Of course, Fadi Kharrazi didn’t understand any of the process. He watched the numbers rise and fall over a satellite feed of CNN International. He believed that many commentators were merely Taylor’s paid mouthpieces; that they’d only report what they were told. How things would soon change. In his naïve view of American free speech, he wondered which members of the press the new president would fire first.
At 1104 hrs Tripoli time, well after midnight in the United States, CNN analysts felt they could finally declare a winner. Fadi Kharrazi turned up the sound.
So did Morgan Taylor in Washington, Teddy Lodge in Burlington, and millions of other viewers who were still up at 4:04 A.M. in Washington—1:04 in the morning on the West Coast.
CHAPTER
50
Tripoli, Libya
Wednesday 5 November
The bookseller’s eyes didn’t give him away. But for a brief moment the old man peered over a stack of magazines piled on his desk and noted the familiar customer who was interested in Gilgamesh. He shifted his eyes downward and lost himself in the lies of the day’s newspapers. For Hamid Salim Sahhaf, reading was required for his cover. He had quietly served as a CIA information officer for twenty-nine years, surviving two regimes to become the longest living mole in all of Libya.
Sahhaf’s only duty was to fold down pre-determined pages of books as instructed and in turn, let his contact know what pages he discovered were folded down. He never knew what it meant and he didn’t care. In fact, he regularly complained to customers to be good to the books. “You illiterate fools,” he would complain. “How am I supposed to make a living selling books when people turn them into shit?”
At one point, the grumbling worked its way to Abahar Kharrazi’s Office of Internal Security. But Sahhaf was easily dismissed as senile and harmless. The paperwork never even reached Abahar.
Even Sami Ben Ali failed to peg Sahhaf as a spook. He simply knew that the bookstore was his primary drop. It worked this way. He browsed the shelves again. Replies were always on a shelf below where the questions were left. It was the third day of the week. So he counted in three books from the left. This is where he’d find the answer, if one was there for the day. To any other browsers, it looked as if he was searching for a text. Sometimes there would be nothing. Like yesterday. He hoped his people would have something for him today.
He found it in a novel titled Sirat Bani Hilal, a story of a fictitious black tribal prince named Abu Zayd. Sami didn’t know the tale. Perhaps one day he’d read it—hopefully back in Detroit. Quite a few pages were flagged. His coded flash pad for the day would help him turn the numbers on the pages into meaningful content.
After three rounds of haggling with the shopkeeper who barely gave any ground this time, Sami finally paid.
He casually walked back to his office at Abahar’s OIS, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Sami kept thinking about the Lions and how well he heard they were doing this season. He was oblivious to the real news that was breaking on the radio.
The ABC anchor looked straight into the camera. The alphabet network was ready to make the call exactly the same time CNN committed. NBC was 30 seconds behind. CBS and Fox, which had gotten it wrong before; made the announcement barely a minute later.
The full frame picture of the veteran anchor effected to a three-way split screen allowing room for live shots from both the Taylor and Lodge headquarters.
“We now feel confident to tell you,” he stated, “that we have a clear winner.”
The anchor noted the time. “Exactly 4:04 A.M.” He explained again that the California results were later than expected because phone lines were blown down during a blast of Santa Ana winds across Southern California resulting in late computer tallies. That’s where Fox had made their projection errors.
As he continued, worn out volunteers and staffers waited patiently, holding onto every word. The reaction wasn’t immediate. It took time for it to sink in. Then viewers saw the contrasting shots. One campaign headquarters erupted into chaos. The other fell totally silent.
The anchor repeated the announcement. “The most closely contested Presidential election in American political history now has a victor. Closer than Kennedy-Nixon. Closer than Bush-Gore. With a total of 271 Electoral College votes, just one more than required the winner of California will be sworn in as President of the United States on January 20th—Theodore Wilson Lodge.”
Fadi leaned back in his chair, quite satisfied with the report on CNN International. It was a good day; the second critical date he had circled on his desk calendar. One more remained.
PART III
CHAPTER
51
Tripoli, Libya
At the end of the day, Sami was back in confines of his pitiful apartment closet. He sealed the cracks between the door and the door frame with duct tape. His radio was turned up to cover the sound of his work should any eavesdropping devices be in place. If only the communiqué would guarantee his ticket out. Twenty minutes into the deciphering he learned he wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet.
Sami had to get his disk to Langley. The company needed the whole thing.
He wished he could simply walk up to one of Tripoli’s many Internet cafés, like Al Dalil at 15 Gargach or Sendibadat at Hai Demashq, and e-mail the data to a safe address. But that was not wise. Tripoli was fairly open to Internet use, however loading an incriminating disk would be plainly stupid. So would typing a coded message out in the open. It could be easily observed by another patron or stored in backup hard drives that were likely hidden somewhere in the cafés.
He certainly couldn’t take the chance of sending it out through his apartment phone and a cell phone was completely out of the question. Kharrazi had outlawed cell phones for all but high level government use.
Sami Ben Ali had to rely on the old fashioned methods. This would require more thought. But not tonight. He was sweaty and exhausted sitting so long in the closet. And having heard the election results on the street, he wondered what the news back home would mean.
The White House
At 10 A.M. Washington time, the President of the United States spoke to an audience of housewives and executives, the people generally watching daytime TV. It was an intentional low impact appearance for a concession speech.
“Hello, everyone. Early this morning, it was reported that there will be a new president.” He didn’t mention Lodge by name. “He’s going to have a great deal on his plate. The vote, as you know, was extremely close, the circumstances of the election were quite unexpected. But for now, as true Americans we must prepare for the transition and let the unique and wondrous constitutional process unfold.”
“To my supporters, I offer my heartfelt gratitude. To my successor, I ask only one thing.” He stared directly at the camera lens; his expression deadly serious. “Be true to the United States of America.” His face then warmed up again. “And to all citizens, I continue to pledge my allegiance to our great country. Thank you. God Bless America.” He left the podium bearing the symbol of the president, passing on the opportunity to talk to reporters.
The president had done the expected, but with words that asked more questions than they answered. Morgan Taylor conceded the election without acknowlegement of defeat. Some commentators looked for meaning and intent. Others considered it merely tired ramblings from the loser. Teddy Lodge heard exactly what he was supposed to.
Burlington, Vermont
“He didn’t even fucking congratulate me.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s out,” Newman said to the infuriated Lodge.
“Out? He was giving me the finger on national television. ‘…be true to the United States.’ What kind of bullshit was that?”
Lodge brushed his hair back off his forehead, but not in the sexy manner he did for the cameras. He felt pure rage. “He’s setting me up.”
“Forget him. He’s nobody. Now it’s your turn to talk to the country. Tuck your shirt in and get ready. I’ve had the makeup
girl waiting all night for you.”
“But he’s…”
“History. Just another ex-president.”
Newman was exerting his decades-old control over his puppet. And Lodge, as always, listened. “Pull yourself together. You’re the new President of the United States. Put him out to pasture with style. The press won’t give a damn about Taylor after you say thank you for honoring your wife’s memory by the way they voted.”
Lodge nodded as he straightened himself out and fastened a bright yellow print tie.
“That’s a new one,” noted Newman. “Where’d you get it?”
“Christine gave it to me. Oh, and I want you to keep her around.”
“Well, hi there,” proclaimed Teddy Lodge over the cheering of his campaign staff. “Did you have a good night?” he joked. “I sure did.”
The screams were ear shattering. The glass in the Sheraton Burlington Hotel ballroom windows, site of the Lodge victory party, actually shook.
“I guess we did it!”
The chants of “Ted-dy…Ted-dy…Ted-dy…” took over for a good two minutes, until the Congressman lowered his arms from over his head. The network cameras all had the same handsome three-buttoned shot.
“It wasn’t me,” he continued. “It was all of you!” And with another burst of enthusiasm, the crowd showed exactly how they loved him.
Newman watched on TV. His man was doing what he did best: Rewarding his followers and seducing new devotees. He’d been doing it ever since college. Even the people who abandoned him because of his performance in the last days of the campaign would come back. The polls would bear that out after this speech.
A question nagged at him, though. Did Taylor really know anything? He bit his lip. No. He’s nothing but a powerless lame duck. Newman turned his attention back to the television screen.
“I want to thank President Taylor for his clean and spirited fight. I think I speak for the nation when I say, Thank you for your service, Mr. President. You have distinguished yourself honorably throughout your term. The country owes you a great debt of gratitude.”
The crowd politely applauded, which allowed the congressman to move on. That door was now shut. With the accolade, Teddy Lodge had ever so nicely willed Morgan Taylor to the corn field.
“Now to the future, which is hard for me to separate from the past. I am here because you are ready for a change and you’ve made it happen. I am here because I wanted to be your president and you’ve granted me that privilege. And I am here because of your love and the love of my wife. Thank you on behalf of Jenny. Thank you.”
The crowd, hypnotized by a run of Lodge’s triplets, began its chanting again.
“Governor Lamden and I will begin talking later today about our transition team. We will assemble a vital group of men and women who will help plot a course for greater prosperity, a stronger nation, and a better world. I thank you for all of your support. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll head home. I suddenly have a bit of packing to do.”
Teddy Lodge waved goodbye and left, making sure he shook as many hands as the cameras were willing to cover.
Morgan Taylor turned off the TV set. He’d run out of time and ways to stop Teddy Lodge before the election.
Now he wondered if he’d even have the means to prevent him from assuming office.
Proof. I need some goddamned proof.
CHAPTER
52
Tripoli, Libya
Friday 21 November
He was being watched. But he didn’t know if the eyes belonged to Abahar Kharrazi’s men. And he couldn’t figure out which would be worse: The Secret Police personally torturing him with electrical devices or Walid cruelly clubbing him into submission. Sami desperately wanted out of Tripoli, but he couldn’t act hastily.
Instead, he took the path of least resistance. He casually sauntered around, spending his evening reading the books he bought and drinking the spiced teas that he had come to enjoy.
After three days he clearly identified the principal spooks; six of them playing a tag team game of hide and seek. They weren’t particularly good at what they were doing, which was to Sami’s benefit. So he decided to point that out.
“Why am I being followed?”
“What?” Walid Abdul-Latif answered. For the first time in memory, an underling actually dared to challenge him.
“I said, why am I being followed?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Go back to work.”
Sami stood his ground.
“I demand to be told.”
“You demand? Is that what you said?” Walid put down the German photo magazine he’d been reading. He pushed his chair away from his desk and stretched his legs out on the desktop.
“Yes, because I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Walid laughed. “So, you’re being followed. Everybody’s watched at one time or another.”
“I don’t need to be watched. I work for you. You work for Abahar, son of our Great Brother Leader. We’re on the ‘inside.’” Sami defiantly declared.
Walid laughed. “Quite right. But it was your turn. I’ve had mine. But since you’ve smoked out your tails, probably more out of their ineptitude than your brilliance, perhaps you’re owed a break.”
“Get them off me. There is no reason.”
“Oh, there is always a reason. But you won’t see them again,” Walid said. “And like I said, get back to work.”
Sami nodded once and returned to his desk aware that he’d have to be even more careful next time. He couldn’t risk a contact today. And none tomorrow. Or the day after. ‘You won’t see them again,’ is what Walid said. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t be out there.
“Al salaam a’alaykum,” the stranger said in greeting. “Is this seat taken, my friend?”
Sami looked around. There were other empty seats at the café, but the man was already pulling out the chair expecting certain hospitality. He looked to be forty years old, but maybe younger, definitely tired, weather beaten and haggard under his loosely fitting dirty sand-colored robe. The only thing odd was his beard. It seemed only recently grown where his overall impression suggested he should have been covered in a knotty growth.
“No. Help yourself.”
“Thank you. I am visiting from Ghadames and I am looking for work. Soon it will be too hard to find. Ramadan begins only two days from now.”
The man seemed to be telling him like he didn’t know.
“Yes,” said Sami. “We won’t be drinking like this in the daytime.”
Ramadan, the holiest of all Muslim holidays lasted a month. The devout fast from dawn to sunset for an entire month, eat only small meals and visit with friends at night. The observance falls on the ninth month of the Muslim calendar and much of the day-to-day life comes to a halt, replaced by a time of deep worship and personal contemplation.
“Much to pray for this year,” the man commented. “Praise be to Allah. Perhaps this new American president may be our hope for peace.”
“If he can be trusted,” Sami proposed.
“Ah, quite right. There is a saying, ‘Trust in Allah, but tie your camel.’”
Sami laughed. “The Great Satan would have us believe that all is well, then send our camels galloping away. Only to cause us further despair.”
The man signaled to a waiter for the same drink that Sami was sipping. A red tea. “But what if the Great Satan needed to hear something we said.” The man leaned into Sami. “How would such a message be communicated. A whisper may not be heard.”
Sami suddenly felt he was being lured in by an expert. A false flag? One of Kharrazi’s men trying to trap me? Maybe.
“But we must always rely on our Leader, my friend,” Sami said cautiously.
“A great leader indeed, with rival sons.”
Why would he say that? wondered Sami. I am being baited.
“Perhaps we may one day chose between them. A difficult decision.”
“Al
lah has a saying about choosing leaders of peoples,” Sami responded straightening his body. “‘And your Lord creates and chooses whom He pleases, to choose is not theirs.’”
“Your knowledge of the Holy Qur’an is impressive, my friend. But what does Allah see for you? A trip perhaps?”
Sami Ben Ali froze. The question was much too pointed for a rhetorical aside.
“Who are you?”
The waiter arrived with the tea. The unknown man smiled. Sami noticed he had perfectly capped teeth and silver fillings; definitely not the work of an inadequately equipped Libyan dentist’s office.
“I am someone who seeks to learn from you.”
Sami asked his question again. “Who are you?”
“Someone who brings you news of lions that dare strike this year. They may fulfill their destiny.”
If Sami knew one thing, it was that the Detroit Lions were indeed vying for a playoff birth. The team that dominated football in the early 1950s had failed in all the years since. CNN International reported that it looked extremely possible this season.
The man speaking to him now in perfect Arabic probably could put him into a great 50-yard line seat at the Super Bowl. He’s American.
“There is a story from the desert,” Sami offered more confidently. “It is a story of Imam Ali, who at the gate to the City of Knowledge, used to tell the Shiites who gathered, ‘Ask me about anything, for the Messenger of Allah taught me about one thousand doors of knowledge, each one of which opens one thousand more doors.’”
“It is enough that we meet one another now. We shall fast and worship. Join me in two days. Then the doors of knowledge will open for both of us.”
Sami smiled and thought about going home. He found a friend in his midst, hiding in plain sight
Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions Page 41
