Lodge heard a prolonged sigh. “If you’re asking me to join you as vice president, I’ll have to think about that.”
“You do that, Henry. It may be as close as you’ll ever get to the Oval Office.”
CHAPTER
16
Tripoli, Libya
Thursday 26 June
Omar Za’eem sat during a break from work at a table in a teahouse near the al-Zahar Hotel. Some of the patrons played dominoes. Most people sat and smoked. His drink was served in a small, clear glass, one-third filled with a rough form of sugar. It went down well with the apple-flavored tobacco he puffed from a three-foot long pipe. Well into his second drink, a man greeted him. “Assalam Alaikum. Peace upon you.” Then he asked if the seat next to him was taken. Za’eem offered a polite no, and gestured for the customer to join him.
The man removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Omar. As he leaned over to accept the light, the man whispered, “I understand you have something for me.”
Walid Abdul-Latif lit Omar’s cigarette and waited for a response.
“Yes. Something interesting,” he replied under his breath.
The two men puffed as Walid waved for the waiter and ordered a peach tea. He was stockier and more solidly built than Omar.
After the tea was served, Omar continued in whispers. He explained what he had memorized, concluding, “There’s more I did not get to. He has it in his office.” Za’eem emphasized the “he” for impact, not daring to say the name in public. Za’eem didn’t have to. “What little I saw worries me.”
Walid looked equally concerned. “We must learn more, my friend,” he commanded more than stated. Walid Abdul-Latif, was after all, Za’eem’s superior.
“I will find out what I can.”
The teahouse was filling up. A few minutes later Za’eem thanked his companion for the cigarette loudly enough for nearby customers to hear. “A pleasure to meet you,” he added for good measure. He counted out barely enough money for himself and left. He had communicated what he had known to his contact; a lieutenant in Abahar Kharrazi’s secret police. On his way out he prayed to Allah that he had picked the right brother to support. If he hadn’t he would pay the price for his poor choice.
Boston, Massachusetts
9:01 A.M.
Roarke timed his move. He wore a new four button suit he bought on sale from Filene’s Basement and juggled his briefcase and a cup of very hot coffee from an espresso stand on Congress Street. He easily blended into the crowd of six lawyers coming to work. The steaming coffee pulled any onlooker’s eye. All they saw was the cup, not the man. It was a classic diversion. And true to form, they steered clear of any guy who could spill hot coffee on their expensive suits.
Roarke strolled passed the receptionist without a problem. He moved in step with the wave of lawyers making their way to offices and meetings. Far down the hall, Roarke peeled off. No one paid the least bit of attention to the Secret Service agent. He now looked like one of 132 lawyers billing clients for hours at Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus. He was probably the only one actually wearing a gun.
His destination was the Records room. Because of the coffee cup and briefcase, he struggled a little with the heavy mahogany door. One attorney, already deep into research, peered up but didn’t offer any help. Typical, thought Roarke. Two other associates didn’t even glance at him. Then again, neither would Roarke once he got settled in. He promptly found an out of the way corner, searched for five large volumes from the shelves, nothing really in particular, then he created a false workspace for himself. He pulled a dozen yellow pads from his briefcase and spread them out. As people came and went he lost himself in made-up work for the next eight or so hours.
Tripoli, Libya
1445 hrs local time
Writing was becoming a dying art in Libya as it was in the rest of the world. But not because of the Internet or cell phones. Import bans often limited paper supplies. Those who could get their hands on good paper usually used both sides. It was a surprising residual effect of the trade sanctions renewed by the West againt the Kharrazi regime. Government offices also felt the paper shortage. But some things were better not put on paper. The information that Walid Abdul-Latif had been told was classified as that.
He booted up his aged computer in his office on the third floor of the Office of Internal Security. No Pentium chip. It was painfully slow by Western standards, but the nearly ancient desktop was still a wonder to him. He typed up the recollections of his talk with Za’eem, created a folder and stored it. He wasn’t proficient with computers, so he didn’t really know how to do things efficiently or secretly. So after saving the file he re-saved it on a floppy disc to take to his superior, Major Bayon Karim Kitan, who would in turn, take it to his boss, OIS Director Abahar Kharrazi. First he called the major’s assistant.
“I need to see the Major immediately. I have something important.”
“You’ll have to wait.”
“I said this is important.”
“You’ll still have to wait. He’s busy.”
Sami Ben Ali, another assistant on the floor, overheard the conversation from his desk a few feet away. He knew Abahar wasn’t busy. This was just “the way.” He laughed, barely loud enough to be heard, but enough to encourage Walid to talk out of turn.
“Arrogance everywhere. Never ending,” Walid said disgustedly. He didn’t like answering to Katan’s assistant and he wished he had more access to Abahar himself. This information deserved it. He showed his discontent in the way he grabbed the floppy disc and shot out of the room.
Sami Ben Ali shook his head. He’d have to agree. Arrogance was everywhere.
Boston, Massachusetts
Okay, Roarke rationalized. I’m not really breaking and entering. I’m not walking out with anything.
Nonetheless, Watergate kept coming to mind. He was planning on examining confidential documents without permission. And if caught, he’d have an impossible time claiming any National Security privilege. The more he thought about it, the more he considered he’d made a mistake. But he was certain there was something in the file that Witherspoon kept close to the vest.
Then he remembered the woman with the frizzy black hair. Perhaps there was another way. Later in the day he’d find out.
At 6:45 Roarke decided to close up the law books he had in front of him and pack up the yellow legal pads. What was the chance she’d still be here on a Friday evening? he wondered. Pretty good, he assumed. She’s dedicated.
Roarke became invisible again merely by carrying four volumes of “Massachusetts Supreme Court Cases 1934-1937” in his arms and the legal pad under his chin.
He didn’t know her name. Maybe that was a good thing. Look confused and needy. He stopped the first young male associate he could find; a hungry predator type wearing a blue shirt with a white collar.
“Excuse me, need your help for a second. I’m looking for a woman,” he stammered. Roarke hid his build by hunching over. “Great hair, curly black. Really attractive. About five-six. Say 28.” He paused to play the next line right. “On a fast track. I bumped into her the other day and I need her help with these.” He held up the books. “Didn’t get her name.”
“Research stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s good at that,” White Collar said. Roarke always gave unknown people a descriptive name. “You’re talking about Katie. Katie Kessler. Wouldn’t mind her helping me, too.”
Roarke had sized up this lawyer correctly.
“Wrong floor, though,” White Collar added. “She’s one flight up. You new here?”
“Just here for the day. But it sure would be good if she were still around.”
“Probably is. The elevator, no take the stairs. They’re just up ahead. Go to the right, she’s got a small office next to the lunch room.”
“Thanks,” Roarke said. “This way?” he nodded with his head.
“Right down there. I’ll get the door. Yo
u’re pretty loaded down.”
Roarke unfolded his body and took the stairs two at a time even with the books in his arms. Once upstairs he resumed a haggard posture and proceeded down the hall. Twenty paces later Roarke was at Kessler’s door. He looked in. She was a quarter turn away from the door, busy on her computer.
Roarke cleared his throat. She didn’t respond. He did it again, more noticeably. “Pardon me,” Roarke finally said to get her attention.
Kessler slowly swiveled in her chair and looked up. It took a moment, then she recognized him. “Ah, it’s the lost soul. Still looking for your way?”
“No, but your directions were impeccable. Am I interrupting?”
“Are you interrupting? Now, no. A moment ago, yes.”
“A lawyer’s detail to facts. Do you always work so hard?”
“Do you always ask questions?”
“Not always,” he answered.
“And I’m not always working.”
He felt that playful spirit in her again; an attractive quality, quite out of place for a young female lawyer. Roarke closed the door.
“Excuse me, this is a little sudden,” she said standing up. She saw that he was carrying books. “Pretty heavy reading for someone who’s not a lawyer.”
“Or a criminal.”
“Right. So exactly who are you? You don’t work here. I already asked.”
“You did?”
“Yes I did.”
She was interested in him. That was a pleasant discovery. But she was heading for the door to reopen it.
“And you do work here. Which is why I need to talk to you.” He politely, but firmly blocked her way. “You may not want to help me, but I need to find out.”
Kessler and Roarke stood face to face. She was no longer playful.
“You’re a reporter.”
“No. I’m a Special Agent for the Secret Service.”
She held her gaze and he was keenly aware how much her eyes sparkled.
“I don’t understand. I think I better call my office administrator.”
She started for the phone.
“Wait. Please.” The first request was business. The “please” sounded very personal. She turned to face him again.
“Look, I need your help.”
“Me? Why?”
“To research some family history. One of your clients.”
“Who?”
“Teddy Lodge.”
The candidate’s name hung in the air and her expression soured. “You’ve got to be crazy, I can’t do that and you’re going to have to…” He interrupted before she said “leave.”
“It may be for his own safety,” Roarke added.
“And you’re with the Secret Service. For real?”
“For real.”
“I suppose you can show me some identification?”
She hadn’t moved for the telephone or the door for a few moments. “Certainly.” Roarke produced the necessary evidence, complete with the unmistakable red and blue logo set over a five-point gold star.
“The Secret Service,” she said noting the obvious.
“The Secret Service,” he repeated.
“And you’re interested in exactly what again?”
“Congressman Lodge’s personal safety, or haven’t you been following the news?”
With that remark Kessler coldly handed him back his ID.
“Go on.”
“I’m part of the investigation team.” He didn’t explain that he was operating on direct orders of the president. “I understand that his family’s matters were managed here. The other day I came by to discuss the family history and I got a stone wall from an asshole named Witherspoon.”
Katie Kessler laughed, apparently agreeing with his crew of the arrogant young attorney.
“We had a fairly one-sided dialogue. My side. I believe he was holding onto information that may be important. He didn’t show me. I want to see what it was.”
“Have your ever heard of a subpoena Special Agent…Roarke?”
“Yes. I’ve also heard of cooperation in a Federal investigation.”
“But it appears that you were willing to subtrovert that process and take it upon yourself to locate confidential client-lawyer materials.”
“Your words, counselor. I moment ago I said I needed your help.”
“While posing as a clerk, or a lawyer, or someone who’s supposed to be here. I’m sure your name’s not on the sign-in register.”
She was quite right, but he didn’t answer. Instead, Roarke fixed his eyes on her, ending the debate. “Are you willing to help me?”
She blinked hard. “Why me?”
Roarke let a smile lighten the moment. “You have a nice face.”
“That’s how the Secret Service works? Compliments?”
“No, that’s more me. May I ask your name?”
“Katie Kessler,” she said without giving in to his warmth.
He held out his hand. “Scott Roarke and it’s nice to meet you.”
“Why am I not so sure,” she added, trying to figure out what surprises just entered her world.
CHAPTER
17
It’s not that the CIA didn’t want to place someone within General Jabbar Kharrazi’s inner sanctum. They couldn’t. As in the Qadhafi or Saddam Hussein regimes, Kharrazi filled most positions of merit with relatives. They kept their jobs until their dying day, whether natural or unexpected.
However, there just weren’t enough relatives to spread around to staff the General’s sons’ competing empires. That’s where the agency had slowly begun to make some headway.
In September 2001, Yemen born American raised Farouk Azzarouq defied his father’s wishes and answered an intriguing ad in the Detroit Free Press.
“Help wanted. United States needs brave men with the desire to travel. Ages 22-35. Arab-American citizens only.”
He really had no idea what he was walking into until the most serious man he’d ever met in his life introduced himself as an FBI agent.
“Are you a U.S. citizen?” he asked in the downtown Detroit interview.
“Yes,” responded Azzarouq.
“Have you lived in the United States for the past five years?”
“Yes sir. My family moved her 19 years ago.”
“Fill out these forms please.” The FBI agent handed him a clipboard with five pages worth of additional questions to answer.
“Can you just help me out with one thing, sir?” Azzarouq politely asked. The agent peered at him. “What am I applying for?” The agent gave him a twisted smile and pointed to the clipboard.
There were questions on personal health and family illnesses, on American history and comic book characters, on baseball teams and the cast of “Friends.” After forty-five minutes of writing, Azzarouq put his pen down. “Finished. I think I’m ready for the final Jeopardy question now.”
The agent did not laugh. Instead, he quickly scanned the paperwork and raised his eyes in a sign of approval.
“Mr. Azzarouq, what is your feeling on terrorism?” he asked in perfect Arabic.
Suddenly everything became clear to the 23-year-old computer programmer.
Just eight days after the horrific attacks on New York and Washington, D.C., President George W. Bush mandated that the Federal Bureau of Investigations find candidates who could speak fluent Arabic and infiltrate terrorist cells in the U.S. and abroad. America would “fight against terrorism on all fronts,” the president declared. As a first step toward accomplishing this, the FBI’s newly appointed director Robert Mueller initiated a comprehensive job search.
Very few applicants made the grade. Those who did severed their ties with family and friends and began a new life, with a new identity. Farouk Azzarouq was one of them. After two years of intensive training he graduated as Sami Ben Ali. He worked for 18 months for the FBI, specializing on Libya. His understanding of the internal politics as well as the Kharazzi family struggle made him a valuable asset to pen
etrate internal Arab cells. But someone else had their eyes on the man now known as Ben Ali. For the sake of the ongoing war on terrorism, the newest FBI director, Robert Mulligan, was willing to send his trainee across town.
“Farouk, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Mulligan said.
“Yes sir.” As Ben Ali he now had a beard, a history, the right dialect, and hopefully the wherewithal to stay alive in Libya.
Mulligan pressed a buzzer on his phone and a moment later a man entered the room.
“I don’t believe you’ve ever had the opportunity to meet Jack Evans.”
The young man turned around. He stood face to face with the head of the CIA.
“Hello Farouk.”
“Hello sir.”
“I understand that you’re quite a quick study.”
“I try.”
“Well, Bob tells me great things. We need a man who can do great things.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I’d like to invite you to come to work for me.”
“Sir?” he asked Mulligan over his shoulder.
“Same government, different agency,” Mulligan answered.
Evans chimed in, “More perks. Better pay.”
“Better chance of getting killed?” Farouk added.
“Only if you fuck up,” Evans responded.
Azzarouq grew up on Bond and Vin Diesel’s “XXX.” The idea of being a real spy appealed to him.
“Well?” DCI Evans asked.
“Where?”
“Say yes and I’ll tell you all about it, son.”
Two years later, after a great deal of complex trickery, Sami Ben Ali was deep within Abahar Kharrazi’s OIS, reporting as best he could on the aspirations of the potential heir.
Boston, Massachusetts
“You don’t look like a secret agent.”
“Secret Service Agent,” Roarke said lightheartedly, correcting the young woman.
“Clarification noted, but aren’t you supposed to talk into your sleeve?”
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