Executive Power (6 page)

W
ho could have known in 1922, when Great Britain created the new country of Transjordan, that one day its capital of Amman would grow into a city of international intrigue? Amman, a city of over a million souls, was a dusty old town that had been cleaned up and dragged into the twenty-first century by the forward thinking King Hussein I and his son Abdullah II. Bordered to the east and south by Iraq and Saudi Arabia, to the north by Syria and to the west by Israel, Jordan was a cursed piece of land that was poor in mineral and oil deposits and plentiful in refugees. Palestinians, to be precise, and lots of them. For the first thirty or so years after the formation of Israel, Jordan moved in lock step with her Arab neighbors in calling for the annihilation of the Jewish state. But after getting decisively trounced in every military engagement with their Zionist neighbors Jordan began to think of Israel as a dog that was better left undisturbed, at least as far as outright wars were concerned.

If being cursed with a worthless piece of land wasn't enough, Jordan had to contend with a cast of neighbors that included the Middle East's most notorious despot, the ultrawealthy and schizophrenic Saudi royal family and the Syrians, who for various twisted religious reasons hated the Jordanians almost as much as they hated the Jews. With no real resources or industry to build an economy, Jordan from its inception was dependent on foreign aid. At first it was the Brits, then the Arab League and then with the promise of better relations with Israel, the United States began to infuse millions of dollars in humanitarian, economic and military aid into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.

King Hussein became masterful at playing both sides of the fence, taking money from both his Arab brothers and America. With great care he put his country on a course of neutrality and did not deviate even during the Gulf War. Despite immense pressure from the United States and Saudi Arabia, King Hussein chose not to jump into the fray. Publicly he proclaimed that he would not take part in the butchering of the Iraqi people, privately he told his keepers that it would serve them better if a channel of communication was kept open with Baghdad. King Hussein convinced President Bush that the Jordanian General Intelligence Department would provide him with invaluable information about what was going on inside Iraq. The Bush administration agreed and in return for cooperation with the General Intelligence Department the foreign aid spigot of the United States was only reduced instead of completely shut off.

At the time the agreement was reached King Hussein had no idea just how fruitful it would eventually be for his kingdom. During the years of sanctions that followed the Gulf War, Jordan became the lifeline of Iraq. Goods flowed in from Jordan like a river to the sea, and in exchange Jordanian coffers were filled with profits made from selling discounted Iraqi oil. Black market import-export companies sprang up in Jordan like weeds on an unkempt lawn. The French were the first to arrive, and they were quickly followed by many of their European neighbors and then the Chinese and the rest of the Pacific Rim and Asia. Jordan got a cut of everything and the entire racket became a massive boon to the Jordanian economy. All the while, with a wink and a nod, Jordan maintained her position of neutrality.

Amman was the place where Saddam's henchmen came to replenish the ruler's military supplies and shop for his grocery list of weapons of mass destruction. It was also where the CIA and Britain's MI6 focused an increasing amount of their resources. Amman had become the Middle East's version of Cold War Berlin. Any country that was big enough to care had spies on the ground in Amman, and with so many intelligence agencies operating in the city it was almost impossible to do business without someone noticing.

That was why David had chosen to meet his Iraqi contact in the Jordanian capital. He wanted to settle a score, send a message and muddy the waters in one fell swoop. David's connection to Prince Omar and the Saudi royal family needed to be protected at all costs. Yes, the Iraqis could provide money to the cause, but nothing compared to the Saudis. If the grand plan did not go as he hoped, David wanted to be able to point the Israelis and the Americans and anyone else who cared in the direction of Saddam Hussein. He did not want them to go looking in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia for him.

The green Range Rover snaked its way up Al Ameer Mohammed Street toward one of Amman's famous seven hills. Night had fallen on the city and they were headed for the Intercontinental Hotel. It was Amman's finest hotel, and the arrogant man David was going to meet would stay nowhere else. David sat in the backseat and went over the plan one more time. He had carefully applied a black beard flecked with gray to his face and had added a touch of gray to his eyebrows. Over his hair he was wearing the black-and-white keffiyeh of a Palestinian. As they neared the hotel he put on a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and checked his disguise with a small mirror. He looked a good fifteen years older. He had met with the Iraqi on six previous occasions and he had worn the same disguise each time.

David trusted very few people, and none of them were Iraqis. He had caught them in many lies during his business dealings with them, but in truth he had expected nothing less. They were the bullies of the neighborhood, and in the Middle East there was no shortage of bullies. The Iraqis made up the rules and then changed them again when they didn't like the way things were going. David despised them for the way they feigned concern over the Palestinian plight. The truth was that there wasn't a single Iraqi who truly cared for the Palestinians. To Saddam and his henchmen the Palestinians were nothing more than a lightning rod to attract anti-Semitism and hatred for America.

As the Range Rover pulled up to the front of the hotel, David was focused on the task at hand. Tonight the bloodbath would begin. If things went right it would be the first step in a long odyssey that would change the face of Middle East politics. It takes war to make peace and tonight would be the first shot in David's war.

He stepped from the vehicle and buttoned the jacket of his double-breasted blue suit. His posture slouched and his stride shortened, he moved toward the door of the hotel playing the role of an older man. The doors were opened by two bellmen who greeted David warmly. They knew him only as Mohammed Rashid, a Palestinian businessman who had strong ties to the PLO. David continued through the lobby, his Prada loafers clicking on the marble floor. He entered the bar and peered through the smoke-filled haze. The man he was looking for was seated in the far corner, his back to the wall like he was some cowboy in an American film. Two of his bodyguards were seated at the adjacent table and were eyeing the rest of the patrons, their menacing stares reminding everyone to mind their own business. All three men had bushy black mustaches, a prerequisite for anyone in Saddam's inner circle.

David approached the table with feigned enthusiasm. “General Hamza, it is so good to see you again.”

Hamza did not offer his hand. He simply looked at the chair opposite him and nodded for his guest to sit. The Iraqi general took a drag from his unfiltered cigarette and said, “You are late.”

“I am sorry,” David lied, “but I had a hard time getting through the checkpoints.”

Looking down at the two attaché cases on the floor next to him, Hamza replied, “You'd better have a better plan for getting back with these. If you lose them, I will have your head.”

David nodded effusively. “General, I will not allow your money to fall into the hands of the Zionist pigs.”

The general reached for his drink with the same hand that held the cigarette. Never taking his eyes off the Palestinian he said, “For your own good, you'd better make sure you do not allow that to happen.”

David again nodded and eagerly assured the general that no such thing could ever possibly occur. The two attaché cases contained a million dollars apiece in U.S. hundred-dollar bills. It was money for Hamas and Hezbollah to continue their terrorist insurgency into Israel. General Hamza was not a man to be taken lightly, but David was far from intimidated. The head of Saddam's Amn al Khas, or Special Security Service, was a brute, and brutes were easy to trick.

Hamza's thuggish behavior was legendary. In Iraq his name was spoken in whispers. He was responsible for entire families disappearing in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again. On his orders, men and women were tortured and beaten for months simply because they knew someone who had been deemed a traitor to Saddam. Often, Hamza allowed those physically and mentally scarred subjects to live so that they could return to their communities and serve as living, walking, horrific, disfigured proof of what happened to people who went against Saddam. In any civilized society Hamza's behavior and tactics would be deemed inhumane at the least, but what made his actions all the more reprehensible was that the overwhelming majority of the people he had tortured and killed had done nothing wrong. In the twisted world Saddam had created for himself, he was convinced there were spies everywhere, traitors lurking in every city and every part of his government. There was a purge at least once a year and if the SSS didn't come up with bodies Saddam would turn his paranoid rage on the SSS instead. To avoid having his own head put on the chopping block, Hamza made sure his people found traitors. Guilty or not, they found them, they tortured them until they would say anything to stop the pain, and then they executed them.

It wasn't as if the Arab world was blameless when it came to such thuggery, it was just the brazen way Iraq went about it and the sheer volume of intimidation and torture that occurred. David could deal with brutality. He didn't like it but he could handle it. There was something else about the general, something that really turned his stomach, and it was for that reason alone that he would enjoy killing him.

A waiter approached and placed a napkin and a fresh drink on the table for Hamza. The man then asked David if he'd like something to drink. The general nodded his consent and David ordered a scotch and soda.

Hamza polished off the last few sips of his drink and then wiped several droplets of whiskey from his mustache. “I've decided to cut your fee. We're spending a lot of money on you and not getting enough back. You need to step up the bombing against Israel.”

The fee the general was referring to had already been cut once. It had started at ten percent and dropped to five. It was David's cut for acting as an intermediary. David feigned concern. He had no personal use for counterfeit U.S. money, but he had to at least play the part. “But I have already cut my fee once.”

“And you will cut it again.” Hamza leaned back confidently and sucked on his cigarette until the end glowed a bright orange. After he'd exhaled the smoke in David's direction he smiled and said, “You are doing your people a service. The honorable thing to do would be to take no fee at all.”

Honor had nothing to do with it. When David's fee was reduced the money was not passed along to Hamas and Hezbollah. It was pocketed by the general. David was tempted to point out that they were in this together. Arab brothers arm in arm doing battle against the Israelis, but he decided to leave the general's hypocrisy unchallenged. He needed the money for the next part of his plan and the fact that it was counterfeit was all the better.

His drink arrived and in a defensive tone he said, “But General, the cost of doing business in my land is very expensive. Many people need to be paid to assure the safe transfer of your very much appreciated funds.”

“You should be paying no one,” snarled Hamza. “You should slit the throat of the first person who gets in your way. Hamas and Hezbollah are on a mission from Allah and anyone who trifles with them should be dealt with harshly.” The general shook his head in disgust. “You will never defeat the Israelis until you learn to control your own people.”

Biting down on his tongue to restrain himself from smiling, David nodded thoughtfully. He and the general had arrived at the same conclusion, but for different reasons. David would unite the Palestinian people and he would start by killing the arrogant Iraqi brute who was sitting across from him.

R
app was shown into the Oval Office by one of the president's aides. He found his boss, Irene Kennedy, and General Flood, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sitting alone on one of the couches with a series of folders spread out on the coffee table. Rapp could tell instantly that Kennedy had broken the news to the four-star general. The stony expression on the soldier's face said it all. It was hard enough to lose men in battle but it was beyond infuriating to know that it could have been prevented.

Rapp decided that given the subject at hand it was better for him not to speak. Before he had a chance to sit, President Hayes entered his office with a cortege of aides trailing him. At over six feet tall with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, Hayes stood out in a crowd, and like most men who had reached his station in life, he exuded a real magnetism. The men and women who worked for him wanted desperately to please him. Hayes unbuttoned his suit coat as he strode toward his desk. By the time he reached it the coat was off. He turned to face the three aides who were arguing about the administration's education bill. Hayes held up his hands, palms out, and the three fell silent like well-disciplined kids obeying their father.

As Rapp watched the exchange take place he noticed, not for the first time, that the president had gained a little weight. It was a subject the two men had discussed on several occasions. Rapp, a former triathlete, still worked out six days a week and watched his intake closely. The president had confided in him that he was very wary of what his job was doing to his health. After all his official duties, which there was scarcely enough time for, there was still the Democratic Party and its incessant need to raise money.

Barely a day passed when there wasn't a fund-raiser of some sort, and where there was a fund-raiser one could always count on lots of food and booze. Rapp had designed a bare-bones workout plan that the president could do in forty-five minutes. The goal was to do it five days a week, first thing in the morning. As Rapp looked at the president's expanding waistline, he had a feeling the man had been skipping his workouts.

“I don't want to talk about this anymore,” said the president firmly. “By the end of the day I want you all on the same page. If the three of you can't come up with a consensus, this thing will be dead before it reaches the Hill.” One of the aides tried to get in a last word, but the president cut her off with a terse motion toward the door. The three left the room dejectedly and closed the door behind them.

Hayes dropped into his chair and picked up a pair of reading glasses from the desk. After quickly glancing over his schedule, he pressed his intercom button and said, “Cheryl, I don't want to be interrupted for the next fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” came the always even reply of his gatekeeper.

Hayes looked up and waved for his three visitors to join him. “Pull up a chair. If you don't mind, I have to look over a few things while we talk.”

Kennedy had called the meeting and she didn't object. She knew once the president heard what she had to say, she'd have his rapt attention. As they settled in, the president picked up a document from his desk, scanned it and then moved it to another pile. Looking over the top of his reading glasses he said, “Mitchell, you look tan and rested. I trust you had a nice honeymoon?” The president smiled.

“Very nice, thank you, sir.”

“Good.” Getting down to business, Hayes turned to Kennedy and said, “I get the impression that whatever it is you have to tell me, it's not good.”

“That's correct, sir.”

Before Kennedy had a chance to elaborate, the door to their left flew open and the president's chief of staff entered the room with a big cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a cell phone and stack of files precariously balanced in the other. “Sorry I'm late.”

Rapp leaned forward and shot his boss a questioning look. He mouthed the words,
What the hell is she doing here?

Kennedy made a calming motion with her hand and ignored Rapp.

Kennedy's cool attitude did nothing to still Rapp's apprehension over Valerie Jones. She was a pushy and obnoxious political operative. If she were a man she would be referred to as a tough bastard or prick, but since she wore a skirt to work she was simply called a bitch. Rapp couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been at odds with the woman. Her first reaction at the onset of any potential crisis was to ask how it would affect the president's poll numbers. It drove Rapp nuts that every issue had to be parsed, muddied and then spun.

Putting Rapp in a room with Jones was like one of those crazy chemistry experiments where you started pouring different things into a beaker knowing full well there would be an explosion, and ultimately a mess to clean up. With Jones now in attendance it was highly likely that Rapp's mood would go from sour to downright shitty.

Before the meeting was over things would get ugly between the two, and Kennedy was counting on just that. For things to work out the way she hoped, everyone needed to play their role, and in the end, she was confident where the president would come down. Irene Kennedy had learned many things from her old boss, Thomas Stansfield. He had been fond of reminding her frequently that they were in the secret business; both collecting and keeping.

Common sense dictated that the less one talked the more likely it was one would learn secrets rather than give them away. He also liked to say the outcome of a meeting is often decided before a single word is spoken. It is decided by who is asked to attend. That was exactly what Kennedy had had in mind when she invited Jones.

The woman could adopt a passive attitude if she absolutely had to. If a foreign head of state was visiting the White House she might tone her act down, but that was about it. Valerie Jones was an obsessive-compulsive workaholic who lived and breathed politics. It was her life. She wanted to be involved in every decision, for in the arena of politics, anything the president attached his name to would ultimately affect his chances for reelection.

Nudging a small bust of President Eisenhower out of her way, the president's chief of staff plopped her files down on the corner of his desk. Neither Rapp nor General Flood made an effort to get her a chair. In the P.C. world of D.C. politics both knew such a gesture could be misperceived, and they might get their balls chewed off. And besides, neither of them liked Jones enough to make the effort.

When the chief of staff was settled, the president looked at Kennedy and said, “Let's hear it.”

The ever placid Kennedy cocked her head slightly and brushed a strand of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. As had been the case all too often lately, she was the bearer of bad news. “Mr. President, General Flood informs me that you've been fully briefed on the failed hostage rescue in the Philippines.”

“Yes,” answered the president in a sour tone, “and needless to say I'm not happy about it.”

“I'd like to remind everyone,” interrupted the president's chief of staff, “that I thought that entire operation was a bad idea from the start.”

Ignoring Jones, Kennedy held up one of the two red folders and said, “I think I can shed some light on what went wrong, sir.”

Hayes, his curiosity piqued, placed his forearms squarely on the desk and said, “I'm all ears.”

“In this file”—Kennedy held up her left hand—“I have a list of e-mail and telephone transcripts. You will remember that before launching the rescue operation we decided that for reasons of operational security our embassy in the Philippines would not be notified until the teams and the hostages were safely extracted.”

Jones had just finished taking a sip of coffee and began to shake her head vigorously. “Again, I'm on the record as saying that was a bad idea. We're going to be smarting over that one for some time. This thing is a real mess. The press is getting more curious by the hour. The press office has already received three calls this morning, the Philippine government is demanding answers and our own State Department is furious.”

The president also chose to ignore Jones for the moment and stayed focused on Kennedy, saying, “I remember the issue was hotly contested.”

Without looking up, General Flood grumbled, “And you made it very clear, sir, that our embassy was not to be notified.”

The president was caught a little off guard by the general's tone. The soldier was in an unusually foul mood, which was very out of character.

“Sir,” said Kennedy as she opened the file and handed the president the first page. “This is the transcript of an e-mail that was sent by Assistant Secretary of State Amanda Petry to Ambassador Cox. In it she clearly states the time and date the operation was to commence.” Kennedy gave the president a second to look over the text and then handed him another piece of paper. “This is Ambassador Cox's reply asking for more specifics, and this is Amanda Petry's reply that outlines the rescue operation in detail.” Kennedy handed him the third sheet.

The president looked over the documents in silence, and a frown slowly darkened his expression as each word hinted at what may have happened, and the twisted dark road where this might take him.

Patience not being one of her virtues, Jones got up from her chair and stood over the president's shoulder. She began scanning the documents and trying to make sense of what Kennedy was up to.

Pulling his reading glasses down to the tip of his nose Hayes looked at the director of the CIA and said, “This is serious stuff.”

Before she could answer Jones said, “The State Department is going to be livid about this. Beatrice Berg is a living legend … are you out of your mind?” Jones was referring to the recently confirmed secretary of state, who was quite possibly the most respected person in Washington. She was currently in Greece leading a delegation that was trying to jump-start the Middle East peace talks.

Kennedy nodded and said, “Valerie, none of us are happy about this.”

“No,” said Jones in an icy tone. “I'm not talking about the operation. I'm talking about you spying on State. You can't just go around intercepting State Department cables. I mean, are you insane?” Jones's face twisted into a scowl as she tried to calculate the damage that would be done if this were leaked to the press.

“Ms. Jones,” General Flood gruffly replied. “It is routine business for the NSA to intercept embassy traffic. And beyond that I don't think the State Department is in much of a position to complain about anything.”

“General, I don't like this any more than you do,” the president's chief of staff said a little defensively, “but the State Department will not take kindly to being spied on by the CIA, the NSA or whoever.”

“Tough shit,” answered Rapp before Flood or Kennedy could say a word.

All eyes turned to Rapp, who was sitting on the opposite side of the desk. Jones, not one to be intimidated easily, said, “I beg your pardon?”

Rapp's dark penetrating eyes were locked on to the president's chief of staff. “Two sailors are dead and at least two more have had their careers ended due to the injuries they've suffered. Lives have been destroyed, Valerie. Children will never see their fathers again, two women have been widowed, and we still have an entire family of Americans held hostage in the Philippines, all because a couple of diplomats couldn't keep their mouths shut.”

Jones snatched one of the pieces of paper from the president's desk and defiantly shook it. “This is not conclusive.”

Rather than waste his time screaming at Jones, Rapp looked to Kennedy, anticipating the evidence that would silence the president's right-hand woman.

Calmly, Kennedy said, “Sir, there's more. After receiving the heads-up from Assistant Secretary Petry, Ambassador Cox phoned Philippine president Quirino.” Kennedy handed the president a copy of the conversation. “An hour after that conversation took place Ambassador Cox arrived at the presidential palace where he stayed for approximately thirty minutes. We don't know what was said between the ambassador and President Quirino, but shortly after the ambassador left, President Quirino placed a phone call to General Moro of the Philippine army.

“As I'm sure you're aware, General Moro has been in charge of trying to track down Abu Sayyaf for the last year. He has repeatedly promised that he will free the Anderson family and deal harshly with the terrorists. On two separate occasions the general has had Abu Sayyaf cornered only to have them miraculously escape. Our military advisors in the region began to smell a rat and the DOD asked us to put the general under surveillance. This was over five months ago.”

Kennedy opened the second folder and handed the president a fresh set of documents. “It turns out General Moro is not such a good ally after all. We didn't know it at the time, but he was a very active advocate of kicking the U.S. Navy out of Subic Bay. He wields great influence in a country where bribes are a way of life. We found several bank accounts, one in Hong Kong and the other in Jakarta. It looks like the general has been in the pocket of the Chinese for the better part of the last decade, and more recently we think he began extorting protection money from Abu Sayyaf.”

Jones scoffed at the idea. “You mean to tell me that a bunch of peasants running around in the jungles over there can scrape up enough money to bribe a general in the Philippine army?”