“They say politics makes strange bedfellows,” Chip interjected while Steven ruminated.
“Did you see the story about Starks and his charitable contributions? He gets on his soap box and chastises the wealthy in America for not giving enough to charities. Yet, he has never given more than a couple of grand a year to charities, even though he’s made over a million dollars a year in each of the last ten years. Whereas, we vilified rich folk tend to give millions every year. Last year, Mary and I gave almost half a billion dollars to over a thousand charities,” Steven was clearly upset by the information he was finding.
“Who was doing all of this so-called reporting?” Chip asked.
“It was reported by none other than the New York Times. They stated, prior to the big turnaround, Starks had little or no support from the high income brackets or even the college educated middle-class, yet he suddenly had found a way to get them to open their bank accounts to him. You know, he claims that he was able to outspend his opponent three to one in the last six weeks of the campaign. All supposedly due to the contributions of the very people who, when polled, said they would vote against him.
“The records filed with the Federal Elections Commission showed that the money came from more than one hundred thirty thousand small contributors, and not one of those contributors gave less than two thousand dollars. Of course, he had hundreds of big donors that gave as much as two hundred fifty thousand dollars each. Hundreds of millions poured in from several hundred PACs and political party affiliates, many of which registered at the last minute prior to their making the contributions.
“The New York Times also stated they discovered several dozen of the small contributors supposedly didn’t exist, and the PACs had closed their doors within days of making the contributions. In other words, Starks’ election committee committed elections fraud. They also reported some of the individual donors were found to be homeless bums with no source of income, yet they gave two thousand dollars or more. How is that possible?” Steven asked, not expecting Chip to answer.
“There was one contributor, a family man working in a warehouse in Scranton, who gave Starks two hundred fifty thousand dollars. The guy makes seventeen dollars an hour. Where did he get the money?” Steven asked, though, once again, he didn’t expect an answer. It was a rhetorical question. “When Sixty Minutes tried to find the guy, they found he’d met with a tragic accident just a few days before. He was killed at work, crushed between two train cars.” Steven paused to catch his breath and to gauge Chip’s reaction. When Chip remained silent, Steven continued.
“When the story started to get some real traction, Starks had his attorneys get a court order blocking further exploration into his contributors. Of course, the Congressional Democrats ignored the accusations and stonewalled every effort by the Republicans to investigate. Even the appeals court refused to rule, sending it back to the lower court which refused to rehear the case. You can’t tell me there isn’t something fishy going on there.
“We also have a story from the UK dealing with some drunken Arab businessman. He was running his mouth about how a group called the Brotherhood had bought and paid for the American presidency. He recommended that the British invest in oil and gas futures because, within a year, America would be desperate for gas and oil,” Steven added. He remained quiet as he let the information sink into Chip’s brain.
“Who is this Arab guy? I can have him picked up and we’ll get the real story,” Chip interjected.
“You could, except the guy was killed in a car crash three weeks later outside Rome,” Steven shared.
“Now that’s interesting. Were they sure it was an accident?” Chip asked.
“Yeah, two for two. The Italian authorities refused to press any investigation stating that it was a routine traffic accident, nothing more. Bill Richland had a couple of his old friends, a couple of ex-CIA guys, check it out. They managed to find a very clear connection between the Italian investigators and a couple of Swiss bank accounts. The accounts were opened the day after the accident with high six-figure amounts being deposited in each of the accounts.”
“I see,” Chip stated. “Were there any witnesses that could be found?”
“Oh, yeah, the Italians managed to find a few, but after they were interviewed, they were too afraid to talk to anyone else. Our guys found a few more witnesses the Italians had missed or chose not to find. They told a different story from the official version,” Steven shared with Chip.
“Oh, really?” Chip replied sarcastically, mostly playing along to humor Steven. He had to admit the coincidences were stacking up, though.
“Officially, the accident was blamed on the Arab guy’s drinking, and maybe it was a factor, but the witnesses stated he had lots of help missing the turn and going over the edge into the river. A large, black Mercedes with some sort of diplomatic plate was seen giving him a nudge as he entered the curve.”
“Wow! Okay, we’ve got corrupt officials, hit men in big cars, and some poptart who claimed a year ago that America would be begging for oil, which is happening. So, who was this guy?” Chip summed up what Steven had said, then asked the all-important question.
“He was the Emir of Aden,” Steven waited a moment to let that sink in.
“The Emir of Aden. That’s a pretty big fish to put a hit on. Didn’t he have his own security detail?” Chip interjected. The coincidences had just added up to a solid case in his mind.
“Yes, he did. The villa where he was staying had two dozen security agents. Usually when he went out, he had a driver and a team of agents that rode with him, plus a lead car and a chase car. For some reason, he had given the entire team the night off. It was rumored he was a member of a very shadowy group in the Middle East called The Brotherhood of the Sword. They are a group similar to the Muslim Brotherhood, only its members are rumored to be the elite members of the government and the ruling families, not your average, everyday Muslim or some clerics. There is no proof they exist, but it is rumored they support terrorism worldwide in a twisted attempt to bring the entire world to Allah.”
“Like that twelfth Imam and Armageddon stuff?” Chip asked.
“Yeah, the group was rumored to have gotten its start back in the late 1940s, right after World War II, in response to the Allies redrawing the map of the region, setting permanent borders and giving the Jews a homeland. The British and the French hoped formalizing the borders would bring stability to the region and to their oil supplies. It might have worked, except the plan also included dumping the Jewish problem in Palestine.
“America wasn’t directly involved in the creation of Israel. We played more of a Pontius Pilate type role. We didn’t say yes and we didn’t say no. We were just glad the British took the lead so we could wash our hands of the situation,” Steven paused for a moment, knowing Chip wanted to ask a question.
“What was wrong with the borders before the war?” Chip asked.
“The borders before the war changed with every sandstorm, but I’m sure you know that because you would have had to study World War II in officer’s training. Anyway, the whole region was in constant turmoil. British corporate investors wanted more stable borders before they would invest in the oil exploration that was needed.
“The Brotherhood of the Sword, if they exist, could have easily orchestrated the attacks in Texas or financed some other group bent on destroying America. They could have used their money afterwards to manipulate the markets and gain control of the oil prices, driving them to artificial highs and probably influencing a lot of other futures markets, as well.
“The Middle East is home to twenty-five of the wealthiest men on the planet and the majority of the top one hundred. Lots and lots of petrol dollars.” Steven stopped to let the information sink in.
“They think differently than we do, as you well know. They live in a world dominated by situational ethics; a world where you treat believers differently from non-believers. They will cheat anyone and everyone at the
drop of a hat, claiming it is God’s will and the buyer beware. The average Middle Easterner, the lower class economically, will steal anything not nailed down. They steal from anyone that isn’t family, but if the payoff is enough, they’ll steal from family, as well.”
“Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?” Chip inquired, but Steven ignored him and continued talking.
“Over there, life is extremely cheap. They will kill you over the smallest offense even if it wasn’t intended to be offensive. If they think it would be easier to kill you than to cheat you out of the dollar in your pocket, you’re a dead man. It’s just a completely different mindset, a different culture.
“They become offended if you look at their women, swear, drink alcohol, or fail to give Allah the proper respect; they will kill you for it. But don’t expect them to have any concern about offending you. Oh, no, you are just an infidel. They have been taught it is Allah’s will they take advantage of you—to steal from you and to kill you, unless you convert to Islam. As an infidel, you are less than nothing,” Steven took a deep breath and continued. “They spend a good deal of time trying to convert Christians to Islam, but don’t you attempt to convert a Muslim to Christianity. Oh, no! It is an insult to Allah for anyone to leave Islam for any other religion. To do so is punishable by death.
“They have a twisted mindset that has been nurtured for generations. It would be hopeless to reach common ground with them. I’ve tried for years; and for years, they smile and try every trick in the book. They lie; they cheat; they’ll do anything to gain an advantage. I’ve stopped employing Muslims in my company,” Steven had never told Chip this before, so he let the information sink in and waited for Chip to comment.
“So, you think this Brotherhood is behind the attacks?” Chip asked.
“Yes, I think so, but I haven’t a clue as to who the members of the Brotherhood are, and my attempts to find out seem to be making some people very nervous,” Steven shared with Chip.
“Would that be Bascome?” Chip asked.
“Bascome and a few of my customers in the Middle East have become very vocal since I started digging into the Emir of Aden a couple of months ago. Bascome started making threats as soon as my guys started asking questions in Italy, and now I’m a suspect in a bribery case. Then a few days ago, I was in Egypt and the Minister of Finance mentions it would best not to perpetuate vicious rumors created by rivals of the ruling families in the area. It could be viewed as an insult, especially now that I knew it was just a rumor. He said if I persisted with my inquiries into the Emir of Aden’s death, it could be very bad for my business and my family’s health. He threatened me and my family, right to my face!” Steven sounded incredulous.
“I don’t think they’d be stupid enough to harm you or your family physically, but they might try to cut into your business. If you think about it, that’s exactly what Bascome is trying to do. You think Bascome could be involved with the Brotherhood somehow?” Chip queried.
“If he isn’t, it’s one hell of a coincidence,” Steven stated flatly.
“Okay, you’ve made me nervous. I’m sending in C&D teams to boost the estate’s security. I’ll also brief Bill on the situation, so he isn’t surprised by any unauthorized visitors trying to see more of the estate than we want them to.”
“Steven, you just keep digging until you find the proof, and I’ll take it from there. Westlyn and Richland should be able to help you with finding out the details, so use them, and don’t let Bascome bother you. He’s one politician for whom I’d make an exception to the assassination rule.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hassan sat waiting to place his call. He placed it every Wednesday at this same time. It was his appointed time to report the progress of the tasks assigned him by the Brotherhood. He was always nervous about the call because he wasn’t calling his father, his Brotherhood contact. No, he was calling his uncle, the king’s brother, as part of his exile and possible pardon for taking liberties with the king’s daughter. He was to report all of his activities directly to his uncle on a weekly basis.
The liberties he had taken were so minor as to be laughable, yet the king had taken offense. Or rather, the clerics deemed he should take offense in order to placate his political rivals who were charging that the Royal Family did not live by the same rules as the rest of the kingdom.
Hassan’s crime had been that he had touched Amani’s hand when several clerics had been watching. He had done so to confess his love for her and his wish to marry her. But the clerics had demanded the king make an example of him, so others would take the religious rules more seriously. They counseled that by making an example of him, the general population would stop believing the Royal Family was above the law which had been an issue for some time.
If he had not been the king’s nephew, he would have lost his head within minutes. There is to be no fraternization between the sexes according to Allah unless one is married to the woman, and Hassan had crossed that line in public. It was the king’s choice what punishment Hassan would receive.
After hearing his brother’s, Hassan’s father’s, impassioned plea to spare his son’s life, the king relented and exiled him instead of beheading him. He also made allowances for Hassan’s eventual return home sometime in the future. His return would be contingent upon Hassan marrying the king’s daughter and the completion of the tasks the king set for him while in exile.
Hassan had been reporting to his uncle for almost three years, and he was still nervous each time he called. The slightest misstep could cause the king to never allow him return home. His heart ached for Amani, but he had to be smart about things and work very hard to ensure the king relented so he might marry his true love.
The phone rang five times before His Majesty picked it up. Hassan knew it was just an intimidation tactic and did his best not to feel slighted. After the king said his one word greeting, “Hello,” Hassan began his report.
“Your Majesty, I have good news. Our asset in Israel has provided us with information about a second attempt to capture David Ashrawl. It appears the Hamas prisoner has once again provided actionable intelligence, and either the Israelis or the Americans, perhaps both, will be making another attempt within a few days,” Hassan stated.
“I see. Where is Mr. Ashrawl now?”
“He is being sequestered at a farm on the Jordan River in the north. We have forty men on site and can bring another hundred into the area within forty-eight hours. We already have an additional hundred men setting up a base of operations inside of Jordan. They are approximately two kilometers away. We made sure they have shoulder-fired stingers, RPGs and the anti-tank missiles called the Tow,” Hassan explained. When he stopped to draw a breath, the king interrupted.
“If possible, I would like to capture one of the raiders. Be sure to let the Brigade members know that.” Then he asked, “What of our arrangements for the ships?”
“I have been assured the ships will be at the GPS coordinates waiting for us to radio our instructions on the twenty-third of next month. They will use their own crews to sail the ships from Southeast Asia. An American transport tug will be stolen and used to take the men off the vessels prior to denotation and make the ruse that much more believable. We have only to wait for the special shipment to arrive. Once the special equipment is installed on board our four delivery vessels, we will be ready to complete the mission,” Hassan spoke optimistically.
“Who will oversee the installation?”
“I will, Your Majesty,” Hassan replied.
“If you are able to properly execute this mission, I will reconsider your return home. I expect you to do an excellent job.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The line went dead and Hassan breathed a sigh of relief. He was that much closer to being able to return home. Living in America was fun, and he enjoyed the large amount of travel his position afforded him, but he longed to return to his home among the faithful. He feared that if he stayed too long among the infidels,
he would become an infidel. There were just too many temptations.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was going to take several hours for Ron to round up the EZ2 and the equipment to dispense it. While he was gone, Tom, Alex and Pam checked everyone out of the bed and breakfast. They then set up a new observation post at an abandoned farmhouse two and a half kilometers south of the target farmhouse in the West Bank Territory. It was from here that Pam would operate the drone.
The abandoned farmhouse they chose was similar to the target. Both were short, one-story structures that were very plain. The whitewashed exteriors were the only decorative feature of each house. Over time, they had become bleached by the bright, relentless sun to a faded chalky white that was nearly transparent, leaving the building a soft gray color.
Both were relatively small with a short rock wall in front close to the road. Neither building was blessed with landscaping, other than the stones outlining the preferred pathways to and around the farmhouse. Both buildings looked livable from a distance, except for the roof having collapsed at this one. A few of the olive trees at this farm, despite having no one to attend them for some time, were trying to bloom, testifying to the olive tree’s legendary heartiness.
Tom, Alex and Pam secured the farmhouse, first checking to be sure it was abandoned, then checked for landmines or IEDs (improvised explosive devices) lying about or hidden among the debris. They set up four miniature cameras with low light, night vision capabilities giving Pam a three hundred sixty degree view of the area around the farmhouse on her computer/controller laptop.
Starting at sixty meters out from the house and covering the ground up to it from three sides, they set up several dozen noise makers which, when tripped, sounded like snapping twigs—only extremely loud. They installed a half dozen anti-personnel mines or claymores with ultra-thin trip wires in the front and back yards of the farmhouse. That would afford Pam at least some protection from anyone trying to sneak up on her after the rest of the team had left. With the perimeter secure, they rigged a portion of the roof to provide some shade where they changed into their body armored, black combat jumpsuits.
Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Page 13