Executive Actions (15 page)

T
he fact that Sami Ben Ali even had a laptop would have raised serious questions.

He certainly couldn’t afford a decent one on his salary. But he had a cover story that might hold up. Old computers like his 1990s Sony Vaio were readily available on the black market. His looked beaten up and barely working, yet it was a wolf in sheep’s clothing; fast, state-of-the-art, and full of the most modern built-in firewalls and security blocks that the “Company” developed. The Company was the CIA.

The ordinary start-up programs took five minutes to load unless bypassed with the proper key strokes. His main programs were not labeled. They were hidden four layers deep; triple password protected. The wrong combination of function keys, letters and numbers, entered without proper authorization would trigger a lethal virus and fry the entire memory in seconds.

Ben Ali didn’t discount that he’d have a great deal of explaining to do if his laptop was found in a search. But ultimately all of his excuses should stand up against the weak technological expertise of Abahar Kharrazi’s secret police, the OIS.
They better.

Nonetheless, every time he booted up, he worked in his closet and made sure that he had a radio blaring to cover the sounds of his keys. Sami, like everyone with a computer, knew that it was easy to lose track of time. So his final rule was to limit his work to under 30 minutes. He kept his watch next to him to make sure.

These were the hard and fast rules he followed as he inserted the 27 KB disk copied from Walid’s computer.

Sami pushed his clothes aside in his closet and crouched to type. His computer rested on a makeshift desk, two cardboard boxes loaded with books. He ran power off the battery charge, and always worked when the electricity was turned on in his building. Israeli-made infrared scopes, in the hands of Abahar’s intelligence squads, could spot the glow of his computer even through some walls. So it was important to have bright lights on directly in front of his closet. It wasn’t hard to do. He lived in a small one room flat.

The prompts came up on screen. He jumped through the masked programs by typing the complex codes he’d memorized. Next he clicked on what would be the A drive in English. In an instant the file typed by Walid Abdul-Latif loaded.

Ben Ali read it with great interest. He discounted his colleague’s misspelled words and bad grammar. It was typical of a Libyan education. At first, the report itself made him laugh. He read a self-inflated account about Walid’s masterful control and handling of his contact. He followed the details of the contact with Omar and how Walid’s mole discovered the file from Fadi Kharrazi’s office.
Nothing but pathetic drivel,
he noted until getting half-way through the report. There, past all of the cloak and dagger hyperbole was the gist of the summary.

Spying, Sami came to believe is like a children’s game of telephone where a message is whispered down the line. This information had gone from the hands of Fadi to Lakhdar al-Nassar, to Omar Za’eem, to Walid Abdul-Latif. Ultimately it would go to Major Bayon Karim Kitan and his boss Abahar Kharrazi.
But did Walid report what was first communicated? Did he get it right?
That’s what Sami Ben Ali wondered as he began.

Ashab al-Kahf proceeding.
Cryptic or direct? Ben Ali didn’t know.

He read of Syria in the early 1970s, the late Hafez Al-Assad and his son Bashar. Iraq and Uday Hussein.
Another leader’s son.
Then something called Andropov I and “Red Banner.”
Russian? Probably.
He realized that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell, or Tripoli’s for that matter, that he’d actually figure out what any of it meant. He’d have to pass the information on.

Roarke quickly discovered from the phone directory that the law firm of Woodruff, Stuart and Nunes no longer existed. A few neighbors told him that the old professional building housing lawyers had been demolished long ago and everyone had moved away or died. No one knew about Nunes.

A call to the Justice Department filled in the details.

The firm dissolved in 1981. Stuart died of a heart attack two years earlier. Woodruff retired to West Palm Beach and died in 1998.

Alfred Nunes, age 77 and the youngest of the partners, had a registered address in Boxford, Massachusetts, but spent most of his time on the road in a 340-hp Winnebago Chieftain with his wife.

Roarke picked up the trail from here. According to his inquiry at the Boxford Post Office, Nunes’ mail was held for forwarding once every month to a pre-arranged location across the country. Thanks to his credentials, the Secret Service agent was allowed to examine the mail being held for Nunes. Along with the junk mail and bills were a half dozen fishing magazines. The next scheduled address was a box in Sisters, Oregon; the delivery due in ten days. He talked to the local mailman on the lawyer’s route and learned that Nunes loved visiting Civil War and Indian battlefields and photographing national parks.

Next he visited the Registrar of Motor Vehicles. They gave him Nunes’ license plate number. Roarke called Shannon Davis, a friend at the FBI, for help in actually locating the lawyer. “He’ll either be on the road or listed with a national park. I have a hunch he spends a lot of time fly fishing so you might want to check parks that handle RV’s and have good streams,” Roarke explained.

Davis looked at a map and estimated Nunes could be anywhere from Oregon to Washington State, California, Idaho, Wyoming or Colorado.

“Just find him,” Roarke stressed.

“Why? Did he forget to catch and release an under the limit trout?” the FBI man joked.

“I need to talk to him. This isn’t an arrest. You don’t even need to bother him. Just tell me where he is and I’ll be out.”

Roarke counted on hearing quickly.

All the Sunday morning talkers wanted him.
Meet The Press. Face the Nation. This Week.

Geoff Newman wanted
Meet the Press,
for strictly historical reasons. John Kennedy used the show to his benefit. When the call came in from the show’s producer Newman made an unprecedented proposal. “You get the congressman this week, and promise one appearance per month up to the election and I’ll give you exclusivity. If it’s a ‘no,’ tell me right now and I’ll be happy to call CBS, ABC or Fox.

The producer put Newman on hold. Ninety-seconds later he was back with a one word answer. “Done.”

Newman had his deal and
Meet the Press
had its booking. Such was the world of television and politics.

“Good morning, Congressman Lodge. First our sincerest condolences,” offered the host at the top of broadcast.

“Thank you,” Lodge responded quietly. He was wearing a dark blue jacket, light blue shirt and a conservative burgundy tie with thin blue stripes. It was a TV friendly ensemble, carefully chosen by Geoff Newman who was now picking all the candidate’s clothing.

The host reviewed the particulars of Lodge’s ordeal for anyone who spent the last week under a rock. “I know this is painful to talk about. Seven days ago your wife was killed. Two days later you resoundingly won the Democratic primaries in New York and Rhode Island.” The host now relied on his notes. “By our NBC count you have 2,371 delegates out of 4,339. To capture the nomination you needed 2,170.”

Lodge nodded politely to the assessment.

“And yet, you have not announced your intentions, though we have heard from Democratic Party Chief Wendell Neill that the nomination is yours for the taking. We appreciate you joining us today, and like all Americans, we hope you can tell us what you’re thinking.”

Geoff Newman watched from just off stage. Scott Roarke watched in Peabody. Michael O’Connell in Marblehead. President Taylor had his set on a few blocks away at the White House. And in Tripoli, Fadi Kharrazi caught the broadcast off his satellite dish.

Teddy Lodge began slowly. He focused directly on the host and talked to him like an old friend, avoiding the camera and any semblance of speech making.

“It was a week ago. One week.” He closed his eyes, paused and shook his head. “You have to understand, this is very difficult for me.” He stopped again to collect his thoughts. Tears formed in his eyes. He wiped them away, then apparently found the strength to continue. His voice cracked at first, then got stronger. “People are wondering what I’m going to do. First, let me focus on the crime. A killer who had his sights on me, shot Jennifer.” Newman had reminded him to always refer to his wife by her first name, for emotional impact.

“He shot her. He killed Jenny. She was no further from me than you are. She was a lively, vibrant, beautiful, loving partner. Now she is gone.” Lodge looked down. His voice cracked.

No guest in the history of
Meet the Press
had ever taken such pauses. Usually reporters were quick on the uptake to get in their next questions. Not today. Neither the host nor his panel of three other distinguished journalists pressed the Congressman.

“Jen’s killer is out there. The President of the United States has assured me that he’ll be found. But he hasn’t been. Not yet.”

Political pundits writing about the appearance scored Lodge first blood. He openly attacked the president and for that matter, the FBI.

“I want this killer brought to justice. And you can read into that whatever you’d like,” he said raising his voice. “I want him brought to justice.”

Lodge still held the floor. No one else jumped in.

“Now, I want to thank the voters of New York and Rhode Island,” he said in a warmer tone. “They didn’t have to come out on my behalf. But they did. They expressed their rights as Americans in the proper way. At the ballot. Not with a bullet as some damned coward did last week.”

Americans like real people. And with his last angry utterance, Lodge earned more fans.

“So I thank everyone for your kind letters and for your renewed confidence and belief in me. And now I will tell you what you may already suspect. He looked passed the moderator and directly at the camera. This assured Lodge that the sound bite would be used by all of the networks. “I
will
go to Denver. I will seek the nomination of the Democratic Party. I will accept, if nominated. And I will ask Americans to make me their President.”

There was enough copy to be committed to front page stories, features, editorials and news reports in the first three minutes of
Meet the Press
to level a forest full of trees.

Theodore Wilson Lodge laid it all out. The spread between the congressman and the president evaporated.

“Bullshit! This is bullshit!” Abahar Kharrazi screamed at Major Kitan. He slammed Walid Abdul-Latif’s report on the desk.

The major stood rigidly at attention through his commander’s rantings.

“You
are
going to find out what this is all about or I will see to it that my father sends you to paradise before your time! Do you understand me?”

“By your command, sir,” Kitan declared looking ever the obedient soldier. That’s how he survived to age 44. He had managed to get promoted to the rank of major in Colonel Mu’ammar Qadhafi’s army and so far lived to serve General Jabbar Kharrazi and his son Abahar.

He didn’t have much job security, but he used his status to pilfer whatever he could, hoping he’d enjoy the spoils someday. As he sucked in his belly, he realized that he had gotten soft and Kharrazi’s fearsome son would somehow take advantage of his weaknesses. If he lived through this episode he would harden his body and his soul. If he lived.

The head of the Secret Police read the report again, pacing the floor and swearing at his younger brother.

“He’s up to something. I know how his mind works. But what is it?”

“There are key words, sir. But it is the reference to Hafez Al-Assad that concerns me. What is a dead Syrian President’s name doing in a file of his? And Uday Hussein? Another puzzle.”

Abahar shared the worry, but it remained unspoken. For years his moles informed him that his brother had a secret meeting with Saddam Hussein’s son, Uday, before the fall of Iraq.
About what? About this?

Abahar knew that the modern concept of “inherited office” originated with Hafez Al-Assad. In Egypt, President Hosni Mubarak made his younger son, Gamal, a key member in the ruling National Democratic Party. Yemini President Ali Abdullah Saleh prepared his son, Ahmed, to take his place. Saddam groomed his tyranical sons to replace him, just as Mu’ammar Qadhafi had. The same was true for Jabbar Kharazzi.

For Hafez Al-Assad it was an easy ascension. There was only one son to consider. But Jabbar had two.

One day soon, Libyans would have an election after the father/leader’s death, but it would be a one-man race with either Abahar or Fadi as the nominee. Conventional wisdom had it that Abahar would get the nod. And yet, here was a report that linked Fadi with Uday Hussein in the last years of his life, and in a roundabout way Al-Assad of Syria. He came back to the nagging thought again.
Two other sons of Arab leaders. One who had aspirations; one who succeeded.

“Be patient. We will discover more,” Kitan promised, “or my man inside your brother’s office will meet the Prophet Muhammad.”

Abahar fixed a cold stare on his subordinate. “And you will be there to greet him.” There was no equivocation in Kharrazi’s voice.

Fadi Kharrazi sought an answer to a trick question. “Do you see me as the ‘trouble maker’ my father and brother do?” he demanded of Lakhdar Al-Nassar over apple tea in his office.

Kharrazi’s aide sipped his drink, stalling as he considered a safe, but proper response. But Fadi laughed before Al-Nassar formulated an answer.

“That is an unfair question, my friend,” he continued in a coldly calm voice. “Of course I am a trouble maker. And why not? I am my father’s son. I tell them what to think. I provide them with the shows they want to watch. They love the American movies I give them. Yet, to my family I am nothing more than the playboy killer.”