Executive Treason (34 page)

Komari spoke to Atef with his back to his aide. “One month, Atef. I want to strike on my brother’s birthday.”

“On my word, we will be ready by then.”

“Then we will honor Omar’s name with our victory over the infidels, and drive the Christians into the ocean.”

The White House
Tuesday, 17 July

“Mr. President, just a reminder. Dr. Kaplan will be along in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Louise,” Taylor said over the intercom. “I can always count on you to let me know when someone’s going to poke and prod me.”

The president didn’t want to see the doctor, but Presley Friedman, chief of the Secret Service, reminded him that he had to get tuned up.

Morgan Taylor hated the invasive procedure. It made him feel like a dog on a leash. But this was one of those things even the President of the United States couldn’t say no to.

It was over in seven minutes.

“You may pull up your pants, Mr. President,” the doctor said.

Morgan Taylor rubbed his butt. Dr. James Kaplan quickly packed his bag and was ready to leave, but Presley Friedman held him up. He was on the phone. “Let’s just see if everything’s all right.”

“Of course it’s not all right. I’ve just been stabbed.”

Kaplan laughed. “For the record, sir, you’re such a baby.”

“For the record, Doctor, try being president and see how much you like this.”

Kaplan let out a louder laugh.

Friedman missed the exchange. He was talking to the Secret Service communications office. “Done,” he said. “See you in February, Doc.”

“Every six months, like a good teeth cleaning,” Kaplan added at the door.

“Teeth, my ass,” the president said to his director of the Secret Service. It was good for another laugh.

The Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
Wednesday, 18 July

Roarke bolted through the door with a quick, urgent hello. Captain Walker recognized his voice and swiveled around, away from her computer screen, to face him.

“Well, you’ve certainly been busy,” she began.

“And?” Roarke said before he was all the way to her desk.

“Impatient, are we?”

“Anxious.”

“Anxious? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Did you get my message?”

“Of course. But I’m stuck on anxious,” Walker said mockingly. “You know you’re wrong.”

“Wrong? About what?”

“The word. You’re looking for eager. You get anxious over fear or frustration, failure or disappointment. You’re anxious if you’re full of worry, dread. Anxiety. See, it’s even part of the same word. Eager is all about enthusiasm, interest. Oh, and desire.”

“Penny,” he said with a scowl.

She smiled, but continued. “When you use eager, you’ll often follow it with to, then the infinitive. Anxious gets a preposition. Anxious about. So you’re not anxious about what I’ve found. You’re eager to hear it.”

Roarke shook his head. “Sony. Maybe I should start again.” She agreed. “Good morning, Captain. How are you today?”

“Quite fine, in fact, Agent Roarke,” she said, with an exaggerated delivery. “Thank you for asking. And you’ll be happy to know that I’ve been working rather hard since you called from the road yesterday. It’s been productive. I’ve come up with a good deal.”

Roarke kissed her forehead. “That’s nice,” he said in an equally affected tone. But his eyes lit up and he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Now what the fuck is it?”

The Army intelligence officer laughed. “Eager are we? Here it is.” She unlocked a drawer and removed a stack of files “Take a look.”

Roarke obliged, joining Walker on her side of the desk. The top page was a summary of the attack in Baghdad. Pictures followed on subsequent pages. He leafed through them coming to the findings marked U.S. Army EOD/Report/Baghdad, Ghazalia district. It was signed and dated by the EOD (Explosive Ordinance Disposal) senior officer. Walker had highlighted the most important points in a bright yellow marker, which Roarke scanned.

…anonymous report six…Army Rangers respond…squad entered…command reports pairs cover building quadrants-sudden explosion…estimate 2,000 lbs…remote detonation—building reduced to rubble—brick, furniture, air conditioners, other debris one-hundred yards away—trees ignited—collateral damage—partial destruction of nearby buildings—car hurled by blast into passing truck—RECOVERED unexploded artillery shells, wires… 1st Armored Division secured site…KIA six…

The remainder of the details included the itemization of body parts, skull fragments, and other coldly clinical information. Roarke let out a heavy and needed sigh. The description put him right in Baghdad, making him an eyewitness. It reminded him of too many things he’d seen himself. He returned to Walker’s findings.

…dental reports…identities confirmed—exception, US Army Lt. Richard Cooper—search ended—

It went on, but Roarke had read enough. “Your take, Penny?” There was nothing but sadness in Roarke’s voice.

She’d read everything a number of times anticipating his questions. “It was a complete investigation. By the book. Thorough forensics. I found no oversights.”

“And they found no body.”

“It’s not unusual given the size of the blast.”

“Is it impossible, though?”

“It’s not impossible. He could have been at ground zero. Between the heat and the force of the blast, he could have been instantly incinerated.”

“And if he wasn’t at ground zero? If he was at the opposite end of the blast? Protected somehow. Covered. Behind something that shielded him?” Roarke asked.

“Possible.”

“Do we know where he was at the time of the blast? His proximity to the bomb?”

“Well, now you’re going where I went. We don’t. But apparently no one was at the precise point of detonation based on the SOP that the men moved in pairs.” She pointed to a schematic included in the report. There were X’s for five of the six bodies. All died in pairs except for one GI near the back of the building.

Roarke’s eyes widened with anticipation. He stared at the layout. “Is that a supporting column?”

“Looks like it could be,” she responded.

“And given the fact that only one body was recovered in that part of the building, is it reasonable to believe that Lt. Cooper could have been the other man in the pair…that he could have been protected from the explosion by that column?”

Penny raised her eyebrow now validating his belief. “He got out. He ran out!”

“Or he was thrown out by the explosion. Either way, he’s alive!” Roarke concluded.

FBI Labs
Quantico, Virginia

Next, Roarke visited Touch Parsons. He handed over various pictures of Bill, Gloria, and Richard Cooper. “Good boy, Roarke. You even got me different ages.”

“Of course.” The FBI man had drummed the idea into Roarke. Shots of parents over the years vastly helped map the facial structure of a child into middle age. The last photo of Richard was age 24, in uniform. He asked Parsons to add 13 years to his face, then morph the new extrapolation into various interpretations based on the eyewitness descriptions of Depp.

“Well, well, I think you’re finally getting it, Roarke,” Parsons said. He moved over two half-filled cups of cold coffee and a plate of Entemann’s coffee cake crumbs to make room for Roarke’s material.

“Funny, my teachers thought I was a slow learner, too.”

Parsons said his usual hmm a lot as he looked at photographs. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who this guy really is?”

“Nope,” Roarke offered.

“Why did I even ask?” After more hmm’s he continued, “When do you need this by?” He followed up his question even before Roarke could get the answer out. “Why did I even ask? Immediately.”

“Sooner.”

Parsons got to work, narrating the entire process for Roarke. “I’ll scan these, then I’ll really start playing. There are remarkable similarities to the sketches. I can see why you think this might be your guy.”

“Is my guy,” Roarke corrected him with great certainty.

“Ah, you’re getting cocky. But remember, nothing will hold up in court. But if I do say so myself, you’re going to end up with some fucking incredible pictures that will look great on the front page!”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

The White House
Thursday, 19 July

“This is the man you’ve been calling Depp?” Morgan Taylor asked. He studied the Army photograph Roarke brought to the White House.

“Yes. His name is Richard Cooper and officially he’s dead.”

“According to?”

“The United States of America, boss.” Roarke ran the entire story for the president. He concluded by adding, “And we created this monster who’s out for revenge. He’s not just killing people for money. He’s taking jobs that will cripple, maybe even destroy us. That makes him more dangerous.”

“How so?” the president asked.

“Because he’s extremely careful. He’s not out to build a bank account. This is a means to an end. Somehow he hooked up with the right person who shares his anger and has ample funds to keep him going.” Roarke now offered another belief that he had kept to himself. “And call me crazy, but I have a hunch it was back in Iraq.”

Taylor tilted his head to the side and pressed his lips together. There was nothing in the reaction for Roarke to read. He kept his eyes on the president as he walked to his humidor on a table near the wall. Taylor kept a stash of cigars, which he rarely smoked. Roarke watched him light up and take a long puff. Taylor held the humidor open for Roarke, but the Secret Service agent politely declined with a wave of his hand.

After a second long drag, the president examined his cigar. “You know why I like to smoke, Scott?”

“Yes, sir, I think I do. It gives you time to think. It makes you slow down.”

“You do know me. But it also makes me feel like I’m doing something a little bit wrong in the White House. It is a federal building and the laws do not permit smoking.”

“I’m sure your successor will pardon you.”

Taylor chuckled. “My successor? Now will that be Henry Lamden if he recovers? Perhaps someone new to the White House after the next election? Or maybe even the Speaker of the House, should something happen to me?”

Roarke suddenly looked stunned. The thought of Duke Patrick as president had never crossed his mind. But he was next in the line of succession.

“You see, there is so much to consider, Scott. Your Mr. Depp, aka the late Lt. Cooper and his friend may have me in their sights. So I might as well enjoy my cigar now.”

Roarke nodded.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like one?” Taylor asked again.

He reconsidered and reached for the smoke.

“Good,” Taylor said lighting him up. “Now sit down and let me tell you about a mission Vincent D’Angelo’s on. I’m sure the two of you will want to chat when he’s back.

Omayyad Mosque
Damascus, Syria
Sunday, 22 July

Rateb Samin spotted the man. He looked nervous. His eyes darted from side to side as he recited the Zhuhr (noon) prayer.

Samin, dressed in a classic gray embroidered dishadasha, took a place near him in the spacious prayer hall. He knelt on a hand-woven Asian rug, one of many that completely blanketed the floor. He joined in the Salah, or ritual prayers. Islamic law decreed it must be said in Arabic, which was not a problem for the Dutch businessman on holiday. Samin covered his head, but keep the left side open to peer out. As he chanted, he took in the remarkable mosaics and the shrine erected in tribute to the Prophet. D’Angelo was fully engaged—in the job, the people around him, and the magnificent architecture.

He casually glanced to his left. The man, barely ten feet away, fit the description he’d gotten from the Mossad. Approximately 70 years old. Pock-marked, olive skin. Full beard, thick moustache. Round, black-rimmed glasses framing his face. He wore a brown salwarkameez with quarter-inch thick black piping. A dark star-shaped bruise or birthmark under his right thumbnail seemed to confirm Jamil Laham’s identity. To be certain, D’Angelo employed a pre-arranged signal. He cleared his throat once, then twice, then once again. It would be unmistakable to Laham, yet an insignificant act to others within earshot at the Omayyad Mosque.

The man replied by raising his left hand to his nose and scratching. He followed the initial reply by reaching his left hand behind his back to satisfy another itch.

D’Angelo cleared his throat two more times. The man scratched his right ear.

That was all either of them needed to do except find the opportunity to talk. After twenty minutes they converged from two different directions into the immense courtyard. Both had put their sandals back on. D’Angelo was admiring the beauty of the arches with their inlaid mosaics when he heard “Marhuba Al salaam a’alaykum.” Peace be with you.

Without turning to the voice behind him he replied, “Wa alaykum as-salaam.” And with you peace.

“It is a fine day to take in the beauty of such a holy site,” D’Angelo continued. “It’s a wonder to behold.”

“Yes, but we must remember that the beauty exists only to remind us of the goodness of the Prophet. It’s a gift for all time,” the older man said.

“Resplendent.” D’Angelo’s comment came from his heart. He said it in Arabic without even thinking. His command of the language was that good.

“This is your first visit here?”

“Yes. But I am a student of architecture. The marvels of the Omayyad Mosque have long been part of my dreams. Seeing it exceeds all expectations.”

“Come then, I will describe what I know,” Laham offered. “My name is Jamil Laham.”

“And I am Rateb Samin,” D’Angelo said.

They started through the courtyard. Laham walked with a limp. D’Angelo had to compensate with his own stride. They passed under the al Arous Minaret, which sharply stood out against the blue sky.

“I detect a hint of British in your words.”

“You have a very good ear, my friend. I am from Lebanon, but I now live in Amsterdam. The English accent you hear is from Oxford: my old school ties.”

Of course, it was a fabrication. But Laham didn’t need to know the truth. He just had to speak it himself.

“Perhaps you can point out the history/seek,” the CIA agent asked. “They say knowledge is its own reward.”

Laham noted the comment, but continued to lead him back inside. “There,” he whispered as they approached another part of the vast building. “You have read that the Omayyad Mosque is the fourth holiest site of Islam?”

“Yes.”

“First Mecca, then Medina, and the Dome of the Rock. The fourth is Omayyad. Well, this is one of the reasons.” He pointed to a shrine. “There, within, is the head of al Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Mohammad. He was killed in a revolt that split our people in 680 A.D.” The way he explained it seemed to devalue D’Angelo’s cover. But he didn’t question the visitor, he simply continued. “There were those who believed that only someone directly descended from Mohammad has the divine right to act as caliph, the leader of all Islam. Al Hussein did. And he was killed for his bloodline. His followers became the Shi’ites. The Sunnis, the followers of the well-trodden path, the sunnah, remain the majority. They banned descendants of Mohammad from the caliphate for all time. It is the rift that still divides us. It is why we fight amongst ourselves. It is why the West fails to understand us. It is why they don’t know whom to support. And yet, the religion that the Prophet founded will become the most powerful force in the world.”

D’Angelo felt humbled by the explanation. This was not a weak man. He was here because he had lived through much and believed that helping the West might make them better understand the Arab world. He dropped all pretensions.

“You understand why I am here?”

“I do. And you understand the danger in my speaking to you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“We shall continue to walk.” Laham ordered.

The former government worker further described the history of the Mosque, even recalling the days of the god Hadad. Finally, in a garden by a striking blue arch gate, Laham got to the point of their meeting.

“I could die a thousand horrible deaths by talking with you.”

“I believe you seek to save millions,” D’Angelo guessed.

“You are right. And perhaps I take too much credit. Perhaps what I keep in my head has no importance to my government today. Perhaps I am just an old man with delusions.”

D’Angelo now understood the man. He was well-read. He saw what was happening to his country and the world. It was no accident that Laham took him to see the head of al Hussein. There was a real message there. He didn’t want to lose his.

Washington, D.C.
the same time

Roarke was midway through an evening workout when he felt his cell phone vibrate.

“Hello, love.” Katie’s caller ID gave her away.

She heard the pounding music in the background and quickly figured out she wouldn’t get the personal time she craved. “You’re exercising.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay.” He stepped off the treadmill and grabbed a towel. “We can talk.”

“Not about everything.”

“No, you’re right. Not about everything. Because I’m wearing gym shorts and just your voice can set me off.”

Everything also included all of Roarke’s work, so their phone conversations were typically limited to small talk and Katie’s research.

“We can talk later,” she proposed.

It was already close to midnight. It would be another hour before he was home. “How about a little now and a little later. We’ll get the business stuff out of the way. So later….” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. “How’s your progress?”

“Mind boggling,” she said. “I’ve come to the conclusion that change is long overdue. A number of key congressmen have already floated their idea of what it should look like. But nothing’s happened. I guess even after 9/11, succession is too hot for most legislators to touch. I think I’m going to have a helluva time when I hit the Hill.”

“Why?” Roarke really didn’t know the answer.

“The honorable Speaker of the House, for one. He leads the majority party. He’s a Democrat. Taylor’s a Republican. Democrats hold both houses. Do you think anything I come up with that moves him out of the way will get attention?”

“Not if you put it that way. But doesn’t this come down to a state-by-state referendum? A Constitutional Amendment?”

“Yes and no. Acts passed by Congress govern the procedure. The Constitution covers when, not necessarily how and who. So one of the things that I’ll propose is a new what.”

“I’m glad that’s cleared up,” Roarke joked.

“Excuse me, but you’re the one who sets all the rules on what we can and cannot get into on the phone.” She had him. “Everything I read makes me feel like we’re sitting on a ticking bomb.”

“What do you mean,” he asked.

“Well, the current law makes it relatively easy to foster what amounts to executive treason.”

Treason was a word he didn’t like. “Explain.”

“We have the potential for a classic case of The Law of Unintended Consequences. A president of one party is replaced by the successor from another, unelected by popular vote.”

“Isn’t Taylor the beneficiary of that already?”

“Again, yes and no. Taylor was picked by President Lamden. The speaker is from the same party as President Lamden. Even though Taylor is something of a political wild card, the present line does not present any disruption. If Taylor dies, a Democrat takes office again, in what was a Democrat-elected administration. The unintended consequence I’m looking at is probably in the future. A new party fully takes over from the elected party. Different interests are represented. We could have a real political crisis.”

Roarke listened, but he couldn’t let go of the last point. It had come up in the president’s office, too. Taylor had no vice president, and wouldn’t until the long-range medical condition of President Lamden was settled. That would make Congressman Patrick president in the event of Taylor’s death. Right away that was an Unintended Consequence that scared the hell out of him.

Damascus, Syria

“First, you must understand, I do not do this to help the Zionists. Although I cannot deny that they may ultimately benefit,” Jamil Laham explained. “Though we and the Jews spring forth from the same seed, sons of Abraham, the gulf that spans between us is far greater than the differences that separate the Sunnis and the Shi’ites. Nonetheless, I am a realist. Creating peace in the world rests on individual efforts. The Prophet himself said, ‘Do you know what is better than charity and fasting and prayer? It is keeping peace and good relations between people, as quarrels and bad feelings destroy mankind.’ There are those whose actions would destroy mankind: ideologues with weapons of mass destruction, terrorists with no regard for order, fundamentalist clerics, and yes, even American presidents. That is why I’m willing to talk to you. But it’s puzzling to me why it has taken so long.”

“I am sorry,” D’Angelo didn’t really understand the intent of the remark. He only heard of Laham a few days ago. “But you have my full attention now,” D’Angelo offered in consolation.

“Very well. Many years ago I was chief of the Palace Guards. It may be hard to believe looking at me now, but I was a strong man without this cursed limp.” He slapped his right leg with his hand.

D’Angelo automatically looked down.

“A teenager with a gun. He called himself a fighter in the army of Allah. Thanks to my men, he met Allah well before me. But I digress. I fought with General Hafez al Assad against the Israelis in what you call the Six Day War. I proudly stood by him when he became president. I am proud of my service with him. I was faithful in that service until the day he died.” Laham lowered his eyes in deference to the man he obviously admired.

“You were not born then. You probably have very little knowledge of our president. But I can tell you that he was a great man with great ideas and important dreams. Foremost was his hope of bringing the Zionists to the bargaining table. He tried many ways, short term and long. The most extraordinary was to steer American politics toward a greater understanding of the Muslim world.”

Right, D’Angelo said to himself. What a nice way of saying you planted sleeper spies to take over the presidency.

“He got very close to succeeding,” D’Angelo volunteered. He figured the observation was less volatile than admitting what he really thought. “Congressman Lodge nearly became president.”

“You do not mince words,” Laham noted. “I was there when he conceived the plan. The Russians were more than interested in taking our money to facilitate the training of this man and, I understand, others like him. While I did not know who was recruited or the purpose of their assignments, I did have contact with the individual who oversaw it.”

“Ibrahim Haddad,” D’Angelo said.

“He went by that name and others,” Laham acknowledged.

“What can you tell me about this man?”

“Ah, I see I have your attention. Well then, Ibrahim first met with President Assad in 1972. Do you know he was already a rich businessman by the time he was in his mid-twenties?”

“What kind of business?”

“Import. Some rugs. Most notably art work. Expensive art that he sold to French, German, American, British, and Iranian dealers and collectors. His trade often took him to Russia without a blink of an eye. He traveled freely, and eventually took more interest in the president’s plan than his own work.”

“How would you describe him?”

“He was a tall man. Taller than me. Handsome, lean, arrogant, and bitter, but I will return to that later. He struck me as highly educated and he had a distinctive air about him. You’d be drawn to him, but never feel close. President Assad had many meetings with Ibrahim. And I have no doubt, the president made him a much richer man. How rich, I cannot say. When President Assad died, I initially believed that the plans died with him. I was removed from office when Bashir ascended to the presidency. A short while later, I suffered this wound.” He gestured to his leg again. “I became a functionary in the finance department.”

“And when you read the news earlier this year?”

“I learned that the dream of Hafez al Assad continued, but in the hands of others. Ultimately the Libyans. It was plain to see I had underestimated the character of the man my president chose to administer his plan.”

“You say he went by many names?”

“Yes. In fact, I don’t know his real identity. To me he was Hassan Kassir, but we shall continue to call him Haddad. It might be possible to find out, particularly when I tell you the rest of his story. Come, let’s walk again. I tighten up if I don’t move often.”

There was nothing suspicious about the two men. Many tourists came to the Omayyad Mosque. For a few minutes Laham pointed out other sites including the mausoleum of Salah ad-Din. Salah was a noted hero and one of Islam’s great commanders who re-took Jerusalem from the Crusaders in 1187. Unlike other conquerors, he spared his victims, allowing them time to leave with their lives. Laham also noted the three vibrant domes and the varying styles of the minarets, which dramatically rose above the mosque.