Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  Laura arrived a few minutes after six thirty. She rang the bell and Chris opened the door almost immediately. She looked lovelier than ever, Chris thought, as she stood sheepishly in the doorway, smiling at him. She was tanned, healthy, and full of vigor. Her hair was a bit longer than before and came down to her shoulders, almost touching them. The black-and-white dress she wore outlined her body perfectly. Chris just stared at her for several long seconds.

  “Are you going to ask me in, or are you just going to let me stand in the hallway all night long?” she joked. Chris ushered her in and they embraced for a long time before either of them spoke. They simply held onto one another, feeling each other’s warmth.

  “It’s so good to see you again.” It was Laura who finally broke the silence. “I missed you so much,” she added. “I really did.”

  “I can hardly believe you’re here. It’s so great to see you. Sit yourself down. Let me get your coat and I’ll get us something to drink. You look wonderful.” Chris Clayborne poured two glasses of the red wine and offered Laura a glass. “Here’s to us and old times.”

  “Here’s to better times ahead,” replied Laura. “Tell me about yourself. You look great. No, you look fabulous. I guess Washington is treating you right after all.”

  “Oh, Washington isn’t so bad, really. Dull when compared to the Middle East, but then again, what isn’t? On the other hand, there is enough going on here to keep me busy, on my toes, and out of trouble. There are plenty of Arabic restaurants to keep me in supply of hummus and other delicacies. But I do miss the old days. The Middle East is never really far though. You want to know something crazy?” said Clayborne, delicately brushing Laura’s hair away from her face. “Since I left Beirut, I haven’t seen or heard from anyone there in months. As for you, I haven’t seen you since your trip to London. I don’t even get a postcard all this time, then suddenly, in the space of two days, Beirut seems to be haunting me again. First, Dieter Schiller shows up in a limo, then you call, and finally, I see this Palestinian who was supposed to have died pop up right here in DC.”

  “Chris,” said Laura, looking serious, “this is what I came to talk to you about.”

  “What?”

  “The Palestinian,” said Laura, as she opened her black leather briefcase, withdrew a tan folder from inside and handed it to Chris. Inside the folder was a copy of the photograph he had taken on the Hill just a few days earlier. “How did you know he was going to be on the Hill?”

  “I didn’t. It was pure coincidence. It drove me crazy just trying to figure out who the hell he was. I couldn’t concentrate; I couldn’t work or sleep until I figured out where I recognized him from. It took me two whole days.”

  “Chris, I need to know more about him,” said Laura, pointing to the folder that Chris was now holding. “What have you kept back from the FBI? What can you tell me that you kept from them?”

  “Hold on a minute, how did you know I went to the FBI? How did you know I saw him on the Hill? I never mentioned any of that tonight.” Chris opened the folder and almost dropped his wine glass when he saw the Palestinian looking at him. “Where the hell did you get those pictures? That’s my picture. Where did you get it?”

  “You never mentioned you had a picture of this terrorist either. Yet you had a picture of this bastard all the time. Why the hell didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

  “What do you mean, ‘tell you’? Tell you what?”

  “Why did you never mention that you had a picture of this terrorist? That you knew who the third man in the kibbutz attack was?” inquired Laura.

  “Look, first of all, you never asked, and secondly, I promised Zeid to kill this picture. It never made it on the wires because this guy, whatever his name is, came back,” Clayborne said. “He was not supposed to, but he did. And why the hell are you suddenly so interested in this, anyway?”

  “Chris, please listen and calm down. This is what I need to talk to you about. I have to find him.”

  “Yes, and the Doctor would have found you and terminated your life and mine, Laura. This is no laughing matter. You don’t joke around with these people. Zeid had my trust; he gave me the photograph more than twenty-four hours ahead of the competition. He gave it to me before the operation, before the attack on the kibbutz. I couldn’t go about handing the picture to other hacks after he asked me to put a stop on it. Hell, that would have been the end of it; the end of me. Don’t think I did not lose sleep over this matter. I thought about it a lot, which is why I decided to go to the FBI this time. Laura, if you got to see the Doctor as quickly as you did and visit the training camp in the Bekaa, it was thanks to my good relations with Zeid and his group.”

  “Yes, I know, Chris, and I am eternally grateful for that.”

  “You never answered my question. How did you obtain a copy of this picture and how did you know I saw him on the Hill?”

  “Chris, did he see you?”

  “Did who see me?”

  “You know what I mean. Did Omar see you?”

  “Omar? So now you know his name too? How the hell do you know his name? Just what is going on here? Laura, you have to tell me. What’s going on here? Jesus, this is spooky.”

  “Chris, darling Chris. I’m sorry, but you must listen to me. I’ve been on his trail since Beirut, Chris. His real name is Omar al-Kheir, though he never uses it. At least that’s the name he is known to us by. He has used a dozen false names and twice as many false passports. More often than not, he used real passports given to him by other intelligence services for whom he’s carried out certain favors. The Libyans, the Iraqis, the Iranians, the Syrians, and even the IRA.”

  “Now wait a goddamn minute. You said ‘he is known to us’ . . . who the hell is ‘us’? Are you a spook? Do you work for the government? And, may I add, which government? You know, maybe we do have a story here. If this Omar guy is as dangerous as you say he is, maybe I should move the photo on the wire? Run a story with it. It could be worth a lot.”

  “Yes, like your life. This man doesn’t kid around, Chris. Please listen to me.”

  Clayborne sat near the fire, took a poker and moved a log around the fireplace. He took a sip of his wine before speaking. “Laura, how involved are you in this? What are you not telling me? Or rather, what are you trying to tell me—that you’re a spook?”

  Laura laughed, “Is that what you call it, a spook?”

  “Yeah, a spook, a spy, a secret agent, an operative, fucking James Bond.” Clayborne poured himself another glass of wine.

  “Darling, I can tell you very little and the little I do tell you must remain absolutely confidential. You mustn’t move the picture on the wire. There must be no story. Think of the panic it will cause. You must help me find this man in any way you can.”

  “Laura, do you realize what you are asking me to do? I’m a journalist, not a fucking spook. It’s not my job to spy on people. It’s my job, though, to deliver the truth. I’ve already done my duty by giving the information to the FBI. What more do you want now?”

  “The truth?” said Laura, raising her voice. “The truth is that this bastard is a dangerous terrorist, probably the most dangerous terrorist in the world today. This man has murdered innocent women and children, not to mention men, simply because they believed in a different god than his, or because they don’t agree with his way of thinking. This man used chemical weapons on innocent civilians and is getting ready to do it again, this time in Washington. This man you are trying to protect is responsible for the death of more than a hundred people, brutally killed, slaughtered, like animals.”

  “Listen, I’m not trying to protect him, remember? I’m the one who went to the FBI. I’m just questioning the ethics of this whole thing.”

  “Ethics?” Laura’s voice changed. She stood up and helped herself to more wine. “Tell me about his ethics. About killing defenseless children in a school, about gunning down diplomats and about bombing street markets in Tel Aviv or nightclubs in Frankfurt whi
le American servicemen dance. Or how about those poor bastards he blew out of the sky? All in the name of what?”

  “Laura, Laura, hold on a minute. Let’s calm down a bit here. I’m on your side, remember? I’m still with the good guys.” Chris walked over to her, placed his arm around her, and pulled her tightly towards him, kissing her on the forehead. “Look, there’s a lot more to this than you are telling me. I want to know; I need to know. How involved are you? I have to know. You owe me this much.”

  “The Mossad has identified him as the third man in the kibbutz attack of a few years ago. That’s why I went to Jerusalem last week to liaise with Israeli intelligence. That’s why I went to Beirut last August. To track down Omar. They’ve also identified him as the man responsible for the death of Ambassador Shoman in Brussels. This man is a dangerous terrorist, a killer without a conscience. They believe him responsible for the attack on the TWA plane in Rome. He has assassinated prominent West Bank Palestinians who have voiced their intentions of discussing peace with Israel. This man is far more dangerous than Carlos ever was. He’s managed to escape capture numerous times. He brutally massacred a Mossad agent in London and nearly killed another. In Paris, he cut the throat of a lover whom he suspected had ratted on him to the police. He managed to escape only moments before a French anti-terrorist squad arrived. To make his point, he had the nerve to walk into a Paris police station and blow the place up the very next day. There are no known photographs of this man, except of course for the ones you have, the ones you gave the FBI. If he even suspects you to have taken this picture, if he ever remotely thinks you’ve spotted him, he will kill you without hesitation.”

  Chris remained silent for a long while, digesting the information. “How do you know all this? No one seems to know much about who was responsible for all those acts you just mentioned. They were claimed by various Pal and pro-Iranian groups.”

  “We know. Believe me, we know.”

  Chris noticed the gradual change taking over Laura as she spoke. She was being transformed into a very different person. Her tone was getting more authoritative, more sure of herself. And it frightened Chris. “We?” questioned Clayborne. “Go on.”

  Laura realized that if she were to convince Clayborne, to obtain his cooperation, she would have to give him something in return. “Yes, we. The intel community. Yes, Chris, I work for the US government; for the CIA. I’m a fucking spook, as you put it. But this Omar is one of the most dangerous men in the world. We believe he now plans to assassinate the president of the United States on Inauguration Day, possibly with the use of chemical or biological weapons.”

  Laura picked up the color photograph of the Palestinian standing on the front steps of the Capitol and handed it to Chris. “You were right. Your reaction was the right one. It was your Middle East reflex. You guessed right and did the proper thing by going to the FBI.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” admitted Chris.

  “I’m sure. But now we . . .” she hesitated. “I need your help. Please. What can you tell me?”

  “So Beirut was just a big fucking lie? All the time we spent together was just so that you could play your fucking spy games? So that you could use me? You must be out of your mind. You must be mad. Do you realize what would have happened to you, to me, if they ever even suspected? If they ever found out? What right have you got to endanger us like that?”

  “No, Chris, I never used you. We, us, what happened between us in Beirut was . . . is, very real. I had real feelings for you. I still do. It’s unfortunate that things got in the way. I was doing my job, but I did not use you.”

  “How can you say that? How can you say that with a straight face? You did not use me? Yet, you disappeared overnight and I don’t hear from you until you need me again. You need me because I spotted your terrorist.”

  “Because it’s the truth, damn you! I disappeared because it would have been dangerous to return to Beirut and it would have been dangerous for you had I communicated with you. Yes, I was told to use you. Yes, you did have great contacts that helped me cut through piles of red tape, but my feelings for you are real . . . were real, and still are real,” said Laura. Tears started to roll down her face and she dropped her head onto Chris’s shoulders. “I never wanted to fool you. I have real feelings for you, Chris. I do.”

  The lovemaking that followed flowed naturally. They were both hungry for each other’s body, for warmth. For several long minutes, it was almost like old times. Chris allowed himself to momentarily forget what he had just heard. He had longed for Laura. He was happy to have her back, even if it would only last a few precious moments.

  They kissed, caressed, and touched each other’s bodies. It seemed as if they had only been apart for days. Chris looked at Laura. Her face looked even more beautiful than he remembered. The flames burning in the fireplace reflected off her naked body as she lay on the large Persian rug.

  “I missed you, Chris,” she whispered in his ear. “I really did. You’ll never know how much you really meant to me, with all the madness and all the hatred in the Middle East, you brought a certain comfort and stability into my life. You gave me warmth. I needed that, very much.” She placed a gentle kiss on his nose. “But now, I’m hungry. Take me out and feed me or I’ll eat you all up,” she said, nibbling playfully on his ear.

  They were both famished by the time they reached the small, cozy Italian restaurant in Georgetown, one of Chris’s favorites. The waiter took their order and Chris remained silent, lost in his thoughts for a long while.

  “I’m afraid you wasted your time, Laura. I mean coming here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there is nothing more I can tell you, other than what I’ve already told the FBI. I spent almost four hours with them yesterday. I saw this guy on the Hill, he looked familiar. I instinctively snapped a few frames and nearly went crazy trying to ID him. Voilà, that’s all I have. I have no idea where he is, or what he is up to.”

  “We’ll track him down,” she said. “We’ll track the bastard down. We have to.”

  They finished their meal. Chris paid and they left the comfort of the restaurant for the cold January air. It had started to snow and Laura held on to Chris’s arm as they looked for a taxi. They walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, when Chris suddenly stopped, turned to face Laura, and said, “The second option.”

  “What?”

  “The second option, goddamn it. Have you considered the second option?”

  “Chris, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “There has to be a different goal. A different excuse. The Doctor must be up to something else. He has to have something else up his sleeve. He has to. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Chris, just what are you talking about? You’re the one not making any sense.”

  “For Chrissake, Laura,” said Chris, looking around him to make sure he would not be overheard, “if the PSF goes to the trouble of taking out the president of the US, which is no small feat in itself, there has to be room for a second option. The Thinker, remember the Thinker? The man I pointed out to you in that restaurant back in Beirut? He would never let an opportunity like that go by without conceiving of some other demonic scheme. A second opportunity.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re the spy. I don’t know; you figure it out. But I bet you every last dollar I ever made that the Doctor, with help from his Thinker, have thought up a nice little side dish for you.”

  “Isn’t killing the American president with chemical weapons enough? I mean, what could be bigger?”

  “Big enough for me, thank you very much. Far more than I can handle, yes, but not for them, Laura. What would they gain? Directly, I mean. Think about this. What would they gain by killing the president? There has to be a second motive. You see, you have to think like the Doctor. Put yourself in his place. All right, with the American president out of the way, what comes next? What’s your next move? How can the
y take advantage of that situation? What is it that they really want? What have they been after all these years?”

  “You can’t possibly believe they are going to attack Israel. Don’t be daft. The PSF doesn’t have the military strength, nor the political clout to take on the Israeli army, especially now with the Soviets out of the way. It would be suicide.”

  “When was it not suicide—the Middle East, I mean? All that they do there is suicidal. Like the story of the turtle and the scorpion.”

  “But they couldn’t possibly take on the Israeli Army.”

  “No, not the Pals, they couldn’t. But someone else, the Syrians, for example, certainly can.”

  “But that’s insane. Why would the Syrians want to start a Middle East war? Why now, when the peace process is going ahead?”

  “Going ahead without them.”

  “But still, go to war now? Why?”

  “Might you have done something that pissed them off during the last forty years, maybe? These people do carry a grudge, you know. And it would give the Assad regime the upper hand in the civil war.”

  “Be serious, Chris. It’s no time to joke.”

  Clayborne ignored the last remarks. “Besides, with the void left by the absence of US political and military pressure, with the US government safely out of the way, at least for a while, that is, there would be chaos in the Middle East. Utter chaos. It could be the perfect excuse for a short, limited conflict, not a big war, mind you. The Syrians could be in and out before anyone realized what hit them. Especially if Omar creates enough chaos here. If he uses chemical weapons in Washington, it would take weeks, if not months, for the nation to recover.”

  22

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Chester D. Higgins III bore a slight resemblance to the actor Dustin Hoffman. He had the kind of face that made you wonder if you had already met before. He was of average height, not very tall, had the same shape of face as Hoffman, and the same dark hair Hoffman once had. However, Higgins wore wire-rimmed glasses, making him look slightly more intellectual. The other difference was that Higgins was much tougher. Young Higgins had followed in his father’s footsteps, joining the Central Intelligence Agency in Vietnam, where he had first served as a major in the US Marine Corps. His father, Chester Delbert Higgins Jr. had joined the Office of Strategic Services during World War II, and then remained with the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency, serving as a field officer in postwar Germany, Hungary, and then the Middle East. Higgins III had spent the first twenty years of his life growing up in Tehran, Cairo, Beirut, and Tel Aviv. He spoke fluent Farsi and Arabic, knew the region and culture better than most locals, and felt more at home in the Arab world than he did on the banks of the Potomac.