Still, Lewis kicked the tires. Old habits die hard for the colonel of Air Force One. “It’ll be good to have Top Gun back aboard.” Top Gun was the handle the Secret Service gave to Morgan Taylor, in honor of his years as a fighter pilot.
“Yes, sir.” Ross was just as surprised by Taylor’s return to the White House as everybody else. He knew the president had more than a basic understanding of Air Force One.
Lewis turned the page on the clipboard he held in his hand. “This is not a social visit. We’re in and out of Honolulu in four hours.”
The flight plan was set. Rossy had been briefed on the itinerary, the number of passengers, and any special requirements for the trip.
“Pretty light in the cabin.”
“Right. No press. Just…” Lewis turned two pages to the manifest, “…the chief of staff, sec defense, the press secretary, and J3.”
J3? thought Rossy. That stepped up the importance of the flight another notch. J3 was an extremely well-respected and important member of the president’s team: a holdover from Taylor’s last administration. J3 was the nickname of General Jonas Jackson Johnson. The general, the biggest, toughest officer he’d ever encountered, headed USASOC, America’s largest command component of SOCOM, U.S. Special Operations Command. SOCOM answered to the president. It had a wide range of worldwide activities, from covert counterterrorism activities to highly visible military operations.
“Any idea who they’re all meeting with?” the lieutenant asked. It was an out-of-line question.
“Not for me to reason why.” The colonel stopped himself from reciting the rest of the phrase.
“Four hours.”
“Real fast. We’re back by twenty-two oh five tomorrow. Just a warm-up. Taylor’s got a bigger one coming up soon. Sydney’s on the schedule for August.”
Lt. Ross glanced up at the underbelly of the jet, hardly giving the comment a second thought. “Yeah, I saw that, sir. I’ll be ready.”
“I can’t ask you. And I won’t,” said Roarke over the phone.
“Won’t what?” Katie asked. The bugs had been removed.
“I won’t ask you to look at Marcus’s old phone files or his computer,” Roarke said.
“You’re right, you can’t ask that.”
“I didn’t. I can’t.”
“Good. Just so long as we’re clear on that,” Katie added.
“Completely. Because it would violate your company’s lawyer-client privilege to see if Marcus ever spoke to an Ibrahim Haddad who lived in Fisher Island, Miami.”
Katie rested the pewter Jefferson cup she was drinking from on her coffee table. Now with Witherspoon dead, she was back in her own home. For safety’s sake, an FBI agent still guarded her building from a car on Grove Street. She cradled the phone on her neck and rummaged through her briefcase for a yellow pad and clicker pencil.
“Absolutely a clear violation, even though the lawyer in the relationship is dead,” she said while writing the name down. Abraham Haddid.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not checking. Because I’d be wrong to ask, and you’d be wrong to check on any Ibrahim, with an I, Ibrahim Haddad. H-A-double D, A, D.”
She crossed out what she had written, getting the correct spelling this time. “No matter how you spell it, it would be unethical.”
“And I completely understand that, even considering he may have been involved in a seditious act, punishable under Federal law. You just can’t do it.”
“That’s right. But it’s surprising no one thought of this before,” she offered.
“Yeah, you’d think,” Roarke added.
“Of course, you know it would take a court order. The firm would have to vet the files, making sure only the pertinent ones were pulled. All of that could take a great deal of time.”
Katie created a quick chart with arrows.
HADDAD — Marcus/Witherspoon
She looked at it and decided somebody else was needed. The somebody on Scott’s mind. She added it at the end.
HADDAD — Marcus/Witherspoon <— ASSASSIN
Finding Haddad might help him find the assassin. “I’m glad you understand the law,” she stated.
“That’s why I wouldn’t ask you to consider this,” he responded. “Anyway, where could Marcus lead us? He’s dead.”
“Exactly.” She circled the word ASSASSIN.
“Then we understand each other?”
“Precisely. We’re in complete agreement on this, Agent Roarke.”
“One hundred percent, counselor?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Now tell me what you’re wearing.”
Chapter 47
D’Angelo put down his coffee mug on the left side of his desk, away from the computer hard drive. He pressed the power button and waited for his start-up programs to load.
When his sign-on page came up, he typed in his password. It also happened to be his childhood dog’s name. Moments later, the overnight e-mail dumped into his file from the secure CIA server. The one that quickly caught his attention had no body, just a subject from a web address he immediately recognized:
Want to take a trip? Ira. “Yes!” Vinnie D’Angelo yelled. No one heard him, however. After the first day, he beat everyone else in to work. The CIA agent immediately dialed a classified phone number, which connected him to an office in Israel.
“Shalom,” the voice answered after one ring.
“D’Angelo,” was the simple reply.
“Well, hello,” Wurlin said. “I expected I’d be your first call of the day. Do you ever sleep?”
“I sleep. Usually when I’m staring at our surveillance reports on the Mossad. You think you can give our boys something interesting to write about?”
Wurlin laughed. “You’re only seeing what we want you to see.”
D’Angelo suspected there was a good deal of truth in the remark. The Mossad was one of the world’s most effective spy agencies — somedays, the best. “Well then, tell me something I don’t know.”
Now Wurlin added a solemnity to his voice. “There is a man. He can be found in Damascus. He may have information you seek. He worked inside the Capitol under Hafez Al-Assad. I’ve been told he was privy to who came and went and, to some extent, who said what. He has indicated that he remembers certain things that you might find important.”
“Why?” It was always important to understand the motivation of people who felt compelled to reveal national secrets to a foreign government. Money was the worst reason. It made everything suspect.
“He believes that fundamentalists are going to do great harm to Syria…that for Syria to survive as a modern Islamic state, it needs Western friends. You’re about to become one.”
He doesn’t want money. “When can we meet?” D’Angelo asked. He clicked on his desktop calendar.
“You will meet this man in Damascus in three days. Have you been there before, Vincent?”
“No,” D’Angelo quickly stated, never wishing to volunteer information. Even to Wurlin.
“Well, there is a great deal for you to see. You’ll especially want to take in the Omayyad Mosque.”