Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  “. . . just in from the Middle East. A series of explosions rocked the Syrian capital over the last few days, killing more than twenty people and wounding scores of others. We’ve received this footage from the BBC and would like to point out that it carries some strong and rather explicit images.”

  The screen showed mutilated bodies being pulled out from still-smoking rubble as firemen, police, soldiers, and rescue workers worked frantically to reach the injured. The voice of a British correspondent continued, “Two bombs exploded in central Damascus this morning, killing and wounding a number of people. As you can see, bodies are still being recovered and the authorities here have not yet been able to compile an exact figure of casualties. This is the fifth explosion in Damascus over the last week that has so far claimed the lives of more than twenty people, and maiming at least twice that number. The authorities are blaming the attacks on the banned Muslim Alliance, an obscure group affiliated with the larger Muslim Brotherhood. Security in the city has been increased and the government has called in reinforcements from other Syrian cities.”

  The television now showed footage of tanks with soldiers waving from the turrets. “In fact, we were able to see this very morning a rather large column of tanks rumble into the city. Damascus is now taking the form of an entrenched armed camp with troops positioned at nearly every street corner, and military encampments are popping up in football fields and sports stadiums.”

  The picture returned to the anchorman in the studio. “That was Nigel Bainbridge of the BBC with an exclusive report. No other media organization, including CNN, has been allowed into Damascus yet, as Syrian authorities continue to refuse us visas.

  “The Middle East remains in the headlines tonight as Dr. Hawali, the radical Palestinian leader, today accused the United States of continuing to ignore the plight of the Palestinians. He warned that the spate of anti-American bombings that has plagued Europe for the last four months would soon cross the Atlantic unless a rapid solution to the Palestinian problem was reached. Frank Delano in Beirut reports.”

  “Less than twenty-four hours before President-elect Richard Wells is sworn in as the nation’s new president, radical Palestinians here have once again issued stern warnings to the new administration to alter what they claim is its blatant pro-Israeli policy. Arab extremists like Dr. Hawali’s PSF are generally believed to be responsible for the recent terror campaign in Europe. Although those acts were claimed by unknown groups using names like ‘Islamic Victory’ and ‘Islamic Obedience,’ observers here believe they are really the work of Dr. Hawali’s people, possibly backed by the radical Egyptian Sheik al-Haq and some Iranian factions, too. This is Frank Delano in Beirut.”

  “Frank, would you elaborate on the Iranian connection? Does that mean the Iranians are officially backing such terror campaigns?”

  “Not really. As you know, the Iranian government is split right down the middle, with the moderates to one side who very much want to mend relations with the West in general, and with America in particular. They believe diplomacy is the best way to obtain the release of Iran’s frozen assets, held in Western banks since the demise of the Shah. On the other hand are radicals like Ayatollah Firamarz Kazemi, who advocates a much firmer policy towards the West. Kazemi blames the West, mainly America, for the country’s ills, for supporting Iraq during Iran’s eight year conflict with Saddam Hussein, and mostly for supporting Israel. Now clerics like Ayatollah Kazemi are quite powerful and command great support among the people, and especially the Revolutionary Guards. This, of course, makes it very difficult for the government and the moderates to ignore them.”

  “Frank Delano in Beirut, thank you.”

  The Palestinian smiled as he aimed the remote control and silenced the set.

  ***

  William Potter thought it would be better if he went to see Clayborne, rather than ask him back to the FBI building. He wasn’t quite sure how the journalist would react to his request, and he needed Clayborne’s cooperation. Damn it, he needed all the help he could get. Time and options were rapidly running out.

  It was still very early in the morning, and except for the two overnight editors wrapping up their shifts, the IPS office was still deserted. Clayborne poured two cups of hot, black coffee and offered one to the FBI man without bothering to ask if he cared for cream or sugar.

  “Black okay, I hope?”

  “Yeah, sure, that’s fine, thanks. Chris, let me get right to the point,” said William Potter. “We need your help. We are running out of time and I’m afraid we might not find this guy before Inauguration Day. Let’s talk about Inauguration Day. That’s where you can help out.”

  “Just how is that?” asked Clayborne, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “I need you out on the stands, scanning the crowds, looking through your long lens. You’ve seen him before, and I’m sure can recognize him again much easier than many of my agents can. I’ll have an agent with you, relaying the information and protecting you.”

  “You’re nuts,” said Clayborne. “On a day like this, this big a story, I have to be inside, to stay here and run the show. You think I can just get up and leave?”

  “This is a matter of national importance, Chris. The life of the president of the United States may be at stake. Possibly even more that just his life.”

  “And so is my career, if I walk out on Inauguration Day, especially if there is an attempt on the president.”

  “We’ll handle that. My director will talk to your director, if need be. We can take care of that.”

  “Can I sleep on it?”

  “Sorry, but we don’t have time.”

  Clayborne was silent for a few seconds before replying. “Tell you what,” said Chris finally. “Let’s make a deal. I give you my time. I will go and stand on the podium, scan faces for you. No agent with me though. Just wire me up, give me a radio. I’ll be in constant contact with you, or with your people.”

  “Fine,” said Potter.

  “In return, you give one of my people access.”

  “Access to what?”

  “Total access to whatever happens,” said Chris. “Unlimited access to any situation. If you nab the terrorist, I want my person there, in front of him, in his face, unhindered, able to work. If you shoot him, I want my person there. If there’s a gunfight, a hostage situation, a bomb, an arrest, or whatever, I want my person to have exclusive access.”

  “Not sure I can make that happen.”

  “Make it happen, you’re in charge. It’s not negotiable. That’s the only way it’ll work, the only way I can justify doing this,” said Chris. “I cooperate in return for exclusive coverage. And it remains inside this room. No one but the two of us will ever know about this deal. Understand?”

  “Where did you ever learn to bargain like that?”

  “The souks of the Middle East. I take it we have a deal, then,” said Clayborne, extending his hand.

  William Potter shook Clayborne’s hand, hoping he would not live to regret this arrangement.

  Delphine Muller-Hoeft was the best person Chris Clayborne could think of to handle such a delicate and potentially dangerous assignment. She was the daughter of a French Foreign Legionnaire, Sergeant Frédéric Muller, a Frenchman from the Alsace region, and a beautiful Vietnamese woman whom her father met while serving with the Legion in Indo-China. The last part of her name came from Wilhelm Hoeft, a Swiss tax lawyer she had married and divorced several years ago. It was a brief and unsuccessful marriage that lasted barely six months. There could not have been two more diverse personalities under the sun.

  Delphine had remarkable features, a mélange of Asian and French-German. On some days she looked Vietnamese, while on others, she seemed totally European. Her looks were much like her languages, totally mixed: she was fluent in English, French, Vietnamese, German, and Russian, yet spoke all with an accent. When she spoke English she had a French accent, and a Vietnamese accent when she spoke French. It came from the multicultural
upbringing and constant moving between her mother’s house in Saigon, her father’s family in Strasbourg, and Corsica, where part of the Legion was based.

  Delphine Muller-Hoeft’s career as a photojournalist began in Vietnam, where she freelanced for IPS and some of the major American magazines. She won two Pulitzer prizes for her coverage of the war, one of which was for the photographs she took on Hill 54. The battle for Hill 54 lasted twelve days, during which time the US Marine Corps and the North Vietnamese People’s Liberation Army each captured and then lost the hill numerous times. When the battle finally ended with the Marines raising the Stars and Stripes on its summit, hundreds of fighters had died on both sides. Delphine Muller-Hoeft had been there the entire time, documenting the conflict with her camera. She was grazed in the right thigh by mortar shrapnel, but continued to work after a medic patched her up. She even encouraged young and wounded marines to keep on going. Her work won her the respect and admiration of the Saigon press corps, as well as that of the marines who fought on Hill 54. It was reported, jokingly, that some of the language she had used on Hill 54 even made the marines blush.

  While Clayborne was covering wars in the Middle East, Delphine was doing the same in Southeast Asia. After Vietnam came Cambodia and Laos. When those wars ended, Delphine found smaller, more obscure conflicts in Malaysia, the Philippines, and Indonesia, until she was assigned to the Moscow bureau, where she could cover various conflicts erupting all over the former Soviet republics.

  She and Clayborne had only worked together once, in Tehran, during the Iranian Revolution, during which time they had a brief affair. Clayborne knew she could do the job and keep her mouth shut. She was not one to brag.

  Delphine Muller-Hoeft seemed amazingly refreshed after an all-night flight from Moscow as she walked into Clayborne’s office.

  “Morning, Chief. So how does it feel to have the weight of the world resting on your shoulders?” She threw her camera bag in a corner, placed her coat on a chair, and walked around the desk to hug Clayborne and place a friendly kiss on his cheek. “So what’s the fire that makes you have me fly all the way here from Moscow? Don’t tell me it’s the inauguration, because I know you have more than enough capable people in this country to handle that.”

  “Thanks for coming so quickly, Del. I have a very hot potato on my hands and know you can handle it. The boys in this town talk too much and would never be able to keep this kind of thing quiet. As you know, there are no secrets in Washington, especially not among the press corps.” Chris opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a note, which he handed to Delphine. The note was typed on official FBI stationery and simply stated:

  “TOTAL ACCESS To All Federal and District of Columbia Law Enforcement Agencies: The holder of this letter, Miss Delphine Muller-Hoeft (see photograph), is entitled to pass, unhindered and without restrictions, all police and other law enforcement lines. No restrictions shall be placed on the bearer of this note, who shall be allowed to photograph and report on any situation under the jurisdiction of the aforementioned law enforcement agencies. The directors and Chiefs of the FBI, the USSS, the US Capitol Police, and the US Park Police order all law enforcement agencies to respect this order.

  This note expires at 2359, January 21, at which time this note will be surrendered to the FBI.”

  A passport-sized photograph of Delphine Muller-Hoeft was attached to the upper right-hand corner and the letter was signed by the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Delphine let out a long whistle and dropped the letter on Chris’s desk. “Wow!” she said. “How on earth did you ever manage to get this? And the next question I have is what did you have to do to get it? Sell your soul to the devil? If Hoover was still in charge I might have suspected you sold your body.”

  “Almost,” said Chris. “Grab your coat and I’ll brief you over lunch.”

  23

  WASHINGTON, DC INAUGURATION DAY

  It was a bitterly cold day in Washington as a chilly wind blowing south from Canada brought the temperature well below ten degrees Fahrenheit. Chester Higgins III cursed as he scraped the snow and ice off his car’s windshield. It had snowed a little in suburban Virginia and it was at times like these that Higgins cherished the warm climes of the Levant. If only these fools weren’t so busy killing each other, he thought, the Arabs and Jews could outsell the French Riviera any day. But who wants to bask on a beach and risk being blown up, kidnapped, knifed, or hijacked?

  His wife came out of the house wrapped in a robe and handed him a cup of hot, black coffee. At fifty, Phyllis Higgins was still a very beautiful woman. She and Chester had been married for twenty-three years now. She had followed him to all sorts of weird, crazy, and exotic places; places where she couldn’t speak or understand the language. Places where she couldn’t even pronounce names correctly, where she ignored the local customs. Somehow Chester felt more at home in those strange places than in America. She, on the other hand, never did like it there. She was happy now, living back in America. She wanted her two children to grow up in the United States, not in some godforsaken land where women still had to cover their faces. She loved her husband dearly and had agreed to follow him wherever he went, but she was glad to be back. At least Virginia was almost home. The daughter of a marine colonel, she was born and raised in North Carolina, outside the Marine Air Station at Cherry Point. Phyllis Higgins knew that her husband was unhappy working at Langley. “Far too many kings and not enough king’s men,” he always complained.

  “What time do you think you’ll be back?” asked Phyllis.

  “Don’t know, sweetheart.” He took a sip of the hot coffee and kissed his wife. “Get back inside before you catch your death out here.”

  “Think you’ll be home for dinner?” She knew her husband had been under tremendous pressure this last week. Something to do with the president and Inauguration Day. Chester never liked to discuss his work; he tried hard to keep it out of the home, but this time he seemed different, he seemed preoccupied. He had even started talking in his sleep. First time he had done that since they returned to the States, since that time in Iran when things went real bad for him.

  Phyllis noticed the .45 automatic holstered under her husband’s jacket. Chester had never carried a gun before, at least not since they came back to the States. “You’re not working on anything dangerous, darling, are you?” she asked, pointing to the bulge under his suit.

  “Huh? Oh that. Nah, nothing to worry about. It’s just with this case I’m working on and the inauguration, I just feel it would be better, safer. Hey, you know I always said the commute around the Beltway would be the death of me. Hell, I face greater danger driving to and from work here than I ever did in the Middle East. Gotta go. Bye, sweetheart.”

  “Be careful,” shouted Phyllis as he pulled out of the driveway.

  “Always am, dear, I always am,” replied Higgins.

  Laura did not sleep much that night. The nightmares would not go away. She kept seeing the terrorist’s face appear around a corner. He was chasing her down the darkened, narrow back streets of south London, only it was not London, it was Tel Aviv, no, it was Beirut, but the Capitol building was there. She tried firing her pistol at him, but the weapon jammed. Her legs were heavy and she ran in slow motion and the more she ran, the more she remained in place. She was attending a funeral for the victims of a terrorist bomb, and Omar was there, standing beside the grave laughing at her, pointing his finger at her and holding a large box with chemical agents. She was in a refugee camp in south Lebanon while Israeli war planes screamed overhead, dropping their deadly cargo; only when the bombs fell, they would not explode. Omar appeared, smiled, pointed at the planes and fired a machine gun at her. She awoke with a scream.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Chris Clayborne, turning on the bedside light.

  “Had a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “That’s okay. What time is it, anyway?” He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside
table. “Almost five. I’ve got to get going in an hour anyway. Today’s the day,” Chris said, putting his arm around Laura. “God, you’re drenched in sweat. Must have been a real bad dream. You know, I used to have the same nightmare over and over after I left Beirut. Sometimes it still comes back. Here, let me massage your neck; that’ll make it go away.”

  Clayborne sat up and started caressing Laura’s back. He removed the goose down comforter and sheet, revealing a perfectly curved and svelte body. His hand started moving down her back until he reached her hips.

  “I guess my neck must have slipped down to my hips, huh?” said Laura, closing her eyes. Chris stopped and looked at her. “Don’t stop; it feels good. Mmmm, real good.” Chris ran his hand over her slender legs. “That’s good, that’s real good. Mmm, that’s heaven,” she mumbled, her head buried in the sheets. Chris laid on top of her and kissed her neck, moving her silky hair over her head. He was fully aroused and she could feel him. She arched her back, turning her head towards him until their lips met. Chris turned her around, falling on his back and allowing Laura to get on top of him. He looked up at her perfectly shaped breasts as she ran her hands across his chest. Laura started moving in a slow, gentle motion, bending further and further backwards, supporting herself on her arms pressing down hard on Chris’s legs. Chris knew she was about to explode. He arched his body upwards and the two collapsed in a sensuous moment. They remained still for several long minutes, holding onto each other in silence.

  Laura was savoring this instant, holding on to these precious moments. She knew the day ahead was going to be a long and painful one, a day where she would be hurled into a world of hatred and violence. A world where she might have to kill, or even be killed. She had never taken a life before. Except of course that one time when five Iraqis tried to rape her, but that was different. Yes, she had trained for it, was instructed in the use of weapons, but never actually killed someone herself. That was different. She had never given it much thought in the past; it was something she had always accepted. These terrorists were cold-blooded assassins who killed innocent people; they had to be eliminated. But her job consisted of gathering intelligence that allowed other people to do the dirty work. There were dozens of people who could do that and not give it a second thought. She herself had never actually pulled the trigger and thus felt somewhat absolved, at least partially. That’s what she kept telling herself. She was fighting for something she believed in. Her country was threatened by ruthless enemies and she had taken an oath to help protect that country.