“Why?” Roarke really didn’t know the answer.
“The honorable Speaker of the House, for one. He leads the majority party. He’s a Democrat. Taylor’s a Republican. Democrats hold both houses. Do you think anything I come up with that moves him out of the way will get attention?”
“Not if you put it that way. But doesn’t this come down to a state-by-state referendum? A Constitutional Amendment?”
“Yes and no. Acts passed by Congress govern the procedure. The Constitution covers when, not necessarily how and who. So one of the things that I’ll propose is a new what.”
“I’m glad that’s cleared up,” Roarke joked.
“Excuse me, but you’re the one who sets all the rules on what we can and cannot get into on the phone.” She had him. “Everything I read makes me feel like we’re sitting on a ticking bomb.”
“What do you mean,” he asked.
“Well, the current law makes it relatively easy to foster what amounts to executive treason.”
Treason was a word he didn’t like. “Explain.”
“We have the potential for a classic case of The Law of Unintended Consequences. A president of one party is replaced by the successor from another, unelected by popular vote.”
“Isn’t Taylor the beneficiary of that already?”
“Again, yes and no. Taylor was picked by President Lamden. The speaker is from the same party as President Lamden. Even though Taylor is something of a political wild card, the present line does not present any disruption. If Taylor dies, a Democrat takes office again, in what was a Democrat-elected administration. The unintended consequence I’m looking at is probably in the future. A new party fully takes over from the elected party. Different interests are represented. We could have a real political crisis.”
Roarke listened, but he couldn’t let go of the last point. It had come up in the president’s office, too. Taylor had no vice president, and wouldn’t until the long-range medical condition of President Lamden was settled. That would make Congressman Patrick president in the event of Taylor’s death. Right away that was an Unintended Consequence that scared the hell out of him.
“First, you must understand, I do not do this to help the Zionists. Although I cannot deny that they may ultimately benefit,” Jamil Laham explained. “Though we and the Jews spring forth from the same seed, sons of Abraham, the gulf that spans between us is far greater than the differences that separate the Sunnis and the Shi’ites. Nonetheless, I am a realist. Creating peace in the world rests on individual efforts. The Prophet himself said, ‘Do you know what is better than charity and fasting and prayer? It is keeping peace and good relations between people, as quarrels and bad feelings destroy mankind.’ There are those whose actions would destroy mankind: ideologues with weapons of mass destruction, terrorists with no regard for order, fundamentalist clerics, and yes, even American presidents. That is why I’m willing to talk to you. But it’s puzzling to me why it has taken so long.”
“I am sorry,” D’Angelo didn’t really understand the intent of the remark. He only heard of Laham a few days ago. “But you have my full attention now,” D’Angelo offered in consolation.
“Very well. Many years ago I was chief of the Palace Guards. It may be hard to believe looking at me now, but I was a strong man without this cursed limp.” He slapped his right leg with his hand.
D’Angelo automatically looked down.
“A teenager with a gun. He called himself a fighter in the army of Allah. Thanks to my men, he met Allah well before me. But I digress. I fought with General Hafez al Assad against the Israelis in what you call the Six Day War. I proudly stood by him when he became president. I am proud of my service with him. I was faithful in that service until the day he died.” Laham lowered his eyes in deference to the man he obviously admired.
“You were not born then. You probably have very little knowledge of our president. But I can tell you that he was a great man with great ideas and important dreams. Foremost was his hope of bringing the Zionists to the bargaining table. He tried many ways, short term and long. The most extraordinary was to steer American politics toward a greater understanding of the Muslim world.”
Right, D’Angelo said to himself. What a nice way of saying you planted sleeper spies to take over the presidency.
“He got very close to succeeding,” D’Angelo volunteered. He figured the observation was less volatile than admitting what he really thought. “Congressman Lodge nearly became president.”
“You do not mince words,” Laham noted. “I was there when he conceived the plan. The Russians were more than interested in taking our money to facilitate the training of this man and, I understand, others like him. While I did not know who was recruited or the purpose of their assignments, I did have contact with the individual who oversaw it.”
“Ibrahim Haddad,” D’Angelo said.
“He went by that name and others,” Laham acknowledged.
“What can you tell me about this man?”
“Ah, I see I have your attention. Well then, Ibrahim first met with President Assad in 1972. Do you know he was already a rich businessman by the time he was in his mid-twenties?”
“What kind of business?”
“Import. Some rugs. Most notably art work. Expensive art that he sold to French, German, American, British, and Iranian dealers and collectors. His trade often took him to Russia without a blink of an eye. He traveled freely, and eventually took more interest in the president’s plan than his own work.”
“How would you describe him?”
“He was a tall man. Taller than me. Handsome, lean, arrogant, and bitter, but I will return to that later. He struck me as highly educated and he had a distinctive air about him. You’d be drawn to him, but never feel close. President Assad had many meetings with Ibrahim. And I have no doubt, the president made him a much richer man. How rich, I cannot say. When President Assad died, I initially believed that the plans died with him. I was removed from office when Bashir ascended to the presidency. A short while later, I suffered this wound.” He gestured to his leg again. “I became a functionary in the finance department.”
“And when you read the news earlier this year?”
“I learned that the dream of Hafez al Assad continued, but in the hands of others. Ultimately the Libyans. It was plain to see I had underestimated the character of the man my president chose to administer his plan.”
“You say he went by many names?”
“Yes. In fact, I don’t know his real identity. To me he was Hassan Kassir, but we shall continue to call him Haddad. It might be possible to find out, particularly when I tell you the rest of his story. Come, let’s walk again. I tighten up if I don’t move often.”
There was nothing suspicious about the two men. Many tourists came to the Omayyad Mosque. For a few minutes Laham pointed out other sites including the mausoleum of Salah ad-Din. Salah was a noted hero and one of Islam’s great commanders who re-took Jerusalem from the Crusaders in 1187. Unlike other conquerors, he spared his victims, allowing them time to leave with their lives. Laham also noted the three vibrant domes and the varying styles of the minarets, which dramatically rose above the mosque.
After a time they stopped again. Laham faced D’Angelo. He sharpened his focus, peering directly at his companion. “You are American, though you disguise it well.”
D’Angelo blinked acceptance that he’d been found out. “Now I will enlighten you with a part of your history that your own texts have forgotten.”