Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Read online

  “We will think the unthinkable. Why? Because three fishermen walked onto the grounds of Kennedy Airport undetected and were not stopped until they came to a security building. They were not terrorists. But they could have been.

  “A pickup truck stopped along Interstate 405 adjacent to the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant between San Diego and Los Angeles. The door opened. A man pulled a long cylindrical object out of the flatbed. It was a section of three-inch pipe that had become dislodged. Not a MANPAD, a shoulder-fired missile. But it could have been.

  “A plane crossed above the fall foliage of Delaware and bore down on the White House. F-15s were launched to chase him away or eliminate him. They had less than a minute to decide to commit. The private pilot realized his mistake and broke away. He was not on a suicide run. But he could have been.

  “We must learn from those scenarios and think the unthinkable; consider how and where an airplane, a shoe bomb, a MANPAD, or a truckload of fertilizer can be deadlier than an advancing army. Thinking the unthinkable is not even letting a twelve-year-old girl pass through the gates at the Super Bowl with her backpack or an unobserved boat moor off a runway at JFK, Boston’s Logan, San Francisco or any other airport near a body of water.

  “We must think the unthinkable. Sadly, there is no more important rule. Not anymore.”

  Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

  Travel posters don’t tell the story. Ciudad del Este, a city of a quarter million, is an unimaginable haven for drug runners, money launderers, and criminals of all stripes—killers and bankers alike.

  The notorious Paraguayan city is a long way from the civilized world. It sits at the apex of the triple border region of Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina. Those who are drawn to Ciudad del Este usually aren’t there to buy postcards to send home. Many visitors who cross over the Paraná River via The Bridge of Friendship from Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil don’t want anyone to know they’re there. They traffic in weapons, illegal immigration, and terror.

  Ciudad del Este is an ungovernable center for transnational crime and most recently home to a man named Ibrahim Haddad, a successful art dealer who earned his fortune in imports-exports. To the few people he socialized with at his compound, he was retired. That was not true. He had a job; actually more of a passion than a vocation. Ibrahim Haddad was still trying hard to bring down the American presidency.

  What better place to set up camp than where criminals run things? Ciudad del Este was the closest thing to Baghdad in the Western hemisphere. The description is not so far from the truth. Over the past decade, the Muslim presence has rapidly grown. At the last imprecise census, nearly a fifth of the population was Arab. Many of them Hamas, Hezbollah, and Al Qaeda members.

  Ciudad del Este attracted Arab rebels because its uncontrollable environment helps sustain criminal activity, or worse, outright terror.

  It works like this: Many Arab businessmen export large sums to purchase goods for import. Since much of the export business of Ciudad del Este operates underground, the people who trade can easily siphon money and supplies to terrorist organizations.

  Of course, proving this has been difficult. Still, authorities have little doubt. Paraguayan police estimate that 70 percent of the six hundred thousand vehicles on the road are stolen from Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay. Brazilian law enforcement claims that Paraguay’s thieves trade cars for drugs. Those drugs end up in the United States and Europe.

  Virtually everything is for sale. Cigarettes, TVs, computers, soybeans, marijuana, cocaine, and guns. Early in the last decade, a Paraguayan national in Miami was arrested for allegedly selling some three hundred passports, various shipping documents, and visas. Among the sales—sixteen passports to terrorist suspects from Lebanon, Egypt, and Syria.

  Ibrahim Haddad lived in Miami at the time. He was Syrian born.

  CNN described the border as a terrorist paradise. A New Yorker article said it is “the center of Middle Eastern terrorism in South America.” Even the Paraguayan daily Ultima Hora wrote of the lawlessness of Ciudad del Este. It was wild and open with unprotected airspace; the perfect place to hide in plain sight.

  Even the head of USASOUTHCOM, the nation’s Southern Command for all military operations in Central and South America, argued that the Tri-border is refuge for “the narco-terrorist, the Islamic radical fundraiser and recruiter, the illicit trafficker, the kidnapper, and the gang member.”

  A few years earlier, the governments of Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina attempted to stem the rising crime. They established a “tripartite command of the Tri-border;” a joint criminal database interfaced with the banks. But with so much money laundering at risk, and the banks hardly interested in seeing their accounts dwindle, the Tri-border cooperative quickly fell apart.

  Ibrahim Haddad is one of the reasons for its failure. Long ago he bought off key people who, through the course of time, rose in the ranks of the banking community.

  For years, Haddad worked out of Miami’s luxurious Fisher Island. Then he moved to Chicago. All the while, most of his financial transactions went unchecked through the banks, his banks, at Ciudad del Este.

  Now, Haddad was untouchable in an untouchable city. He was protected by white collar workers on the take, local militia who drank and fucked away most of their payoffs, and a band of paramilitary thugs who protected him day and night in his fortified country-club mansion.

  Rarely did Haddad venture into the city’s souk with its twenty thousand tin-roofed shops, makeshift stalls, and slipshod mini-malls jammed into fifteen blocks. His sacolerios, his couriers, did the work for him. They brought back food to his seemingly impregnable fifteen-thousand-square-foot fortress and guests he deigned to meet.

  Haddad had aged in the last year.

  After fleeing twice from the United States, time was catching up to him. He was no longer a young man, and a sixth sense told him that he was not well. His last breathless escape from American authorities took a physical toll. His run through a field ten miles from Chicago’s O’Hare airport triggered severe asthma attacks. This led to serious bronchitis and habitual coughing that had only recently begun to subside. He knew he’d never be able to exert himself to that extent again. And he’d probably never go back to the United States.

  But he didn’t have to. He could exact the damage he wanted from his new home. The Internet continued to afford him the means to securely manipulate his riches, execute his plan, and track the panic that would ensue.

  So far there was no news. That was all right. But soon.

  The sixty-four-year-old businessman handled his final plans in the manner he had handled everything over the last four decades—with meticulous planning. His mastery of English, French, German, Russian, and Arabic gave him the ability to trade in a variety of commodities globally: art, stocks, motion pictures, terrorism, and now natural resources.

  His appearance changed over the years. Sometimes from age, sometimes by his own hand. He could hide a great deal with the length and color of his hair, a new beard, and an accent. But the man could never mask the coldness in his eyes and the hatred in his voice.

  He was Ibrahim Haddad. He was Luis Gonzales. He was a dozen other people over the course of his life. Upon arriving in Paraguay, he decided to take his family name again. The name his wife accepted. The name his daughter shared. It was his way to honor the memory of his beloved and their daughter, killed by an Israeli missile attack. When his work was finished—which would be soon—the Americans very well might find him. But revenge would be served. Then, he could join Allah and his family, having fulfilled his mission—his personal jihad.

  For more than thirty years, he had patiently pumped millions into a plan to plant a sleeper in the White House. His ultimate goal was to undermine the United States’ relationship with Israel, discredit and undermine the administration, turn American support from the Jews, and forever change the political structure of the Middle East.

  He had come so close to succeeding. Now, sensing that he n
o longer had the benefit of time, Haddad launched a quicker, more strategic plan. Israel would crumble once the Great Satan collapsed under its own political weight. Americans would experience the horrors of Rwanda and Bosnia firsthand. He alone would be the architect of the destruction.

  This time, he prayed. This time, my sweet wife and daughter. This time.

  The White House press room

  “Mr. President! Mr. President!” shouted the reporters.

  Morgan Taylor pointed to Ed Baron of AP. “Eddie.”

  “Mr. President,” the wire service editor began, “What you’re suggesting…”

  “What I’m saying,” Taylor correcting him, “is going to be policy of the United States.”

  The reporter rephrased his point. “Mr. President, this policy could have serious Constitutional implication. I suspect, curtailing freedom of assembly for one. Do you have a sense of what kind of pill you’re asking the American people to swallow? I can foresee both the left and right claiming bloody murder.”

  “Bloody murder. A very appropriate description. Bloody murder is precisely what I’m trying to prevent, Eddie. Do you think our museums and hospitals would be safe? Your D.C. apartment? Shopping centers in cities across the country? I’m sure you consider most security a joke. At a concert? A stadium? Everyone talks about it, but little else except for show. The price of a ticket must include the cost for true vigilance.

  “We are not going to go the way of the dinosaur. When the meteor struck was their last conscious thought—if they had one—where the hell did that come from? We have the means to see where the danger is coming from. And I’m going to do something about it.

  “Constitutional implications? Yes, there will be.” Taylor allowed himself a quick smile. “Learned minds will certainly have their work cut out for themselves.”

  The White House

  Katie Kessler was one of those learned minds. She had history weighing heavily on her as she rolled another Constitutional boulder up Capitol Hill. The work was indescribably difficult, but Kessler was living her dream as deputy White House counsel; catapulted to Washington virtually overnight.

  Katie Kessler had been a quiet and successful junior attorney in a Boston firm on a slow track to the middle. But after a chance meeting, she was propelled into a world she never could have imagined. She found herself in the inner chambers of government, meeting the country’s most powerful people. Nothing short of a miracle for a woman not yet twenty-nine.

  So was the fact that she was alive.

  During the past year, Kessler had to persuade the chief justice of the Supreme Court not to swear in a president-elect and that a sleeper spy plot went all the way to the White House. She also had to convince President Morgan Taylor why the presidential succession laws were a disaster in the making.

  This was all due to the man she met, fell in love with, and now dared to think about a future together. The only thing that made that hard was that he was a special agent for the Secret Service, with duties he could never fully reveal to her.

  Kessler worked the computer keys as she watched the president on TV. She was deep into the constitutional law archives, researching the dangerous ground the president was charting. Six months, she expected. Six months before a related case might reach the Supreme Court. Max. Maybe sooner.

  Kessler was five-six, alluring, and fit. Depending upon her mood, she wore her curly hair down or put it up in a bun. By day, she favored black suits, colorful silk blouses, and pearl necklaces. At night, it was back to jeans or a loose-fitting jogging suit, unless she and her boyfriend were out for drinks and appetizers. However, as the White House’s newest and brightest counsel, there weren’t too many nights out. She spent hour after hour in law books reviewing precedent and case history with two pressing assignments: the president’s avowed doctrine which stretched borders like giant rubber bands and a proposed radical change in the rules of succession. Her proposal.

  Katie heard the president’s press conference in the background. Her days were getting longer. That meant less time to see the man she loved.

  The White House, a basement office

  the same time

  Scott Roarke was not watching the TV, though it was also on. He was absorbed in an online Atlanta Journal-Constitution newspaper report. Through his reading, Roarke tapped his fingers to the rhythm of the William Tell Overture. He did this unconsciously; a Lone Ranger himself with the gun to prove it.

  Roarke actually wasn’t working alone. He reported to a man he usually just called “boss.” Others called him Mr. President. He got away with the informality strictly because of their past, which was off the record books. That’s because Roarke often went on missions as a lieutenant in the army’s secret Defense Intelligence Agency that never happened. One occurred well inside the lines of Saddam Hussein’s fierce Republican Guard just when Morgan Taylor dropped out of the sky.

  Taylor was zeroing in on a suspected biological weapons plant with one Rockeye bomb left in his stores. As he was coming around to his target, a trio of SAMs locked on from a portable launch facility. Taylor was fast, but not fast enough this day in low-level combat. He evaded two of the missiles, but not the third.

  The Navy commander ejected from his $24-million machine fearing he’d never see home again. But he landed close to Roarke’s dugout, which meant that his mission was scrubbed and now he had to get both himself out and this Navy flier who was pretty useless on the ground.

  That pilot however was always grateful. When he became president, he brought Roarke into the Secret Service to man a department designated PD16 for Presidential Directorate 1600; an homage to the president’s local address.

  And now Roarke had a job in the basement. Not any old basement. A very secure, high-tech and extremely wired staging area where Roarke launched to different parts of the world. Few people beyond the Director of National Intelligence, National Security Advisor, FBI Chief, and a few key members of Congress actually knew who Roarke was and how he served the president. There were those in Washington who had their suspicions.

  Scott Roarke topped off at six feet, just an inch or so taller than the president. He had a swimmer’s physique, or someone skilled in the martial arts, which he surely was. Unlike others in the Secret Service, he wasn’t a suit-and-tie guy. He didn’t wear a lapel pin or talk into his sleeve. He dressed casually, wore sneakers, and preferred a Blackberry.

  He kept his thick brown hair longer than required. Regulation would have looked incongruous. But there was very little regulation or structure to Scott Roarke’s life. He was unique in the ranks of the Secret Service; Morgan Taylor’s go-to man. He earned $114,300 per year but had access to so much more, whether it was in Yen, Euros, or Rubles.

  Roarke was loyal and principled. When necessary, he was also calculating and lethal. But he could be warm, witty, and flirtatious. Those were the real traits that drew Katie Kessler to him in Boston less than a year earlier. Those were the characteristics that she loved. Those qualities made him a whole person. But without her, he wasn’t complete.

  Roarke was engrossed in the Journal-Constitution account. It was a murder story, unrelated to the protection of the president, but something caught his attention. He’d been searching the Internet a great deal recently, most of the time aimlessly. However, he trusted his hunches and he continued to look for connections that no one else might recognize.

  The wall opposite his desk and the one around the side were full of clippings. He’d written question marks on some. Others were marked with a big red X. Most were murder victims; some were obits of prominent citizens who died of natural causes. Or seemingly natural, Roarke quietly considered. So far, none appeared related.

  He keyed on a list of names a friend at the bureau had researched. They covered the gamut of high school and college teachers, career army officers, retired servicemen, and a host of other everyday people. There were hundreds of names. Some were obviously going to be meaningless; many had died. He was particular
ly interested in hearing what those people could tell him. He was certain even the dead could find a way to speak up.

  Fortunately, Roarke had friends in high places. A good deal of the heavy lifting was done for him by the FBI. As a result, he received extracts from files, full biographies, and obituaries. He could call upon the bureau to conduct field interviews whenever and wherever necessary. And why? It all came down to a gut feeling.

  Now another obit. Roarke read it closely. A CEO of a software company outside of Atlanta. Graduate of an arts school in Cincinnati. Right age. Possible. He’d have to check.

  The agent sent the file to his HP Color Laser printer. It quickly spit out a hard copy. Roarke highlighted key words: Victim. Hit-and-run. Veteran. Chairman of the Board. 42. In Roarke’s mind, nothing distinguished this particular sad death from the scores of others he found. But it was going to go on his wall.

  Only three people knew what he had been doing in his secluded office since September—the president; Shannon Davis, his close buddy at the FBI; and his girlfriend, Katie Kessler.

  Katie noticed mood changes. So far he had nothing to show for his time. What started as intuition was becoming an obsession; a long, slow, unfulfilled obsession.

  Now he had 221 clippings and the belief that there was a thread through some of them. But what? He went back to the computer and once again was unaware of the song he was tapping out.