The Enemy Within Read Free Page A

slate-grey eyebrow in surprise. That was damned quick work. Somebody was on the ball back at the Hoover Building after all.
    He tore the paper straight out of the machine and scanned it rapidly. The Nissan’s driver was pegged as a man named Haydar Zadi, a legal resident alien and Iranian national. His eyes narrowed. Zadi had been on the FBI’s Watch List because of his reputed ties to Islamic radicals. No wonder they’d been able to identify him so quickly.
    The biggest news was at the bottom of the fax. The other man they’d found wedged inside the crumpled Sentra was a bigger fish a much bigger fish. Though they didn’t have any fingerprints to match for a positive ID, the Bureau’s counterterrorist specialists were virtually certain the dead man was one Rashim Mahdi, alias Mir Ahrari, alias Mohammed Shahin.
    “Son of a bitch.” Flynn ran his eyes down a long list of unsolved assassinations and bombings some in Europe, some in the Middle East. This Shahin character had been marked by a host of Western intelligence agencies as one of the HizbAllah’s key operational commanders. He looked up from the fax. “Put me through to the Director. Now.”
----
    JANUARY 20
    The White House, Washington, D.C.
    Outside the White House, the sun had long since set, bringing another cold, Bray, and windy winter day to a dreary end. The streets around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue were almost empty abandoned by the capital’s cadre of bureaucrats, politicians, and high-priced lawyers heading for plush suburban homes. Inside the executive mansion, however, staff aides, cabinet members, and uniformed military men still crowded the Oval Office.
    Major General Sam Farrell knew it was considered an honor to be asked to offer advice to the President of the United States. Right now he was beginning to wish there had been some graceful way to decline that honor. He’d been invited to this high-level White House confab because he headed the Joint Special Operations Command, the headquarters controlling all U.S. military counterterrorist units, including the U.S. Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six. That made him one of the Pentagon’s top experts on terrorism. So far, though, Farrell, a sturdy six-footer with an open, friendly countenance, had been asked precisely two questions: Did he want coffee or a soda? And could he please move his chair over to make room for the Chief of Naval Operations?
    To the general, the seating arrangements for this meeting reflected the current administration’s fundamental priorities and power structure. The President’s political gurus and media advisors filled the overstuffed chairs closest to his desk. Beyond them, the Director of the FBI , the head of the CIA , the Secretary of State, and the Attorney General sat in an awkward row, wedged together on a couch that was just a shade too small for all four of them. The loins Chiefs of Staff, Farrell, and a few other subordinate officers were furthest back, relegated to seats lining the far wall.
    At last, the President looked up from a thick, red-tagged briefing book he’d been devouring while the discussion raged around him. There were shadows under his eyes. Even in normal times the nation’s chief executive often had trouble sleeping. Now his fatigue showed plainly. He fixed his gaze on the FBI Director. “You’re sure the Iranian government was directly involved in this attack on us? That this wasn’t just a couple of whacked-out crazies on a killing spree?”
    Farrell shifted slightly in his chair, concealing his impatience. They’d already been over this same ground several times. The others around him didn’t seem fazed. Apparently, marathon talkfests were the rule in this administration, not the exception.
    “We’re as sure as we can be under the circumstances, Mr. President,” David Leiter answered carefully. At forty, the trim, telegenic FBI Director was young for his post, but he’d spent years as a prosecutor and he knew