“Portugal, when the air base was hit.”
“Is he tied to Hezbollah?”
“No record of it. No associations with known terrorist organizations either. Just sightings of a really big man at both places.”
“He’s hard to hide. Ultimately that should work in our favor. It would have been hard to keep Shaq a secret in Miami. Razak has to show up again.”
Jassim added his hope, then noted, “He’d make the perfect bodyguard. Don’t you think?”
“Haddad!” Vinnie D’Angelo concluded. “You’re right.”
“Guess, what? We’ve got a positive ID on him from people in his building in Florida. Right off his driver’s license photo.”
“California?”
“Yeah, we tracked that down. Probably his point of entry. A job there years ago? I don’t know. Not yet. We’ll find out. There’s no police record. Tax report from a year ago is clean. Nothing filed yet for this year.”
“Because?”
“I don’t know. Out of country? Dead?”
“You wish,” D’Angelo joked. “Try a new identity.”
“Which brings me to my next point. I don’t think Razak is his real name.”
“Why?”
“Because of its meaning in Arabic.”
“Which is?” D’Angelo asked.
“Protector. This guy wears his job like a label. We find him, we find Haddad.”
This made D’Angelo even more convinced. “Get his picture and fingerprints out to every police database. And while you’re at it, let’s have conversations with every big men’s shop in the country.”
“Beg your pardon?” Jassim asked.
“Razak sure isn’t running around naked. The man has to dress. It’s the obvious place to check. Rochester Big and Tall. Lots of others. Fax that picture to every single one by the end of the day.” D’Angelo was pleased with Jassim’s work. “And you’re right. We find him, we find Haddad.”
Sydney, Australia
Saturday, 11 August
While Morgan Taylor outlined his proposal, Foss studied the presidents, prime ministers, and premiers. The Pakistani president was the first to express his outrage.
“Are you suggesting American B-ls will be dropping bombs in my country on the suspicion that I am harboring terrorists? If you are, Mr. President, then this summit is over!”
A similar complaint was made by the Indonesian president. “I have never heard of such a thing. The other day you complained that I’m not doing enough. Now you say that my borders are meaningless to you.”
India joined its neighbor Pakistan’s objections. Malaysia agreed. Even New Zealand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Foss allowed everyone to express their positions. He did it with a certain degree of delight, knowing that Morgan Taylor would not give in. He never did.
When the fury died out, Prime Minister Foss addressed the group. “The President of the United States has offered a radical notion. If action is taken solely on the authority of an American president, be it Morgan Taylor, President Henry Lamden, or their successors, then I join you in unconditionally voting this down.”
He was answered by a chorus of, “Here, here!”
“However,” he said with authority, “taken as the will of a majority of signatory nations eager to seek out and destroy the very forces that threaten us, then I wholeheartedly embrace Mr. Taylor’s proposal.” He stunned the room back into silence. “We are living on borrowed time. There’s not a woman or man among us who isn’t at a loss for the ways and means to combat terrorists. They have crossed our borders, either legally or illegally. They are hell-bent on bringing us down one way or another. They are patient. They have vast resources to build stockpiles of arms and to recruit followers. Unarmed, they can be swatted dead. Armed, as they are, we are the ones who face oblivion. President Taylor proposes that we change the rules of engagement. Is that what you really object to? I, for one, want to hear more.” Without asking for a consensus, he nodded to Taylor.
“Mr. Prime Minister, fellow members of this esteemed league of nations, I am not the world’s policeman and I don’t want to be. However, we have a global enemy. Undeniably, this enemy is hiding in your countries. I know they are in mine. They build their armies and traffic their weapons. But too often, we wait until after they’ve struck to track them.”
Taylor cocked his head, a signal to Jack Evans. The U.S. National Director of Intelligence was ready with a handful of poster boards, which he put on the table in front of the president. Taylor slid one to his right, another to his left, and two across the table. Another dozen remained in front of him. “I’ve shared other satellite photographs with you. These were taken in the last twenty-four hours. You may not be able to identify the locations, but they are all from the countries represented here. Once again, weapons caches and encampments are circled. In most cases, these locations are out of reach of your own troops. So they remain in operation.
“These photos, and ones like them, are regularly sent to your military commands. You tell me what action has ever been taken? With the exception of an airstrike by Australia barely a month ago—none. The SASR destroyed the stronghold in the Solomons where the attack against our summit was planned. Were there any objections to that reprisal?”
Taylor reminded everyone how the remote-controlled bomb was discovered quite by accident at the Ville St. George. “We’re all alive today because of chance. Nothing more. How much longer can we play the odds? And yet you have no interest in annihilating the very forces that seek to kill you? You have no interest in at least destroying their weapons stores?”
Thailand’s leader had been studying one of three photographs that showed areas within his country. He lifted his head. “If the Chair will allow a question?”
Foss saw that Taylor was willing to relinquish the floor.
“You have a way of making a convincing argument, Mr. President. I have never seen these photos, or any like them. I assure you, I will speak with my commanders about this oversight. It will be corrected immediately.”
No one dared asked what that meant.
He continued, “Suffice it to say, I am troubled, but I need to understand more. Tell us how this strike force could work. Why wouldn’t it be a United Nations force?”
“Because we want it done in our lifetime,” Taylor said without a hint of humor. “I would like to believe that our own alliance will serve as a model to the U.N. But with Russia’s increasing proclivity toward censure and the profits they earn through arms sales, forget it.”
“We’d have to explain a great deal to our people. I’m not sure how to do it,” admitted the Thai leader.
“Tell them the truth,” Taylor replied. “You commit yourself to the fight. The United States will provide you with the necessary, irrefutable intelligence to act. But then you must act. If you do not, within twenty-four hours—under the jurisdiction of the agreement I hope to forge—an international force will do the work for you. You will then have the ability to announce that you accepted the invitation of the international strike team. It is a face-saving consideration. Make no mistake, this is a zero-sum proposition. We are past the point of options.” Morgan Taylor raised his left index finger and Jack Evans produced another satellite photograph. He stood and personally walked it over to Prime Minister Foss.
“This Liberian ship is carrying grenade launchers and an estimated twenty-five hundred automatic weapons, along with Japanese cars. She sailed from Kyoto two days ago. She’s due in Melbourne later this week. What do you want to do, Mr. Prime Minister?”
Chapter 64
Washington, D.C.
the same day
Roarke ran harder to relieve the stress. Until the various investigative agencies came up with anything on Cooper, he was desk-bound. He started going stir-crazy by the second day. Now nearly two weeks had elapsed since he returned from the field. His mentor Morgan Taylor was out of town and Katie was busy. So he ran.
Nothing, he thought. Roarke hated nothing.
Belgrade, Serbia
“I see no problems with what you’d like to do,” said the armsdealer, known only as Old Serbe. “I’ll give you some choices in a moment.” The grizzled man in a flannel shirt excused himself. This was not the first time he had worked with the American shrink. The Californian willingly paid him in whatever currency he requested. Today they agreed on euros. The exchange rate was more favorable than dollars. After a few minutes, the trader returned with a handful of photographs. “Take a look. You choose the best one.”
After a half hour looking at the prospects, the American picked three possibilities.
“Indeed, my choices, too,” Old Serbe laughed. “Come back in two hours and you shall examine the prospects.”
“Thank you,” said the Los Angeles psychologist. “I’ll do a bit of shopping in the meantime. But I do need to conclude this today. Time is a factor.”
“Undoubtedly. Your satisfaction is my first priority.”
Precisely two hours later they met. It took one more hour to decide on the finalist and conclude the transaction. The Caledonian and the man he hired through Old Serbe went to dinner to discuss the specifics that would change both of their lives.
Washington, D.C.
The Capitol Police were getting their assignments in a morning briefing. Nobody was happy. Extraordinary numbers of protestors were expected to descend on the nation’s capital. Estimates compiled from hotel and airline reservations, combined with assumptions about day-trippers, conservatively edged toward 2.5 million. The vendors and tourist-based businesses might revel in the numbers, but not the police. The names Elliott Strong and Robert Bridgeman were not bandied about warmly. This march was going to cost the District upwards of $12 to 15 million—and that’s if everything went well.
Across town, Duke Patrick worked on his speech. He sat at his dining room table writing in long hand. He studied what he had composed, still not pleased. It had to be inspiring. He needed to rally the crowd in D.C., yet simultaneously connect with the TV audience. Most of all he had to provide the country with a dynamic and authoritative presence: a leader who spoke with the voice of reason amidst growing discontent. He also needed to introduce General Robert Bridgeman.
Patrick tried out the phrases. Nothing felt right yet. He crumpled the latest page of handwritten notes and tossed it toward a small wastebasket. Toward, not in. He missed. His tenth miss in a row.
Patrick always struggled like this. He had to work at getting to his folksy style. Once there, he’d quickly memorize his speech and deliver it as if it were a rousing Sunday sermon. He avoided anything fancy. He was a good old boy. That’s what got him his first seat in the House and what won over fellow Democrats after the last election. His ascension to speaker, number-three in the line of succession, was the affirmation he initially sought. Now he had a new goal.
Patrick tolerated Henry Lamden, but he hated Morgan Taylor. He vowed to do anything to bring him down.
Lamden’s heart attack opened the door to some interesting possibilities. The invitation to introduce General Bridgeman was a pure gift.
Taylor ridiculed me. He did it in the White House. Never again, Patrick thought as he tried out another sentence. Never again.
Tyler, Texas
Across the country, General Bridgeman was busy with his own speech. His rise to national prominence was on the lips of every political pundit on the airwaves. For someone who was neither a declared Republican nor Democrat, Bridgeman presumed to speak for all the people.
Who’s tired of the way things are? Who’s ready for the way things ought to be? That was the approach he decided to take. He had little concern that the actual presidential primary was years off. Robert Bridgeman was on his own timetable. And who better to lead the charge than a Washington outsider. Four years earlier, Taylor proved that voters still took a shining to military brass. But in his mind, a Marine general outranked a Navy commander any day…particularly August 18.
Washington, D.C.
Katie put down her boxes and suitcases outside Scott’s apartment.
Roarke heard the doorbell as he was toweling off from his shower. He didn’t rush to the door. He never opened it without first identifying who was there; and second, determining if he wanted to let in that who.
He tuned his bedroom TV to AUX. An image appeared, captured by the pencil-thin fiber optic camera he placed within the doorframe.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. Roarke ran to the door, unlocked the dead bolt, and threw it open.
“Katie! Oh my God!”
She responded with equal surprise to the sight of him. “My goodness! I hope you don’t greet everyone like this.” She looked down.
He did the same. “Oh Christ!” He had lost his towel on the way. “Quick! Come on in.”
“No,” she said pushing past him with her suitcases. “You come in.”
Katie kicked the door closed with her foot and took him right on the hallway floor.
Maluku, Indonesia
Sunday, 12 August
“Atef, a question while we eat.”
“Yes, Commander,” the subordinate said.
“You have served me well in the mountains. How shall I reward you in the city?” the insurgent commander asked.
They discussed many things over their tasteless meals, but this was the first time Komari ever asked him what he might want.
“To continue to serve you, sir.”
Komari laughed so hard, he spilled his tea onto his thick, filthy beard. “Spoken like a politician, not a soldier.” He wiped the mess with his shirtsleeve. “Atef, we will take Jakarta and rule all Indonesia. You will be at my side. But you must have expectations. So I ask again, what reward do you seek from me? Money? The power that comes from being a senior secretary?”
“Actually, a bath,” Musah Atef said through a mouthful of overcooked beef with rice.
Komari enjoyed this next laugh even more. Then without warning, he changed the tone with a pointed question. “To bathe your body or to wash away your sins?” To punctuate the directive, he quickly reached down and removed a hunting knife from a sheath in his boot and plunged the blade into the wooden table.
Atef swallowed hard. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Many people will die. Christian women and children among them. Thousands. You will share responsibility for the cleansing of our nation. At some point a thought may enter your mind. ‘Have I done the right thing?’ My back may be turned and you, Musah Atef, would have the occasion to do the work of our enemies.”
“Commander, I am, and forever will be, your instrument. I should die in your service tonight, here and now, if you believe I would ever betray you.”
Commander Umar Komari stared deeply into the dark brown eyes of the young man who sat before him. He saw fear in the young lieutenant he had plucked from a fishing village two years earlier. There was fear where he had expected loyalty.
No, thought Komari, this one will not be at my side when we liberate the people.
Chapter 65
The New York Times
the same day
Now Michael O’Connell had to decide what to do. He read his notes again. His research fell into two categories: So what? and Holy shit!
The so what side was filled with unsubstantiated reports, unrelated facts, and personal assumptions: not enough on which to base a New York Times article. Moreover, if somehow the story did go to print at this point, he’d leave the paper open to libel.
On the other han
d, there was the Holy shit! factor, filled with the same unsubstantiated reports, unrelated facts, and personal assumptions that, libel or no libel, led to a shocking conclusion.
O’Connell drummed his fingers on the desk. This was too big for him to decide on his own. He took all of his work and marched into his editor’s office.
“I’m on a deadline, go away,” Weaver demanded.
“You say that to everybody,” O’Connell replied and made his un-welcomed way in. “Besides, I need your help.”
“Am I hearing Michael O’Connell correctly? He needs help?”
“Come on, Weaver. Really.”
“Well, I’m just a little surprised. Nothing from you in days. Not a word on paper. Not an e-mail.” The Times editor had expected something from O’Connell. “You know, they’ve been asking about you upstairs. I’ve been covering for you. If you can’t make this story work, we’ll get you onto another.”
“That’s the problem. I can make it work. But we have to be dead certain we’re ready to go all the way with it.” O’Connell purposely chose his words.
“Go all the way with it?” Weaver gave up her editing and motioned for O’Connell to sit.
The Times reporter outlined what he’d discovered on his initial round of calls.
Taking into account O’Connell’s recent escapade in Russia, Weaver immediately went to the Holy shit! side.
“My sentiments exactly.” He leaned forward in his chair. “So what do we do?”
“We don’t run it. But you stay on it. How much time do you think you need?”
“The question we should be asking is whether we’ve run out of time.”
O’Connell’s desk
later
O’Connell based his worry on the notion that Strong had a great deal, if not everything, to do with Robert Bridgeman’s sudden ascent. Another concern came to him. The march on Washington might be more than advertised.
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