Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  “You are a liar, Mr. Morales. But tell me more lies. Are you working alone?”

  D’Angelo took his time. Giving up Roarke was not a risk. They knew he hadn’t come into the country alone. “Of course not.” He did avoid adding, Like you don’t know. However, D’Angelo volunteered, “My writer is with me.”

  “And his name?”

  “Adam Giannini. He’s back at the Bab Al Bahr. Hopefully still sound asleep.” He struggled with his ropes. If he knows what’s good for him.

  Hevit nodded to someone on the other side of what D’Angelo figured was a two-way mirror.

  “And tell me about these photographs you take,” the Major asked sharply. The cameras had been examined for any secret components and given back to Hevit.

  “Beauty shots. Architectural sites.”

  “Oh, with such good story-telling, I’d think you were the writer, Mr. Morales. Mr. Tomás Morales,” Hevit said emphasizing the first name. “I suppose you speak Spanish, too.”

  “Fluently.”

  “And this morning? Exactly which mosque were you photographing this morning?” the Major asked sharply.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Then what did it have to do with your work?”

  “City streets. People. I always overshoot. I’m a freelance photographer.”

  “Freelance?” Hevit was unfamiliar with the term.

  “I sell pictures. This is how I earn my living. One client sends me to take pictures. But I take advantage of every situation. I’m always shooting. Maybe I can sell a picture to someone else.”

  “Like your government?” Hevit shouted right into D’Angelo’s face.

  “No. Like a magazine or another publisher!” D’Angelo locked his eyes on Hevit. “It’s not everyday an American gets a visa to visit Libya.”

  “This is the Great Jamarhiriya!” Hevit declared. “You will kindly refer to it by its proper name.” The major’s manner was anything but kind. He paused in thought, then continued stone cold. “An American photographer for a British book company. That doesn’t strike you as odd? It certainly does me.”

  “Call them.”

  Hevit slapped D’Angelo hard.

  “You are not to tell me what to do,” he yelled. “Do you understand?”

  D’Angelo wanted to rub the side of his face but he couldn’t. This bastard really hurt him. When he didn’t answer quickly enough, the major hit him again. Harder.

  “Do you understand?”

  The tactic was fairly standard. The interrogator pushed his suspect, hoping to provoke him into either committing a chargeable offense or revealing himself. D’Angelo wouldn’t give him the pleasure of either.

  “Yes.”

  “You have no rights here, Mr. Morales. Not you or your friend. You can’t go running to your embassy for sanctuary. You have no embassy. So you will answer my questions one by one.”

  He continued. “Isn’t it odd? You an American?”

  “No, sir,” D’Angelo said looking down, forcing tears. A soldier would face his enemy. A photographer would be scared.

  “And why would they hire you then?”

  “They like my work. They’ve hired me before. I’m a damned good photographer.”

  “You are indeed damned,” the major laughed. “A photographer, I’m not so sure.”

  “Please believe me,” D’Angelo said, promising to himself that one day he would get back at the sadistic major.

  “Why should I. You are a worthless spy to me. I could kill you now.”

  “Sir, please call my employers,” D’Angelo pleaded. He hoped his sincerity would be convincing enough. Of course the Libyans would call Collingsworth in Oxford and in time they would be connected to a specific executive who would confirm his cover and ersatz history. But no doubt he’d be made to suffer before that would happen. D’Angelo was prepared.

  “And these photographs,” Hevit demanded, dangling the cameras in front of him. “I suppose if I develop the film I would see exactly what you say is here?”

  “Yes…” You fucking shithead. “But you can look at some now. One of the cameras is digital. You can scan through the shots. They’re stored on the computer chip.”

  “Ah, modern technology. We are not so lucky here,” the Major added. “All right, then. Show me your pictures.” He tipped his head to an officer to untie his hands.

  Roarke rang D’Angelo’s room for the fourth time since lunch. Something was definitely wrong. The night before, D’Angelo told him not to worry if he didn’t come back by 1200 hours. He’d be out shooting around town. But it was already past 1400.

  When he went to the lobby to look for his partner, he noticed two men checking his movements. He didn’t acknowledge that he saw them for fear it would reveal his own expertise. However, he could tell that things had changed for the worse. He believed that D’Angelo was in custody for some reason. He might even be compromised. If that were the case, then so was he.

  Roarke approached the concierge. “Excuse me,” he said loud enough for the others to hear. “I’m looking for my friend Mr. Morales. Have you see him?”

  “No sir. Not this afternoon.”

  He got the same answer from the desk clerk and a bellhop.

  “Thank you,” Roarke said politely. “If he does come in, tell him I’ll be back around 1600 hours.” He tipped them both.

  “Of course, Mr. Ginney.” D’Angelo had been right about one thing. They still couldn’t get his name straight.

  Roarke stepped outside. The two men casually followed him, spacing themselves by about thirty feet. At the first intersection he got a good look at Number One, whom he called “Laurel.” The man was thin, dressed in a white linen suit that was a size too big for him and desperately needed a cleaning. Midway down the street he bought a pack of gum from a child and caught sight of Number Two. This character was a sweaty, little man with a gut that hung over his belt. He would be “Hardy.” Both underpaid cops or members of Kharrazi’s security force.

  They tailed him badly. But Roarke made it easy for them. If D’Angelo were in trouble he’d do better to look all the more innocent. He did have an emergency contact and he casually made his way to the location.

  New York City

  O’Connell’s editor at The New York Times read his four-page story about Geoff Newman sent via an e-mail file. He complained in a quick reply that it didn’t contain enough new information to make the paper. He’d seen most of it before. “Michael, you have to do better.”

  O’Connell didn’t like missing a good by-line. The coverage in the paper was one thing. The checks when his articles rolled out to the syndicate were another. As far as he was concerned, Newman blew a nice payday for him.

  The reporter dated and filed the article in his Lodge campaign bin and turned to his notes. He definitely needed more. Maybe the party’s chief, Wendell Neill could help him out or Governor Lamden. Or maybe the U.S. Army.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Tripoli, Libya

  “Mr. Morales, your pictures leave a lot to be desired,” Hevit complained. He ran through the digital camera’s memory chips, criticizing the American just for sport. “You do a fair job on our revered mosques, but your street shots are deplorable. So again I ask you. What were you really doing.” He paused for a second and corrected himself. “No, no. Let’s start with who you really are.”

  So far D’Angelo’s Office of Internal Security inquisitor, through all of his theatrics, hadn’t gotten anywhere after three hours. They developed the film in the Nikon and although Fadi Kharrazi’s office building was in some of the pictures, it clearly was not the subject of the shots. When officer Number Three came into the sealed room and whispered in the major’s ear, D’Angelo presumed that they had made the call to Collingsworth and his story checked out. It wasn’t going well for the Hevit and he looked mad. He slapped his prisoner harder than before, only to see a frightened photographer shrink into a ball to protect himself, not a defiant spy.

&nb
sp; “Please,” D’Angelo pleaded. “My name’s Morales. Just like it reads on my identification. I’m from Miami, Florida. My parents are Cuban. They emigrated from Havana. But you are right about one thing.” Hevit raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a particularly good photographer. That’s why I do books. But I’m into art history. I’m a pretty fair amateur archeologist and I wanted to come to Tripoli and see your buildings.”

  D’Angelo gave him something. Now let’s see what happens.

  Hevit circled his quarry’s chair three times. Then he pressed right into his face. “I don’t like you, Tomás Morales. What’s more. I don’t believe you.”

  Hevit swung his arm back ready to slap D’Angelo again. Then he smiled and dropped his hand. “An archaeologist, you say.”

  “No, just a history buff.”

  “A what?” Hevit asked not understanding the colloquial term.

  “A buff. It’s just a hobby.” Keep it going awhile, he thought.

  Hevit drew up another chair, swiveled it backwards and sat face to face with his captive. “No, no. That’s not what you said. Your words were a pretty fair archaeologist.”

  “Amateur. I said amateur. It’s just a pastime.”

  “Oh, well, let’s see what you know. Consider it a test, shall we?”

  Now it was going to get interesting.

  It was called a newsstand. But that was a misnomer. There were newspapers, but not ones that reported any actual news.

  Roarke stopped at the kiosk near the hotel located on the edge of the souk, leafed through a few glossy German magazines, then opted for a Cuban cigar. He took it to the salesman, a haggard old man with a toothless grin.

  Over the man’s shoulder was a broken down art deco clock; its face stained from years of cigarette and cigar smoke. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the timepiece except the time. It was an hour behind.

  Roarke handed the man 200 dinars. He spat openly on the ground and handed back the wrong amount of change. Roarke looked at the amount, recognized that he was being stiffed, but left.

  The wrong time on the clock and the wrong amount of change told him two important things.

  Change of plans. Don’t count on your safety any longer.

  Roarke strolled back to the hotel, casually smoking his cigar while watching his watchers. Once back, he’d wait until midnight. If D’Angelo hadn’t returned by then he was to proceed to a pre-selected location. From there everything was pre-arranged.

  “So, tell me,” Hevit began. “Tell me all about our heritage you admire so much. Let’s start with Karamanli Mosque.”

  And so amateur archaeologist Tomás Morales began reciting everything he knew, those things he learned in the past few days, and his personal impressions. He got into the details of the exterior walls, the building materials, and the poor patchwork done over the years. He threw in just enough facts to sound authoritative. He even covered the smog damage. All of it served to deflate Hevit. But the officer was not through.

  “Such facts can be memorized by a talented spy, especially when you have learned exactly what pictures to take.” Hevit stood up and went to a door that opened when he knocked twice. “I will be back.”

  “May I go to the a bathroom?”

  “Piss in your shorts if you’d like,” the major said. “There are no bathrooms for American spies.”

  D’Angelo made a good showing in the last round. No doubt, he’d be asked to play “Final Jeopardy” when Hevit returned. He silently hoped he’d remember enough to talk his way out of the mess.

  Twenty minutes later the door opened again.

  “Mr. Morales, a few more questions. It seems you do have friends who confirm that you are a photographer for this Collingsworth book company. But I remain skeptical. Not because of your recital about our great treasures, but your photography near the offices of the son of our Brother Leader. So one more test for the amateur archeaologist. Something you’re unprepared for.”

  “Look, my job checks out. Just let me go.”

  Hevit ignored the wimpy request. He removed a folded sheet of lined yellow paper from his jacket pocket, opening it meticulously. Hevit read it to himself and smiled. “This shall determine your guilt or innocence.”

  “I’m not on trial here.”

  “Shut up,” the major shouted louder than before. Then he pulled his voice back. “Perhaps you’re right. This is not a trial.” He lurched forward with his face no more than an inch from D’Angelo’s. “There is no judge or jury. But you are facing your executioner, Tomás Morales. So think carefully before answering my next and very last question.”

  D’Angelo feared that he might have pushed the sadistic Major too far. He took a deep breath and locked onto the cold eyes.

  “I just want to go home, major. I want to see my wife.” That was his most truthful answer of the day.

  “Mr. Morales, your interest in ancient architecture must include Greece,” Hevit said ignoring the plea.

  D’Angelo blinked and looked away.

  “Well, we shall see. This took me some time to get. I am so sorry for my delay. But not being a student of archaeology myself, I needed to make a few calls. But you, on the other hand will be able to educate me on a place called Isthmia.”

  D’Angelo gritted his teeth and met Hevit’s eyes again. They were still no more than an inch from his face. “So Mr. Morales. Tell me all about this rare archaeological site.”

  “Isthmia?”

  “Isthmia, Mr. Morales. As if your life depended on it.” Hevit leaned back and removed his service pistol from his shoulder holster. He flipped off the safety and repeated, “Isthmia.”

  “Isthmia,” the American whispered, then cleared his throat.

  “Louder!”

  “…is along the old Scironian Road from Athens to the Peloponnesus.” D’Angelo’s voice strengthened and now his expression grew colder, more hateful. “It was home of the temple of Poseidon, a landmark to travelers in the first and second century A.D. Adjacent to it, I believe, was the sanctuary of Melikertes-Palaimon,” he paused in thought. “From the Roman period? Perhaps that’s why you asked? The Romans controlled your land for some time.” Then he stopped and corrected himself, “No, no. I’m mistaken. It definitely was not Roman. Melikertes-Palaimon. But Isthmia is best known for the Panhellenic Games, which was very popular in the Roman colonial period.”

  Hevit was fuming. Every word undermined him more.

  “The principal dig was in 1952, by Oscar Broneer and in the mid 1970s….”

  “Enough. I should kill you right now!” He raised his gun toward D’Angelo when suddenly the door flew open. Another officer, a few years older and probably higher ranking than Hevit, entered and spoke in Arabic. Vinnie D’Angelo could actually understand them, but he didn’t let on and it didn’t matter. Language was no barrier to what was being said. It would have been apparent to anyone. The superior officer was dressing down a subordinate.

  The major saluted and left, glaring at the man who defeated him.

  The senior officer allowed Number Two to untie the prisoner’s hands.

  “Thank you,” he said to the corporal without acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he then said to the man, memorizing his face.

  “I suggest you and your friend, Mr. Gino, leave Tarabulus and the Great Jamahiriya as quickly as you can, Mr. Morales. You are no longer welcomed here,” he said in poor English. “And Major Hevit is not a happy man.”

  Roarke acted increasingly concerned through the rest of the afternoon, making sure the hotel staff noticed. He constantly went up to the lobby to ask the front desk clerk if he’d heard anything from his colleague. The word was always no. Roarke figured the more annoying he appeared, the more his cover story would hold. Eventually, he laid out his clothes and put his suitcase on the bed knowing that microphones undoubtedly picked up the sounds. He had to assume cameras were trained on him as well. It was now 1930 hours; the night before they were scheduled to check out, so packing would not be unus
ual. But inwardly he was planning an immediate escape, traveling as light as possible. He set 2200, ninety minutes away, as his target.

  Better start winding down. Roarke hummed a made-up song for the sake of the microphones, intentionally sounding nervous. He yawned, then he killed the lights and turned on the television set to one of the pirated films on Kharrazi’s movie channel, Schwarzenegger in “Total Recall.” The film was more than half over. He pushed his suitcase out of the way and stretched across his bed. He lowered the sound twice during the next forty minutes to check again with the hotel reception desk.

  When the movie ended he shut off the TV and closed his eyes. In another thirty-five minutes he would sneak out, hopefully after his watchers got bored listening and watching.

  Roarke tuned his senses to the dangerous work ahead. He mentally ran through the backup plans. He felt it would be dangerous only until he slipped into a café two blocks away. Once there he would order a coffee, wait an appropriate amount of time, maybe twenty minutes or so, then go to the bathroom. From there he would exit through the window, one with a broken latch over the far stall. After dropping down into the alley behind the establishment his instructions were to turn left and just before the corner find a rotting faded blue door and knock three times. That’s the signal, he recalled. Three knocks.

  Three knocks. Roarke bolted forward. Had he fallen asleep? The sound seemed so real. He checked his watch. 2153. Then he heard knocking. The door? He automatically reached under his pillow for his gun. It wasn’t there. Roarke stopped fumbling and remembered that they’d come into the country unarmed. Shit. Shit. Shit, he mouthed but did not say aloud.

  Three knocks again. He checked the window. No escape there. Too high up. He decided to approach the door cautiously.

  “Come on, wake up and open the damned door!” came a booming voice from the other side. Roarke took in a huge breath and sighed with relief. “Time to get out of Dodge!” He was never happier to hear a wiser ass voice than D’Angelo’s.