After watching a beautiful sunset sink into Charleston Harbor—at least that’s how Kate described it—they were loaded onto ferries, and made the three-mile watery trek to Fort Sumter, where the official introduction would take place. The sea fort was where the first shots of the Civil War were fired on this day, April 12, back in 1861.
Carter wiped a pound of sweat from his newly-shaved dome as he stepped inside the walls of the fort—the humidity was stifling. The fort was really just an outside park with a wall around it, sitting on a man-made island in Charleston Harbor. He would have preferred a venue with air conditioning, but he did enjoy the smell of the sea air, reminding him of trips he took here with his father when he was a young boy.
They were greeted by a group of cadets from the nearby Citadel military college, on hand for the ceremony. Carter saluted the uniformed men and women.
Prior to the festivities, they were provided a quick tour of the place by the federal park rangers. When a female ranger laid out the ground rules, such as nobody was to touch any of the artifacts, and not to play on the cannons, she held her gaze on Carter. He was too hot and bored to be offended.
The tour began at the parade route, which was a grassy, park-like area. The first stop was the artillery exhibit in front of the left-flank casemate. At each stop along the tour, the ranger told a little more of the story of April 12, 1861, beginning with the first shot, which was fired upon the fort at 4:30 a.m., while many in Charleston’s battery sat on their balconies and toasted the start of the hostilities. Carter had never been an active participant in combat, but he’d been in the middle of enough of them to know that war was nothing to ever celebrate.
The tour arrived at Battery Huger, a massive concrete monstrosity that took up most of the fort’s interior. It was built in 1898, in preparation for the looming Spanish American War. Today, a small museum and gift shop were inside it, and the top had been made into an observation deck with an impressive array of flags, which could be seen for miles.
Carter loved the view from the observation deck, and part of him was intrigued by the prospect of seeing it for the first time at night. But he was overtaken by the urge to explore other areas of the fort, which he’d been dying to do all day.
He grabbed Kate’s hand, and pulled her away. She looked surprised by the sudden detour, but he calmed her with a grin. “What do you say we go play on a cannon?”
Chapter 57
Christina took her seat in one of the folding chairs, facing the makeshift stage. She couldn’t decide whether her uncomfortable feeling was due to the dress, the dreadful humidity, or both.
The stage had been decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, and Charleston Harbor would have served as a spectacular backdrop, if not for the massive pile of concrete called Battery Huger, which the stage was backed up against, blocking the view.
The Jasper family was seated on the stage, along with the mayor, and the head of the Charleston Hall of Fame.
Christina wiped the sweat from her brow, and leaned back in her seat. The area around her had filled up with guests, and for the first time she noticed that Carter and Kate were missing. She smiled to herself, remembering Carter telling her that his goal was, to use his words, “bump uglies,” in all 108 national monuments across America, which he believed to be his patriotic duty. Christina got the idea that he would now be able to cross Fort Sumter off his list.
The mayor got things underway, picking up where he left off back in the battery—his long-windedness was the only breeze blowing through this place at the moment. He was followed by a stream of Byron’s friends and admirers coming up to the podium to share some brief thoughts about him—everyone from his football coaches to Major Ellison, who was the doctor who saved his life at Landstuhl. And of course there was typical JP—he couldn’t find the time to show up, but still needed to make his presence felt, by taping a congratulatory video.
Each speaker, no matter how different their relationship to Byron, touched on similar themes. All talked about his determination and loyalty. That he’d be the one they’d want in a foxhole with them, and if anyone could overcome something as daunting as paralysis, it was Byron.
For Christina, it felt strange not taking notes, asking questions, and seeking an angle for the story. After a dizzying six months as an international correspondent, hopping from one story, and country, to the next, it was hard to decompress and actually enjoy a night out.
Rex Denson, the head of the Hall of Fame, took to the podium to introduce Byron. He was a man in his sixties, who looked like a combination of Colonel Sanders and Mark Twain, with a shock of white hair, and a fluffy mustache.
He spoke in a slow but steady drawl, “We are proud tonight to add Byron Jasper to an impressive list of Charlestonians who have entered this hallowed hall, including his mother and grandmother.
“Many have asked why we’ve chosen to have this ceremony on this day, in this place. Fort Sumter represents the beginning of a war that was truly America’s darkest hour, pitting brother against brother, and covering this great nation with the stain of American blood.
“But as we look back all these years later, we now see that those men did not die in vain. The Civil War created a reunification of the covenant—that we truly were a country based on freedom for all men. A freedom that has allowed Byron Jasper, a descendant of slaves, to achieve such great feats … and we here in Charleston know that he will continue to do so.”
After a long ovation, Denson pointed to a line of men in the blue dress-uniforms of the South Carolina militia.
“I want to thank the cadets from the Citadel for being here tonight, and they will now provide a 21-gun salute in honor of enduring freedom.”
They raised their guns in unison, a commander barked an order, and they fired.
Christina had been present for these salutes before, and always came away regretting that she wasn’t wearing earplugs. But that wasn’t the case this time. It was as if some of the guns failed to fire.
She viewed the cadets, most of them wearing confused looks. But when she looked back to the stage, there was nothing confusing about what had happened there. Rex Denson was lying on the stage floor, his white suit stained with blood.
Christina returned her attention to the cadets, and noticed that the one in the center was still pointing his gun in the direction of the stage. He had shot Denson.
The crowd began to scream out. But they were in a fort, three miles from shore, so nobody would hear them. And if they thought they would receive help from the park rangers, they wouldn’t—a couple of imposters stepped forward and ordered everyone to get on the ground.
The fake rangers secured all in attendance, including those members of the rangers and cadets who weren’t involved in the plot. They forced all parties to lay face down on the ground, and collected their cell phones and personal items.
The shooter made his way to the podium, where Major Ellison was furiously trying to save Rex Denson’s life. He stepped to the microphone, and announced, “Lieutenant Henry S. Farley was the man who fired the first shot of the American Civil War, here at Fort Sumter. And I am honored to be the one to have fired the shot that will begin the next civil war—one that will end the tyranny of the United States once and for all. This fort is now under the control of Whiskey Tax.”
He paused for a moment, as if waiting for questions, and then went into full speech-mode, “Despite the fiction Mr. Denson’s provided here tonight, soldiers did die in vain. They fought valiantly to maintain the greatness of this country, which had courageously sought its freedom from the rule of the British and King George. Only to have their descendants be forced to watch as the great men who built this country were mocked, marginalized, and now attacked—the wealthy, white landowners, who risked everything to invest in this land and its freedom. This has led to a broken economy, broken families, and broken values. But we members of Whiskey Tax will no longer stand by with passive resistance while Huddled Masses declares
war on us.”
Christina thought it came off prepared, lacking the passion of someone who truly believed the words. She also thought it sounded a little strange coming from someone with a British accent. And while on the topic of strange, she realized that she was the only one of the guests who hadn’t been forced to the ground.
“Is everyone accounted for?” British asked one of the fake park rangers.
“All are accounted for except Jeff Carter and his female companion,” the ranger shouted back.
His look turned annoyed. “Find him, and bring him here.”
He turned his attention to Christina, giving her the chills, even on this humid night. “In the meantime, it looks like your lucky night, Ms. Wilkins. You are about to break the story of a lifetime.”
Chapter 58
New York City
A beautiful woman in a metallic, space-age dress interrupted my thoughts. She handed me a glass of water and a couple of aspirin.
“Thanks,” I said meekly. I stuffed the pills in my mouth, and washed them down with a swig.
She took a seat next to me on the couch. We were in the Great Room of my brownstone, where we had come to regroup following the debacle at the hotel.
“You look tired,” Gwen said, and rubbed the back of her hand softly over my cheek.
“You look like you just leaped out of an Austin Powers movie.”
She smiled. “Should we shag now, or shag later?”
I raised the glass of water as if toasting her. “I have a headache.”
“That’s what guys always say. And speaking of costumes, what’s with the Maloney look?”
I ran my hand over the slicked-back hair—it felt as if it had been soaked in cement. “Francine thought I should have a new look for my big date tonight in the city, and then I stopped in at Bardella’s and picked up the suit. I’m surprised I didn’t run into you in there,” I said, just to let her know that she couldn’t get anything past me … even though we both knew she could.
“I was just following the old philosophy—don’t dress for the job you have … dress for the one you want.”
“So you’re like a hooker or something?”
“Your girlfriend happens to be a thousand-dollar-an-hour escort, not a hooker.”
“I think you undercharge,” I said, and she actually appeared flattered by the statement.
“Because you’re so sweet, I’ll give you half price.”
“It’s not funny, Gwen … you could have gotten yourself killed.”
“Can’t believe you’re talking.”
I just shook my head, which wasn’t as simple of a task as it used to be. “I guess we reversed roles this time.”
“You normally wear the shiny dress?”
“It’s just something Murray told me—that you’re programmed to run toward the storm to solve a problem, while I’m inclined to take the road of trickery and deception. But in this case, you were the deceiver, and I was the one barging in on the eye of the storm.”
“Based on the effectiveness of the mission, I think I best return to my old ways.”
“That’s the thing—you will default to your DNA. And with me around, there’s always going to be plenty of storm clouds to run toward. Eventually they’ll win, and I can’t let that happen … it’s too risky having me in your life.”
“That must be the concussion speaking, because I recall you telling my ‘date’ that we were being protected by the universe, and that it had big plans for us … which by the way, was super sweet.”
“I meant it, but I also believe in a good contingency plan. So I was glad we had a gun-toting Serb on our side.”
“I think you are greatly underestimating how skilled I am with a safety pin,” she said with another smile, but I still wasn’t seeing the humor.
“What if I didn’t come when I did?”
She gave me a crooked look.
“Okay, what if Jovana didn’t barge in when she did?”
“The only reason there was any shooting was because you two stormed in. Guys like that don’t hire escorts to create scenes and leave dead bodies strewn around hotel rooms. They hire escorts because they quietly go away when they’re done.”
I guess her scream was just part of the act then. “And you know this how?”
“We all go through some weird phases … it doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
“Still not funny.”
She heaved a sigh. “I did an exposé on high-end call girls for the Globe. It was all the rage after the Spitzer thing. Happy now?”
“When we get this bastard who’s behind this I will be.”
Her eyes filled with resolve. “And we get Allison back.”
Chapter 59
Jovana stepped into the room. She was wearing a tank top and jeans that I recognized.
“I apologize for stealing your clothes again,” she said to Gwen—more contrite than the last time we were all here.
“They’re actually Christina’s—she left them behind when she moved out,” I said.
Jovana just shook her head. “You sure do have a lot of women in your life, Warner. You’d think you’d have a better handle on the female mind.”
It was going to take a lot more than a couple of aspirin to get me through tonight.
She turned to Gwen. “I overheard your conversation—I think you were being too modest. Going in, I’d hoped we could get a hair sample, or a fingerprint, which you were able to get on that champagne bottle. But the blood you extracted sure made our job a lot easier. If you’re ever looking to make a career change, I think you’d make a good agent.”
Suddenly that hosting job with Lauren seemed a lot more appealing to me. Jovana casually strolled into the small kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.
“Jeez, Warner—we had more food in that shithole in Syria.”
Every time she mentioned the ‘S’ word, Gwen’s brow furrowed. And I got the idea that our friendly neighborhood CIA agent was doing it on purpose.
She removed a bottled water, which was the only thing in there, and slammed the refrigerator door in frustration.
“Any word on the DNA test?” I asked.
“We’ve got a match.”
I sat up through the pain; surprised she’d gotten the results that quickly. “I’m going to go out on a limb, and take a guess that his name wasn’t David.”
“Oh, it’s David alright, and he’s the son of the man we’re looking for.”
“He really is David Tully Jr.?”
“Actually it’s David Claiborne, but his birth name was David Franklin Jr. He took his mother’s surname after denouncing his father, David Franklin Sr.”
She reveled in the surprised look on my face—David Franklin was Hakim’s birth name. “He met Evelyn Claiborne while she was studying abroad in London. They fell in love, and eventually Franklin returned with Evelyn to her home in the Philadelphia suburbs, and they were married. Franklin’s best friend from school, Mathew Bannon, served as his best man at the wedding.
“They had three children, two boys and a girl, with David Jr. being the youngest. The elder Franklin had converted to Islam in the 1970s, but it wasn’t until the events of the first Gulf War that there’s any record of him becoming radicalized. He left his family to become a Jihad warrior everywhere from Somalia to Afghanistan, along with his friend Bannon, who had left his professorship, and was now known as Qwaui. They made their mark in that world, with reputations as brutal fighters who spared no sympathy for the non-believers.
“They worked as individual contractors until America’s hyper-focus on Al Qaeda created opportunity. That was how Al Muttahedah came about—as an acquisition of many of the frayed assets that were the result of the ‘War on Terror.’ They operated with a different mentality from the previous groups, in that they focused solely on the death and destruction of their enemy, rather than the glory and publicity that others sought by seeking grandiose events like 9/11. They understood that a collection of sm
all acts could paralyze communities.”
“I thought you said that Hakim was nothing but a ghost?” I challenged.
“Sometimes ghosts come back to life.”
“Hold on,” Gwen said, trying to wrap her mind around this. “This guy David, the one from tonight, is the son of Hakim, the world’s most wanted man?”
“Not to mention, the owner of General Washington Carpet Cleaning.”
“If that’s the case, why did we let him get away? He could have led us to his father,” Gwen said.
“For all we know, he could already be on a plane to Saudi Arabia by now,” I added. “It might have been our only chance.”
“He’s not on a plane,” Jovana stated.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he went directly back to Valley Forge. He’s currently holed up inside the headquarters for General Washington Carpet Cleaning.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Let’s just say, when we met in the restaurant, a GPS tracker might have slipped into his drink. Wherever he goes, it goes with him.”
I nodded, impressed. “So when he got in trouble, his first instinct was to run home to Daddy.”
“You really think Hakim is in Pennsylvania?” Gwen asked. “It’s just too absurd.”
She was right—it was. So much so that it made perfect sense. While searches for this man stretched from Serbia to Syria to Pakistan, he was right under our noses. America’s biggest enemy running a small business … and the ultimate sleeper cell … from inside our borders. When we grew frustrated chasing false Bin Laden sightings, the inside joke among reporters was that while we were searching for him in some obscure mountain range on the other side of the globe, he was probably rollerblading through Central Park and having a good laugh at us. It wasn’t so funny anymore.
It was unprecedented, preposterous, and yes, crazy. But as someone who’d flirted with crazy on occasion, I realized it was just crazy enough to work. At least until his horny son just blew his cover.
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 22