Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command

by Gary Grossman

  “I’ve got more,” Drahushak continued. The brunette, the only PhD in Criminology in Bessolo’s team, handed out more photographs. Four good maybes. Take a look.”

  The pictures went from hand to hand. Soon, all of Bessolo’s crack team had a chance to see them.

  “The best ones are from Syria. Oh-eight. Looks like he was at a trade convention. See the banners in the background?” Drahushak was well into researching the event, sponsored by a chemical consortium. “I should have more later today. Now for the maybe. This one is from South America.”

  “Oh?” Bessolo said. Hassan’s flight originated in Buenos Aires, with stops in Colombia and Mexico City.

  “This could be him, too.” She handed over a somewhat blurry picture from a soccer match. “Second row up. He’s third from the left.”

  “How’d we get this? Bessolo asked.

  “Sharp field work. A CIA officer I know takes his camera everywhere, especially soccer games. He puts everything in the hopper. Just in case. He says you never know what’s going to be important later.”

  “What did this cost you,” asked Aaron Phillips in an all-too-snarky manner.

  “Something you’ll never get to enjoy from me!”

  “Smart ass.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  It was the kind of banter that Bessolo liked. He promoted team spirit, which was particularly important during marathon investigations—like this was sure to become.

  “The shot’s fuzzy,” Bessolo said, returning to the job at hand.

  “Parsons is working on it. By the time he’s through with it, we’ll see what his fillings are made of.”

  Chuck Rantz, Bessolo’s fingerprint expert, tapped the photo. “Do we know who he’s sitting with?” It appeared that the two men sitting to Hassan’s right could be Middle Eastern.

  Bessolo liked the question.

  “Don’t know yet. Gotta wait until Touch is through with his run at it. Then we’ll cross-reference,” Drahushak explained.

  “Who the fuck’s playing?” Bessolo asked.

  “Who’s playing,” Drahushak answered. “I don’t know.” She thought it was a joke.

  “Find out. I want to know if Hassan is just out for a good time at a match or whether he’s rooting for his own home team.”

  “Good question.” Drahushak made a note to check. She wished she’d thought of that.

  “Who’s next?”

  Komar Erkin raised her hand. “Unconfirmed, and unrelated to the photos, but interesting. BND may have something.” BND stood for the Bundesnachrichtendienst, the German intelligence service.

  Erkin was on tenuous ground for a newbee. President Taylor had made it very clear that during his term, America would not act on unconfirmed intelligence or handpicked information that might be suspect.

  “Give it to me,” Bessolo barked.

  “Hassan may have also gone by the name of Musof al-Mihdhar.

  They have a nice thick file on an al-Mihdhar. Chuck, check the fingerprints on file. Until we’ve got real confirmation, I hesitate to go much further.”

  “Pique my interest, just for argument sake,” Bessolo said.

  “Well, your guy Parsons should run these pictures, too.”

  “Yes, yes. And…”

  “If they’re the same, I’d personally worry a little bit more.” Erkin had everyone’s attention. “Al-Mihdhar is a Saudi. He holds a doctorate in chemistry and a masters in geology, with some dubious credits in Israel thanks to Hamas. BND had been tracking him around the world. They lost him six months ago.”

  So he was an Egyptian or a Saudi? A chemist and a biologist?” Bessolo’s entire body language stiffened.

  “Whichever worked on any given day,” Erkin stated.

  “Then I want to know if the others at the soccer game were also into geology and chemistry. And what kind of deadly cocktail those two ingredients make.” Bessolo left his team with a lot to do.

  Thirteen

  Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

  So far he’d sent thirty-six men to the United States. Eighteen teams of two. Only one didn’t make it. At least he died in the process, Ibrahim Haddad thought gratefully.

  Haddad had everything that money could buy and none of what he really wanted. He lived like a recluse in Ciudad del Este. He wanted his wife and child back. That would never be. One day he would join them, welcomed by the Prophet, reunited with his family killed by an Israeli missile. That very fact shaped his life, dictated every action, and ultimately led him to Paraguay.

  He first learned about what this country could offer him years ago through a chance acquaintance at a Beirut souk. There they were—Haddad, a well-respected businessman, and the stranger, a professor at Beirut Arab University. Two men unsure of what present to buy for their wives. They met at a counter displaying fine dining linens made of the best Indian cloth. Only one would see a great family dinner served on it.

  “Ah, both of us with the same thought,” the Beirut professor offered when they found themselves together in line with their presents. “For your wife?”

  “Yes,” Haddad happily responded. “The Prophet Mohammad bore witness of the goodness of his wife, for she was the first to embrace Islam. We honor the Prophet by honoring our wives.”

  “That is so true.”

  “And my wife reminds me of that on a daily basis,” Haddad said with a smile. I suspect yours says the same thing?”

  The man laughed. “Yes. Exactly her words.”

  “Then we shall both be rewarded when we return home,” Haddad said. His intent was quite clear.

  The men continued their lighthearted conversation as they paid for the linens. Outside, the professor invited Haddad to tea. What began as small talk moved into global politics and the teacher’s own expertise. Haddad learned that Dr. Akbar El Deeb was one of the leading experts in a commodity that existed in far too short supply in the Arab world.

  Haddad found the discussion interesting and well beyond any of his reading. They talked about the problems that faced each of the Arab nations and how they dealt with the need. Then Haddad’s questions turned to the rest of the world. “Is the resource as challenged in the West?”

  Dr. El Deeb explained the difference. And in explaining it in such detail, Haddad learned as much about America’s vulnerabilities. Everything he said was completely fascinating. The history, the science, and the transglobal political ramifications.

  Over the next two hours Haddad learned how little the Americans knew about the magnitude of the potential danger and how important a role a little country like Paraguay could play. The facts were absolutely amazing and worth further research.

  The men ended the evening with a sumptuous dinner. Dr. El Deeb returned home near the university with his wife’s present. Haddad went the few miles south with his. He could just imagine his wife’s reaction. It would be the most magnificent weave she had ever seen. He would tell her, “We shall wait to use it for when we break fast on the last night of Ramadan, my love. And over a wonderful meal that I will prepare for you, we will pledge our love for eternity.”

  Ibrahim Haddad loved his wife and infant daughter. But he would never see them alive again. They died while he was shopping. They died without his protection. They died without a gun in their hands. A bombing run, retaliation for a Black September attack, sealed their fate.

  That night, with his daughter’s lifeless body in his arms, Ibrahim Haddad vowed the ultimate revenge. It would take years, a web of international coconspirators, foreign partners, and money.

  Haddad plotted to bring down the Zionists. His goal required the complete undermining of support from America. They way to do that was attack the very heart of the political, moral, and constitutional power in the United States.

  One plot had failed, but Haddad survived and escaped and immediately began to set things in motion that started the night he met Dr. El Deeb; the night his beautiful wife and daughter were killed.

  It had taken years to pla
n and millions of dollars. He worked with research from old Soviet Union intelligence officers, disenfranchised scientists, Arab fanatics, and even Americans with a cause or a craving for power. It became his life’s work. Soon the United States would have to stop worrying about the rest of the world and take care of its own needy citizens. Israel would be alone and fall.

  All of this because of a chance encounter with a college professor in Beirut and the primer he got on a most vital natural resource.

  Fourteen

  Gulfton, Texas

  Manuel Estavan used 13-30 for his own personal gain. While the people who served him lived just above the poverty line, making money by killing civilians and their countrymen, Estavan had some $870,000 in a high-yield account with Citibank. The deposits from the Syrian came easier than cash on the streets. Typically, 13-30 dealt in drugs, stolen cell phones, prostitution, racketeering, and hard-core extortion. All of it required management and huge risks. On the other hand, the kind of immigrant smuggling he was now into was easy money.

  His biggest challenge was competition. There were MS-13 gangs throughout the United States and an ever increasing number of 13-30 branches.

  Only a decade earlier the gang had numbered a few thousand. Today, as many as fifty thousand. Manuel Estavan was finding that running a gang was much like running a business. He had to stay ahead of the competition and provide better service.

  Now he needed to keep his new client happy. Refund the deposit on the dead guy before it’s demanded. That’s what Estavan decided. Show that he could be trusted no matter what.

  Though he lost one “package” at the airport, his young followers had successfully retrieved others. They were not the typically poor El Salvadorian farmers that other 13-30 gangs transported across the Mexican border. These men were well-dressed, professional-looking travelers on their way, he thought, to conduct some serious shit.

  Al Qaeda? Estavan didn’t know. Moreover, he couldn’t even spell it or explain why we were at war with terrorists. However, he knew they were involved in something muy grande.

  So, Manuel Estavan wanted to demonstrate his loyalty and be first in line for more work. Two successful pickups. One already delivered to Maine. Another on the way to Montana. Two for three. Not the contract, he thought. But not my fault, either. Estavan called a number on his phone; a number he was told not to use unless it was “vitally important.”

  But this is extremely important, he presumed. They’re going to need help bringing more people in. As he punched in the international telephone number, Estavan allowed himself to think of the money. Tens of thousands for the handling of each “package,” based on degrees of difficulty, and a bonus for sacrificing his drivers. That money came to him separately. Twelve thousand five hundred dollars per. That’s where the profit really was.

  Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

  The cell phone rang. The number that only ten people had. The one that he never wanted to answer. He was amazed the batteries were even charged. Yet, he could hear the ring tone coming from a bureau drawer beside his bed.

  Ibrahim Haddad wondered who was calling and why? There was only one way to find out, but picking up had its own risks. The Americans can listen. That fact had been publicly established with the 2005 New York Times investigative article on the Bush administration’s controversial eavesdropping on telephone calls. For that reason, he sat up in bed, but didn’t move. The ringing stopped. Good. Wrong number.

  Less than a minute later the phone rang again. Haddad tried to ignore it. On the fifth attempt, he grabbed the Samsung phone off his dresser. On the seventh set of rings, he finally answered it…carefully.

  “Hola.”

  “Hola, Solon,” the caller replied.

  “Esta es Manuel.”

  Haddad didn’t say anything.

  “I know you said not to call you unless there was a serious problem. There is. U.S. Customs pigs killed one of your…”

  Haddad threw the phone on the bedroom floor. The battery popped out and the device broke. His display of anger alone didn’t quell his fury. He flung the bedroom bureau from the wall onto the phone. “Imbecile!” he screamed. It was followed with more.

  One of his body guards instantly ran into the bedroom suite. Haddad waved him away. Just like that stupid maniac in Libya! he told himself. He was remembering the late night calls more than a year ago from Abahar Gharazzi, the son of the Libyan dictator. Those calls very well contributed to the discovery of his plan to put his own man in the White House. Now another incompetent.

  He calculated the time they were on the phone. Ten, maybe twelve seconds. Possibly not long enough for the Americans to establish a trace. Then he replayed the conversation in his mind. Were there any words that the NSA’s Echelon computers would pick up on even in Spanish? There was a problem? Return the money? Hardly. U.S. Customs? Houston? That began to worry him more. Killed your… That phrase could positively connect him.

  Haddad wished that he could contact the one man who could take care of the gangbanger. But as he surmised from the cable news, his number one assassin had been cut down in Washington by the FBI. He’d have to put the job in someone else’s hands. A lesser assassin. But it had to be done. Manuel en Houston, Manuel Estavan, had violated his express order and put his life’s work in jeopardy. For that he would die. Any number of people in Ciudad del Este could do it. However, the job wasn’t a priority right now. Other things were more urgent.

  Fifteen

  The White House

  “How’s the market?” President Taylor asked his chief of staff. He wanted to judge what the Wall Street barometer had to say about the political climate.

  “Surprisingly good,” reported John Bernstein. “The Dow and NASDAQ are both up again. Some profit taking at Boeing after the 777 sales to the Chinese. Tech is soft.”

  “Ford?”

  Bernsie nodded his balding head. “Up more. GM, too.”

  John Bernstein had been a friend, associate, and confidant since Taylor served in the Senate. He was ten years older than Morgan Taylor and much the political curmudgeon that most people could only take for short periods. But Bernstein was shrewd, knowledgeable, and daring. He ran the White House and had a direct line to corporate leaders across America. That made him an influential fund-raiser and a good pulse taker. The joke around Washington was that John Bernstein never slept. Just when people thought they were returning phone calls too late into the night to reach Bernsie, he would pick up. He was, in fact, the man Morgan Taylor relied on the most, even though they rarely agreed on anything. That was part of the attraction. He would willingly engage the president on policy and philosophy. Their differences made Taylor think twice about every critical governmental decision and three times on political ones.

  Bernstein’s personal life was another matter. He was twice divorced, overweight by forty-five pounds, and ordinarily wearing fairly rumpled suits. His appearance, however, was part of his personal deception.

  “But something feels wacky to me. There’s a lot of activity at Nestlé. Coke is going through the roof. PepsiCo, too. Apparently, the new distribution deals they were making in South America are beginning to pay off. Don’t know if it’s the cola wars or what, but why now?”

  “The Latin market is huge.”

  “I guess,” Bernsie said, not really willing to leave anything to a guess.

  “Okay,” Taylor continued. “The fact that the stocks didn’t take a nose dive after the press conference was encouraging. Let’s keep a sharp eye on those sector leaders, though,” Taylor added.

  “If there’s the hint of a blowback, I want to hear immediately.”

  Bernsie agreed.

  The president was ready to move on to other topics. He opened a new water bottle. He didn’t really have a favorite label. They were all the same to him. Furthermore, the White House chef didn’t play favorites. The shelves were stocked with Dasani, owned by Coca Cola, Arrowhead and Calistoga from Nestlé, and Pepsi’s Aquafina, which were
all experiencing a run up in the stock market thanks to some insider trading.

  Sixteen

  Gaylord, Michigan

  5 January

  “One-oh-three point two. We’re going to work on getting that down, Mr. Mooney.” Dr. Sheila Gluckman noted the temperature in the patient’s chart.

  “Well, give me what you need to give me,” replied the sixty-three-year-old farmer. “Then I gotta get going.” He started to stand up.

  “Ah, not quite yet, Mr. Mooney. We need to check a few more things.

  “Just the flu. Give me the prescription and…”

  “Take your shirt off, please.” The hospital’s senior physician in internal medicine was quite insistent.

  Mooney was not in the habit of going to doctors, let alone disrobing in front of a woman physician. He unbuttoned his red flannel shirt slowly, but left his shirt on.

  Gluckman gave a reassuring smile. “All the way off.” She handled the man’s modesty well. “It’s easier to listen to your breathing.”

  “I can breathe fine.”

  “Good. Then it will only take a few moments.”

  Mooney continued to unbutton and slipped his arms out the sleeves.

  “The undershirt, too.”

  It was almost comical until Gluckman saw the red blotches on the man’s chest. He winced as soon as the doctor’s stethoscope came in contact with his skin.

  “Sorry,” she offered. “Now, breathe in and exhale quickly.”

  Mooney did as asked. He had a hard time and coughed.

  “Again. Big breath, then push it out.”