The fee for this part of the operation was insignificant. Two-and-a-half-million euros today, an equal amount when the job was completed. Gonzales considered it a small price to pay a sleeper spy on the job aboard Air Force One.
“Any progress?” D’Angelo asked Jassim at the start of the day. His team leader did have some new information.
“Actually, yes.” Jassim read from a report culled from FBI and NSA searches. “Ali Razak, came to the U.S. in ‘99 from Syria. No army record, probably because of his height, but according to Interpol, Razak showed up in interesting places at interesting times.”
“Meaning?”
“London. Same date as that big department store bombing. Remember?”
“Yes.” Evans had assigned him as a CIA liaison to the MI-5 investigation.
“Portugal, when the air base was hit.”
“Is he tied to Hezbollah?”
“No record of it. No associations with known terrorist organizations either. Just sightings of a really big man at both places.”
“He’s hard to hide. Ultimately that should work in our favor. It would have been hard to keep Shaq a secret in Miami. Razak has to show up again.”
Jassim added his hope, then noted, “He’d make the perfect bodyguard. Don’t you think?”
“Haddad!” Vinnie D’Angelo concluded. “You’re right.”
“Guess, what? We’ve got a positive ID on him from people in his building in Florida. Right off his driver’s license photo.”
“California?”
“Yeah, we tracked that down. Probably his point of entry. A job there years ago? I don’t know. Not yet. We’ll find out. There’s no police record. Tax report from a year ago is clean. Nothing filed yet for this year.”
“Because?”
“I don’t know. Out of country? Dead?”
“You wish,” D’Angelo joked. “Try a new identity.”
“Which brings me to my next point. I don’t think Razak is his real name.”
“Why?”
“Because of its meaning in Arabic.”
“Which is?” D’Angelo asked.
“Protector. This guy wears his job like a label. We find him, we find Haddad.”
This made D’Angelo even more convinced. “Get his picture and fingerprints out to every police database. And while you’re at it, let’s have conversations with every big men’s shop in the country.”
“Beg your pardon?” Jassim asked.
“Razak sure isn’t running around naked. The man has to dress. It’s the obvious place to check. Rochester Big and Tall. Lots of others. Fax that picture to every single one by the end of the day.” D’Angelo was pleased with Jassim’s work. “And you’re right. We find him, we find Haddad.”
While Morgan Taylor outlined his proposal, Foss studied the presidents, prime ministers, and premiers. The Pakistani president was the first to express his outrage.
“Are you suggesting American B-ls will be dropping bombs in my country on the suspicion that I am harboring terrorists? If you are, Mr. President, then this summit is over!”
A similar complaint was made by the Indonesian president. “I have never heard of such a thing. The other day you complained that I’m not doing enough. Now you say that my borders are meaningless to you.”
India joined its neighbor Pakistan’s objections. Malaysia agreed. Even New Zealand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Foss allowed everyone to express their positions. He did it with a certain degree of delight, knowing that Morgan Taylor would not give in. He never did.
When the fury died out, Prime Minister Foss addressed the group. “The President of the United States has offered a radical notion. If action is taken solely on the authority of an American president, be it Morgan Taylor, President Henry Lamden, or their successors, then I join you in unconditionally voting this down.”
He was answered by a chorus of, “Here, here!”
“However,” he said with authority, “taken as the will of a majority of signatory nations eager to seek out and destroy the very forces that threaten us, then I wholeheartedly embrace Mr. Taylor’s proposal.” He stunned the room back into silence. “We are living on borrowed time. There’s not a woman or man among us who isn’t at a loss for the ways and means to combat terrorists. They have crossed our borders, either legally or illegally. They are hell-bent on bringing us down one way or another. They are patient. They have vast resources to build stockpiles of arms and to recruit followers. Unarmed, they can be swatted dead. Armed, as they are, we are the ones who face oblivion. President Taylor proposes that we change the rules of engagement. Is that what you really object to? I, for one, want to hear more.” Without asking for a consensus, he nodded to Taylor.
“Mr. Prime Minister, fellow members of this esteemed league of nations, I am not the world’s policeman and I don’t want to be. However, we have a global enemy. Undeniably, this enemy is hiding in your countries. I know they are in mine. They build their armies and traffic their weapons. But too often, we wait until after they’ve struck to track them.”
Taylor cocked his head, a signal to Jack Evans. The U.S. National Director of Intelligence was ready with a handful of poster boards, which he put on the table in front of the president. Taylor slid one to his right, another to his left, and two across the table. Another dozen remained in front of him. “I’ve shared other satellite photographs with you. These were taken in the last twenty-four hours. You may not be able to identify the locations, but they are all from the countries represented here. Once again, weapons caches and encampments are circled. In most cases, these locations are out of reach of your own troops. So they remain in operation.
“These photos, and ones like them, are regularly sent to your military commands. You tell me what action has ever been taken? With the exception of an airstrike by Australia barely a month ago — none. The SASR destroyed the stronghold in the Solomons where the attack against our summit was planned. Were there any objections to that reprisal?”
Taylor reminded everyone how the remote-controlled bomb was discovered quite by accident at the Ville St. George. “We’re all alive today because of chance. Nothing more. How much longer can we play the odds? And yet you have no interest in annihilating the very forces that seek to kill you? You have no interest in at least destroying their weapons stores?”
Thailand’s leader had been studying one of three photographs that showed areas within his country. He lifted his head. “If the Chair will allow a question?”
Foss saw that Taylor was willing to relinquish the floor.
“You have a way of making a convincing argument, Mr. President. I have never seen these photos, or any like them. I assure you, I will speak with my commanders about this oversight. It will be corrected immediately.”
No one dared asked what that meant.
He continued, “Suffice it to say, I am troubled, but I need to understand more. Tell us how this strike force could work. Why wouldn’t it be a United Nations force?”
“Because we want it done in our lifetime,” Taylor said without a hint of humor. “I would like to believe that our own alliance will serve as a model to the U.N. But with Russia’s increasing proclivity toward censure and the profits they earn through arms sales, forget it.”
“We’d have to explain a great deal to our people. I’m not sure how to do it,” admitted the Thai leader.
“Tell them the truth,” Taylor replied. “You commit yourself to the fight. The United States will provide you with the necessary, irrefutable intelligence to act. But then you must act. If you do not, within twenty-four hours — under the jurisdiction of the agreement I hope to forge — an international force will do the work for you. You will then have the ability to announce that you accepted the invitation of the international strike team. It is a face-saving consideration. Make no mistake, this is a zero-sum proposition. We are past the point of options.” Morgan Taylor raised his left index finger and Jack Evans produced another satellite photograph. He stood and personally walked it over to Prime Minister Foss.