Meyerson was a staffer in the White House Office for Strategic Planning. She typically focused on project research that could culminate in pro-administration policies. This allowed her to be hands-on when it came to developing White House strategies, making her an obvious “inside source” for anyone on the outside. Not that she really touched much that was sensitive. Not yet. But other people didn’t know that. Nonetheless, she had been fully briefed on how they’d try. Reporters would strike up conversations, build on seemingly chance encounters, and pull her into the young Washington social scene. It was all part of the game. And she would make great company. At 25, Lynn Meyerson had exceptional poise, genuine sincerity, great looks, and distinctive curly red hair that made cameras and men turn. She stood out of any crowd—a 5′ 7″, 118-pound beauty.
The FBI had cleared Meyerson into the White House and, even further, into the Oval Office. Each personal reference reinforced the view of the last. She’s dynamic. She has the political know-how to go far. She’s a budding superstar, a natural-born politician. President Lamden clearly liked the young woman’s energy and enthusiasm and her willingness to express unpopular opinions.
Meyerson made it no secret that she wanted to work in government, especially the White House. She’d admitted that to her closest friends at Wellesley College. Her zeal earned her an interview her senior year. But what really counted was how she befriended then-President Morgan Taylor’s secretary, Louise Swingle. It was the number-one rule to crack any company. The White House was no different than Microsoft. Make friends with the boss’s secretary. Swingle took a liking to her and set up meetings with a variety of White House offices. Following the inauguration, she got an offer with the Office of Strategic Initiatives.
Meyerson tried to send Swingle an exquisite assortment of exotic flowers. That’s when she learned that things were as tough to get into the White House as they were to get out. The flowers ended up at Swingle’s home.
President Lamden, nearly forty years Meyerson’s senior, talked with Lynn about her goals, but always kept everything on a business level. He agreed with the written assessments. She would go far. Perhaps make Congress by her mid-thirties. He heard that her friends were already egging her on about going after a Maryland seat in a couple of years. And she’d probably win, he thought. She had that much potential.
Meyerson paused for one more look around the suite at the hotel, named for Ronald Reagan. It was impressive. So was the president who now occupied it.
At first she laughed at the Stetsons he wore and the Montana stories he spun for her in their free time. Then she recognized that Lamden, like Lyndon Johnson, used his cowboy charm to make more important things happen. The lanky 67-year-old lawmaker could bring down a calf in a rodeo ring. She trusted that he had done the same with many a political opponent. Lamden was shrewd, tough. She was careful what she said to him. Still, she was impressed by the trappings and the access.
This is good. This is really good. She’d made it. She was traveling with the President of the United States, staying at the Century Plaza Hotel on Avenue of the Stars, and meeting some of the real stars who populated the avenue.
Most of all, she was thoroughly aware of the security measures surrounding the president with Secret Service agents always close by. Marksmen on the roof. The “football"—the attache case with nuclear weapons codes and plans—always within reach. Bulletproof glass in the hotel suite and even the undisclosed evacuation routes through the Century Plaza’s unpublicized secure corridors. When she really stopped to think about it, she truly was on the “inside.”
Since she joined Lamden’s administration, Meyerson spent nearly every day at the White House. This was her first trip away.
Henry Lamden was taking off shortly, but Meyerson wouldn’t be on the plane. She’d requested a few days in L.A. “Well deserved,” the president acknowledged.
“Good night, Lynn,” the president said without casting eyes on the redhead. “See you back at the ranch Monday. We’ll work on the first town hall meeting. When is it?”
“Fourth of July.”
“I can just imagine the fireworks,” he joked, not at all referring to the celebration. “Now enjoy yourself.” He returned to his reading. “Go.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I will.” She lingered for a moment. He’s looking tired. Hard week. “You take care, sir.”
He didn’t hear her. Lamden was already deeply absorbed in a summation of upcoming legislation.
Meyerson smiled at the agents standing vigil at the door. “Night.”
“You going for your run tonight?” one Secret Service agent asked.
“Yup. Then I’m cutting loose. Doing Melrose and catching a friend from Vassar at the Sunset Marquis Whiskey Bar.” She didn’t let on that it was really a blind date with a presumably drop-dead handsome aide to the governor of California. But a smile curled over her lips that might have given her away.
“That’s all?” the agent asked like a friend.
She raised her shoulders and gave a coquettish shrug as if to say, it’s too early to tell. Then she told herself, I might not say no to anything.
Cheviot Hills Recreation Park
the same time
Nat Olsen sat facing one of the three basketball courts. A pickup game was in progress on the court closest to him. Probably lawyers and agents, he thought. If they were star players in high school, they didn’t look it here. Though it appeared he was following the game with great intent, Olsen didn’t really care. He was focused well beyond the court, to the entrance of the park off Motor Avenue. He checked his watch. A young woman jogger would be along very soon.
Chapter 2
Halmahera Island
Maluku, Indonesia
Indonesia, in all its exotic beauty, is also viewed as an outlaw’s paradise. It is the world’s largest archipelago, sitting astride the equator between the Asian and Australian continents. The sprawling nation covers some 3,200 miles of ocean.
The name Indonesia has its roots in Greek: “Indos” meaning Indian and “Nesos” for islands. Two hundred twenty million inhabitants make it the fourth most populated country and the most populous Muslim nation on the face of the earth. More than 17,500 islands rise above the tide. Some are no bigger than a few yards. Others are the size of Spain and California. Only 6,000 are inhabited. Most have little or no infrastructure. Many have yet to be explored.
Indonesia is the proverbial haystack. Anyone trying to hide among its islands becomes the needle.
The southernmost part of Indonesia, the province of Maluku, is comprised of 1,027 volcanic islands and fewer than 1,700,000 people. The vast majority are Muslim.
Not long ago, entire portions of Maluku were “cleansed” of Christians in a holy war staged by a terrorist group known as Laskar Jihad. At its height in the late 1990s and first decade of the 21st century, the movement had 10,000 followers actively engaged in arms smuggling, sniper attacks, forced conversions and circumcisions, and massacres. An estimated 10,000 people were killed in the process. Another 500,000 were displaced. Maluku is now strictly segregated along religious lines.
Today the most feared terrorist network is Indonesia’s Jemaah Islamiyyah or JI. The group routinely preys on “soft targets”: places where Westerners tend to congregate. It came to international attention after bombings at luxury tourist hotels in Bali in 2002 and Jakarta in 2003, and the Jakarta airport, also in 2003. Hundreds were killed in the name of Islam, mostly Australian and other foreign tourists.
Other terrorist groups also thrive in the region: the Philippines’s Abu Sayyaf, with solid ties to al-Qaeda; a Malaysian Islamist group, the Kumpulah Mujahedeen Malaysia; and homegrown insurgents who operate among the islands with little fear of ever being discovered.
None of the individual cells had the economic or military resources of a country, but for at least ten years, this was not a problem. Strategic strikes throughout the world had proven that open and
tolerant societies were extremely vulnerable. Indonesia included.
Although the U.S. State Department designated JI as a Foreign Terrorist Organization, attacks in Indonesia are generally viewed as terrorism only if the victims are foreigners. Assaults against locals don’t receive the same attention from the police, courts, or government, partially out of the belief that further reprisals from Islamic extremists will be worse.
However, the U.S. did send troops to Indonesia to help train the Indonesian Army (TNI) in counter-terrorism techniques. As a result, the TNI intensified offenses against JI strongholds. Laskar Jihad ultimately disbanded, but Jemaah Islamiyyah and other splinter groups continue to thrive, killing and scattering into the thick, mountainous jungles and dark, dangerous caves too numerous to catalogue.
The terrorists live on ransom money, drug sales, and cash from the global terror network, including al-Qaeda sources.
Widespread poverty contributes to further corruption. The police and military are regularly bought off. Lawlessness rules many of the islands. Kidnappings, bombings, extortion, and torture remain the terrorists’ principal tools.
Americans interested in exploring the famed coral reefs of the Maluku Islands are urged by the State Department to seriously reconsider.
Umar Komari, commander of an emerging terrorist fragment October 12, is one of the reasons.
• • •
“Three million! And what do you come back with? One-third?” Komari shouted in Bahasa Indonesian.
Musah Atef offered only a muffled, “I’m sorry, sir,” through the hood over his head. The haggard subordinate was prostrated before his commander. Komari had his foot on his shoulder, his Luger at his temple.
Everything spoke to the Muslim tradition of dominance. Placing a captive on the ground, or putting a foot on him, implied the captor was God. The hood denoted shame for the captive. Fully aware of the cold barrel of the gun, Atef took special care to answer carefully. He had seen Commander Komari kill many hostages without remorse. Now four of his fellow officers watched him, fearing one day they would be in the same position.
“I’m sorry? That’s all you can say?” Komari roared. Even those deeper in the cave would be certain to hear him.
“Yes, sir.”
“The agreement was three million of the infidel’s dollars!” the 47-year-old terrorist leader now whispered in his ear. The amount was not for general consumption, since he planned to skim a percentage as his own. “And you dared return with this?” Komari now shouted. He pressed his foot hard into Atef s shoulder blade, causing the young soldier to cry out and plead for his life.
Now Komari reached for Atef’s backpack and spilled the contents on his back. He didn’t have to count out the twenties—all in U.S. currency—to see how badly he’d been swindled by the corrupt Chinese colonel.
“Huang held a gun to my head just as you do, and he says the Shabu is no good. Low grade,” Atef explained.
“Communist pig!”
“A pig whose paws can finger a gun.”
“And you could not convince him otherwise?”
Atef raised his head as if to look at Commander Komari. “Convince him? No sir. There were only three of us. In the past we met only four of them. But he came out of nowhere in a fast amphibious craft with more men. Maybe twenty. His machine guns and cannons were already aimed at us. They could have blown our cigarette boat out of the water in seconds.”
Komari spit in disgust. He’d been double-crossed, yet lucky to get his men back with at least some of the money. Still, he made Atef believe he would die for not trying harder.
“I should kill you now. That way I won’t have to feed you. Your portions will go to someone deserving to live.”
If he did pull the trigger, only his troops would hear, and that would serve its own purpose. No one else was nearby. Tonight, Komari’s men were huddled in a mountain cave tucked into one of the four backswept peninsulas of Halmahera. Tomorrow they would be at another encampment—always moving, never providing a reliable pattern for the TNI.
Komari had greater knowledge of the North Indonesian island chains than any fisherman who worked the waters. He knew the tides, and which coves were safe and which were not. He also knew the interior trails, virtually frozen in time, where hunter-gatherer tribes lived as they had for thousands of years. And he had faith that he and his men could disappear for years, if need be, just like the Japanese soldier who went undetected on the island of Morotai for twenty-eight years.
Komari cocked the trigger. At the sound, Atef bowed his head and pleaded. “Commander, it was different than each time before. The Chinese colonel broke his agreement with you. It is not my fault.”
“Is it Allah’s will then? You blame Allah?” Komari demanded, calling on the Arab belief that incidences are not a matter of cause and effect, but the will of God.
Atef shook his head.
“Then perhaps you are merely the messenger with the bad news? That our friends who manufacture the Shabu are providing inferior-grade product? That is why I should not end your life now?”
“Yes, sir,” appealed Atef.
“Then go on. Beg for your life. But rest assured, your next words will determine your fate, for you have failed me and all who pray to Allah for the future of our independence.”
“Sir, as Allah as my witness, this is the truth. Colonel Huang claims that not even the weakest can become addicted to our last Shabu. He says he must sell three times as much for the same money to be effective. So he pays us a third of your price. He threatens my head as you do, and he laughs. He tells me that I have a death sentence three ways: by his hand, by yours for not returning with the proper amount, or by the government if they catch me.”
A smile rolled over Komari’s face. He stroked his long, knotted beard. The length was a visible symbol of his faith: the longer the beard, the greater the faith. Commander Komari wore the beard of a truly devoted Muslim. He thought for a moment. Colonel Nyuan Huang was notorious for turning a moment to his advantage. He chuckled.
“Of course. If you had objected, he would have killed you on the spot. If you tried to escape with the drugs, then Huang would have notified TNI patrol boats. Given the right coordinates, they could have tracked you back to our camp. That would have been the other death sentence, right?”
“Yes, commander.”
“And then we all would have been arrested, tried, and executed.”
“Truly.”
Komari was simply reciting Indonesia’s laws regarding capital punishment, inherited from their former colonial ruler, the Dutch. It remains the mandated sentence for drug trafficking, whether opium, morphine, cocaine, or methamphetamine—the Shabu.
Komari was trumped this time. In turn, he would pay his factories less. Commander Umar Komari engaged the safety on his gun and holstered it. Atef took a long, relieved deep breath.
“You may stand.”
Atef came to attention.
“And take off that hood, but remember how it feels.”
The soldier complied, relieved to breathe in fresh air again. His mouth was filled with blood from a broken nose. His beard, shorter than Komari’s, smelled of vomit from his beating.
“We shall check with our labs to see if this is true. Perhaps we shall make a quick, visible ‘corrective step’ to one worker for all to see. What do you think, Atef?”
The man was grateful to have his own life. He knew the best thing now was to agree with his commander.
“Whatever you choose, sir.”
Komari slapped his man on the back. “Ever the diplomat. You shall praise Allah that you have lived to see another day. While you are the messenger with the bad news, you are not responsible for the message. At least not today. We must keep our Chinese friends happy. It is their trade that funds the purchase of our weapons. And soon we will be powerful enough to deliver a message ourselves: a message that will make news, free us from our oppressors, and give Mal
uku our long-sought independence.”
Atef bowed, patted his heart a few times in thanks, and backed out of Komari’s cave, into the thick of the island jungle. The 2 2-year-old soldier felt the burning stare of his commander as he made for a waterfall to clean up the stench and wash away his fear. He would return. He believed in Komari and the cause of October 12, the date commemorating the glorious attack on Bali. If anyone would lead the charge to Maluku’s independence, it would be Komari. He prayed he’d be alive to see it.
Century Plaza Hotel
Los Angeles, California
the same time
Lynn Meyerson laced up her sneakers and checked herself in the mirror. Her bright green eyes sparkled. She widened them to see whether she wanted to touch up. Nah, she thought. Fine for now. She reached for her favorite barrette, one made out of an exotic blue-green oyster shell. She twisted her hair into a ponytail, shaped it into a bun, and clipped it up. Finally, Meyerson grabbed some crumpled bills from her purse along with a few other necessities. She stuffed them in her running shorts. The young woman looked in the mirror one last time, searching for the commitment she had made with herself. She saw her own strength and confidence reflected back.
Lynn Meyerson was ready.
So was a man in the park.
Chapter 3
The Ville St. George Hotel
Sydney, Australia
Immediately after the September 11 attacks in New York and Washington, the Australian government invoked the 50-year-old ANZUS mutual defense treaty. ANZUS, an anagram for the three signatory nations—Australia, New Zealand, and the United States—considers an attack on one nation an attack on all. However, the actual status of the treaty has been in question. New Zealand’s refusal to permit U.S. nuclear-powered or armed ships in its ports resulted in the United States revoking its reciprocal ANZUS obligations to that country. Meanwhile regional terrorist attacks in Bali, Indonesia, and the Philippines, and activity in the Solomons, underscored the need for ANZUS protection.
Executive Treason Page 3