Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  Newman swung around so fast he bumped into the agent. They stood eye to eye.

  “The one thing I can promise,” Newman gloated, “is that you’ll be out of a job one minute after the Congressman is sworn in. That’s a promise. Now get out of here.”

  At that same moment the president wrapped up his latest parry to the most enthusiastic applause of the evening.

  CHAPTER

  45

  Tripoli, Libya

  Monday 3 November

  Omar Za’eem understood the consequences. If caught spying he would suffer indescribable horrors in some basement chamber, then sell out his boss just before a bullet released him from his pain. So, Za’eem prayed for strength and for courage and for a hint to what he was supposed to find for Abahar.

  “Za’eem, come here!” Lakhdar al-Nassar shouted a moment after hanging up his phone. There was none of the camaraderie that they shared over drinks. His supervisor was in a foul mood.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am far too busy to do all this shit. You take it. Clear my desk and put all of these away.” He pointed to a foot high pile of newspaper clippings, folders, sports magazines and books.

  “They belong in there,” he referred to Fadi’s inner sanctum.

  “I can’t go into his office,” Za’eem protested.

  “You idiot. I’m telling you to put these away. That means you can go in there!”

  Za’eem stood in place, uncertain. He knew the rules.

  “But I’ve been told…”

  “And now you’re being told something new. Put these back!”

  Al-Nassar enjoyed intimidating people, especially when it meant he’d have less work to do and could go out and have a smoke or visit his mistress. Za’eem didn’t know which it would be today or how long he would be away, but with such urgency he was sure Lakdhar was out to get laid.

  “Yes sir. But where? I’ve hardly been in…”

  Al-Nassar grew furious. “You know the alphabet, don’t you?”

  Za’eem nodded.

  “Then figure out which fucking file goes in which fucking drawer and how to put clippings away properly!”

  With that al-Nassar removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit up. After taking a long, satisfying drag he yelled to Omar who was gathering the materials. “Get it done right, otherwise Fadi will have my ass. And I don’t need to tell you what that will mean for you!”

  Al-Nassar bolted out of the office, into the hall and down the elevator.

  Omar Za’eem smiled. It would be my pleasure.

  Fadi Kharrazi had left his office hours earlier extremely pleased that his plants in Al-Fatah had again successfully distorted the news for his countrymen. And now Lakhdar al-Nassar was also gone.

  Omar Za’eem assessed his window of opportunity. His over-sexed supervisor wouldn’t be back for a good ninety minutes. With luck, Fadi probably wouldn’t return until later. To be sure Omar checked Fadi’s daily appointment calendar and smiled. He finally had the chance he had been waiting for.

  Omar entered Fadi’s office, a shrine to own achievements. Kharrazi surrounded himself with framed photographs showing him at receptions with famous Arab leaders and parties at Cannes with prominent international movie stars.

  He was an organized man; anal compulsive. There wasn’t a paper out of place, not one book sticking out further than another on his bookshelf. Omar recognized he needed to take special care. Such a fastidious man would notice even the slightest change in his immediate environment.

  He surveyed everything, getting his bearings and figuring out Fadi’s filing system. He decided to begin the assigned work, then leave it while he looked for the details Abahar sought. His one limited communiqué had set off alarms. He’d been hounded for more information ever since.

  Al-Nassar was in such a rush that he didn’t even point Omar to the correct file cabinets. There were three different banks. One labeled Political, another for News/Sports, and five stacked cabinets grouped nearest his desk. These were marked Personal.

  At first Omar dismissed the Personal ones. He assumed they probably dealt with his affairs: women’s names, addresses, phone numbers. But he didn’t doubt there were also details about his family, with possible notes about his father and the abusive things he had done. Everyone in power or close to power in closed societies always held some “get out of jail” card. For Fadi, it might be something the French, English, or Americans might want in exchange for granting him safe harbor. No, the Personal files were not his business today.

  He also decided to skip the bank of file cabinets that contained news and sports stories. One of his jobs was to constantly clip articles about his boss. He figured that Fadi had been collecting them for years.

  It was the the three drawer cabinets marked Political that called out to Za’eem the most. Considering the level of interest from Abahar Kharrazi, the material must be political in nature. He’d return to them shortly.

  First, he dispensed with some press clippings, speeches, photographs and some hand written thank you notes from people obviously trying to remain in the good graces of the tyrant. The photographs and articles were easy. He found where they went in the News cabinets. After ten minutes he was ready to start working for Abahar.

  Omar crossed the room to the Political cabinets. He tried a logical alphabetical approach. Andropov. Nothing. Ashab al-Kahf. “A.” Nothing again. He leafed through the folders but didn’t find what he was looking for. If his memory served him right, one of the pages had a coffee-smudged right edge. He’d look for that, too.

  The noise of the traffic rose up to the open windows. Though the temperature was comfortable for this time of year, Omar was sweating under the pressure.

  Nothing in the first drawer, or the second. He checked his watch. He’d been in Kharrazi’s office for six minutes now. He continued file by file, ready to pull anything else that looked interesting. Omar was trained to memorize what he read, which is why he didn’t carry a miniature camera. Besides, if one were found on him, Fadi would probably shoot him in the balls himself.

  After a half an hour he had gone through all of the Political filing cabinets without finding Ashab al-Kahf or any of the other key words. He bitterly swore to himself. Thirty minutes and nothing. Omar would have to go through the same files again, possibly even slower. At least this time he’d get some of al-Nassar’s work done, too. As he crossed the room to pick up the work, the cabinets closet to Fadi’s desk caught his eye. He suddenly realized his mistake. It wasn’t political after all, or at least solely political. This was Fadi’s personal business. That’s why his brother wanted it. Family business. And he’d wasted thirty minutes to come to that conclusion.

  He started the routine all over again going through the files looking for Andropov or Ashab al-Kahf. He prayed to Allah for guidance, but after examining the first file cabinet he still had nothing. There were two left, each with three filled drawers.

  Omar had to sit down for a moment. He’d been bending over for too long and his fingers were numb from rifling through the folders. He’d already gotten a paper cut and sworn at himself for dripping blood on a page. He had heard that in the United States DNA evidence could convict him. Fortunately, Libya’s police weren’t so sophisticated.

  Omar was now fully seventy minutes into his search. He tried not to panic, but this was dangerous and he was scared to death.

  He began to wonder if he could even trust his senses. Was he actually reading the names of files or simply thumbing through them blindly? He couldn’t remember. Now two of the three Personal cabinets were done. What if I don’t find anything here? He forced the thought away. I have to.

  The noise of cars honking and people yelling from outside increased as the late afternoon traffic started clogging the street below. A traffic jam would be good. He prayed for a major tie up as he began on the lowest file drawer.

  Nine minutes later he feared he was truly on borrowed time. There was no telling how
long before al-Nassar would come back from his quickie or worse, when Fadi Kharrazi would return. Suddenly he stopped and discovered why it had taken him so long. Al-Nassar had stupidly misfiled the damned folders. He had read it wrong. Omar had to laugh. Lakhdar is brainless.

  So simple and so stupid a mistake in the reading of Ashab al-Kahf. Al Nassar mistakening took the first letter, an “Alif” for a “Waaw.” What a fool, Za’eem thought. He stuck it in at the end of the alphabet, instead of where it belonged.

  The master folder was at least five inches thick and full of other files, one labeled Red Banner. Omar cocked his ear toward the door to hear if anyone was coming. He was still alone.

  He looked at the principal tab again. He whispered the words. “Ashab al-Kahf.” Now they sounded familiar. Why? A story? He said them again. “Ashab al-Kahf.”

  A story? Yes, a story. But about what?

  He started to read and then he remembered. The legend of Ashab al-Kahf.

  CHAPTER

  46

  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.
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  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.

  CHAPTER

  47

  Washington

  Scott 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.