Executive Power (14 page)

Rapp jerked open the helicopter door and stepped to the ground. He scanned the perimeter of the landing area looking for the general, even though he doubted the officer would be so polite as to meet his visitors as they landed. Colonel Barboza joined him and they walked underneath the spinning rotors of the Huey.

At the edge of the landing area the two men were greeted by an eager lieutenant dressed in BDUs, jungle boots and a black Special Forces beret. He saluted Colonel Barboza crisply and introduced himself as General Moro's aide-de-camp. With that brief introduction out of the way, the man did an about-face and led them down a path. The place was a standard military field camp. Located in a grassy clearing about the size of two football fields, it consisted of two rows of big green tents set atop wooden pallets.

From the satellite photos he'd studied, Rapp knew what each of the sixteen tents were for, which ones served as bivouacs for the troops to sleep in, which tent was the mess hall, medical tent, command center and most important, which was the general's tent.

What Rapp hadn't been able to glean from the satellite photos was what perimeter security was in place along the tree line. On the plane ride over, Coleman had mentioned it was very curious that there was no barbwire laid out around the camp's perimeter, and no foxholes or machine-gun nests dug into the obvious defensive positions. In Colean's mind Moro was either derelict in his command or had very good reason not to fear an attack by the guerrillas.

At the expected tent the aide stopped and rapped his knuckles on a wooden sign that, amazingly enough, had the general's name on it.

As a matter of course, U.S. Special Forces personnel in the field went to great lengths to hide the rank of officers. There was no saluting, rarely was rank displayed unless in a subtle way that could only be noticed up close, and men were taught not to all stand facing a commander as he talked. This last part was the most difficult to teach since the military had drilled the chain of command into their heads from their first day of boot camp.

Moro was either very proud of the fact that he was a general or he had no fear of letting the enemy know where to find him. Rapp suspected the sign on the door indicated a bit of both.

From inside the tent came the word, "Enter."

The voice was not menacing, casual or aloof. If anything, it sounded merely a bit curious. As he stepped into the dark tent he was forced to take his sunglasses off. There, sitting behind a small portable desk, was the general in a pair of camouflage pants and a green T-shirt.

Rapp immediately noticed that the general was in tip-top shape. His arms were long and lean, with powerful biceps straining against the tight fabric of his shirt.

The general made no effort to get up and greet them and Rapp casually observed the interaction between Barboza and Moro. He watched the junior officer salute his superior in a way that was within the proper guidelines, but was noticeably lacking in both enthusiasm and respect. It was the bare minimum required by the military protocol and nothing more.

Barboza turned, waving an arm toward Rapp, and said, "This is Mr. Rapp. He works for the CIA."

The smallest of smirks formed on the general's lips. It may have been a smirk of recognition, or just a show of disrespect for the CIA. Rapp watched Moro with the detached analytical eye of a professional. The general made no effort to get up and shake his hand, and Rapp made no effort to extend his. The two men silently studied each other until the mood grew uncomfortable. Rapp had a strategy to employ and a crucial part of it was to keep Moro off balance until the time was right.

Moro sat motionless, his hands gripping the armrest of his wood and canvas chair. Rapp had played this game before, and he was sure the general had also done so countless times with his subordinates and probably even a few American military advisors and State Department officials.

What was different this time was that Rapp wasn't some American diplomat who was worried about offending the general's sensibilities.

Rapp was intent on doing much more than that, and he sincerely hoped that in the process he would thoroughly upset the diplomatic applecart.

It was the general who blinked first. His smirk turned into a full blown smile and he asked, "To what do I owe the honor of receiving the infamous Mr. Rapp of the CIA?"

Rapp took the insult as a compliment. He had two choices. He could either maintain the cold attitude of a man who obviously distrusted Moro, or he could join the general in his parlor game and try to gain his trust, or at a bare minimum, ease his mistrust. He decided on the latter. With a smile of his own Rapp replied, "There is no honor in receiving me, General. I am just a humble bureaucrat in the employ of my government."

This caused Moro to laugh loudly.

"A humble bureaucrat. That is good." The general slapped his thighs enthusiastically and looked at a confused Colonel Barboza.

"Colonel, I see you have no idea of the fame of the man you have brought to see me." It was obvious that Moro enjoyed this advantage over the younger officer.

"You should read more. Mr. Rapp is an American icon. Mr. Rapp is America 's counterterrorist."

Rapp did not join in the general's laughter. He found very little humor in what he did for a living. When Moro had settled down, Rapp said, "General, if it's all right with you, I'd like to have a word in private."

Moro looked from Rapp to Barboza. He studied the colonel for a moment with a look on his face that hinted of a deep-seated contempt.

"Colonel, you are dismissed. I will send for you when we are done."

Barboza remained impassive. He saluted the general and then turned to Rapp.

"I will be waiting for you outside."

When he had departed Moro offered his visitor a chair. Rapp took a seat and settled in.

"I assume," Moro started, "that since you are America 's counterterrorist, that you are here to discuss the progress I have made against Abu Sayyaf."

Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Rapp replied, "I wasn't aware that you've made any progress."

The general chose to ignore the comment, instead smiled and said, "Your Agency is famous for getting its facts wrong, Mr. Rapp. I don't know what you have been told, but the terrorists have suffered over a hundred losses in the last month alone."

"So you say," replied Rapp with a straight face.

Moro could not let this pass. Indignantly, he asked, "Are you questioning my honor?"

Rapp wanted to say that it was worthless to debate an attribute that the general did not possess, but that might push him too far in the wrong direction. Ignoring the question Rapp said, "General, I am a practical man, and I have been told you too are a practical man, one with amazing capabilities." Rapp threw in the last part as a blatant attempt to flatter the general.

"We both know what it is like to be in the field with politicians beating on us for results. I am not here to attack your integrity, but I do know for a fact that your men have not killed even half the enemy that you have just claimed."

Moro sat motionless for a moment, struggling between admitting the truth or sticking with his propaganda. He decided to do neither.

"Mr. Rapp, what is your point?"

"My point is, General, that I know things about you that your own government does not." Rapp let the innuendo hang in the air. He could feel the comforting lump of his Beretta under his right arm. He would not hesitate to kill the snake sitting across the desk from him.

Coleman and his team appeared to have run into some trouble, so it looked like it was up to him to handle the situation. He'd already pieced together a plan that he felt would work.

If Moro made the slightest move for his side arm, which was in its holster hanging from a peg on the tent pole behind the general, Rapp would have to ad-lib a bit, but he was still confident that he could accomplish his mission and avoid being torn limb from limb by the general's troops. Once he showed Moro the goodies there was a very real chance that things would spiral out of control.

With a furrowed brow, no doubt caused by Rapp's unsettling words, Moro tried to figure out why this assassin had come to visit him. The first and most obvious answer was quickly dismissed. Moro's men were fiercely loyal to him. The American would never make it out of here alive if he were to try to kill him. With a disarming smile, Moro said, "Mr. Rapp, you have me at a disadvantage. I have no idea what you are talking about."

Salty sweat poured down Coleman's camouflage-painted face as he tried to keep up with Wicker. It was a hopeless task. Wicker, a decade younger and thirty pounds lighter, seemed to have an inexhaustible source of energy as he scampered up the mountainside. This was not to say that Coleman was past his day, it was rather that Wicker was a very unusual man. He could move through the jungle, in near silent fashion, at a pace that was impossible to match. Coleman was wise enough to factor all of this into his decision before they started their scramble up the hill and had told Wicker not to wait for him.

Back near the footbridge, Coleman had made the difficult choice of splitting his team in two. Stroble and Hackett were to carefully track the terrorists while Wicker and Coleman went on to support their primary mission. This was one of those battlefield decisions that would either be looked back on as ingenious and gutsy, or glaringly stupid. Like a football coach deciding to go for it on fourth down rather than kicking a field goal, the wisdom of such a decision is always dependent on the success of the gamble.

The physical screening process for SEAL candidates is well known, but what is often overlooked is that the men who run the Naval Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado place an equal amount of importance on intellect and character. In short, a physically strong warrior who follows orders makes an ideal infantry soldier. In the modern battlefield their every move is monitored by a battalion, brigade and sometimes even a force commander. They are chess pieces on a very intricate board that need to be moved in a precise way.

The world of Special Forces, however, is very different. A physically strong warrior is a good start, but a strong, intelligent warrior is absolutely dangerous. SEALs are taught from Day One that operations rarely go as planned. It is drilled into them that quick, intelligent decision making will invariably enhance the chances for a successful mission, and contribute to the very survival of their unit.

They need to be able to operate behind enemy lines often without the aid of artillery and close air support. They are rarely involved in major battles unless their mission is to take out a select high value target prior to the launching of the main battle. In short, they are taught to operate independently from their command, within mission parameters, for sustained periods of time behind enemy lines.

It was not in Coleman's character to abandon Rapp, but the kidnapped American family had appeared like a gift out of the predawn mist. It was a gift he could not pass up. Coleman paused briefly to catch his breath and take a drink of water from his camel pack. He placed the small hose between his lips and sucked in a mouthful of water. Wicker was far ahead of him now. At least seventy-five yards. He caught a glimpse of him as he scrambled over a rock shelf and disappeared from sight. A shadow moving in the shadows.

Coleman started again in earnest, on all fours, pawing and pushing his way up the steep mountain. He was both thankful and leery of the cover provided by the trees that enveloped the landscape. They traveled in the same gully that ran from the top of the mountain all the way to the sea. At times it was like a gorge and at others a babbling brook. Up on this high steep part there were more exposed rocks and less grass and moss. The torrential rains of the region washed away anything that wasn't anchored down by the roots of the trees and the surrounding undergrowth.

It would be nearly impossible for anyone below to see them. They traveled just off to the side of the gully where the leafy limbs of the trees provided good cover. Coleman worried about what might be waiting for them at the top. Mountaintops are a prized possession among opposing forces. They offer a bird's-eye view of the lay of the land and provide crucial intelligence. They also offer a nice perch to set up a counter-sniping team.

Sniping in the Special Forces is a life-and-death game played at the highest intellectual level. A sniper does not fear machine-gun fire, artillery shells or bombs from the air. A sniper fears the bullet of another sniper. Snipers will lay in wait for days, slowly, cautiously scanning every inch of the landscape, section by methodical section, to make sure they don't become the target of someone staring back at them through a high-powered scope. Fear of snipers, more than any reason, was why they wanted to be in position by sunup. Unfortunately, that precaution was out of their reach. They would now have to hope that they were the only men around with long barrels.

Coleman pressed on, his thighs burning with each foot that was gained in his quest for the relatively short summit. The pain was ignored and the pace was quickened. His lungs took in and exhaled a steady efficient supply of oxygen. He reached a sheer eleven-foot wall of rock. He was about to scale it when he noticed the trampled undergrowth to his left indicating Wicker's passage. Without hesitation he plunged through the foliage. When he got back to the gully he looked up and saw Wicker within striking distance of the summit. Coleman put his head down and redoubled his efforts. He figured it would take him no more than two minutes to reach the top.

It looked like the roulette wheel would stop on Hebron, a Palestinian city of over one hundred thousand, twenty miles south of Jerusalem. In the fifty-plus years of Israeli statehood, Hebron had been a city caught in the middle. Located in a mountainous region, it was home to the Tomb of Abraham; a prophet revered by Muslims, Jews and Christians alike. A small community of Orthodox Jews lived near the center of the town, but they numbered less than a thousand and had to be protected by a garrison of Israeli Defense Forces.

The Palestinians resented the fact that a single Jew lived in their city and had tried countless times over the last century to rectify the problem by means that were less than humanitarian. The terrain lent itself naturally to urban guerrilla warfare; narrow streets that wound up and down hillsides flanked by multi story stone buildings with flat roofs.

Blind corners abounded and streets stopped and started without warning.

Israeli soldiers steered clear of much of the city knowing if they went in, there was a good chance they might not make it out. In short, Hebron was Palestinian-controlled territory.

It surprised David not in the least that this was where the meeting would take place. His altercation with Rashid in the parking garage had been extremely satisfying. If Rashid and his men understood anything it was force. They had seen their boss bested, and bested easily, by a younger man who by virtue of the meeting he was about to attend was somebody important.

Still, David didn't give them much time to react as they gawked at the bloody Rashid lying unconscious on the floor. He yelled at the men to get moving and climbed into the white Israeli taxi. The men hesitated, not sure what they should do.

"Leave him!" he ordered.

"When I tell Mohammed Atwa what he has done, he will be grateful that you left him here."

This was a name that stirred genuine terror in the Palestinians. The three men did not hesitate to obey. Mohammed Atwa was the head of Palestinian General Intelligence; an organization that many Palestinians feared more than Mossad. The security service was known for torturing and killing suspected collaborators with impunity. Atwa had even resurrected the old practice of killing Palestinians who dared sell their land to a Jew. He also happened to be the same man who ordered the torture and interrogation of David when he was a young teenager.

David looked out the window of the sedan as they meandered through the canyon like streets of Hebron. Darkness had fallen and they were no longer in the white Israeli taxi. Driving such a vehicle into Hebron would be akin to walking through Harlem in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. Instead, they'd switched to a yellow Palestinian taxi.

As they rounded a tight corner they came to a sudden stop. A group of masked young men immediately surrounded the car. They carried a variety of weapons from Russian-made AK-47s to American-made M16s. All four doors of the sedan were yanked open and everyone was told to get out. David was searched once again for a transmitter. When one of the men stepped up and tried to grab the attachИ cases, David stopped him with a stern rebuke. He placed both cases on the trunk of the car and opened one and then the other. The packets of neatly bound one hundred dollar bills left the men momentarily awestruck. The nicely dressed young man they were dealing with was apparently someone very important.

David slammed the cases closed before the guards had time to gather their wits. Acting impatient, he grabbed each case and told the men he was not to be delayed further. With the vision of millions of American dollars still fresh in their heads, none of them argued. David was walked through the barricade and placed in the back of a minivan.

The van raced up the street, turning several times. On each corner men stood watch with assault rifles at their sides.

Six blocks later they stopped in front of a three-story house. Both sides of the street were clogged with parked cars. David grew nervous for a second and then saw the vehicle he was looking for. The Mercedes sedan was parked just on the other side of a van. David breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the armored car belonged to Mohammed Atwa.

Clutching the attachИ cases, he stepped from the van and walked toward the house. His arms suddenly felt very heavy, and everything began to slow down. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk and then slowly up at the two masked men standing guard in front of the blue wood door with chipped and peeling paint. The men were gesturing for David to hurry but he didn't hear what they were saying.

He just casually placed one foot in front of the other, and then the next thing he knew, he was in the house.

There were people everywhere. It was as if a party were going on.

Smoke and loud conversation filled the air. To the room on his left there was a virtual banquet; mounds of grilled lamb, shashlik, musakhan and chicken liver. A middle-aged man who ran the Popular Liberation Committee in Gaza was popping baklava into his mouth and nodding enthusiastically to the head of Force 17. Over in the corner he saw two men sipping Arab coffee and discussing something in earnest. One of the men he knew to be the head of security for Islamic Jihad but the other man he didn't recognize. David felt his throat tighten a bit; this was the culmination of meticulous planning and great patience. It was almost exactly as he'd dreamt it would be.

He looked to the right and saw a big screen TV. It was tuned to Al Jazeera, but it seemed no one was paying attention. Three large couches were arranged around the TV They were filled with men, some of whom David recognized. This was the closest thing David had ever seen to a terrorism summit.

There were representatives from the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, and at least one from Beirut. There were several new faces from the martyr brigades and many old faces from the PLO and its only true rival, Hamas.

Through the crowd David saw Mohammed Atwa approach. David forced a smile to his face and lifted the two attachИ cases in the air.

Atwa, the head of Palestinian General Intelligence, the torturer of thousands, grabbed David by the cheeks and standing on his toes, kissed the younger man's forehead.

With a flourish Atwa turned and waved a theatrical arm in the air.

"He is here! Our son has returned from visiting our rich Saudi friends!"

Everyone fell silent for a brief moment and then the room broke into applause, toothy grins and nods of enthusiasm. This was the apogee of two years of hard work. David had started small, working his way up the ladder of the Palestinian Authority. His first donation had been $10,000. From there it got bigger, and as his stature grew, he worked his way closer to Atwa; the power behind the power, the man whom he someday would kill.

David knew if he were to ever see a Palestinian state, Hamas would have to be dealt a vicious blow. The Islamic fanatics would never be happy until every last Jew was dead, and when that happened they would only be satisfied if a Palestinian state were run by clerics who enforced strict Islamic law. Even the radical PLO looked tame next to the crazed members of Hamas.

David had cautiously counseled Atwa to bring Hamas into the fold by providing them with capital. The agreement was that David would use his skills to raise money and Atwa would hand part of that money over to Hamas to finance their terrorist and martyr operations. As David's fund-raising prowess grew, so did Hamas's reliance on PLO support. David was so successful that Atwa was also able to entice some other groups to the trough. They included Islamic Jihad, the Popular Resistance Committee and Hezbollah.

Tonight had been billed as a watershed evening for the groups. The last month's fund-raising had been so fruitful that they would all gather under the benevolence of Atwa and the PLO to divide the spoils.

Atwa relieved David of one of the attachИ cases and grabbed him by the arm. Excitedly, he led David between two of the couches to a spot in front of the big screen TV. Atwa turned his case around and opened it for the group to see. He nodded for David to do the same.

"Two million dollars, my friends!"

The room broke into shouts and praise for Allah. Men jumped to their feet and began hugging each other. The irony of seeing these cold-blooded killers act in a such a lighthearted way made David smile to himself. What idiots! Not only was the money counterfeit, courtesy of the Iraqis, but there was an even better surprise in store.

Atwa set the attachИ case down on the table and David did the same. Turning to one of his lieutenants, Atwa handed him a sheet of paper that explained how the money was to be distributed. Then, overcome with the emotion of the moment, he grabbed David and hugged him. Patting him on the cheek like a son, he told David how proud he was of him.

David kept up his act and shrugged off the compliment.

"It was no big deal."

"Yes it was, and don't say it wasn't." Atwa stuck a finger in his face to warn him against any more modesty. Then, looking around the room, he began to frown and asked, "Where is Hassan?"

David hesitated just briefly and then seized his chance.

"I need to talk to you about that."

Atwa's lined face became concerned.

"What has happened?"

David looked over one shoulder and then the other.

"Not here.

Not in front of the others." After looking around the room one more time, David gestured for Atwa to follow him.

The two men walked through the crowd, David stopping every few feet to accept another hug or handshake. He feigned reciprocity as the men showered affection on him, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that he was about to send them to their deaths. As they stepped outside, Atwa stopped; his look of concern now much deeper.

David pointed to the butcher's Mercedes sedan.

"In private." David walked around the other side and climbed into the backseat. Atwa joined him and when both doors were closed David breathed a barely discernible sigh of relief.