Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  “It’s entirely up to you,” said the director of the CIA. “I have already had a conversation with them and they have been very cooperative. They have passed on some valuable data that will help the security of our agents operating undercover.”

  “If there is any truth to the rumors going around that they have financed this operation then I personally will go after them and get each one of those bastards,” said Potter.

  21

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Shortly after eight the following morning, Chris Clayborne parked his car at the International Press Service garage near the intersection of K and Sixteenth Street NW, and walked to the front of the building to wait for his old friend, Dieter Schiller, to pick him up. To kill time, Clayborne started doing the crossword puzzle. Reluctantly, he had returned to Washington to resume his duty as Managing Editor of IPS. The Mideast story was getting nowhere fast and the money people were losing patience in funding a non-story.

  Clayborne hadn’t seen Schiller in more than two years and was happy his old friend was going to be spending a few weeks in Washington. Schiller arrived moments later in the back of a shining black stretch limousine. Clayborne jumped inside and together they drove to the US Capitol building. Schiller always enjoyed traveling in style, which was easy to do when someone else paid for it. Schiller had always been a leftist at heart, but firmly believed the capitalist press whom he worked for could easily afford to spend the money. His work was excellent, a cut above the others, and his “owners,” as he called them, never questioned a single expense account item.

  Clayborne first met Schiller in Chechnya, back when they were both covering one of their first wars. It now seemed like a lifetime ago. Schiller was then on assignment for the German magazine Der Spiegel. The two men got caught in crossfire between Russian Army tanks and Chechen militiamen firing rocket-propelled grenades. They remained pinned down in a dirt-filled ditch for several hours as bullets and artillery whizzed right above their heads. They were both terrified, but somehow managed to find just enough courage to raise their cameras over their heads and snap a few frames.

  Since then, a deep friendship had developed between the two journalists and whenever their paths crossed, they made it a point to cover a story together. Near the end of the Lebanese Civil War, Dieter Schiller was wounded in the chest by a sniper’s bullet and Clayborne risked his own life to carry him out of the fire zone. Clayborne stopped a group of leftist militiamen and forced them to drive his wounded colleague to a nearby hospital, saving his friend’s life. Later that afternoon, Chris returned to the spot where Dieter had been shot in order to retrieve his camera.

  “Chrissy,” said Dieter in his thick German accent, slapping him on the back, “it’s so good to see you again, my friend. My Gott, you look like a real working journalist again. No fucking suit and tie today. You can’t stay in that fucking office all the time, my friend. You must get out and see the real world again, ya. Or else you become a silly boss-editor like the one you used to bitch about all the time.”

  “Dieter, this city will kill me faster than Beirut ever did. Good to see you again. Yeah, it’s great to get out. I see you still like to rough it, eh? Nice car. You could have at least chosen one with a Jacuzzi.”

  “Sure. If I don’t come to America, you don’t get your ass out of the office. Ya? You stay there all the day. You become grumpy old man. Boss-editor!”

  “Truth be said, old friend, that I would have left the office even if your majesty would have stayed away. You know we have to tell the young ones how to focus their cameras these days.”

  “Ya, you see, you already are the boss-editor you used to complain about. That’s dangerous, my friend.”

  With the presidential inauguration only ten days away, Clayborne and Schiller were planning to check on the progress of the construction being carried out on the press stands, the large platforms from where press photographers and television crews would cover the important event. Chris wanted to make sure that IPS photographers got the best angle.

  Chris Clayborne had replaced his longtime mentor, Charlton MacClarty, as managing editor after the latter retired. It was MacClarty who recommended Chris be given the position, and it was also MacClarty who convinced Clayborne to take the job. At first Clayborne was reluctant to come out of the field. He loved his work and enjoyed covering the Middle East, even if at times he desperately wanted to get away from the everyday violence.

  “You can’t play cowboy forever,” MacClarty told Chris over lunch one day. “Besides, IPS needs a good man here. Most of these assholes don’t know shit from Shinola. You would be good for the company; take the job, kiddo.” And Chris did. MacClarty retired to a small house in Annapolis overlooking Chesapeake Bay, and Clayborne took over as managing editor.

  Now Chris rarely left the office. This last trip to the Mideast had been an exception. IPS had smelled a scoop, and Clayborne was the only one who could have delivered it.

  Anyway, this was a good chance to get out and stretch his legs and enjoy a big fat lunch at company expense with his old friend from the Middle East. Hey, that’s how most of DC lived. Take away those corporate expense accounts and half the restaurants in the city would go out of business. Most of Washington’s lawyers, politicians, and lobbyists would be eating sandwiches out of brown paper bags if they had to pay for those expensive lunches and dinners out of their own pockets.

  Clayborne was scouting the various fixed positions his photographers would be assigned on Inauguration Day. Using his iPhone camera with a new zoom app he had recently downloaded, he started to take pictures from the positions so that he could later discuss with the picture editors where to position their best shooters. He started shooting pictures of people who were passing at various distances from the press platform, while taking mental notes of the various angles. His 8x zoom lens worked beautifully and gave him clear images of faces more than fifty yards away. He was focusing on the Capitol stairs when a man with a Middle Eastern complexion walked into his field of vision, right into his frame. He snapped a few frames but only one was in focus.

  “Hey, Dieter, look at that man in the brown leather jacket,” said Clayborne, without removing his eye from the camera. “He looks familiar.”

  Chris followed the man with his lens as he went up the stairs of the Capitol. The man stopped and turned towards Chris, giving him an excellent front view of his face. Instinctively, Chris snapped some more frames. He wondered where he could have seen this man before.

  “Just another Middle Eastern face,” replied Dieter Schiller, also looking through his lens. “You are just nostalgic for that crazy part of the world.”

  “Like you are not. Tell me you are having a ball in Hamburg,” replied Clayborne, keeping his eyes glued to his camera.

  “Hamburg is a very civilized city.”

  “Sure it’s civilized, but tell me you are having fun.”

  “I live very well, thank you.”

  “You are ignoring my question. Are you having fun? Are you getting laid, are you still getting stoned, are you getting published on the front pages of the International Herald Tribune?”

  “I see you still have your priorities right. Fun, sex, hash, and then getting published, ya?”

  “Not necessarily in that order. Sex could go first. Anyway, look at that guy, Dieter. Where have we seen him before? Come on man, use that Prussian head of yours.”

  “I don’t have your memory of faces, my friend. All those beers and all the hashish you poured into me made me lose some of my memory.”

  “It’s called old age. The beers and hashish never bothered you before. It’s old age that makes you senile.”

  “I did not say I was senile, ya? I said I did not have your memory of faces.”

  “Big help that is right now. I still can’t remember the man, but I know I have seen him before.”

  “Maybe he is an Arab diplomat, or journalist?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Look at his eyes, he seems t
o be making mental notes of things. There is something strange about him.”

  “And what are we doing? Not studying the layout?”

  “No, look, he’s different. Look at those eyes, Dieter. Look at those eyes.”

  “Uh oh. I sense your journalistic nose is acting up again. You smell the big scoop, ya? Remember what happens last time you dragged me into one of your intuitions. I get shot, ya.”

  “No scoop this time, but I just hate it when I can’t remember a face. It rarely happens to me. I believe I have even photographed this guy before. But where, damn it, where?”

  “Anyway, he’s going away. See? He did not plant any suspicious packages, your Middle Eastern enigma. No bombs, no boom-boom today, ya? You get no scoop, I’m afraid. We let you out of the office one bloody day and you start seeing conspiracies. My, my. Washington has really gotten to you. We should get that three-piece suit and tie back on you and send you back to the office. Maybe you are better at being boss-editor.”

  “I never wore a three-piece suit. Now you are exaggerating.”

  “Not so. My sources tell me they saw you in a three-piece suit. Anyway, you can wear a tuxedo if you like. Let’s go get some lunch; I’m starving.”

  “It’s only eleven in the morning, Dieter. Are you still on German time?”

  “So what difference does it make, ya, German time, American time, or Beirut time, we can get some beers first. Make it a long lunch, like in the old days. I was recommended a very good French restaurant. Very expensive. We also have champagne, and caviar, ya?”

  After lunch, Chris Clayborne returned to the IPS office. He plugged his iPhone into his computer and downloaded the images taken in the morning. Minutes later he was examining the photos on a large screen. When he came to the picture of the Middle Eastern man on the steps of the Capitol building, he enlarged it as much as he could. He had only had time to shoot a single frame before the man walked out of his field of vision. He made several prints of the photograph, using a high-quality printer. He looked at the face that seemed to be staring back at him. He just couldn’t get the man out of his mind. Where had he seen him before? Soon other business occupied him, and he momentarily forgot about the man from the Middle East until the technician brought the glossy color print to his office.

  Chris left the office earlier than usual. The long lunch, the numerous beers, and the champagne he had enjoyed with Dieter Schiller had wiped him out. He was not used to drinking so much since he left the Middle East. He fell asleep a little before ten. But it was an uneasy sleep. He awoke two hours later, tossing and turning in bed, unable to fall back asleep. He got out of bed, poured himself a large glass of cold water, dropped two Alka-Seltzers in the glass, and turned on the television set to the News Network Channel. There was more disturbing news from the Middle East as radical Palestinians were now openly warning America’s president-elect not to side with Israel. Iran also seemed to support the radicals, once again calling for jihad. Another car bomb went off in Cairo near the home of Sheik al-Haq, but he escaped unhurt. In an unrelated story, Syria had scheduled large-scale maneuvers on the Golan Heights for the following week. And the Washington peace talks were stalling once more.

  The Middle East again, thought Clayborne with nostalgia. He wished he were back in Beirut. He thought briefly of Laura, of the good times he had with her, before the face from the morning suddenly came back to haunt him. Where had he seen it before? Chris walked into the small room he used as a study. He turned on his desktop computer, waited for it boot up, and dialed into the IPS photo bank computer database. He placed the glossy photograph next to the computer. Chris Clayborne punched in his password and within seconds was connected to IPS’s vast photo library, allowing him to view millions of photographs at the stroke of a single key. But that was precisely the problem. There were millions of images in the database, far too many photographs to select from.

  Not knowing exactly where to start, he punched in CLAYBORNE/BEIRUT/BEIRUT/?/? and pressed enter. The computer prompted him with the line SEARCHING, PLEASE WAIT . . . while a tiny globe rotated. A few seconds later the screen showed him the following:

  AUTHOR: CLAYBORNE, CHRIS

  SUBJECT: DATELINE: DATE: CAPTION:

  NUMBER OF PICTURES: 32,756

  PRESS F1 TO VIEW PHOTOGRAPHS OR MAKE A NEW SELECTION.

  Great. There were nearly thirty-three thousand photographs taken by Clayborne relating to Beirut alone. Clayborne calculated that it would take him at least 2700 hours to view all those pictures, assuming he spend only five seconds on each. He needed to narrow his search down. He typed CLAYBORNE/PALESTINIAN/BEIRUT/?/? and hit the enter button.

  BEIRUT, LEBANON BEIRUT, LEBANON NOT SPECIFIED NOT SPECIFIED

  AUTHOR: SUBJECT: DATELINE: DATE: CAPTION:

  NUMBER OF PIX:

  PRESS F1 TO VIEW PHOTOGRAPHS OR MAKE A NEW SELECTION.

  He was still way off. He poured himself a Jack Daniels on the rocks and returned to his computer. CLAYBORNE/PALESTINIANS-FIGHTERS /BEIRUT/?/? and enter.

  CLAYBORNE, CHRIS PALESTINIAN BEIRUT, LEBANON NOT SPECIFIED

  NOT SPECIFIED 3,245

  AUTHOR: SUBJECT: DATELINE: DATE: CAPTION:

  NUMBER OF PIX:

  PRESS F1 TO VIEW PHOTOGRAPHS OR MAKE A NEW SELECTION.

  Well, at least the number was coming down. Where could he have seen that man? He was certain he had photographed him. Like many photojournalists, Chris never forgot a picture he took. Or did he actually take the picture, if indeed there was one?

  CLAYBORNE/BEIRUT/PALESTINIANS-FIGHTERS/CONFERENCE/?/?, enter. The computer informed him he had 436 pictures. He hit F1 and started looking at mug shots of Palestinians he had photographed over the years, comparing them to the one sitting on his desk. An hour later, he had only viewed half of them. Most were of prominent leaders; some showed fighters in Beirut or the south. Damn, there had to be another way. Think, man, think. Clayborne rubbed his eyes and fixed himself another drink. He could not place a name on the man and could not remember where he had photographed him. Yet he knew he had taken his picture once before. He kept looking at the print next to his computer. By five in the morning, Chris gave up and went back to bed.

  The following morning, Chris could hardly function. He was tired from having stayed up a good part of the night, but this Middle Eastern man bothered him. He propped the color photograph taken a day earlier in front of him, leaning it on a frame holding a picture of Laura standing next to a group of Palestinian commandos. Julia, his secretary, stuck her head into his office to remind him he was running late for the morning editorial meeting.

  CLAYBORNE, CHRIS PALESTINIANS-FIGHTERS BEIRUT, LEBANON NOT SPECIFIED

  NOT SPECIFIED 1,245

  “I’ll be right there,” he replied. But the photograph acted like a magnet. He was unable to leave it, unable to get away. Five minutes later, Julia returned. “They are starting without you,” she said. “And Franklin is furious. Says we are days from inauguration and desperately wants your input.” She moved into Chris’s office, closed the door behind her, and said in whispered tone, “I think he really needs you. He gets lost and begins to panic when he has to cover such a big story. You’d better go save his ass.”

  “Thanks, Julia, I’ll handle him.” Gerald Franklin was the executive editor and senior vice president of IPS. He had come to IPS from a small Midwestern paper and brought his small-town mentality with him. The morning editorial meeting was sacrosanct to Franklin, and any department head who failed to attend had better have a good excuse. He was technically Clayborne’s boss, but as he knew nothing about the news end of the operation, he left Chris alone, most of the time.

  “Julia,” Chris called out. “Send Peter upstairs.” Peter Griffiths was Clayborne’s deputy.

  “You know Franklin won’t like that,” she called back.

  “That’s all right; I’ll handle him.”

  Chris Clayborne grabbed the image off his desk and walked over to the photo archives department, situa
ted at the opposite end of the floor. He found Angelica Gonzalez at her desk, as usual, sorting through piles of black-and-white images. Angelica was in charge of the archives and she knew almost every image in her library.

  “Buenos dias, Angelica. How are you today?”

  “Hola, Señor Chrees. How nice to see ju.” Angelica was in her late sixties and had been working in the IPS library since she graduated from college more than forty years ago. She had never married and the photo library was her life; she treated it like the child she never had, refusing to retire. A fact for which Chris was forever grateful, as no one knew the files like she did.

  “Angelica, do you recognize this man?” asked Clayborne, showing her the color photograph of the Middle Eastern man standing on the steps of the US Capitol. Angelica changed her eyeglasses and scrutinized the photo for several seconds before replying. “No, señor. I am sorry, but this image does not recollect a bell for me. Ees it important?” Clayborne smiled. Angelica had her own way of mixing idiomatic expressions. “Sì, Angelica, es mucho importante. I want you to drop whatever you’re doing and see if you can match this with something from the files. I need it yesterday. Muchas gracias.”

  When Chris got back to his office, Franklin was there waiting for him. “Just where the hell have you been, my dear man?” Franklin had the nasty habit of addressing everyone as “my dear man.”

  “Something urgent came up and I have to get to the bottom of it,” replied Clayborne. “Could be a big story.”

  “Would you care to share with us?”

  “It’s too early to reach any conclusions, but I have a hunch this could be big. Very big.”

  “Well, it better be big, because so is the president’s inauguration. And that’s only nine days away, my dear man.”

  “This could very well have to do with the inauguration, believe me.”

  “I’ll see you at this afternoon’s planning session,” added Franklin as he stormed out. “Be there.”