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“There was some activity up until the early nineties, but after that the organization pretty much dropped out of sight. Nidal is rumored to be very ill, if not dead already, and hiding somewhere in Libya under that country’s protection-even though they deny it. For the most part, they’ve been quiet, and it’s been said by some that they’re out of business.”
“That’s what we thought too, until we saw this,” said the general as he withdrew a newspaper clipping from The International Herald Tribune and handed it to Harvath. “On January fourteenth, the Austrian Police a
“Where did the FRC ever get that kind of money?” asked Scot.
“They have always been extremely well financed. For a long time Iraq and Libya were two of its biggest contributors, and they have always been very judicious with their assets. That seven point five is probably only the tip of their iceberg.”
“So what does this have to do with anything?”
Now it was the director’s turn to speak. He cleared his throat and said, “We’ve received a ransom demand for the president.”
Harvath was shocked. “From the FRC? What are the demands? Are you sure they’re legitimate?”
“Yes,” continued the director, “we’re very sure. There’s no question. Even if there were, the demands were already en route before the leak to CNN about the kidnapping. So, we know it’s not a hoax.”
“En route? What do you mean?” Scot looked from the director to the general, who was letting Jameson run this part of the show.
“This morning, a prepaid Airborne Express pouch arrived at my office. It had the appropriate routing codes to bypass the usual screenings and get right to me. As the Salt Lake City Field Office’s address was listed as the return address and its special agent in charge as the sender, I figured the SAC had come across something that didn’t make the courier flight or wasn’t important enough for it. These are copies of what was inside.”
He pulled three sheets from the folder that had been sitting on his lap and handed them to Scot.
As Harvath looked at the three photocopies, the director narrated for him, “Page one is, as you can see, a Polaroid photo of the president. You can’t tell in the photocopy, but his eyes are very glassy and appear unfocused. In his hands is a copy of Sunday’s USA Today. You notice the president is not wearing any gloves?”
Scot nodded his head.
“Well, that brings us to page two.”
Scot flipped to the next page as the director continued, “This is a photocopy of the front page of that same newspaper, which the FBI lab has verified has the president’s fingerprints on it. So far, they haven’t come up with any other prints.”
Harvath doubted if they ever would. These guys had been exceptional, right from the start.
“And finally,” said the director, “a little love note from the kidnappers themselves. It also is completely clean.”
When he saw the letterhead of the stationery, Scot’s jaw almost hit the floor of the limo. Knowing what he was going to say, the director raised his hand to stop him. “Yeah, the Best Western, Park City. The same hotel that housed half of the Secret Service. We’re checking into it. The FBI is tracking down the prepaid Airborne envelope, but I’m not holding out any high hopes for that one. I’ll give you a second so you can read the note.”
Harvath did.
Director Jameson. How small a man you must be feeling today with the shame of the country resting so heavily upon you and your men. After years of America’s meddling in the affairs of other countries, its deceit and treachery has now returned home, a grown beast, to avenge the many injustices you have wreaked far and wide. Today is a great day for Islam and one which history shall remember as marking the begi
When Scot was finished, he handed the packet back to the director. “You must have had the profilers and handwriting people already rip through this thing six million ways from Sunday. Any luck?”
“It’s all inconclusive. The Middle East analysts at the CIA have taken a look at it and say that the phrasing is not consistent with what they would expect from a Middle Easterner, even if he or she had been schooled in Britain or over here.”
“He or she?” asked Harvath.
“We can’t tell. The handwriting people seem to think there are some flourishes in the script that may suggest a woman wrote it, but then they butt up against the shrinks who think the syntax is tilted strongly in favor of a male author.
“We’re cross-referencing the handwriting and the word choices through the threat databases and comparing it to any and all recorded threats against the president and the U.S. over the last fifteen years. Because we believe Abu Nidal and his FRC might be involved, we’ve sent a copy to the Mossad for their help. Our reasoning is that the FRC was born in that part of the world and essentially remains a Palestinian organization at heart, so the Israelis might be able to shed some light on the authorship or the subtext of the message, if there is any. The problem is, though, that every move this group has made has been extremely well choreographed.”
“But maybe not choreographed well enough,” broke in the general.
Scot asked, “I don’t understand why you tie the FRC to all of this. It could be any Middle Eastern extremist group. Why not the PLO? I understand the body in Park City was ID’d as a long gun who worked occasionally for them.”
“You’re right, and based on the knowledge you have so far, I’d be inclined to agree with you,” said the director, “but I told you that we had received demands.”
The director pulled a microcassette recorder from his inside breast pocket. “This call came into the FBI and was received at approximately eleven-thirty eastern time today. I think you’ll recognize one of the voices. The other was encrypted to disguise it, and the NSA is still trying to tear it apart. What’s interesting is that the caller bypassed the switchboard and got right in on a direct line.”
At this point, nothing about the kidnappers was surprising Harvath.
Jameson pressed the play button, and after several seconds of static hiss, they heard the voice of Gary Lawlor. “Lawlor.”
“Is this Deputy Director Lawlor?” came the cyborg-sounding voice.
“That’s what I said. Who’s this?”
A rustling sound could be heard, which Harvath assumed was Lawlor pushing himself back from his desk so he could make sure he was hitting the correct button to begin the trace on the call.
“Who we are is not important, Mr. Lawlor. Who we have is what is important. Do you know who we have, Mr. Lawlor?”
“I’ve had a lot of crackpots call me today. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
He’s doing a good job, thought Scot. Keep him talking.
“No doubt, Agent Lawlor, you are tracing this call-”
“Now, why would I do that? Traces ain’t cheap, and if I traced every call that came into my-”
“Silence!” commanded the computerized voice. “We have business to discuss, and I will not have my time wasted with your pathetic FBI games.”
“It’s your dime, pal. You called me, remember? Why don’t you cut to the chase and tell me what this is all about. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“‘The chase,’ exactly. An appropriate term for what you have been burdened with. By now you have received the envelope we sent to the director of the Secret Service containing the picture of your president, the newspaper, and our letter.
“Before we do any serious bargaining for the return of your president, we would like a show of good faith from you.”
“Good faith from us?” came Lawlor’s voice. “What kind of good faith?”
“The United States has imprisoned two Islamic freedom fighters, Fawad Asa and Ali Amhed Raqim. They are to be released and flown-”