The Liberty Intrigue

by Tom Grace

  “Sturla’s calling in every favor,” the President explained. “There will be a blue-ribbon investigation and we’ll be pressing for federal intervention in the market to protect the national economy. Problem is, the stock market had a record day following the collapse of the exchange. Denby had a field day with this on his radio show, even running an extra two hours until the market closed.”

  “I heard he claimed the only thing that could have a more positive effect on the economy, short of your defeat, would be the repeal of your healthcare reforms. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  “Worse still, the exchange is on the hook for the full purchase price of the carbon permits.”

  “Oh my God!” the First Lady exclaimed.

  The President nodded solemnly. “And with the collapse of the exchange, both China and the Republicans in Congress are pressing for immediate payment of their accounts. Peter put the lion’s share of his personal fortune in escrow to cover the opening day and all his money is now frozen. This could wipe him out.”

  The crawl on a mute television reported Egan surging in the polls with a twenty-point lead over the President.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  MORAN TOWNSHIP, MICHIGAN

  “You wished to see me, sir?” Special Agent Boyd asked as Egan greeted her at the door to his house.

  “Thanks for coming, Robin,” Egan replied. “I know this has been a long day for both of us, but I just came into possession of some information that I couldn’t sit on until morning. And since you’re the lead on my protective detail, I decided it best to start with you.”

  Egan led Boyd into the great room that overlooked the lake. As a fire blazed in the fieldstone fireplace, she saw a wineglass on the coffee table beside a tablet computer.

  “I know you’re on duty, but can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. Exactly what kind of information have you acquired, and from what source?” Boyd asked warily.

  “I cannot speak to the source, but if what I have is accurate, the attack on the President and Vice President wasn’t the work of a lone gunman.”

  “Show me.”

  Egan offered Boyd a seat and handed his iPad to her.

  “Just press play.”

  Egan sat opposite with his wineglass and waited as she watched the presentation. Though digitally altered, the voice narrating the program methodically laid out the case for Michael Unden being another victim of the assassination and not the perpetrator. Twenty minutes later, Boyd found herself staring at the obscured faces of the two men likely responsible for the attack.

  “My God,” Boyd said softly.

  “That’s why I got myself a drink.”

  “If this analysis pans out, the investigation moves from lone gunman to a much broader conspiracy—something well beyond these two men. How did you get this?”

  “I’m not quite sure how it got on just my tablet, but whoever sent it targeted that specific device. It’s not anywhere else I receive email or surf the Net. Niki discovered it while the FBI was questioning me—she triggered it by using my password to log on. I didn’t see it until I was on the way back home. Attached to that presentation is a file that contains all the photos, documents, and interconnected links.”

  “I’ll need to take this tablet into evidence.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “If this proves Michael Unden’s innocence,” Boyd said, “then the whole course of the government’s investigation has just taken a very dangerous turn.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  WADI AGUILAL, MAURITANIA

  OCTOBER 19

  The oasis appeared as a distant smudge, like a mirage on the horizon. As the helicopter closed the distance, the smudge grew into a tiny island of green fixed in a vast sea of Saharan sand. Turcott found himself staring at his destination and wondering if his fascination was simply due to his purpose or something hardwired into his DNA, a biological instinct to move toward a source of life.

  The pilot set the aircraft down near the southern edge of the oasis, kicking up an angry cloud of sand in the process. Turcott waited for the dust to settle before exiting. As the light brown haze grew more transparent, he recognized Nimako waiting for him.

  “Edward, it is very good to see you again.”

  Turcott smiled at Nimako. Such an effusive greeting from Nimako meant his agent was looking forward to being paid well for his services.

  “Is he here?” Turcott asked.

  Nimako nodded. “The man’s name is Mustapha. His khaima is this way. He awaits us.”

  Nimako guided Turcott through the oasis—a lush explosion of grasses, date palms, and other flora that Turcott could not readily identify. Passing by a small herd of goats, they arrived at a sprawling complex of tents. Men stationed around the khaima were all armed.

  “Our host is a man of importance here,” Nimako said softly. “He is bidhan—a white Moor—and we are infidels. I caution you to treat him with respect. These people are easily offended.”

  A guard stationed at the main entry to the tent offered a slight bow and motioned for them to enter. Turcott removed his sunglasses, but it still took several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior.

  The man Turcott assumed was Mustapha reclined upon a layer of embroidered cushions. He was dressed in the simple robes of a nomad, his gaunt face and leathery skin bearing witness to a lifetime in the harsh desert. Younger men stood by watching warily, sons and members of the extended family.

  Nimako approached Mustapha cautiously in a low bow, speaking carefully in a Hassaniya dialect of Arabic. Mustapha nodded to Nimako and motioned for Turcott to approach and to sit. Mustapha spoke with a gravelly voice, his steely eyes on Turcott. He then paused for Nimako to translate.

  “Our host humbly extends his hospitality to you and thanks you for the honor of your visit.”

  “Please tell our host that I am honored by his hospitality and may the many blessings of Allah be upon him and all who dwell here.”

  Mustapha smiled with stained and crooked teeth, nodding his thanks for the polite gesture. The young men served tea and set a bowl of dates between their patriarch and Turcott.

  “How may I be of assistance to you?” Mustapha asked through Nimako.

  “I am looking for information about a man, a foreigner like myself. I understand this man may have come to an arrangement with you regarding a woman who served you and your family.”

  Turcott diplomatically avoided referring to the woman as a slave, knowing the practice was officially illegal despite the fact that nearly 20 percent of Mauritania’s populace was enslaved. He offered a photograph to his host, a candid shot of Ross Egan standing with a group of people backstage before the first presidential debate. Mustapha studied the image intently for several minutes.

  “I remember this man well,” Mustapha declared, pointing at Egan. “The others I do not know.”

  “Please, tell me about the man.”

  “Very tall, with red hair—looked like the devil,” Mustapha said, musing through his memory. “He came by truck with a group of men, all black except for this man. The men were armed, but gave us little cause for concern. If there was to be trouble …”

  Mustapha let the thought trail off with a smile. The sons grinned as well; doubtless the bones of those who did cause trouble lay beneath the sand.

  “These men brought machines with them, and they used them to test the water and the plants. They even took blood from some of our animals, with our permission, of course.”

  “Of course. Please continue.”

  “I permitted some of my servants to help these men in their work. They freely explained their purpose and showed kindness to the children. After several days, this man desired one of my servants. He wisely did not attempt to take the woman and we began to discuss the matter.”

  “Do you recall your negotiations with this man?”

  “He was a stubborn haggler,” Mustapha said with admiration. “But
in the end I knew that the ache of his flesh would win me a fair price.”

  “And what did you receive in exchange for your servant?”

  Mustapha shook the sleeve from his right forearm to reveal a golden wristwatch. The precision timepiece seemed utterly absurd in this place.

  “He prized this watch and did not wish to part with it,” Mustapha explained, “but this was my price.”

  “May I see it?” Turcott asked.

  Mustapha considered the request, then unfastened the band and carefully offered the watch to his guest. Turcott accepted the watch respectfully with both hands and was careful to keep it in Mustapha’s view at all times.

  The black dial read: Omega Speedmaster Professional. The case and band were fashioned in yellow gold and the chronograph showed little wear for its time in the desert. Turcott flipped the watch over and discovered an inscription etched into the back along with a date a quarter century in the past. The inscription simply read: Ross Love Maggie.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  OCTOBER 22

  “This could be the election,” Daniel Page uttered absently as he finished the final page of Turcott’s report.

  “Thought you’d like it,” Turcott said, stifling a yawn.

  They were seated in Page’s office at the President’s campaign headquarters. Turcott arrived straight from the airport, jet-lagged from the long flight nearly halfway around the world.

  “If only you could have found the woman,” Page said.

  “Trail is cold on her after Egan left the oasis. The Mauritanian government has record of Egan and his associates entering the country, but nothing about a woman accompanying them on the way out. A bribe at the border would have handled that. Same with Dutannuru’s border records. Really, there’s no way to know if she’s even still alive. But you have the video statement of the man who sold his slave to Egan. And you have this …”

  Turcott pulled a small white box from his soft-sided briefcase and handed it to Page. The top of the box was embossed with a single word: omega. Page removed the box top to reveal a gold watch with a black dial.

  “This is Egan’s watch?” Page asked.

  Turcott nodded. “Mustapha is a cagy haggler, and he drove a hard bargain. But I figured it was worth the price, which is itemized in my expense report. On the way back, I stopped by the Omega factory in Switzerland and had them do a full rundown on the watch. Egan’s late wife purchased it as an anniversary present. Kind of ironic that a hightech guy like Egan would have a manual watch, but maybe it was just the practical thing to do seeing as they were living in Africa.”

  “Your report indicates that you found photos of Egan wearing the watch?”

  “He was part of Mensah’s inner circle, so he shows up in photos at various official functions. He always has the watch on, right up to the time when he made his research trip into the Sahara. Since then, he only wears cheap digital watches.”

  “Any chance this Mustapha is lying? Maybe he just stole the watch.”

  “Why make up such a story, all but admitting he sold a human being?” Turcott asked. “Slavery may be tolerated over there, but it’s still illegal. And Egan went into the desert with armed men, soldiers. I don’t think Mustapha and his tribe of goat herders have the balls to rob a group that could wipe them out.”

  “Playing devil’s advocate, it’s one thing for a Westerner to have a fling or hire a hooker, and another to buy a sex slave.”

  “Character is how you act when you think nobody is looking. For all we know, Egan bought the woman, did what he wanted with her, and dumped her in the desert before he returned to Dutannuru. When he made that trip, it had been a few years since his wife’s death. Lust and opportunity are powerful motivators.”

  “Who else knows about this?” Page asked.

  “You, me, and my man in Dutannuru, but he’s been paid well so he’ll keep his mouth shut. Speaking of payment …”

  “I’ll authorize the transfer to your account immediately. You’ve done a magnificent job, really fantastic. This might just win us the election. The President and I won’t forget that.”

  After Turcott left, Page cleared his afternoon schedule to plan how to detonate the slavery bombshell on the Egan campaign for maximum impact. He was furiously scribbling on one of the whiteboards that lined his office when a rap on his door interrupted his brainstorming.

  “Daniel?” Tina Crenshaw said cautiously through the cracked opening.

  “My door was closed for a reason,” Page growled without turning from the whiteboard.

  “I know, but this simply can’t wait. We’ve been robbed and a lot of money is missing.”

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention,” Page said.

  Crenshaw closed the door behind her and took a seat opposite Page at the small conference table.

  “As you know, online donations are down as compared to our previous campaign. This has largely been written off as a combination of the flat economy and voter fatigue,” Crenshaw explained, “but then we noticed irregularities in the traffic at our website. Statistically, a fairly high and steady percentage of visitors who opt to view a donation page actually give money. This is not just true for us, but for every entity that solicits donations in this manner.”

  “I’m familiar with the research. The decision to donate is made before most of these folks access the site.”

  “It’s not typically an act of impulse,” Crenshaw agreed. “Our ratio of visits to donations has deviated significantly from the norm, meaning that either a number of these folks are having second thoughts after clicking on the page or something else is at work. The odd thing about this deviation is that it has held steady since May, week in and week out.”

  “So our deviation is an artificial distortion?” Page asked.

  “Yes,” Crenshaw replied. “Once we recognized the pattern, I put our best programmer-analysts on the problem and they uncovered a Trojan horse embedded in our web server. They tracked our redirected funds back to the persons responsible for the theft.”

  “I hope they ripped it out,” Page fumed.

  “I instructed them to leave it in place for the moment.”

  “What the hell for? If you know who did it, cut ’em off and turn the evidence over to the police.”

  “Our website was hacked by the Egan campaign,” Crenshaw said.

  “Are you absolutely certain of that?”

  Crenshaw smiled at Page’s incredulity.

  “My programmers infiltrated the site receiving our funds, and only then discovered it belonged to the Egan campaign. Our donation page is mirrored within their site—they simply collect our donations just as we would. I tested the mirror page and my modest donation appeared on my credit card statement as if it went to us.”

  “You can prove all of this?” Page asked.

  Crenshaw handed him a bound report of her investigation. “Right down to the campaign bank account receiving our money. Correcting for the deviation, they’ve stolen roughly a hundred million dollars. Egan is using our supporters’ money against us.”

  Page considered the quantity of politically explosive material in his office as a devious smile curled the corners of his mouth.

  “Tina, Halloween may be a few days away, but today is Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one.”

  CHAPTER NINETY

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  OCTOBER 23

  The President did not greet Egan onstage as they had at the start of the three prior debates. As they emerged from the wings before the audience in Georgetown University’s Gaston Hall, the President offered only a curt nod of the head before turning toward the moderator and his applauding supporters in the audience. Egan took the hint and did the same, making a point to acknowledge the pool photographers that, tonight, included Niki Adashi.

  “The rules of this debate are a little different,” moderator Mary Dewan announced as the audience settled down. “The candidates have chosen
a town hall format for their fourth and final meeting, and the questions will be drawn from those provided by our audience members.”

  The candidates each moved to their respective spots on the stage. The lecterns that had anchored them in place during the three previous encounters were replaced with upholstered high-back bar stools and circular café tables that held a wireless microphone, a legal pad and pen, and a glass of water.

  “Our first question of the evening comes from Corrine Snyder, a graduate student here at Georgetown,” Dewan said, “and it’s for Mr. Egan.”

  “Good evening, Corrine,” Egan said as Snyder approached one of the fixed microphones set in the main aisles.

  “Good evening,” Snyder replied nervously before reading from her question card. “Mr. Egan, your campaign for the presidency has been largely free of negative campaigning and personal attacks on your opponent. You have sought to elevate the level of discourse beyond knee-jerk response to offering detailed plans based on a well-defined political philosophy. What do you see as the fundamental choice that needs to be made by America’s voters on November sixth?”

  “Corrine, I’m glad you liked how Lila and I kept our campaign out of the mud. I’ll admit I’ve had some heated conversations with a few of my advisors, who all have a lot more experience at this than I, but the strength of our campaign lies in good conservative ideas and not hollow rhetoric.

  “As to the fundamental choice, it’s thankfully not about which of us you’d rather have a beer with. Political campaigns are, at their best, a battle of ideas, a war of words. And words have meaning.”

  Egan slowly roamed the stage as he spoke, using his tone and body language to engage the audience. The President, half-seated and halfstanding, patiently watched and listened.