Executive Treason (35 page)

After a time they stopped again. Laham faced D’Angelo. He sharpened his focus, peering directly at his companion. “You are American, though you disguise it well.”

D’Angelo blinked acceptance that he’d been found out. “Now I will enlighten you with a part of your history that your own texts have forgotten.”

“On June 5, 1968, the American senator Robert Kennedy won the California primary election,” began the Syrian. “Arguably, it virtually handed him the presidency, but June 5 was also the anniversary of the outbreak of the Six-Day War. And that night, a Jerusalem-born Muslim named Sirhan Bishara Sirhan assassinated your beloved Bobby. Sirhan was immediately arrested, and eventually put on trial, sentenced, and sent to one of your maximum-security jails. The story does not end there,” explained Jamil Laham.

D’Angelo was intrigued by Laham’s story. The fact was, he didn’t know Kennedy was killed on the anniversary of the war.

“Yitzhak Rabin, then Israel’s Ambassador to the United States, was scheduled to meet with Senator Kennedy. Rather than meet about Israel’s future, he was left to contemplate the impact of Senator Kennedy’s death. He later wrote in his memoirs that Americans, so dazed by what everyone considered the ‘senseless act of a madman,’ couldn’t begin to recognize the real political significance.

“And what, my friend, might that have been?” It was a rhetorical question. “No matter what your historians report, Sirhan was not a madman. He planned the act. At his trial he even proclaimed, ‘I killed Robert Kennedy willfully, premeditatedly, and with twenty years of malice aforethought.’”

“Twenty years?” D’Angelo asked.

“From 1948 through 1968. The year 1948 being when Israel declared nationhood.”

The CIA agent listened intently.

“I have become something of an expert on the assassination. You’ll soon see why. Just after Robert Kennedy graduated from Harvard University, he reported from Israel for
The Boston Post
. Why is this significant? He was there when the Zionists established their state. He was there through the earliest days of their war for independence. And he was there when his brother, John Kennedy, visited with a congressional delegation in 1951. From that day on, the Kennedys resolved to help Israel ‘bear any burden.’”

“That was many years ago.”

“Indeed it was, yet still relevant. Robert Kennedy supported Israel from its birth. As president, he would have furthered the cause of the Jewish state. Many Muslims saw him as a threat. Sirhan Sirhan pulled the trigger for them all. To your people, he was an assassin—to us a hero who deserved to be free.”

“I understand that. But….”

“Patience. I’m getting to what you must really grasp. In March 1973, a group known as Black September stormed the Saudi Embassy in Khartoum. They took a United States Ambassador hostage, along with others. What was one of their principal demands?”

D’Angelo shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed he didn’t have the answer.

“The release of Sirhan Sirhan,” Laham asserted. “The release of the hero.”

“My God!”

“President Richard Nixon refused to consider the demand. No negotiation. A foolish decision? You decide. All of the hostages, including the ambassador, were executed. Each of them was shot to death. I can recite their names and the names of their family members if you wish. I’m sure that’s more than any American can do.

“You will recognize the name of another man in my story,” Laham said resuming the saga. “A man who—according to Israeli intelligence and your infamous NSA—issued the order.”

“Who?”

“I did start by saying that this is history your own texts have forgotten.”

“Yes, you did.”

“The order, according to many, came from the head of the Black September terrorist group.” He stopped to see if that sparked a recollection. It did not.

“Yasser Arafat.”

“Arafat!” exclaimed D’Angelo. “I never—”

“Your government and your media chooses not to remember,” explained Laham quite correctly. “Of course, Arafat publicly disassociated himself from the murders, but there were reports that he discussed the assassinations during a private dinner with Romanian dictator Nicolae Ceausescu. A defector also at the dinner claimed that Arafat bragged about the Khartoum operation. That report was published in
The Wall Street Journal
. I can give you the date if you wish.”

“Just go on.”

“Eventually, a Palestinian analyst for the National Security Agency went public with charges that Arafat’s role in planning the kidnappings and execution had been suppressed. Other reports to surface even include the exact single-side band radio frequency he used to communicate with his aide. Would you like that? 7150 kHz. Or the text of the message?”

D’Angelo interrupted. “Look, nothing you’ve said directly links Sirhan Sirhan to Black September or confirms that he took orders from Arafat.”

“Perhaps. But in turn, I must ask why would Black September make Sirhan’s release a condition of the hostages’ freedom?”

“Publicity?”

“Perhaps. The United States did not have a counter-terrorism force at that point. Maybe they thought it would work. But what if it was not for publicity? What if they really believed their actions could return a hero to the Palestinians?”

D’Angelo vowed to read the reports when he returned home.

“Now for the connection that I believe you’re most interested in,” Laham stated. “While the United States did not make a punitive strike against Black September, Israel did. They sent a squadron of F-4 Phantoms, armed with Shrike and Maverick missiles into Palestinian camps in Jordan and Syria. Little is known about this attack except that more than one hundred men, women, and children were killed. In addition to the missiles that destroyed the camps, another air-to-ground rocket went astray into a nearby town. Forty-five more people died, including an old couple visiting their son, his wife, and their newborn granddaughter. The baby’s father escaped the blast. He was buying food for dinner at the souk. He came back to the devastation and found his family. They were all dead. His wife and parents were burned to death in the fire. His daughter was blasted through the house and impaled on the front gate. He lifted the girl off the iron rail and gently laid her down in front on a carpet remnant. He went back to what was left of the house and carried his wife out, then his parents. When help came the man was sitting on the ground, gently rocking his daughter to her eternal rest. His tears were gone by then. Those who tell the story have said he was quite composed. He thanked everyone for their concern, but he explained he would take care of things in due time. They thought he was talking about burying his family. But there was more to his statement. In that one hour of his life, he vowed revenge against the Zionists, against the State of Israel, and against the American presidents who supported them. He changed that day into the man you seek. Into Ibrahim Haddad.”

“This is all personal,” D’Angelo concluded.

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

“Which explains his utmost patience. He’s put more than thirty years into his hatred. How can anyone live like that?”

“For the Muslim world, that hatred is fueled every day the Zionist flag flies.”

“That won’t change.” D’Angelo instantly wished he hadn’t said that, but it was too late. Laham broke eye contact and shook his head. He raised his head to the heavens and uttered a quiet prayer. Oh God, You are Peace. From You comes Peace. To You returns Peace. Revive us with a salutation of Peace. And lead us to your abode of Peace.

D’Angelo recognized Mohammad’s Prayer for Peace and Laham’s sincere hope that the world would find it. “I’m sorry.”

Laham, still with his eyes to the sky, nodded. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t recognize the Jewish state as permanent. But peace should be just as permanent, and yet it is hardly evident.” He lowered his head and stared deeply into D’Angelo’s eyes. He saw sincerity. “I hope our conversation will help.”

“I do as well. Finding Ibrahim Haddad is key.”

“Yes it is; which is why I’m surprised it’s taken so long to talk.”

D’Angelo recalled Laham saying that earlier in their conversation. “It’s only been a matter of a few days,” he said.

“A few days?” Laham appear utterly confused. “I first approached the Israelis three years ago with this information.”

CIA Headquarters
Tuesday, 24 July

D’Angelo was furious. He did nothing to hide his anger from the NDI. “It’s bullshit! They sat on this for three years?”

“Schecter never said a word, not on my watch,” Evans stated.

“Come on, Jack. You can’t tell me—”

“I can tell you anything I want.” The National Director of Intelligence stopped his agent in mid-sentence. “Anytime I want. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“That stated, it is the truth. They never informed us.” D’Angelo settled down. “But it is absolute bullshit,” he said again. “This guy told the Mossad about Haddad. They had to tell us.”

“They had to? Why?” Evans asked. “Because.”

“Come on, Vinnie, how long have you been doing this? It’s all about secrets. Learning them, evaluating them, holding onto them, and maybe trading them. Rarely does anyone just hand them out. Not us. Not them.”

“But they had his name. We could have nailed Haddad years ago. God knows how many people have died because of him,” D’Angelo said. “We’re their fucking friends!”

“Friends? We spy on each other; we use the promise of money to try to influence their politics. We walk away from their peace talks at the worst times. Then we make demands and they laugh at us. Friends? I’m really not so sure.”

“But they knew.” By now it was becoming a desperate argument.

“Maybe at the time they didn’t value the information. It could have been filed away or lost. Maybe they realized it after the fact. Maybe with my call…or yours. It could be as simple or as complicated as that. Remember how ineffective we were in tying intel together prior to 9/11, despite reliable information? People didn’t know how to read it or they ignored it. That’s why I’m here, now, in this office. Why would we expect any better from the Israelis?”

“Because they have been better at it. Because their survival has always depended on it. What if Schecter wanted to see how far the plot would go?”

“Well, if that’s the case, Vincent, we’ve got a chit in our column. And someday I won’t be shy about asking them to make good on it.”

The White House
Washington, D.C.

“I need to get everyone on the same page,” Morgan Taylor said. “You all know each other. I think it’s fair to say you all trust each other. Now let’s find out how you can help one other.”

FBI Director Robert Mulligan, NDI Evans, the Army’s General Jonas Jackson Johnson, and Bemie Bernstein were joined by Scott Roarke, Vinnie D’Angelo, and Shannon Davis.

“Bob, you go first,” the president suggested.

“Okay. Bessolo and his team have gone through Haddad’s condo in Florida. As hard as it is to believe, there’s nothing there. No notepads, no computer files, and no smoking gun. We lifted a few fingerprints; they’re no help. We’re delving into his bank transactions. Local, offshore, anything we can track. Interpol is running searches for us, too. If he is our man, I can’t prove it.”

“Not yet,” Morgan Taylor noted. “Keep on it.” Next, the president went to his National Intelligence chief.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll defer to D’Angelo.” The NIA sat next to his man and tapped his arm twice.

“Ditto to everything Director Mulligan said. We’re also working with the FBI on his banking. But from my sources,” D’Angelo remained intentionally vague, “Haddad feels like the linchpin to the plan and his ultimate agenda is revenge.”

“Revenge?” the FBI chief asked.

“Yes, he holds a personal grudge against the United States, against the presidency in particular.”

“Why? How do you know?”

Again D’Angelo phrased his answer carefully. Evans warned him the FBI had a leak. “Let’s just leave how out of it. Why? Because his family was killed by an Israeli strike in Syria in 1973.”

Bernstein spoke up next. “Wait a second, the Israelis, not us? So why blame the U.S.? I don’t get it.

“He holds the U.S. responsible for Israel’s existence.”

“So we have a nutcase on our hands,” the chief of staff declared.

The president disagreed. “Not a nutcase. A man who is hell-bent on revenge. He has all his wits about him and the patience of Job.”

“Except for the fact that he’s Muslim,” D’Angelo continued.

“Do you know where he is?” This was Mulligan’s question.

“No, but I’ve learned how we might be able to find him.” This drew everyone’s attention. “He’s a reputable art dealer. That’s apparently where some of his money comes from. I suggest we work together to track major transactions over the last five to ten years. Because so much art is now traded on the Internet, we should look there, as well as galleries. Oh, and one other thing. He uses a variety of aliases and he speaks a number of languages. Consequently, our search should broaden to include French, German, Spanish, and Russian art dealers. I think it’s fair to assume that he has as many passports as he does identities. We should see what comes up in the database with minor changes to his appearance.”

D’Angelo stopped. Evans had gently pressed against his arm. He said enough for the room, despite the fact that it was the Oval Office.

Without a thank you, the president turned to Roarke.

“Scott, you and Shannon have the floor.”

Roarke jumped in. “Shannon and I, with the help of DIA and the FBI labs, have been working on the identity of the assassin. We feel we’ve ascertained who he is, or more accurately, who he was.”

“What?” was everyone’s reaction.

Bernstein looked most shocked, so the Secret Service agent played to him. “He was an officer in the United States Army. Officially, he was killed in action in Baghdad. However, his body was never recovered. Like Haddad, he has a motive for revenge. He was sent into a building in what was arguably a suicide mission. His squad had challenged the order, but their objections were dismissed. Everyone died, including—for the record—our subject. We visited his parents, who have benefitted greatly from an insurance policy, for which there is no record. With their permission, we borrowed family photographs and ran them through the FBI photo recognition labs. We have a very reliable match with witness descriptions of the suspect. I should add that I’ve seen this man twice, once in Washington and again, recently in Boston. He is the man in the picture.” Roarke reached into his attaché case. “This picture.” He held up an enlargement of the photograph the Coopers gave him. “Meet Richard Cooper.”

The New York Times
editorial offices
the same time

O’Connell typed every conceivable word pairing into the search box. Nothing hit him right.

He re-read the initial e-mail from the Russian.

Your reports fine.

Why do you write about things you not know?

You need information good.

Bearly a friend.

I’m thinking too big. Not weapons or armies. If it’s about Lodge and the presidency, then forget bombs. I have to think smaller.

O’Connell went back to his computer and tried new fields.

Congress, Representative, Senator

The White House

“Total speculation now, but for argument sake, Cooper is captured by insurgents. Somehow he talks his way out of being killed and works his way up the system,” Roarke postulated.

“Or an alternative,” Davis added. “He’s taken in by an anti-American individual or family. They get him on his feet and introduce him to people who ultimately lead to Haddad. This could have taken months or years. I’m sure we won’t know what actually happened until we have either Haddad or Cooper in our hands. But with the president’s permission, General Johnson could reopen the investigation of the building blast…”

Everyone waited for the president’s blessing, which came in a concise order. “J3, make it so.”

“Yes, sir,” the general answered.

“Let’s make some progress on this before I board Air Force One for Australia.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Three days, J3.” The general acknowledged the deadline. “Do you have any more, Scott?

“Yes I do.”

The New York Times

O’Connell felt he was on a better track. However, none of the hits seemed dead on. Not yet. As he read through the material he continued to write down other words that came to mind.

Judge, Politician, Businessman, Election He’d get to those later.

The Oval Office

“In addition to the training he picked up in the military, which is considerable, Cooper is an accomplished actor,” Roarke explained. “And I mean accomplished. He’s adept at creating truly distinct personas by becoming different people. It’s not just makeup and hair, this guy is incredible.”

Roarke talked through the inevitable silence that followed. “He could probably get credentials to your next press conference and nobody would know it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bernsie gasped. “How the hell do you find him?”

“I don’t,” Roarke said. “We let him find me.”

The New York Times

O’Connell leaned back in his chair. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He needed a break. The reporter pushed away from his desk, stood, and stretched. I’ve gotta get out of here. He headed out, first grabbing a copy of the day’s paper, which he hadn’t read. Some fresh air and a little coffee.

The Oval Office

“How?” the FBI chief asked.

“Through Cooper’s parents,” Shannon Davis said joining the conversation.

“But they think he’s dead.”

“And he’ll stay that way, at least for now,” Roarke explained. “But here’s what we’ve come up with.” Roarke outlined the plan.

New York City

O’Connell sat in the corner of the diner with steam rising from his cup of strong black coffee. A piece of coffee cake lay on his plate. Half of the topping was on O’Connell’s red plaid L.L. Bean shirt.

The reporter read nearly every page of the paper, but not from top to bottom. He had his own ritual. First he turned to the domestic political stories, sorting by byline the other reporters he considered closest to their sources. After working his way through those stories he went for global news. Then he was onto business stories with a political slant, the editorials, and the op-ed page. He always finished with a review of the radio and TV appearances by polls.

He followed the Redskins during football season and little other sports. The food pages meant nothing to him. The stocks depressed him. O’Connell didn’t care about Hollywood. The only DVDs he owned were
All the President’s Men
,
The Candidate
,
The Best Man
, and
All the Kings Men
.

O’Connell could digest
The New York Times
in twenty to thirty minutes. He also tried to go through
The
Washington Post
and
The Washington Times
. Recently, he’d been so focused on his inquiry that he skipped his own paper. The same would have happened today if he didn’t feel fried.

The story that most caught his attention was President Taylor’s upcoming trip to Australia.
Times
correspondents reported on the agenda, which was to solidify the changes in the nuclear proliferation agreement among Southeast Asian countries. The threat of increased terrorist activities in the region made the conference a priority. Unconfirmed rumors of a bomb threat earlier in the summer added to the tension. Sydney police denied the reports, which they attributed to a water main break below the Ville St. George Hotel. However, an unnamed military source indicated that the SASR, the Australian Special Forces Regiment, had carried out a seek-and-destroy mission against a terrorist stronghold in the Solomon Islands. That report remained unconfirmed.

All of this interested O’Connell and he followed the story as it jumped from page one to inside the first section. As he turned the pages his left hand accidentally hit his coffee cup. It went over, spilling the remaining half on the plate holding his cake and the newspaper. “Damn!” he shouted at himself.

Patrons hardly lifted their eyes from their papers, laptops, or books, and no one rushed over to help him. He used the Arts Section to pat down the spill. When his table was sufficiently dry he returned to the paper, forgetting where the article jumped.

O’Connell gave it a rest. He walked over to the counter and asked for a refill. Minutes later he was back at his table finding his place in
The Times
. Page ten. He slid the paper to the left side of the table and placed his cup and what was left of his pastry directly on a full-page coffee-stained ad on page eleven. He finished reading the story and wondered whether there was anything to the bomb threat. He decided to write himself a reminder. O’Connell automatically reached for a pen in his pocket. It wasn’t there. He had left it at his desk. The reporter looked around. He caught the waitress’s attention.

“One minute,” she signaled.

He sipped his coffee. The second cup was just as bad as the first.

“What’s up?” the waitress asked.

“A pen I can borrow?”

“Sure, here.”

He took her ballpoint and tried to write in some white space on the adjacent page. But the pen wouldn’t ink over the wet paper. O’Connell ate the last of his cake, which partially covered a DIY portion of the same page. Her pen worked where the food had been.

Check with Sydney bureau.

While he scribbled some additional notes, his eye caught the ad copy on the page. It was a simple advertisement.
Catchy
, he thought. He took another sip of coffee and turned the page.

The Oval Office

“He won’t do it!” Bernsie declared.

“I think he will. And as soon as he writes about it, others will pick up on it,” Roarke predicted.

“No way, he’ll see that he’s being used,” the chief of staff maintained.

J3 just laughed. It was as if no time had elapsed. Bernstein the naysayer, arguing with everybody. It was one of the things that made the Taylor White House work. The president had the same feeling, which was why he cut the argument off.

“You’re both right. But O’Connell will do it. We tell him just enough to make it interesting. He’ll want to break it. Then the story will take on a life of its own. The nets will call it another Iraqi blunder. But in order to get it, he has to embargo the privileged information until we have Mr. Cooper in custody.”