Belgian passports had long been a favorite of smugglers and terrorists due to the ease with which they could be stolen. In Belgium, the issuance of passports was not the domain of any single federal agency, as was the case in nearly every Western country, but the responsibility of over five hundred local mairies, or municipalities. As such, blank passports were often kept in less-than-secure locations: filing cabinets, wall safes, even simple desk drawers. On more than one occasion, thieves had simply helped themselves to a portable safe, choosing to crack it and take the contents at their leisure. Worse still was the laxity (until 9/11) with which authorities reported the thefts.
If Gabriel had two Belgian passports, why not more?
Chapel read off a third passport number to Freedman, raising the final digit from a seven to an eight. Amid the pitter-patter of Freedman working the keyboard, Chapel heard him murmur, “Here’s the big kahuna, now.”
Chapel jumped at the words. “Who? Is Glen there?”
“Just pulled into the lot. Analysts get to look at asphalt all day. You big shots get the Galleria. I gotta run in a sec-” Without warning, Freedman’s voice dropped an octave. “Oh, man… whoa, got it! Two years ago. June twenty-first. Mr. Gerard Moreau, arriving passenger, Geneva to JFK, declared cash amount forty thousand dollars.”
“Where’d he stay?”
“Hotel Richemond, New York.”
“It’s a fake,” said Chapel. “That’s the name of his investment company. He knew we wouldn’t check. What does he list as his home address?”
Freedman recited Taleel’s address in the Cité Universitaire. “So where do we go from here?”
“Run the name through the CBRS. Check for SARs and CTRs. Let’s see if Moreau’s got an account.”
“That’s a negative,” said Freedman after an agonizing silence.
“Try the IRS. That much cash must be burning a hole in his pants. See if there are any eighty-three-hundreds filled out in his name.” Merchants were required to fill out a Form 8300 for cash purchases totaling more than ten thousand dollars. Another tool in the fight against money laundering.
“Just a sec…” Chapel heard Freedman speaking on another line. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right over.” Then to Chapeclass="underline" “It’s Glen. He’s at the entrance. I’ve got to sign him in.”
“Don’t go.”
“Adam, I’m not keeping the deputy director of operations of the Central Intelligence Agency waiting… oh, wow, look at this-you are the maestro, Chapel. Amazing!”
“What is it?”
“Moreau put down twenty-two thousand dollars at a BMW dealership in Falls Church, Virginia.”
“Who’s the registered owner of the car? If the dealership filed an eighty-three-hundred, they had to list a vehicle identification number.”
“Let me check, um, hold on…” Freedman’s voice developed an eerie whine. “No, no, this can’t be. What is this, some kind of joke?”
“Tell me, Bobby.”
“Gabriel’s some kind of wiz if he can do this.”
“What is it?”
“The car is registered to 3303 Chain Bridge Road. It belongs to Owen Glendenning.”
“Get out of the building, Bobby. Now!”
Chapter 57
It was thirty-seven years ago to the day that Admiral Owen Glendenning had led the action that resulted in his being awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. Standing in the bedroom of his modest home in McLean, Virginia, he held the framed award, and in the day’s dying light, read the citation, trying to reconcile the amoral, duplicitous man he had become with the guileless warrior he had been.
“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a SEAL team leader during action against enemy aggressor (Viet Cong) forces. Acting in response to reliable intelligence, Lt. (jg.) Glendenning led his SEAL team on a mission to capture important members of the enemy’s area political cadre known to be located on an island in the bay of Nha Trang. In order to surprise the enemy, he and his team scaled a 350-foot sheer cliff to place themselves above the ledge on which the enemy was located. Splitting his team into two elements and coordinating both, Lt. (jg.) Glendenning led his men in the treacherous downward descent to the enemy’s camp. As they neared the end of their descent, intense enemy fire was directed at them, and Lt. (jg.) Glendenning received massive injuries from a grenade that exploded at his feet and threw him backward onto the jagged rocks. Although bleeding profusely and suffering debilitating pain, he displayed outstanding courage and presence of mind in immediately directing his element’s fire into the heart of the enemy camp. Utilizing his radio, Lt. (jg.) Glendenning called in the second element’s fire support, which caught the confused Viet Cong in a devastating crossfire. After successfully suppressing the enemy’s fire, and although immobilized by his multiple wounds, he continued to maintain calm, superlative control as he ordered his team to secure and defend an extraction site. Lt. (jg.) Glendenning resolutely directed his men, despite his near unconscious state, until he was eventually evacuated by helicopter. The havoc brought to the enemy by this successful mission cannot be overestimated. The enemy soldiers who were captured provided critical intelligence to the allied effort. Lt. (jg.) Glendenning’s courageous and inspiring leadership, valiant fighting spirit, and tenacious devotion to duty in the face of almost overwhelming opposition sustain and enhance the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.”
After the war, the medal had guaranteed a swift ascent through the naval ranks. He hit all the good billets: two stints at the Pentagon, commander of BUD/S School in San Diego, naval attaché to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, a year as a White House fellow, and finally, a posting as director of Naval Intelligence. By the age of forty, he was a rear admiral, and all his efforts, his gilded connections and sheer moxie, couldn’t budge him a rung higher.
The lateral swing to the CIA was a natural. He welcomed the new responsibilities and the higher salary, but already the gnawing dissatisfaction that would come to plague him was making itself known. The early 1980s were a heady time. The economy was rumbling back to life, having survived a bare-knuckled, knock-down drag-out with inflation and unemployment. Up in New York, people were making barrels of money and flaunting it. This irked Glendenning. He didn’t like coming up short on the material side of things compared with his cronies in lobbying, law, and defense. Men who were less intelligent than he and didn’t possess his capacity for work, earned five times as much as he did. A salary of eighty grand a year didn’t go far in the rarefied air of Virginia hunt country.
At first, a rapid series of promotions stemmed his envy. He moved from regional director to deputy director of operations within five years. But the same stasis that ended his naval career shadowed him at Langley. Year after year, he guarded his post as deputy director of operations. Four directors came and went. Not once was he mentioned as a candidate. It was his time as a SEAL that did it. You simply could not have a proven assassin at the helm of a major government agency. The American people would not stand for it.
Resentment of the hypocrisy festered inside Glendenning, rankling him more with each passing year, and with every change of regime. The lack of generous pay spurred his ill will. There was no reason serving your country shouldn’t be a profitable endeavor. He viewed this as a structural flaw and decided he had every right to address it.
Omar al-Utaybi, or Marc Gabriel, as he called himself, provided the means.
He’d been watching Gabriel practically since the day the man had set up shop in Paris. He’d had a good reason, of course. During his posting to Riyadh, he’d come in contact with Gabriel’s older brother, Juhayman, then a headstrong lieutenant in the national guard making waves with his calls for religious reform. When Juhayman took over the Grand Mosque, Captain Owen Glendenning advised the King on tactics to storm the sacred area and overwhelm the rebels. Juhayman was captured and executed. The remainder of the Utaybi family was exiled shortly thereafter.