“I do as well. Finding Ibrahim Haddad is key.”
“Yes it is; which is why I’m surprised it’s taken so long to talk.”
D’Angelo recalled Laham saying that earlier in their conversation. “It’s only been a matter of a few days,” he said.
“A few days?” Laham appear utterly confused. “I first approached the Israelis three years ago with this information.”
Chapter 59
D’Angelo was furious. He did nothing to hide his anger from the NDI. “It’s bullshit! They sat on this for three years?”
“Schecter never said a word, not on my watch,” Evans stated.
“Come on, Jack. You can’t tell me—”
“I can tell you anything I want.” The National Director of Intelligence stopped his agent in mid-sentence. “Anytime I want. Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
“That stated, it is the truth. They never informed us.” D’Angelo settled down. “But it is absolute bullshit,” he said again. “This guy told the Mossad about Haddad. They had to tell us.”
“They had to? Why?” Evans asked. “Because.”
“Come on, Vinnie, how long have you been doing this? It’s all about secrets. Learning them, evaluating them, holding onto them, and maybe trading them. Rarely does anyone just hand them out. Not us. Not them.”
“But they had his name. We could have nailed Haddad years ago. God knows how many people have died because of him,” D’Angelo said. “We’re their fucking friends!”
“Friends? We spy on each other; we use the promise of money to try to influence their politics. We walk away from their peace talks at the worst times. Then we make demands and they laugh at us. Friends? I’m really not so sure.”
“But they knew.” By now it was becoming a desperate argument.
“Maybe at the time they didn’t value the information. It could have been filed away or lost. Maybe they realized it after the fact. Maybe with my call…or yours. It could be as simple or as complicated as that. Remember how ineffective we were in tying intel together prior to 9/11, despite reliable information? People didn’t know how to read it or they ignored it. That’s why I’m here, now, in this office. Why would we expect any better from the Israelis?”
“Because they have been better at it. Because their survival has always depended on it. What if Schecter wanted to see how far the plot would go?”
“Well, if that’s the case, Vincent, we’ve got a chit in our column. And someday I won’t be shy about asking them to make good on it.”
“I need to get everyone on the same page,” Morgan Taylor said. “You all know each other. I think it’s fair to say you all trust each other. Now let’s find out how you can help one other.”
FBI Director Robert Mulligan, NDI Evans, the Army’s General Jonas Jackson Johnson, and Bemie Bernstein were joined by Scott Roarke, Vinnie D’Angelo, and Shannon Davis.
“Bob, you go first,” the president suggested.
“Okay. Bessolo and his team have gone through Haddad’s condo in Florida. As hard as it is to believe, there’s nothing there. No notepads, no computer files, and no smoking gun. We lifted a few fingerprints; they’re no help. We’re delving into his bank transactions. Local, offshore, anything we can track. Interpol is running searches for us, too. If he is our man, I can’t prove it.”
“Not yet,” Morgan Taylor noted. “Keep on it.” Next, the president went to his National Intelligence chief.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll defer to D’Angelo.” The NIA sat next to his man and tapped his arm twice.
“Ditto to everything Director Mulligan said. We’re also working with the FBI on his banking. But from my sources,” D’Angelo remained intentionally vague, “Haddad feels like the linchpin to the plan and his ultimate agenda is revenge.”
“Revenge?” the FBI chief asked.
“Yes, he holds a personal grudge against the United States, against the presidency in particular.”
“Why? How do you know?”
Again D’Angelo phrased his answer carefully. Evans warned him the FBI had a leak. “Let’s just leave how out of it. Why? Because his family was killed by an Israeli strike in Syria in 1973.”
Bernstein spoke up next. “Wait a second, the Israelis, not us? So why blame the U.S.? I don’t get it.
“He holds the U.S. responsible for Israel’s existence.”
“So we have a nutcase on our hands,” the chief of staff declared.
The president disagreed. “Not a nutcase. A man who is hell-bent on revenge. He has all his wits about him and the patience of Job.”
“Except for the fact that he’s Muslim,” D’Angelo continued.
“Do you know where he is?” This was Mulligan’s question.
“No, but I’ve learned how we might be able to find him.” This drew everyone’s attention. “He’s a reputable art dealer. That’s apparently where some of his money comes from. I suggest we work together to track major transactions over the last five to ten years. Because so much art is now traded on the Internet, we should look there, as well as galleries. Oh, and one other thing. He uses a variety of aliases and he speaks a number of languages. Consequently, our search should broaden to include French, German, Spanish, and Russian art dealers. I think it’s fair to assume that he has as many passports as he does identities. We should see what comes up in the database with minor changes to his appearance.”
D’Angelo stopped. Evans had gently pressed against his arm. He said enough for the room, despite the fact that it was the Oval Office.
Without a thank you, the president turned to Roarke.
“Scott, you and Shannon have the floor.”
Roarke jumped in. “Shannon and I, with the help of DIA and the FBI labs, have been working on the identity of the assassin. We feel we’ve ascertained who he is, or more accurately, who he was.”
“What?” was everyone’s reaction.
Bernstein looked most shocked, so the Secret Service agent played to him. “He was an officer in the United States Army. Officially, he was killed in action in Baghdad. However, his body was never recovered. Like Haddad, he has a motive for revenge. He was sent into a building in what was arguably a suicide mission. His squad had challenged the order, but their objections were dismissed. Everyone died, including — for the record — our subject. We visited his parents, who have benefitted greatly from an insurance policy, for which there is no record. With their permission, we borrowed family photographs and ran them through the FBI photo recognition labs. We have a very reliable match with witness descriptions of the suspect. I should add that I’ve seen this man twice, once in Washington and again, recently in Boston. He is the man in the picture.” Roarke reached into his attaché case. “This picture.” He held up an enlargement of the photograph the Coopers gave him. “Meet Richard Cooper.”
O’Connell typed every conceivable word pairing into the search box. Nothing hit him right.
He re-read the initial e-mail from the Russian.
Your reports fine.
Why do you write about things you not know?
You need information good.
Bearly a friend.
I’m thinking too big. Not weapons or armies. If it’s about Lodge and the presidency, then forget bombs. I have to think smaller.