Camel Club 01 - The Camel Club

by David Baldacci

  “That’s possible. And the dart guns don’t make a lot of noise, but no one saw a gun until the first volley of fire took place. We’ve gone over that film a hundred times. At no time does the president flinch or otherwise show that he’s been shot with anything. Even with a dart gun you’re going to have a physical reaction upon impact.”

  At that moment Jerry Sykes came in holding a paper. “This just in, sir.”

  Martin read it and then looked up at his crew. “The hospital in Brennan has reported five people who came to the hospital complaining of respiratory problems and heart attack symptoms. They sent us a rundown of the people’s descriptions and other details. They’re all being treated, but tests show there’s nothing wrong with them.”

  “Some sort of biological agent might’ve been released in the air,” Sykes suggested.

  “And only hit the president and a few others? That’s a mighty ineffective agent,” Martin said skeptically.

  Alex’s gaze was on the TV screen. “Were the five people who went to the hospital a National Guardsman, two older men, a young woman and an elderly woman?”

  Martin looked up from the file. “How in the hell did you know that?”

  In response, Alex pointed to the screen. “Back up and run that sequence in slow motion.”

  They all watched as Brennan started shaking hands along the rope line.

  “Okay, stop right there,” Alex cried out.

  Martin froze the playback.

  “Look at the man’s hand,” Alex said, pointing to the National Guardsman’s prosthetic device.

  “It’s a fake hand, Ford,” Sykes said. “A couple of the agents on the line noticed it.”

  “Right, I saw him too,” Alex said. “He shakes with his right hand, which is artificial. And you’ll see Brennan shaking five more hands before he went down. Now roll the tape.”

  The National Guardsman saluted the president.

  “Stop it right there,” Alex said. “See, he saluted with his left hand. Or left hook. One hand and one hook?”

  “So maybe he’s waiting to get the other one done,” Martin said impatiently.

  “But why shake with your right and salute with your left?”

  Sykes said, “I’m left-handed, but most people are right-handed. So I always shake with my right, but I sometimes salute with my left. So what?”

  Martin said, “Okay, anybody else see anything?”

  Alex kept studying the hand. “Can you zoom in on the guy’s hand?”

  Martin and Sykes looked at him crossly.

  “Just humor me, guys,” Alex said. “It’s not like anybody else here is spotting anything.”

  Martin hit the zoom button until the prosthetic hand nearly filled the screen.

  “Check that out,” Alex said, pointing.

  “Check what out?” Martin exclaimed.

  “The moisture on the guy’s palm.”

  Sykes looked at Alex quizzically. “That’s sweat. It was a warm day, Alex.”

  “Right. It was a warm day. But artificial hands don’t sweat.”

  “Holy shit!” Martin yelled as he stared at the screen.

  As the men were leaving a little later, Martin stopped Alex.

  “Ford, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a damn hero actually.”

  “You don’t really believe that,” Alex said. “And neither do I.”

  CHAPTER

  58

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS HAD passed, and a panicked America continued to wait for word on its missing president. The National Guardsman’s address had been tracked down, but he was long gone by the time they got there. The other sickened people at the hospital were found to be suffering from a powerful synthetic hallucinogen that was absorbed through the skin. Tests showed that it caused heart-attack-like symptoms, partial paralysis and feelings of imminent doom. The hospital had to call in CIA scientists and technicians to help identify the substance. The CIA quickly informed everyone that it had never used the drug on anyone, but the enemies of America certainly had, the bastards. The good news, however, was that the drug was not fatal, and its effects could be counteracted quite easily by existing medications. It appeared the substance had been transferred when the infected president shook hands with five more people standing in the rope line.

  Another body had been found in a garage in downtown Brennan. Alex identified the man as the one driving the ambulance at the hospital. The garage was owned by an American businessman; however, no trace of him could be found. The ballistics report showed that the bullet removed from the dead man was fired from the same gun that had wounded Alex. The bullet had glanced off the Secret Service agent’s arm and embedded itself in a wooden railing. That coupled with the proximity of the garage to the hospital indicated strongly that the switch from the ambulance to Djamila Saelem’s van had taken place at the garage. The president had obviously been transferred from the van to something else, perhaps another vehicle, and then slipped out of the area.

  Acting President Hamilton had spoken several times to the American people to reassure them that the country was stable and its leadership running smoothly, and that whoever had done this terrible thing would be severely punished. He demanded that whatever terrorist group had kidnapped James Brennan return him at once, unharmed, or the United States’ retaliation for the brutal act would be nothing short of annihilation for both the perpetrators and any countries aiding them.

  However, the kidnapping had clearly stunned the United States. The financial markets had plummeted; people were afraid to leave their homes; the country had come to a standstill. It didn’t help matters that some Muslim extremists were calling upon the kidnappers to kill Brennan if he wasn’t already dead and show his body to the world.

  The armed forces and the Strategic Air Command (SAC) were at DEFCON level 2, only the second time SAC had been placed on that level, the other being the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. Even the events of 9/11 had only pushed the DEFCON level to 3. Military experts warned that depending on how things developed, the DEFCON level might very well go to 1, the highest. Then all bets were off.

  The intelligence sector was doing all it could to identify the kidnappers. Diplomatic inquiries were also put out to all quarters. And the Pentagon was itching for a target on which to use its high-tech weaponry.

  In a conversation with a senator on the Armed Services Committee, a three-star general said, “We’re through dicking around with these people. No more boots on the ground for them to shoot at. Just missiles through the air. They can kiss their asses good-bye this time.”

  The senator did not disagree with him.

  Already heightened tensions between the Islamic world and America were ratcheted ever higher. Although no terrorist organization had claimed responsibility, every slain terrorist in Brennan was an Arab. Astonishingly, their prints and other information had been run through NIC’s vast, comprehensive system and nothing had come back. It was unthinkable that the U.S. intelligence community had not a single byte of information about any of these perpetrators, but that indeed seemed to be the case.

  Right now most people were not concentrating on that anomaly. They simply wanted their president back. And they wanted answers as to how this could have occurred in the first place.

  Late in the evening on the day following the kidnapping Kate Adams knocked on the front door of Alex Ford’s house in Manassas after having called him repeated times without success.

  Kate heard the soulful tunes of a guitar coming from somewhere inside. Those sounds stopped, and she listened as footsteps grew closer to the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Alex, it’s Kate.”

  Alex opened the door. He was unshaven and his hair a mess. He was wearing torn jeans, a dirty T-shirt and no shoes. His eyes were bloodshot, and Kate smelled alcohol on his breath. He was holding a black acoustic guitar in his right hand.

  “You never returned my calls. I was really worried,” she said.

  “Sorry, I’ve be
en busy,” he said curtly.

  She stared at the instrument in his hand and then at the bandage on his arm. “How can you be playing guitar with a gunshot wound in your arm?”

  “Who needs a sling when you have Jack Daniel’s?”

  “Can I come in?”

  He shrugged, stepped back and closed the door behind her.

  “I’m surprised your house isn’t surrounded by media trucks.”

  “They haven’t released my name. I’m just the unidentified Secret Service agent who screwed up and let someone kidnap the president.”

  He led her into a small family room, and they sat down. The room had very little furniture. In fact, Kate thought, it was so barren that it almost looked like someone was either moving in or moving out. The only thing out of the ordinary was hundreds of shot glasses on one shelf.

  “I have a shot glass from every place I visited while on protection detail.” She turned to find his gaze on her. “Not much to show after all those years, is it?” he said.

  There was an awkward silence until he said, “You want something to drink?”

  “Nothing as strong as what you’re having.”

  He rose and came back a minute later with a glass of Coke on ice.

  “No Jack, right?” she said warily.

  “Nope, I’m actually fresh out. Funny, I had a whole bottle yesterday.”

  “So that’s the plan? Stay here and drink yourself to death while you play Johnny Cash ballads?”

  “It’s a plan,” he said dully.

  “Not a very good one.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “You promised to meet with Oliver and the others.”

  “Oh, right, the Camera Club,” he said absently.

  “No, the Camel Club.”

  “Whatever,” he said, and started strumming on his guitar.

  Kate glanced around the room, and her gaze came to rest on a photo. She picked it up. The man in the picture was very tall and lean with a weathered face and a huge black pompadour slicked back to an exaggerated degree. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he was holding a guitar.

  She glanced at Alex, who was watching her closely. “Your father?”

  “The one and only Freddy ‘Hot Rod’ Ford,” he said.

  “He doesn’t really look like Johnny Cash.”

  “I know. More like Hank Williams, Sr.”

  She put the photo back down and looked around.

  “Not much of a life, is it?” he said.

  Kate turned and saw Alex watching her.

  “Being a Secret Service agent doesn’t mix really well with a home life,” he said.

  She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not after you for your money.”

  “Good thing.”

  She sat back down, sipped her Coke and said, “You need to meet with Oliver, Alex. Remember, a woman has been kidnapped.”

  “Then call in the FBI, although I think they’re tied up on another kidnapping right now.”

  “They want you.”

  He pointed to himself. “Look at me, Kate. If your sister were missing, would you really want me handling the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Please, Alex, will you meet with them?”

  “No, I won’t!”

  “Why not!”

  “I don’t owe you or anyone else a damn explanation!”

  She set down her glass and stood. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She turned to leave, but he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her back toward him.

  “I screwed up, Kate,” he said simply. “I didn’t do my job.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. They almost killed you.”

  “No, they suckered me like I was a rookie. This Middle Eastern security guard just happens to stroll out of the hospital? And he just offers to risk his life to help me, and I let the son of a bitch walk away with the president of the United States?”

  “You didn’t let him walk away. You figured out what they were up to.”

  “Yeah, about sixty seconds too late, and in my job that doesn’t cut it.” He leaned against the wall. “You remember what Clint Hill, Kennedy’s Secret Service guy, told me?”

  “That you didn’t want to be like him. Because he’d lost his president.”

  “That’s right,” Alex said. “And now I know exactly what the man meant.”

  CHAPTER

  59

  CARTER GRAY HAD BARELY SLEPT since Brennan disappeared, yet the NIC chief had little to show for his efforts. Thirty-six hours after the president had been kidnapped, he was sitting at a conference table at NIC. Across from him, shackled to a chair with two burly guards hovering nearby, was a man answering only to the name Farid Shah, which matched his official documents. Gray knew that it was all phony and had managed to wrest control of Shah from the FBI, based mainly on the fact that he had considerable dirt on the FBI director.

  “Farid Shah from India,” Gray said. “But you’re not Indian.”

  “My father was Indian, my mother was Saudi. I took after her,” the prisoner said quietly. His wounded arm was taped to his side. They were not going to allow him to wear a sling, since it would also make a very effective suicide tool.

  “A Hindu marries a Muslim?”

  “Out of a billion people you’d be surprised how much it happens.”

  “And how exactly did you get from India to America?”

  “America, it’s the land of opportunity,” he answered vaguely.

  “Are Muslims now recruiting Hindus as terrorists?”

  “I am a practicing Muslim. I’m sure you’ve watched me perform my salat in my cell, haven’t you?”

  “You know, Mr. Shah, you look familiar to me.”

  “I’ve found that to most Americans all of us look alike.”

  “I’m not most Americans. And how exactly did you get your job as a security guard at the hospital?”

  The prisoner looked down at his hands and said nothing.

  “And who are these people?” Gray asked as he spread out the photos on the table. “Are these your family?” No reply.

  “They were found in your apartment, so presumably, you know who they are. It’s interesting. On the backs of each photo are dates written in Arabic. They appear to be the dates of birth and death and also some other information.” Gray held up one photo of a teenage boy. “This says he was sixteen when he died. It also says he was killed during the Iran-Iraq war. Was he your brother? Which side of the war was he on? Which side were you on?”

  Gray didn’t wait for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming. He picked up another photo, this one of a woman. “It says she was killed in what is written as the ‘first American invasion of Iraq.’ I’m assuming you’re referring to Persian Gulf One, when Iraq invaded Kuwait and the United States came to Kuwait’s aid. Was she your wife? Did you fight for Saddam Hussein?” Again, nothing.

  Gray picked up one more picture, that of a teenage girl. He turned it around and read, “‘Killed in second American invasion of Iraq.’ Was this your daughter?” The prisoner was still studying his hands. “You’ve lost all these people, your family and friends in war and insurrection; Muslim against Muslim and then Muslim against American. Is that what this is all about?” Gray leaned in closer. “Is this all about revenge?”

  Gray slowly collected the photos and nodded to the guards. As he rose to leave, Gray said to the prisoner, “I’ll be back very soon. And then you will tell me everything.”

  The following morning, responding to news rumors, the nation was finally told that during the kidnapping of President Brennan the terrorists had used tranquilizer guns. These resulted in no deaths to any American, although numerous people suffered injuries when the crowd stampeded at the dedication ceremony. The confirmed killing of twenty-one Arabs had the world shaking its collective head. The New York Times headline put the issue succinctly: “Suicide Killers Who Kill Only Themselves?” A commentary in the Washington Post wondered if it was du
e to the fact that real guns would have been detected by the magnetometers. Yet no one could explain why the snipers at the hospital also used tranquilizer guns.

  The New York Post put it most bluntly with its headline: “What in the Hell Is Going On?”

  Violence was spreading into the streets across America and the world. Clearly, it was only a matter of time before something major happened.

  On that very same morning the White House absorbed more stunning news. Each of the major American television networks had received a heads-up from Al Jazeera that it was about to release a ransom note from the kidnappers that had just been delivered to the Arab news network. There were stunning revelations contained in the note, representatives of Al Jazeera claimed. No one, not even the acting president, would be given an advance copy of the ransom demand. Apparently, the kidnappers wanted the government to find out at the same time as the rest of its citizenry.

  Acting President Hamilton’s response to this, if it had been on live TV, would’ve required a number of bleep-overs and an official FCC rebuke for on-air profanity. Yet what could he do? Hamilton assembled his cabinet, advisers and military commanders to watch the announcement.

  “How the hell do we even know if these people have Brennan? This could all be a load of crap,” the national security adviser warned.

  “Exactly,” the secretary of defense, Joe Decker, echoed. He was well respected as a cabinet member who did his homework and played the political games to the fullest. He also had the reputation of a man unafraid to pull the trigger when it came to unleashing America’s military juggernaut. Decker had been an iron man in Brennan’s administration, and Hamilton was relying heavily on him during this crisis.

  Hamilton withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket. “This was forwarded to the White House a few minutes ago from the networks. It accompanied the demand letter.”

  “What is it, sir?” Decker asked.

  “They say it’s the nuclear codes that President Brennan was carrying with him. We’ll need to confirm that they’re accurate. Obviously, the codes are no longer valid.”

  Two minutes later, after a quick consultation and a confirming phone call, Defense Secretary Decker glumly looked around the room. “They’re the ones.”