Executive Power (11 page)

T
he plane touched down at the old Clark Air Base at three in the morning. There was no fanfare, no military band, no diplomatic reception. The old base had been turned over to the Philippine government when they chose not to renew the U.S. Air Force's lease. This was an unscheduled, unannounced arrival. The Gulfstream was met by a tired-looking ground crew that was more concerned with rubbing the sleep from their eyes than who was on the plane. A fuel truck pulled up alongside the jet almost immediately and two men went to work filling the plane's tanks.

McMahon left the plane first. He was met by the embassy's FBI man, who, according to plan, should have been roused from a dead sleep just an hour ago and told to get his ass to the base to pick up someone important. McMahon was that man and once he was alone with the agent he would put the fear of God into him. No one at the embassy was to know he was in the country until he said so. McMahon was going to keep a real close eye on Ambassador Cox, and when the word was given he would slap the cuffs on him.

After McMahon was gone, Rapp walked down the short stairs holding a file under his arm. Despite the sticky humidity, he was wearing an olive-drab vest, like the ones photographers wore. The lightweight vest was designed with plenty of pockets inside and out and was great for holding things like lenses and extra film. Or in Rapp's case, extra clips of ammunition, a silencer for his 9mm Beretta and a secure satellite phone.

A black Lincoln Continental sat in the shadows next to one of the large gray hangars. When Rapp reached the tarmac the sedan's lights flashed three times. Rapp took a look around and then nodded to Coleman, who was standing on the top step. The former SEAL ducked back inside and hit a button. The stairs retracted into the closed position and the sleek white jet began to move once again.

Rapp walked over to the car. The back door swung open, and he stopped to take one last look at the Gulfstream, which was taxiing for takeoff. He stepped in, closed the door and turned to meet his contact. Lieutenant General Sergio Rizal looked back at Rapp with a pair of discerning dark eyes. Rizal was the head of the Philippine army. He was a graduate of West Point, and a staunch American ally. He and General Flood had a good working relationship that went all the way back to Vietnam. Pudgy-faced and short-limbed, the fifty-eight-year-old had a little pot belly that strained against the buttons of his camouflage battle dress uniform.

Rizal was deeply concerned about his country. He had been sickened when in the early nineties the radicals in his government refused to renew the leases for the American military bases. After twenty-one years of dictatorial abuse by Ferdinand Marcos and his wife Imelda the Filipino people rebelled against the military and its American backers. The radicals got their way, the Americans left, the aid dried up, and an already slumping economy worsened.

It wasn't long before the Muslim and communist guerrilla groups who had been kept at bay by the Marcos regime renewed their efforts to destroy the democracy. They concentrated on the outer islands and began wreaking havoc across the far-flung archipelago. Morale in the Philippine army worsened with each year, and with each subsequent decrease in funds. The communists were working their way into the government through the socialist party and were doing everything they could to frustrate the military in their campaign to keep the country unified.

After a decade of disastrous policy from the leadership in Manila, it had finally been decided that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing having the Americans around. The door was reopened a bit. Quietly, the United States military began leasing portions of the bases and the vaunted Green Berets began instructing the Philippine army on how to take the battle to the rebels. Much needed economic and military aid was increased, but in these tumultuous times, Rizal wondered if it was enough to turn the tide. The enemy forces were already formidable, and now this American was here to tell him he had a traitor in his own inner circle. For the first time in his military career, General Rizal felt that his country might be beyond saving.

Rapp made no effort to introduce himself. He'd read Rizal's profile twice. In addition, General Flood, who knew Rizal well, had told Rapp the man didn't trust people who talked too much. Instead, Rapp casually extracted a file from the flash bag on his lap and handed it over to him. He watched the general don a pair of reading glasses and then watched some more in silence as the man sitting next to him grew more and more irritated with each passing page.

General Rizal closed the file and removed his reading glasses. His expression was unreadable. In a very precise manner, the older man placed his reading glasses in a case and stowed them in his breast pocket. He looked down at the file resting on his knee and sadly shook his head.

“So General Moro is a traitor.”

“Unless you have another explanation, that would appear to be the case.”

The general frowned. “I have none.” Rizal still had yet to make eye contact with Rapp. “In fact, when I look back on certain events, this makes sense.” Rizal's stubby fingers tapped the file. “Abu Sayyaf, moving so freely, twice being cornered, but miraculously escaping both times. We were all convinced that if Moro and his vaunted commandos couldn't hunt down the rebels then no one could.” The general shook his head. “How could I have been so blind?”

“Were you friends?” asked Rapp.

“No,” said Rizal without emotion. “I never liked the man, but he has his supporters. He is very smooth politically, and his men love him. He has created his own cult of personality, something that has concerned me and a few others for some time.”

Rapp liked the sound of that. Through the profiles that the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency had provided, Rapp already knew Moro's commandos were fiercely loyal to him. This, combined with the new information that Moro had enemies within the general staff, made Rapp confident that he could sell his plan without having to twist any arms.

“What would his men do if he was relieved of his command?”

“I'm not sure.” The American's implication was obvious. “I can recall him to Manila on any one of a dozen pretenses, all of them seemingly legitimate, but going public with arresting him, that will be the tricky part. He has many allies, some of them wildly popular and very anti-American. They will say that you framed him.” Rizal sadly shook his head and added, “And there are many people in my country who will want to believe that.” Looking out the window he added in a defeated voice, “Our military is very weak right now. I don't know how we will survive a scandal of this magnitude.”

Rapp saw his chance. “There's another way out of this, sir.”

For the first time Rizal made eye contact.

“Moro has broken his oath as an officer,” Rapp started. “He's a traitor plain and simple.” Rapp pointed to the file. “This is just the tip of the iceberg, by the way. If you brought him up on a court-martial he'd be buried under the evidence and ultimately sentenced to death. You can choose to go that route or we can try something else.”

“I'm listening.”

Rapp hesitated only briefly. “I want his head.” His dark eyes never left the general's. “Two U.S. Navy SEALs are dead because of him, and a family of innocent noncombatants are still being held hostage because Moro has aided and abetted the enemy. If we arrest him he will be court-martialed, and despite the politics of the situation, he will be convicted and more than likely sentenced to death. But as you've pointed out, such a trial will severely damage our two countries' relationship and the image of the Philippine army.” Easing back, Rapp added, “I think both of us would prefer to see this problem dealt with in a more subtle way.”

Rizal thought about this for a minute. He knew exactly what the American was getting at. “What would you need from me?”

Rapp carefully examined the general and then began to lay out his plan. By midmorning the problem would be neutralized and the Philippine people would have a martyr to rally behind in their battle against the Muslim rebels.

C
ruising at 600 mph the Gulfstream jet made the relatively short hop from Manila to Samar Island in just under an hour, and touched down at an unlit private landing strip near the southern tip of the island. It came to a brief stop at the end of the runway, just long enough for Coleman and his men to deplane, and then raced back down the asphalt and into the star-filled sky.

The four men stood in silence as the roar of jet engines was replaced by the jungle's nocturnal murmuring. They were still well outside the combat zone, but they all instinctively spread out, each man putting his eyes on a different sector. They were in jungle fatigues, their faces smeared with greasepaint and their weapons dangling at their sides.

The airstrip and the acreage surrounding it belonged to a Japanese businessman. He'd bought the 1,200-acre plantation and built himself a magnificent home overlooking the ocean and an eighteen-hole golf course for his private amusement. Rapp had his people at the CTC (CIA's Counterrorism Center) do a few discreet inquiries and discovered that the home was rarely used during the week and was currently unoccupied. There was a caretaker on the premises, but they would be long gone by the time he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and came to investigate.

Two of the former SEALs, Kevin Hackett and Dan Stroble, donned their night vision goggles and moved off in opposite directions, their MP-10 suppressed submachine guns hanging at their sides. Coleman chose not to put on his NVGs, looking off in the distance at the big house on the hill, now washed by moonlight. He took a small pair of field binoculars from his chest pocket to get a closer look at the house. A couple of exterior lights were on, but otherwise the place was black. A single light shone from the gatehouse across the drive from the main house. Coleman studied the structure for a time and was looking at the front door when the caretaker stepped outside. A slight frown creased his brow as he silently hoped their ride would arrive before he had to deal with this problem.

The fourth man arrived silently at Coleman's side. “The chopper's on its way in.”

Coleman tilted an ear toward the sky, but heard nothing. He looked down at Charlie Wicker and nodded. He trusted Wicker's senses more than his own. In fact, he trusted Wicker's eyes and ears more than probably any other soldier he'd ever worked with. Barely five foot six, Wicker was almost elfish in appearance. He was the best sniper Coleman had ever seen in action and had been handpicked by Rapp for the operation. Wicker was the only active-duty man on the team. Rapp had sheep-dipped him from SEAL Team 6. When they got into position Wicker would be the star of the show.

A full ten seconds after Wicker had alerted him, Coleman heard the thumping noise of helicopter rotors against the heavy tropical air. The MH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter came in fast, skimming the tops of the trees and then passing over the heads of Coleman and his men. It flared out immediately like a horse being pulled back in by its reins, its tail landing gear looking like it would hit the tarmac hard. At the last minute the wheel stabilized a mere foot above the ground until the front landing gear came into line. The menacing bird set down gently without the aid of its heavy-duty shock absorbers.

Coleman and his men watched all of this with great interest. They expected the best, and it looked like they'd got it. The bird belonged to the Air Force Special Operations Command. It was part of the 353rd Special Operations Group out of Kadena Air Base in Japan. The specifics of the op had been taken care of on the flight over. Rapp had given Coleman the mission objective and told him to organize the details. Anything he needed was to be routed through General Campbell at the Joint Special Operations Command back at Fort Bragg. Coleman had one request and it was pretty simple, but very important. He asked for the best flight crew available. As evidenced by the failed mission to rescue the Andersons, the most dangerous part of any op was usually the insertion and the extraction.

Coleman stopped just outside the open door of the helicopter and slapped each of his men on the back as they bounded in. When they were all onboard he climbed in and stuck his head into the cockpit. The pilot turned to look at him, his night vision goggles perched atop his black flight helmet in the up position. Coleman handed the man a piece of white paper with a GPS coordinate on it.

“Bring us in low, just above the canopy and we'll fast-rope down.”

The pilot nodded. Neither warrior attempted an introduction. All parties involved understood there would be no official record of what they were doing. The pilot punched the coordinates into the bird's advanced Pave Hawk avionics computer and Coleman buckled himself in for what he was sure would be a wild ride.

W
hen David entered Monsignor Lavin's office, the first thing he noticed was caution in the eyes of the normally jovial priest. It was not the sign the Palestinian was looking for. With everything he had worked for hinging on this evening's meeting, he was growing increasingly nervous as the appointed hour approached. One mistake now, one misread, would very likely lead to a brutal death at the hands of his own people.

Studying the priest with a discerning eye, David asked, “What is wrong?”

Lavin shook his head and said, “Nothing.” He pointed at the door behind him and then looked at some papers on his desk.

Something was amiss, but what it was, David hadn't a clue. He hesitated briefly and then willed his feet to march him to the door. He had a feeling that on the other side of it something awaited him that he wouldn't like. When he opened the door his instincts proved correct.

There, sitting in the dim light, in his usual spot, at the far end of the conference table, was Abe Spielman. This time, however, a shadowy figure sat next to him. David could not make out any features, but he didn't need to. The large bald head and bull-like shoulders could only belong to one man. It was Ben Freidman. The name alone inspired hatred and fear in many. In David's case, at least, it also inspired a begrudging respect.

In the entire West Bank there was perhaps no other man more loathed than Ben Freidman. As the director general of Mossad, it was Freidman's job to wage a covert war with Israel's enemies. The Israeli Defense Forces were in charge of dealing with the menagerie of terrorist groups within the occupied territories in a more overt manner, but it was Mossad's job to take on the particularly nasty operations.

Freidman had been the chief architect of many such actions over the last two decades. As David's eyes adjusted to the dim lights, he got a better look at the man. Though they had never met, the two enemies stared at each other with the familiarity of lifelong rivals. Neither spoke and the tension continued to build.

Spielman, nervous that his friend might turn around and leave, offered an apology for bringing a guest. “Jabril, I'm sorry for surprising you like this, but I can explain.”

David's eyes left Freidman's and looked at his old friend. He decided, for now, not to reply. Even though he was caught off guard that their little two-person club had a new member, he knew he shouldn't have been. The information that he had given Spielman during their last meeting was bound to wake up some people at the Institute, as Mossad was commonly referred to by insiders.

Slowly, David walked closer to the two men and grabbed a chair, not the one right next to Spielman, as he normally did, but one a few away. The message was clear; he would listen, but it would not be business as usual. The other thing he hoped to convey was his mistrust of a monster like Freidman. Always the pragmatist, though, David knew the director general of Mossad was a nemesis that the bloodthirsty Palestinian leadership had created. It was a case of action and reaction.

Absent his normal charm, David looked to Spielman and said, “I didn't know we were allowed to bring visitors. I'm sure I could have found someone to join us.”

Spielman didn't laugh. “Believe me, it wasn't my idea.” Inside, the elderly professor was still seething over Freidman's dictum that he would accompany him to the meeting.

It made no difference that when Freidman was a case officer, he recoiled at any attempt by his superiors to meet one of his assets. In Spielman's harsh opinion, Freidman was a control freak and a bully, and a man who fanned the flames of Palestinian–Israeli hatred. He was exactly the type of person that could upset the hard-fought and delicate friendship he had cultivated with Jabril.

Knowing Spielman well enough, David could tell that he was sincere. He gave him a slight nod, signaling that he was willing to take him at his word, at least for now.

Leaning forward, out of the shadows, Freidman placed his brawny forearms on the table and in a raspy voice asked, “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course.” David maintained an almost disinterested attitude. He'd read the PLO's meager file on the man and had heard many stories.

Born in Jerusalem in 1949, Freidman went on to distinguish himself in the Six Day War of 1967. After the war he was transferred to AMAN, Israel's military intelligence organization, and then later Mossad. At Mossad he became a very effective kidon, or in the common parlance of the business, an assassin. He specialized in hunting down members of Yasser Arafat's Force 17. His tenacious ability to track people across multiple continents made him a greatly feared warrior in the struggle for his people's security.

“I have kept an eye on you,” stated Freidman, “for many years, and have been looking forward to this day for some time.”

David wondered if he meant simply meeting him, or meant wrapping his large hands around his throat and choking him to death. It was quite possibly a bit of both, for he had no doubt that Ben Freidman was cut from the same cloth as the militant terrorists who governed his own people. The enemy was the enemy, and there was no need to analyze it much further than that. There was no distinction or recognition of the individual. The condemnation was made of the entire Palestinian society, and conversely of all Israelis. It was this line of thinking that allowed these men to launch blunt attacks with no concern over who was killed. It was the rationale that allowed them to sleep at night and claim that their cause was the truly just one.

There were many directions David could take this. There were many questions in fact that he would very much like to ask the dark angel who was sitting across from him, but there were schedules to be kept, goals to be met and a country to be made. Besides, it was somewhat comforting to know that, during the course of the next two weeks, the man sitting across from him would feel pressure like he'd never felt before.

Eschewing anything controversial, and swallowing his pride, David said, “And I have looked forward to meeting you.”

Freidman smirked as if to say he doubted the sincerity of the comment, and then said, “Tell me, Jabril, and excuse me if I sound distrustful, but it is my nature. This meeting tonight, why would all of these people risk gathering in one place?”

David wondered how good Freidman's intelligence was. It was highly likely that he had assets who could give him pieces to the complex puzzle. Those pieces on their own would prove nothing, but they might raise or lower his level of cynicism. Truthfully, he answered, “It is not that unusual for them to gather under one roof.”

The bald man looked skeptical. “The leaders of Hamas, the head of the Palestinian General Intelligence and the leaders of Force 17 … this is a common occurrence that they all get together to plot the destruction of my people?”

David stayed the course. “Yes.”

“I find it hard to believe they could stand the sight of each other.”

“Let's just say they are united in their hatred of you … and their desire for money.”

Things began to make sense for the head of Mossad. At first he thought Jabril was invited to the terrorism summit as a mere financial representative, but now he saw there might be more to it. It was possible that with his fund-raising prowess, he was able to call such meetings himself, in order to distribute cash. A recent piece of intelligence clicked in the back of his mind and he reminded himself to look more deeply into something one of his people had told him just this morning. Freidman eyed David and asked, “And what of you? What do you hate, or should I say who?”

“I try not to hate. It leads to poor decisions.”

Freidman scoffed at the thought. “It can also be a great motivator.”

“Yes, it can,” replied David, “but look where it has gotten us.” David watched as Freidman retreated back into the shadows, an expression of scornful disagreement on his face. Watching him react the way he did, David wished it was within his means to kill the man right this very moment. He could probably do it and forfeit his own life, or spend the rest of his days in an Israeli jail, being tortured and otherwise treated like a subhuman, but suicide was not in his plans. Maybe an opportunity would someday present itself, but for now he would have to make his deal with the devil. It saddened him, however, to know that Freidman would go on using his indiscriminant weapons of war to kill the people of Palestine. Ben Freidman held much in common with the men David was meeting with this evening. It was too bad he couldn't talk him into coming along.

A black attaché case appeared from under the table and then another. Freidman placed them both in front of David and said, “As you requested.” He laid one of the cases flat, opened it and spun it around. “Each is lined with five pounds of C-4 plastique. You requested it, so I assume you know what you're doing.”

There had been a debate between the top counterterrorism people and Spielman late into the evening yesterday. The question was, how would Spielman's asset pull this off? Was he going to use the cases as a suicide bomb, or was he going to somehow leave the meeting place and remote detonate the devices? The debate was evenly divided with Spielman saying it was impossible that Jabril Khatabi would commit suicide, and the analysts saying that their money was on the Palestinian turning himself into a martyr. This split among his own people led Freidman to take several precautions.

David nodded and examined the cases. They were basic black Samsonite attaché cases. He would weigh them when he got back to his apartment, and had little doubt that he would discover the Israelis had put more than five pounds of explosives in each. David extended his hand. “The detonator?”

“As you requested.” Freidman handed over a black digital Casio watch. “Press the split reset button to arm the cases and then the start–stop button twice within three seconds to detonate.”

“Thank you.” David took the watch and studied it briefly before placing it inside the first case. “Just so you know, Mr. Freidman, I plan on making more than one stop.”

Freidman frowned, not quite understanding what was meant by the remark.

David grinned. “I am not so naive as to think this watch is the only detonator. I also know that my life means nothing to you. So don't get any ideas about detonating the cases on your own. I will be led on a long journey tonight, changing cars often, and stopping at many houses until I reach my destination. Only I will know when the time is right, and although I know it is impossible for you to trust a Palestinian, believe me when I tell you that I want these men dead every bit as much as you do.”

Freidman accepted the statement with a nod and said, “It's your operation. However you want to handle it is up to you.”

“Is there anything else I need to know?”

Freidman hesitated. He had many questions, but now was not the time. If this Palestinian proved himself tonight and managed to survive the blast they could sit down later. He shook his oversized head and said, “No.”

As David gathered the cases he heard the tired voice of his friend who was still sitting, observing the two strange allies. “Why, Jabril?”

David turned to look at Spielman. There seemed a genuine sadness in his eyes. “You do not know?”

“Maybe, but I would like to hear it from you.”

David nodded thoughtfully. His mind rested upon the truth and he said, “These men who I am going to see do not want peace, and as long as they are the leaders of my people, we will only know hatred and death.” With that, David grabbed the cases and left the room.