Executive Actions (13 page)

O
mar Za’eem sat during a break from work at a table in a teahouse near the al-Zahar Hotel. Some of the patrons played dominoes. Most people sat and smoked. His drink was served in a small, clear glass, one-third filled with a rough form of sugar. It went down well with the apple-flavored tobacco he puffed from a three-foot long pipe. Well into his second drink, a man greeted him. “
Assalam Alaikum.
Peace upon you.” Then he asked if the seat next to him was taken. Za’eem offered a polite no, and gestured for the customer to join him.

The man removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Omar. As he leaned over to accept the light, the man whispered, “I understand you have something for me.”

Walid Abdul-Latif lit Omar’s cigarette and waited for a response.

“Yes. Something interesting,” he replied under his breath.

The two men puffed as Walid waved for the waiter and ordered a peach tea. He was stockier and more solidly built than Omar.

After the tea was served, Omar continued in whispers. He explained what he had memorized, concluding, “There’s more I did not get to.
He
has it in his office.” Za’eem emphasized the “he” for impact, not daring to say the name in public. Za’eem didn’t have to. “What little I saw worries me.”

Walid looked equally concerned. “We must learn more, my friend,” he commanded more than stated. Walid Abdul-Latif, was after all, Za’eem’s superior.

“I will find out what I can.”

The teahouse was filling up. A few minutes later Za’eem thanked his companion for the cigarette loudly enough for nearby customers to hear. “A pleasure to meet you,” he added for good measure. He counted out barely enough money for himself and left. He had communicated what he had known to his contact; a lieutenant in Abahar Kharrazi’s secret police. On his way out he prayed to Allah that he had picked the right brother to support. If he hadn’t he would pay the price for his poor choice.

Roarke timed his move. He wore a new four button suit he bought on sale from Filene’s Basement and juggled his briefcase and a cup of very hot coffee from an espresso stand on Congress Street. He easily blended into the crowd of six lawyers coming to work. The steaming coffee pulled any onlooker’s eye. All they saw was the cup, not the man. It was a classic diversion. And true to form, they steered clear of any guy who could spill hot coffee on their expensive suits.

Roarke strolled passed the receptionist without a problem. He moved in step with the wave of lawyers making their way to offices and meetings. Far down the hall, Roarke peeled off. No one paid the least bit of attention to the Secret Service agent. He now looked like one of 132 lawyers billing clients for hours at Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus. He was probably the only one actually wearing a gun.

His destination was the Records room. Because of the coffee cup and briefcase, he struggled a little with the heavy mahogany door. One attorney, already deep into research, peered up but didn’t offer any help.
Typical,
thought Roarke. Two other associates didn’t even glance at him. Then again, neither would Roarke once he got settled in. He promptly found an out of the way corner, searched for five large volumes from the shelves, nothing really in particular, then he created a false workspace for himself. He pulled a dozen yellow pads from his briefcase and spread them out. As people came and went he lost himself in made-up work for the next eight or so hours.

Writing was becoming a dying art in Libya as it was in the rest of the world. But not because of the Internet or cell phones. Import bans often limited paper supplies. Those who could get their hands on good paper usually used both sides. It was a surprising residual effect of the trade sanctions renewed by the West againt the Kharrazi regime. Government offices also felt the paper shortage. But some things were better not put on paper. The information that Walid Abdul-Latif had been told was classified as that.

He booted up his aged computer in his office on the third floor of the Office of Internal Security. No Pentium chip. It was painfully slow by Western standards, but the nearly ancient desktop was still a wonder to him. He typed up the recollections of his talk with Za’eem, created a folder and stored it. He wasn’t proficient with computers, so he didn’t really know how to do things efficiently or secretly. So after saving the file he re-saved it on a floppy disc to take to his superior, Major Bayon Karim Kitan, who would in turn, take it to his boss, OIS Director Abahar Kharrazi. First he called the major’s assistant.

“I need to see the Major immediately. I have something important.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

“I said this is important.”

“You’ll still have to wait. He’s busy.”

Sami Ben Ali, another assistant on the floor, overheard the conversation from his desk a few feet away. He knew Abahar wasn’t busy. This was just “the way.” He laughed, barely loud enough to be heard, but enough to encourage Walid to talk out of turn.

“Arrogance everywhere. Never ending,” Walid said disgustedly. He didn’t like answering to Katan’s assistant and he wished he had more access to Abahar himself. This information deserved it. He showed his discontent in the way he grabbed the floppy disc and shot out of the room.

Sami Ben Ali shook his head. He’d have to agree. Arrogance was everywhere.

Okay,
Roarke rationalized.
I’m not really breaking and entering. I’m not walking out with anything.

Nonetheless, Watergate kept coming to mind. He was planning on examining confidential documents without permission. And if caught, he’d have an impossible time claiming any National Security privilege. The more he thought about it, the more he considered he’d made a mistake. But he was certain there was something in the file that Witherspoon kept close to the vest.

Then he remembered the woman with the frizzy black hair. Perhaps there was another way. Later in the day he’d find out.

At 6:45 Roarke decided to close up the law books he had in front of him and pack up the yellow legal pads.
What was the chance she’d still be here on a Friday evening?
he wondered.
Pretty good
, he assumed.
She’s dedicated.

Roarke became invisible again merely by carrying four volumes of “Massachusetts Supreme Court Cases 1934-1937” in his arms and the legal pad under his chin.

He didn’t know her name. Maybe that was a good thing. Look confused and needy. He stopped the first young male associate he could find; a hungry predator type wearing a blue shirt with a white collar.

“Excuse me, need your help for a second. I’m looking for a woman,” he stammered. Roarke hid his build by hunching over. “Great hair, curly black. Really attractive. About five-six. Say 28.” He paused to play the next line right. “On a fast track. I bumped into her the other day and I need her help with these.” He held up the books. “Didn’t get her name.”

“Research stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s good at that,” White Collar said. Roarke always gave unknown people a descriptive name. “You’re talking about Katie. Katie Kessler. Wouldn’t mind her helping me, too.”

Roarke had sized up this lawyer correctly.

“Wrong floor, though,” White Collar added. “She’s one flight up. You new here?”

“Just here for the day. But it sure would be good if she were still around.”

“Probably is. The elevator, no take the stairs. They’re just up ahead. Go to the right, she’s got a small office next to the lunch room.”

“Thanks,” Roarke said. “This way?” he nodded with his head.

“Right down there. I’ll get the door. You’re pretty loaded down.”

Roarke unfolded his body and took the stairs two at a time even with the books in his arms. Once upstairs he resumed a haggard posture and proceeded down the hall. Twenty paces later Roarke was at Kessler’s door. He looked in. She was a quarter turn away from the door, busy on her computer.

Roarke cleared his throat. She didn’t respond. He did it again, more noticeably. “Pardon me,” Roarke finally said to get her attention.

Kessler slowly swiveled in her chair and looked up. It took a moment, then she recognized him. “Ah, it’s the lost soul. Still looking for your way?”

“No, but your directions were impeccable. Am I interrupting?”

“Are you interrupting? Now, no. A moment ago, yes.”

“A lawyer’s detail to facts. Do you always work so hard?”

“Do you always ask questions?”

“Not always,” he answered.

“And I’m not always working.”

He felt that playful spirit in her again; an attractive quality, quite out of place for a young female lawyer. Roarke closed the door.

“Excuse me, this is a little sudden,” she said standing up. She saw that he was carrying books. “Pretty heavy reading for someone who’s not a lawyer.”

“Or a criminal.”

“Right. So exactly who are you? You don’t work here. I already asked.”

“You did?”

“Yes I did.”

She was interested in him. That was a pleasant discovery. But she was heading for the door to reopen it.

“And you do work here. Which is why I need to talk to you.” He politely, but firmly blocked her way. “You may not want to help me, but I need to find out.”

Kessler and Roarke stood face to face. She was no longer playful.

“You’re a reporter.”

“No. I’m a Special Agent for the Secret Service.”

She held her gaze and he was keenly aware how much her eyes sparkled.

“I don’t understand. I think I better call my office administrator.”

She started for the phone.

“Wait. Please.” The first request was business. The “please” sounded very personal. She turned to face him again.

“Look, I need your help.”

“Me? Why?”

“To research some family history. One of your clients.”

“Who?”

“Teddy Lodge.”

The candidate’s name hung in the air and her expression soured. “You’ve got to be crazy, I can’t do that and you’re going to have to…” He interrupted before she said “leave.”

“It may be for his own safety,” Roarke added.

“And you’re with the Secret Service. For real?”

“For real.”

“I suppose you can show me some identification?”

She hadn’t moved for the telephone or the door for a few moments. “Certainly.” Roarke produced the necessary evidence, complete with the unmistakable red and blue logo set over a five-point gold star.

“The Secret Service,” she said noting the obvious.

“The Secret Service,” he repeated.

“And you’re interested in exactly what again?”

“Congressman Lodge’s personal safety, or haven’t you been following the news?”

With that remark Kessler coldly handed him back his ID.

“Go on.”

“I’m part of the investigation team.” He didn’t explain that he was operating on direct orders of the president. “I understand that his family’s matters were managed here. The other day I came by to discuss the family history and I got a stone wall from an asshole named Witherspoon.”

Katie Kessler laughed, apparently agreeing with his crew of the arrogant young attorney.

“We had a fairly one-sided dialogue. My side. I believe he was holding onto information that may be important. He didn’t show me. I want to see what it was.”

“Have your ever heard of a subpoena Special Agent…Roarke?”

“Yes. I’ve also heard of cooperation in a Federal investigation.”

“But it appears that you were willing to subtrovert that process and take it upon yourself to locate confidential client-lawyer materials.”

“Your words, counselor. I moment ago I said I needed your help.”

“While posing as a clerk, or a lawyer, or someone who’s supposed to be here. I’m sure your name’s not on the sign-in register.”

She was quite right, but he didn’t answer. Instead, Roarke fixed his eyes on her, ending the debate. “Are you willing to help me?”

She blinked hard. “Why me?”

Roarke let a smile lighten the moment. “You have a nice face.”

“That’s how the Secret Service works? Compliments?”

“No, that’s more me. May I ask your name?”

“Katie Kessler,” she said without giving in to his warmth.

He held out his hand. “Scott Roarke and it’s nice to meet you.”

“Why am I not so sure,” she added, trying to figure out what surprises just entered her world.

I
t’s not that the CIA didn’t want to place someone within General Jabbar Kharrazi’s inner sanctum. They couldn’t. As in the Qadhafi or Saddam Hussein regimes, Kharrazi filled most positions of merit with relatives. They kept their jobs until their dying day, whether natural or unexpected.

However, there just weren’t enough relatives to spread around to staff the General’s sons’ competing empires. That’s where the agency had slowly begun to make some headway.

In September 2001, Yemen born American raised Farouk Azzarouq defied his father’s wishes and answered an intriguing ad in the
Detroit Free Press
.

“Help wanted. United States needs brave men with the desire to travel. Ages 22-35. Arab-American citizens only.”

He really had no idea what he was walking into until the most serious man he’d ever met in his life introduced himself as an FBI agent.

“Are you a U.S. citizen?” he asked in the downtown Detroit interview.

“Yes,” responded Azzarouq.

“Have you lived in the United States for the past five years?”

“Yes sir. My family moved her 19 years ago.”

“Fill out these forms please.” The FBI agent handed him a clipboard with five pages worth of additional questions to answer.

“Can you just help me out with one thing, sir?” Azzarouq politely asked. The agent peered at him. “What am I applying for?” The agent gave him a twisted smile and pointed to the clipboard.

There were questions on personal health and family illnesses, on American history and comic book characters, on baseball teams and the cast of “Friends.” After forty-five minutes of writing, Azzarouq put his pen down. “Finished. I think I’m ready for the final Jeopardy question now.”

The agent did not laugh. Instead, he quickly scanned the paperwork and raised his eyes in a sign of approval.

“Mr. Azzarouq, what is your feeling on terrorism?” he asked in perfect Arabic.

Suddenly everything became clear to the 23-year-old computer programmer.

Just eight days after the horrific attacks on New York and Washington, D.C., President George W. Bush mandated that the Federal Bureau of Investigations find candidates who could speak fluent Arabic and infiltrate terrorist cells in the U.S. and abroad. America would “fight against terrorism on all fronts,” the president declared. As a first step toward accomplishing this, the FBI’s newly appointed director Robert Mueller initiated a comprehensive job search.

Very few applicants made the grade. Those who did severed their ties with family and friends and began a new life, with a new identity. Farouk Azzarouq was one of them. After two years of intensive training he graduated as Sami Ben Ali. He worked for 18 months for the FBI, specializing on Libya. His understanding of the internal politics as well as the Kharazzi family struggle made him a valuable asset to penetrate internal Arab cells. But someone else had their eyes on the man now known as Ben Ali. For the sake of the ongoing war on terrorism, the newest FBI director, Robert Mulligan, was willing to send his trainee across town.

“Farouk, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Mulligan said.

“Yes sir.” As Ben Ali he now had a beard, a history, the right dialect, and hopefully the wherewithal to stay alive in Libya.

Mulligan pressed a buzzer on his phone and a moment later a man entered the room.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever had the opportunity to meet Jack Evans.”

The young man turned around. He stood face to face with the head of the CIA.

“Hello Farouk.”

“Hello sir.”

“I understand that you’re quite a quick study.”

“I try.”

“Well, Bob tells me great things. We need a man who can do great things.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“I’d like to invite you to come to work for me.”

“Sir?” he asked Mulligan over his shoulder.

“Same government, different agency,” Mulligan answered.

Evans chimed in, “More perks. Better pay.”

“Better chance of getting killed?” Farouk added.

“Only if you fuck up,” Evans responded.

Azzarouq grew up on Bond and Vin Diesel’s “
XXX
.” The idea of being a real spy appealed to him.

“Well?” DCI Evans asked.

“Where?”

“Say yes and I’ll tell you all about it, son.”

Two years later, after a great deal of complex trickery, Sami Ben Ali was deep within Abahar Kharrazi’s OIS, reporting as best he could on the aspirations of the potential heir.

“You don’t look like a secret agent.”

“Secret
Service
Agent,” Roarke said lightheartedly, correcting the young woman.

“Clarification noted, but aren’t you supposed to talk into your sleeve?”

“I’m not on a presidential detail.”

“But you work for him.”

“Yes.”

“You realize Agent Roarke even he needs a subpoena to get in here. And I still think he’d lose out to client-lawyer privilege.”

“Yes, he would. So would I. But you don’t.”

There was a long pause between them. During that time Roarke peered straight into her brown eyes. And through them, he saw beauty and life and honesty. In the world he lived, he didn’t see much of that.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly standing up. “I shouldn’t have come here. I had no business asking you to…”

“Wait,” Katie offered. “Please.” She touched his arm.

“I need to know more. What are you looking for? Is it political? If it’s political I can’t….”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then what is it?”she asked.

“I really don’t know.”

“You don’t know what you’re looking for?”

“Well, not really,” Roarke admitted.

“Oh, and you’re one of the guys who’s supposed to protect the president.”

“Scary, isn’t it,” he joked.

This made her laugh.
A sense of humor.
She liked that.

“Look, to be perfectly honest, there was something about Witherspoon’s attitude
and his manner
I didn’t like.”

She laughed. “You’re not the first.”

“And it told me he was hiding something.”

“Not hiding, protecting. We’re a law firm. That’s one of the things we do, Agent Roarke,” she said not smiling anymore.

“No, it was definitely
hiding
, Ms. Kessler. And one of the things I
do
is find things people are hiding, particularly when it comes to national security.”

“Are we being snippy?”

He closed his eyes. She was absolutely correct. “I’m sorry, But the congressman barely survived an assassination attempt and now he is under Secret Service protection.”

“You for real? Gun and all?”

“…and all,” he answered.

“And I suppose you can just get Morgan Taylor on the telephone and confirm all of this?”

Roarke smiled and took out his cell phone from his right vest pocket and held it out to Katie. “Press the number 5 button three times and wait.”

Now it was a chess game. The telephone was there for her to try, but even Katie Kessler was a little too timid to cold call the President of the United States.

“Maybe I’ll take a rain check on that.” He returned the phone to his pocket.

“I’ll say one thing, Agent Roarke. You certainly get to the point,” Katie said.

“So I’m told, Ms. Kessler.” She smiled. “So what will it be? Will you help?”

“You haven’t told me what I’d be helping you do.”

“Find the truth.”

“About what?”

“Maybe we’ll discover that by starting.”

Katie shook her head and picked up a folder from her “Out” basket. “I’m going to regret this, but why don’t you take a walk with me, Mr. Roarke. I have some files I need to put away in the Records Department.”

“Geoff, it’s time I called Neill.”

Newman smiled at the congressman. “I’m sure Lamden has already downloaded him by now.”

“Get him on the line and we’ll have a heart-to-heart about the next few months.”

The Democratic Party chairman was having a bad week. Governor Lamden, the favorite son in the old boy network, was abruptly the also-ran. “Dammit,” Neill complained to Lamden when he called earlier. “This was supposed to be your year.”

The nomination now belonged to Teddy Lodge and this would be Neill’s last hurrah.

“He’s on the line now,” Newman announced. He handed the phone to Lodge.

“Hello Wendell.”

“Congressman, I hope you received my message of condolence.”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.”

“It’s such a difficult time for you. For us. I gather no breaks in the investigation yet.”

“Nothing yet. The FBI is keeping me informed.”

“They’ll find the guy. Give ’em time. And Teddy, I commend you on the way you handled New York and Rhode Island. Showed real dignity.”

“Thank you and frankly, that’s why I’m calling. I had a chat with Governor Lamden the other day.” Lodge paused, but Neill didn’t acknowledge he knew anything. “And I’ve decided to continue. That said, I believe that Henry would make us stronger. I think he’ll do it and I hope you’ll sell it to the party leadership. You
will
do it,Wendall?”

Neill didn’t like the tone he heard. Not one bit.

Katie Kessler stood up on a foot stool and pulled open a cabinet above them. Roarke watched her from behind and was pleased by what he saw.

“You’re looking,” she noted as if having eyes in the back of her head.

“I’m admiring,” he corrected.

“Here, steady this stool, I need to get this one out in the back. It’s pretty damned thick. Oh, and by the way,” she said looking down at him, “when we’re finished, you’re taking me out to dinner, mister.”

“No problem, counselor.”

There were eighteen file folders in all. She handed them one by one to Roarke who deposited them on a long work desk near to where he had put his things. Roarke tried to look over her shoulder when she opened them, but was chastised. “Uh uh. Lawyer-client. You stay over there. Other side.”

He obeyed and sat at one of the workstations. Katie scanned through the files for fifteen minutes. “This is interesting,” she offered at last. “The Lodges already had a will. Drawn by a small Marblehead law firm, Woodruff, Stuart, and Nunes on Washington Street. Signed two years earlier. Nunes is noted as his executor. Everything looks in order. Then in ’75 they wrote a new one with another North Shore attorney, Haywood W. Marcus, who ultimately joined our firm in 1985.”

“Do you have the new will?”

“Let me see.”

She leafed through more tabs on more folders. Many more than Witherspoon had in his office.

“Hold on,” she said. “Well, yes. This might be it.” She read quickly to herself.

“What’s it say?”

“This is fairly boilerplate until here.” Katie tapped on page three, midway down. “Interesting. Marcus got pretty much irrevocable dictatorial powers.”

“Isn’t that what an Executor is normally granted?”

“Well, someone must have sold Mr. Lodge a bill of goods. His old Marblehead lawfirm was suddenly out of the picture as Executor. Marcus was in. And as far as I can gather, Marcus just walked in off the street.”

“People change attorneys all the time?” Roarke asked.

“Well, yes, but this required a great deal of paperwork. It’s not a bad document. Let’s see, in the event of death,” she read on and shared the bullet points, “burial at sea, memorial monuments at Waterside Cemetary in Marblehead. Trust funds for Teddy. Seems everyone was taken care of. Even Alfred Nunes. She finished scanning the will, then found another document. “Wait a second. There’s something else here. It appears that Nunes contested the new will. There’s a notation. But it doesn’t explain much.” She looked up from the documents and asked, “What happened to the family?”

“Teddy was in a horrible traffic accident when he was in high school; the only one to survive. It nearly paralyzed him. A day later, probably due to all the stress, his mother collapsed at home and died of a heart attack.”

“And his father?”

“He died a year earlier.” Roarke wanted to get more information, but he paused a moment, not wanting to appear insensitive. After clearing his throat he continued. “What grounds did Nunes use to contest?”

“Well let’s see.” After a minute she found another extract.

“Okay, here it is. Nunes said he had no prior knowledge of the change of assignment of Executors. According to this letter he was furious.” She continued reading and paraphrasing, “But the County Court declined to hear his complaint since he was not harmed by the terms of the new document. It ended there.”

“So maybe they had had an argument or something and Oliver Lodge changed his mind.”

“Or Marcus made a great pitch. He’s a brilliant lawyer,” she said trailing off. Katie was now lost in a clipping of Oliver Lodge, Jr.’s obituary. She returned to a previous document. Then back again to the newspaper clipping. Then back and forth again.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at the dates.”

“The dates?” Roarke asked.

“The dates on the will and obit of Teddy’s father.”

“And…”

She looked directly at him. “You do have a nice face, Mr. Roarke.”

“Why thank you. Now what do you have?”

“Maybe something worth finding.”

She put the paper down. “Mr. Roarke, the new will is dated just three weeks before Oliver Lodge died.”

Beacon Hill is known for its intimate, romantic restaurants. Katie picked one of her favorites. 75 Chestnut Street offered a delicious menu with a French Normandy influence. The ambient light was low enough to hide some of her exhaustion and yet accent her eyes, which she realized, almost with embarrassment, were constantly on her companion.

Katie and Roarke sat in the back, with Roarke taking the wall facing out. She hadn’t been aware of the move, but it was part of his training. Not so much Secret Service, but a residual effect of his other assignments. None that he would be sharing with Katie. His trip to the rest room and the kitchen also followed his training. He always familiarized himself with all of the exits, wherever he went.