Back in the office he shut the computer down, lit a cigarette that he supposedly had been smoking, burned a brown stain on his desk, then crushed the butt on the floor. One task remained. He pulled his disk from the computer and stuffed it in his pocket.
He ran down the hall and rushed into the lobby just as Walid and the others were exiting. He was completely out of breath, ever so much looking like a fool. A living, breathing fool.
Boston, Massachusetts
Roarke walked Katie up to her Grove Street apartment. She lived in a condominium on the third floor of a converted 1889 brownstone.
“I have a view of the Charles River,” she announced at the doorstep. “But you’re not going to see it.”
For all of his skills, Roarke dreaded this part of the evening. He had pretty specific erotic thoughts at the moment, but felt like a schoolboy. After all, this was a first date, with a little bit of danger of discovery at the law firm adding to the excitement. And as first dates went, he found himself thinking about a second and a third.
No, he had said to himself on their walk to her condo. A kiss on the cheek will be fine. And yet, Katie had telegraphed some fairly inviting signals that she was interested in him. That was until now. He was actually relieved.
“Another night maybe,” she coyly added.
He felt those stirrings again.
“If you call me.”
Roarke didn’t take orders from very many people. The president. Yes. A few commanding officers along the way; but rarely women. “I will,” he answered meaning it.
Before he could kiss her on the cheek, she kissed him.
“Now be careful. I’m going to see what else I can find for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But I liked your toast before dinner. It felt like a little career boost.”
She turned, wiggled her fingers over her shoulders and pressed the key code to unlock the front door. A second later she disappeared up the stairs.
Roarke walked down Grove Street to find his car and a cold shower.
CHAPTER
18
Boston, Massachusetts
Friday 27 June
Haywood W. Marcus thanked Witherspoon for the information. “You handled everything quite properly and professionally, young man. I’m certain there’s no reason for concern. You are to be congratulated,” he said through his blindingly white teeth. Marcus was the most well put together partner in the firm; perfectly groomed and immaculately dressed. He favored hand-made shirts and suits and started every morning with a shoe shine in the lobby. His fastidiousness placed everyone else in the firm on notice that neatness mattered. So did the accoutrements. Everything in his office—the rare Winslow Homer depiction of a New England fisherman, the Victorian antique furniture, and his two cherished Frederick Remington bronze statues celebrating cavalry charges—contributed to the ultimate focal point: Marcus’ desk and Marcus.
“Thank you, Mr. Marcus,” the younger attorney said. “After I saw your cautionary note on the file I immediately ended the meeting.”
“Again, thank you,” Marcus said.
Witherspoon gave himself a few gold stars. He didn’t get the chance to speak to one of the senior partners often and in his estimation this had gone very well even though he had taken a few days to make the appointment.
“Oh, just one thing. An opinion, my boy. Where do you think this man was going with all of his questions?” Marcus asked without any apparent concern.
“Just exploring. He really knew nothing walking in.”
Marcus peered over his glasses. His eyes turned ice cold. “And walking out?”
“Oh, nothing. I cited lawyer/client privilege.”
“I’ll ask you this just once. Answer as if your life depended on it. Are you absolutely certain?”
Witherspoon, acutely aware that this was no longer a friendly conversation, felt real terror. He had never been asked a direct question so intently. And this was not the kindhearted 62-year-old man he’d been conversing with a moment earlier. Here was a lawyer whose legal prowess proved the undoing of many formidable courtroom opponents. He was ruthless and calculating. Witherspoon realized he was way out of his league.
“Did you say anything?” Marcus demanded.
“No, Mr. Marcus,” Witherspoon answered, revealing why he would never become a good lawyer.
“And the materials?”
“I had them returned to Records.”
“Get them and bring them here. And do it quicker than it took you to decide to speak to me now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To me. No one else. Do you understand?” Marcus demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Witherspoon repeated, actuely aware how cold the suddenly office felt. Not just physically, but emotionally. It was void of the typical personal touches; no family photos, no memorabilia, no clutter. Just Marcus holding court.
“Now!” Marcus’ eyes had not blinked once and Witherspoon was frozen by the power of his boss’ stare. “Now.”
Ten minutes later Witherspoon returned with all the Lodge files. He quietly put them on Marcus’ hand-carved 19th Century oak desk. Marcus was reading the latest edition of “The Robb Report.”
“It’s all here, Mr. Marcus.”
“Thank you my boy,” the partner said as if nothing had happened.
“There is one thing, sir.”
Marcus lifted his eyes. “Oh?”
“They’re a little out of order.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“They’re not the way I left them. Someone’s looked at them since me.”
Marcus’ law practice brought him many wealthy clients from around the globe. On any given day it was not unusual for him to bill major Fortune 500 members as well as industrialists from foreign capitals. He also had a select private list, which he didn’t bill. Nonetheless, money found its way into special bank accounts far from Boston. At the top of the list was a very good client who resided on Miami’s renowned Fisher Island.
He needed to think about what to tell him. This wasn’t going to be easy. But he had to do it. He’d been handling the Lodge estate for years. He probably should have shredded the file, but he never saw a reason to do so, until now. He thought about what he had been promised more than thirty years ago and realized this required a personal conversation, not a phone call.
Haywood Marcus did something himself that he always gave to his secretary. He called the airlines.
CHAPTER
19
Tripoli, Libya
Saturday 28 June
The fact that Sami Ben Ali even had a laptop would have raised serious questions.
He certainly couldn’t afford a decent one on his salary. But he had a cover story that might hold up. Old computers like his 1990s Sony Vaio were readily available on the black market. His looked beaten up and barely working, yet it was a wolf in sheep’s clothing; fast, state-of-the-art, and full of the most modern built-in firewalls and security blocks that the “Company” developed. The Company was the CIA.
The ordinary start-up programs took five minutes to load unless bypassed with the proper key strokes. His main programs were not labeled. They were hidden four layers deep; triple password protected. The wrong combination of function keys, letters and numbers, entered without proper authorization would trigger a lethal virus and fry the entire memory in seconds.
Ben Ali didn’t discount that he’d have a great deal of explaining to do if his laptop was found in a search. But ultimately all of his excuses should stand up against the weak technological expertise of Abahar Kharrazi’s secret police, the OIS. They better.
Nonetheless, every time he booted up, he worked in his closet and made sure that he had a radio blaring to cover the sounds of his keys. Sami, like everyone with a computer, knew that it was easy to lose track of time. So his final rule was to limit his work to under 30 minutes. He kept his watch next to him to make sure.
T
hese were the hard and fast rules he followed as he inserted the 27 KB disk copied from Walid’s computer.
Sami pushed his clothes aside in his closet and crouched to type. His computer rested on a makeshift desk, two cardboard boxes loaded with books. He ran power off the battery charge, and always worked when the electricity was turned on in his building. Israeli-made infrared scopes, in the hands of Abahar’s intelligence squads, could spot the glow of his computer even through some walls. So it was important to have bright lights on directly in front of his closet. It wasn’t hard to do. He lived in a small one room flat.
The prompts came up on screen. He jumped through the masked programs by typing the complex codes he’d memorized. Next he clicked on what would be the A drive in English. In an instant the file typed by Walid Abdul-Latif loaded.
Ben Ali read it with great interest. He discounted his colleague’s misspelled words and bad grammar. It was typical of a Libyan education. At first, the report itself made him laugh. He read a self-inflated account about Walid’s masterful control and handling of his contact. He followed the details of the contact with Omar and how Walid’s mole discovered the file from Fadi Kharrazi’s office. Nothing but pathetic drivel, he noted until getting half-way through the report. There, past all of the cloak and dagger hyperbole was the gist of the summary.
Spying, Sami came to believe is like a children’s game of telephone where a message is whispered down the line. This information had gone from the hands of Fadi to Lakhdar al-Nassar, to Omar Za’eem, to Walid Abdul-Latif. Ultimately it would go to Major Bayon Karim Kitan and his boss Abahar Kharrazi. But did Walid report what was first communicated? Did he get it right? That’s what Sami Ben Ali wondered as he began.
Ashab al-Kahf proceeding. Cryptic or direct? Ben Ali didn’t know.
He read of Syria in the early 1970s, the late Hafez Al-Assad and his son Bashar. Iraq and Uday Hussein. Another leader’s son. Then something called Andropov I and “Red Banner.” Russian? Probably. He realized that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell, or Tripoli’s for that matter, that he’d actually figure out what any of it meant. He’d have to pass the information on.
Marblehead, Massachusetts
Roarke quickly discovered from the phone directory that the law firm of Woodruff, Stuart and Nunes no longer existed. A few neighbors told him that the old professional building housing lawyers had been demolished long ago and everyone had moved away or died. No one knew about Nunes.
A call to the Justice Department filled in the details.
The firm dissolved in 1981. Stuart died of a heart attack two years earlier. Woodruff retired to West Palm Beach and died in 1998.
Alfred Nunes, age 77 and the youngest of the partners, had a registered address in Boxford, Massachusetts, but spent most of his time on the road in a 340-hp Winnebago Chieftain with his wife.
Roarke picked up the trail from here. According to his inquiry at the Boxford Post Office, Nunes’ mail was held for forwarding once every month to a pre-arranged location across the country. Thanks to his credentials, the Secret Service agent was allowed to examine the mail being held for Nunes. Along with the junk mail and bills were a half dozen fishing magazines. The next scheduled address was a box in Sisters, Oregon; the delivery due in ten days. He talked to the local mailman on the lawyer’s route and learned that Nunes loved visiting Civil War and Indian battlefields and photographing national parks.
Next he visited the Registrar of Motor Vehicles. They gave him Nunes’ license plate number. Roarke called Shannon Davis, a friend at the FBI, for help in actually locating the lawyer. “He’ll either be on the road or listed with a national park. I have a hunch he spends a lot of time fly fishing so you might want to check parks that handle RV’s and have good streams,” Roarke explained.
Davis looked at a map and estimated Nunes could be anywhere from Oregon to Washington State, California, Idaho, Wyoming or Colorado.
“Just find him,” Roarke stressed.
“Why? Did he forget to catch and release an under the limit trout?” the FBI man joked.
“I need to talk to him. This isn’t an arrest. You don’t even need to bother him. Just tell me where he is and I’ll be out.”
Roarke counted on hearing quickly.
NBC Studios, Washington, D.C.
Sunday 29 June
All the Sunday morning talkers wanted him. Meet The Press. Face the Nation. This Week.
Geoff Newman wanted Meet the Press, for strictly historical reasons. John Kennedy used the show to his benefit. When the call came in from the show’s producer Newman made an unprecedented proposal. “You get the congressman this week, and promise one appearance per month up to the election and I’ll give you exclusivity. If it’s a ‘no,’ tell me right now and I’ll be happy to call CBS, ABC or Fox.
The producer put Newman on hold. Ninety-seconds later he was back with a one word answer. “Done.”
Newman had his deal and Meet the Press had its booking. Such was the world of television and politics.
“Good morning, Congressman Lodge. First our sincerest condolences,” offered the host at the top of broadcast.
“Thank you,” Lodge responded quietly. He was wearing a dark blue jacket, light blue shirt and a conservative burgundy tie with thin blue stripes. It was a TV friendly ensemble, carefully chosen by Geoff Newman who was now picking all the candidate’s clothing.
The host reviewed the particulars of Lodge’s ordeal for anyone who spent the last week under a rock. “I know this is painful to talk about. Seven days ago your wife was killed. Two days later you resoundingly won the Democratic primaries in New York and Rhode Island.” The host now relied on his notes. “By our NBC count you have 2,371 delegates out of 4,339. To capture the nomination you needed 2,170.”
Lodge nodded politely to the assessment.
“And yet, you have not announced your intentions, though we have heard from Democratic Party Chief Wendell Neill that the nomination is yours for the taking. We appreciate you joining us today, and like all Americans, we hope you can tell us what you’re thinking.”
Geoff Newman watched from just off stage. Scott Roarke watched in Peabody. Michael O’Connell in Marblehead. President Taylor had his set on a few blocks away at the White House. And in Tripoli, Fadi Kharrazi caught the broadcast off his satellite dish.
Teddy Lodge began slowly. He focused directly on the host and talked to him like an old friend, avoiding the camera and any semblance of speech making.
“It was a week ago. One week.” He closed his eyes, paused and shook his head. “You have to understand, this is very difficult for me.” He stopped again to collect his thoughts. Tears formed in his eyes. He wiped them away, then apparently found the strength to continue. His voice cracked at first, then got stronger. “People are wondering what I’m going to do. First, let me focus on the crime. A killer who had his sights on me, shot Jennifer.” Newman had reminded him to always refer to his wife by her first name, for emotional impact.
“He shot her. He killed Jenny. She was no further from me than you are. She was a lively, vibrant, beautiful, loving partner. Now she is gone.” Lodge looked down. His voice cracked.
No guest in the history of Meet the Press had ever taken such pauses. Usually reporters were quick on the uptake to get in their next questions. Not today. Neither the host nor his panel of three other distinguished journalists pressed the Congressman.
“Jen’s killer is out there. The President of the United States has assured me that he’ll be found. But he hasn’t been. Not yet.”
Political pundits writing about the appearance scored Lodge first blood. He openly attacked the president and for that matter, the FBI.
“I want this killer brought to justice. And you can read into that whatever you’d like,” he said raising his voice. “I want him brought to justice.”
Lodge still held the floor. No one else jumped in.
“Now, I want to thank the voters of New York and Rhode Island,�
�� he said in a warmer tone. “They didn’t have to come out on my behalf. But they did. They expressed their rights as Americans in the proper way. At the ballot. Not with a bullet as some damned coward did last week.”
Americans like real people. And with his last angry utterance, Lodge earned more fans.
“So I thank everyone for your kind letters and for your renewed confidence and belief in me. And now I will tell you what you may already suspect. He looked passed the moderator and directly at the camera. This assured Lodge that the sound bite would be used by all of the networks. “I will go to Denver. I will seek the nomination of the Democratic Party. I will accept, if nominated. And I will ask Americans to make me their President.”
There was enough copy to be committed to front page stories, features, editorials and news reports in the first three minutes of Meet the Press to level a forest full of trees.
Theodore Wilson Lodge laid it all out. The spread between the congressman and the president evaporated.
Tripoli, Libya
Monday 30 June
“Bullshit! This is bullshit!” Abahar Kharrazi screamed at Major Kitan. He slammed Walid Abdul-Latif’s report on the desk.
The major stood rigidly at attention through his commander’s rantings.
“You are going to find out what this is all about or I will see to it that my father sends you to paradise before your time! Do you understand me?”
“By your command, sir,” Kitan declared looking ever the obedient soldier. That’s how he survived to age 44. He had managed to get promoted to the rank of major in Colonel Mu’ammar Qadhafi’s army and so far lived to serve General Jabbar Kharrazi and his son Abahar.
He didn’t have much job security, but he used his status to pilfer whatever he could, hoping he’d enjoy the spoils someday. As he sucked in his belly, he realized that he had gotten soft and Kharrazi’s fearsome son would somehow take advantage of his weaknesses. If he lived through this episode he would harden his body and his soul. If he lived.
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