“What is it you want, Adnan?”
“To talk.”
“I am busy.”
“Everything should be done, Ahmed. Is there a problem?”
The door opened and Ahmed scowled at him. “I have no problems,” Ahmed said, but he stepped back for Adnan to enter the garage.
“I thought it wise to go over things one more time,” Adnan said as he sat on a stool next to the workbench. His gaze took in the vehicle that would play such an important role the next day. He nodded at it. “It looks good, Ahmed. You have done well.”
“Tomorrow will see whether we have done well or not,” Ahmed answered.
He and Adnan spent twenty minutes going over their assigned tasks.
“I am not worried about us,” Ahmed said sullenly. “It is this woman who troubles me. Who is she? What is her training?”
“That is not your concern,” Adnan answered. “If she was picked for this, she will do her job well.”
“Women are only good for having babies and to cook and clean.”
“You are living in the past, my friend,” Adnan said.
“The Muslim past was glorious. We had the best of everything.”
“The world has moved past us, Ahmed. For Muslims to be truly great again we must move with it. Show the world what we can do. And we can do much.”
Ahmed spat on the floor. “That is what I think of the world. They can just leave us alone.”
“We will see after tomorrow who is right.”
Ahmed slowly shook his head. “You trust in things too much. You trust the American who leads us too much.”
“He may be an American, but he is brave and knows what he is doing.” He gazed sternly at the Iranian.
“I will do my job,” Ahmed finally said.
“Yes, you will,” Adnan answered as he rose to leave. “Because I will be right there to ensure that you do.”
“You think I need an Iraqi babysitting me,” Ahmed said fiercely.
“Tomorrow we are not Iraqi or Iranian or Afghani,” Adnan replied. “We are all Muslims, following God.”
“Do not question my faith, Adnan,” Ahmed said in a dangerous tone.
“I question nothing. Only God has the right to question the souls of his people.” Adnan went to the door but then turned back. “I will see you tomorrow, Ahmed.”
“I will see you in paradise,” Ahmed answered.
CHAPTER
51
AT ONE O’CLOCK IN THE afternoon Air Force One touched down at Pittsburgh International Airport. All other air traffic had been diverted from the area, as it would be when Air Force One took off again later. The long line of cars was ready to go. In a presidential motorcade there was a basic rule that one risked ignoring at his peril: When the president’s behind touched his seat in the Beast, the motorcade left. And if you didn’t have your ride yet in one of the other vehicles when this occurred, you weren’t going to the party.
The road the presidential motorcade took had long since been closed off by the Secret Service, and motorists sat in foul moods staring at the Beast and the other twenty-six cars sailing by. In the presidential limo with Brennan was his wife, his chief of staff, the governor of Pennsylvania and Carter Gray.
When the motorcade pulled into the dedication grounds, they were already filled with more than ten thousand people waving banners and signs to show their support for the town and its namesake. National media trucks were parked outside the fence, and perfectly coiffed anchormen and -women stood next to far younger and hipper but equally well coiffed news candy types from the cooler cable networks. Collectively, they would broadcast the event to the nation and the world, although with various spins of their own; the younger voices were predictably far more cynical about the entire proceedings.
Alex Ford was positioned near the stage but then moved behind a roped-off area and toward the motorcade as it pulled into the fenced grounds. He stiffened for an instant as he saw Kate, Adelphia and the Camel Club in the crowd, about midway back but working their way forward. Kate waved to show she’d seen him. He didn’t wave back but did nod his head a bare inch at her, and then he returned to trying to spot potential trouble. In a crowd this large and boisterous that was nearly impossible. However, the magnetometers had been set up at all pedestrian entrance points, which had given the Service some comfort. Alex took a moment to gaze at the tree line where he knew the snipers were positioned, although he couldn’t see them. If it comes to it, don’t miss, guys, he said under his breath.
When the president appeared, he was boxed in on all sides by the A-team protection detail that formed a wall of Kevlar and flesh around him. Alex knew these agents; they were a rock-solid crew.
The president stepped onto the stage and shook some important hands while his wife, the governor, the chief of staff and Gray took their seats behind the podium. Brennan joined them a minute later.
The event started off right on schedule. The mayor and some local dignitaries spoke and attempted to outdo one another when it came to extolling their president and their town. Then the governor rambled on a bit longer than the schedule had dictated, which caused the chief of staff to start frowning and tapping her high heel. Air Force One’s next stop was a fund-raiser in Los Angeles that was far more important—at least in her mind—than the renaming of this small if ambitious Pennsylvania town in her boss’s honor.
Alex continued scanning the crowds. He noted a number of military personnel in the front row, near the rope line. He could see from their uniforms that most were regular army. A number of them were missing arms and legs, probably from their tours of duty in the Middle East. There were a couple of National Guardsmen, including one with a hook for a left hand. Alex shook his head in commiseration for their sacrifice. Brennan would certainly go down and see these soldiers after he had spoken. He’d always been good about that.
As Alex’s gaze swept across the thousands of faces, he noted quite a few Middle Easterners. They were dressed much like everyone else around them. They carried signs and sported “Reelect Brennan” buttons and appeared to be just like the rest of the happy, proud and patriotic crowd. However, Alex had no way of knowing that some of these people were not happy or proud or patriotic.
Captain Jack’s men were organized in various pockets throughout the crowd so that their fire would cover maximum ground in front of the podium area. They’d all already keyed on the hook-handed National Guardsman. It had been easy after that, since the man stayed planted at the rope line waiting his turn with the president.
Indeed, they were all waiting for James Brennan.
At about the time Air Force One had been making its final approach into Pittsburgh a sleek black chopper was taking off from a helipad in downtown New York City and heading south. Next to the pilot sat another man dressed in a flight suit. In one of the seats in back was Tom Hemingway. In his hand he held a portable television set that he was watching intently. The crowds in Brennan were very large, and the grounds were already packed. That was what worried Hemingway most of all. The crowd.
He checked his watch and told the pilot to hit it. The chopper shot across the Manhattan cityscape.
For the past two hours Djamila had been on an outing with the children. As she pulled the van into the Franklins’ driveway, her plan was to make them all a quick lunch and then it would be time to go. As she opened the door, carrying the baby on her hip with the two toddlers in her wake, she received a shock so paralyzing that she almost dropped the baby.
Lori Franklin was talking on the phone in the foyer, still dressed in her tennis outfit, although she was barefoot. She smiled at Djamila and motioned that she would be done with the call in a minute.
When she clicked off, Djamila immediately said, “Miss, I not expect you home. You say you at club for tennis and then lunch there.”
Franklin dropped to her knees and gave her sons big hugs as they rushed to her. Then she took the baby from Djamila.
“I know, Djamila, but I c
hanged my mind. I was talking with some of my friends from the club, and they’re going to the dedication today. So I decided to go too.” She bent down and said to her two oldest boys, “And you’re going too.”
Djamila drew in a sharp breath. “You take them?”
Franklin stood and waved the baby’s dimpled fist with her hand. “And this little guy.” She cooed to the baby. “You wanna see the president? You wanna?” She looked at Djamila. “It’ll be fun. And it’s not like the president comes to town every day.”
“You go to dedication?” Djamila said in a soft, disbelieving voice.
“Well, I voted for him, even if George thinks he’s an idiot. That’s between you and me,” she added.
“But, miss, there will be large crowd there. I read in papers. Do you think it good to take the boys? They are so small and—”
“I know, I thought that too. But then I realized it would be such a wonderful experience for them, even if they don’t remember it. When they grow up, the boys can say they were there. Now I’m going to grab a quick shower. I thought we could get lunch beforehand—”
“We?” Djamila said. “You want me to come?”
“Well, of course, I’ll need help with the strollers and the rest of their stuff. And you’re right about the crowds, so I’ll need an extra pair of eyes and hands to make sure the boys don’t get lost.”
“But I have much to do here,” Djamila said dully, as if this moment she cared about housework.
“Don’t be silly. This will be a wonderful experience for you too, Djamila. You’ll see firsthand what really makes this country so great. You know, we might even get to meet the president. George will eat his heart out even if he says he doesn’t like Brennan.”
Franklin went upstairs to shower and change. Djamila sat down in a chair to steady herself. The oldest boy tugged on her shirt, asking her to come to the playroom with them. At first Djamila resisted but finally she went. As she heard the shower start in Franklin’s bathroom, she knew that she needed some time to think.
She put the baby in the playpen and spent some time with the older boys. Then she went to the bathroom and ran some cold water over her face. The shower was still running upstairs. Djamila knew that Franklin didn’t take quick showers.
Finally, Djamila knew there was no way around it. She went to get her purse.
“A storm is coming,” she said to herself, practicing it before she had to say it for real on her cell phone. It was four simple words and then her problem would be over, and still her skin tingled. It would perhaps not be such a good resolution for Lori Franklin, who had picked today of all days to do something with her sons.
When she saw it, her heart nearly stopped. Her purse was turned upside down on the floor. She’d stupidly left it on the chair and forgotten to move it to higher ground. She dropped to her knees and searched through the objects strewn there. Her cell phone! Where was her cell phone?
She raced to the playroom and found the oldest boy, Timmy, the one who had made a habit of taking things from her purse until she started putting it out of reach. She grabbed up the boy and tried to say in as calm a voice as she could manage, “Where is Nana’s phone, Timmy, you naughty boy. You take Nana’s phone again?”
The boy nodded and smiled, obviously pleased with himself.
“Okay, you naughty boy, you take Nana to her phone. Nana needs her phone. You show me, okay?”
Only he clearly didn’t remember where he’d put it. They searched for ten minutes as the boy led her to one spot and then another. With each failure Djamila’s spirits dropped lower and lower. And then she heard it: The shower stopped. She looked at her watch. She had to leave very soon, or she would be off schedule. Her mind raced. Then she had the solution: She could use the Franklins’ phone to call her cell phone and the ringing sound would tell her where it was. She punched in the number as she walked around the house. However, she heard nothing. Timmy must have hit the silent button on her phone when he’d taken it. She had another thought. She would simply make the calls using the Franklins’ telephone. She started to dial and then realized that would not work. The man on the other end of the phone would not answer. This person, she had been told, would only take the call if Djamila’s name and number came up on the caller ID screen. She ran to the front window and looked out. Could she see him? Could she signal to him? But she saw no one. No one. She was all alone.
She heard feet moving around upstairs. She ran back into the kitchen and opened one of the drawers. Djamila slid out a steak knife and quietly made her way upstairs, where she knocked softly on Franklin’s door.
“Yes?”
“Miss?”
“You can come in.”
She opened the door, closed and locked it behind her. Then she saw that Franklin was wrapped in a towel and was putting an assortment of clothes on her bed.
She glanced up at Djamila. “I should’ve given myself more time to pick out something. Are the boys ready?”
“Miss?”
“Yes?”
“Miss, I really think it better that you go alone. The boys, they stay with me.”
“Nonsense, Djamila,” Franklin replied. “We’ll all go. Now, do you think the green or the blue?” She held up each outfit.
“The blue,” Djamila said distractedly.
“I thought so too. Now for the shoes.”
Franklin stepped into her closet and looked through her shoes.
“Miss, I really think it better you go alone.”
Franklin stepped out of the closet, a look of mild annoyance on her face. “Djamila, I can’t force you to go, but the boys and I are going.” She crossed her arms and eyed her nanny harshly. “Tell me, do you have a problem seeing our president, is that it?”
“No, that is not—”
“I know there’s a lot of tension between America and your part of the world, but that doesn’t mean you can’t show respect for our leader. After all, you came here. You have a lot of opportunity here. And what really gets me upset are people coming to this country, making money and then complaining and whining about how bad we are. If people hate us so much, they can go back where they came from!”
“Miss, I no hate this country, even with all it has done to my people, I do not hate.” Djamila instantly knew she had made a mistake.
“What the hell have we done to Saudi Arabia? My country has spent a lot of time and money on the Middle East, trying to make it free, and what do we have to show for it? Just more pain, misery and tax increases.” Franklin took a deep, calming breath. “Listen, I don’t like to argue like this, Djamila. I really don’t. I just thought it would be fun to have a nice lunch and go to this event. When we get there, if the crowd’s too big and it feels too uncomfortable, then we’ll just leave, okay? Now, would you please make sure the boys are ready? I’ll be down in about twenty minutes.” Franklin turned and went back into her closet.
Djamila withdrew the steak knife from her pocket, summoning the courage to do what she had to. She took a step forward and then froze. Franklin had abruptly come back out of the closet and was staring at Djamila openmouthed.
“Djamila?” she said fearfully as she glanced from the knife to her nanny.
The expression on the other woman’s face revealed to Franklin all she needed to know.
“Oh, my God.” Franklin tried to close the closet doors so Djamila could not reach her, but Djamila was too quick. She grabbed Franklin’s hair and pressed the knife against her neck.
Lori Franklin started sobbing hysterically. “Why are you doing this?” she shrieked. “You’re going to hurt my babies. I’ll kill you if you touch them!”
“I no hurt your sons, I swear this!”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“You not going to see president!” Djamila snarled back. “Get on the floor. Now, or you will not live to see your sons grow up.” She pushed the blade edge against Franklin’s neck.
Trembling, Franklin lay on the floor on her stoma
ch. “Don’t you touch my babies!”
Djamila reached over and ripped the phone line out of the wall and used it to tie up Franklin, binding her hands to her feet such that she could not even move. Then she tore a piece of the sheet from the bed and gagged her with it.
Just as she completed this, there was a tapping on the bedroom door, and she heard Timmy’s voice asking quietly, “Mama? Nana?”
As Franklin tried to call out through her gag, Djamila said as calmly as she could, “It is all right, Timmy. I be right there. You go back with your brothers.”
She waited until she heard the patter of his retreating feet and then looked down at Franklin. Djamila pulled a small vial from her pocket, poured some of the liquid from the vial onto a corner of the towel and pressed it flush against Franklin’s nose and mouth.
The American thrashed and gagged and then slipped into unconsciousness.
Djamila dragged the sedated woman into the closet and shut the door behind her.
She went downstairs, readied the boys and loaded them into her van. Now that events had started, Djamila didn’t think. She simply did exactly as she had practiced.
A minute after she’d driven away, the Franklins’ downstairs phone rang. And rang.
George Franklin hung up the phone in his office. He tried his wife’s cell phone. When there was no answer there, he tried Djamila’s number. Inside one of the pot drawers in the kitchen Djamila’s phone flashed but made no noise. Timmy had accidentally hit the silent key when he’d hidden it in there.
George Franklin put his phone back down. He wasn’t worried; he was just annoyed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been unable to track down his wife, although Djamila usually answered her phone. He had wanted his wife to bring him something he needed and that he’d left at the house. If he didn’t get ahold of someone soon, he’d just have to go get it himself. He turned his attention back to some papers on his desk.
CHAPTER
Camel Club 01 - The Camel Club Page 34