The Normandy Appointment

By Robert Howerter

2nd in the series. The war on terror was now over a decade old with nor further attacks on America, but with little progress in resolving the growing suicide bombings. President Matthews, in office for two years, is invited by the President of France to attend D-Day ceremonies at Omaha Beach in Normandy. A French terrorist group has resolved to assassinate the US president. Against the advice of his administration, including Vice President McDonald, he is adamant about honoring the request.
As the plans progress, rumors of the planned assassination is circulated but cannot be confirmed. Mac (Vice President) and Connors (FBI Director)fly to Europe to see if there is credence to the rumors. They break away from their secret service guards and end up in a seedy part of Paris, hiring the man who can lead them to critical informants. They have only five weeks before Matthews arrives in Paris for his meeting, and they must elude their secret service protectors as well as finding a way to remove the assassination threat from their president. The secret service is frantic in their search, but cannot reveal to the world that the vice president and the FBI director are missing. However, the CIA is helping Connors and the vice president stay hidden while they search for answers.
The book brings back the team from Grayfield in a fast paced adventure novel covering only a six-week period of time from planning to execution, and a surprise ending with a sprinkle of romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Howerter
• Release date: Jun 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458066480

Robert Howerter

After being a combat photographer during the Belgium Congo revolution and the Algerian war with France in the US military, Robert Howerter graduated from Kent State University in 1968 with a degree in English. However, he spent almost his entire life working in computer software design and implementation, and in executive management of several large companies. He often spoke to technology leaders by giving speeches in numerous countries, travelling to 45 of them. Upon retirement as a Director, Price Waterhouse World Firm, he decided to put his writing skills to work, penning numerous newspaper articles on gardening. He has written four novels in a series, Grayfield, The Normandy Appointment, The Marquis' Inheritance, and Emily's Mark, as well as his newest, The Crown Project,. Much of what he learned about France was in Normandy where he lived, and in Paris, the city he loves. Currently, he resides with his wife in the Tampa Bay area.

Book preview

The Normandy Appointment

by Robert Howerter

Published by Robert Howerter

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not claim responsibility for author or third-part websites or their content.

Copyright 2011 Robert Howerter

Smashwords Edition

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of this author.

Chapter 1

"Une et cinquante," the shopkeeper muttered as Dodson held the magazine he selected from the stack in front of the kiosk.

What?

One fifty. One euro and a half, he snapped.

A dim bare bulb hung over the shopkeeper’s head reflecting the light off of his bald-pate, but not bright enough to illuminate anything outside of his sitting place. The chatter of rain on the small tin roof made it even more difficult to understand the words, uttered in broken English. Dodson fumbled with the coins in his hand, not used to the currency. The shopkeeper didn't like Americans, and showed his frustration at the ignorance of the buyer, as he saw the man turn over each of the coins.

Give me two euros. I will give you half a euro.

Dodson slammed the two coins on the counter, slipped the magazine inside his coat to keep it dry, and walked away without change. He moved in the shadows, and finally found his place where the meeting was to occur.

Dodson's philosophy, and he lived it, was that the glass was always half empty. It was his life’s creed. He always felt that man was his enemy, regardless of country or race. It was only power and the dollar that he worshiped.

The wet Parisian streets reflected the glow from the streetlights that illuminated the building fronts, but the passages between them remained dark and foreboding. The old cobblestone alley where Dodson stood was quiet and even darker. He could hear the rush of traffic in the streets beyond, but the alley remained a quiet place, a spot of refuge while he waited for the person to appear for their scheduled meeting.

His thoughts meandered through the crush of memories that took him back several years to the weddings of the FBI director and the vice president.

I was so close---it would have been easy---just stab the bastards and maybe their wives. I couldn't get close enough. I made the right decision, or did I? Yes, yes, I did.

The light rain continued, so he pulled his collar up around his neck and adjusted his hat so the rain stayed off his face. The patter of rain on the roofs above created a relaxing sound, an environment for contemplation.

They would have surely caught me---so close---but so were the agents---so many. Yes, it was the right decision---then. But now is another day. My time will come---and theirs.

Dodson heard the footsteps as they came closer, and quickly determined that the noise was from one person. The footsteps stopped, but then after a moment they resumed and became louder as the man approached Dodson. The figure tried to quietly listen to the sounds around him without the noise of his shoes on the pavement. Dodson was waiting in the shadows, and at the right moment, stepped from the alley into the light directly in front of the approaching figure.

Mon Dieu! You scared the hell out of me, the figure exclaimed, stepping back two paces as Dodson appeared.

Dodson eyed the man with the medium heavy build, dark hair, a chin beard, graying, and probably in his forties. The meeting had been established with a friend of a friend, so Dodson was nervous about tonight. He kept his right hand in his coat pocket, his fingers around a small caliber pistol. He learned long ago never to trust anyone, especially on the first meeting. The figure stood in front of him, both hands in his pockets, and Dodson guessed that he also carried a gun.

My apologies, Monsieur. One can never be too careful. That's how I've survived all these years, Dodson explained, feeling he shouldn't antagonize the man until he got what he wanted. His mind tried to give him guidance.

Dodson, you need to control your temper. It has gotten you in trouble before.

You're an American, the figure exclaimed, a smile crossing his face. I have always liked the Americans---some more than others. Are you one of those that I will like?

Depends. Do you know why I'm here?

Of course, my American. What do you offer?

That's the wrong question. You know why I'm here. You have an interest in our president, do you not? My contact said you are interested in that subject, am I wrong?

No, but your information could be wrong, n’est pas?

I'm not interested in playing games like you frogs, Dodson blurted, immediately knowing he may have overstepped the bounds of culture.

I was wrong. You are an American pig, just as I suspected, the figure replied, his hands digging deeper in his pockets, the gun now ready for its use.

Dodson saw the figure reach deep for his weapon. It was time to change the tone, and save the evening.

I have information for you. It's important. The data will benefit both of us.

Go on.

The president is scheduled to visit Paris this year.

I'm aware of that, monsieur. What new do you have to tell me?

He will be in Paris and Normandy around June 5th, just six weeks from now. I knew that WOMDAS would be interested.

Dodson saw that the man's eyes blinked twice as if it were a nervous twitch, enacted involuntarily by information that surprised him. His jaw muscles moved as he clenched his teeth.

What do you know about WOMDAS? asked the figure, disturbed by the mention of the organization.

Don't insult me. Your organization is well known to many. It's a terrorist muslim group, hated by the West and feared---but recognized as an avenue to bridge the cultural divide between the beliefs of the old and the economic benefits of the West. ‘The World Organization for Muslim Dominance and Superiority’ is one that is generally under the radar of most countries, but the US has been following its development. Am I correct?

Yes.

Excellent. This is an opportunity for both of us. The president will be here in Paris shortly, and the world could change with some strategic arrangements, Dodson suggested.

Our objective has always been to eliminate the president, but the opportunity has been elusive. We have a plan in place, but it doesn't include a visit to Normandy. What is he here for?

The president of France has requested that Matthews join him at the American Cemetery to lay a wreath, Dodson replied.

And---?

It is uncertain whether he will go directly to the cemetery, or meet with your president before the ceremony.

It could make a difference for us.

"I understand, but we still have time left before his arrival. My sources will keep me informed.

We’ll be ready. I’ll pass your information to the right person. I was ready to kill you, but you are an American that I approve.

I know. It worked out well, believe me.

Dodson took his finger off the trigger of the pistol, and pulled his hand from his pocket, offering it to the figure. There was a pause, as if the figure didn't trust what was thrust toward him. Gradually his hand emerged from the coat pocket and grasped Dodson's, all the while their eyes fixed on each other. Dodson held the reluctantly proffered hand firmly, not letting go.

You know what I want, don't you?

What, American? You want money?

Yes, but more than that.

Speak---what is it?

The president---I want him dead, Dodson revealed, loosening his grip.

Yes, we agree, but the consequences could be bad, the figure said, placing his hand back in his pocket.

We have the same goal, but I have a greater goal. I want to be WOMDAS’s representative in America, Dodson declared.

Mon Dieu. Vous été mal de tète, the figure exclaimed in broken French.

I'm not crazy. I have the contacts, and can do his bidding better than anyone else, Dodson committed.

The figure reached deep in his pocket, and pulled out an envelope filled with money. He handed it to Dodson who took the money gratefully. In the last few years, Dodson's resources had dwindled, and he needed the cash.

We will let you know, the figure said, as he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the street with only a glint of light touching him as he hurried away.

Dodson decided not to follow him, since it would be foolhardy.

No doubt, he didn't come alone, and his companions would certainly see me. I know who he is, and I think he is aware that I know.

Dodson turned and headed in the opposite direction as he pulled his collar up around his neck. The rain came down heavier, and Dodson felt it could be an omen of days to come.

****

The figure reached the Avenue de Wagram, and entered the back seat of a black German sedan that quickly left the curb, its tires squealing and causing a few passersby to turn their heads. Mahdi al-Malrrawi, an Iraqi who fled after the start of the war, and made his way to France, soon learned of WOMDAS, and was quickly welcomed into their midst. The organization decided to locate in Paris since France was not an enemy of Iraq, and the organization wouldn’t be easily threatened. Tonight, the head of WOMDAS sat next to al-Malrrawi, as the sedan sped down the Champs Elysees and in the direction of Place de la Nation.

Jacque Mennier was his formal name, but everyone called him the Apostle. It was odd to most, but he was just that---the Apostle who formed the church of WOMDAS. His intelligence and thirst for knowledge was evident at an early age. He became interested in religion, and by the age of fourteen was thoroughly familiar with all of the religions of the world. Over the next few years, he started to question the differences between them, and eventually became disenchanted with all of them except the Muslim faith. When his mother revealed the secret of his birth, he became angry and bitter. A man she worked for had raped her, but she only remembered bits and pieces of the encounter. She said it was as if it was a dream. It was known by her, and now acknowledged by him, that his father was an important political figure. After that, he felt he was preordained to accomplish something large, not realizing what it was until he founded WOMDAS at twenty-eight. Because of his past studies and his numerous discussions with others regarding religions, he was often called the Apostle. At first he rejected the name, but after hearing it numerous times, he adopted it and relished the name for his own. It was an odd moniker for one in such a high position and power, and unrelated to conventional churches. Now, the Apostle was a name revered by many, and feared by all.

Apostle lit a cigarette and cracked the window to allow the smoke to exit before he spoke. Al-Malrrawi sat quietly knowing he shouldn't speak to the head of WOMDAS until he was addressed. It was the way of the Apostle.

What have you learned tonight, my friend? asked Apostle, blowing smoke in al-Malrrawi’s direction.

The American president is coming to France. He will be here in six weeks.

"That is news. Of course, he wants to mend fences between the government of France and the Americans. We knew he would do this, but the timing---we thought it would be later," Apostle said.

No, that's not the reason he's coming.

What, then?

His plan is to join our president at the June ceremony at what the Americans call Omaha Beach, declared al-Malrrawi, slightly choking from the billowing cigarette smoke.

That could make it easier. Who is this contact where this information comes from?

"It is an American who also wants Matthews dead. I found that his name is Dodson, Robert Dodson, a man on the run from the American government.

Ah, yes---Dodson. I know of him. He was the director of Grayfield, a front organization for the new world order in the US. Two years ago, the CIA went after him. Dodson must have survived, somehow. Yes, yes. That is why he wants the US president dead. Several people in the government found a document at Grayfield that described the plans of Grayfield to dominate the US government, Apostle remembered.

He wants something else, al-Malrrawi revealed.

What would that be?

He wants to represent our organization in America.

Apostle sat in the car as if in his own thoughts, digesting the information outlined from his underling, and formatting a plan. To the relief of al-Malrrawi, Apostle crushed the remaining part of the cigarette into the ashtray in a slow and deliberate manner as if it were an enemy. Apostle rolled up the window as he turned to al-Malrrawi.

I want you to meet with Dodson again.

I should kill him this time, yes?

No, not yet. He has a burning fervor, just as we do, and may be useful in formulating changes to our plans.

In the darkness, disappointment crossed the brow of al-Malrrawi, but he always carried out Apostle’s wishes, and so he would again.

What would you have me do?

I want to employ Dodson so that he gives us all that he knows and discoveries of other information from his Washington contacts.

What should he be paid? al-Malrrawi asked as he shifted nervously in the seat.

Whatever he wants. You negotiate the contract---but give him a warning of what happens to those who betray me.

It will be done, Apostle, al-Malrrawi mouthed as the car came to a halt.

Al-Malrrawi exited the car, and watched the vehicle speed off into the darkness. He made his way to the Metro stop close by, and as he descended the steps to the train, he looked back. A dark figure was slowly moving down the steps, only partly visible in the dim light of the stairway. Al-Malrrawi was always careful. Not that he didn't trust Apostle, but it was his nature to be cautious. He knew that was what had kept him alive.

Al-Malrrawi stepped into the shadows of one of the corridors leading to La Defense train that would take him back to the city. There was a tapping sound that accompanied the figure moving down the steps, now at the bottom. The sound stopped, and al-Malrrawi slowly peered around the corner to where the sound came from, all the while grasping the pistol in his pocket. The sound resumed and started toward him. Al-Malrrawi stiffened as the figure came along side of him. Seeing the black outline, he relaxed and took his hand from the gun. It was an old woman with a cane gradually making her way to the train, not seeing the WOMDAS terrorist in the dim light.

He waited until she was out of sight, and then cautiously moved down the corridor to the train. As he arrived on the platform, he expected to see her waiting for the Metro to arrive. The platform was empty. He looked around and saw no sign of the woman. The roar of the train echoed in the tunnel and became louder as the cars came out of the opening, and slowly came to a stop, the brakes squeaking loudly. As the doors banged open, al-Malrrawi looked again down the platform before he stepped on board. As the doors closed, he caught sight of a dark figure quickly stepping into one of the cars to the rear of him.

It's the old woman.

Al-Malrrawi looked toward the next car, but could see no one. It was the early hours of the morning, and the train was empty except for him and the old woman, but he couldn't see her. The train made eight quick stops before reaching the center of Paris, no one entering or leaving. As the train arrived at Palais Royale Station, al-Malrrawi stepped to the platform, looked around, and quickly headed for the exit. He didn't notice a man step from the rear car carrying a bundle of clothes and a cane. As the man walked by a trashcan, the bundle was deposited in the blue container, and the cane thrown to the side.

Al-Malrrawi took two stairs at a time, and quickly reached the top, disappearing into the darkness. As he crossed the Place du Palais Royale, he was perspiring even though the air was cold and the wind was blowing around the buildings. With a quick step he moved down the Rue de Rivoli, named after an Italian town that Napoleon destroyed in 1797. He looked over his shoulder several times before reaching his apartment, and entering, locking the door behind him. He didn't look out the windows into the dark street, or he would have seen the man light a cigarette from the flaring ignition of a match.

Chapter 2

Mac opened his eyes and looked around the room. It was time to rise and start the new day. He never used a clock since his body automatically awoke after eight hours, almost to the minute. Marcy, his wife, could never figure out how he did that. Mac's mind was working as soon as his eyes saw the ceiling of their bedroom, thinking of the things that had challenged him in the last few days, and the activities that awaited him to do today. As vice president, the last few years had been a learning process, especially since he had never held office, and was not elected to this one. It was a somber occasion when President McMaster and his vice president died, and Speaker of the House William Kendell Matthews became the new president. Mac, an old friend of Matthews from the Corps, was summoned to the White House and asked to be his vice president. Mark McDonald, attorney and former covert CIA agent, accepted the task with reluctance.

Mac rolled on his side, and saw the time was 5:00 A.M.. He quietly put his feet on the floor, and headed to the bathroom, careful to not wake Marcy. It had not been easy for her to accept the role of the wife of the vice president. She had been a humble research assistant at Grayfield, and felt unprepared to take on this role. Mac, coming into her life, was like a roller coaster every day as their relationship progressed. Thinking that he was a simple but successful attorney in DC, she was overwhelmed when he finally revealed the fact that he was a covert CIA agent. Now, she was elevated to the second highest woman's position in the land, and even after several years, she didn't take it for granted.

The sound of breaking glass shattered the quiet of the bedroom suite. Marcy immediately rose up.

Sweetheart, what was that? Marcy asked in the darkness.

Sorry, honey. I knocked over a glass. Go back to sleep.

Marcy looked at the clock, and saw that it was 5:10, far too early to get up. However, she was awake, and she decided that she might as well start the day. In the darkness, she grabbed her robe, and pulled it over her shoulders. She had never been one for nightgowns, and preferred to sleep only in brief panties, a benefit for Mac since he was constantly aroused by her sight.

As she passed by the bathroom, she said, Mac, I'm going down to put on coffee.

Okay, honey. I'll be down in a few minutes.

Marcy slipped softly down the steps and into the kitchen where the aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the air. Since she seldom got out of bed this early, she forgot that Martha always prepared breakfast and coffee for Mac before he left for the office. Martha had been on the staff for many years, and had seen many vice presidents’ families come and go.

Good morning, Martha. I see you're already up and busy.

Good morning, Mrs. McDonald. This is my normal time to be up in order to serve Mr. McDonald. Will he be down? Martha questioned Marcy.

Yes, it should only be a few minutes.

As Martha handed her a cup of hot coffee, she walked over to the TV in the corner, and turned it on to the network newscast. The story was already in progress, but she could see that there were some dangerous developments overnight in the Middle East. The images on the TV showed bloodied and mangled bodies as a result of suicide bombings by terrorists. It was becoming a common but disturbing sight, one that she didn't care to see. As she pushed the buttons for the local weather channel, Mac came into the room.

Good morning, sweetheart. I don't normally see you down here this early, Mac exclaimed. Marcy was sitting in the lounge chair in front of the TV, her robe partly open and her breasts visible to him. He immediately had the normal manly reaction of a serious erection. Unfortunately, it was a time when he couldn't entertain his passions, since he was expected at an important meeting this morning.

Good morning, honey---sleep well?

Yeah, what's the news this morning? Mac asked as he leaned down to kiss Marcy.

Just some suicide bombers in the Middle East. They said some terrorist organization in France called WOMDAS was responsible.

Can you turn it on, please? Mac asked, feeling anxious after he heard the word WOMDAS.

Marcy immediately switched the channel back to the network where they were still describing the happenings of a few hours ago.

These attacks are becoming more numerous as the terrorist operation called WOMDAS seeks to apparently gain recognition for their cause among the extremist Muslims, even though they are alienating the rest of the world. Twelve people were killed when a suicide bomber walked into a restaurant near Nice here in France, and exploded his weapon. I say he, but it could just as well have been a she. More women are starting to take up the cause of this organization.

How can they do that? Marcy questioned, knowing that type of decision and action could never be one that she would make.

Mac sipped his coffee, and continued to watch the screen as he answered.

I think these people are brainwashed from an early age. Obviously, we have a war on terror. However, in my opinion, the only way to change this is through education.

Good luck, Marcy commented, sarcastically, as if she knew it wouldn’t happen.

Mac got up from his chair, walked to the kitchen, and picked up his prepared bowl of oatmeal, his normal morning breakfast routine. Martha prepared the oatmeal with dark brown sugar, cinnamon, wheat germ, raisins, and fresh fruit. As he took a bite, he felt it was prepared perfectly. However, this morning he didn't have time to dwell on breakfast or his manly desires, since he had to be at the White House for a seven o'clock meeting.

Retreating back to the bedroom suite, he quickly showered, dressed, and returned to the kitchen to kiss Marcy before he left. Ashley, their three-year old daughter, sensed her father was coming down the steps even before he entered the kitchen.

Daddy, Daddy is coming. Mummy, I hear Daddy, Ashley excitedly exclaimed to her mother.

"Yes, Ashley, he was here earlier, but you’ll get to see him before he goes off to work.

Mac came into the room, and as he saw Ashley at the breakfast table, a broad smile of admiration and love crossed his face. She was his pride and joy as he felt she was a carbon copy of her mother, a woman with whom he was deeply in love. Leaning over, he placed a kiss on her head as she lifted her face showing her light blue eyes, pink cheeks and a full head of long chestnut hair. It was obvious that Ashley was blessed with her mother's eyes and her father's hair.

I have to go, sweetheart, he informed Ashley, as a frown came across her face.

I'll see you tonight, okay?

Mac kissed Marcy, and she wished him a good day as he exited the home and entered the waiting black limousine. The door was shut for him as the man whispered words into his communication device alerting the two black cars behind him that the caravan was ready to depart for the White House. Mac still couldn't get used to being driven everywhere he went, and frequently thought about the six-year-old car he had to give up when he took the office of vice president.

The vice president was a striking looking man, frequently getting flirting smiles from women who came in contact with him. It could have been his always-upright stance learned as a former Marine Corps captain, or his mysterious look as a former covert CIA agent. However, it was obvious that women were admiring his well-fit six-foot two-inch frame, soft brown eyes and naturally wavy chestnut hair.

Mac looked at his watch. 6:17 A.M.

Right on time.

His mind was still thinking about the TV piece on WOMDAS this morning, one that concerned him. It was the subject of the president's meeting he was heading to, and yesterday he had been briefed on the details of their organization. The CIA had been following its movements for several years, but now that WOMDAS was promoting terrorist acts openly, the world was now aware of them through the news media.

The car sped through the city streets, south on Massachusetts Avenue and onto Connecticut Avenue and 17th St., and a quick two and one-half miles to the White House. Arriving through the secure gate, the car stopped, and Mac exited the limo, making his way to his office prior to heading to the president's conference room. As he arrived at his office, his secretary greeted him, and handed him his briefing book and messages. After thumbing through the papers, he dropped them on his desk and left for the meeting.

The room was already filled with people, mostly cabinet members who always arrived early since the president had a fetish for being on time. Smalltalk filled the room until President Matthews stepped from his office into the conference room at 6:59 A.M. He immediately opened the meeting, wasting no time on pleasantries.

"Gentlemen and Ladies. I called this meeting to obtain your views on my trip to France. Many of you have already given me your advice, and, in this circumstance, I can't agree with you. It's important that we honor our war dead. Some of my predecessors, in my opinion, didn't give our veterans enough respect. This won't happen on my watch. All of you have received briefings and