Mystery in Harare

3 The Missing Videotapes

3

THE MISSING VIDEOTAPES

While the FBI agents made their way to the First AME Zion Church, called First Church by its members and friends, the men who had abducted Priscilla had all but made their way to the Port Columbus International Airport where they quickly boarded a private jetliner. The plane took off at seemingly warp speed.

Several hours later, the passengers disembarked at the Charles de Gaulle International Airport, taking a diversionary course from their final destination. Effective and efficient at such a tour de force, the relief team of the clandestine American-based Collective Force (the CF) had already arranged a layover at the Château Cheverny, an exquisite, though inconspicuous safe house situated in the Loire Valley.

With international terrorism on the rise, the team had many choices for rendering a new look for their ward. The men thought that Priscilla’s physical characteristics resembled, for the most part, those of many of the people in Ethiopia, Jordan, Israel, Lebanon, Egypt and a few other North African and Middle Eastern cultures. But just in case her headdress—a tan, lightly woven rayon turban, was removed, they cut her hair so that, if necessary, she might pass as a young man.

The next morning, around 9:00 a.m. GMT, the CF relief team and their singular passenger boarded another private jetliner. This time they were heading to the Harare International Airport in the recently independent nation of Zimbabwe.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Back in the American Midwest in Columbus, Ohio—after what seemed like only a few minutes, but could have been a half hour or longer—the FBI team arrived at First Church.

FBI Agent Marvin Rothschild—tall, pensive, cool, with a head of thick, dark hair—stepped confidently down the aisle to meet the Columbus Police detective. The two officers walked off to the side and talked in low voices while the wedding guests, who still had not been allowed to leave the church, watched as raptly as though they were home watching a police investigation on television.

When the two lawmen returned to the scene of the crimes at the altar rail, Agent Rothschild stared down at the tape markings where the two bodies had fallen. He shook his head. “A wedding. Something like this, and at a wedding.” He looked around at the staring congregation. “So they all saw it. But what did they really see, Dave?” Already the two officers were on first-name basis. It was Agent Rothschild’s opinion that too much energy was lost when different government agencies worked at odds with each other. “From the people you’ve questioned so far, who do I need to talk to?”

Detective Stoudemeir pointed to Germane. “The kid may have seen the shooter. And for sure, Marv, he saw the one who abducted the bride.”

But first, he beckoned to the portly figure. The man rose up from his seat and walked to the two lawmen. After he repeated almost verbatim what he had said earlier about the white man with the strange accent, FBI Agent Rothschild said, “Hum.” Rarely, he was thinking, does an assassin behave so boldly. Then, “Thank you, Sir.” Then the portly figure turned to go back to his seat, but not before the FBI agent told him, “We need you to provide a description of the ‘white man with the strange accent’ to a sketch artist.”

Then, Detective Stoudemeir beckoned to the youngster.

Eager to do something, anything, to see his Aunt Priscilla again and to find out who had killed his Uncle Jonathan and shot the senator and why, Germane proudly stepped forward. “Glad to help,” he said. “You’re going to show me your FBI badge? Like on TV?”

The agent smiled, nodded and produced his identification. He took an immediate liking to the kid. He had a boy about this one’s age.

Sagely Germane examined the credentials and then grinned. Without being prompted, he repeated his story. But this time he added the information that his aunt’s abductor had given him the bride’s tiara and her veil. He held out the tiara, which he had been holding in his hands all this time.

“You didn’t tell me all that,” said the Columbus Police detective.

“You never asked,” Germane said.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me about your conversation with the man who took your Aunt Priscilla?” the detective asked.

“No, Officer. All I know is that the man was kind to me and he gave me Aunt Priscilla’s headpiece. Aside from what else I’ve already told you, there’s nothing more.”

After that exchange, Agent Rothschild ramped up his queries of the young man: “Do you think, Germane, that you can sit with a sketch artist and describe the man who took your aunt? And by the way, did you happen to get a look at anybody else in the vicinity of the vestibule during or after the shooting?”

“Yes and yes. I remember the face of the man who took my Aunt Priscilla very well, and yes, I caught a side glimpse of a man running out of the church. He had a long, black canvas or leather bag. It wasn’t exactly as big as a military duffel like my father used to have, but it was as narrow and long.”

As Germane described what he had seen, FBI Agent Rothschild said, “Hum.” He was thinking, Just received corroboration of the statement by the portly figure. But Detective Stoudemeir was flabbergasted, for as it turned out, Germane was a key eyewitness to critical elements in not one but all three of the crimes.

Germane whispered to his grandmother, “Agent Rothschild seems to appreciate me, you know. He talks to me as if I can think.” Germane seemed to grow taller with the role of “man of the house.”

His Grandma Liza basked in an aura of absolute pride. She also liked to think that she had just received the blessed assurance that, come what may, she would see her daughter again.

Agent Rothschild called over the police photographer who was still lingering on the scene. Together he and the detective studied the images framed in the camera’s memory.

“I got plenty of photos of both men before the paramedics took them away,” said the police photographer.

Agent Rothschild nodded at the detective. “Looks to me, too, like a professional hit.”

Agent Rothschild then asked the other policemen if they had collected ample evidence to gauge the trajectory of the shot, and they nodded and explained. Just then it seemed readily apparent to both the Columbus Police detective and to the FBI agent that the senator was the target and that, for some unknown reason, Jonathan had entered into the line of fire.

But Agent Rothschild was not yet prepared to share any of his preliminary findings. Next, he asked Detective Stoudemeir if he had gathered enough information from the other guests regarding what they had observed, and he said that he had.

Agent Rothschild then immediately turned to the congregation, and said: “Is there anyone here who knows of anyone who’d want to harm Senator Callahan, Reverend Morgan or Ms. Austin? I’m providing my contact information for you in the event you find the courage to share your thoughts with me in person or anonymously. Whatever, we will get to the bottom of this tragedy. Meanwhile, although many of you might be from out of town, please do not attempt to leave the vicinity. And please, people, help us in any way you can. A state lawmaker has been shot, a minister has been killed, and a young woman has been abducted, kidnapped or otherwise taken against her will. All total, we’re looking at a pile of federal offenses. We realize all this is strange to most of you; however, in order to solve these crimes, we need for everyone to think about everything you know about the victims, everything, and share that information with us. Only then will we be able to bring the perpetrator or perpetrators to justice. For now, however, we needn’t hold you any longer. Try to resume your lives as best you can, and call us with anything you remember about today’s tragedy or simply about the senator, the Reverend or Ms. Austin.”

He turned and faced Detective Stoudemeir, and asked, “Detective Stoudemeir, is there anything you wish to add?”

“No, Agent Rothschild, not at this time.”

The FBI agent’s attention shifted. “Where’s the maid of honor?” His eyes scanned the myriad of troubled faces across the immense inclined sanctuary. “And what about the best man?”

Even as Detective Stoudemeir beckoned to Julia to join him and Agent Rothschild, he explained to the FBI agent that the best man was the twin brother of the dead bridegroom and that he had, understandably, ridden in the ambulance to the hospital. He added that he had doubted the brother could have provided any useful information, because he was wholly outside the loop of Jonathan’s work in the church and was apparently not even remotely political.

The FBI agent nodded and said that someone could take a statement from the brother later. Julia, however, became the subject of the agent’s undivided attention.

Agent Rothschild quickly learned that Julia, as Priscilla’s longtime executive assistant, was intimately familiar with both the personal and professional aspects of the missing bride’s life, especially with her work in the political arena. Julia also spoke candidly about Priscilla’s concern for the senator’s safety as it pertained to the debate in the Ohio Senate over the South African Divestiture (SAD) Bill. His eyes brightened when Julia mentioned how Priscilla, as part of her work as a political public relations consultant, had overseen the videotaping of the bill.

“As I remember it, Priscilla was very uncomfortable on the day of that taping,” Julia recalled. “She said something about having seen some strange looking characters in the gallery.”

“‘Strange looking characters?’” The FBI agent had become even more attentive.

Julia nodded. “She said something about them looking ‘like soldiers out of uniform.’ It generally takes a lot to get Priscilla upset. But she said that, ‘those guys made my skin crawl.’ She actually said that she feared they might do something bad to the senator.”

The FBI agent and the Columbus Police detective looked at each other.

“You know much about this South African thing?” asked the detective.

“Some,” answered the FBI agent. “But I think we’re going to be finding out lots more.” Briefly he told Detective Stoudemeir that the FBI was already putting together a special team and that a series of briefings for the two of them would be scheduled soon.

Glumly the detective nodded. Promotion or not, this was more than he bargained for.

Agent Rothschild turned back to Julia. His superiors had made it clear that he was responsible for running down whatever leads emerged from the crime scene. “You wouldn’t happen to know, Miss, where she keeps those tapes from that Senate hearing on South Africa?”

“If you take me by her place, I could give it a good search,” Julia offered. “Priscilla is a very organized person. She even labels the food in her refrigerator. But just in case I can’t find her copy of that Senate session, I know the firm that taped it—Wiseman’s on North High Street.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” The FBI agent was smiling. “Now we’re really getting somewhere.”

But at that point Julia looked over at the empty pew where Liza and Germane had been sitting. She jumped to a conclusion. “Protective custody?” When the FBI agent did not answer, Julia took a deep breath. She could not worry about everything and everyone. She would have to assume that Priscilla’s mother and nephew were in good hands. Her first priority now had to be helping the authorities get Priscilla back as quickly as possible—and unharmed. To her way of thinking, the key to unlocking her whereabouts could turn on those tapes.

When the FBI agent and the Columbus Police detective asked her to take them to Priscilla’s West Third Street home-office, she agreed.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Julia inserted her house key into Priscilla’s front door and led the agent and the detective into the first floor apartment of the stately Victorian home which served as both upscale residence and trendy workplace. She opened the French doors from the reception area to the office space and pointed to filing cabinets heaped with stacks of videotapes.

Detective Stoudemeir walked in first and headed over to Priscilla’s desk and pressed the message button on her telephone recorder. Hurriedly he listened. Most of the messages related to the wedding, but he packed the recorder’s tape to take away as part of the evidence, anyway. “It’s worth another listen,” he said. “Might find something useful on this.”

Agent Rothschild searched through some of the videotapes, but he did not find anything labeled SAD. When he sat down at Priscilla’s desk, the detective asked, “What ails you, Marv?”

“Could she have labeled the tapes under another name,” Agent Rothschild asked, “in case something like this incident might’ve occurred? Obviously, she was suspicious of something. So where exactly would you hide something you didn’t want someone else to find?”

“Is it possible she didn’t label the outside box?” the detective replied. “Try that angle.”

Just then Julia suggested: “Okay, fellows, why not allow me to take all these tapes down and open them up, one by one? And remember,” she reminded them, “if we’re unsuccessful, we can always call Wiseman’s, the company that did the videoing.”

“Go ahead,” said Agent Rothschild, “Meantime, I need to call headquarters anyway.”

Julia opened some of the boxes that contained the videotapes. Detective Stoudemeir continued searching the office for anything he thought might be useful. Agent Rothschild talked on the telephone to his superiors about what he called, “the shooting incident at First Church in Columbus.” He nodded as he listened to the voice on the other end. Then he said, “We’re almost certain the ballistics report will confirm a professional hit,” he told his superiors. “But get a load of this: it’s beginning to look like we’re dealing with a hit man from South Africa. Yeah, I’m thinking it might be the PG. If that pans out, you know the next call we need to make.”

After Agent Rothschild completed his call, he turned around in his seat and looked directly at Julia. “You know you’re going to be out of contact with your friend the bride for a while?” Then he watched the detective finish his call on his cellular phone. “Come to think of it, Dave, maybe we’d better consider attaching a security detail to Ms. Julia here, too. If we connected you to Ms. Austin, surely the other side will.”

Julia shrugged. Her attention was more engaged in getting Priscilla back, safe and sound. “But listen. I’m not getting anywhere with these tapes. You might want to get somebody to play each one of them to see what’s on them. Otherwise, there’s still Wiseman’s.”

“We’ve already got that covered.” Agent Rothschild turned to Detective Stoudemeir. “What have your men come up with?”

“I’m afraid,” the detective answered, “that when our fellows arrived at Wiseman’s Studio, it had already been ransacked. Somebody else is looking for a copy of that tape. As we speak, our men are in touch with Herbert Wiseman. Seems he’s on a yacht somewhere up on Lake Erie, but has agreed to cut his outing short. He was completely shocked at the news about the shooting, not to mention the condition of his shop.”

Julia needed to do something to take her mind off her new predicament, so she went into one of the back rooms searching for more files. When she returned, she packed the videotapes. She was not exactly pleased with the reality of the impending situation. She knew nothing about this “PG” the FBI agent had just mentioned. But to her mind, even the organization’s name sounded bad. Yet it seemed obvious to her that those videotapes must have contained information important enough for Wiseman’s studio to be ransacked. Still, what mattered to her was that the person who mattered most to her in this world had been abducted, and her bridegroom had been murdered at the altar and that Senator Callahan looked like he, too, was at death’s door. The realization swept over her that her friend was in a dangerous predicament. And an instant later, another wave struck her: she herself, according to what Agent Rothschild had just said, was also in danger.

But she mastered her anxiety as she held up a file folder labeled “SAD tape distribution.” It listed several legislative offices and a corresponding number of copies for the distribution of the tapes. Also on the list were the names “P. J. Austin” and “Daniel P. Callahan.”

Detective Stoudemeir wondered aloud if any of those tapes had actually been delivered. He asked, “Is the Senate Clerk’s office on that list?”

Julia nodded. “It’s the first one listed.”

“Okay, folks,” Agent Rothschild said, “I’m sure we can get into the clerk’s office right away. Meanwhile, let’s keep searching for Priscilla’s copy. It’s quite possible the one released to the public has been edited, so we need to get our hands on the copy that was produced for Priscilla and the senator. And lest we forget, that debate was also covered by the area television stations.” His last statement was another not-so-subtle directive to Detective Stoudemeir to dispatch his men, accordingly. Then he had a question for Julia. “Does Priscilla have a safe deposit box?” When Julia smiled, the agent asked where she might have hidden the key.

“My Priscilla is old school,” Julia said. “Pull out some of those desk drawers and run your hand underneath the ledge between each drawer.”

The FBI agent did as she suggested, and in a moment was grinning. “Gotcha.” He felt a small packet that was taped underneath the ledge between one of the drawers. Sure enough, the packet contained a safe deposit box key. Although there was no information about which financial institution the key belonged to, the FBI were expert at completing that part of the puzzle. Agent Rothschild held the key firmly in his hand. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Agent Rothschild took up lodging at the nearby Sheraton Hotel downtown, where he scheduled a meeting with his counterpart from the Central Intelligence Agency for six o’clock that evening. Shortly after the other agent arrived, the two men shared a meal.

FBI Agent Rothschild filled in CIA Agent James Froley with all that he had gleaned from the preliminary data about the case.

“When you raised the possible involvement of the PG, we immediately dispatched additional security for Senator Callahan at the hospital,” CIA Agent Froley said. “He now has another medical specialist and a male nurse. Our people, along with your officers and the local blue suits, ought to provide ample security for him. On the other hand, however, protecting a ten-year-old eyewitness, and to some extent, Ms. Julia, might prove a tad more challenging. I mean, my God, do Ms. Austin’s family and friends have a clue about the nature of circles she seems now to be playing in?”

“I tried to broach the subject with Julia, but I’m not sure she even wants to know,” Agent Rothschild said. “And although she’s our primary resource for ‘all things P. J. Austin,’ I doubt she’s even aware of the significance of what that means.” Then he produced the key that he had discovered in Priscilla’s desk. “And here’s the safe deposit box key. Do you want to check it out tonight, or later? We can also get a copy of the tape from the Senate Clerk’s office—that is, if the tapes were even delivered. And we might have some luck with the local television stations, too.”

“Hold off on that a while, Marvin,” Agent Froley said. “First, I want to see those sketches of the profile of the alleged shooter, not to mention the sketch of the two men who abducted Ms. Austin. Only then will we have something solid to cross-reference any images on the videotape. Now, why is it my stomach is churning? I mean, I’m having an awful feeling that we both know something about the abductors. Am I right, ole boy?”

The two intelligence officers smiled conspiratorially at each other.

But unbeknownst to both of them, they were a distant third in the race to find the missing videotape. Both Priscilla’s abductors—who also were in fact her rescuers—and the shooter had already gotten hold of copies of the tape, and from the same source. Bartholomew Jordan—a high-powered lobbyist for construction contractors in Ohio and New York and, a member of the clandestine CF—had picked up a copy of the unedited version of the tape from Herbert Wiseman immediately after the Senate session had concluded; and later, that same weekend, Claus Fokker, a high-powered Washington, D.C.-based South African lobbyist—and a member of the PG—had broken into Wiseman’s office and destroyed what he thought were the only copies of the videotapes.

But what PG Claus Fokker did not know was that two copies of the SAD tape were unaccounted for.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

At the time of Priscilla’s abduction and time in Africa, there existed an Executive Order that prohibited activity by CIA special operatives on American soil. The basis for that order stemmed back to the foiled assassination attempt of Fidel Castro and the Bay of Pigs fiasco and to President Richard M. Nixon’s abuse of power during the Watergate Scandal. But Priscilla had no way of knowing that—apart from the joint collaboration between the FBI and the CIA to track down the SANM Patrol Guard, the CIA had not quite cleaned up its act. More plainly put, the CF unit of the CIA had yet to cease its activity on American soil. But Priscilla was wholly unaware of any of that.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦