True Allegiance

by Ben Shapiro

  Brett wasn’t sweating for himself. He was sweating for Hassan.

  He’d been a fool. He knew that now. He’d been a fool far too often: trusting Prescott, serving in his administration, and then telling Omari that he knew about Mohammed’s association with him. Omari could backtrack the story.

  He’d been vague enough about where he’d obtained the information, he reminded himself. But there could only be a certain number of possibilities. Doubtless, Omari was tracking down every single one.

  Then Brett thought of Prescott, and started sweating even more. How had the Secret Service found him at Omari’s home, unless they’d tracked him? And if they’d tracked him, wouldn’t they have tracked him to Hassan’s house? He’d thought he’d lost them, but where had they reacquired his trail?

  He sat in his hotel room, itching to do something. His hands clenched closed, open and closed. But now he feared using the phones—they’d surely be tapped by this point. He wouldn’t be able to get free of the guards again. Somehow, he had to warn Hassan what was coming. He didn’t trust Prescott not to pass on Hassan’s information to Omari somehow. If that happened, Hassan would be as good as dead.

  He had no choice.

  He picked up his phone and dialed Hassan’s number. Hassan picked up on the first ring. “General Hawthorne,” he said. Brett picked up on the cue right away—Hassan knew they were listening.

  “Hassan Abdul, I’ve heard so much about you. A mutual friend of ours referred me to you. He said you could answer some questions about Koranic philosophy for an article I’m writing about my experiences in Afghanistan and Iran.”

  “I think I might be able to contribute.”

  “Can you come over to speak in person?”

  “Absolutely. What is your address?”

  Brett gave him the address, then turned up the volume on the television. He knew they’d hear the conversation he was about to have with Hassan—their surveillance tools weren’t going to be thwarted by Joy Behar braying the background—but he figured the noise might mask their movements somewhat.

  Fifteen minutes later, Hassan knocked at the door.

  “Mr. Abdul, so good of you to come,” Brett said. He took out a pad of paper and wrote hastily as he spoke. “I was wondering if you could fill me in on the definition of jihad in non-Islamist jargon.”

  He wrote, “Followed to Omari’s by Secret Service. They contact u?”

  Hassan shook his head. Then, as he answered the question verbally with a long, meandering commentary on Koranic philosophy, he wrote, “Tapes hidden but not secure.”

  After another twenty minutes of phony discussion about the Koran, Brett said, “Thank you so much. I may have some more questions later, but that’s enough to go on for now. Thanks for coming down. Perhaps you can stop by for dinner, so I can show my appreciation?”

  “Why don’t you pick me up at my place?” Hassan answered.

  “That sounds fine, Mr. Abdul,” said Brett. “See you tonight.”

  When he arrived at Hassan’s apartment that night, Brett could feel the eyes of the federal agents on him. He’d spotted them right off the bat—hell, they hadn’t even bothered to try to be subtle. They picked him up from the moment he left the apartment, through the subway system, and all the way to Hassan’s apartment. When Hassan let him in, he immediately held up a piece of paper to his chest. “They stopped here today,” it said. “The tapes are gone.”

  Brett’s face went white. So they’d known all along. And then they’d waited for Hassan to leave the apartment to ransack it. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered to himself.

  Then he read the rest of what Hassan had written. “Found your Mohammed,” it read. “Flatbush.” Below it, an address.

  Brett nodded slowly. Then, as they made small talk, he wrote, “Sorry. Will pull strings for u. U should b safe here. They r watching.”

  He said loudly, “I’ll be ready to go in just a moment, Mr. Abdul. May I use your restroom?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” He gripped Hassan by the shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Brett made for the small washroom at the end of Hassan’s hallway. Hassan lived on the second floor; Brett stuck his head out the window, took a look. The bathroom backed up to an apartment complex, a small alleyway. He knew he wouldn’t lose his tails for long—they’d catch up with him. But if he could stay one step ahead for just a few more hours, he might have a shot at this Mohammed. He leaned his shoulder against the window frame, rammed it upward. He felt the jolt through his still-healing arm, but he shook off the pain and gradually pushed his feet through the window. Then, hanging by his fingertips, he dropped.

  He landed softly, his athletic background taking over. To the back of the alleyway was a dead end brick wall. The only other way out took him to the street, where they’d certainly be watching. He crept up to the corner of the building, glanced down the street—sure enough, there were the cars, and two men outside of them, looking at the door. One smoked a cigarette as he glanced up and down the street. Beyond them, down the street, was a subway entrance.

  “Shit,” Brett muttered.

  Then he sprinted toward the entrance.

  As soon as he made a break for it, they spotted him. He only had a few feet on them, but the adrenaline kept him moving—ten feet, fifteen feet, extending his lead. By the time he hit the top of the entrance, they were a few steps behind. He took the stairs at full speed, five at a time, feeling his feet fly out from under him, stumbling forward, plowing into a man holding a briefcase. The collision knocked him off his feet, and Brett was flying downward into the darkness.

  He tucked his chin to his chest, turned it into a barrel roll, popped up onto his feet. They were still running down the stairs, taking them one at a time. He hopped the turnstiles, sprinting full out, breath failing him.

  Brett knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer.

  He glanced behind him—they were gaining on him now. They’d jumped the turnstiles, and one was yelling into his earpiece. The backup would be there soon.

  He took a sharp turn down another flight of stairs…

  And found himself on a platform. To his right was a wall; to his left, the tracks. Beyond them, another platform.

  Ahead of him was another flight of stairs.

  He made up his mind, ran toward the stairs—and then saw a third agent descending them.

  He was trapped.

  The subway platform began to shake as the train arrived.

  “General,” shouted one of the agents, “just come with us. You know we have our orders.”

  Brett breathed heavily, bent down and put his hands on his knees. He held one finger to them—All right, just catching my breath, guys—and then looked up at them as the noise of the approaching subway train grew.

  He counted down in his head. He could see the lights approaching down the tunnel now, the men closing in from both sides.

  Just as the train began to pull into the station, Brett took a deep breath, crouched, took three running steps—and leapt into the space between the platforms. For a moment he hung suspended in the air, the train speeding toward him, the agents behind him stopping short at the edge of the platform…and then he landed, his toes gripping and projecting him forward. He fell to his hands and knees as the train whooshed behind him.

  Relief began to wash over him.

  Then the train stopped and the doors opened, and the agents began to charge through them.

  He pushed himself to his feet and ran.

  Ahead of him was an overhang over another tunnel. Exits stood to the right and left. The platform was filling with people now as the train unloaded, obstructing him in every direction. He shoved his way through the commuters, knocking them aside. He felt a hand grab his shoulder—he wheeled around and pushed the agent off, wrestled his own way forward again.

&
nbsp; And found himself at the railing. Below him were tracks. There was no way he could get to the exits now—he was boxed in, and as he looked back, he could see the three agents shoving people aside, shouting.

  Again he felt the rumble, this time beneath his feet.

  No time to think.

  Aw hell.

  He put his hands on the railing and threw himself over it.

  The drop was at least five feet to the top of the moving subway, and it knocked his feet out from under him. He fell directly onto his back, and watched the subway tunnel rush above him. It had to be moving at least thirty miles an hour, and there was little room to move atop the speeding train. He began pushing himself back with his feet and fingertips, moving toward the back of the car. He didn’t want to get caught on top of the damn thing and get decapitated by a train light or sewage pipe.

  His fingers ached as he gripped them on the dirty steel of the car; he yelped in pain as he stretched his knee just a bit too high and it scraped against the cement of the tunnel. Soon, though, he felt his head reach the edge of the car, and he swiveled his body so that he could drop his legs over the end of the train.

  Then he hung on for dear life as the subway station faded into the darkness.

  Brett emerged at the Prospect Park station. He turned up the collar of his coat as he walked—the weather had chilled. His breath misted as he walked, rubbing his bloodied knuckles. It had been a long night.

  He made a right at Parkside Avenue, then a left onto Flatbush Avenue, then a right onto Winthrop. Then he looked down at the address. He was here. Mohammed’s apartment was located in an old-fashioned brick building, water-stained, its stoop guarded by an iron fence. He tested the gate—it opened with a creak. The door to the building, however, was locked. He buzzed two apartment occupants before the third let him into the building just to get the buzzing to stop so late at night. He slipped inside the dim corridor.

  Apartment 3A.

  He had almost no chance of avoiding detection if Mohammed was listening, he knew—the complex just wasn’t big enough, heavily trafficked enough. Sure enough, a woman from 2B opened her door a crack to get a look at him. He glared at her, and he heard her shut the door and lock it. His hand felt in his pocket for a weapon he didn’t have. Instead, he clenched his fists and made his way up the stairs. He tried to quiet his steps, but the stairs were too old, too noisy for that. Mohammed would almost certainly hear him coming.

  But the hallway remained totally silent, except for his footsteps. Click. Click. Click.

  He felt sick to his stomach when he saw the door to 3A: it was already open a crack. The light shone from beneath it. He edged toward the door, placing his back against the wall. When he reached it, he nudged it open with his foot. It swung fully open without resistance.

  There, on the couch, lay Mohammed. His throat had been cut. Blood pooled under his body, dripping onto the hardwood floor. His open mouth gasped for air that would never reach his lungs. Brett rushed to the body.

  It was still warm.

  Brett knew: the apartment wasn’t empty. The door would have been closed had the killer had time to leave. They wouldn’t want the body discovered too quickly—that would give away too much information. Brett quickly turned toward the bedroom—as he did, he saw a large, black-masked figure out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t see the blade of the knife. It cut into his arm deeply as he moved to block it, slicing it nearly to the bone. He gasped in pain, then kicked out with his boot, directing his strike at the knee of the intruder. The big man screamed as the knee cracked, fell to his other knee, pushed forward toward Brett, knife poised in the air, ready to come down.

  Brett only spotted the second man now—but he wasn’t moving to help the burly assailant. He held a bag in his hand, and he was struggling to sprint for the doorway. Brett leapt to his feet, tried to tackle the man from behind . . . but all he got was the ski mask. He pulled it loose, had enough time to get a snapshot of the man’s face—in particular, an ugly burn scar near his ear.

  Then the burly man’s knife was falling toward him again. Brett rolled out of the way; then, lying on his side, he kicked him full in the face. The man grunted as his head snapped back; he dropped the knife. He reached out and grabbed Brett by the throat, beginning to squeeze.

  Brett rotated his body, stretching his neck out of the hold. Then he grabbed the left wrist with his left hand, holding it steady, then snapped his left elbow into the man’s face. He could feel facial bones smash against his arm. The burly man collapsed, breathing bloody bubbles through his mouth and nose. Brett pushed himself to his feet, stepped on the man’s wrist. Then he took off the man’s ski mask.

  “Mahmoud,” Brett said. “Fancy meeting you here. Now”—he placed the knife against Mahmoud’s throat—“let’s chat, just you and me.”

  A few minutes later, after subduing Mahmoud, Brett dialed Ellen. “Honey,” he said, “don’t come to New York…I can’t say for certain yet. Just don’t come to New York. Something bad is going down.”

  New York City

  Brett had been missing for more than twenty-four hours.

  Nobody knew where he was. Meanwhile, she waited in her hotel for an audience with the president of the United States, who was said to be busy planning a major public address to announce his major new initiative. And so she stewed.

  The call from Brett had sent her into a panic. If she headed to New York, she knew, she’d be headed into danger—Brett wouldn’t have called otherwise. But if she refused, she endangered any possible détente between Governor Davis and Prescott. Prescott didn’t take being blown off lightly, and he certainly wouldn’t take it lightly in the middle of the largest border crisis in decades. In the end, she decided that the summons of the president trumped the wishes of her husband. After all, she thought, a bit maliciously, if Brett can go halfway around the world for the bastard, I can go to New York.

  But what she found in New York wasn’t the chaos she’d expected. Instead, the military had done a brilliant job of cleaning up the city. Businesses had opened up again. Traffic clogged the main arteries. The dredging of the Hudson had just about come to its conclusion, although the Coast Guard still patrolled the waters in heavy numbers. Military men and women seemed to throng throughout the city, occupying every coffee house, every restaurant. This, she thought, must have been what World War II felt like.

  The effect was oddly calming. With armed men and women everywhere, she didn’t feel nervous—she felt reassured. No terrorist would be shooting up a restaurant anywhere near here. And she had to admit she felt safer in midtown Manhattan than she felt in El Paso, Texas.

  Still, Brett was missing.

  She’d tried his cell phone over and over. She hadn’t gotten an answer—it went straight to voice mail. That meant it was either dead, or he’d broken it. Either way, it put him out of reach. She didn’t feel too worried, not yet—she’d been through far longer without hearing from him, with him in far more violent places than New York City. But his absence did disquiet her. And his words rang in her ears: “Don’t come to New York.”

  Ellen was no detective. That had never been her specialty, never been her job. That’s why she called Bill Collier. Collier told her that they’d lost contact with Brett almost as soon as he hit New York; he’d been using his personal cell phone, and while the NSA had access to the metadata, the White House had cracked down hard on Brett. Any attempt to end-around the system would be met with severe repercussions.

  Ellen, on the other hand, was Brett’s wife. And, Ellen thought, after the Dianna Kelly incident, any jealousy she evidenced would be seen as reasonable. Brett was a hot item again. Hot copy. She didn’t have much to go on in the way of gumshoe abilities, but that’s what journalists were for.

  She picked up the phone and called Jack Blatch.

  The thickly built, mussed-hair little man from the New York Daily News
with the Coke-bottle glasses grinned at Ellen across the table. “Are you sure you don’t want a sandwich?” he asked, his face shiny with sweat. “The roast beef here is delicious.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Ellen said.

  “What brings you to New York again?”

  “I’m here to see my husband.”

  “I didn’t even know he was here.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Blatch whistled softly, a smile creeping across his face. “And now you, the good little wife, want me to bust him for you.”

  “Something like that.”

  Blatch leaned forward, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “So, what changed? He comes home, big hero, royal welcome, the whole thing. And now you want to bust him all over the front pages?”

  “I don’t know.” She coughed. “I haven’t seen him for months. You’d figure he might be a little more intent right now on getting home to see me. But here he is, in New York, and nobody knows where he’s staying. I can tell you Prescott has no idea where he is.”

  “That so?” Blatch muttered, scribbling in a notebook. “So why come to me? Why not do it quietly?”

  “Because the president has a vendetta against my husband, Mr. Blatch. You may be a lousy bastard and a vile little rodent, but you’ll at least do your research before you smack him.”

  “And what do you want in return for this tip?”

  “I want to know twenty-four hours before you run with anything. Mostly, I want to know about his phone records.”

  Blatch guffawed. “And how would I get those, exactly?”

  “I figure you have your ways. You had to track down Dianna Kelly somehow. And those reports of yours on the call times were quite detailed, as I recall.”

  “Clever, clever, Mrs. Hawthorne. Or may I call you Ellen?”

  “No, you most certainly cannot. Do we have a deal?”

  “Only if you give me the exclusive reaction.”

  She nodded curtly. “You have my promise.”