-thirty?”
    “Ten-thirty it is.”
    “I guarantee you it’ll be interesting,” she offered.
    “I bet. Usual place?”
    “You got it. 10:30.”
    “Uh huh. See ya,” Roarke said and hung up.
    The entire exchange lasted only eighteen seconds. Louise Swingle timed it on her stop watch. Roarke had an internal clock that was ticking away as well. They were always careful not to talk long. In fact, he was a second away from hanging up when they finished.
    Scott Roarke looked at the newspaper again and shook his head. He wasn’t surprised by the phone call. Not one bit. And though it was unlikely anyone was eavesdropping, they kept the exchange sounding like so many others between consenting adults. But in this case they were adults who consented to work for President Morgan Taylor.
     
    Roarke had been Taylor’s “go-to guy” for two years. As such he should have headed over to his boss’ office first thing in morning. Instead, he chose the gym. Deep down inside he liked getting called. Still he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to keep up the pace.
    Officially he was a salaried government worker earning $114,300 a year. But he didn’t have to apply for the job or fill out the damned OF 612 or SF 171 application forms for Federal Employment.
    Roarke was hand-picked for PD16. He also drew additional expenses from another account; one that had him banking in Drachmas, Yen, Eurodollars or other national currencies whenever his work took him on the road.
    It had been that way ever since Uncle Sam noted his unique skills in basic.
    Early in his training, a mean son of a bitch of a sergeant named Miller took a liking to Roarke. That meant he made his life a living hell, throwing every imaginable obstacle in the recruit’s path; all to test his limits.
    Nothing stopped Roarke. Not grueling runs. Not lack of sleep. He toughened with heavier backpacks and hardened in extreme elements.
    At the end of his basic training, Roarke wasn’t shipped off to a cushy assignment in Europe or Asia. On Sgt. Miller’s recommendation, Roarke received special papers sending him to greater hell that the Army made available for future intelligence officers or spies.
    His post was in the middle of Utah at a location that didn’t officially exist and where commercial jets weren’t allowed to fly over. He became a member of the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), an outfit that both analyzes data