Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  After lunch, Clayborne returned to the archives to help Angelica search the thousands of images and completely forgot his afternoon meeting with Franklin. By the time he left the office and made it home, it was well past ten. He looked in his refrigerator for something to eat, pulled out a slice of cold pizza, and opened a bottle of red wine before returning to his computer. He spent the next few hours searching through the database, without finding what he was looking for. At four thirty in the morning he gave up and went to sleep, totally exhausted.

  An hour later, he awoke with a jolt from a deep sleep. It suddenly struck him. He himself had never seen the man before. He had not actually taken the picture, not the original picture anyway. He had only copied a photograph given to him by the Palestinians, by Zeid to be precise. It was a handout. He remembered that day now, soon after he returned to Beirut. With renewed vigor, he jumped out of bed, returned to the computer, and as soon as he was connected, typed in:

  HANDOUT/BEIRUT/PALESTINIAN-FIGHTERS/?/?; seconds later the computer gave him the following prompt:

  AUTHOR: SUBJECT: DATELINE: DATE: CAPTION:

  NUMBER OF PIX:

  PRESS F1 TO VIEW PHOTOGRAPHS OR MAKE A NEW SELECTION.

  HANDOUT PALESTINIANS-FIGHTERS BEIRUT, LEBANON NOT SPECIFIED NOT SPECIFIED 135

  Chris hit F1 and a mosaic of small images instantly filled his screen. He placed the cursor on the first and hit enter. The mosaic disappeared and a large 10 x 4 black-and-white image appeared in its place. Chris’s heart was beating faster now. The first picture displayed was not the one he wanted. He hit F2 and the screen was instantly replaced by the next picture. Not it either. He looked at the next, and the next. It was the sixty-fourth picture. That was the one. The photograph showed three young Palestinian fighters holding their AK-47s and smiling for the camera. Chris zoomed in on the man on the right and enlarged the photograph. The man appeared a little younger than he did today, but then again, the photograph had been taken more than a year ago. There could be no doubt, it was definitely the same man. The same eyes. Chris zoomed in on the eyes. He compared them to the color photograph on his desk. It was the same man. He pulled up the caption. It read:

  “Beirut, Lebanon, December 25, 2012 - A photograph distributed by the PSF (Popular Struggle Front) today shows three unidentified Palestinian youths as they prepare for a suicide attack against Israel. Shortly after this photograph was taken, the group attacked a school in a kibbutz in northern Israel, killing several Israelis and wounding scores of others, including a number of children. The Palestinian commandos who carried out the attack were reported to have been killed by the Israeli army. CC/IPS HANDOUT”

  “It’s showtime,” said Chris to the computer screen. “I got ya.” Chris moved the cursor to the following picture. It was identical, except that this one had been cropped to exclude the fighter on the far right, the one Chris had photographed on the Hill. He read the caption. It was almost identical, except for the last line that indicated that only two of the commandos had been killed. “The third is believed to have survived and is reported to have escaped,” the caption read.

  That was it. This man was definitely the same one. What the hell was he doing in the US, right there on Capitol Hill? Chris made a print of the photograph, scribbled the picture number on a note pad for future reference, and signed off.

  Chris Clayborne downed the rest of his wine. It now all came back to him. He remembered the frantic telephone call from Zeid in the middle of the night, asking him not to send the picture of the third man out on the wire. Originally, the youth was supposed to have died with the others. Clayborne had moved the photograph on the IPS wire and managed to kill the photo just in time. That photograph was filed into the IPS archives and had never made it to the newspapers and magazines. He remembered re-shooting the picture, cropping out the man on the right. It was him, all right. That was when the chemical attack took place. Hundreds were killed. Now why was he here? What was he doing on the steps of the Capitol building a few days before the president’s inauguration? Clayborne was tired; he needed to get some rest. He would think more clearly in the morning.

  Chris was far too excited to fall asleep. He got out of bed and turned on the television in time to catch the tail end of a report from Yugoslavia, or what used to be Yugoslavia. “Damn, that’s one war I’m glad I didn’t cover,” said Chris to no one. The report was followed by another story on more violence erupting in the Middle East. A poor quality tape showed footage of a car bomb in Damascus that killed fifteen people. The Syrians blamed the Muslim Brotherhood and claimed to have arrested and executed four terrorists. There was more unrest in the West Bank and Gaza. Finally, the anchor announced, “And this communiqué release by the extremist Popular Struggle Front headed by Doctor Ibrahim Hawali just came in. Frank Delano in Beirut explains.”

  Chris recognized the network correspondent standing outside his office in Beirut. “In a rare press conference, Dr. Ibrahim Hawali, the head of the radical PSF, warned the United States today to stop supporting, I quote, ‘the Zionist entity,’ unquote. The Doctor, as he is commonly called here, said it was high time the Americans gave some thought to the plight of the Palestinian people. He asked President-elect Wells to discontinue ‘his blind support of Israel,’ as he put it, and to veto the latest financial and military aid packet totaling more than a billion dollars that Israel is due to receive shortly after President Wells is sworn into office next week. Dr. Hawali warned that unless the United States denounces Israel’s aggression and alters its stance on the Palestinian issue before the new president assumes office, the Unites States will bear the consequences. He cautioned the United States that the Palestinian people were rapidly losing their patience and unless the US showed encouraging signs, the PSF would not rule out striking at American interests, even if it meant taking the battle to the very heart of America. ‘We will turn the streets of Washington into Beirut,’ said Dr. Hawali. This is Frank Delano for News Networks in Beirut.”

  “We have Frank Delano on line from Beirut now, where he explains this new turn in policy,” said the anchor in New York. “Frank, this is really the first time the Palestinians have come out with such a blatant warning against the United States, and does that mean we are facing a new wave of terrorism, maybe even here in the US?”

  “Well, Bill, actually the PLO, and in particular the PSF, have issued warnings to the United States in the past. What is new here is that Dr. Hawali has set an actual deadline, giving the American government basically until the inauguration of the new president.”

  “Frank, does it look like it might be a bluff from the PLO or should we, should the State Department, the president, the FBI, the military take this more seriously?”

  “Bill, let me clarify something. The PLO, the Palestine Liberation Organization, is not involved here. This is merely a statement made by Dr. Ibrahim Hawali, a radical leftist Palestinian who broke away from the PLO years ago. Hawali is also known to have close ties to the radical Sheik al-Haq, who is known to have financed several operations against the US and Israel. At the moment, his group, the PSF, is at odds with the PLO leadership, whom Hawali labeled a traitor and has even tried to assassinate. The Doctor does not want the Washington peace talks to succeed. His group certainly has the potential to conduct terrorist actions against the United States. They have done so in the past, but never in the US itself. This is a new twist where he threatens to bring the fight to the very heart of America, ‘to the streets of Washington,’ as he put it.”

  “Frank Delano in Beirut, thank you.”

  “These TV guys haven’t changed much, have they?” Chris said out loud. “Now they’re gonna get all sorts of experts to analyze the statement and the Doctor. They will play it for every cent it’s worth.”

  The sun was already up by the time Chris Clayborne drove out to Annapolis. Charlton MacClarty was an early riser, and when Chris called him at five thirty, MacClarty was already drinking his second cup of coffee and reading the morn
ing newspapers. Chris was greeted by MacClarty, who poured him a cup of coffee and led him into his den. It was a large, comfortable room, decorated with prize-winning photographs, many of which were taken by MacClarty himself in his much younger days. There were copies of several front pages of newspapers, framed and mounted on a wall. Those were the scoops that MacClarty had obtained for IPS over the years. A large television screen was tuned to News Network, but the sound was muted. It was an old habit MacClarty could not get away from. As a retirement present, IPS had offered MacClarty a satellite dish so that he could still receive and view the full IPS photographic service as it went out over the wire. Occasionally, MacClarty would phone Clayborne and critique some of the pictures, or point out spelling mistakes in the captions—another old habit he could not break away from.

  “What’s on your mind, kiddo?” asked MacClarty. “Kiddo” was a term MacClarty reserved only for people he liked. “It’s gotta be very important for you to drive all the way out here, so early in the morning, and this being just eight days before inauguration. I’m sure you must have a number of other fires to put out.”

  “Well, Mac, that’s just it.” Clayborne related to MacClarty the events of the last two days and showed him the two photographs: the one from the files and the one he had taken three days earlier.

  “What do you suggest I do, Mac?” asked Clayborne. “Journalistically speaking, I feel this is a story. There’s no doubt. This man is a terrorist and he was seen scouting the site of the presidential inauguration just days before the event. But on the other hand, if there is a real threat to the president of the United States, is it not our duty to save lives, too? Do I go to the law, or do I try and find an angle to a story? Or do I do both? Right now, all I have is this headshot of a man I know is a terrorist. Not much for a story.”

  “I understand your dilemma, kiddo,” said MacClarty. “But let me ask you this simple question: what were you hoping to accomplish all these years running after bang bang, out there in the jungles of Africa and the deserts of the Mideast, getting your ass shot at? What did you want your news photographs to portray? I believe you were hoping, somewhere inside that mind of yours, that you would show the world the ugliness of war. You remember those words, kiddo? ‘The ugliness of war.’ Those were your words. You said that to me when I first interviewed you a few centuries ago. That’s why I hired you on the spot and sent you to the Middle East. Not because you were some crazy kid out of college looking for bang bang or excitement. Yes, certainly there was that; it’s in all our blood. Otherwise we can’t get the job done, but there’s more to it than that. You as a crusade. Your crusade, your chance to do something. You were hoping that you would maybe save a single life through your images of war. Well, today that life may be the life of the most powerful man in this country.”

  “So I go to the law.” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Go straight to the feds, kiddo. Go see my old friend Bill Potter at the FBI. I’ll call him and tell him you’re on your way. Potter is a good man.”

  “Thanks, Mac.”

  “No sweat, kiddo, no sweat. How’s that asshole Franklin treating you? Is he still on everyone’s case, as always?”

  “He sure is; especially these last few days. He’s been busting my back about missing his silly meetings.”

  “That dodo frets every time a big story comes around. He doesn’t know shit from Shinola. Keep your legs together, kiddo.”

  “Mac?”

  “Yeah?”

  “One more thing. Just what the hell is Shinola?”

  “It’s shoe shine, kiddo. Go see Potter, and good luck with the inauguration.”

  Chris Clayborne was heading for the elevators when Julia called him back. The little sleep he had these last few nights had totally exhausted him, as did today’s early drive to Annapolis. The meeting with William Potter at the FBI’s J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue did not do much to help, either. Clayborne thought he would be in and out in about an hour, hand the prints to the FBI man and return to work. Potter grilled him for over three and a half hours, going over every small detail again and again.

  “Chris,” shouted Julia. “Urgent phone call. Long distance. Told them to call you on your cell phone, but they insisted you take the call ASAP. She says it’s urgent.”

  “She?”

  Julia shrugged her shoulder, throwing her arms in the air. “She, but she wouldn’t give me a name.”

  Chris Clayborne cursed as he returned to his office. He threw his coat on a chair, turned on his desk light and sat down in his large comfortable black leather chair.

  “Clayborne here.”

  “This is Laura, Chris. It’s real good to hear your voice.”

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Laura was the last person on earth Clayborne expected to hear from. “My God. Laura? Laura, how the hell are you? Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m calling from Jerusalem. I’m sorry, but I must speak to you. It’s important. I wanted to make sure I got you before you left.”

  “That’s all right. No big deal, I was just going home. Laura, I’m delighted to hear your voice. How’s Dixie? How are you?”

  “Fine and fine. The usual stuff. I’ve been here for a day and I fly back tomorrow.”

  But Clayborne could feel there was more to it than that. He could detect the nervous tension in her voice. “What is it, Laura? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. All is fine, Chris, but there’s an urgent matter that I need to talk to you about. I will be arriving in Washington tomorrow afternoon. Can we get together right away?”

  “Yes, sure. Yes, we can.”

  “I’m sorry to impose on you at the last minute, Chris, but this is important.”

  “What is it? Can you talk?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Don’t want to talk on the telephone.”

  “I’m glad you called, Laura. I’ve been thinking about you. My God, Laura, it’s been a while; what have you been up to? I’ve really missed you.”

  “I miss you too, darling, I really do, and would love to see you again.”

  “Laura, it will be so good to see you. God, I’ve been thinking about you so much,” said Clayborne.

  “Me too, Chris. So have I—I still miss you very much.”

  “Need a place to stay?” asked Clayborne.

  “Thanks, I might take you up on that.”

  “Give me your flight details and I’ll pick you up at Dulles. Is that where you’re coming in?

  “That’s okay; I have transportation. Why don’t we meet at your place tomorrow evening, say around sixish?”

  “Sixish. That’s great. I’ll see you then.”

  “Chris?”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t there something you have to tell me?”

  “Tell you? Yes, I miss you. I can hardly wait . . .”

  “No Chris, besides that.”

  “What?”

  “How about your address?”

  Clayborne sat at his desk for the longest time, unable to put his thoughts in order. He aimed the remote control at the three television sets sitting on a long narrow table that faced his desk, each tuned to a different news channel. As usual, the sounds from the three sets were all muted. Chris noticed a graphic of the Middle East flash behind the anchorwoman. He reached for the remote and raised the volume on the middle set, constantly tuned to the News Network Channel.

  “. . . amid reports of more violence this morning in the Syrian capital, Damascus.”

  Clayborne pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels that he kept in his desk drawer for medicinal purposes: paper cuts, scrapes and bruises, or moments like these. Julia stuck her head through the door to say she was leaving for the day. With his free hand Chris waved her away as he took a sip from the bottle.

  “Everything okay, boss?” she asked.

  “All’s fine, Julia. Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The sounds from the
television continued: “. . . a Syrian Ministry of Information official informed News Network this morning that the latest bomb that exploded outside Syria’s central bank, killing a dozen people, was the work of the Muslim Brotherhood, an extremist Islamic faction that remains banned in Syria. However, a communiqué delivered to international news agencies in Beirut by the Brotherhood vehemently denies the allegations, claiming Syrian intelligence agents are responsible for the bombs and are using the incidents as an excuse to crack down on their members in Syria. This is Frank Delano in Beirut.”

  “Frank, there are reports of troop movements in Damascus tonight. Have you been able to confirm any of this?”

  “Well, Arlene, as you know, the Syrians have denied visas to all foreign media, including News Network, saying the mood in the capital is, and I quote, ‘not right at this particular time,’ unquote. I have, however, been able to talk to several residents in Damascus tonight, including a European diplomat who spoke to me on condition that I not mention his name. All those I spoke to confirm the arrival of large numbers of troops and tanks in the Damascus area. The high-ranking diplomat, whose apartment overlooks the Mezze Highway, a major avenue on the city’s outskirts, told me he counted at least 350 tanks this afternoon. He claims he saw a large number of ambulances race past the American embassy towards the central bank. The diplomat mentioned that the tanks were just parked, as he put it, ‘they were just parked on the highway.’”

  “We’ll be back later in the program with more details from Frank Delano in Beirut.”

  Chris Clayborne left the office earlier than usual the next day. He went straight home, where he spent the good part of an hour tidying the place up—not that his apartment was messy. A Guatemalan maid saw to it three times a week that the place remained impeccably clean. But Chris was nervous and needed to keep himself occupied. He took a long, hot shower, put on some clean clothes, and anxiously awaited Laura’s arrival.

  Clayborne uncorked a bottle of red Bordeaux he had picked up a few days earlier from the corner liquor store, and allowed the wine to breathe. He placed a Luciano Pavarotti CD on his player and paced nervously around the flat, waving his arms in the air, directing an imaginary orchestra. He was feeling foolish at his boyish anticipation of seeing Laura again.