The mountain had just come to Mohammed.
Jack Evans was used to moving mountains to get what he needed. He literally dropped his man back into Libya three days earlier, forty-eight kilometers west of Tripoli along a secluded beachhead. An Army Apache attack helicopter off the USS Carl Vinson, literally hugged the ocean, before depositing Vinnie D’Angelo on the sand. The insertion took less than fifteen seconds and the copter never touched the ground. D’Angelo proceeded on foot to various check points and found Sami Ben Ali with relative ease. He also discovered the people following him, and he had to wait for a safe time to step out of the shadows. The extra days it took also allowed him to steal into an open apartment and shower away the sand which had weighed him down after his trek.
D’Angelo slept in the streets of the medina, as many did. He brought no particular attention to himself. He was sure of that. He looked completely different than his last visit, when, as Tomás Morales, he didn’t speak a word of Arabic. Now his mastery of the language, something he even kept from Roarke, served him on this visit.
At one point the day before, he saw his inquisitor from his previous mission. Colonel Yassar Hevit. He considered a swift act of revenge, but his sense of duty kept him focused. Another day, he promised himself. And so he lurked, watching and waiting for the chance to talk with Sami.
After the encounter, D’Angelo returned to a secluded park on the outskirts of Tripoli. He hadn’t been there before, but he had memorized the exact location where a hand held PDA/satellite with a floppy drive and e-mail capability had been stuffed arms’ length up a hollow tree trunk in a grove. He spent four hours in the park, resting, walking, praying on the rug he carried, and talking to himself before he made his way to his destination.
It was 2145 when he found the tree he sought. D’Angelo was certain he was alone, but to be safe he decided to take a long, refreshing pee. Should anyone be watching, a begger was just relieving himself. Simultaneously, he reached inside a hole in the tree at shoulder level and began groping for the device left for him.
D’Angelo felt a creepy tingling sensation. Oh Christ, ants! At first only a few, then dozens, then hundreds, crawling on his arm, up his sleeve and into his armpit. He closed his eyes, which helped him resist yanking his arm out. He had experienced worse. Far worse. But the sensation was unnerving.
Just then his fingertips touched a plastic bag. The CIA operative forced his arm in further, ignoring the bites of the ants. In one quick motion, he jerked the bag out.
D’Angelo shook the ants off and hoped that any eyes that might be trained on him would simply think he was shaking off his dick. He matter of factly tucked the bag under his garment, put himself back together and started away from the tree, flailing his arms every few seconds to get rid of the remaining ants. There’s got to be a better way to earn a living.
Langley, Virginia
CIA Headquarters
Monday 23 November
An alert chimed from Jack Evans’ Cambridge Soundworks computer speakers. It signaled the delivery of a high priority encoded e-mail.
For the fourth straight night Jack Evans slept on the brown leather DeCoro couch opposite his desk. At least after the third night he ordered up sheets and blankets to make himself more comfortable. He figured over the next few weeks he’d be spending a lot more time at work than at home. While the subject of Sandman’s discovery remained unknown, Evans’ experience left him with an ever-nagging concern of its importance.
The CIA director wiped his eyes, got his bearings, and typed his password into his computer.
Most messages were deciphered by his staff under the strictest secrecy. But the president told him to keep this close to the vest. Very close. He never took exception with Morgan Taylor’s requests. And at this point he knew full well how explosive any information from Sandman would be.
The DCI copied the e-mail to a special program protected by multiple fire walls, and entered a number and letter sequence that would translate D’Angelo’s message. The process took two minutes, enough time for Evans to start a latte dripping on his coveted Baristacoffee maker.
By trade he was not a nervous man. He couldn’t be. But today he felt his heart pounding quicker as he waited to read the report.
Contact. Shrt. Watchrs. Xpct 2 days.
Evans had hoped for more, but the communiqué from the field reinforced what the CIA chief had seen over the live real-time satellite pictures. A tiny GPS radio transponder implanted in D’Angelo’s shoulder constantly signaled his location to the eyes and ears orbiting high above him. A satellite camera tracked him, down-linking the pictures without sound to a dish at Langley.
Evans had followed D’Angelo for days. The pictures clearly showed the operative’s insertion by the Apache, then his movements from the beach to Tripoli. He watched him sleep on the streets and finally sitting down with his contact. Evans even saw him shake off the ants, though he didn’t know what he was doing until an aide explained.
“Watchers.” The word disturbed him. But two days was encouraging…if it were true.
Langley, Virginia
CIA Hdqts, Meteorology Station
24 November
“It’s not good news.”
“Go.” Evans said gruffly.
“It’s rare, but it happens.”
“What happens?”
“Well, we don’t normally talk about the Mediterranean Sea in terms of hurricane force storms, but…”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Well, there’s an event I’m tracking. A band with potential cyclonic activitity,” the man said pointing to his charts. “And it looks like they’re in for a bad spell.”
Jack Evans was getting a primer on weather patterns in the Mediterranean Sea from Dutch Tetreault, the Company’s resident meteorologist. The fifty-nine-year-old metropolitan DC forecaster had worked for more than two decades in local television. However, when forty-eight was getting too old for TV he took his skills to a place where age didn’t matter. Now, eleven years later, Tetreault was an invaluable resource. Director Evans only wished he had a sunnier forecast.
“Most of the year, the Med is warm and comfortable. Of course, during the summer the Sahara is hotter than blazes. And winters get a little wet, particularly along the shore. Tripoli’s annual precipitation averages 380 millimeters. That’s a hair under fifteen inches.”
“And this winter?”
“Like I said. I think they’re on a massive storm track, Mr. Director I’ve asked for the Marine Meteorology Division at the Naval Research Laboratory in Monterey to get me regional history and current analysis. They’re working it up.”
“It’s the fucking desert, for Christ’s sake, Dutch.”
“You’re right, but North Africa is prone to some real weather. It can get pretty blustery in the winter and spring. The Hamson or Scirocco winds originate when the hot, dry desert air flows northward into the southern Med. They often reach cyclone strength.” Tetreault pointed to a map on his computer screen. “Strong southwesterly winds at the surface start driving toward the sea. Desert sand and dust kicks up below. It’s rare, but those winds have lasted for weeks without abating. Visibility can be poor to nonexistent. Flying? Not a good idea.”
Tetreault inputted another computer depiction. “Then at other times there are even more wind regimes. The bora flows from the Adriatic, the estesian channels through the Rhodope Mountains, the levante cuts southeast across the Strait of Gibraltar, the mistral pushes south from the coast of France. There’s real weather there.”
“Stay with what we’re dealing with,” Evans requested.
“Well, here’s the lastest computer model showing the development of a powerful extratropical cyclone that’s dug far south in the storm track. It’s got a leading squall line with heavy dust behind it. It looks like the kind of storm that brought down a passenger aircraft in Tunisia a number of years ago. Behind it, another…”
“There’s more?” the DCI exclaimed
“Well, yes.” He called up the image. “This first one is marked by a line of clouds that extends from the coasts of Libya and Tunisia northeast, across the Mediterranean over Italy, Greece, Albania and onto the Adriatic Sea. The model calls for this second one to develop right behind it. I can’t say for sure, but I think this is building to something similar to episodes last seen in January ’82 and again in January ’95.”
“And your prediction for the next few weeks?”
“Heavy rain where it rains, snow in higher elevations. A lot more than usual. For a lot longer.”
As Tetreault expanded his explanation, Evans watched a step frame projection of the weather system play out on the meteorologist’s computer. Light shades of blue, representing fair weather clouds in the lower atmosphere, thickened to the hallmark ominious dark green shades of cold convective towers. Evans had enough background in satellite imagery interpretation to know that these areas corresponded to rapidly intensifying thunderstorms.
“And what about here?” Evans demanded. He stuck his finger on the screen right on top of Tripoli. “What’s going to happen right here?”
“It’s not a place I’d pick to vacation.”
“Mr. President, I have to talk to you,” Evans said on the secure line. “You better call J3, too. And the Secretary of Defense.”
Tripoli, Libya
2 December
The meeting between D’Angelo and Sami Ben Ali did not take place on the second day, or the third or the forth. Ramadan observance should have given the two men opportunity to meet and speak. However, D’Angelo saw that the men following Sami took extra precautions. He’d be surprised if Ben Ali noticed the two new men. They were better than the first team of clowns. So D’Angelo couldn’t chance contact. As a result, he had nothing to report home.
More than a week after they first met, the fifth day of Ramadan, the CIA man took a seat at an empty chess board under an awning and out of the rain. Sami would walk by. D’Angelo would catch his attention. He had to. Time was running out.
D’Angelo figured that there was nothing more boring than watching people play chess for two hours. He expected the men following Ben Ali to lose interest and go for a drink.
“Checkmate,” Sami said laying down his opponent’s king. It was the second game he’d won since they started hours earlier.
“Another?” Sami added. “Maybe your men will learn the moves they need to take.”
“I’m ready, my friend,” D’Angelo said, understanding the meaning.
They set up the pieces and D’Angelo was ready to get the information he came for.
Indeed, he played a better game, putting Sami on the defensive early. He looked nervous and began tapping the only pawn he’d taken upside down on the chessboard.
After ten more minutes his tapping stopped. However, he slowly passed his right foot closer to the stranger’s right leg. The computer disk was under his shoe. He had casually put it there while scratching his ankle during the second game. After a few more moves, which had not gone his way, he took his pawn and tapped out a simple message in Morse code.
_.. ._ _ _. / .._ _. _.. ._. / ._. _ _. _ / .._. _
To anyone paying attention, and nobody was, it would have seemed like Sami was just another chess player under stress. It was crude and low tech, but by the third pass D’Angelo got the message.
dwn undr rgt ft
Very lightly D’Angelo rested his left foot on top of Ben Ali’s. Sami stopped tapping, never once looking directly at the man opposite him. Sami gently slid his foot away and brought it back under his chair. D’Angelo put his foot directly on top of the floppy disc. They took forty minutes to complete the entire transfer. D’Angelo waited another entire game before he reached down to palm the disk. He smiled and lost the final game.
Boston, Massachusetts
3 December
Louise Swingle placed the call for the president. She knew Scott was in Boston visiting Katie.
“Hello, Scott,” she said when he answered.
Roarke was in the middle of steaming the clams for his surprise dish of linguine vongole. He cradled the phone between his neck and his ear as he dumped the pasta into the colander.
“Hello sweetheart.”
Katie looked at him and frowned. Roarke hadn’t explained how he flirted with the President’s secretary. He pointed to the phone and saluted with his left hand. It didn’t help. When he mouthed the word “work,” she got the message.
“The boss needs you,” Louise said.
“How soon?”
“Very soon.”
“Dinner’s cooking.”
“There’ll be a Navy driver waiting outside in thirty minutes.”
“Aw come’on, Louise.”
“Sorry, Scott. He’s scheduled you for a briefing at 23-hundred.”
“Subject?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Roarke knew that D’Angelo had returned to Libya. He could only assume, based on the urgency of the call, that his summons home was related. A deeper, inner voice told him even more. D’Angelo got what he went in for. The events in the U.S. and Libya are connected and the common denominator is Lodge!
“What flight?”
“Your very own courtesy of your special uncle.”
Roarke said goodbye to Louise and faced Katie. He pulled her close.
“Do you have to?” was all she said.
Roarke sighed deeply and looked into his lover’s eyes, seeing so much more than he’d ever seen before.
“Why?” she appealed to him. “Why? I still don’t understand.”
For the first time in his life his heart spoke to him louder than his devotion to duty. He whispered in her ear, “I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER
53
White House Briefing Room
Thursday 4 December
A message in bold red letters on the 50” plasma screen caught everyone’s attention.
TOP SECRET
Ten people—all key players in the Taylor White House—were assembled around the conference table when the president burst into the 24-hour watch and alert center known as the Briefing Room, downstairs from the Oval Office.
“Good morning. Let’s get started.” He reached forward and tapped a pad at the desk. The overhead lights lowered, but individual lamps at each seat lit up. “You all have a folder in front of you.” Everyone had already seen it, but noted that in addition to the Top Secret designation there was a specific instruction that they knew to follow:
Do Not Open
without permission of
the President of the United States
The president politely reinforced the point. “Hold off looking at it until I talk you through things first. Some of you are more up to speed than others.” He gave Roarke an appreciative acknowledgement. “I apologize for that inequity. But in a few minutes you’ll all know everything.”
Taylor looked to everyone for the affirmation he sought. Vice President Stanley Poole flanked him on the left, different from his usual position across the table in the Cabinet Room. Directly to his right was Chief of Staff John Bernstein. Going around the table from Bernsie’s right were General Jackson, or J3, then FBI Director Robert Mulligan. Beside him, Eve Goldman, the nation’s attorney general. Next to her National Security Advisor Arthur Campanis. Coming around the table, CIA Chief Jack Evans was opposite the president. Then Scott Roarke, Secretary of State Joyce Drysdale and Defense Secretary Norman Gregoryan.
The president intentionally discarded established White House seating protocol. He placed people in the know next to members of his administration who were about to be shocked out of their wits.
The inner circle would widen in the next few minutes and the debate couldn’t feel like it was us against them.
“This briefing is protected by the National Security Act of 1947, as amended in 1996.” Taylor announced the ground rules in such a way that no one would misunderstand his meaning. “Y
ou will soon see and hear details of an operation. Only a handful of people will be privy to the exact purpose until we have successfully accomplished our mission. You are those people. There will be no leaks.
“Should anyone even harbor the notion that what you are about to learn is an attempt by this president to maintain personal power, dismiss it now. I assure you this concerns the very security of the United States of America and the integrity of its constitution.”
The attorney general surveyed the room. This sounded like more than she ever expected when she was called to the briefing.
The silence told Taylor that he had everyone’s undivided attention.
“Now, allow me to tell you what we’ve discovered. And then what we’re going to do about it,” the president stated with authority. “You will have to get passed the fact that I’ve kept some of you out of the loop on all or parts of this investigation. Suffice it to say, it simply had to be.”
Goldman looked around the room again. What’s going on? She noticed that some of the others were shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” the president continued, “there has been an attempt by a foreign government to insert a deep cover inside our government.”
Goldman caught Arthur Campanis tightly pressing his lips together. He was nodding ever so slightly. He knows. She looked around. So does Bernsie, J3, Evans, Mulligan, Gregoryan and that agent Roarke.
“How deep?” Secretary of State Drysdale asked first.
“Very deep.”
“How deep, Morgan?” she asked again, but calling out the president’s first name.
“Inside the White House, Joyce.”
“Impossible!”
“Impossible?” the DCI said taking over for the president. “The CIA has had spies. Bob Mulligan knows all too well that the FBI’s not immune to infiltration. So why not the White House itself?”
Drysdale pointedly asked, “Where in the White House?”
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