“He says they are resolute in their decision. Now is the time for a Palestinian state.”
Hayes sighed. “We have no choice.”
The defense secretary wasn’t quite ready to give in. “Sir, let’s engage the French and see if we can get them to delay the vote … even a day or two. In exchange we could demand that Israel withdraw its forces from Hebron.”
Hayes shook his head in desperation. The French would never go along with such a plan. They had center stage right now, and were not about to miss the opportunity to ram Palestinian statehood down Israel’s throat.
“Sir, we can’t do it this way,” Culbertson stated with great conviction. “Israel will never honor the resolution until a real cease-fire is in place and they have been given assurances from all the Arab states. We need time to make this work.”
“Unfortunately,” said Hayes, lifting his head, “we don’t have time.”
“Let’s at least try.”
“I agree with Rick, Mr. President.” Secretary of State Berg looked at her watch. “The vote isn’t scheduled to take place for another five hours. We should see if we can get a withdrawal in exchange for a cease-fire. Maybe even propose a peace summit in Paris for next week.”
“All right. See what you can do with the French.” Hayes motioned for them to get started and both cabinet members got up. The president turned his attention to Kennedy. “Is there a chance the Saudis are bluffing?”
“There’s a chance, but I think there’s a better chance they’re serious. I put a call in to Charlie to find out what we’ve picked up in the last forty-eight hours. If they’ve been talking we should have picked something up.”
65
David sat in front of his monitors and sipped a bottle of water. Everything was going according to plan. The traffic cameras were all on-line and working properly, his media source had confirmed the ambassador’s appointment at the White House, and the world was watching. Washington D.C. was about to be rocked, and David couldn’t have been more pleased with how things were playing out. As he’d predicted, the Israelis had sent their army into Hebron and the international community was busy filing protests. Palestinian suicide bombers were throwing themselves into the breach and making the Israelis pay the price. French Ambassador Joussard was playing his hand perfectly at the UN, and if Omar had been successful in convincing his brother the crown prince that now was the time for an embargo, the United States would be boxed in. All that was left to do was raise the level of violence one more notch, and his lifelong dream of a free Palestinian state would be a reality.
The black limousine came into view on the predetermined screen in the upper left corner. David put the bottle of water down and glanced at the remote firing device sitting in the heavy black case on his right. The bomb was already armed and ready to go. All he needed to do was pop the clear safety cover and press the red button.
The limousine made a turn and showed up on the next screen. David tracked it carefully through the city. It was close to the White House. The explosion would undoubtedly be heard by the president and the Secret Service would go into lockdown mode. David watched with great anticipation as the limousine neared the crucial intersection. At this point everything depended on its taking a right turn. David wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and counted the seconds.
The vehicle began to slow and then just as anticipated it turned onto Virginia Avenue midway between the State Department and the White House. David breathed a brief sigh of relief and looked to the next monitor, his fingers poised above the keyboard, prepared to manipulate the traffic light two intersections away. He could see the parked van now visible on two of the monitors. He entered the proper command and held the traffic light on red for another fifteen seconds. The limousine’s brake lights came on almost immediately. David popped the plastic cover on the remote firing device and waited. The long black vehicle inched its way into position and then when it was a few feet short David reached over and pressed the red button.
66
Rapp appeared in the doorway of the Oval Office with Secret Service Special Agent Jack Warch. Rapp caught his boss’s attention and motioned for her to join him in the hall. Aides and staffers were now coming and going, shuttling back and forth between other members of the president’s staff and cabinet. The political machine was coming together for a unified assault on forestalling the UN vote.
Kennedy excused herself and joined Rapp and Warch. The Secret Service agent led them across the hall and opened the door to the Roosevelt Room. Rapp thanked the head of the Presidential Detail and promised to keep him informed.
Kennedy studied Rapp suspiciously and asked, “Keep him informed of what?”
“Our John Doe, who met with Omar and then flew to New York … Well, Olivia just found out that he left Penn Station at ten oh five the night Ambassador Ali was killed.”
“And where was he—” Kennedy stopped short, knowing the answer before Rapp finished.
Rapp nodded. “He arrived at Union Station early Tuesday morning just before two.”
The director of the CIA studied her top operative, wondering what to make of this unusual development. “Why would he come here?”
“That’s a good question, and I’m not so sure I can answer it.”
“I assume from what I heard you say to Jack, that you warned him of a potential threat to the president?”
“Yep. I just wanted to make sure the president wasn’t making any scheduled public appearances today.”
“So you think he’s come here to kill again?”
It was obvious by the expression on his face that Rapp wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know, Irene. It could be something as simple as a preplanned escape route. Rather than try to leave the country and get caught, come to where you’re least expected to go.”
She could tell Rapp didn’t buy his own line of thinking. “What do you really think? What does your gut tell you?”
Rapp struggled with it for a moment and then replied, “I think he’s come here to do another job.”
“Or,” Kennedy added, “he lives here.”
This was an entirely new line of thinking. There were plenty of former Special Forces guys living in the surrounding area, at least a few of whom were guns for hire. But there was something about him that was distinctly un-American. A certain look similar to his own. Most people would never notice it, but it was what gave Rapp the ability to blend in when he was operating in the Middle East and Southwest Asia. He thought about the guy being an American and said, “That’s a possibility, but if the guy lived here, he would be more familiar with our capabilities, in which case I can’t see why he’d risk being seen on camera.”
“It’s obvious.”
“He doesn’t know we’re on to him,” answered Rapp.
“Exactly.”
“Or,” said Rapp, “we’re giving him more credit than he deserves.”
“Either way have Olivia run a check through the DOD files.”
“I’ll do it, but what about bringing Mossad in on this?” asked Rapp.
Kennedy shook her head. “The president won’t allow it, plus he still thinks the Israelis are behind this.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Kennedy with a raised brow. “What if this entire thing is a complex sting launched by Mossad to implicate Prince Omar?” Kennedy could tell by Rapp’s sour expression that he didn’t buy it. “Just think about it for a minute. If John Doe is really Israeli and they sent him to con Prince Omar into playing the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, the one role he wanted more than anything in his life …”
“What’s their endgame?” asked an unconvinced Rapp.
“Embarrass the Saudis and draw attention to their support of Palestinian extremists.”
“I don’t know, Irene,” he said, frowning, “it sounds like a reach.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t, but it’s one of several reasons why we can’t go to Freidman and ask him who this
guy is. I do, however, think it’s time to bring the FBI in on this.”
Rapp cringed. “I don’t know about that.”
“If this John Doe is in Washington we have no choice.”
He instinctively recoiled against the idea, and it was not a reflection on the Bureau’s competency as much as it was on the rule book that they’d bring along. If the FBI nabbed this guy they would have to play it straight up. Reluctantly, Rapp consented.
The two of them left the Roosevelt Room and walked across the hall to the Oval Office. At present there were too many people in the room to tell the president of the recent development. While Kennedy waited to have a private word with Hayes, Rapp called the CTC to tell Turbes to bring the FBI in on the investigation. Before his call could be completed there was a rumbling noise from outside the building. Rapp instantly tensed, knowing before anyone else in the presidential office that the noise was an explosion.
67
True to form, Marcus Dumond sat in his corner cubicle oblivious to the storm that was raging around him. The Bull Pen at the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center was a labyrinth of five-foot-tall plastic and fabric dividers. Partly out of necessity, and partly out of humor, the aisles that cut through the area had been given names such as Abu Nidal Way and Osama Bin Lane. Dumond had been the chief planner and street namer of the ever expanding Bull Pen, and he had intentionally located himself on a dead street with limited access.
While his MP3 player cranked out the tunes, Dumond worked the keys of his computer with blazing efficiency, toggling back and forth between three screens, closing windows, opening new ones and shrinking or enlarging others. He was on to something. He wasn’t sure what quite yet, but he was definitely on to something. Following Rapp’s lead, he’d focused on recent transactions made by Omar’s main assistant. The hardest nut to crack wasn’t hacking into the secure networks of the institutions in question—that was easy. The real issue lay in the enormity of Omar’s wealth. He used literally hundreds of banks to handle his vast fortune. That said, however, Dumond didn’t waste his time surfing through the prince’s transactions that were handled by Chase or the Deutsche Bank. In fact he immediately discarded all banks in the United States, England, Japan, Canada and Germany and focused on those nations known for their financial privacy laws.
Dumond had only to read the file on Devon LeClair once to know where to focus his attention. If given his choice, an anal retentive snob like LeClair would bank with only one group of people. The ever efficient Swiss were the perfect match. They thought of everything. They conducted themselves with a respectful, professional flair that properly schooled men like LeClair demanded.
Trying to run searches based on Omar’s name or those of his various holding companies had proven to be too cumbersome. Dumond had two strategies he wanted to employ before he called in the money guys from Treasury and the FBI to pore over the accounts with a magnifying glass. He’d seen the men and women do it before, chasing down every check, wire transfer and charge to its final destination. It could easily take fifty agents six months to run a thorough examination of Omar’s finances, and even then they might miss something. They had to do things the proper way, both politically and legally.
Even if they knew the tricks that Dumond employed, they would be too afraid to use them. The twenty-eight-year-old hacker from MIT could get results much quicker. None of the information he gathered would be admissible in a court of law, but Dumond had worked enough with Rapp in the past to know that he preferred to settle things in a less public forum.
Dumond had keyed in on three banks, two headquartered in Zurich and a third in Geneva. Each bank was among Switzerland’s oldest and most austere, and LeClair was authorized access to each one. At first Dumond focused his attention on the larger transactions, five to ten million dollars. He came up blank, so he started over again looking for money that had been shuffled between the three banks he was focusing on. This also proved to be a dead end.
As a last resort he went through each account for the past month looking for smaller transactions from various banks on various days that all may have ended up in a single account. He paid special attention to the name of the banks the money was being transferred to. He was looking for an accumulation of funds in one account that would get him to the proper threshold.
Dumond was focusing on blocks of money and transaction dates. In his mind he was trying to piece together a down payment followed by a later payment for successful completion of contract. He couldn’t find anything that was approaching five million dollars or even half of that number. Suddenly an amount and a bank caught his eye: $500,000 had been wired from one of the banks in Zurich on Monday to a financial institution on the island of Martinique in the French West Indies. He swore he’d already seen the same transaction. He began looking back through the transactions and sure enough, two weeks earlier LeClair had wired the same amount from another account to the same account in Martinique.
As Dumond looked at the name on the account in Martinique he couldn’t help but think there was something familiar about it. His fingers remained poised just above the keyboard and his head began to tilt to one side. It was coming to him. The name was not that common. Like his own it was French, which would fit with the French West Indies, but there was some reason why it seemed familiar to him. Dumond pulled his arms back and crossed them in frustration. He had just seen the name somewhere and it was driving him nuts that he couldn’t remember. He was about to give up and have the computer run a search when it hit him.
Dumond closed out one of his screens. His fingers flew across the keys in search of this morning’s on-line edition of The New York Times. The home page popped up on his center screen and he scanned the sidebar for the story he was looking for. After a brief moment he found it and opened the article. In the first paragraph of the article Dumond hit upon the name he was looking for: Peter Joussard. He looked back and forth from one screen to the other, from the on-line edition of The New York Times to the balance of a bank account in the Caribbean containing one million dollars. Dumond attempted to calculate the odds that it was coincidence and quickly decided it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. Yanking off his headphones he grabbed the handset of his phone and dialed Rapp’s mobile number.
68
It had taken almost exactly an hour to figure out what had happened. The White House was under lockdown. No one was being allowed in or out. The president and the other principles had all been moved downstairs to the Situation Room. Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the Presidential Detail, had originally ordered that everyone be taken to the bunker deep under the White House, but President Hayes had countermanded the order. He’d been in the bunker once before and had no desire to go back unless he absolutely had to.
When Warch saw how serious the president was, he relented. At a minimum he asked that they relocate to the Situation Room. Hayes agreed, and the National Security Team moved downstairs where they could monitor the crisis and stay in close contact with their various departments and agencies. The heavily armed and black-clad Secret Service Counter Assault Team had taken up defensive positions around the Executive Mansion and the West Wing. Stinger surface-to-air missiles had been unsheathed and readied on the rooftop and Stage Coach, the presidential limousine, was running and waiting on the South Grounds ready to evacuate the commander in chief from the premises if necessary.
The men and women under Warch’s command had reacted with the precision and efficiency that he expected. They’d run the drills over and over until every agent and officer knew not only their own responsibilities, but those of the people who stood next to them. Now the one-hundred-plus-person force stood primed and poised, ready for whatever would happen next. As the minutes passed they began to realize that the White House was not a target. At least not today.
The initial reports that came into the Situation Room were that the State Department had been hit by a car bomb. Those reports were quickly proven inaccurate when Secretary of
State Berg contacted her office and was told the point of the explosion was actually several blocks away on Virginia Avenue. The first real clues to the carnage were provided by a Fox TV crew that had been at the State Department doing a live shot. After recovering from the initial shock of the explosion they packed up their gear and hoofed it to the site of the detonation.
They were lucky enough to get to the scene before the Metropolitan Police could set up a perimeter. Fox broadcast live footage of fire crews trying to douse the flames of several twisted wrecks. The FBI and ATF arrived twenty minutes later and had the Fox TV crew moved to the other side of the barricades with the rest of the networks and cable outlets.
The bomb experts from the ATF and FBI quickly ascertained the exact point of detonation and found what little was left of the vehicle that had been used as the platform. After that everything was a little confusing. There were shattered windows on both sides of the street for at least a block in each direction. Injured people streamed out of office buildings, many of them with nothing more than paper towels to stem the blood that flowed from gashes caused by flying glass. The George Washington University Medical Center, just a few blocks to the north, was inundated with patients. Fortunately only a few of them had injuries that were life threatening.
The actual target of the bombing was not immediately obvious. Several cars were flipped, twisted and charred almost beyond recognition. Many of the buildings had received superficial damage, but none had collapsed. The true target of the attack came to light when someone from the Saudi embassy called to see if the ambassador was still at the White House. The answer was unfortunately no. It appeared the ambassador’s staff, after seeing the footage, had tried to reach both the ambassador and his security detail. No one was answering their phones.
An FBI agent at the scene verified that one of the charred vehicles did in fact appear to be a limousine. It had taken the brunt of the explosion. Torn in half and flung across the street, it was now resting upside down in two pieces on the opposite sidewalk. The bodies inside the limousine were burned beyond recognition. The make of the vehicle was verified as a Mercedes with diplomatic plates. Prince Abdul Bin Aziz, the Royal Saudi ambassador to the United States of America, was dead.