“Anytime.”
With that, they shook hands. “See you tomorrow,” Erskine said with a broad smile. “And thank you very much.”
The newest barista at the Starbucks across from some of Boston’s most prestigious law offices walked out, very pleased that he’d scored the job he wanted the most.
D’Angelo mulled over the latest hourly report from the FBI. Bessolo had his prints — one from inside the liquor cabinet, another on the refrigerator door, a third on the bathroom toilet handle, and a fourth on the inside of the bedroom closet door. So much for spotless cleaning, he thought. Three were the same: the cabinet, the bathroom, and the closet. But none of them matched the fingerprint on file for Ibrahim Haddad’s passport. He didn’t have a driver’s license.
This told D’Angelo that either the common print was not Haddad’s or that Haddad had someone else apply for the passport. He wrote off the fingerprints. They’d need more.
D’Angelo assembled his team. They worked around a bulletin board in a bullpen section of their CIA office. “Okay, let’s put everything on cards and get them up.
“Here’s what we have,” D’Angelo stated. He started writing. After one card, Jassim took over.
“Let me do that. You dictate.”
“Are you trying to tell me my handwriting sucks?”
“Yes,” Jassim said.
“No argument there. All right, here goes in no particular order,” D’Angelo said. “First me, but feel free to chime in. One: Haddad stayed inside most of the time,” Jassim wrote down the key words or phrases. “Two: no social contact. Three: He was always accompanied by bodyguards. Four: He ate at home. Five: He didn’t use the condo facilities. Six: He never showed up for functions.” He stopped to let Jassim catch up and then asked, “Comments? Additions?”
“None yet. Keep going.”
“Seven: secretive to the point of reclusive.” Next, he handed over a picture that needed to be added to the cards. “Eight: He’s a big guy, too.” He pointed to a man walking by a family posing for a picture. It was a still frame from a DV, shot by a condo owner the previous summer. Haddad was clearly visible. “We have the whole tape.”
Jassim put it next to Haddad’s enlarged passport photo.
“That’s nine. He traveled.”
“I can help you there,” Bauman said. “I pulled a mess of files from Immigration. Haddad made an almost yearly trip to the Middle East. All listed as business.”
Jassim wrote Middle East travel on a card and tacked it up.
Bauman continued. “We’re checking back beyond ten years, but it’s harder to document. With so many airlines gone, who knows what’s even out there. But we’re talking with the companies still around.”
“Including the British and French carriers?” D’Angelo asked.
“On it. Lufthansa, too. The Moscow desk is also running Haddad’s picture for us. Same for Tehran, Baghdad, Damascus, and Riyadh.”
D’Angelo turned to Carr. “What about banking?”
“Working on it. Lots of large transfers through Switzerland and the Islands. Still tracking them. Looks like elaborate precautions. It’s gonna be harder than I thought.”
“Just keep at it.”
Carr didn’t need to say yes.
“Anything else?” D’Angelo asked the group.
Holt shook his head no. The FBI report covered his area. He polled the rest of the team. More no’s.
“Okay, then. Let’s start each day this way and powwow again before we split at night. Remember, consider everything important. Nothing should be viewed as insignificant.”
There was no argument there.
After the team went back to their cubicles, D’Angelo looked at the cards. A picture, though incomplete, was coming together. He decided to make two calls: his boss, and his counterpart at the Mossad.
A light summer rain fell. About fifteen network camera operators, representing the major broadcasters, kept their equipment dry with umbrellas and plastic bags. The general’s handlers allowed everyone to put their own microphones on a six-by-eight platform. They could have used a pool feed, but Bridgeman wanted the look of multiple microphones. Elliott Strong would talk about it later.
Robert Bridgeman wore civilian clothes — a navy blue jacket, gray pants, and an open-collar white shirt. He passed up an umbrella, choosing to stand in the elements. The only concession he had to make was to not touch the metal microphones or their stands. It might make for good news, but Bridgeman wanted people to remember what he said, not how he looked if shocked.
There was no formal program or introduction.
“Good afternoon. I won’t keep you out here too long, but maybe the weather is underscoring what I have to say today. We are not living under sunny skies.”
Bridgeman had just begun and he already gave the news hounds a great leadoff sound bite.
“I have only a few words; however, they carry great weight. I believe the United States has lost its compass. I believe the will of the people is not being served. I believe Washington is isolated and our leaders do not want to hear what we, the people, have to say. I believe there is only one way to demonstrate, beyond the shadow of a doubt, how united we stand. I call on all Americans everywhere to join me for a march on Washington. Not just a march…the largest assemblage in the history of the United States. We will show this self-anointed government that it is time to have a national referendum on the presidency. We will show legislators that if they don’t change the rules of succession, we will change who we send to Washington.”
“Join me in our nation’s capital on Saturday, August 18 for a march to bring America back home.”
The whole notion was revolutionary. Every reporter on the spot secretly loved it.
Elliott Strong’s phone lines were clogged. People called from every corner of the country. The news, as it was being called, spread across the country like a firestorm, igniting interest in Elliott’s ever-growing Strong Nation.
“So, you heard it. What does it mean to you?” Strong asked at the top of the hour.
Listeners responded as one:
“It’s great.”
“Finally!”
“Somebody’s going to do something about all this.”
“Sign me up.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m in.”
Elliott Strong took dozens of calls. Quick ones. Affirming ones. All supportive. All angry. General Robert Woodley Bridgeman struck an emotional chord, and Strong’s viewers were singing his praises.
The news was also on ABC, NBC, CBS, Fox, and CNN. The daytime roundtable cable shows were making it the central topic. Bridgeman was booked for Larry King at seven. Everyone wanted him. They couldn’t wait to score an interview with a retired Marine war hero who basically called for an immediate national referendum on the presidency. And they wanted to talk to him about whether he was going to run for president.
Now all the principal news organizations were also paying more attention to the radio host who broadcast from the geographic center of the country.
“You march. You go to the Capitol, the Mall, and the White House with General Robert Bridgeman,” Elliott Strong preached. “Not a thousand. Not ten thousand or a hundred thousand. Not a million. Show them what Americans really demand. We do it the Strong way. We do it with five million Strong.”
By the end of his broadcast, the slogan Five Million Strong was embedded in the minds of his listeners.
Chapter 38