Executive Actions (10 page)

T
he unseasonable heat rose off the city’s pot hole-strewn cement streets choking the energy out of the people. Without any breeze to circulate the air today, Tripoli swam in summertime perspiration and the stench of rotting garbage. But according to the weather forecasts on General Jabbar Kharrazi’s controlled broadcasts, it was another glorious day in the nation’s capital.

This was news in the hands of a skilled propagandist. He could control the temperature that was reported to people. It didn’t matter that their own thermometers read 38.8° C or 102° F. If General Kharrazi, the latest self-proclaimed “Brother Leader” said it was the normally comfortable 84° F, then it was comfortable.

But weather wasn’t on the mind of another Kharrazi just now. The General’s son Fadi slammed his fist on his desk. He had summoned the editor of his newspaper,
Al-Fatah,
to his offices on the 8
th
floor of his downtown media headquarters. The man in front of him knew why he was there and was praying he would live to see another day. He might not. He’d made the error of printing an unflattering photograph showing Fadi frowning.

“Tell me what you were thinking, you imbecile! I should have my father remove you from the face of the earth,” Fadi shouted.

The photograph showed him with a group of Tripoli businessmen. Unfortunately, it caught Fadi in an awkward, unfriendly pose.

“I’m sorry, sir. There were no others that were better.”

“Then you shouldn’t have run it!”

“But my photographer said you absolutely insisted that we print a photograph from the luncheon.”

“Not if it’s a shitty photograph!”

“But your instructions…”

“If it is no good, you make it better. You have a graphics station; you should have used it. Can’t you think? This makes me look angry. Like I’m plotting to kill them.” Fadi didn’t say what he really felt. “They have to see me as friendly and compassionate. Do you understand that?” he screamed.

“Yes sir.”

Fadi stood and walked around the trembling man. He stopped directly behind him and said in a lowered voice, “Kalim, I’m told your children count on the reliability of your salary and your Mercedes for trips. Your wife loves her dresses. And your mistress,” he added laughing, “ah, yes, I’m right aren’t I?” The man nodded. “Your mistress loves the jewelry you give her. Yes?”

The editor breathed deeply. “Yes.”

Fadi came around the front of his desk and stood no more than two inches from the editor. “Then I implore you, my friend, to edit
my
newspaper better.” Then he added, “To your dying day.”

Lakhdar al-Nassar, one of Fadi’s personal aides, overheard the tirade while filing some papers his boss had left out. He kept his eyes down while Fadi escorted the man out, for al-Nassar, age 35, desperately hoped to make it to 36. He considered himself an obedient servant, but one who knew his place. Meanwhile, Fadi also saw him as one of his “clean up men.” For five years he had pushed around papers during the day and people at night. He exercised power on a trickle down basis. Just as Fadi could make life difficult for others, so could al-Nassar.

Of course Fadi knew al-Nassar was listening. He loved holding court as he practiced the fine art of fire and ice, learned at the foot of his father. If torture administered by a white-hot iron brought unbearable pain, the threat of prolonged cold on the festering blister usually resulted in complete submission. It was important, the General instructed his two boys, to demonstrate how to demand loyalty. “Always have an audience when you inflict pain, when you threaten infliction, or even when you reward your victim. Otherwise it’s wasted. Your subject may never live to tell the story of his torture, but the witnesses will. And they will fear you and hold onto their precious power in a similar manner. Foremost in their minds will be their loyalty to you.”

Fadi dismissed the editor and peered over at al-Nassar. His aide gave him an approving smile.

“Well, Lakhdar, what do you think he will do now?”

“Surely he will make examples of his own assistants for allowing the photograph to even reach his desk,” Al-Nassar offered.

“As well he should, my
trusted
friend,” he said, emphasizing the one word he wanted al-Nassar to retain. The aide got the meaning. “I wonder if we’ll see the name of any of his principal staff in the obituaries tomorrow,” bellowed Fadi.

Al-Nassar nodded but nothing more. Fadi did not invite laughter from his staff just as his ailing father had taught him. However, Fadi laughed himself, then got back to more personal business. He dialed a phone number and spoke softly. Al-Nassar gathered it was one of his boss’ many women. He continued to pull the files together, but stopped when he caught Fadi’s insistent finger snapping. Looking over he saw that Fadi was shoeing him out with the wave of his hands.

The aide held up the stack of files and motioned to the cabinets and his incomplete work as if to ask,
“What about these?”
Fadi had an almost incomprehensible desire to archive any newspaper clip in the Arab or Western press that mentioned him or showed a picture. Lakhdar’s principal duty was to supervise the work and make sure that everything was properly clipped and filed. But Fadi shot an insistent scowl back at him that really meant in no uncertain terms,
“Out now and close the door!”

He left with everything in his hands as Fadi swiveled in his $3,500 Eames chair and whispered something incredibly filthy to the woman on the other end.

Al-Nassar returned to his desk in the outer office. It had been hours since he peed, even longer since he had a Winston. He stopped long enough to put down his unfinished bundle of work and make for the door.

Omar Za’eem, another glorified paper pusher, rounded the doorway from the hall, nearly bumping into his superior.

“Sorry, sir.” Za’eem offered.

“Don’t be in so much of a rush you fool. Slow down.”

“Sorry,” he offered again. “It’s just that I have contracts for Mr. Kharrazi. The RTL Television programs he wanted to buy. You know. But of course,” he said for the sake of job security, “you need to see them first.”

“Not now you idiot,” Nassar proclaimed, establishing his position in the food chain. “He’s busy. Anyway, I need a smoke. Leave it on my desk. I’ll get to it”

Za’eem hated al-Nassar, just as al-Nassar really hated Fadi. It was the order of things.

“Now come have a smoke with me,” Al-Nassar stated.

“Okay, okay. But in a few moments,” Za’eem said as he passed the impatient Nassar. “Just as soon as I put these down and pick up the outgoing pile.”

“I’ll be downstairs. Don’t take forever.”

Omar Za’eem actually had two jobs, which kept the pencil thin assistant extremely busy, not to mention vigilant. He took special care, very special care that al-Nassar did not discover his primary line of work. Neither al-Nassar, nor his boss would look kindly on him if they found out.

Part of what Omar did for his
other
work was best done with his supervisor out of the office. So he seized every opportunity for a few moments alone. He entered the offices and put the contracts down on his industrial metal desk. That’s when he noticed a pile of documents strewn about. One caught his eye, probably because of the yellow tab sticking out of one dog-eared folder. He focused on it for a moment. He hadn’t seen it before.

Ashab al-Kahf

The name seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Omar listened for footsteps in the hall. There were none. Fadi’s door was closed, but he caught a few choice words from Fadi and the squeaking of his Eames chair.

Carefully, he sidestepped to better view the open paperwork. He kept his back half turned to block the outside doorway. The 26-year-old assistant to Lakhdar al-Nassar, who might have looked too poor to eat better, had ample money. His salary from Fadi was a pittance. But his other money, his real life’s savings, came from Fadi’s brother Abahar. That’s why he took extreme chances to read and learn everything he could.

He opened the yellow-tabbed file and read about
Ashab al-Kahf
. His almond eyes scanned the top sheet quickly. Omar Za’eem had a photographic memory; a natural ability, honed further through special training. He turned the page and read on. In less than two minutes he retained much of the text, though he didn’t understand it. A good deal more remained, but time suddenly ran out. Fadi’s chair had stopped squeaking.

He’d have that cigarette with Lakhdar al-Nassar now.

“I
think we have one,” Beth Thomas calmly radioed Bessolo. The FBI agent in charge bounded up the stairs to the second floor to room 301.

“Let’s have it,” he said just shy of the doorway. He didn’t want to disturb the scene.

Beth Thomas held a Ph.D. in criminology. Essentially she was an academician, but her knowledge of firearms was second to no man. She usually kept her gun in her leg holster, which she nicely covered with loose-fitting pants suits. She’d removed her jacket, revealing a simple white cotton blouse. Silk was no good for the job she was doing now. This was where Thomas couldn’t afford to sweat. Nothing could be disturbed.

“Looks like McAlister rested his foot on the wall to steady his aim. Like this.” She sat in a bridge chair with her arms raised in a standard rifle firing position. Thomas leaned into the seat back and put her left foot flat out, but not touching the outerwall. “See, he put it flat against the wall. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing.”

A latent footprint impression is usually transferred onto items like windowsills, doors, counter tops and furniture. Shoes, as they wear, develop distinct characteristics through grooves, scrapes, and rougher areas or smoother sections. These signatures, when lifted properly and compared to an alleged perpetrator’s shoes, can be an important link to a crime. The FBI doesn’t have extensive files of footprints or an automated footprint identification system like AFIS for fingerprints. But criminologists have considered it very valuable information.

Naturally, they had to find the wearer and before the characteristics changed too much. But now they had a starting point.

Bessolo walked all the way into the room now and leaned into the spot that Beth pointed out. “Damned if I can find it. How’d you see it?”

“Hit it with my flashlight from an angle and I saw a little texture. Enough to let me know he made a mistake. I’m sure we’ll get the size, the manufacturer and the style. Maybe even more.”

“Get the pictures. A 3-D impression would go a long way. And then see if you can lift the damned print.”

The process would be time consuming. First the photographer on the team documented what she was doing from general to specific; from wide angle to tight shots. It would be very important to have a frame by frame account of the evidence gathering. The photographs could also be used as a backup if the print didn’t lift off the wall properly.

After the FBI photographer was satisfied with his close ups it was Beth’s turn at the print. She applied fingerprint powder to the surface with a small brush, sweeping it in a slow and careful back and forth motion, as if she were applying blush to her cheeks. She was perfect at it, placing very little pressure against the wall. Too much would remove the ridge detail of the latent impression. Two or three sweeps across were all she needed.

Next, she lightly blew the excess powder away with a small can of compressed air. That eliminated any air pockets over the print. Now it was time to lay a piece of adhesive tape directly over the print and very carefully try to lift the impression.

She carefully applied the four-inch strips of adhesive across the surface. Starting at one edge, she firmly ran her index finger along the center of the tape. The pressure transferred the latent print, outlined by the powder, onto the tape. It took five strips to cover the entire area of the impression.

She removed a pencil from her kit and now rolled it along the seam of the overlapped sections to fill in the breaks. In order to prevent static from building up in the tape and causing it to cling, she pulled the entire piece in one continuous motion. All of this was done precisely at a 45-degree angle. The textbook approach.

Finally, Beth placed the lifted impression onto a piece of poster board she had in her kit. She had chosen one that would be big enough. Experience told her it was a size 12 shoe, maybe 121/2. Then she wrote her name, the date, the case number, and location on the upper right corner of the board. The photographer snapped another roll of pictures to document the procedure.

Bessolo watched intently as Beth placed the lift in an oversized plastic bag. As she sealed it she said, “Not much, but it’s a start.”

She handed it to her boss, blew a streak of her dark brown hair out of the way, then added as an afterthought, “Maybe we should close off the parking lot. There might be another print down there.”

He was Frank Dolan now. And his next stop wouldn’t take long. Like his last effort he had laid it all out well in advance. The time, the location and the means. He had been waiting for instructions to proceed. He got them this day.

Dolan looked like he was ready for a day of work. Another harried executive clawing up the corporate ladder. He wore a practical summer outfit—tan pants, a smart blue shirt and a double-breasted blue blazer. Today he parted his blond hair in the middle, had an artificial tan, and spoke with a slight New York accent. He couldn’t hide the coldness in his eyes, but he could change the color. They were deep blue. When all was said and done, Dolan had the manner of a fast-paced Madison Avenue ad man. He fit in perfectly on the 8:10
A.M.
Metro North commuter train to New York.

He’d made the trip a dozen times in a dozen different disguises. Each time he took a mental picture where his target stood, where he sat on the train, who he talked to, and how he spent his time on the forty-nine-minute ride to Grand Central.

Today Steven Hoag didn’t break his pattern. He kept to himself, bought the morning edition of the
Times
from the blind vender at the Stamford station, and queued up with the other passengers four minutes before the 8:10 was scheduled to pull in. He opened the paper to the front page and scanned the news.

No one took notice of the commuter except Dolan who sized him up one more time, thinking to himself:
Once was in shape. Getting slow and flabby. Hair beginning to thin. Squinting at the paper. Could use reading glasses.

Dolan moved through the crowd and brushed passed an Asian man as he jockeyed to get closer to Hoag. He checked his watch just as any impatient ad exec would, shifted his balance on his feet numerous times, and stepped closer to Hoag.

“Pretty interesting,” Dolan said over his shoulder.

“Hmm?” Hoag replied. He turned slightly to see who addressed him. A stranger.

“The news. Pretty interesting turn of events. What do you make of it?”

Hoag responded in an off-handed matter. “Yeah.” He noted the picture of Lodge at his Manhattan press conference running next to O’Connell’s latest article. “Makes you wonder.”

“You can’t feel safe anywhere,” added Dolan over the rumble of the oncoming train.

“I haven’t seen you before,” Hoag remarked somewhat suspiciously. “New here?”

“Very. Wife’s not even up from Atlanta yet,” Dolan answered.

“Quiet town. Good place to get lost in. I’m Steven Hoag and you’re?”

Dolan noted definite suspicion in his voice.

“Frank Dolan.” Damn, he wished he hadn’t used that name. He wasn’t certain if anyone had overheard him. Everyone was crowding as the train came to a complete halt. “Nice to meet you.”

Dolan had already said too much. He didn’t mind killing. He simply didn’t want to talk too much to the poor souls.

Dolan climbed onboard ahead of Hoag. He quickly scoped a seat; one right next to Hoag’s regular place. “This looks good,” he noted to Hoag. “Here, enjoy the view.” Hoag happily took the seat at the window.

After some innocuous small talk, Hoag unfolded his newspaper and returned to Michael O’Connell’s report and the rest of the news. Dolan settled in and felt inside his suit jacket. His fingers touched his gun. The SIG-Sauer 9mm P-288, his weapon of choice for the day, is widely used by Special Ops forces and police departments around the world.
It might raise some eyebrows,
he thought.
All the better.

The 8:10 made stops at Old Greenwich, Port Chester, New Rochelle and Pelham on the way to its midtown destination. Exactly fourteen minutes and twelve seconds after the last stop the train would enter the tunnel for the final seven minutes and forty-one seconds.

At fourteen minutes out of Pelham, Dolan, slipped his hand into his jacket and pivoted the gun out of the holster. Hoag was still thoroughly engrossed in O’Connell’s reporting, with an almost personal interest.

Dolan rarely knew much about his prey. This one was no exception. He seemed nice enough. A few weeks earlier he had followed him to work at a major publishing firm on 54
th
and Avenue of the Americas. Hoag was a business manager with travel perks. Dolan learned that he spoke a few languages and regularly flew to international divisions in Europe, Asia and the Middle East. The guy liked First Class and knew how to spend both his money and the company’s. What a business manager actually did was beyond Dolan. Hoag was obviously successful at it, though. Probably taking down 180 to 200-K a year, he imagined.

Dolan also looked into the man’s private life. Married eleven years. BMW and a Lexus. By checking the garbage he discovered that they liked travel magazines and ran a five grand a month credit card bill. They drank French Bordeaux exclusively and had season tickets to the Met. All of this garnered from sifting through trash.

He and his wife, Irina, had no children. It was probably better he didn’t considering what Dolan was there to do. By his estimation, the man was about 46, give or take a few years. Whatever, his age he wouldn’t be celebrating any more birthdays.

Dolan choose the train because he liked the noise and the darkness. The noise and the darkness were about to work very well for him.

The 416 blared its horn as it entered the Bronx tunnel on the way to Grand Central. Instantly, the train plunged into darkness. The engineer was always late throwing the lights on. He didn’t disappoint this time.

When the lights were restored Hoag was leaning against the window,
The New York Times
at his side. Dolan was gone.

The 8:10 arrived exactly on time at 8:59 and everyone got off except Steven Hoag. No one noticed he was dead. It was New York and everyone was in a rush.

Steven Hoag hadn’t voted yet. He had planned to do that after work. Another 2,534,101 of the state’s 5,892,617 registered Democrats would make it before the polls closed at seven. Typically, the presidential primary would bring out fewer than one million voters. This day, there’d be a record showing. Democrats were making a definite statement about who they wanted to see run against Morgan Taylor.

The congressman stood stone cold throughout the minister’s eulogy for Jenny. The Cathedral Church of St. Paul on Cherry Street was packed. Out of respect to the congressmen, the press agreed to pool their camera coverage inside. However, outside 63 cameras focused on St. Paul’s, feeding three dozen remote vans sent from New York, Boston, Albany, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh.

The minister, a soft-spoken man in his 30’s with a slow and deliberate delivery, was instantly becoming a national figure with a congregation of 100 million.

“We mourn a sweet soul and a good friend who brought such light to our lives. Those of us who knew Jennifer admired her unbounded strength and character. Those who didn’t are now just learning what she could have given to this country. So much for so long. We shall miss you, dear Jennifer. Your promise in this world shall be fulfilled in another.”

Reverend Frederick Hamilton genuinely touched everyone. He offered a prayer for Jenny and the hope that Congressman Lodge would remain safe. “We have all seen the news. A fraction of a second was the difference between who we mourn today. We can only pray that the authorities will not give such a lawless, godless man a second shot. Let us now pray together.”

He asked the assemblage in church and those watching to find their own words of solace in silence. He bowed his head and for nearly a minute the only sound heard was sobbing in remembrance of Jennifer Lodge.

The congressman used the quiet to take the four steps from his chair to the dais. After close to a half minute surveying the faces of the friends, colleagues, fellow parishioners and dignitaries who came to honor his wife, he drew in a long breath.

“If you’ll allow me. A poem, written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. ‘How Do I Love Thee.’” He proceeded to slowly recite the words by heart, with his eyes closed.

Teddy Lodge concluded and walked back to his seat looking even more like a leader.

“Louise, get me Roarke!” the president snapped into his intercom.

Morgan Taylor was one of the millions watching Congressman Lodge. Midway through the Browning poem he put his coffee down on his desk. He had no stomach for it now and he needed to talk to his man immediately in the middle of an already busy morning.

The president had a pile of briefings to read, an interview with the BBC in ten minutes, a report on Japan’s further economic slide to digest, and an update on the India-Pakistan front. Talking to Roarke suddenly went to the top of the list.