Executive Actions (40 page)

A
shab al-Kahf.
A passage in the Qur’an.

Translated to English it meant
“People or Companions of the Cave.”
While Omar wasn’t a dutiful Libyan servant, he was a devout Muslim. He had studied the Qur’an and the fascinating details of the passage returned to him.

The actual text was contained in Sura 18:9-27, but the folklore was often better conveyed in the spoken word.
Ashab al-Kahf
tells of a number of men, several centuries prior to the arrival of Mohammed, who roamed the desert and the highlands, seeking
the truth
about the revelation of the Prophet. They were accompanied by their faithful dog. Wherever they went, they befriended people, asking them if the words of the yet unseen, unknown Prophet might have come to them.

Eventually they arrived at a cave, presumed to be in Iraq or Jordan, although most believers argued it was in Syria. Exhausted from their journey, they rested inside, away from the scorching desert sun. They soon fell asleep. Their dog curled up outside, guarding the entrance and also slipped into a fitful sleep.

Allah, recognizing their goodness and the righteousness of their quest, put them all in a deeper, magic sleep, to awaken only when the Messenger received the revelation. The men and their pet slept undisturbed for 600 years. At a time appointed by Allah, Gabriel was dispatched with the Message for Mohammed.

In time, Mohammed learned of the sleepers. Touched by their devotion, he sent four
Companions
to them to proclaim the coming of the ultimate truth. Allah awakened them after their six-century sleep. One of them visited a nearby souk for food. They had, after all, woken up with a strong hunger, matched only by their thirst for knowledge.

When the one Sleeper tried to pay a merchant for the food he was told his money was old and no longer in use. The Sleeper soon realized he and his friends had not slept one night, but through thousands of nights.

When the Companions arrived they explained the mission Allah had sent them on. They invited the Sleepers to return with them to Arabistan. But the Sleepers felt unworthy to accept such an offer. Allah, they believed, had given them—as faithful disciples—many lifetimes just so they would be able to hear the true Message.

After the revelation, the Sleepers decided there was no earthly reason to go to Arabistan. They believed the only path ahead for them was to Paradise.

The Sleepers and their dog returned to the cave. Allah smiled upon them and granted their sole wish. He invited their spirits aloft.

The Companions returned to Mohammed and shared the mystery of what they had seen. The Prophet Mohammed asked how many Sleepers they had seen.

One said four. Another five. The others remembered six and seven.

The Prophet observed their difference of opinion and noted, “The ways of Allah are wondrous and only He knows how many Sleepers there are. Only he knows when one will awaken. The world is full of Sleepers and only Allah knows their number and when they will awaken.”

Ashab al-Kahf
. A tale of sleepers in a
Personal
file.

Omar Za’eem read as quickly as he could. The People of the Cave was a code name for some contemporary operation. He scanned quickly; nervously reviewing what he had seen before.

The Syrians. Hafez Al-Assad. His son. Saddam Hussein’s son, Uday and now Fadi Kharrazi. They were all noted, and so was something called Red Banner.

So much to absorb. The more new material he read, the more he lost himself in the content and the less aware he became of time. Forty-five minutes. One hour. Ninety minutes. Too many names, places and dates to memorize.

Almost two hours.

Pictures of children. Articles on the American political system.

Suddenly, a noise in the hall.
An elevator door opening?
It was hard to hear.

A moment later the sound of heavy footsteps in a staccato rhythm.

Damn.
There was more to read. But he couldn’t ignore the danger.

Fadi had a distinctive gait, a bit of a shuffle, but fast and heavy. Za’eem pushed the drawer closed. He realized that despite the orders of his direct superior he couldn’t be caught in Fadi’s private office. The sound of steps grew louder. He was nearly at the outer office door and Za’eem could never make it back to his desk in time.

He started to the door, then remembered he left the files he had been holding.
Where were they? On top of the third Personal cabinet.
“Shit!” he said aloud. He’d left them there when he got engrossed in the Hafez Al-Assad to Uday Hussein connection that pre-dated Fadi’s fingerprints on the plan. He doubled back, retrieved them and dashed to the door, which he now knew he’d never make.

Someplace to hide?
He quickly perused the room.
Nowhere.
Besides he should be at his desk. He imagined he had less than a minute to live.

The shuffling was closer. Then a voice. The steps stopped.
Al-Nassar calling to Fadi?
It sounded like both men were coming back, but al-Nassar had to explain why he wasn’t at his desk.

Omar Za’eem used the time to rush back to the inner office, put the unfinished work back on al-Nassar’s desk, reach for his scissors and start a cut in the first newspaper page he found. Al-Nassar’s own excuses to Fadi’s bought Za’eem twenty seconds.

For Omar Za’eem it was nothing short of a lifetime.

Omar had never heard such a string of obscenities from Fadi. He launched into al-Nassar calling up every disgusting phrase imaginable. It made Omar laugh to himself, partly out of relief that he was safely back in his seat. But when the younger Kharrazi son walked by Za’eem’s desk without even acknowledging his presence, he knew that al-Nassar would soon take his own anger out on the closest target. Him.

Fadi slammed his door shut. The entire room shook.

“What was that all about?” Omar asked quietly.

“Who the fuck knows. Maybe he couldn’t get it up.”

Za’eem wouldn’t be baited into the dialogue. But as al-Nassar’s hateful eyes wandered, he could feel what was coming.

He didn’t have to wait long. Al-Nassar slid into his chair, rubbed his own sore crotch, indicating that he probably didn’t have the best of times either, then saw the unfinished work laying on his desk.

“And you? You can’t complete a simple task?” He grabbed the files and clippings. It was time for his anger to trickle down. “What were you doing? Jerking off in some corner?”

Za’eem lowered his eyes.

“I’m asking you a fucking question? Do you want it to be the last one you ever hear?”

“No sir,” he answered tentatively.

“Then why isn’t this done?”

“I’ve never spent much time in Mr. Kharrazi’s office before. I was,” he paused for effect, “I was confused by the system.”

“You are a complete moron.” Al-Nassar picked up one file. “Pictures of the United States Congressman? That’s political! Or haven’t you heard.” He threw the folder directly at Za’eem. It flew open, sending papers in every direction.

“Pictures of Fadi with the General? News!” A second folder came at him even faster. And then another and another.

Omar dropped to the floor to try to pick up the pages and put them back in as fast as he could.

“One simple task a six year old could accomplish, but I get the village imbecile. Some reject from the army. I can’t leave the office for an hour without you screwing up.” Omar thanked God it was longer than an hour.

“Well, I’ve carried you long enough. You’re an ass kissing little nobody. Get out of here!”

“But sir,” Za’eem offered apologetically. “I tried.”

“And you’re incompetent! Go, get out of my sight for good!” His voice rose, probably intentionally so Fadi could overhear. Fadi would now reward al-Nassar for striking his inferior down, just as he had done. The food chain at work.

“Now!”

“But I need this job. My mother and sister.” He was falling back on a well rehearsed lie about his family in the old town of Germa. “I have to…”

“You have to get out of here before I count to ten.”

Al-Nassar removed a pistol from his desk.

Za’eem was gone before he got to five. He couldn’t have planned the day better himself.

S
cott Roarke had no idea what news tomorrow would bring. Where the votes would fall?

Immediately following Sunday night’s debate, Lodge took a definite hit. One instant phone poll conducted by Fox News showed the congressman trailing two to four points. MSNBC’s own survey had him drop by four to eight.

The conservative talk shows, more partial to the president, revved up on Monday afternoon, taking predictable shots at Teddy Lodge, claiming he was on the run. But no amount of polling or talk show hyperbole could truly tell where the country would go on Tuesday. In truth, it was becoming too close to call.

So Roarke did what he always did to calm himself. He exercised. His work out, long overdue, included the best of his Army Special Forces training and everything the gym could offer. Deep down inside a voice told him to be ready. That voice never failed him.

Another voice called to him as well. Katie’s.

He dialed her as he jogged home with the hand’s free earphone in his ear.

“Hi, Katie,” he said barely revealing he was running. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I could be better if you were somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Someplace warm and cozy.”

His mind went exactly where she intended. Roarke unknowingly stopped and leaned against a tree, feeling himself get excited. On a call of this nature, he didn’t even worry about the extended time they talked. No government secrets here, only his own.

“Right now,” she continued.

“Right now?” he asked.

“Right now. Wanna come?”

“Hmmm. Oh, I wish I could. But I have to see what’s going to go down tomorrow. And I suppose I have to do my civic duty.”

“The shuttle can get you here by dinner,” she cooed.

“Soon. I just can’t now.”

The mood had passed and he renewed his run toward Georgetown.

“Tell me. You’re in Lodge country. What’s everyone talking about up there?”

“A
Globe
editorial claimed that people shouldn’t place too much emphasis on the debate. That the whole campaign just caught up with Teddy. The
Herald
’s front page was ‘Hodge Podge Lodge.’ And they tore into him.”

“And on the street?”

“Still all Lodge, I’d say. Local boy. He’s got the Kennedy magic. Massachusetts will go for him. All New England. Maybe New Hampshire will be close. Otherwise, no change up here.”

“What do you hear?” she asked.

“Florida definitely still Lodge. Georgia, the Carolinas, Virginia. I just don’t know. It’s shifting to the Prez. I think Pennsylvania and New York are solidly Lodge’s, though. It’s gonna be the mid west and west coast that decide this thing.”

“And when it’s over?”

“Hey, maybe you’ll come down and visit me. But better hurry. There may not be much opportunity to score you an insider’s tour of the White House.”

“But you’ll still be there.”

“Not after my talk with Newman Sunday night.”

“You didn’t make nice nice with the potential new landlords?”

“No. I can’t say I did.”

“Very bad boy. Well, don’t forget my law firm had represented Teddy. So maybe I’ll be the one who arranges the next tour.”

Roarke stopped again. For a moment he had forgotten how they had met. The circumstances. The tête-à-tête. And the attraction.

What if she were right? What if Teddy Lodge really became president?

Katie continued to flirt with him, but Roarke had tuned out.

Omar Za’eem did all of Sami Ben Ali’s heavy lifting. Pity he’d never be able to thank him personally for all his help.

Abahar’s spy dutifully reported his findings to Walid Abdul-Latif. Abdul-Latif, in turn, typed up the details of the conversation for his boss, Major Bayon Karim Kitan, who presented them to Abahar Kharrazi. Sami Ben Ali would read them first.

He got his opportunity earlier than expected. Walid received a phone call that he needed to respond to immediately.

“I have to go out. I’ll be back in a few hours,” Walid said. He grabbed his gun and his billy club.

“Where are you going?” Sami asked nonchalantly.

“None of your business.” But Walid would tell him anyway. He had to brag.

“If you have to know, it’s time to
explain
some things again to a group of whining students at Nasser University,” he said swinging his weapon.

A few years ago, thirty-two students from Nasser were reportedly arrested for converting to Christianity. They were blindfolded, tied together and taken to prison. Challenges to General Kharrazi’s beliefs. Most people learned. Some didn’t. People like Walid were quite ready to correct their behavior in the name of the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. Undoubtedly a few students would land in Abu Salim Prison for a time. Others might not even see graduation, ever.

Once alone, Sami got to work. He knew that Za’eem had made progress. Now to download the report and clean his tracks afterwards. This time he did it faster, quickly catching a key word:
Ashab al-Kahf
, and then saving the file.

When Walid didn’t return by 1830 hrs, Sami assumed he was raping one of his female captives or taking delight in clubbing a man. So he left. Amazing that after all of his years undercover in Tripoli, it all came down to one computer disc.

The last directive Sami Ben Ali received from Langley was simple and to the point. “Call home. Want to hear from you. Maybe we’ll visit as soon as we know where.”

It was the “as soon as we know where” that kept him up at nights these last few weeks. The words had long ago flamed into nothingness; burned and gone when he ignited the flash pad they’d been written on. But they were burned into his consciousness.
“Soon”
actually meant “urgent.” And
“know where
” was all about identifying precise details about a hard target. Apparently this was tremendously important information for Evans. Very important. Sami would trade it for a ticket out of Libya.

First things first. He had to get word that he had something. And he had to be careful. Then, when it was safe, he’d hand over the entire report.

As he walked through the maze of Tripoli’s shops and restaurants in the souk, he thought of Detroit and football season. He’d like to take in a game again at Ford Field and have a cold beer. The Lions didn’t have to win. He’d be happy simply being there.

But to get there, he’d have to be careful. There was always the possibility of being watched.

Tonight it looked clear. No one seemed to be following him as he made his way to a favorite bookstore in the bazaar.

A bell attached to the door clanged when he entered. No one bothered looking at him and Sami Ben Ali didn’t make eye contact with anyone else. The shelves were lined with decades’ old dog-eared editions of “approved” historical books, Islamic religious texts, and Arabic folklore. He meandered around for ten minutes, then approached the front desk.

Like many booksellers in the area, Hamid Salim Sahhaf bought, sold, traded and bartered his stock. He claimed to have read every volume. Whether or not it was true, he certainly knew their location on the shelves.

“Do you have a 1920s edition of
Gilgamesh
,” Sami asked politely.

“Why, yes I do,” the old man answered. “Three copies. But I’m afraid that you won’t be happy. Many of the etchings are missing in the oldest one. Fine ones, too. A big book on the third shelf down that aisle.” He pointed to a row at the far end of the room, away from the door. “All the way on the left.”

“Thank you,” Ben Ali said, bowing politely. He casually walked through the store, between dusty shelves, which smelled of the mildew eating away at many of the books. At the back was one row that dead-ended against the wall. That was where he was told to go.

In relative short order he found what he was looking for. Not the copy of
Gilgamesh
with the etchings missing, but one directly to the right.

He removed it, began leafing through the pages and stopped at page 134. He turned his back to aisle and quietly read. The story, one of the oldest in the world, always fascinated him.

According to the epic legend, Gilgamesh, born one-third mortal and two-thirds god, was a Sumerian king around 3,500
B.C.
The story was passed down for generations by word of mouth, then, possibly in seventh century B.C., recorded in Akkadian cuneiform symbols onto twelve clay tablets. Sami loved the story and its characters, finding personal meaning in Gilgamesh’s quest to understand his true purpose and sense of self.

Without any one noticing, he casually folded up a quarter inch of the lower right hand corner of page 134 and folded down the upper left corner of page 179. Sami Ben Ali had just left two numerical messages. “Found what I was looking for. And I want out.”

After a few minutes he picked up the larger tattered edition he had been directed to, skimmed through it, then looked at the third book. Five minutes later he nodded in a manner that would make any observer think he was finally satisfied. He tucked the last book under his arm and returned to the front to pay.

Now for the customary haggling over the price. This took a good three minutes. Hamid Salim Sahhaf and Ben Ali settled on the middle ground. Sami left as pleased as the old man; each convinced that he had out tricked the other for the best price.

Ben Ali settled into a restaurant a few doors down from the bookstore. He ordered a green apple tea, lit up a cigarette, and opened his book as if to read it. In actuality he was back to work; taking everyone in to see who might be lingering or watching. A sixth sense told him someone was out there.