Mission Compromised (12 page)

“Given these new realities, we have to act multilaterally. We're just one of many actors on the stage, Newman. Reagan and Bush blew off our friends in the United Nations. But not this president—he knows that a strong UN is the key to peace. And thanks to his close relationship with the UN Secretary General, he's personally worked out a means to enhance the UN's authority for dealing with those who refuse to accept the decisions of the community of nations. It's something that's long overdue. And Newman, you ought to be very proud that you have been chosen to head a handpicked group that will enforce and carry out UN Security Council directives.”

“The UN?” Newman interrupted, his eyes wide. “I'm going to be working for the UN?”

“No, you'll be working for the President of the United States—through me, of course—to carry out various sensitive missions as required by the Secretariat of the United Nations. It's simply part of our new responsibilities in this new world order. Things aren't as
simple as they once were. We can't act unilaterally like we used to. We've got to have international backing—we've gotta have the support of others with like interests. We can't just go swashbuckling around the world.”

Harrod finally paused long enough for the Marine to get a word in. “Look, Dr. Harrod, I just want you to know, I'm not going to do anything that's against the law. And I don't want to be involved in anything that someone else might even
think
is against the law. I've been on covert assignments before, as you probably know from my military record.

“I want to get whoever killed my brother so bad I can taste it. But I also know from what Colonel North went through that all it takes is for someone to
think
you've done something wrong and that's the end of your career. I'll carry out my lawful orders just like any good Marine, but I don't want to get cross-threaded in this town.”

“You're right, of course,” said Harrod, “and the only way I work is on the up-and-up. That's why everything you will be doing is fully covered by treaty and approved by the new executive committee of the UN Security Council—so there'll be no violation of law to worry about. Neither U.S. law nor international law. We're
complying with
international law, not breaking it.” Harrod didn't bother to mention that the Attorney General had privately advised him that such activities were more than likely against U.S. law
if not approved by Congress.
That argument was for another day.

“Now, are you ready to proceed?” Harrod put on the smile he usually reserved for campaign contributors who were attending a “private” national security briefing.

“I suppose so, but I want to be sure we understand each other,” said the Marine, looking into the eyes above the Cheshire-cat smile. “What
I hear you saying is that the White House has a Special Projects Office that responds to tasking from the UN Security Council and that everything it does is fully legal under U.S. and international law. Is that right?”

“Yes, you've got it. That's absolutely correct. And you are, if you want the job, the new head of that office,” replied Harrod.

“And where is this Special Projects Office?”

“Across the street—room 306 in the OEOB. Come on, I'll show you,” said Harrod, struggling to haul his considerable girth out of the cloth-covered swivel chair. At the last minute, he turned to grab the green-covered file folder and his coat before his leading candidate had a chance to turn down the job.

The two left the Situation Room, walked past the White House Mess, and exited the West Wing beneath the awning, which pointed like a green finger toward the Old Executive Office Building. The rain had stopped and the afternoon was turning cool. Newman knew it was going to be a cold night.

Before crossing West Executive Avenue toward the OEOB, Newman stopped and said, “Just one more question: Does this Special Projects Office have the authority to ‘take out' terrorists like the one who killed my brother?”

“Take out?” Harrod feigned a confused look.

“You know what I mean,” said the Marine.

“Oh, I see,” said Harrod. “‘Take out.' Well, let me put it this way. The UN Executive Order has designated certain individuals who have refused to accede to international law and flaunt their lawlessness before the international community. Those individuals are to be
removed
, as threats to international order. It's a short list. But the man who killed your brother, General Mohammed Farrah Aidid, is on it.”

“Who else is on this list of people who are to be removed as ‘threats to international order'?” asked Newman, relishing the idea of exacting vengeance on his brother's killers.

“Later,” said Harrod, more sure than ever that he had just the man he wanted.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Room 306

________________________________________

Old Executive Office Building

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday, 29 November 1994

1605 Hours, Local

 

A
s the two men approached the portal of the Old Executive Office Building, they were confronted by a flood tide of mostly young people in what appeared to be a mass exodus from the ornate structure. Most were clad in jeans, various forms of athletic footwear, and nondescript outer jackets as a hedge against the damp cold. One of them carried a skateboard under his arm. To Newman it looked like an abandoned ship drill or perhaps more like the exodus of fans from a rock concert. Several of them recognized the National Security Advisor and said “Hi,” or “Hey, man.” As one of the
precocious youngsters swept by on his way to the South West Gate, he hollered out, “Hey, Simon—waddayasay, big guy?”

Apparently unperturbed at the extraordinary familiarity, Harrod waved back with the file folder in his left hand, the green-bordered
TOP SECRET
cover sheet flapping in the breeze. He turned to Newman with a sheepish grin and said, “You can tell it's quitting time, can't you?” The Marine simply nodded, wondering for at least the fortieth time that day what he had gotten himself into.

When the two men finally made it into the building, Harrod pointed to an elevator, walked over to it, and punched the “up” arrow next to the door. As they waited to board the elevator for the ride up to the third floor, the National Security Advisor took on the role of tour guide. In point of fact, he wanted to avoid discussing any more details about Newman's assignment until they were back inside a secure space.

“Until the Pentagon was built, this structure was the largest office building in Washington, and even today it is one of the largest granite structures in the world. The outside walls are granite blocks, four feet thick. The interior is all granite, cast iron, brick, and plaster. When you look at how ornate it is, you can see why it took seventeen years to build. The building was supposed to house the Departments of State, War, and Navy. As an afterthought, someone decided that the Vice President should have his office here. Even then, vice presidents were useless, eh, Newman?” Harrod laughed at his own joke. Newman smiled politely but said nothing.

Harrod continued talking as the two men boarded the elevator. “The experts describe the architecture of the building as ‘Second Empire,' which was apparently pretty popular for about two weeks after the Civil War. It doesn't fit with anything else in the city. It has
nearly two miles of black-and-white marble on five floors, all connected by eight ornamental staircases. Above each staircase are stained-glass skylights. During World War II, they also dug a bomb shelter beneath the White House and a tunnel in the basement that runs all the way from 15th Street to 17th Street, connecting this building, the White House, and the Treasury. Crazy, isn't it?” Newman realized by now that these kinds of questions didn't require an answer.

When the elevator door opened on the third floor, the two men exited. Harrod pointed them down the empty corridor toward the southeast corner of the building, saying, “The room right next to your office—room 308—used to be the State Department Library. The Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were stored there before they were transferred to the National Archives.”

The two men stopped in front of a heavy, dark-stained oak door that looked identical to all others in the hallway, except this one had the standard, government-issue combination lock mounted at eye level on the door
and
an
electronic keypad on the wall beside the doorjamb. On a plate above the keypad was the number 304–306.

Harrod terminated his historical treatise, tucked the classified document he'd carried from the Situation Room under his arm, and removed what looked like a credit card from his shirt pocket. Reading from the combination printed on the red plastic card, he spun the black combination knob first to the left, then to the right, and finally back to the left again. Then, after consulting the card in his hand one last time, he rotated the small, silver-colored, raised, arrow in the center of the knob with his thumb and forefinger. There was a satisfying
click.
Harrod then turned the outer black knob a quarter-turn to the right and was rewarded by the sound of a heavy mechanical bolt sliding open on the other side of the door. “Well, that's the first step,” said
the National Security Advisor, obviously pleased with his prowess as a lock-pick.

Next, Harrod removed a sealed envelope from the breast pocket of his rumpled suit coat and, ripping it open, extracted another plastic card—this time a green one. He proceeded to press the numbers on the keypad next to the door slowly and deliberately, according to the sequence on the card. Once again there was the sound of a bolt moving and a heavy
thunk
as it unlocked.

“Well, Newman, I'm told that the last sequence is done from inside the door. It's a security system with an electronic keypad and a retina scanner to verify the person who is disarming the security system. If you do that part wrong, we'll probably have a whole lot of company in very short order.

“According to these instructions, the keypad is to your left as you enter the door and the retina scanner is directly above it. As soon as you open this door, you have fifteen seconds to enter the access code for the system before the alarm goes off. Here's the code.”

Harrod handed Newman yet another plastic card—this one was yellow. On the card were the numbers 30671489. “Any questions?”

“Oh yes, Dr. Harrod, I have a whole lot of questions. The first of which is, what's on the other side of this door? Second, why am I going in but you're staying out here?”

Harrod's loud chuckle echoed off the black-and-white marble floor of the long, ornate, and empty corridor. “What's on the other side of this door?
Your office
, Mr. Newman. Why am I staying out here? Because, according to these very precise instructions, in order to disarm this ridiculously complicated security system, the door has to be closed behind you, and only one person can be inside at that point. Apparently your very paranoid predecessor, who designed this
system, was worried that some spy could be holding a gun to the head of a person with the combination, and he wanted to guard against that.”

“Oh,” said Newman. It didn't sound particularly paranoid to him, but he didn't want to debate the point with his new boss.

Harrod continued. “Since your retinas have been scanned into the WHDB security parameters and mine have not, you should be the one to disarm the system. Now if it's all the same to you, how about opening the blasted door and going in? After you close the door and enter the access code, open the door back up and let me in so I can finish briefing you sometime before midnight.”

As Newman opened the door, a subdued electronic chirp began to sound inside the room. He closed the door, groped in the near-darkness until he found a light switch, and entered the eight-digit code that Harrod had given him on the keypad.

The chirping continued as though he had done nothing. Only then did he remember the retina scanner. The Marine found the retina console, pressed his forehead against the panel, and peered into the glass screen that looked remarkably like a supermarket bar-code scanner. The chirping stopped. He opened the door. Harrod was standing there looking like an insurance salesman at the back end of a bad day.

“Nice work, Newman. Let's see what's in here. I've wanted to get into this place ever since I got here. Man, the crimes that were committed in this room.”

Stunned by the statement, Newman could only manage, “What?”

Harrod looked at Newman as if he were a recent arrival from another planet. “Well, Newman, this is the scene of the crime—this was North's office. This place has been sealed up tighter than a drum ever since 1987.”

The two men looked around, the door they had just entered now behind them. The dull late-afternoon winter sun barely lit the space in front of them. They were standing in an anteroom. Opposite, a window looked south toward the Washington Monument, which was already bathed by bright floodlights in the gathering darkness. In front of the window was a standard wooden secretarial desk. To their right stood a row of seven matching, government-issue, four-drawer combination-lock safes, the drawers open and apparently empty. To their immediate left, a circular stairwell went up to a suite of offices overhead. And just in front of the secretarial desk was a sliding door to an interior office. The door was open. Harrod walked over to it, flicked on the light switch, and entered. Newman followed.