Order of Succession: Getting Away with Murder (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mystery Series Book 5)

by Bill Thompson

  Everyone sat lost in thought until Case cleared his throat and said, "Well, I suppose this meeting is over." They walked out in silence, each considering the inherent danger of the President's opinions.

  Back in his office, Defense Secretary Vernon recalled the disturbing aspects of the meeting. The President was not only dismissing the Falcons of Islam as amateurs, he had given the order that nothing would be done. The country would remain at its lowest threat level, and the terrorists' claim to have sleeper agents inside the United States would not be investigated. It was almost as though the President were indifferent to the potential menace.

  Vernon had been having the same thoughts about Parkes's stance for a while, and today merely solidified his hands-off position on terrorism.

  What if his opinion wasn't indifference at all? What if it was something far more insidious?

  Back at Langley, Don Case was having the same trepidation. He had to report what had happened. Parkes was far too dangerous. He made a call.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I am a blessed man, Tariq the Hawk said to himself. His mentor Mohammad al-Joulani had taken a boy and formed him into what he was today. Tariq had grown to manhood under the tutelage of his mentor, but like the hawk, there always came a time to spread one's wings and fly on your own. Tariq was ready to fly.

  Allah had blessed him six months ago when Mohammad introduced him to the plan that would jolt the world. His mentor had trusted him with this monumental project, and Tariq had performed stunningly well.

  The few who knew the plan had told Tariq it was impossible, crazy beyond belief. No one could guarantee the schedules of the President and Vice President. No one could get aboard the government's airplanes at the most heavily guarded base in America. No one could successfully plant not just one bomb, but two.

  But Tariq had accomplished the impossible.

  He brought people, materiel and plans together, infusing his enthusiasm and skill into every aspect of the plan and creating a loyal team who believed it would actually happen. He masterfully guided a dozen separate parts until they were joined to create the final piece of the puzzle – the installation of small boxes in the cockpits of each plane. These could be detonated via the Internet using the aircraft's Wi-Fi.

  Things could go wrong, of course. The biggest problem would be a last-minute change in scheduling. Since the devices would be detonated remotely, no one would be around to know exactly when they should be fired. Instead of disappearing over the ocean, the plane might explode while parked on a tarmac somewhere with no one on board. That was a chance the Falcons had to take. If by Allah's grace they didn't kill the Great Satan's leaders, destroying their two planes would still send a message about America's vulnerability from within.

  But the plan had worked perfectly, and now Tariq was a legend among his countrymen. Since the bombings, he had moved to an oasis in the Syrian desert near the Iraqi border. The Falcons of Islam had been fanatics before the attack on America. Now they were absolutely rabid in the fervent adoration of their leader. These men protected Tariq. They would gladly die for him because Allah had blessed him with success against the enemy.

  Tariq's cellphone rang; he glanced at the number and answered a call from a man he considered the most important person in the world to the cause.

  They hadn't spoken since the planes went down. Today Tariq listened with pride to words of praise – respectful words he hadn't heard before from this powerful individual. The caller told the young man that he was a true leader and a soldier of Allah.

  "I promised to help you if you could make this happen, and I will. Shall I send my contribution to the account we discussed earlier?"

  Tariq took out a slip of paper he kept in his pocket. It contained nothing but numbers, banking information he now confirmed. Before the attacks, his benefactor had set up a Swiss bank account for Tariq. He knew nothing about such things; the only bank account the Falcons had was the one Mohammad set up in Morocco, the one that had almost five million dollars in it. This new account was in Tariq's name, not the Falcons of Islam. It was a dangerous move, but it was time for the hawk to fly.

  The next morning Tariq awoke early, as eager as a child to know if the caller had told the truth. He opened the bank's app on his phone, entered his ID and password, and saw a number that literally gave him goose bumps.

  The bank account – his account and his alone – now held fifty million dollars.

  Tariq knew one thing for certain. Having the fifty million dollars in his personal bank account would result in an excruciatingly painful death once Mohammad al-Joulani found out. By the time he did, Tariq would be ready. One person would surely die, but it would not be the Hawk.

  His mentor had prepared him well. He needed no one now.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Senator Henry Harrison III and his wife were participating in their nightly ritual, the five o'clock cocktail hour, on the porch of their country house. They had owned the thousand-acre ranch for years. It was only an hour's drive from their beautiful home in the exclusive Nichols Hills area of Oklahoma City, and for the Harrisons it had become their refuge since the funerals two weeks ago. Well-meaning friends kept them busy when they were in the City, but the solitude of this place, its silence broken only by their quiet conversation or the honking of geese heading north, was what they craved now. In the weeks since the disappearance, they had stayed at the ranch most of the time. Every evening they sat out here on the porch; tonight they watched a blazing red sun slowly sink into the horizon as cattle lowed nearby. Both of them found comfort in the rolling hills and green pastures that seemed to go on forever. Right now they didn't want anything else from life but the ranch and their memories.

  "Harry and Jennifer and the girls loved this place," Julia remarked wistfully. Lost in reverie, her seventy-five-year-old husband nodded and sipped his Bourbon and branch water. He'd been remembering the fun times they had out here, teaching little Lizzie and Kate how to ride a horse and packing tents in their old pickup to do overnight campouts on the back forty acres. He thought about the Christmases spent in the great room in front of a tree they had cut themselves, singing carols and roasting marshmallows in the fire they always kept going in the winter.

  The couple had no other children, and they were private people with no really close friends. Since Henry's retirement, the grandchildren had become the main thing that gave them fulfillment. They had kept their townhouse in DC so they could be involved in the girls' lives. They were always picking up Lizzie and Kate, taking them places and attending recitals, performances and football games with them.

  Things had gotten more complicated when Harry became President. The requirement for security upended the simple life they'd enjoyed since Henry's retirement, and this place – the ranch – became their retreat. Even here there had to be changes, of course. A level section of pasture half a mile from the house was paved, and a runway long enough to accommodate a private jet was built. Air Force One would land sixty miles away in Oklahoma City, and the smaller jet or a helicopter would ferry them out to the country.

  While Harry, Jennifer or the girls were at the ranch, Secret Service agents occupied the guest bunkhouse. The agents were very good at what they did – they were masters at remaining watchful without being intrusive. Everything was perfect until that awful morning. What had been normal would never be normal again. Jets no longer landed and the Secret Service agents were gone. Now there was no President here to protect. All that was left was the two of them. The family retreat was now a place of silence for two aging people who had lost everything.

  The house phone rang. They looked at each other in surprise – it happened so seldom that they wondered what it could be. They knew who the caller was. Now that the kids were gone, it could only be the answering service. No one else had the number.

  Calls to any of the Harrisons' residences were picked up by a service who emailed a message to Henry. He looked at them now and then; it was rare t
hat anything required even same-day attention. The ringing phone this evening meant something different. The only time the service called was when there was an emergency.

  Henry pushed himself unsteadily up from the porch rocker and walked into the house. Julia didn't hear anything for several minutes.

  "Are you all right, Henry?" she called to him.

  She turned as he rapped on the screen door. He was holding the cordless phone to his ear and he gave her a thumbs-up. She settled back into her chair, rocking slowly and wondering what in the world had happened this time. However serious it might be, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing could ever be as horrible as that call – that life-ending call – had been.

  In a moment Henry came outside carrying refreshed drinks. The squeaky sound of the porch door opening and slamming was comforting, she thought briefly. It made her feel at home.

  They talked quietly for over an hour. Henry explained about the call, what he'd agreed to do, and what would happen next. The conversation was occasionally interrupted by Julia's outbursts of uncontrollable sobbing. At last he squeezed her hand and said, "Let's go inside and fix dinner, sweetheart. We have a big day tomorrow." She smiled and kissed his cheek.

  The next evening as Brian and Nicole watched the news, they saw a ten-second clip about former President Harrison's parents. They were heading to the Mediterranean for a month aboard a private yacht.

  They must have been invited by one of the many very wealthy people who he'd gotten to know during his time in the Senate, Brian figured. But he also knew how much the couple valued their privacy, so he was a little surprised they'd chosen to be with others so soon.

  Good for them. I can't comprehend their loss and the grief they must still feel every second. Brian hoped the change of scenery and time with friends would speed the healing process.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brian Sadler was better known than many Hollywood actors. Since he had assumed ownership of Bijan Rarities a few years ago, Brian had become a regular on cable networks such as History and Discovery. A worldwide cadre of loyal viewers eagerly heard his opinions about the provenance, authenticity and value of unique archaeological pieces. When he and Nicole were in restaurants in Dallas, New York or London, people often stopped by their table to meet him.

  Bijan had become the gallery of choice for well-heeled collectors who wanted to acquire or divest priceless pieces. Sotheby's or Christie's handled art, wine and collectibles, but Bijan Rarities surpassed both in the sale and auction of ancient relics and artifacts.

  Brian had become enamored with Bijan from that day he first visited the Fifth Avenue gallery and met its owner Darius Nazir, an Egyptian respected worldwide among his fellow dealers. When Brian arrived, Nazir was finalizing preparations for a television broadcast. Soon millions of armchair travelers eagerly watched archaeologists enter a newly discovered tomb in Egypt's Valley of the Kings and marveled as the sarcophagus of a long-forgotten pharaoh was auctioned. By the time the show aired, Brian was one of those eager fans. Fortuitously, through a strange turn of events, he became sole owner of the prestigious gallery.

  Brian continued the tradition of his predecessor, holding auctions every six months. The other major houses couldn't compete with Bijan's popularity – each wildly popular auction was aired on a prime time cable network. There was always a theme – his next one was called The Wrath of Vesuvius – and the networks eagerly bid against each other for exclusive rights. This morning Brian read the latest contracts sent over by his attorney that would solidify the Vesuvius auction four months from now. That one would be broadcast live from Bijan's Old Bond Street gallery in London.

  As he stood in the showroom, directing his second-in-command Cory Spencer and two staffers about the display of a new piece, his cellphone rang. He looked at the word "blocked" on the screen and refused the call. He had neither the time nor the patience for some auto-dialed sales pitch. Suddenly he got the ding of a voicemail. He listened a moment; then he walked out of the showroom, closed the door to his office and sat down at his desk to wait.

  The voicemail had been brief. "Brian, this is Henry Harrison. I need to speak with you urgently. I'll try this number again in exactly five minutes. If I don't reach you, I'll call every day at nine a.m. and three p.m. your time until I reach you."

  Senator Harrison and his wife should be somewhere in the Mediterranean, cruising on a private yacht by now. A ship-to-shore call might show up as blocked. Whatever it was, it sounded urgent. While his employees waited for him in the showroom, he waited for the call.

  Three minutes later his phone rang. Brian answered immediately.

  "Good morning, Senator. I hope you and Julia are holding up all right, given the situation."

  "It's as good as it can be," the President's father said more tersely than Brian had ever heard him. "I don't have much time, so I'll get to the point. The government needs your help. You can't imagine the resources being deployed around the world to solve the mystery of Air Force One and Two. You can help, Brian, and I'm personally asking for your assistance."

  "Anything, Senator. You know I'd do anything. I'm sure every agency on earth is trying to find out what happened, and I can't imagine how I can help. But if you think there's something I can do, I'm ready."

  "You have an auction coming up soon involving pieces from Pompeii. Is that right?"

  "Yes, but I don't understand . . ."

  The President's father interrupted. "And you won't understand for a while. You're going to get a call Saturday morning at 8:30. What they ask you to do may sound strange, but I can't emphasize enough how urgent this is. If you want to help with the mystery of Harry and the family, I'm convinced what these men ask will be a critically important contribution. Someday I can tell you more. For now I have to go. Thanks for your help and, Brian, don't say anything to Nicole about this call."

  Brian sat for a moment looking at his phone. He was baffled.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As the former President's father had promised, Brian's phone rang at exactly 8:30 on Saturday morning. Even though he'd been waiting at his desk for fifteen minutes, the sound still startled him.

  Three hours later he walked to the United States Embassy in Grosvenor Square, just a couple of miles from his gallery on Old Bond Street. He was brought to a small office, where a man in jeans and a sport jacket sat. He rose and offered his hand.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Sadler. I'm Donovan Case, director of the CIA. Thanks for agreeing to help us."

  Their meeting lasted just over an hour. Brian signed a confidentiality agreement at the outset, although afterwards he wondered why, since he had been given very little information. The CIA wanted his help to accomplish something he was uniquely qualified to do. He had agreed – what the director asked would be simple to accomplish, presuming the circumstances were right. Certain things had to come together to make everything work, and those things might never happen. If they did, Brian would be helping in the quest to determine what happened to Harry Harrison and the rest of the people on those airplanes. Of course he'd help. He had an obligation to do whatever he could.

  Once the meeting ended, Case reminded him to keep their discussion confidential even from his fiancée. Brian agreed, knowing the less she knew about this, the better.

  As he walked back to work, he asked himself how they knew he had a fiancée. It really made no difference, but it did surprise him. But then they were the CIA, after all. These spooks supposedly knew everything.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Joe Kaya had made the decision to betray the country of his birth sometime during his sophomore year at Georgetown University. It happened soon after 9/11, but he'd forgotten the details after all these years.

  His college roommate Adam was from Syria and was the son of the deputy ambassador to the United States. As college kids do, Joe and others studying in the Foreign Service School spent many evenings drinking beer, discussing religion and contrasting the politics of the United St
ates against that of the Middle Eastern countries where many of these kids were from. Adam was one of those who vocalized the American aggression many of them felt but rarely discussed. Most students were afraid to speak out. They wanted futures – jobs as diplomats and embassy workers – and an education in the United States. They consciously distanced themselves from the brutal jihadists back home. Even Joe Kaya did something to make himself more "American." He converted to Catholicism.

  One evening in the second semester of their freshman year, Adam asked Joe to meet some friends. They drove half an hour to a suburban mosque where a group of men in their late twenties welcomed the boys. They used Joe’s birth name Yusuf – no one but his father had ever called him by that name. They drank tea, smoked strong Turkish cigarettes and talked until after midnight. Joe enjoyed the discussions so much that he and Adam went back several times before the summer break. Two people in particular – Ali and Mo – took an interest in Joe from that first night, but he didn't pick up on it.

  Joe would later recall that those early meetings were full of mostly tame criticism about American tendencies like how rednecks in the south seemed to hate Muslims just because of where they had been born. Despite the fact that Joe was at an impressionable age, a lot of what the men said made sense because it was true. Many Americans really did treat Muslims differently.

  After the summer, the boys roomed together again for their sophomore year. They moved back to campus in early September, bought books and did a hundred other things. Classes resumed on Monday, September 10, 2001.

  The next day at 8:46 a.m., everything changed completely. American Airlines Flight 11, flown by an Egyptian hijacker named Mohamed Atta, hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center, and Islamophobia suddenly became a familiar term. In an instant, citizens who were as American as anybody else – people who had been born and educated here, men and women who belonged to churches, PTA groups, Rotary Clubs and Masonic lodges – became the subjects of fear and hatred. Because of how they looked or where they came from or how they spoke, some Americans ostracized others who in truth were as American as they were. It didn't matter if they were Little League coaches or deacons in the Presbyterian Church or Cub Scout den mothers. None of that mattered to some people. Those people – those different ones – were Muslims, just like the ones who had perpetrated the most egregious attack ever on American soil.