True Allegiance

by Ben Shapiro

  He laughed. “And I assume it’s worth more than his?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you to find out,” she answered, getting up from the table.

  Blatch came through. Within five hours, he’d tracked down Brett’s cell phone number and call log. Most of the calls went to Ellen, he said—a revelation that made her uncomfortable, given that with his access to the logs, he could presumably track her calls, too. But there were a few that looked out of order. He was still tracking them down. The last phone call, aside from his call to Ellen, went to an apartment in Washington Heights. He’d gone over there and knocked on the door, but nobody had answered.

  She asked him the address; she typed it into her cell phone as he dictated.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” he said. “The phone isn’t totally dead. It’s going straight to voice mail because nobody’s picking up, but the phone company tells me that the phone is on. That means I can track location.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s moving around. The last time I checked, he seemed to be up by the bombing site.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Keep me updated.”

  “I will,” Blatch said. “Got my best guys on it. If he’s with some floozy, you’ll be the second to know.”

  As soon as Blatch hung up, Ellen grabbed her coat and headed to the door. Blatch may have been stopped by a closed door. But Ellen Hawthorne had had enough.

  The apartment in Washington Heights did seem to be empty. At least nobody answered Ellen’s knock. She didn’t have the brute strength of her husband—she wasn’t about to go around knocking down doors, not with her increased media profile since the Border Battle, as everyone in the press seemed to be calling it. Instead, she knocked on the building manager’s door and told him she smelled the gas on in the apartment. Thankfully, Ellen noticed, he was drunk. He looked her up and down, decided she wasn’t a criminal, and handed her the key. “Come back when yur done,” he slurred. She nodded childishly and headed for the stairs.

  When Ellen entered the apartment, she was surprised at the pictures: a slim, middle-aged black man wearing the taquiyeh. How did Brett know this guy?

  Someone had searched the place—books were strewn haphazardly all over the floor, and the bookshelves had been flipped over, torn down to the ground. It wasn’t until she searched the bathroom that she found Hassan.

  He was facedown in the bathtub. Someone had stuffed towels under the doorway to prevent the smell of decomposition from alerting the neighbors to his death. His face was blue, bloated, swollen, white-edged. His eyes were open, staring at the drain. The water was red with his blood. His throat had been slashed.

  She noted her own reaction to the body—she wasn’t even fazed by it. El Paso had done something for her reactions to brutality, she thought grimly.

  She knew enough not to touch him—the police would be suspicious enough about the situation, and the last thing she needed was to leave forensic evidence all over the crime scene. But she did notice that the blood in the bathroom wasn’t relegated to the bathtub. They’d slaughtered him like a pig, all right, but the blood trail began at the bathtub, then made its way up toward the mirror. He apparently tried to get to something at the mirror even as he bled out, then slipped and fell back into the already-full bathtub.

  Ellen stepped carefully over the puddle of thick, greasy blood and, using a piece of Kleenex, carefully opened the mirror cabinet. At first, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary: bottles of aspirin, ibuprofen, vitamins. But something had led this small, wiry man to spend his last moment on the planet stretching for what was inside.

  She began opening the bottles one by one. When she got to the aspirin, she paused—a bloody thumbprint marked the top. She tilted it over. Out poured a dozen pills…and a thumb drive.

  On the way out of the building, she slipped the key under the manager’s door. Then she called the police and left them a tip about the body of a black Muslim man in Washington Heights.

  The thumb drive, it turned out, contained one video. She watched it three times before she began to make out faces. It looked like a young, slim Muslim man, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He shook hands with another man wearing a white Islamic robe. As the video continued, a third man entered the frame: tall, spare, white-bearded. The third time Ellen watched the video, she realized she was staring at the face of Imam Anjem Omari.

  Prescott finally called Ellen that night. They met at a conference room in the hotel—Prescott sat at one end of the long conference table, with Tommy Bradley at his elbow. They placed her at the opposite end. She felt like a little girl called into the principal’s office. But realizing that’s exactly how Prescott wanted it, she steeled herself for the confrontation.

  She was surprised when Prescott grinned at her. “Have you seen your husband yet, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

  That little riposte, Ellen quickly figured, meant they were tailing her. “Not yet, Mr. President,” she said. “In fact, I’m not quite sure where he is.” She figured Prescott must already know that—otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked. He knew better than to ask questions to which he didn’t know the answers.

  “Well, why don’t we bring him up here? Tommy?”

  Her heart almost leaped out of her chest. She swallowed it. She wouldn’t let them use Brett against her. “Why don’t we attend to business first, sir?”

  “Your choice, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Prescott said amiably. “How do we come to an agreement about the situation in El Paso?”

  “Some border security would be nice, Mr. President.”

  He laughed loudly; the tinny sound ricocheted around the paneled room. “Other than that, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

  “We may be at an impasse.”

  He leaned forward, a sudden seriousness coming over his face. “I’m sure you can do better than that. Look, see it from my perspective. We just faced the most serious terror attack in our nation’s history. All I’m trying to do is rebuild. And all I need is some time, some calm in the country. You’ve seen the situation in Detroit. The world’s on fire.”

  “Whose fault is that, Mr. President?”

  “What did you just say?”

  “I said, it’s your fault, Mr. President.” Ellen couldn’t hold it back any longer. A husband gone for years. A state in ruins. And this man—this man!—claiming to be the victim? “With all due respect, we wouldn’t have this situation on the border if it hadn’t been for your cheap political tactics of nonenforcement, and then forceful opposition to Governor Davis’s plans to do something to secure that border. The reason Governor Davis won’t help you is that he simply doesn’t trust you.”

  Prescott looked like he’d been hit with a tire iron. His face went red, his fists clenched. “Okay, Ellen,” he said softly. “Our conversation appears to be at an impasse.”

  He stared at her, enraged. Then, he continued, “Now, would you like to see your husband?”

  He signaled to Tommy Bradley, who got up and opened the door to the conference room. Two Secret Service agents ushered in General Brett Hawthorne. His face was bruised, his clothes were filthy. He looked awful. His hands were gashed and scraped, the knuckles bloody.

  For a moment, Ellen felt miles away. Her husband blurred through her tears. Then she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He stood there awkwardly, then raised his hands to her head, stroked her hair. She breathed in the smell of him. The wonder of him.

  Then he saw Prescott’s smiling face and came back to earth.

  She kissed his cheek. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

  He gently pushed her back. Then he turned to the president, his hands open, pleading. “Mr. President,” he said, “you need to call Imam Omari here, right now, and get some answers.”

  “And why is that, General? We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “Look, Mr. President. I sp
ent the last day tracking down leads on one of the men I spotted in Tehran. A man named Mohammed. I tracked him down through my contact—he has him on tape talking with Omari. I got away from your boys long enough to find this Mohammed’s apartment. I fought my way through two men, one of them a henchman for Omari. And then I forced him to talk. Mr. President, I think we’re looking at a nuclear attack on American soil. I tried to track the bomb itself, but I lost the men down near the harbor when your men picked me up. I’ve seen this strategy before, in Afghanistan: they draw you in with one bomb, then use a second to kill those who help. I think what happened at the bridge was the preliminary attack.”

  Prescott paused. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Then he said, slowly, “I don’t believe you.”

  “You already knew,” Brett mused, enraged.

  “I did. And I don’t believe your intelligence is better than my CIA, my FBI, my Department of Homeland Security. I don’t buy this Jack Bauer routine you’re putting on. I think you’ve got delusions of grandeur, and that you always did.”

  “Then why am I here?” Brett said.

  “Because,” said Prescott, “I want your wife to know that what happens next is up to her.”

  Brett’s eyes narrowed. He had been threatened by some of the worst people on the planet, and he’d been threatened by this sorry excuse too many times. He took a step forward—and one of the Secret Service agents stepped toward him. “What is this?” Brett growled.

  “Tommy, can you hand me that folder?”

  Tommy Bradley shrugged almost sadly, then slid a manila folder to the president. Prescott hesitated just a moment, for the drama, then slid out three photos: one of Ellen in Hassan’s apartment, one of Hassan’s body, and the third of Brett in Mohammed’s. When Brett saw the bloodied body of his friend, he groaned audibly. “Dammit, Hassan,” he whispered. “Damn me.”

  “I’m not going to ask either of you what you were doing in the apartments of dead Muslims,” Prescott said. “But these photos aren’t good for you. They won’t land you in prison, of course—we all know there isn’t enough evidence for that—but they’ll be enough to ruin your careers.”

  Ellen stammered, “But you know that we had nothing to do with that. If you were watching, you know who killed that man, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I don’t. I just know that after we stopped watching him, he wound up dead. And as for your crime scene, General Hawthorne, I’ve got at least two witnesses who place you there around the time of death. They won’t be great on the stand, but they’ll play in the press.”

  Ellen felt the breath rush out of her. “Why—why are you doing this?”

  “Because, Mrs. Hawthorne,” said Prescott, “your husband forced me into this. So did you. The president of the United States is not just a job. It’s a high office. The president of the United States cannot look ridiculous. He can’t have two-bit jackass redneck governors spitting in his eye. And he can’t have rogue generals portraying him as a weakling days after terrorists blow up the damn George Washington Bridge.

  “So here’s my offer,” he continued. “We all walk out of here as best friends. Ellen, you tell the press that we’ve reached an agreement, and that the state of Texas will be removing its troops from the border. You apologize for the massacre in Mexico. And just so your boy Bubba has a fallback position, you can tell them that I’ve pledged to up the federal support on the border as soon as possible.

  “As for you, General Hawthorne, you retire quietly back to Texas with your wife. You keep your damn mouth shut, because I’m tired of hearing it. And from now on, you’ve got nothing but praise for me in the media. Nothing. But. Praise.”

  Ellen looked up at her husband. Saw his jaw working. She knew him. She knew what he was thinking: that this president wasn’t worth fighting for, that no matter what, he couldn’t stop Prescott from his dangerous policies, that perhaps it was time to give up and go home. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could finally just be with each other. Her heart actually swelled with hope—hope that their someday had come, even if it had to come from the madness and bullheaded stupidity of Mark Prescott.

  Brett’s head fell to his chest. He opened his mouth to answer.

  Before he could speak, Ellen found herself answering Mark Prescott. “Mr. President,” she said, “I’m sorry, but we just can’t do that.”

  Prescott swiveled his chair to face Brett. “How about you, General? Do you want to talk this over with your charming wife?”

  Brett hesitated. Then he spoke. “Mr. President, can you give us a few hours?”

  Prescott smiled and nodded.

  He knew when he’d made a sale.

  New York City

  Mark Prescott had gotten his moment. But now the time had come for the next step: the actual launch of the Work Freedom Program. He’d spoken with the Chinese government, and they had confirmed their prior commitment to purchase another massive round of debt. His advisors had warned him that too much leverage to the Chinese would place the nation’s finances at peril, but his own economists told him differently: the Chinese, they assured him, could afford to take a financial hit even less than the United States. By tying the two economies together, in fact, President Prescott would be doing a service for the financial future of both countries.

  Now he had the opportunity to merge the legacies of Roosevelt and LBJ. The clamor for retaliation against Ibrahim Ashammi and other suspected terror networks had begun from the right—his “love” speech had staved them off for a while. But now he’d need something more. A collective effort. If there was one thing Mark Prescott had learned from history, it was the power of a grand vision, the power of a call to sacrifice.

  Today, he would make that call. And he would do so with the military as a backdrop.

  Using the military for the backdrop would force the militarists to back down—he’d already planned to talk about how he would no longer send Americans to die in foreign lands. He’d retaliate against aggression, and his retaliation would be uncompromising and powerful. But there would be no invasions, no military occupations. America needed to rebuild, and these men and women were just the heroes to do it.

  The speech poll tested well. The aesthetics had been planned to the most minute detail.

  Preparations for the event had begun nearly a day in advance. The military set up bleachers to hold thousands of troops from across the country. Prescott insisted that the most racially diverse troops be placed directly behind him for the cameras, and had them all prescreened for political sensibilities. He didn’t want any frowning faces to take away from this victory.

  Security was heavy, of course. The bomb squads were out, and all the surrounding buildings were covered by sniper teams. The president’s security team did worry about the massive crowd expected at the event—the president would be greeted by thousands of cheering New Yorkers. He knew how well waves of applause played on television. Plainclothes officers would be patrolling the crowd to check for a Taxi Driver–type lone wolf attacker.

  The forecast for the weather: mid-sixties, clear, not a cloud in the sky. Mark Prescott couldn’t have planned it better.

  Today, Mark Prescott would finally change America.

  Brett and Ellen sat together at the president’s hotel. They sat close, their foreheads touching, their hands clasping desperately, so hard the knuckles hurt. Ellen had sobbed quietly into Brett’s shoulder after Prescott left for a few moments. Now they simply held each other.

  “Brett,” she finally said, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re not too happy to smell me again.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. Brett always could make her laugh. “Seriously, honey, you know I want you to be with me more than anything, that I can’t stand more of this separation, more of this chaos. I want to take Prescott’s offer too. But we just can’t.”

 
He laughed softly. “I know.”

  “So why did you tell him you’d think about it?”

  “You’re too damn honest, sweetheart. You always were.” He leaned forward and whispered into her ear, his voice deadly earnest. “Ellen, we need to get you out of here. We need to get you out of the city. Prescott is a damn fool. Omari had Hassan killed. He had Mohammed killed. They’re planning something big, I know that. I saw one of their men run out of Mohammed’s apartment with a bag. It took some prodding, but Omari’s man told me they were planning something at the harbor.”

  “But Brett, why just me? Why can’t you come with me?”

  He shook his head. “Like you said, sweetheart, I just can’t. I can’t just abandon things. I can’t.”

  She took his chin in her hands. “Honey,” she said, “I never thought you would. It’s why I love you.” She leaned forward and kissed him. Then they stood, hand in hand. Brett knocked on the door. Tommy Bradley opened it.

  “We’re ready to talk to the president,” he said.

  “We’ll meet him at the airport,” said Bradley. “He’s scheduled to leave from there as soon as his speech ends. Right this way.”

  The crowd began filing into the streets near the harbor two hours in advance. The security team had expected anywhere between five and ten thousand New Yorkers to turn out—but as the minutes passed, it became clear that double or triple that number had turned out. They needed something: a feeling of unity, a feeling of togetherness, a feeling of being a part of something optimistic again.

  They came from all backgrounds: black, white, Hispanic, Asian. They were all ages: the elderly came in their wheelchairs, the young pushing strollers. They came bearing American flags and signs: “GOD BLESS THE USA” and “STAND STRONG” and the takeaway line from Prescott’s moment, “TOGETHER WE WILL RISE.” They stood in the heat, sweating, vendors moving through the crowds, tossing bottles of water and popcorn and dirty water dogs. The whole day had the feel of a mass picnic.