He retrieved his canvas duffel bag from the bonnet of the Porsche and walked across the gray stamped concrete parking area in the light rain to the back porch of the farmhouse. In the mud room on the other side of the door, he heard Lancer, barking to welcome him home.
“Hi, old buddy,” he said as he stepped inside and was greeted by his tail-wagging dog. Drake knelt down and received a wet-tongued kiss on his face as he scratched behind Lancer’s ears. “Did you keep the deer out of the vineyard while I was gone?” The dog barked twice in response.
Drake took two tenderloin filets out of the refrigerator and opened a bottle of wine before he turned on the gas fireplace in the kitchen. Sharing a small steak with Lancer when he’d been away for a day or two had become a tradition, one he knew not to break if he wanted a good night’s sleep. Otherwise, Lancer would stand with his head resting on the side of his bed, until he got up and prepared him a reward for guarding their home.
Before he headed to his bedroom to unpack his duffel bag, Drake saw that the message light was blinking on the digital handset receiver on the counter. When he pushed the play button, he heard the subdued voice of his secretary, Margo Benning.
“I didn’t want to bother you until you returned, but I won’t be in to work Monday. Paul’s had some bad news and I need to go with him to see his doctor tomorrow morning. Hope you had fun with Mike this weekend. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
That wasn’t the Margo he knew. She was a rock. The only time he heard her shaken by anything in the seven years they had worked together was when she received the news that his wife had been diagnosed with cancer. Margo and her husband had been married for twenty-five or twenty-six years, and were as solid and loving a couple as any he knew.
Drake hit return call and waited for Margo to answer.
“Hi boss,” she said.
“What’s going on, Margo?”
He heard the catch in her voice.
“Paul has prostate cancer. We’re meeting his oncologist tomorrow to decide on the best course of treatment.”
“I’m so sorry, Margo. How’s Paul handling the news?”
“He’s worried about missing work and finding someone to take over his duties in the Sheriff’s Department. He won’t admit it, but I know he’s scared.”
“That sounds like Paul. Don’t worry about the office, Margo. Take as much time as you need and let me know what the doctor says, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Drake sat and stared at the wall. Paul had become a good friend over the years he and Margo had worked together. Hearing he had cancer brought back all the memories and horror of watching Kay suffer, and then die.
CHAPTER 8
Monday morning, Drake drove the 28 miles from his farm to his law office, deep in thought. Cancer was an enemy that lost as many fights as it won these days, but from his experience the toll it took on both its victim and the victim’s family and friends was devastating. He’d hoped he would never have to go through it again, but he knew that was wishful thinking. Margo and Paul stood by him, and he would stand by them. In his world, that was just the way things worked.
Drake pulled onto SW Harbor Drive and into the parking garage behind his office on RiverPlace, a promenade lined with shops and Bistros that ran along the Willamette River in downtown Portland.
He parked in his reserved space and took the stairs down to the back door of his office. It was dark inside, with just the light from the windows filtering through the fog hanging over the river outside. When he turned the lights on, he saw that Margo’s desk was clear, except for a yellow Post-It. It was dated the day before with a message, “Call me if we haven’t talked”.
Not knowing if Margo would actually make it in, he started a pot of coffee in the break room and grabbed the pink message slips in his in-box. Upstairs to his loft office, he saw that three of the messages were to be returned immediately. But Drake knew that “Immediately” was third on Margo’s priority list behind “Urgent” and “Do This Now!”
Confident the messages could wait at least a few minutes, he called Puget Sound Security.
“Good morning, Counselor. You just get to your office?” Mike Casey asked.
“I did, but it’s only 8:30. I bet you didn’t run five miles and fight traffic his morning,” Drake challenged.
“That’s the beauty of living three miles from my office.”
“Did your research guys come up with something on the American Muslim Youth Camps?”
“I’ll send this down as an attachment. But I’ll give you the basics now. The American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation is a new foundation that was formed last year. The board of directors has a number of D.C. heavy hitters, including Mr. Big himself, John Prescott the kingmaker. The foundation’s mission statement has the usual dedication to helping troubled youth, blah, blah, blah.”
“Anything about where it gets its money?”
“It’s a 501(c)(3) non-profit religious charitable foundation and it’s required to file annual reports, but it looks like this one hasn’t done so for the last two years,” Casey said. “Doesn’t look like it’s been penalized for it either.”
“The IRS penalty for late filing is $20.00 per day up to the lesser of $10,000.00 or 5% of that year’s gross revenue, as I remember,” Drake said. “If the foundation’s willing to risk that big a penalty, maybe paying $10,000,000.00 more for a ranch than it’s worth isn’t that big of a deal. Hold on a minute.”
Drake’s peripheral vision had caught a breaking news FOX banner flash on the flat screen monitor on his wall and he turned to stare. A 774-8 Boeing Dreamliner had just been shot down taking off from LAX in Los Angeles on its way to Japan. It held 451 passengers and crew; no survivors expected. Visions of 9/11 screamed in his head and Drake felt sick.
He enlisted in the army the day after graduating from law school because of 9/11.
“You still there?” Casey asked.
“Turn on your TV, Mike. A jetliner’s been shot down in Los Angeles.”
A young Latina news reporter was struggling to maintain her composure. Footage shot from a news helicopter showed widespread debris scattered on the surface of the Pacific about a mile from shore. Black and white LAPD helicopters kept the news helicopters at a distance from the crash site.
Drake turned up the volume on his remote.
“…several eye-witnesses report seeing an object streaking toward the jetliner before it exploded and fell into the sea.
They say the object traveled vertically as well as horizontally as it shot up and turned in flight to veer toward the plane.”
“My God,” Casey said quietly.
“The 774-8’s a fairly new jetliner. Don’t they have on-board counter measures to protect them from heat-seeking ground-to-air missiles?” Drake asked.
“The airlines don’t like to talk about it, but most of them do have the capability,” Casey said. “They use a flare release system or even C-Music, the newer commercial multi-spectral infrared countermeasure system. Theoretically this wasn’t supposed to happen, if the systems were operational. She’s sure being careful not to call it a missile.”
“Or mention terrorism,” Drake added. “Let’s see how long it takes the government to ground all commercial flights when they conclude this was a missile that took down the plane. They might call it terrorism, but watch how quickly they say that it might be domestic terrorism.”
“Or God forbid that we call it Islamic terrorism. That might offend someone.”
“Damn, it’s happening again, Mike. We had a chance to end this, but we didn’t finish it.”
“When was the last time we ever finished a war?”
“Well, we better find a way to finish it this time,” Drake said. “We might not get another chance.”
After he finished talking with Casey, Drake kept the TV
on with the volume turned down. No official in a position to know reported anything that suggested the American public was in danger of another commercial airliner being shot down. But just to be safe until the government’s investigation was complete, commercial air travel was suspended for the next couple of days.
CHAPTER 9
On the other side of the country in Washington, D.C., John Prescott the kingmaker turned away from his TV monitor and stood with his arms folded across his chest. The view from his corner office at the intersection of 11th and K Street afforded him a magnificent view of the Washington, D.C. skyline.
He was reminded once again that anything was possible, if you knew the right people in this city. And he knew the right people; in fact one of them just called him from the White House.
The conversation lasted exactly five seconds: make sure Los Angeles doesn’t screw things up!
Prescott turned to his desk and buzzed his secretary. “Tell Mark Hassan to come see me,” he ordered.
As Washington’s most powerful lobbyist, he created the Prescott Group to serve the interests of the power elite. He did his job well and was well rewarded by a long line of satisfied clients around the world. But running point for the administration’s plan to unfreeze the assets of the ousted Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt was stretching his allegiance a little too far. Hopes for an Arab Spring aside, backing this group just had too much potential downside.
He returned to sit tall in the high-backed chair behind his desk. Women admired his craggy good looks and his expensive clothes, but men had to be reminded of his position and power.
The head of his Middle East division knocked twice at his door. Prescott told him to enter.
“I don’t want this plane going down in Los Angeles to impact Senator Boykin’s bill. The White House wants it passed and I expect you to make sure that it does,” Prescott said. “Make sure the Post plays up the possibility of domestic terrorism. The rest of the media will follow the Post. Then, meet with all of the co-signers of Boykin’s bill. Remind them of the generous contributions they received from our Arab Renewal Super Pac. Tell them to firm up the votes needed to pass the bill. This is not the time for anyone to go wobbly on us.”
Hassan grinned. “Shall I hint at the source of the Pac’s money?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said dryly, as he tried not to frown at Hassan’s tactless suggestion. “Most of them suspect it already. There’s no need to confirm their suspicions, at least not yet. Let me know if anyone’s thinking of changing their vote on the bill. That’s all, Mark.”
Prescott poured a glass of ice water from the stainless steel pitcher on his back bar. He had an hour before his meeting at the Willard Hotel for a drink with Senator Boykin, and he needed to know the latest information on the downed jetliner. Not only knowing who knew what and when, but knowing who said what and when was crucial in these matters. Boykin was a five-term senator from Missouri who didn’t face the voters for another two years. But he always had his finger in the air to tell which way the political wind was blowing. Supporting the Arab Spring had been good politics a year ago, but the riots in Cairo had shifted the breeze a bit.
He turned around to the top drawer of his back bar and took out an encrypted iPhone. His encryption service advertised that his conversations were protected, and they might be. But he couldn’t take a chance with the call he had to make. The man he was calling shouldn’t be on anyone’s surveillance list, but you never knew how far the NSA’s program reached. Even the director of Homeland Security couldn’t be assured of being beyond their reach.
“John, I told you not to call me on this phone.”
“Sorry, Micah, it couldn’t wait. Have you determined how that jetliner was brought down?”
“It was a MANPAD, one of the man-portable air-defense system missiles. It was left at a picnic area at a beach just west of the airport,” the director said without elaboration.
“A surface-to-air missile launcher was left behind for someone to find? So they wanted you to know who they are. Have you identified them yet?”
“The MANPAD’s a Soviet SA-24, like the ones turning up in Syria that went missing in Libya.”
“You mean the ones you’ve been accused of smuggling out of Libya, and providing to the Syrian rebels?” Prescott clarified, reminding the man that he knew.
“There’s no evidence of that,” the director said defensively, “but it’s possible.”
“I don’t suppose the President wants that to get out.”
“That’s the kind of leak that will get you killed, John.”
“But you don’t know who’s behind this, do you?”
“Not yet, John.”
Prescott heard him sigh heavily. “When you know something, call me. Don’t ever forget how you got your appointment.”
“How could I forget, John? You remind me often enough. Next time, call me at home.”
He let the man have his little victory by hanging up on him. Perhaps a well-circulated rumor that the director had fallen out of favor with the White House was called for. No one hung up on John Prescott.
He looked out through the glass façade of the architectural landmark he owned and stared at the dark gray clouds hanging over the city. It didn’t look like it was going to snow, but it was still cold enough in early March for that to happen.
He had to be careful, if he wanted to deliver on the promise he made the White House. A lot of money made its way into the coffers of the Arab Renewal Super Pac from U.S. subsidiaries of foreign investment firms owned by wealthy Arab investors. The foreign contributions were illegal, but they weren’t heavily scrutinized when they were made to members of Congress.
“Unless the press got wind of them,” he reminded himself.
Prescott had successfully navigated the stormy waters of American politics throughout his career. He wasn’t about to let his ship sink because some terrorist was interfering with his plans.
CHAPTER 10
Before Mark Hassan left his office to meet with a friendly reporter for the Post, he sent a text message to his cousin to meet at their regular place. Zaytinya, a Mediterranean Bistro and bar not far from the White House, was his cousin’s favorite place when he visited the capital.
He arrived early by cab. He knew his cousin would watch for at least fifteen minutes before he entered to see if either of them was under surveillance. Mohamed Hassan operated safely in Europe and America as the Brotherhood’s most secret and successful terrorist and had for most of his adult life. His father, Mark’s uncle, had been brutally tortured and killed in an Egyptian jail. From that time on, Mohamed served the Brotherhood proudly in any way that he could.
Mark’s Scotch was untouched when Mohamed Hassan walked to his table. Although he drank alcohol privately, he avoided doing so in public unless it was necessary to blend in. He knew his cousin would also order a drink for that reason, and his drink would also remain untouched.
Although Mohamad was older, they looked a lot alike. Mohamad had a touch of gray hair at his temples, while Mark’s hair was still jet black. But Mohamad was a sharper dresser, wearing a black cashmere overcoat, gray scarf, and Savile Row suit.
After they exchanged the traditional double cheek-kiss greeting, both men sat and smiled at each other. When the waiter appeared, Mohamad ordered a Scotch for himself.
“Although you know I always enjoy seeing you, I hope this meeting is necessary, cousin,” Mohamed Hassan said softly.
“The Los Angeles jetliner shot down this morning could jeopardize our effort to restore your assets. I need to know if you are involved,” Mark Hassan asked directly.
Mohamed shook his head. “It’s not us. But there are rumors your sheikh might be involved.”
“He’s not my sheikh,” Mark Hassan said through clenched teeth. “I’ve helped him purchase land for his camps through the foundation, but
that’s all. He’s Shia, unless you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten, cousin,” Mohamad said with a tight smile. “Ask his people if they know anything, if you need to know. His camps you fund are used to train his Army of Allah. He’s been warned not to strike here, but he’s ignored warnings in the past.”
“He swears his camps merely provide a no-go zone for his followers and young Muslims. But if Sheikh Qasseer lies and he is behind this, will the Brotherhood act against him?”
The older Hassan shook his head. “Not directly, but there are other ways. Let me know if you need anything from me to help get our assets released,” Mohamed Hassan said, as he stood and walked out of the Bistro.
Mark Hassan sat alone at his table and considered his options. Mohamed had always prided himself on the elaborate schemes he executed for the Brotherhood. But those previous plans were nothing compared to the operation Mohamed was orchestrating in the United States to influence the government
Mohamed had worked tirelessly with Mark’s father, a Georgetown professor of Middle East History, to fine tune and implement the Muslim Brotherhood’s “Project”. It was a sophisticated long-term campaign of cultural jihad created in 1982 by Muslim scholars to conquer the West. The influence they’d developed following the plan over the last thirty years now reached into the White House and Congress.
With an advisor whispering in the ear of the president, it had been easy to encourage his backing of the Muslim Brotherhood’s Egyptian presidential candidate. But the subsequent ouster of their hand-picked president by the army, and the freezing of the Brotherhood’s assets, severely crippled their plans. That was why it was so important to make sure members of Congress who had accepted money from the Arab Renewal Super Pac continued to support Senator Boykin’s bill. The bill was the key.
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 3