Huddle’s ad sales department asked for quotes. The normal combined rate card price for all the ads was well over a half-million. Yet, because this was the first time Strong’s syndication company explored buying advertising space, the liberal papers were willing to discount the rates. “Glad to have you!” was basically the word. Huddle laughed when he saw the memos. So much for politics! he thought.
He personally oversaw the production of the ad, sending it back eight times for rewrites. In its final form it was simple and powerful — a full page with very few words: all of them strong.
YOUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS LISTEN TO ELLIOTT STRONG. DO YOU? STRONG NATION.
He was told that it would take a little time to coordinate a buy that would simultaneously run in the first section of all the papers. Huddle gave them the target date. It would be worth the short wait.
Jack Evans also communicated in just a few words. His directive to Vinnie D’Angelo: “Find Haddad!” To others, he said D’Angelo was to be given access to CIA, NSA, and FBI files. The same message was sent to the corresponding branches in military intelligence.
All of that was fine, except for one thing: D’Angelo didn’t know where to start. The Mossad had given him only sketchy information. Haddad was said to be a Jordanian by birth, a naturalized American citizen, and a very successful international businessman. He was the likely Arab connection to the Russian sleeper spy network.
Who the hell is he? Is he still alive? He felt certain he knew the answer to the second question. But what about the first? This is what he asked himself as he walked into the office area the CIA designated for his investigation. He was met by a young, enthusiastic, Middle Eastern-looking man and a roomful of other analysts.
“Good morning, Mr. D’Angelo,” said Faruk Jassim.
“Ah, good morning.” Five people were busy at work, six including Jassim, who was closest to the door. Their faces were buried in computer screens. It seemed like they had been at it for hours, and yet it was only 6 A.M.
Jassim smiled, noting D’Angelo’s reaction. “A little surprised?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Director Evans figured you could use some pencil pushers. We’re here to help you.”
“Whoa. I guess so.” D’Angelo offered a grateful hand to his new best friend.
“We’ve just begun, so please give us some start up time.”
“Hell, it looks like you’ve been at it for days.”
Jassim laughed. “We gear up pretty quickly. But then you have a reputation of being able to do the same thing.” The 28-year-old Arab-American smiled. His comment would not garner a response. “You’ll get to know everyone really well. But here’s the primer.” He raised his voice, getting everyone’s instant attention. “Heads up!” The team obliged. “If you haven’t already noticed, this is the man.”
D’Angelo heard a few muted hellos.
Jassim pointed out the team members. “Carr is all over banking. Say hi.” The only woman of the group, a 32-year-old brunette, waved. She was deep into her computer screen. “If he had a bank account anywhere in the world, she’ll find it, track every deposit and withdrawal for the last forty years, and get you some head shots to boot.”
D’Angelo walked over and shook her hand, quickly memorizing her name and details about her appearance. He always made fast assessments of everyone he met, cataloguing impressions, from looks to skills. He did the same for the others Jassim introduced to him.
“Dixon will be your liaison with the FBI. He’s already got some news for you that we’ll go over when you get settled. Backus can read a satellite picture down to a foot.” He had a game of Spider Solitaire up on his screen, with no signs of regrets. “Don’t worry, he’s waiting until we give him some times and dates to work with.
“Bauman is our historian. Evans feels that history somehow plays into this guy’s story. He’s the analyst who’ll go through the files that came back from Libya.”
Jassim read D’Angelo’s face. He assumed the agent had been on ground for the assault. If he hoped to get a glimmer of an admission from the agent, he didn’t.
“And Holt is our resident ciphers expert. If there are codes to be found, he’ll find them. If anyone can crack them, he will. By the way, we’re all about last names here. I think I’d have to read their IDs to tell you their first names.”
“And your expertise?” D’Angelo asked Jassim.
“I did save the best for last. I’m your Middle East expert. I have the feeling we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
Jassim made good on his first promise. Dixon tracked down fifty-three Ibrahim Haddads in the United States and eliminated fifty-two. “Our man lived in Florida. Fisher Island, off Miami,” Dixon explained.
“I made a call,” Jassim interjected. “He hasn’t been there since January.”
“Let me guess. January nineteenth or twentieth,” D’Angelo said.
“Correct,” Dixon added. “Here’s more. He owned a sixty-four-foot Aleutian AC-64, which he moored at his condo dock. Quite to your point, it was there on the nineteenth. It was gone on the twentieth. It hasn’t been seen since.”
“We need a warrant. I want to go through his home today.”
“We’re on it, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“‘Chief’ will do.”
“Chief,” Dixon added. “Along with your ticket. You’re on a thirteen-fifteen flight to Miami out of Dulles. The FBI will meet you at the airport.”
“So much for my first day in the office,” D’Angelo said.
Chapter 36
If the FBI thought that lifting fingerprints was going to be easy, they were wrong. A cleaning team had been hired to dust, wipe, and Lysol everywhere and everything. It was in the condo record book. January 21. And if that weren’t enough, another crew from a different cleaning company was hired to do the same thing on the 23rd. Another two days later. There was another notation in the record book that allowed a fourth cleaning crew to throw out all the silverware and dishes. In D’Angelo’s mind, it meant that Haddad had everything systematically removed that might produce latent fingerprints.
Nonetheless, the FBI team, headed by the near-legendary Roy Bessolo, was determined to find something.
Bessolo barked orders like he hated everyone in sight. But D’Angelo knew otherwise. This unit was completely dedicated to their boss.
As D’Angelo surveyed the 8,500-foot, two-story condo, he was struck with the thought that it was in such pristine condition, it could serve as a model apartment. But condo fees had been prepaid for two years. No one other than the cleaning companies had set foot in Haddad’s apartment for seven months.
“Any papers?” D’Angelo asked as they walked through the study.
“Nothing,” Bessolo said. He noticed a few scratches on a desk. “He had a computer here. That’s long gone. And not a damned sheet of paper.” Bessolo spotted a liquor cabinet across the room. “Hey, Beth, dust inside that cabinet,” he called out. Beth Thomas gave him a thumbs-up.
D’Angelo walked over to the cabinet. Bessolo needed one good fingerprint, but the CIA agent had his first clue. The shelves were full of bottles, four rows deep. Water! “What do you make of this, Bessolo?” he asked.
The FBI field supervisor looked inside. “Ah, fucking teetotaler?”
“No. A devoted Muslim.”
Donald Witherspoon made his first inquiry just before eleven.