Executive Power (15 page)

I
t looked like the roulette wheel would stop on Hebron, a Palestinian city of over one hundred thousand, twenty miles south of Jerusalem. In the fifty-plus years of Israeli statehood, Hebron had been a city caught in the middle. Located in a mountainous region, it was home to the Tomb of Abraham; a prophet revered by Muslims, Jews and Christians alike. A small community of Orthodox Jews lived near the center of the town, but they numbered less than a thousand and had to be protected by a garrison of Israeli Defense Forces.

The Palestinians resented the fact that a single Jew lived in their city and had tried countless times over the last century to rectify the problem by means that were less than humanitarian. The terrain lent itself naturally to urban guerrilla warfare; narrow streets that wound up and down hillsides flanked by multistory stone buildings with flat roofs. Blind corners abounded and streets stopped and started without warning. Israeli soldiers steered clear of much of the city knowing if they went in, there was a good chance they might not make it out. In short, Hebron was Palestinian-controlled territory.

It surprised David not in the least that this was where the meeting would take place. His altercation with Rashid in the parking garage had been extremely satisfying. If Rashid and his men understood anything it was force. They had seen their boss bested, and bested easily, by a younger man who by virtue of the meeting he was about to attend was somebody important.

Still, David didn't give them much time to react as they gawked at the bloody Rashid lying unconscious on the floor. He yelled at the men to get moving and climbed into the white Israeli taxi. The men hesitated, not sure what they should do. “Leave him!” he ordered. “When I tell Mohammed Atwa what he has done, he will be grateful that you left him here.”

This was a name that stirred genuine terror in the Palestinians. The three men did not hesitate to obey. Mohammed Atwa was the head of Palestinian General Intelligence; an organization that many Palestinians feared more than Mossad. The security service was known for torturing and killing suspected collaborators with impunity. Atwa had even resurrected the old practice of killing Palestinians who dared sell their land to a Jew. He also happened to be the same man who ordered the torture and interrogation of David when he was a young teenager.

David looked out the window of the sedan as they meandered through the canyonlike streets of Hebron. Darkness had fallen and they were no longer in the white Israeli taxi. Driving such a vehicle into Hebron would be akin to walking through Harlem in full Ku Klux Klan regalia. Instead, they'd switched to a yellow Palestinian taxi.

As they rounded a tight corner they came to a sudden stop. A group of masked young men immediately surrounded the car. They carried a variety of weapons from Russian-made AK-47s to American-made M16s. All four doors of the sedan were yanked open and everyone was told to get out. David was searched once again for a transmitter. When one of the men stepped up and tried to grab the attaché cases, David stopped him with a stern rebuke. He placed both cases on the trunk of the car and opened one and then the other. The packets of neatly bound one hundred dollar bills left the men momentarily awestruck. The nicely dressed young man they were dealing with was apparently someone very important.

David slammed the cases closed before the guards had time to gather their wits. Acting impatient, he grabbed each case and told the men he was not to be delayed further. With the vision of millions of American dollars still fresh in their heads, none of them argued. David was walked through the barricade and placed in the back of a minivan. The van raced up the street, turning several times. On each corner men stood watch with assault rifles at their sides.

Six blocks later they stopped in front of a three-story house. Both sides of the street were clogged with parked cars. David grew nervous for a second and then saw the vehicle he was looking for. The Mercedes sedan was parked just on the other side of a van. David breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the armored car belonged to Mohammed Atwa.

Clutching the attaché cases, he stepped from the van and walked toward the house. His arms suddenly felt very heavy, and everything began to slow down. He looked down at the cracked sidewalk and then slowly up at the two masked men standing guard in front of the blue wood door with chipped and peeling paint. The men were gesturing for David to hurry but he didn't hear what they were saying. He just casually placed one foot in front of the other, and then the next thing he knew, he was in the house.

There were people everywhere. It was as if a party were going on. Smoke and loud conversation filled the air. To the room on his left there was a virtual banquet; mounds of grilled lamb, shashlik, mussakhan and chicken liver. A middle-aged man who ran the Popular Liberation Committee in Gaza was popping baklava into his mouth and nodding enthusiastically to the head of Force 17. Over in the corner he saw two men sipping Arab coffee and discussing something in earnest. One of the men he knew to be the head of security for Islamic Jihad but the other man he didn't recognize. David felt his throat tighten a bit; this was the culmination of meticulous planning and great patience. It was almost exactly as he'd dreamt it would be.

He looked to the right and saw a big screen TV. It was tuned to Al Jazeera, but it seemed no one was paying attention. Three large couches were arranged around the TV. They were filled with men, some of whom David recognized. This was the closest thing David had ever seen to a terrorism summit.

There were representatives from the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, and at least one from Beirut. There were several new faces from the martyr brigades and many old faces from the PLO and its only true rival, Hamas.

Through the crowd David saw Mohammed Atwa approach. David forced a smile to his face and lifted the two attaché cases in the air. Atwa, the head of Palestinian General Intelligence, the torturer of thousands, grabbed David by the cheeks and standing on his toes, kissed the younger man's forehead.

With a flourish Atwa turned and waved a theatrical arm in the air. “He is here! Our son has returned from visiting our rich Saudi friends!”

Everyone fell silent for a brief moment and then the room broke into applause, toothy grins and nods of enthusiasm. This was the apogee of two years of hard work. David had started small, working his way up the ladder of the Palestinian Authority. His first donation had been $10,000. From there it got bigger, and as his stature grew, he worked his way closer to Atwa; the power behind the power, the man whom he someday would kill.

David knew if he were to ever see a Palestinian state, Hamas would have to be dealt a vicious blow. The Islamic fanatics would never be happy until every last Jew was dead, and when that happened they would only be satisfied if a Palestinian state were run by clerics who enforced strict Islamic law. Even the radical PLO looked tame next to the crazed members of Hamas.

David had cautiously counseled Atwa to bring Hamas into the fold by providing them with capital. The agreement was that David would use his skills to raise money and Atwa would hand part of that money over to Hamas to finance their terrorist and martyr operations. As David's fund-raising prowess grew, so did Hamas's reliance on PLO support. David was so successful that Atwa was also able to entice some other groups to the trough. They included Islamic Jihad, the Popular Resistance Committee and Hezbollah.

Tonight had been billed as a watershed evening for the groups. The last month's fund-raising had been so fruitful that they would all gather under the benevolence of Atwa and the PLO to divide the spoils.

Atwa relieved David of one of the attaché cases and grabbed him by the arm. Excitedly, he led David between two of the couches to a spot in front of the big screen TV. Atwa turned his case around and opened it for the group to see. He nodded for David to do the same.

“Two million dollars, my friends!”

The room broke into shouts and praise for Allah. Men jumped to their feet and began hugging each other. The irony of seeing these cold-blooded killers act in a such a lighthearted way made David smile to himself. What idiots! Not only was the money counterfeit, courtesy of the Iraqis, but there was an even better surprise in store.

Atwa set the attaché case down on the table and David did the same. Turning to one of his lieutenants, Atwa handed him a sheet of paper that explained how the money was to be distributed. Then, overcome with the emotion of the moment, he grabbed David and hugged him. Patting him on the cheek like a son, he told David how proud he was of him.

David kept up his act and shrugged off the compliment. “It was no big deal.”

“Yes it was, and don't say it wasn't.” Atwa stuck a finger in his face to warn him against any more modesty. Then, looking around the room, he began to frown and asked, “Where is Hassan?”

David hesitated just briefly and then seized his chance. “I need to talk to you about that.”

Atwa's lined face became concerned. “What has happened?”

David looked over one shoulder and then the other. “Not here. Not in front of the others.” After looking around the room one more time, David gestured for Atwa to follow him.

The two men walked through the crowd, David stopping every few feet to accept another hug or handshake. He feigned reciprocity as the men showered affection on him, which was made all the more difficult by the fact that he was about to send them to their deaths. As they stepped outside, Atwa stopped; his look of concern now much deeper.

David pointed to the butcher's Mercedes sedan. “In private.” David walked around the other side and climbed into the backseat. Atwa joined him and when both doors were closed David breathed a barely discernible sigh of relief.

R
app was willing to play the general's game for a while. Moro would undoubtedly remain defiant right up to the moment he was confronted with the evidence. “Tell me, General, do you dislike America?”

Moro pondered the question with a puzzled look on his oily face. “I'm not sure what you are asking me.”

“It isn't a difficult question. Do you like America? Yes or no?”

“That depends. There are things about America that I like, and there are things that I don't like.”

“Fair enough. What about China?”

The Filipino's eyes screwed a bit tighter at hearing this. “I have no opinion on China.”

“Really?” asked Rapp in a surprised tone. “That surprises me.”

Any sense of Moro's air of amusement had evaporated at the mention of the world's most populous country. “What are you hinting at, Mr. Rapp?”

Changing gears, Rapp leaned back and said, “I would like to do business with you, General. As I said, I am a practical man, and I've been told you are too. I want Abu Sayyaf crushed, and I don't care what it takes. If I have to pay a certain person large amounts of cash to make sure the job gets done, then that's what I am willing to do.”

“I am not sure,” said Moro, squinting up at the tent's ceiling, “but I think I am offended by what you have just proposed.”

Rapp looked him right in the eye and shook his head disbelievingly. “No, you aren't. As I've already said, I know certain things about you, and I know it is impossible that you are offended by what I just proposed.”

Moro took in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. It appeared that the American was privy to his business arrangement. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “What exactly did you come here for, Mr. Rapp?”

“I came to make you a better offer than the one you already have.”

“I'm listening.” The general leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.

“We know about your accounts in Hong Kong and Jakarta. We know you've been spying for the Chinese since the early eighties, and we know Abu Sayyaf pays you off so that you don't get too aggressive in pursuing them.”

Moro studied Rapp with cautious eyes. Finally he said, “I'm still listening.”

“As I've already stated, I'm a practical man. Although I'm not entirely comfortable with your connection to Beijing, I can live with it for the time being. Abu Sayyaf is an entirely different matter. That I cannot live with.”

“Mr. Rapp, I still have no idea what you are talking about.”

Rapp reached into his vest pocket while keeping his eyes locked on Moro. He pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto the general's desk. Rapp watched as Moro emptied the envelope's contents and began leafing through the various pages. They consisted of bank and phone records.

After Moro was done looking over the documents he placed them back in the envelope and set the package carefully in the middle of his desk. So the American did know his secret, or at least part of it, but Moro was not willing to admit guilt so easily. “I don't know what any of this is about.”

In a deadpan voice, Rapp said, “There's more. We have radio and telephone intercepts. Your voiceprint has been matched beyond any reasonable doubt.”

Moro stared unwaveringly at his adversary as he desperately scrambled for a way out of this ambush. After nearly a minute of silence, he decided there was only one option. “How many people know about this?” Moro nodded at the envelope.

“Enough.”

“How many in my country?”

“A select few.”

The sour expression on Moro's face betrayed his feelings about this piece of information. “Does Colonel Barboza know?”

Barboza knew something, to be sure, but Rapp wasn't sure exactly what. Not wanting to complicate things he answered, “No.”

Moro nodded. The fact that the colonel was out of the loop seemed to offer him some comfort. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Rapp. Why don't we get back to what you were talking about earlier.”

“The part about large amounts of cash.”

“Yes,” said Moro, smiling.

Rapp returned the smile despite the fact that he hated the man. “As I already told you, I am a practical man. Your relationship with the Chinese will be handled at a later date. For now my main concern is dealing with Abu Sayyaf.”

Moro nodded.

“I want the American family back unharmed, and I want you to pursue Abu Sayyaf with such vengeance that they dare not take another American ever again. In fact I would prefer it if you wiped them out entirely.”

“This will not be easy.”

“Rotting in a Philippine prison for the rest of your life would be much more difficult.”

The general's entire body tensed at the thought. “I did not say it couldn't be done.”

Rapp nodded his approval. “General, fear can be a wonderful motivator, but it does nothing to build long-term relationships. That is why I am going to make you an offer that I think you will like very much.” Leaning forward, Rapp lowered his voice and said, “If you return the entire Anderson family to us unharmed, I will see to it that one hundred thousand dollars will find its way into an account of your choosing. If by year's end you have managed to pursue Abu Sayyaf to my satisfaction you will receive an additional one hundred thousand dollars. If you succeed on both of these fronts we will sit down and explore the possibility of further compensation in regard to your relationship with Beijing.”

With a wry smile Moro said, “You would like to turn me into a double agent.”

“Like I said,” said Rapp, shrugging, “let's see how our first two deals turn out and then we'll go from there.”

Moro sat there for a long moment pondering the offer that had just been made to him. Rapp had played all of this out beforehand in his mind and had a pretty good inkling of what would happen next. In fact, he would be disappointed if Moro didn't do as he'd predicted.

Finally, Moro tilted his head back slightly and said, “Mr. Rapp, America is a very wealthy country. What you ask of me will take more resources than you have offered. If you wish to get the family of Americans back safely, I'm going to need more.”

Rapp remained impassive, meeting the general's gaze with his own. Coleman and his men were obviously not in the position yet to carry out the mission or they would have called, so it was up to him. The entire time he'd been talking to Moro, he'd been refining a new plan. It would have to look like Moro had shot himself rather than face a court-martial for committing treason. The general carried the standard Special Forces 9mm Beretta pistol. Rapp would use his own suppressed 9mm Beretta to shoot him in the side of the head and then eject a round from the general's gun and place the weapon in his hand. Rapp would then ask Colonel Barboza to come into the tent. They would wait for a minute and then leave. Barboza would then instruct the general's aide-de-camp that the general was considering something very important and did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.

They would then get on the helicopter and leave. Everyone would assume that the sound of the gun shot had been lost in the noise of the helicopter's departure. Then General Rizal would just have to make sure that only a cursory investigation of the body and the weapon took place. The general's body would be found sometime later along with the evidence of the bank accounts and phone records. It would be plain to even the most simpleminded officer that Moro had committed suicide rather than be publicly tried for crimes of high treason. The generals back in Manila would make sure the military investigators didn't delve too deeply into the forensics surrounding Moro's death. Most people would understand that the proud and arrogant general would rather commit suicide than face a humiliating court-martial.

Rapp finally answered the general. “I am prepared to go to two hundred thousand dollars to gain the safe return of the Andersons, but not a penny more.”

Moro frowned. “That is still a little light. I'm afraid this is a game you are not well versed in, Mr. Rapp.”

“Is that right?” Rapp asked in a doubtful tone. “General, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm the one holding all the cards. My offer is final. Two hundred grand to get the Andersons back and another hundred grand when you have effectively decimated Abu Sayyaf.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Moro with a shake of his head.

“Well, I am,” added Rapp quickly. “Push me any further, General, and you will be arrested right now and returned to Manila to face a court-martial. Colonel Barboza will replace you, and with the help of the U.S. Special Forces, he will free the Andersons and rid this island of any and every terrorist connected to Abu Sayyaf.”

The general scoffed at his adversary's remark. “Colonel Barboza is an incompetent fool. If you want the Andersons back alive I am the man to do it. Give me three hundred thousand dollars and I will make it happen within forty-eight hours.”

Rapp was straining to keep his temper in check. The sheer arrogance of Moro was getting under his skin. He flexed his hands and then clenched them into tight fists, reminding himself that none of this mattered. It was all a ruse to get Moro to relax. A look of calm washed over his face and he said, “All right, General, I'll agree to your terms.”

“Good,” said a jubilant Moro. “Now here is what we will do.”

Rapp smiled and nodded as Moro enthusiastically talked about how he would deal with Abu Sayyaf. He was saying something about arranging for the release of the American family. Rapp continued to look interested while his left hand slowly moved toward his gun. His fingers were just parting the folds of his vest when it happened. His hand froze with indecision, and Moro, noticing the change in his demeanor, stopped talking.