Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  Tripoli, Libya

  Vinnie D’Angelo shot some innocuous pictures on the airplane. He figured that when guards questioned him at customs he should have photos on his digital camera to show for his time. He also encouraged Roarke to make notes so that he could speak authoratively about their destinations. In addition he had quietly reminded Roarke about some important basics. “Just like binoculars, the lens can see things closer than we can. The camera remembers more about a scene than we will. People expect a photographer to take pictures and a writer to make notes. We can do things in clear view if we just look normal.”

  Roarke had used his time to best advantage. He filled twelve pages with notes and completely read the play that his double had seen on his behalf. It was a good thing. They were completely scrutinized clearing Libyan customs. They were separated from the other passengers, then from each other and suspiciously questioned for nearly ninety minutes.

  D’Angelo was the first to get released. He waited for Roarke, greeting him without their normal joking.

  “I’m famished. Let’s hop a cab to the hotel and then get a bite.”

  Their first indication that they were being watched by Abahar Kharrazi’s OIS came at the British Air terminal curb. They hailed a cab. Two old black and white taxi’s skipped them. A third rolled up, sputtered and stalled. When it started again the muffler let out a loud bang which caught the attention of airport security forces with their automatic rifles.

  “Not to worry,” the cab driver said in halted English. “I get you there okay.”

  Considering he spoke English and two cabs were somehow told to pass them by, Roarke figured they were already under observation.

  “I’m glad you speak English. We’re going to the Bab Al Bahr Hotel,” D’Angelo said.

  “Fine, fine. I get you there.” The cabbie popped the trunk and tossed in the bags rather unceremoniously. Roarke didn’t get into the cab until he was certain the trunk was closed and locked.

  As they made their way to the city their driver provided a running commentary that was difficult to understand. But it took pressure off of the two men to talk. After awhile he got to the real agenda on his mind.

  “This is your first visit, no?” A question a cab driver would ask. But so would a spy.

  “Yes,” D’Angelo said taking the lead. “We’re here for work. Journalists with an academic publisher in Great Britain.” D’Angelo knew that this would get reported back as soon as they exited the cab.

  “Ah, good, good,” the driver said. “The Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya welcomes members of the press who will report the truth.”

  “And we’re pleased to be here.”

  Once they arrived at the Bab Al Bahr, paid their driver and got their bags, D’Angelo asked Roarke to pose for a few pictures at the entrance. “The tourist thing,” he explained.

  Roarke stood at the entrance. At only 15-stories high, the white cement structure still towered over the Mediterranean coast. The principal driveway was lined with well manicured trees and flowers. The fresh sea air waffed over him. Roarke took in a breath and looked around. While he was checking into what otherwise might qualify as a seaside resort, authorities could arrest him at any moment.

  “Smile,” D’Angelo said.

  “Right.”

  The two Americans strode to the front desk and announced themselves as Giannini and Morales. They produced their passports, visas and credit cards, but they’d pay in cash.

  “Good afternoon,” the desk clerk said in fair English.

  “Hello.”

  “Let’s see, Mr. Giagani?”

  “Giannini.” Roarke spelled it out.

  After a minute the clerk found it. “Ah yes. Here you are. Italilan?”

  “Italian descent. My grandparents.”

  “Italy controlled us for many years.”

  “Yes I know.”

  “Like their Roman fathers before them,” the clerk added. “May I ask the nature of your business?”

  Of course he could, Roarke said to himself. I’ve got my story down. “Yes, we’re working on a new university text about your mosques.”

  “They are quite beautiful, especially in the late afternoon light,” the young male clerk said while typing.

  Roarke believed, quite rightly, that this exchange would also be reported to the police within minutes, accompanied with photocopies of their identification papers.

  “I recommend the Small Room over the Single. It has more space.”

  Roarke didn’t follow the logic, but agreed. He was told the price, approximately the equivalent of $94 in U.S. currency per night.

  “If you prefer we also have the President Room and many other choices. We are not fully occupied.”

  The American reasoned that had been the case for years.

  “No, the Small Room sounds perfect.” Roarke signed the register and thanked the clerk.

  “And now Mister?” the clerk asked.

  “Morales. Tomás Morales. Miami, Florida.”

  “Well, Mr. Morales, I hope you enjoy your stay. You would like the same accommodations?”

  “That would be fine. Thank you.”

  “Certainly. On the 6th floor. Four doors from your friend. You know, we don’t see very many Americans. Oh some from your universities. But not many individual travelers, unless, of course, they’re correspondents or government agents. You wouldn’t be working for your government, would you?”

  Morales looked at Giannini. They both offered an unrehearsed half laugh.

  “Not with our record of paying taxes,” the man named Giannini answered.

  “Well then, you’ll have a wonderful time. I see you’re both staying for four nights. We are here to serve you. 24-hour room service is available and we have three notable restaurants. The Zahra which specializes in Asia cuisine, Shahrazad with a variety of offerings. But for late night or the early morning, you must try the Sea Wave Cafeteria. You will like it a great deal. Pizzas and cakes.”

  “Very nice,” Roarke said politely.

  “Of course, no alcoholic beverages are permitted according to Islamic law.”

  “We understand. Now our rooms?” D’Angelo said drawing the conversation to a close.

  “Ah yes.” The clerk rang for a bellhop and then disappeared into a back room to call in the arrival of the pair.

  They were led to their modest rooms, complete with bathrooms, television, radios and a telephone that could be used for either local or international calls. The Sheraton-esque structure would be home to the tourists. And no doubt, everything they said or did would be recorded.

  Roarke knew one thing for sure. The air conditioning worked and it was going to be more comfortable than camping in the desert as he had many nights in Iraq.

  That evening they ate an acceptable Asian meal at the the Zahra, though underspiced even for the Sezuhuan dishes, then called it a night. Roarke turned on his television set and took the opportunity and the cover of unpacking to calmly search for listening devices and hidden cameras. The telephone was certainly bugged. He didn’t need to check there. One overhead light didn’t work. When he called to the front desk for maintenance help and was told they couldn’t get to it for days, he was convinced the bulb contained a lipstick camera, most likely with a fisheye lens. A radio next to the bed was another likely place for a monitor. And there was a suspicious looking vent in the bathroom. While Roarke washed his face he looked up and could clearly see sloppily laid red wires behind the grate.

  He conducted his entire survey casually and without focusing on anything too long. Roarke expected D’Angelo had come to the same conclusions in his room.

  After seven hours of sleep and a morning shower, breakfast of eggs, toast and juice at the Sea Wave Cafeteria, they began their walking tour. Roarke wore a navy blue T-shirt, a tan linen sports coat and khaki pants. His clothes were all wrinkle-free wear right out of the TravelSmith catalog, sharp contrast to the requisite camouflage uniform he wore o
n his last mission in an Arab country.

  Vinnie D’Angelo was also dressed casually, wearing a denim shirt and olive green pants with a camera bag flung over his shoulder.

  D’Angelo got right into taking pictures like he really did it for a living. The Tripoli streets were inviting; completely different than the aerial recon photos.

  Tripoli, or in Arabic Tarabulus Al-Gharb (The Western Tripoli), is one of two capitals of Libya. Benghazi shares the distinction as the other. However, Tripoli actually houses the administrative offices of Libyan government, the meeting-place of the People’s Congress, and the full-time residence of General Kharrazi. It is the country’s largest city, home to about 1.5 million people.

  Tripoli has an old and new quarter. The new city includes the official buildings, Al-Fateh University, and the former royal palace. The old city—the medina—contains the historical structures that Roake and D’Angelo would visit.

  Roarke was quite taken by the charm of Tripoli and its principal sites, Green Square, the center of the medina, Al-Saraya Al-Hamra, the great Pre-Roman castle considered Tripoli’s main attraction, and the Red Castle, for years the residence of Libya’s ruling families.

  The pair roamed through the labyrinth of courtyards and alleyways, soon realizing there was far too much to race through in the 140,000 square feet that comprised the Castle. They’d return later in their stay, if time permitted.

  From the northern promontory they took in the real beauty of the city—seven distinguished mosques, each with distinctive architectural form. No wonder Tripoli also went by another name, Arous Albahr Almotawasit—The Jewel of the Mediterranean. It was a magnificent sight.

  D’Angelo clicked away, effectively fullfilling the role of the Collingsworth Publishers photographer, but enjoying himself as well. Roarke noted the detail of what they saw, taking extra time to write about the 300 year old Karamanli Mosque, the most splended in all Tripoli,

  They stopped working only when hunger overtook them. Lunch in the souk consisted of a delicious couscous bil-Khordra, dajaj maghli and tajeen hoot.

  Roarke and D’Angelo sat and relaxed as tourists would, watching how the warm room tones changed as the sunlight moved across the interior. The hotel desk clerk had been right. The mosques were glorious. And anyone reporting on their conversation would say the Americans were acting as expected, two professional freelancers on assignment for Collingsworth Publishers.

  For a moment, Roarke let his mind wander to Katie. He wished he was sharing the beauty of Tripoli with her during the day and exploring the mystery of her body at night. The vision of her stimulated his memories and aroused his appetite. Roarke hadn’t spoken to her since he left Boston. She had no idea where in the world he was. And she wouldn’t. With that realization he went back to being Adam Giannini in a world far away from hers.

  That night they stopped for dinner at a small café in the medina, then retired early and exhausted. Roarke drew a long, hot bath. D’Angelo watched a soccer match on TV before falling asleep.

  They started their second day by backtracking to the medina to tour the famed Arch of Marcus Aurelius, reportedly the oldest landmark in all of Tripoli, then onto the Great Mosque.

  Their third morning was spent retracing their steps, getting more detailed photographs and making additional notes. First the Red Castle, then the Karamanli Mosque. After eating, they returned to En-Naqah and the Gurgi, a magnificent Ottoman structure.

  The second visit to each location was as eye-opening as the first, with D’Angelo providing illustrative running commentary on Arabic history and architecture. Roarke had done his share of reading since leaving London. But he was thoroughly impressed with what D’Angelo knew. He could have taught a course on everything they had seen.

  For a time both men forgot they were really there on a Special Reconnaissance Mission. D’Angelo, in particular, couldn’t allow himself to get caught up in the moment too long. They were in enemy territory. And only he knew why.

  CHAPTER

  30

  Aboard Air Force One

  Sunday 10 August

  The president’s chief of staff and closest friend was normally a worrier. Now Bernsie was positively beside himself. He headed over to Morgan Taylor who sat in the plush black leather seat aft on Level two of Air Force One. They were making the 92-minute flight back to Andrews Air Force Base, the end of a long one-day campaign swing through Florida that took them to Miami, Fort Lauderdale, West Palm, Tampa and Tallahassee. All quick stops; all necessary to court the senior votes.

  And they were finding Florida like every other key state; infatuated with Teddy.

  “What the hell’s happening, Bernsie?” the president asked as he absorbed the latest polls. “This should’ve been a horse race with Lamden. This guy doesn’t have it, for Christ sake.”

  “Like I said before, that’s the part we have to hit. But wait ’til September. He’s still getting his bounce from June.”

  “And he’ll get another so-called bounce at the convention next week with his acceptance speech,” Morgan Taylor replied.

  “…That nobody watches,” Bernstein said.

  “…That gives him a bigger lead,” the president concluded.

  John Bernstein poured himself a glass of water, gulped it down, then answered the president. “And you get to come back with your own killer speech two weeks later.”

  “…That nobody watches,” Taylor said using his chief’s own words.

  Bernsie couldn’t argue away the truth. Unless Taylor’s team pulled a political miracle out of a hat, Morgan Taylor was going to have time soon to talk with architects about his presidential library.

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The same time

  It was really too late to be working. But for the first time in her legal career, Katie Kessler felt completely overwhelmed and behind. The firm piled a ton of research on her for a pending case. At least eighty hours of billable time in less than a week. On the other end of that impossible task was a summation she had to compose for a senior partner who needed to stand up to one of the toughest judges in Boston. A typical week for a law associate. Nothing could pull her away, with one exception. A phone call from Scott.

  Where the hell is he? she wondered. He’ll call, she said comforting herself. What made her worry was her last thought before she returned to work…. If he can.

  Tripoli, Libya

  Fadi Kharrazi’s office sat at the top of his new eight-story downtown media center. The modern construction paid no homage to the past and ignored any pretense of contemporary style. In point of fact, it was a modestly built thick hulk, barely noticeable in the skyline of a city that had real architectural identity.

  On the street D’Angelo felt as if there were other eyes on him. There probably were. But he was doing such a good job as an academic photographer on an assignment that he was fairly confident his alibi was holding.

  D’Angelo had left the hotel early in the morning of their fourth day while Roarke slept in. He planned on rejoining his partner at lunchtime, then visit the less traveled mosques they hadn’t seen yet.

  Tomorrow they’d leave. Worst case, should his cameras be confiscated when they cleared customs, he would sketch the important details of Fadi’s office building exterior he committed to memory. His work, paired with shots from the high altitude spy planes and satellites would give SOCOM what it needed.

  Sandman’s report stated that Fadi’s private offices were on the southwest corner of the top floor; in business parlance, the power suite with a partial view of the Mediterranean.

  In the morning it was in the shadows. From midday on it would be directly lit by the sun, but D’Angelo couldn’t wait for better time of day. Anyway, general “coverage” would suffice.

  D’Angelo shot pictures of the nearby intersections. He’d need those later. He photographed the direction the traffic flowed, also for good reason

  Whenever he could he zoomed in on the eighth floor. He counted twenty-f
our windows across one direction, eighteen in the other. The exterior columns told him where the retaining walls were and where rooms were likely to be linked by internal doors. By his estimation, Fadi’s main suite covered six windows by eight, for an area of approximately 1,600 square feet. Breaching it would be less of a problem than knowing exactly where to go once inside. That was going to be Sandman’s job.

  He didn’t photograph everything. What he did included other things in his field of view. A corner ground floor shot included people shopping. Tilting up and widening out he focused on the skyline behind. For a front shot of the building he made it look like he was photographing a family walking by. It was all relatively innoquous, or so he hoped.

  However, just when D’Angelo was satisfied he had enough, a nagging feeling tugged at him. Intuitively he knew someone’s eyes were bearing down. There were no outward signs, but he trusted his instinct. D’Angelo automatically aimed at shopkeepers and pedestrians, picking off typical tourist shots. But as he focused his camera lens in different directions he used the viewfinder to confirm his suspicions.

  Across the street a man in a crumpled suit leaned against a building. He smoked a cigarette and broke eye contact as soon as he saw the tourist’s camera aim in his direction. That was one.

  D’Angelo panned around in the opposite direction. There. Another trying poorly to blend in. He did the same thing. Two.

  The third was likely to be down the block, triangulating on him. And if experience taught him anything, a fourth coordinated the surveillance over a walkie talkie.

  Vinnie D’Angelo’s heartbeat quickened. He was more pissed than surprised. Shooting mosques posed no concern. An American taking photographs in front of a building owned by Fadi, a son of the Leader of Libya and perhaps an heir to his father’s rule, was another thing entirely.

  Options? D’Angelo’s mind raced.