by Ben Shapiro
“So what do you know about my man Mohammed?”
“Not much. I know that he has a close relationship with Omari.”
“Where does Omari live?”
Hassan laughed. “You can’t be serious. You want me to go over there and talk with him? It puts my entire operation at risk.”
“No,” said Brett slowly. “I want to go and talk with him.”
Hassan laughed even harder. Finally, he began coughing, pounded his chest until it subsided. “White boy, you’re out of your mind. You don’t know the first thing about him. Did you know he’s tight with Prescott? That he’s given opening prayers at the New York Stock Exchange? He’s high profile. And you think you’re just going to waltz over there and ask him some questions, and that he’ll answer you?”
Brett nodded. “Something like that.”
“Now why would he go and do something like that?”
“You leave that to me. What’s his address?”
It took Brett a bit over an hour to reach the imam’s home outside the I-287 loop. The imam actually lived on a rural compound off the road. In the dark, Brett missed the turnoff twice. The gravel clanked off the underside of the cheap Toyota Hassan had borrowed from a friend. The woods showed black against the early glimmers of rising sun. In the distance, Brett could see that the light was already on in the home—fajr prayers, the earliest prayers. By the time he drove up, the front door was already open. A thick oak of a man stood in the doorway, bearded, wearing a taquiyeh.
Brett stopped the car in a cloud of dust.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m here to see the imam.”
“It’s early,” said the man. “The imam’s office opens at 9:00 a.m.”
“Tell him the Teacher sent me.”
The mention of Ashammi’s nickname caught the oak man up short. He took a step forward. “We know nobody of that name.”
A hand crept up on the guard’s shoulder. Then the soft voice of the imam. “It’s all right, Mahmoud. I know this man.” The guard moved aside, revealing a white-bearded, fiftyish, willowy man. His deep-set eyes gazed out at Brett, seemingly looking beyond him. Brett found it slightly unsettling. “Come in,” said the imam.
Anjem Omari, Hassan had told Brett before Brett left for Jersey, was no one to be trifled with. He’d been rumored to have deep connections to various Middle East–based charities with their own connections to various terror groups. He fronted for a variety of Islamic human rights organizations dedicated to fighting Islamophobia, and it was in that guise that he’d become a go-to face for Prescott. The Prescott tenure had seen several small, lone-wolf attacks; each time, Prescott had cited Omari as evidence that the moderate Muslim community was alive and well in the United States. Omari spoke frequently about jihad as an internal struggle; he denounced terrorism, but evenhandedly decried American occupation of the Middle East and Israeli actions against Palestinians. His frequent appearances on network news made him a well-established media personality.
Now he ushered Brett into his richly decorated library, mahogany and grand, pictures of himself with Prescott and past presidents lining the walls. He sent his oak man for some tea. This time, Brett accepted. When the guard was gone, Omari turned his distant gaze to Brett—and the distance suddenly disappeared. Hassan, Brett thought, wasn’t lying.
“So,” said the imam, “what can I do for you, General Hawthorne? I am so glad you made it back to us in one piece. Allah must have protected you from harm.”
“Indeed, he must have,” said Brett. “I come here seeking your advice and help.”
“And yet you mentioned the Teacher. Why would you think I know such a monster?”
“No reason,” Brett said carefully. “But I am looking for a man, and I think that, given your prominence, he might approach you.”
“I’m approached by many Muslims. I am blessed by Allah in having a wide following and a grand platform. How would I know the man you seek?”
“His name is Mohammed,” Brett explained. “I know exactly who he is. He is perhaps seventeen years old. His beard is not yet fully grown. And I know that if he came to you, you would surely turn away his advances, thanks to his relationship with the Teacher. But you might also hope to convince him over time to join you in your cause, and leave his radicalism behind. After all, you are an influential voice.”
The corner of Omari’s mouth turned upward in a humorless grin. “Perhaps, General,” he murmured. Then, louder. “But I know of no such man. Or rather, I know of too many such men.”
“I think you do.”
“Are you implying that I’m lying to you?”
“No,” said Brett. “I’m flat-out telling you you’re lying. I know you know such a man. So either you can continue spouting this line of bullshit and I can have you detained and questioned, or you can tell me the truth.”
Omari laughed out loud. “No, I don’t think you have that sort of pull, General. You may be a hotshot with a particular segment of the population, but, as you say, I am somewhat well connected. Gentlemen, please come in.”
The door behind Brett opened. In came the federal agent from the hotel, his face impassive. Another black suit–clad fed stood next to him. Brett pushed himself to his feet. “Imam, I believe we’ll be talking again.”
Omari stood as well, looked Brett in the eye. “No, I don’t believe we will.”
New York City
“You have got to be kidding me with this,” Mark Prescott said. His eyes bulged. His face had turned beet red. “I’m trying to hold the country together, and you’re out there fucking supporting the enemy by targeting Muslims? How am I supposed to counter the accusations?”
Brett sat on the couch, watching the president rage at him. On the way to the hotel, the Secret Service agents had been utterly silent; they refused to answer any of his questions, give him any information at all. But Brett figured that they must have picked up Hassan as well—how else could they have found him at Omari’s?
Prescott continued to yell. “I elevated you. I made you. I saved you. And this is how you reward me?”
Brett could feel the anger building. He flexed his fist, then let it go, an old trick Ellen had taught him to take his mind off his temper. It wasn’t working.
“Tell me. I expect an answer. What were you thinking? I gave you back your life.”
“No,” Brett said softly, dangerously. “I signaled you. I told you to hit the building.”
Prescott scoffed, disbelieving. “You can’t be serious. You wanted me to start a war with Iran? After Iraq? After Afghanistan? We just finished pulling the troops out, for God’s sake. We got you out, didn’t we?”
“That wasn’t the goddamn point!” Brett never cursed, but now the filter was gone—he couldn’t hold it back any longer. “The point was that I had intelligence that said Ashammi was there. My life for his. That was my trade to make. I just needed you to do your damn part. And you chickened out. As usual.”
“I could toss you out of the military for this, General.” Prescott’s eyes were steely blue dots in a puffy red field. “You’ve gone too far this time.”
“Go ahead. I’d love to tell the press just why you did. Because you couldn’t keep this country safe. You weren’t willing to make the tough choices.”
Prescott went quiet for a moment. Then, oddly, he smiled. “Well, I’ll make this tough choice, General. At least for you. You can either walk out of here and stop this nonsense, or you can keep going. If you keep going, I’ll instruct my attorney general to draw up federal charges against you for violation of Imam Omari’s civil rights. And this time, there won’t be any sending you to Afghanistan.”
“Mr. President, I would think not. You lost that country, so there wouldn’t be much to send me to, would there? I just want you to think about this, Mr. President: all those people out there would be alive today if you’d just foll
owed my advice. I’ll tell that to every camera I can find.”
Prescott reached down to the coffee table and picked up the remote control. He flipped the channel to CNN, where the anchors continued to gush over Prescott’s big speech. “General,” he said, “I can afford a few public relations hits right now. Rally ’round the flag effect, and all that. You’ll be seen as an ungrateful rube looking to hit back at the man who saved you.
“Your time is over, General,” he concluded. “Now get out of my sight.”
Brett looked back at him as he headed toward the door. “I understand our enemies better now, Mr. President. You’re not a very credible bluffer.” He turned his back and slammed the door behind him.
Prescott woke from his nap an hour later to Tommy Bradley’s face. Written across it was panic.
“Jesus,” he grumbled, “what now?”
“Mr. President,” said Bradley, “I think you’d better come see this.”
When he stumbled his way into the living room, the footage from the television made him stop in his tracks. “REVEREND JIM CRAWFORD ASSASSINATED,” the chyron read. “WHITE SUPREMACIST GROUP WITH TIES TO ‘TERRORIST MAMA’ IMPLICATED.” Above the chyron ran the footage of continuing riots in the streets of Detroit. Then the anchors cut to some strong-jawed young black man named Levon Williams. They billed him as “Protest Leader.”
“I call for the people of my city to join me. It is time to rise up and claim our freedom,” he said.
The CNN anchor looked worried. “Levon Williams, the man you just saw there, was a close associate of the Reverend Jim Crawford. Jim Crawford, dead at fifty-four years of age, gunned down, we are told, in the bathroom of his hotel room. Crawford was in Detroit to calm tensions after the killing of eight-year-old Kendrick Malone.
“Law enforcement sources tell us that Soledad Ramirez, the fugitive wanted in connection with the bombing of government offices in Sacramento, California, earlier this year, was spotted during the chaos in the aftermath of the Crawford assassination, entering the police station. Sergeant Ricky O’Sullivan, who had just been cleared in Malone’s killing, is missing as well.”
The footage flashed to riots in Cleveland, Washington, DC, Los Angeles.
“The cities are burning,” said the anchor. “The death of Big Jim Crawford has opened wounds Americans hoped had healed long ago. We still await comment from the president of the United States on this.”
The moment had to end sometime, Prescott knew. But for it to end this quickly—for things to fall apart this quickly—felt like a blow to the stomach. He plopped back heavily onto the sofa. “Well, Tommy, what do you suggest?”
Bradley scratched his head. “Seems to me you’ve got two choices. One is to allocate resources from New York to these various cities. We’ve got governors beginning to call, asking for help from the feds; they want some of the Guard members we’ve brought here back in their states.”
President Prescott shook his head. “No. Bad imagery. You remember Ferguson. You put guns on the street, you might as well tell the media you’re a racist looking for street warfare. Next option?”
“We parlay.”
“With whom?”
Bradley pointed at the TV, where CNN flashed footage of Levon again. “Him.”
“What do we know about him?”
“Well educated. Popular. Some criminal connections. FBI has had an eye on him for a while. They say he runs a shakedown racket.”
Prescott guffawed. “So did Big Jim, and that didn’t stop anybody from sainting the bastard. Can you talk to him?”
“Will do.”
Levon had set up his headquarters inside the now-abandoned detention center. Overnight, Levon had become de facto mayor of the city.
Without the force of the National Guard to back them, the local police had fallen into a standoff position with the protesters, but Mayor Burns refused to authorize action to push Levon and his men out of the building, believing that such action would be too provocative. Levon had quickly set up a system of runners among various positions in the city—he knew enough about surveillance practices that he didn’t trust electronic communications.
The city had gone silent and cold; many residents wanted to flee, but feared that they couldn’t get out of the city limits without being brutalized by roving bands of street gangs. The gangs had even set up roadblocks on the major traffic arteries. They were confiscating property from those who tried to leave, telling them that everyone had to be searched in order to ensure that there was no connection to the white supremacist group that had murdered Jim Crawford.
Levon didn’t know the extent of his power yet, of course. Mayor Burns said that eventually things would be put back under control; he’d put in a request to the governor, and the governor had put in a request to the feds. But soon enough, things would calm down. In the meantime, he urged patience and restraint.
Levon, on the other hand, called for action. He humored every reporter, gave a quote to every journalist. He trotted out Kendrick Malone’s mother as often as possible, making his own case for authority bulletproof on the back of her grief. Levon’s long-term plan, he told the media, was “justice.” He didn’t define it, and they didn’t have to know that he meant to run for office on the back of his organized resistance. It had worked for Marion Barry, Big Jim had said. It would work for Levon Williams.
All that changed at 8:34 a.m.
The phone rang on Levon’s desk. When he picked it up, a female voice answered. “Mr. Williams?”
“Yes?”
“Please hold for the chief of staff to the president of the United States.”
This has got to be some sort of fucking prank, or some sort of media hit, Levon thought. But when he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he knew it was neither.
“Mr. Williams? This is Tommy Bradley.”
Levon leaned back in his chair, kicked his feet up onto the desk. “Mr. Bradley, it’s good to speak with you. I voted for your boss, you know.”
“Why, thanks, Levon.”
In New York, Bradley paced the hotel room nervously. “Levon, I just want to express the president’s true admiration for your movement. We want to thank you for trying to tamp down the violence, to keep things under control under very difficult circumstances.”
Levon grinned ear to ear. He’d heard men beg him before. To have the surrogate for the most powerful man on earth preparing to do it was something entirely different. “Mr. Bradley, I really appreciate that sentiment. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Levon, it’s like this. We couldn’t admire your stand on social justice more, particularly in the wake of this tragedy with Jim Crawford. I know you and he were close friends. The president wants to ask you for a favor. Please keep your followers from committing acts of violence.”
“Well,” said Levon, “I’m doing the best I can. I can’t hold everybody back. It’s a passionate time…”
“Yes, yes, of course we understand that. But if you could do your best.”
“Listen…In order for me to keep my credibility with my people, they’re going to need the president to say something in solidarity. They’re going to need to know that he endorses our movement for justice. They turned out for him at the polls, and they know he’s with them, but they need some sort of sign. They’re going to need him to pledge to stop police brutality against our people, and they’re going to need his promise to reopen the Ricky O’Sullivan case.”
Bradley coughed. “We can do most of that, Levon. But that last one, that’s out of our hands. We don’t control the DOJ.”
“Well then we might just have a conflict here. I’ve got a lot of very angry people, and they’re very angry for a reason.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Levon heard some murmuring—he thought he heard Prescott’s voice. Then Bradley was back. “Levon, as it so h
appens, I do have another idea that might serve both our interests. You’re going to have to trust us.”
“For how long?”
“Not too long. You’ll see something on the news.”
“What?”
Bradley sighed. “I said you’ll have to trust us. Can you hold off for forty-eight hours? I promise, it’ll be worth your while.”
Levon paused for dramatic effect—he wanted Bradley to remember he was in control. Then he answered, “Sure, Mr. Bradley. Sure. Anything for the president. Love that man.”
“Thank you, Levon, and he sends his regards.” The line clicked dead.
And Levon smiled.
El Paso, Texas
The troop movement across the Mexican border began early in the morning with helicopter incursions into Mexican territory. The intel provided by captured border-crossers proved accurate based on the aerial photographs taken by state-owned drones, redirected across the border. The Apache attack helicopters veered low over Ciudad Juarez and fired directed rockets at a small duplex on the outskirts of the city. It went up in flames; Governor Davis watched the real-time broadcast, yelping as the duplex disappeared in a puff of smoke and dust.
“There goes one of the bastards,” he smiled. That bastard was one of the leaders of the Juarez Cartel.
That was just the first attack of the morning. Over the next two hours, Texas National Guard attack helicopters would raze several buildings and strafe a small convoy of vehicles attempting to escape. The concentration of troops on the border made it nearly impossible for the cartels to try any cross-border action, and Ellen had ensured antiaircraft ordinance availability should any unforeseen black helicopters attempt to land on the American side of the border again.
That night was quiet—the quietest it had been for months.
The next day, though, residents of El Paso woke to a terrifying sight: a National Guardsman hanging dead from a billboard in the center of town. Painted in broad block letters were the words “PLATA O PLOMO”— silver or lead. In other words, pay us, or die.