Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  Since his return to a desk job at Langley, Chester D. Higgins III had spent every working hour of every day fighting consecutive administrations. He tried desperately to get them to see the imminent danger in the rise of Islamic fundamentalism in the Arab World and of extremist groups like the PSF and fanatics like Sheik al-Haq. The idiots in Washington were far too preoccupied with trivial matters such as sex scandals to take him or the threats seriously. He had seen the dangers coming more than fifteen years ago. He had warned them about Ayatollah Khomeini, but they wouldn’t listen. Even the French had passed on their concerns, while Khomeini, still an unknown and unheard-of factor, was preaching in a Paris suburb for the demise of the Shah. Higgins’s contacts in Iran, as well as connections in the French Intelligence and Counterintelligence Service, had voiced their apprehension. Higgins relayed the information to Langley, begging the CIA to intervene. The CIA and the Shah had grossly underestimated the powers of the Ayatollah. The rest was history.

  Unfortunately for Higgins, most of the Arab world was now off-limits to him. The Iranians had identified him as a CIA operative from files they recovered when they took over the American embassy. Higgins knew that his life would not be worth much if he was caught anywhere in the Arab world. For now, he had to content himself with a house in suburban Virginia and a commute to CIA headquarters every day. And he hated it.

  Chester Higgins greeted Laura with a firm handshake outside the Tenth Street and Pennsylvania entrance of the Federal Bureau of Investigation building in Washington, DC. “Good to meet you, Atwood,” said Higgins. “I’ve heard a lot about you from the boss. You have done some remarkable work.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” replied Laura. “I am not so sure the boss thinks along the same lines. Which is probably why he has tasked you to babysit me.”

  “You may be right about the boss not trusting you and asking me to babysit you, but my admiration of your work in the Middle East is genuine.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Laura. “In any case, most of us at the Farm think that you are one of the few people in this country who understand the Middle Eastern way of doing things.”

  The two CIA agents entered the FBI building, where they were greeted by an FBI agent who had been waiting for them. The agent signed them in and gave them VIP badges. Higgins smiled, as he knew those VIP badges allowed the bearer into exactly the same places as the regular tourist badges. They just made important visitors feel more important. The FBI man accompanied them up to the top floor and into the sumptuous office occupied by Hamilton Royce, Deputy Director of Operations.

  “Welcome to the FBI, Miss Atwood, Mr. Higgins,” said Royce in a thick southern drawl. “I just got off the phone with Director Monaghan, who believes there might be even greater trouble brewing back there, that is, unless we stop that S.O.B. first,” said Royce, pointing Laura and Higgins to empty chairs.

  Laura was introduced to three other people already in the room and made a mental note of their names. “Bruce Whelan, Special Assistant to the Director; Vincent Bonenfanti, head of the FBI Anti-Terrorism Bureau; and William Potter, Assistant Deputy Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in charge of Counterespionage.

  “From the US Secret Service, you have Bruce Stravorski, Susan Price, and Muriel Ford. They are respectively Deputy Director of the USSS, Director of the Presidential Detail, and Director of Presidential Travel. We will be joined in a few moments by Alex Vaughn, who is in charge of all advance movements. He is being held up in another meeting.”

  Royce spoke first, addressing Laura in his southern accent. “Miss Atwood, your director firmly believes that this Omar fellow is here presently in these United States and is preparing to strike at us, possibly with the use of chemical weapons. Mr. Potter, there,”—he gestured with a wave of his arm—“strongly supports the theory. Claims his sources are impeccable, which I don’t doubt, as Mr. Potter is an excellent man and an outstanding agent. But quite frankly, little lady, I may be from the great state of Louisiana, but I’m from Missouri on this one.” He puffed on his unlit pipe to indicate he was done, for the moment.

  Laura realized that she had been living outside the US too long. She had no clue what Royce was talking about. She gave Higgins a quizzical look. “That’s Southern talk for skeptical,” he whispered.

  Laura was about to speak, when Royce raised his hand, to indicate he still had more to say. “Little Lady, all we have to go on is a picture of a man walking by Capitol Hill. Now I ask you, do you believe this is enough to launch a nationwide manhunt? Enough to mobilize the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation and all its resources?”

  “Director Royce,” said Laura Atwood, “I have been on the trail of this terrorist for years. This is the man who attacked a school full of children in northern Israel and then killed more than a hundred people in the first chemical attack on the country. This is the same man who killed the Israeli ambassador to Belgium, and hijacked several airliners, including American carriers. The list goes on; it’s all in the file in front of you. Believe me, he would not be here, in Washington, a few days before the president’s inauguration unless he was planning something big. I don’t think Omar was playing tourist.”

  Deputy Director Royce picked up the pictures from the folder given to him by Potter and examined them. “So this is what the son of a bitch looks like.” Royce smiled at her, “And just what do y’all think the S.O.B. might be up to?”

  “Judging from the tone of the threats delivered so far, it seems that they were all directed against the president’s office, urging him to change US policy towards Israel. We believe he plans to strike at the president, sir,” said Bonenfanti, the FBI’s anti-terrorism man. “The fact that he was seen at the Capitol might indicate he plans to strike around that area, or is still scouting for his ideal target.”

  “Inauguration Day,” said Potter. “That’s when the president is most vulnerable. He’s out in the open, usually walks down Pennsylvania Avenue after the inauguration ceremony, stops, and shakes hands with people and such. And if the weapon really is chemical or biological, Omar does not need to get up close and personal.”

  “Mr. Royce, as you know, I went to Tel Aviv yesterday and had a one-hour session with the head of Mossad,” said Laura. “He conveyed his concerns. There is more at stake than the US president, if that were not bad enough. Dr. Ibrahim Hawali has been reported by the Jordanians to have been seen traveling to Damascus and Tehran more than a dozen times in the last six months. Far more than the usual meetings he’s had in the last few years.”

  “Surely, Syria isn’t going to get involved in the assassination of the president of the United States!” exclaimed Royce.

  Bonenfanti nodded in agreement. “But sir, Iran might. Not officially, but Firamarz Kazemi certainly wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to strike at American interests.” Bonenfanti looked at Higgins for support.

  “That’s for sure,” agreed Higgins, who was thankful that for once someone was taking a threat seriously. “Old Ayatollah Kazemi would certainly jump at such an opportunity. He is the ultra-hardliner and most anti-American of all the mullahs. And again, here too, we have seen large transfers of funds between bank accounts Kazemi manages for the Palestinian jihadists.”

  ***

  The president’s inauguration was now only five days away. Omar had some final preparations to make before the big day. He left his apartment and rode the Metro to Union Station, only three stops away, from where he boarded an express train to New York’s Penn Station. He had studied his maps well over the last few weeks and found getting around was becoming easier. No one would notice another face in the crowd. He would use this to his advantage. A funny place, America, he thought. They would be beaten by their own system. Far too much freedom.

  A short cab ride later took him from Penn Station to the United Nations Plaza on New York’s East Side. Omar found a working telephone and called a direct number at the Iranian mission at the United Nations.r />
  “This is Nabil,” he said in English. “I have not yet received your communiqué.”

  There was a brief hesitation on the other end before the voice replied, “It is ready for you. Tell us where to send it.”

  “You have my address on file,” said the Palestinian, and hung up.

  Omar waited exactly fifteen minutes, then walked to the post office a few blocks from the UN Headquarters at the address given to him by the caller in Athens several weeks earlier. He found the box numbered 3226 and slid a sealed envelope inside it. The Palestinian then positioned himself a few feet away, and pretended to fill out a form, without ever taking his eyes off box number 3226. Less than half a minute later, a man with a Middle Eastern complexion walked into the post office, opened box number 3226, and retrieved the letter Omar had deposited. The letter with Omar’s instructions had remained no more than a few seconds in the post office box. The Iranian walked back to the UN and Omar disappeared into the crowd. Omar was back in Washington the same evening.

  The next morning, Omar walked to a nearby supermarket. He was always surprised at the abundance of goods available in America. Just look at all the choices there were. Why would anyone need all these different kinds of toilet paper, or orange juice, or cereal? The people in the camps where he grew up never had that much choice. They were lucky to get bread. They would be content just having enough to eat on any given day. Revenge was near. Just let them wait, he thought. Just a few more days now. Things would change.

  Omar stocked up on canned food and bottled water to last out the week. He intended to remain in the apartment as much as possible once the equipment he was waiting for was delivered. There was no need to run additional risks. Anything could happen. The landlord might show up unexpectedly, or there could be a leak in the roof. Trouble has a way of creeping up. With the target date nearly at hand, it was silly to risk blowing the operation. Expect the unexpected. His mind floated back to the early days in the training camp with Kifah Kassar. How much had happened since then, how things had changed for him. How he had changed. There he was a simple fighter ready to blow himself up, and now he was about to carry out one of the greatest terrorist feats ever perpetrated. People would talk about this day more than they did about Munich. Killing the American president was by far greater than attacking a group of Israeli athletes. It was far more dangerous, too. He was certain the Americans would step up their security in the capital for the big event on January 20. Already, he noticed there were more men in uniform patrolling his neighborhood; he also noticed more than a few without uniform. Undercover cops, he thought, were the same the world over. They might as well carry a large sign saying “Secret Police.”

  Ironically, the US Secret Service had done just that with their Uniformed Division. Omar found it hilarious to see police cars with their flashing lights, sirens and all, with large letters on the car identifying it as US Secret Service Uniformed Division.

  The day after Omar’s trip to the Big Apple, the Iranian diplomat unlocked the special closet in his East Side apartment and removed the two trunks where he had placed the equipment brought into the country over the last few months from Paris. He loaded them onto a small trolley, the kind used by airline travelers, and rode the building’s service elevator to his underground garage at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon, where a flower delivery van was already waiting. The driver of the van quickly helped the diplomat load the two trunks into the van. The diplomat returned upstairs and the van drove away. FBI agents positioned outside the front and garage entrances of the thirty-five story building, who kept around-the-clock watch on the Iranian diplomat, paid no particular attention to the van. Dozens of delivery vans pulled into the building every day.

  The van drove across Manhattan to the Holland Tunnel to make its way to the New Jersey Turnpike, then headed south on Interstate 95 until it reached Washington’s Capital Beltway, some five and a half hours later. The driver had maintained his speed well around the fifty-five mile per hour speed limit. He took the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, which led him into the District of Columbia and onto New York Avenue. Following directions in the letter dropped off in the New York post office box, the driver easily found the Howard Johnson Inn on New York Avenue. It was shortly after nine and traffic was light as the driver pulled into the parking lot behind the motel. As instructed, the driver remained in the van for several minutes. Omar, who was sitting in his rented Ford in clear view of the van, waited ten full minutes before making contact. He wanted to make sure the van was not being followed. It wasn’t. No one entered the motel’s parking lot, and no car stopped outside either.

  Omar approached the driver of the van and identified himself as Nabil. He asked the driver if he had brought the communiqué.

  “It’s in the back,” said the driver.

  The two men unloaded the trunks and Omar drove away. No further conversation was exchanged between the two. The driver of the van never even saw Omar’s face, as the Palestinian concealed himself behind a large hat and scarf that partially covered his face. The driver took a room for the night in the motel and headed back to New York early the next morning.

  ***

  Laura Atwood was the only woman in a room full of men. Besides Chester Higgins, Hamilton Royce, William Potter, and Vincent Bonenfanti, there was a cluster of Secret Service and FBI agents present. Hamilton Royce spoke first. “Gentlemen, Miss Atwood has been on the tracks of this terrorist for quite a while. It is truly a coincidence, and perhaps a lucky one for us, that this turns out to be the same man she has been tracking in Iraq. The floor is yours, Miss Atwood,” said Royce.

  “We are faced with a deadly and extremely dangerous terrorist,” said Laura, looking at each face around the table. “This man has killed numerous times before and will not hesitate to kill again. Innocent civilians who get in his way die. This man is a ruthless murderer. I myself only narrowly escaped being killed by him and remain one of the few people who has seen him and lived. He is extremely well-trained. Do not think for one nanosecond that any one of our agents can apprehend him. If we have the opportunity to have him in our sights, the order should be ‘shoot to kill.’ He has killed several well-trained agents and has animal instincts.

  “His attacks are always well-planned and executed. He always plans a good escape route, something that he learned the hard way on what was probably his first attack. We believe he will try and assassinate the president on or around Inauguration Day. Statements released by the PSF and Dr. Hawali all seem to indicate that unless the US changes its policy towards Israel, which they know will not happen, they would strike, as they put it, ‘at the very heart of America.’ His presence in the US points to that. The fact that he was seen by the Capitol is a lucky break for us.”

  “POTUS’s schedule for January 20 is extensive,” said the agent in charge of the Secret Service’s Presidential Protection Detail. “POTUS’s house in northwest Washington is easy enough to secure. In any case, he does not return there after the swearing-in ceremony, but heads directly to 1600 Pennsylvania, the White House. On Inauguration Day, the president-elect starts out at 0800 hours with a church service. The route from the house to the church isn’t public knowledge, and isn’t announced to the press. It can be changed at a moment’s notice. There are three different possibilities. The church is tightly screened and POTUS walks about fifteen yards from the car to the church. Here we can erect visual barriers so that we leave no open angle to a sniper.

  “That area can easily be secured. At 0930 hours, he returns home for a short rest. He is expected at the White House at 1030 hours for talks with the outgoing president. Again, the route isn’t announced, and we have four possible routes.

  “At 1130 hours, POTUS and FLOTUS leave the White House for the Capitol and the inauguration ceremony. Now, here comes the tricky part: the actual inauguration ceremony, where he stands for a good fifteen to twenty minutes on the podium outside the Capitol building. Here, POTUS stands behind bulletproof glas
s. It’s as safe a location as can be. The glass will prevent any known high-velocity bullet. We will have snipers on all adjoining rooftops and scores of agents mingling in the crowd. There are hundreds of uniformed officers on duty, too.”

  “Excuse me for just a moment, gentlemen,” interrupted Laura. “Omar is not an expert marksman, at least as far as we know, and we have documented him pretty well. He has never killed with a single bullet before, not from a long distance. Bombs or straightforward assaults are more his M.O. If he uses a gun, he likes to strike at close range. And as he naturally plans to escape alive, we can assume a frontal assault would be out of the question.”

  “With the number of security personnel on hand, Secret Service, FBI, Capitol Hill Police, Park Police, DC Police, not to mention the other agencies in DC, a frontal assault seems out of the question. He would never make it past the Capitol lawn,” said the FBI agent. “A bomb, therefore, is probably the best guess.”

  “Then the possibilities are endless,” said William Potter, the FBI counterespionage man.