Armageddon Conspiracy

by John Thompson

  Brent hung up, went around his desk, and opened his office door to find two men in dark suits, white shirts, and sober ties. The big guy who’d already stuck his head in the office stepped forward. “Agent Tom Anderson,” he said in a clipped voice. He was maybe six-two, a little shorter than Brent but probably thirty pounds heavier. Brent guessed him for early forties.

  The other man introduced himself as Agent Darius Stewart. He was several inches shorter, thin and wiry by comparison to his partner, and his reddish hair and freckles made his age hard to guess. Anywhere from late thirties to late forties, Brent thought.

  The two agents held up wallets with badges and FBI picture ID’s. “We need to speak with you about Dr. Khaled Faisal,” Agent Anderson said.

  The way the two agents looked at him made him feel surprisingly furtive. His mouth was dry as he pointed them to chairs.

  They sat, and Agent Stewart cleared his throat. “How long have you known Dr. Faisal?”

  Brent shrugged. “Not long. I’ve only been with the firm a few weeks.”

  Agent Anderson made a note of Brent’s answer. “How would you characterize the relationship?” Agent Stewart continued.

  “Professional,” Brent said.

  “Ever been to his home?”

  “No.”

  “Have you disbursed funds to Dr. Faisal or members of his family?”

  “No,” Brent said. He added, “Previously money was disbursed from the account, but never to Dr. Faisal or any member of his family.”

  “What were the reasons for the disbursements?” Anderson asked. He leaned forward, thick forearms on his thighs.

  Brent was surprised by the hostility in the agent’s eyes. “Humanitarian causes and peace projects,” he shot back. He barely knew Dr. Faisal, but Anderson’s attitude was getting under his skin.

  Anderson raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Peace projects?” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, sir, but no way.”

  “I beg to differ! It’s in our correspondence file!” Brent said, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

  Stewart leaned in. “What Agent Anderson is trying to say is that we’ve learned Dr. Faisal has been a major funding source for worldwide terrorism.” He said it in a quiet voice, with none of his partner’s venom.

  Brent sat back. “That’s insane! I’ve read the whole account history. The money has gone to the International Red Cross, UNESCO projects, Doctors Without Borders, peace conferences.”

  “You know that because he told you that,” Anderson interjected.

  “No, I know it because I can read.”

  “You see where you think the money has gone,” Anderson insisted.

  “The last I knew, the Red Cross wasn’t a terrorist organization!”

  Agent Stewart raised a calming hand. “We’ve learned that money transfers can be addressed to legitimate organizations yet sidetracked through the assistance of complicit bankers.”

  Brent suddenly felt less certain. “You’ve checked with the Red Cross and UNESCO and the others?”

  Anderson cut a sideways look at Stewart, who nodded. “They never got the money.”

  Brent felt like he’d been slugged, and he sat back and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Stewart removed a stack of documents from his briefcase and placed them on the edge of Brent’s desk. “I’m sure this is upsetting, but I assure you we do not suspect that Genesis Advisors or its employees were aware of what was happening.”

  Brent nodded. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” he said in a miserable tone.

  “And I am aware that this is also a very large account with very large fees. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that.”

  Brent took his hands away from his eyes and looked across at the agent. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re seizing the account.” Agent Stewart pointed to the stack of documents. “That’s what this paperwork is all about.”

  “Dr. Faisal doesn’t get a chance to at least defend himself?”

  Anderson sniffed as though Brent had made a joke. “If he feels that we’ve seized his assets wrongly, he’s welcome to make his case in court. He won’t though because if he loses he’ll go to jail.”

  Brent was thinking he and the FBI were supposed to be on the same side, but in his guts it somehow didn’t feel that way. “You’re taking his money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Our attorney needs to review those documents first.”

  Anderson gave him a withering look. “You don’t tell the Federal Bureau of Investigation when we can carry out our orders.”

  Rather than respond, Brent picked up his phone and dialed Spencer McDonald’s cell number. After two rings, McDonald answered, his voice hushed as if he was in a meeting. “Yes?”

  “It’s Lucas. The FBI is accusing Dr. Faisal—”

  “Are they seizing the account?” McDonald interjected.

  “They want to, but I’m trying to hold them off until you have a chance to get in here.”

  “Do they have court orders?”

  Brent took the receiver away from his mouth. “Do you have court orders?”

  Agent Stewart nodded.

  “Let me talk to them,” McDonald said.

  Brent held the phone out for Agent Stewart, who stood and leaned across his desk. “This is Agent Darius Stewart,” he said. He looked off into space as he listened to McDonald’s question. “Yessir,” he said after a few seconds. “They were issued under provisions of the Homeland Security Act and signed by Judge Slovenski of the New York Federal Court.” He listened again for a few seconds. “Yessir,” he said. “Dated this morning at nine fifteen.” He listened, then nodded his head. “Yessir. Thank you, sir.”

  Stewart handed the phone to Brent. “For you,” he said as he sat back in his chair.

  “Sign the agreement,” McDonald said to Brent. “We won’t do any good fighting the seizure order, and right now the most important thing will be keeping this out of the papers. If we cooperate, the feds will keep their mouths shut. If we don’t, you’ll have reporters there in another couple hours.”

  “What about Dr. Faisal?” Brent asked, his voice hoarse with barely suppressed anger.

  “One of those court orders is no doubt a gag order, forbidding you or anyone in the firm from communicating with your client until the FBI gives permission.”

  “So we let them take his money, and we don’t even tell him it’s happened?”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” McDonald said. “We’ll get our ducks in a row and then fight this in court. I’ll call you as soon as my meeting ends, and we’ll get together.”

  Brent hung up and glared at Stewart, who paged through one of the documents and pointed to a red tape arrow. “We need your signature,” he said.

  Brent’s neck swelled against his shirt collar, and he stared at the arrow.

  “Sir?” Agent Stewart prodded after a minute.

  Brent finally grabbed the paper and signed. Stewart flipped to the next arrow, and Brent continued until the stack was exhausted.

  Stewart placed half the documents inside his briefcase and left duplicates for Brent. “One of the documents you signed—which by the way would have been binding in any case—is a court order forbidding any communication about this case with anyone outside or inside this firm. Failure to abide by that order is a felony. The other documents give us permission to transfer the account’s assets into a Federal holding account until this matter is adjudicated.”

  “You didn’t need my signature on those, either, did you?”

  Stewart gave him a tight smile. “No, but it makes everything neater and provides evidence of your firm’s willing cooperation.”

  “I’m so glad we could be of service.”

  Stewart ignored the sarcasm. “Willing support of your country is important,” he said evenly.

  “We’ll be in touch with your superiors.”

  “By the way, Mr. Biddle won’t have any problem with wh
at we’ve done,” Agent Anderson interjected as he rose from the chair and jerked his cuffs down over his meaty wrists. “He is a patriot and an excellent Christian.”

  “Good day, Mr. Lucas,” Stewart said with a quick nod. Brent caught the admonishing glance he shot Anderson on their way out.

  TWENTY-TWO

  NEW YORK, JUNE 29

  AS THE VAN SWUNG ONTO the cross street and picked up speed, Naif Abdulaziz glanced into the dirt-streaked side mirror at where a rain-lashed Park Avenue lay behind them, snarled with endless lines of traffic. On the sidewalks pedestrians scurried as gusts of wind whipped at women’s skirts and tore umbrellas inside out. Naif nodded in satisfaction. Conditions were perfect for his task, which meant that once again Allah’s blessing would assure his success.

  The van pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant, and the transmission clunked into park. The driver glanced over. He was a Christian holy man, only tonight he wore no collar, only a dirty coat and a tan rain hat whose wrinkled brim flopped down to obscure everything but a pair of wire-framed glasses, a broad jaw ringed with fat, and full lips. “It’s number twelve,” he said.

  For several moments Naif studied the large four-story townhouse with a façade of white marble and a small portico over the front door. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, and pictured his mother and two little brothers standing before the schoolhouse where he once taught and dreamed of becoming a poet. He let the images harden and tasted the scarred emptiness in the part of his soul where gentle words had once made a garden. It was because of the Americans that he’d had to leave everything he loved—his family, his home, his students, and his books—and as he focused on his loss a flash of hatred raced through his body. This was the feeling he was looking for, the way he fortified himself at the prospect of spilling blood.

  He opened his eyes and looked again at the elegant townhouse, thinking that these people who loved their lives and their luxuries were about to learn what it was like to meet a true martyr. He buttoned his long coat and tugged the collar up around his face. Pulling on a rain hat similar to the one his driver wore, he slid his silenced Makarov 9mm pistol into one pocket and his combat knife into the other.

  Finally, he crawled into the back of the van, took the bouquet of long-stemmed roses from their box, held them high to hide whatever parts of his face the raised collar and hat didn’t conceal, and stepped out the back door into the downpour. Movement was like a release, and the ironbound strength of his purpose flooded his heart. He lowered his head like any poor deliveryman without an umbrella and dashed for the front door of number twelve. He crowded close, shoulders hunched against the rain that blew beneath the small portico. As he rang the buzzer, he pretended to be unaware of the security camera above his head.

  A voice came over the intercom box beside the doorbell. “Can I help you?” a man’s voice asked, the accent European.

  “Flower delivery,” Naif said.

  A moment later, footsteps crossed what sounded like a marble floor, and Naif slipped the knife from his pocket and held it out of sight behind the roses. The door had a heavy metal frame inset with tall glass panels and fronted with protective metal bars. An inner door opened, and the gauze curtains showed a single silhouette.

  A lock clicked and the door swung inward. A short man with a balding head, white shirt, and apron over dark trousers smiled up at him. He held out one hand for the flowers, while his other hand tendered a five-dollar bill. As Naif extended the bouquet he moved beyond the reach of the security camera. He released the flowers as he struck, shoving two fingers of his left hand into the butler’s nostrils, giving the man’s head a savage sideways jerk and slashing the knife along his exposed carotid artery and windpipe. Blood burst across the floor. Naif stepped to the butler’s other side and eased him to the floor. The kill had been soundless.

  He turned, scanned the sidewalk to make sure it was still empty, and then quickly pushed the door closed. Once the lock clicked, he grabbed the butler and dragged him by the collar into a dimly lit dining room at the back of the house.

  From here a thin slit of light and the faint sound of voices leaked beneath a swinging door. Naif crossed to the door and stopped to listen, recognizing the canned laughter of a television show. He inched the door open and saw a butler’s pantry and a kitchen beyond. A middle-aged woman stood at the kitchen’s center island with her back toward him, watching a television mounted high on the wall as she chopped vegetables.

  Naif opened the door just enough to slide inside, his crepe soles soundless on the tile floor. He checked around the corner to assure himself the woman was alone, then with one quick step, he moved behind her, cupped her chin, forced her head back, and cut her throat. Afterward, he returned to the foyer where he stepped across the long smear of blood and started up the stairs.

  The second floor landing opened into a large living room that went from the front to the back of the house. The room was mostly dark, but a shadowy illumination came through the tall windows, delineating ornate furniture and paintings in gilt frames. A triangle of bright light spilled through an open doorway at the back of the room, and Naif crept silently toward it until he could see into a library with wood-paneled walls and crowded floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  Khaled Faisal sat in an oversized leather chair with a pair of glasses low on his nose and a book open on his lap. He had dozed off, and his chin touched his chest, which rose and fell peacefully.

  Naif watched for several seconds then stepped into the room. “Traitor,” he said in Arabic.

  Faisal’s head jerked up, and he blinked in surprise. As his eyes focused on Naif, a flash of fear glimmered, quickly replaced by anger. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “The Wahaddi Brotherhood sends its regards. You, the traitor who besmirches the greatness of Islam with your cowardly peace.”

  “You are the traitor,” Faisal said.

  Naif raised his pistol and pumped four bullets into the old man’s chest, the sound echoing off the walls in spite of the silencer. Faisal slumped over as though he had once again fallen asleep, and Naif walked up to his chair, put the barrel an inch from his forehead and fired twice more.

  Naif picked up his spent cartridges then went quickly through the rest of the house, making sure it was empty. Afterwards, he hurried down the stairs, and leaving the door slightly ajar as he had been instructed, walked outside.

  He climbed into the passenger seat of the van, glanced at the driver, and jerked his head, “Go.”

  “Successful?” the man asked.

  Naif nodded.

  “Good,” the man said.

  As they pulled away from the curb, Naif put one hand against his ribcage where his heart bucked like a trapped beast. His arteries burned with the rocket fuel of his anger. At that moment, he felt feral, lethal as a Nile crocodile. He dropped his hand to his pocket and fingered the hilt of his combat knife. Once the killing started, it was so easy to keep going.

  He took a shuddering breath. The man beside him had no idea. Christian, he wanted to say, only the restraining hand of Abu Sayeed lets you draw breath for one more day.

  TWENTY-THREE

  NEW YORK, JUNE 29

  HAVING SIGNED THE DOCUMENTS, BRENT was too full of anger to think clearly. He yearned to lash out, especially at the larger of the two agents. It took all his self-control not to slug the bastard, and he felt a burst of relief when Betty Dowager showed up at his office door. She offered to accompany the agents over to the custodian bank where they would complete the seizure of Dr. Faisal’s account.

  He waited for them to leave then called Simmons. “They just appropriated my client’s account,” he said.

  “Apparently they’re working some sort of terrorism case,” she said. “It takes precedence over any financial crimes, so there’s nothing I can do. Just go along with them and don’t blow your cover.”

  Brent hung up then looked up the number of the Manhattan FBI office. His hope died completely when the receptioni
st there transferred him to Darius Stewart’s line and he listened to Stewart’s voice mail announcement. Until that moment he’d harbored a wild hope that Stewart and Anderson were scam artists of some kind.

  He slammed the phone into its cradle then marched down to Betty Dowager’s desk and waited for her to return. When she finally did, he told her to get Biddle on the phone.

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do,” she snapped. She dialed again then shook her head, saying his phone was still turned off. She tried to object, but Brent saw Biddle’s number on her computer screen and copied it onto a scrap of paper.

  His next stop was Fred Wofford’s assistant, who said that he, too, was out of touch and unreachable. The woman seemed anxious, and he suspected Wofford knew about the FBI’s visit but wanted no part of handling it. Typical Wofford, he thought, as he went back to his office, stared out at the rain, and thought again about the old man he’d met at Biddle’s party and all the money he’d spent for world peace. Records of his gifts were everywhere. Dr. Faisal was no more a terrorist than he was! Complicit bankers—bullshit! The longer he sat, the madder he became.

  How was it possible that in the United States of America the Federal Government could seize a person’s property then threaten witnesses with jail if they reported it? To hell with them all—the FBI, Justice Department, and screw his cover. It was patently wrong, and he was equally at fault if he sat back and did nothing. With that, he stormed out of his office and burst through Owen Smythe’s door.

  Smythe glanced up and shot him a questioning look. “Is the rumor true?” He studied Brent’s face a few seconds then nodded. “FBI?”

  Brent slammed the door then collapsed into a chair. “The sons of bitches!” He proceeded to tell Smythe everything about the FBI’s visit, his attempt to get Biddle, and his conversation with Spencer McDonald.

  When he finished Smythe sat forward and put his elbows on the desk. “We just let the FBI take it?” He sounded shocked.

  “Eight hundred and twenty million. All cash because we just sold him out of the market. Nice and neat.” Brent scowled and made a signing motion. “Poof, the whole thing just walks out the door with no argument.”