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endless rules and an armed entourage.
    Newman scanned a schedule sheet and glanced at his watch.
    “How we doing, Geoff?” Lodge asked.
    “Five minutes off.” The driver flashed his headlights twice. The New York State Police car escort immediately speeded up.
    Newman punched a phone number into his Nokia. He called an advance man in Hudson.
    “Newman here,” he said jumping in as soon as he was connected. “TV?” Lodge listened and saw that Newman angrily shook his head at the answer; obviously not what he intended to hear. “Just a stringer? Shit. Then tell him he better be ready to roll. And stay in fucking focus!”
    Jenny, who had been enjoying the scenery, now glared at Newman and then her husband. She hated the way her husband’s strategist treated people.
    Lodge squeezed her hand and whispered, “He’s just trying to keep us on schedule.” He kissed her cheek, then shot a quick and angry frown at Newman.
    Newman had managed all of Lodge’s campaigns since he ran for class president in college. Now, like then, he was always in the background; working, manipulating, calculating. Jenny called it something else: Scheming. However, her husband had undying confidence in Newman and she had to live with it.
    She tried her best to smile at Newman, but nothing genuine came across.
    “Geoff. It’ll be okay,” Teddy calmly said. “Go easier on people.”
    Jenny was pleased.
    Newman relaxed his tone on the phone. “Sorry. The congressman just has an important new position speech today and we need to make the greatest impact possible.”
    There was peace in the car. And with that Lodge took five pages out of a file folder sitting on his lap and checked the order. His handwritten notes were on the side. He scanned ahead to page three, studied the words intently, then mouthed them silently to get the precise cadence. This had to play just right.
Tripoli, Libya
The same time
    Fadi Kharrazi’s desk calendar had three dates circled. Today was one of them. The other two were later in the year.
    This was a private calendar, representing a personal schedule; unknown to all but one other man. Fadi put a large “X” through the circle and smiled. He was assured by his associate that the other dates would come and go with equal success.
    The Western press reported little about him. In fact, there was virtually nothing to report. They had few inside sources, little real information, and hardly a notion of what made Fadi Kharrazi tick. That’s why the CIA wanted to learn more about the son of the latest Libya leader. But since the violent revolution that ousted Colonel Mu’ammar Abu Minyar al-Qadhafi, they hadn’t been able to effectively penetrate the inner circle of the man who succeeded him—General Jabbar Kharrazi—or the organizations of his two sons Fadi and Abahar. However, they were getting closer.
    It should have been easier with regard to Fadi Kharrazi. He kept himself in the public eye as head of the state’s principal television channel and newspaper. But Libya’s press was no more free under the new regime than it was in Qadhafi’s day, even after tensions lessened between Libya and the West. Fadi, known for his closely cropped beard, a trademark cigar and tailored Italian suits, cultivated his public image, while keeping his real persona far from the headlines.
    His holdings were estimated in the hundreds of millions of dollars; much of it blood money.
    Rumor had it that he participated first-hand in the coup that brought his father to power. Under the influence of too much French brandy, he was said to have boasted how he personally shot five of Qadhafi’s senior lieutenants in the back. These pronouncements never made the street. The women he told this to always disappeared after he raped them.
    Fadi found other sports interesting as well. However, he often confused “the rules of the game” with one of his favorite pastimes, human target practice.
    Shortly after the revolution, he oversaw