“Do the parents wear glasses? Are they smokers? Do they battle with depression? Drugs? Alcohol? Everything is a factor.”
“His parents have been dead for decades,” Roarke said. “Pictures were destroyed.”
“So what are you trying to do. Locate this kid now?”
“Oh, I know where he is,” Roarke stated.
“Then why do you need to know what he looks like? Can’t you just take a picture yourself?”
“There are ample pictures of him, Mr. Parsons. Let’s leave it at that.”
Roarke stood up and stared directly at the computer artist. “Come on, Parsons. I know your reputation. You get shit to work with and you end up with fucking Rembrandts. I’m sure you can…”
“You said, one friend in a high place? “ Roarke nodded. “Okay, let me see what I can do.” He moved his computer mouse to the open file of the Boy Scout and pushed in closer to the eyes. He worked quietly for five minutes, typing computer instructions, shading the picture in a photo shop program and manipulating the image a little at a time.
Parsons sat back in his chair and considered his work. “Once more for me, Roarke. You know what he looks like, but you need me to create an accurate picture for you.”
“Exactly.”
“Then get me the other pictures. This is complex work. Without additional resources I’ll be relying on my own presumptions. And I can easily miss the obvious. Give me what I need and I’ll show you exactly how your Scout ages 33 goddamned years. I’ll nail him within six months if you’d like. Now go get yourself some target practice and come back in a few days. And bring those medical records and parents photographs I want!”
Roarke liked it when people got mad enough to prove their worth. He actually smiled. “Touch? It’s Touch?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“I like that. Nice and descriptive.” Roarke offered his hand. “Most people usually call me ‘Asshole.’”
Parsons laughed. “Well, Asshole, get moving.” He took Roarke’s hand and firmly shook it.
They both had a hell of a task ahead. Only Roarke knew why.
On his way out, Roarke’s cell phone rang. The president’s secretary asked him to hold. He stood in the large parking lot of Quantico, took a deep breath of the rain soaked air, and prepared for either a question or an order. He never expected answers from his boss. The answering part was all up to Roarke.
“Here you go, Scott,” Louise said as she connected Roarke to President Taylor.
“Scott. Was Mulligan helpful?”
“Very.”
“Then you got to see who you needed?”
“Yup,” Roarke simply responded.
“Good.”
“I’ve got to head back up to Boston and get my hands on a few other things.”
“Put a hold on that. I have a little side trip for you first. Up for some more Navy frequent flier miles?”
“The food service sucks.”
The president laughed. Roarke was absolutely right. He’d be flying in a cramped F/A-18, refueling midair courtesy of a KC-10 tanker, and eating a miserable boxed lunch. The only things worse than the food were the toilet options.
“Yes, but you can avoid all the lines at the airport. Why don’t you come by, I’ll brief you and send you on your way merry way.”
“And exactly where is that?”
“Can’t say now. But get rolling. The plane is leaving at 0300.”
“Any movie showing?”
The president considered the question, then said, “Lawrence of Arabia.”
CHAPTER
29
Wednesday 6 August
Roarke liked the ground a whole helluva lot better. The two-seater F/A-18D delivered slamming, bone hammering g-forces as it climbed through the clouds to 40,000 feet. The president might consider the fighter cockpit his second home. Roarke thought a beach house in Malibu was right where he wanted to be. But there was no arguing with his boss on travel accommodations. Taylor ordered him to join Evans’ operative in Libya and evaluate the possibility of a covert action. Ordinarily he would chomp at the bit to get back into the field. Not this time.
He tried to sort through his thoughts, but instead he fell asleep.
While Roarke was in the air over the Atlantic the country woke up to another article on Teddy Lodge by Michael O’Connell. It combined straight reportage with the prose that was quickly becoming his signature. Though he never admitted it to anyone, O’Connell believed that every front-page story brought him closer to a book deal.
This year voters won’t be choosing between the lessor of two evils, or the evil of two lessors. Either one of the two front runners can effectively run the country.
Both candidates are distinguished by strong intellect and unwavering dedication. Both emerged as leaders at an early age.
One a warrior. The other a scholar.
A president who was prepared to die by the sword. A Congressman who makes war with words.
The Navy flyer who learned how to deliver death and destruction from above. The nuclear scientist who understands the physics of how efficiently it is delivered.
Ultimate power in the hands of a mortal men.
Either could press the button. In November, the voters will pull the levers. They alone will decide who deserves the awesome responsibility to lead the nation into the uncertain future on January 20th?.
O’Connell’s sources included military experts, political friends and academic observers. They helped him construct a picture of the president’s achievements as a Navy pilot in the Persian Gulf. He recounted recorded heroics and speculated on some rumored missions. He wrote of how, as a downed aviator, Commander Morgan Taylor survived alone in the desert and barely escaped alive. Unknowingly, he got part of that story wrong. Yet, for every sentence of praise for President Taylor there were two for Congressman Lodge. Most readers could not mistake the emphasis.
Off and on for almost thirty years, the U.S. Department of State warned American citizens against traveling to Libya. According to published advisories, the country is again “hostile and unsettled.”
Since the Kharrazi revolution, Americans generally had to wait months to be granted a special visa, granted through a Libyan Embassy in a third country.
Requests ordinarily were submitted with supporting documentation and only granted to people specified as being eligible in one of four categories: American Red Cross, for which the applicant must establish that he or she is a representative of the organization and traveling on an officially-sponsored mission. Humanitarian considerations, which allow people into Libya who can provide compelling reasons for family unification or critical illnesses. National interest, which recognizes Americans if it is in Libya’s national interest. And finally, professional reporters.
This category includes full-time members of a newspaper staff, magazine, or broadcasting network whose purpose is to gather information about Libya for dissemination to the public. Roarke and Evans’ man would go in as journalists, slightly outside the bounds of the overall criteria, but arguably close enough. They would be on assignment for a respected Oxford academic publishing house, Collingsworth Publishers, with a contract to photograph and chronicle Tripoli’s famed mosques. The assignment came with a fast deadline and a black mark. Collingsworth or at least one CIA plant inside, claimed to need an update of their North African architectural texts for the following fall.
The paperwork went in via the British Embassy in London and was walked through the Libyan side in days.
That was the plan devised by the U. S. Army Special Operations Command (USASOC), operating out of Fort Bragg in North Carolina and hence the “black” mark. According to a 1977 Executive Order signed by former CIA director, Admiral Stansfield Turner, agents were banned from posing as journalists for cover. The regulation was the result of a Senate study on clandestine activities, but it did allow some wiggle room. Within the order is a directive that permits exceptions to be made, if authorized by th
e director of the CIA or his deputy. In this case, Jack Evans made the exception himself.
USASOC is the nation’s largest command component of SOCOM, U.S. Special Operations Command, which has a wide range of worldwide responsibilities under Presidential authority, from covert counter-terrorism activities to full-out 7 P.M. news in-your-face wars.
Although not called into service for this Special Reconnaissance Mission (SR), USASOC has a full assortment of boy toys at its command, including the famed UH-L Black Hawk, the MH-47D/E Chinook and its baby brother the MH-60K/L Pave Hawk, and the super secret “Little Bird” or A/M/TH-6 helicopter built by Boeing. Each of the heavily outfitted copters is flown by the 160th Special Ops Aviation Regiment. The formal abbreviation is SOAR, but the 160th prefer to be known as the “Nightstalkers.”
Their ultimate boss is the President of the United States. The money comes from the Department of Defense, under Title 10 of the U.S. Code. Their operations do not require Joint Chiefs consent for money, training, operations, equipment and upkeep. In short, they’re Morgan Taylor’s private army.
And the man who runs USASOC is General Jonas Jackson Johnson, or J3, to his friends. The Iraqis, in particular, had other names for him.
“J3,” the president said on the secure line, “Roarke is yours.”
“Got the word,” the general answered over the phone. Vinnie D’Angelo is already on ground at Heathrow. They’ll hook up at 0400 Zulu. We’re ready.”
“Good.”
“And your man knows what he needs to know?” the general asked the commander in chief.
“Nothing more,” Taylor answered.
Their SR was divided into three parts. Insertion, initial recon, and extraction. The insertion was going to be completely out in the open on a commercial airline. So was the recon. When the mission was finished, they’d get out quickly. Their cover stories weren’t elaborate. Roarke was going into the country to write about some of Tripoli’s classic architecture, D’Angelo was his photographer. Before they would withdraw, Lt. D’Angelo, a skilled Special Forces officer and an expert amateur photographer, would make one side trip into downtown Tripoli.
Roarke’s military jet landed on time and quickly veered off Heathrow’s main runway, far from observers and taxied to a privately leased general aviation hanger. It rolled in, the doors closed behind, and Roarke disembarked without incident. A ground crew immediately refueled the jet; a new pilot climbed in the cockpit and after a pre-flight check, the F-18/D was out on the runway and in the air. Total ground time clocked at fourteen minutes. A polite young man, an American, led Roarke to a shower.
“I’m sure you’re ready to clean up, sir.”
“Am I ever!” Roarke stripped, hung his clothes in a locker and drowned himself in a hot refreshing shower. While lathering up, Roarke heard a familiar voice boom across the shower tiles.
“Well, you old son of a bitch, looks like you’re lettin’ your gut slip!” Vinnie D’Angelo called out to the stark naked Roarke.
“And you’re hanging around in men’s showers too much,” Roarke easily joked back.
“I like to check out my competition for the ladies. Looks like I’m way ahead of you,” D’Angelo added.
Roarke flicked the soap at him and D’Angelo tossed the towel back. “Dry off and meet me in fifteen. There’s a change of clothes on the bench in front of your locker. I’ll have a cup of joe for you in the hanger. We’ll go through everything. And then we’re on our way again. Oh, and for goodness sake,” D’Angelo said eyeing the naked Roarke, “Don’t play with yourself. You may need your energy.”
The Secret Service agent liked D’Angelo. The two grew up together in SOCOM, took some hard knocks in Afghanistan and came out alive. Roarke felt better just knowing that D’Angelo would be in the field with him.
There wasn’t a lot Roarke could actually recite about Vinnie. He was one of the best at what he did. And no one claims to know all of what he did. The 39-year-old, prematurely gray hulk, was undoubtedly one of Jack Evans’ men. However, even Roarke couldn’t say for sure. And no one else was talking. Roarke just marveled at his abilities and figured that his chances of getting out of any jam alive were far better with Vinnie D’Angelo around.
Roarke appeared in fifteen minutes, refreshed and ready. His F-18 was already back over the Atlantic. In its place in the hanger, a stretch limousine with blackened windows.
“Come on, we’ll talk,” D’Angelo began. Once inside, they got caught up on their personal lives. That took ten seconds each. Then it was down to business.
“It’s a basic op,” D’Angelo said. “You’re a writer named Adam Giannini. There’s so many ways to spell your name, it’ll drive any bureaucrat crazy and no two files on you will be the same, especially if you keep giving it to them differently. I’m your photographer Tomás Morales.”
“So far so good,” Roarke said. “Geeze you’re ugly,” he added.
“And the shower doesn’t take your stink away.”
They traded more small talk and then D’Angelo wanted focused the briefing.
“We’re on the morning BA flight direct to Tripoli. About a four hour trip.” He handed Roarke the tickets and validated paperwork for the writer named Giannini.
“They’ll ask if you’re from Italy originally. Libya was an Italian colony. You tell them your grandparents left in the ’20s. If they ask you something in Italian, don’t worry.”
“Not a problem. I wouldn’t understand it anyway.”
“By the way. You had a good time in London over the last couple of days. Some fine dinners, a meeting with me at Collingsworth, and you took in a delightful performance of ‘The Mousetrap,’ like a good American tourist.”
“Did I have row 12 seats, center section?”
“No, as a matter of fact. But I’ll give you five points for the question. Pretty sophisticated coming from a social ingrate like you,” D’Angelo joked. “You were in P15, off to the side. But you didn’t complain. I have a copy of the play for you to read on the plane.”
Of course, all of this was done with a lookalike who established Roarke’s presence in England. D’Angelo pointed out his double in the hanger who looked a good deal like him.
“Tell me something, Vinnie. For such a basic operation, why me? Why such a complex insertion plan? What’s this all about?”
“You’ll have to ask the big guy when you get back. He obviously wants you along to give him a personal report. Meanwhile, all you need to know is history and read up on the play. So here.” D’Angelo tossed him three books and tapped the window for the driver to turn on the motor.
“Wait. I’m not armed.”
“And you’re not gonna be. Red flag. Oh, and expect surveillance everywhere. Hotel. Telephones. Restaurants. Nothing, absolutely nothing gets mentioned, written down or passed between us. It may look like an open city, but believe me, it’s not. It’s as bad as the worse days under Qadhafi. And for goodness sake, don’t get sick. They don’t take American insurance and I know you don’t want to pay $50,000 for a battery of tests. So nothing but bottled water.”
“I’ll be good.”
The limo drove them to the British Airways terminal where they boarded, BA898. Commercial air service between America and Libya was prohibited by U.S. sanctions.
Roarke counted the Libyan dinars he’d been given. The published exchange rate was around .47 to the U.S. dollar, but in reality people valued the greenbacks much more than their own currency. That’s probably why Libyan law required all visitors to travel with a minimum of 500 U.S. dollars which had to be converted to dinars before they could pass customs. This wouldn’t be a problem for Roarke. Like his companion, he traveled with 5,000 dinars. “Better to have the cash,” D’Angelo told him. “Most places won’t take Adam Giannini’s Mastercard.”
D’Angelo also carried twenty-five chips for his digital still camera, another ten rolls of Kodak film for his traditional 35-mm camera, and the paperwork that confirmed he was Tomás Moral
es.
Sun Valley, Idaho
Thursday 7 August
“We’re gonna need a photograph of this footprint,” the first year FBI field agent called into his walkie-talkie. His Denver supervisor, Jake Messenger, ordered him to walk upstream from where Alfred Nunes died and check around.
After barely twenty minutes trudging through the shallow water and thoroughly ruining a new pair of FBI issue shoes. He found a single footprint in the dried mud about a quarter mile away. But rain threatened the integrity of the imprint. Thunder rattled off in the distance and he knew he didn’t have much time to work.
Whoever made it, had been walking in the water, came out and took one step into the mud, then disappeared through the brush.
The field agent had no real reason to suspect any foul play. After all, it was fairly apparent the dead guy had a heart attack and the footprint was totally unrelated. But he’d spent years trying to get out of his State Trooper uniform and into the plain clothes of the FBI, so he wasn’t about to piss off his boss on his first real investigation.
“Get that photog here fast,” he added for good measure. “And bring some umbrellas!”
The rain started falling. The photographer, a very serious-minded woman from the Denver office, had to work fast. She set up her 35mm Nikon on a tripod above and slightly behind the footprint. Next, and with great care, she put a 6” plaster ruler with a color chip chart to the side of the impression. The photographer adjusted the f/stop, enabled the flash, connected the remote shutter cord so she wouldn’t shake the camera when taking her pictures, and zoomed in so the footprint and ruler would fill the frame.
She snapped three rolls of film with varying shutter speeds. By the time she packed up, the rain began wearing away the impression. Small streams flowed from the higher banks to the nearby river. Five minutes later the evidence was gone.
Executive Actions Page 24
