The older man shrugged. “Now, of course, the media and the entire country are enamored with the story of Rowan’s disappearance, surrender on behalf of Danielle, and his incarceration at Quantico. Despite the domestic and foreign pressure, the president is not planning to aid the investigations of the FBI or CIA in any manner. As I said, he wants to believe Rowan is innocent of the allegations against him.”
Shaking his head in frustration, he frowned at his father. “That makes me sick. For the president to be co-opted enough to doubt Rowan’s innocence bothers me, a hell of a lot.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Look Dad, I know you’re busy, but did you have a chance to make inroads on any other levels?”
His father’s face turned grim. “You were on target when you said something wasn’t right at the Bureau. Rodney Ainsley is taking directions from Muusa Shemal, the Egyptian national you told me about.”
Thinking his jaw would hit the table, he stared open-mouthed at his father. “What? Ainsley is working with the man who orchestrated the destruction of Rowan’s life and wants to take him to an Egyptian prison?”
Looking sickened, Clifton continued. “That’s the way it appears, and he may very well get that done, sooner rather than later. Mr. Shemal has cleverly presented himself as a moderate, dedicated to educating the faithful in the pursuit of a jihad-free version of Islam. Along with that, he has taken great pains to paint Rowan Milani as the worst kind of traitor. And he’s succeeding, magnificently – in both endeavors. Both Ainsley and his cohort in the CIA, a senior field agent named Sal Capello, are convinced that Shemal is above reproach.”
Clifton fiddled with his straw. “The other thing I’ve learned is that Mr. Shemal is paying an exorbitant amount of money to Ainsley and Capello for the privilege of hauling your friend to Torah Prison in Egypt. The Muslim Brotherhood and Shemal have expended a mind-boggling amount of money to engineer the betrayal of Rowan Milani.”
His father paused and swirled the ice in his glass of tea. “I believe Shemal and the Muslim Brotherhood must have discovered the extent of Rowan’s subterfuge on behalf of the United States, and they’ve taken it upon themselves to exact retribution. Your friend has angered the powers that be in the Islamic world in a very big way, and they’re slobbering all over themselves to get their hands on him. Shemal has first dibs, but even he may have to forego custody if the Brotherhood insists.”
The sense of urgency to rescue Rowan had become unbearable. Trying to get a grip on his thoughts, Chad shoved his fingers through his hair, which refused to do anything but droop in a disheveled mess atop his head. “Dad – we’ve got to get Rowan out of Quantico. What about the condo, can I use it as a base of operations? We need to move on this situation.”
Clifton looked around the bustling eatery once more and gave him a sly smile. “I’d love to have you at the condo, but I’ve got a better idea. For years I’ve kept an apartment near your mother’s Alzheimer’s facility. You know how I feel about security and anonymity. This apartment is leased to a corporation belonging to a friend of mine in Chicago and bears absolutely no connection to the name Cantor. I’ll give you a key right now. In addition, the black Mercedes, which is registered to the same company in Chicago, is yours to use as long as you want. It’s parked in the garage at the office.”
Dread for Rowan burgeoning out of control, he could barely speak. “Thanks Dad. We can trade cars. I’ve got the Mustang here – you can drive it if you want. But right now, I need to get going. I’ve got a lot to do, and apparently not much time. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”
His father nodded. “Be extremely careful. If there’s anything else I can do, please call me. Otherwise, I know where you’ll be, and I’ll watch what happens on FOX and read about it in the Post.” Clifton slid out of the booth and smiled again. “Let’s go trade cars. I’m looking forward to this. A Shelby GT500 convertible – and red no less… I’ll rediscover my lost youth.”
* * *
Monday Evening
Lulled by the steady roar of the twin turbofan engines, Derek looked sleepily out the window of the Gulfstream G650, barely able to believe he was flying close to the speed of sound in a luxury jet. Striding across the tarmac in Omaha, he’d stopped and stared at the spectacular aircraft he’d watched land in Sioux Falls the previous spring. Of course, then it had been white. Now it was gleaming, metallic black. Feeling like an incredibly simple man living what had, up until a few days earlier, been a mundane life, he shook his head.
It was difficult for him to relate to men who could steal a jet like this from the CIA without batting an eye, actually have the balls to keep it, and then fly the thing all over God’s creation. When he asked, Michael had blown off his curiosity, explaining that Chad had fixed everything with his hacking ability. The computer genius had created a bogus front company, a new tail number, registry of ownership, and blah, blah, blah.
The mess he found himself embroiled in was over his head. What could he do now that he’d been uprooted from his career, friends and family? Would he have to assume a new identity, like someone stuck in witness protection? How would he support himself? He’d always loved airplanes and had worked as a mechanic for Legacy before transferring to Northwest – now Delta – and eventually to the ramp side as a supervisor. Maybe he could take some classes and refresh his skills. Yawning and running a weary hand over his face, he wished with all his heart that he’d never, ever laid eyes on Rowan Milani.
Michael’s sleek black phone, lying on the low table between the seats, started ringing. He looked anxiously at the soundly sleeping man across the aisle. Grabbing the phone, he looked at the caller ID and frowned. Where was the talk button? Taking a chance, he poked the phone and was relieved when he heard Chad’s voice. “Uh, hey Chad, it’s Derek. Michael is sleeping. Do you want me to wake him? We’re on the way to Kauai in the jet.”
Chad sounded confused and he couldn’t blame him. “Derek…oh shit. How did you… You’re on the way to Kauai with Michael?”
Squirming in embarrassment, he answered. “Yep, after I talked to Michael about the CIA guys, he decided it would be best if I came to Kauai too. Anyway, hang on.” Gently touching Michael’s shoulder, he hoped the guy wouldn’t deck him when he woke up.
Michael rubbed his eyes and glared at him. “What’s going on? Are we getting ready to land?”
Shrugging, he held out the phone. “Sorry, it’s Chad.”
Michael snatched the phone with an irritated, “What now?” Curious, he settled back in his seat and watched discreetly as Michael stretched and yawned. “Hey Chad, what’s up?” The man bent his head and gripped his forehead with one hand. “Oh no, we’ve got to move fast on this one. I’d say we better get in there within the next forty-eight hours. Those bastards are not going to cut him any slack. Call me as soon as you hack into the system at Quantico and find out anything at all.”
As he watched Michael sling the phone on the table, lean back and close his eyes, he couldn’t help but wonder at the crazy loyalty these people had for Rowan Milani. If it were up to him, he’d leave the jerk to rot. From what he’d seen of the guy, he probably deserved whatever he had gotten himself into.
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tuesday Afternoon
Teeth chattering, shivering uncontrollably, Rowan winced and tried to move, but it was no use. His feet and legs were swollen and numb. He had no idea whether it was day or night or how long he’d stood barefoot on the concrete floor. Shortly after the guards left, a fan started, blowing cold air over him nonstop and every once in a while the sprinkler system he’d noticed sprayed a fine mist of water from the ceiling. The temperature in the interrogation cell had fallen steadily.
The fluorescent lights stayed on and every time he closed his eyes, a shrill whistle blared. They needn’t have worried that he’d fall asleep. Scared to death that he’d fall over and hang by his wrists, he remained wide awake. His stomach rumbl
ed, but he craved water. No one had offered him anything to eat or drink since his arrival, and his mouth felt like it was full of sawdust.
The lock turned in the steel door and it swung open. A thickset man strode in and planted himself in front of him, smirking while he rolled a toothpick between his lips. “So, I finally get to meet the infamous Rowan Milani.” The man’s black hair and prominent nose took him back to when he was a kid, meeting his Italian uncles on a family trip to Chicago. Except this man had ruthless brown eyes and wore a lanyard around his neck with CIA printed in large letters.
Hands on hips, the man surveyed him. “Let me introduce myself. Sal Capello, CIA. Now, let me get right to the point. I’ve got a job to do and I intend to do it. The Agency and the Bureau want to know the details of the terror network you’ve built in this country and what you’ve been planning. But first, I’ve had a hankering, since last spring, to know how in the hell you managed to orchestrate your own disappearance, along with the theft of a sixty-five million dollar aircraft, the disabling of two CIA agents, and a flight crew. That impressed me.” The agent cracked thick knuckles and smiled at him. “Here’s the deal, Milani. You tell me where that jet is, and who helped you, and I’ll make sure the rest of your interrogation goes easily.”
He stared into the hard eyes. Curling his lips, feeling the sting as they cracked, he sneered at the agent. Did the arrogant prick really think he’d fold so quickly? Without warning, the agent’s heavy hand struck his face with an open-handed whack that resounded in his ears. Balance lost on the slippery floor, he tipped over, excruciating pain exploding in his shoulders and wrists as his arms were wrenched upward. The chain and cuffs held fast and he hung there, bent double for endless seconds, feet sliding but hindered by the leg irons snapped to the eye bolt. The CIA agent cursed and yanked him upright.
Swaying back and forth, a guttural moan escaped from deep in his throat and he gagged, vomiting bile all over the surprised agent’s shirtfront. Yelling for the guards, Capello shoved him. Unbearable pain took his breath away when he toppled over again. Two guards rushed into the room, grabbed his arms and pulled him into a standing position. Quivering with shock, he blinked through tears of pain that streamed down his face and mingled in a salty tang with blood from lips torn by the brutal slap. With shattering humiliation, he felt warm urine running down his legs. Face brick red, veins bulging in his neck, Capello screamed at the guards. “Get this son of a bitch out of here and somebody get me a towel – now.”
Deftly freeing him from the leg irons, the guards released the chain from the handcuffs and pulled him from the reeking cell, dragging him between them to the infirmary, where a sober-faced doctor and nurse waited. The doctor snapped at the guards. “Get the handcuffs off, right now. We need to get him on a bed and get an IV started. Can’t you tell he’s dehydrated? Why wasn’t this man given water?”
The cuffs came off, but searing pain streaked from his shoulders to his wrists. He couldn’t move his arms. His gut tightened and he gagged and heaved, but nothing remained in his stomach. The guards lifted him to a bed and he laid there, eyes tightly closed while his body shook in agony.
* * *
Wednesday Morning
Marta rolled naked onto her back in the double bed and sat up, glancing out the window. It was another sunny day and she didn’t need to be at the airport for a couple more hours. Troy sat up beside her and gave her a sexy smile. Long black hair hung in his blue eyes, and his smile turned her on. One of the Line Technicians and her favorite boy toy from the company that serviced both private and commercial aircraft, she’d enjoyed his hard-muscled body many times. Lots of women at the airport found a reason to be nearby when he drove across the tarmac with his truckload of Jet-A to fuel aircraft.
But right now she was curious, still obsessed with finding out anything she could about Rowan Milani. Gathering the sheets around her waist, she reached over and scraped long, red-lacquered nails through the hair on his chest. “Hey Troy, were you working when they brought that FBI agent to the airport?”
Troy shook his head and flopped down on his back. Putting his hands behind his head, he looked up at her. “Nah, I had the day off. But hey, you know what? I was working the night he first escaped, or disappeared, or whatever. And there was something weird about that, because I swear Marti-girl, the guys who helped him get away were FBI agents, too.”
Eyes narrowed, she had been thinking of how she’d punish him for calling her Marti-girl, the nickname she despised. Reaching over, she grabbed him and started slow, rhythmic pulls, giggling when he jerked and started moving. “They were FBI agents? How do you know?”
She grinned at the breathless quality in his voice and kept her hand going. “Ohhh…uh, I saw them…ah, when I was over at the terminal, giving the Delta manager a copy of a missing receipt. Shit. I can’t talk if you’re gonna do that.”
She stopped and he groaned. “Answer my questions, sweetie, and I’ll give you the blow job of your life.”
“OK, what else do you want to know?” Troy sounded so hopeful that she giggled again and squeezed him gently.
“What did the guys look like? Was one tall and blonde?” She stopped squeezing and waited for him to respond.
Staring unblinking at her, he appeared to be thinking. “I don’t know about being blonde, but one of them was tall. They kept close to the building, and I wouldn’t have seen them at all except that I lost my ID somewhere on the tarmac when the pilot and first officer threw a fit over a tug somebody parked too close to the wing of that jet.” He paused to reach out and caress her breast. “And you know what? Nobody ever admitted to moving that stupid tug.”
Leaning into his hand, she arched her back, felt her heart rate quicken. Troy grinned. “Anyway, I was out there in the dark with a flashlight looking for my ID where the jet had been parked, since all the management bozos make us turn off the lights as soon as a plane leaves. They are such morons, I can’t believe it sometimes.”
He scowled, let go of her breast and scratched his belly. “After I found my ID, I headed to the parking lot, because my shift was over. That’s when I saw the two of them walking out from behind the building. They never saw me, and they drove off in a Mustang. Some of the guys at the airport were talking about that FBI agent and his car. The other guy was older and I know I saw him talking to my supervisor one day.”
Straddling him, she smiled down at his handsome face, letting her breasts graze his chest when she leaned over to pat his face with her hands. “You ready for a treat?” She had to finish him off quickly, because Muusa needed to know what she’d found out. It was one more way for her to fuck with Rowan Milani and Danielle. She hoped it caused them both as much grief as possible.
* * *
Hands cuffed behind his back, Rowan limped between the two guards who’d taken him from the infirmary, concentrating on taking short steps so the leg irons wouldn’t gouge his skin. When he looked up and saw the stocky CIA agent leaning casually in the doorway of his cell, his heart rate kicked up and his mouth went dry. The vile agent stepped away from the door and walked down the hall. The guards pulled him along, making their way to the same interrogation cell he’d been dragged from. Had it been the night before? He’d lost all sense of time.
Agent Capello waited, smirking at him, while one of the guards unlocked the door. Once inside, they positioned him over the eye bolt and he wondered what new misery they’d concocted. The guards held onto his arms while agent Capello poked him in the chest with a forefinger. “All right Milani, we’re going to step it up a notch. But you know how it works, don’t you? Unless you’re ready to tell me where the Agency’s jet is and who helped you steal it.”
Not wanting to provoke the volatile agent, he kept his face neutral and stared through the cruel eyes. He’d never tell the bastard anything, no matter what he did to him.
Capello shook his head. “Let’s try again. Maybe we should discuss the terror network you’ve built
in this country and the jihadist recruiting activities you’ve carried out around the globe. You’ve been a busy man.”
Anxiety had his hands sweating. The agent got in his face. He glimpsed flaring nostrils and frustration in the acrimonious eyes. It wouldn’t be long before the interrogation turned physical. When Capello took a step back and turned toward the door, his shoulders slumped in relief. But then the agent swung around and stepped in front of him again. The hard eyes turned crafty. “You had a problem with rotator cuff tears in your shoulders last spring, isn’t that right? If I remember the doctor’s report, you needed surgery. Did you recover fully from those injuries while you were hiding?”
Trepidation rising, he struggled to control his breathing and continued staring straight ahead. Capello sighed. “That tumble you took yesterday had to put a lot of stress on your shoulders. I’d sure hate to see them reinjured. But hey, have it your way. Guard, get your scissors and cut the jumpsuit off of him and the underwear too.”
Clamping his jaws shut to keep his teeth from chattering, he closed his eyes when he felt the cold edge of the scissors and heard the blades chewing through the fabric of the jumpsuit. In a matter of minutes he stood naked and shivering in front of the despicable man. Capello stared at him, head tilted to one side. “On your knees Milani, right here in front of me.”
Fearful of the agent’s brutal hands, he sank to his knees and bent his head. One of the guards clipped the chain between the leg irons to the eye bolt in the floor while the other one snapped a chain between the cuffs and pulled. Gasping at the sudden tug on his tender shoulders, he managed to stifle a groan. Capello took a step back and addressed the guard. “Come on, what are you waiting for? I want that chain attached to the eye bolt in the ceiling.”
Consummate Betrayal Page 24