by Don Brown
"Okay, Jackson," Claxton began from her swivel chair at the end of the table. "What's our situation in California?"
"Senator, we're neck and neck with Congressman Warren. It's the same old story. The hometown boy is pulling heavy numbers in the Bay Area. We're way ahead in the rest of the state. Senator Fowler is way, way behind."
The Senator slapped her hand against the table and cursed. "What's wrong with those people in San Francisco? They're my kind of people. And they know Warren's got no chance."
"Senator," Mary-Latham spoke up. "Warren's been up there for years, battling for gay rights on the Hill. He's sponsored a federal gay marriage amendment. Our polls show that the Bay Area voters view you as liberal enough, but more determined to get elected than to do anything."
"The idiots!" Claxton fumed. "They're confusing me with my husband again!"
"That's part of the problem, Senator," Jackson added. "We're fighting confusion by association."
"I should've killed Freddie years ago. I should've gotten him before the Republicans did."
"Yeah." Mary-Latham glared at Eleanor. "You should've gotten him after the fortieth time you caught him womanizing."
Five seconds of silence.
"Well." Eleanor turned to Jackson. "How goes this dramatic strategy you've devised to put us over the top?"
"So far, so good, Eleanor."
"Explain."
"Brewer's on the case, just like we hoped. Our guy has infiltrated and made contact. We should know soon if our boy will play ball."
"He'd better." Claxton tapped her pen on the table. "This had better work." An aide poured more coffee. "If I'm going to politically castrate a conservative icon like Brewer, we'd better win California."
"You will, Eleanor," Jackson said. "Trust me."
"I don't trust anybody, Jackson." Eleanor swigged her coffee. "Not after what the Republicans did to Freddie. Somebody got a light?" A Secret Ser vice agent positioned a flaming butane lighter under the end of the senator's cigarette of choice, a long Virginia Slim.
That she could secretly puff like a pre-EPA-era Pittsburgh steel mill, then publicly berate the tobacco lobby, was an example of her great courage. Great leaders must divorce their private beliefs from their public positions. A candidate could claim, for example, to personally oppose abortion, as long as she publicly advocated pro-choice positions and policies. Same with cigarettes.
"So anyway," Eleanor said, puffing the Virginia Slim, "what's the deal on our press releases?"
"All done." Mary-Latham spoke with a swaggering, self-assured confidence. "Leaks go to the press tomorrow. We should get a feel for how all this will play by Monday morning."
Eleanor raised an eyebrow and displayed a self-satisfied smirk, which was imitated by Mary-Latham, who shot her brown eyes at Jackson.
"Okay," Eleanor said, "by Monday, we'll see just how brilliant my two top assistants are." Another drag from the cigarette. "Or else maybe we'll see them in the unemployment line."
She blew a cloud of cigarette smoke at Jackson, then laughed.
Courtroom 1, Building 1
Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Court-martial of United States v. Lieutenant Wofford Eckberg, USN
Day 1
The military jury was still sequestered in the jury room when Captain Reeves returned to the bench.
"All rise!"
Zack looked across the aisle at the defense table, where Lieutenant Jacoby and Ensign Wofford Eckberg were whispering. Eckberg was nodding his head.
"Very well." Captain Reeves looked over his half-moon wire-rimmed glasses. "Is the government ready to continue its case, Commander Brewer?"
Zack glanced back over at Jacoby and Eckberg. They were still whispering. "Yes, Your Honor. I'm pleased to announce an apparent resolution of this case."
"Very well," Reeves said. "Lieutenant Jacoby?" This brought the lieutenant out of her conversation with her client. "Is this correct?"
"Ahm... yes, Your Honor," Jacoby affirmed.
"Very well." Reeves shifted back to Zack. "Would you care to state the terms of this resolution for the record, Commander?"
"Your Honor, at this time, the government and the defense will move the court jointly for a continuance, for the purpose of resolving this matter, hopefully, out of court. The continuance would be for a period of two days, or until Monday morning, during which time Ensign Eckberg would tender his resignation from the navy and agree to an administrative discharge from the naval ser vice. All time accrued during the continuance would be chargeable to the defense and not the government for speedy trial purposes. In return, the government would drop all charges and not go forward with this general court-martial for sexual assault."
Reeves took a sip of water, wrote a few notes on his legal pad, then looked over at Jacoby. "Lieutenant Jacoby, does the defense concur?"
"Ahm..." She glanced at Zack. He nodded. "We concur, Your Honor."
"Ensign Eckberg." Reeves looked at the defendant. "It is my understanding that you wish to tender your resignation from the navy and seek an administrative discharge in return for the government dropping all charges against you. Is this correct?"
Eckberg resembled a deer in the headlights. Karen Jacoby whispered something in his ear. "That is correct, Your Honor."
"And you are asking for a continuance in this trial for the purposes of seeking to start the process of resigning your commission?"
"Yes, sir."
"And this court will be in recess until you have, in fact, resigned?" "Yes, sir."
"And if you do not resign and go through with the administrative discharge, the government could go forward with its prosecution?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. This court is in recess for forty-eight hours, until Monday morning, unless I hear from either counsel before then."
Judge Reeves rapped his gavel on the bench once.
"All rise!"
CHAPTER 12
Expressway E05
Outside Bourneville, France
Near the Normandy coast
Their route into the setting sun had taken them along the modern expressway E05, the toll road following the snaky curvature of the River Seine as it flowed from Paris and pointed northwest to the English Channel, just east of Le Harve.
They had not stopped for petrol. Father Robert had been peering over his shoulder and had seen no evidence that they had been followed. Now that the sun had set, the darkness would provide even greater protection. Perhaps one call of nature could be attended to before they boarded the ferry from Le Harve to Portsmouth.
"Driver, please pull over at the next restaurant."
"Yes, Father." The driver clicked his signal, and moments later the Peugeot headed down the next exit ramp.
"Fadil!" shouted the driver, Salah Abdul-Alim. "They are pulling off the expressway."
Fadil squinted at the Peugeot's taillights. "Stay with him, Salah." Fadil worked the action on the Uzi -- a metallic clacking -- readying it to fire; then he checked the silencer and flipped on the safety. "Ghazi, arm your weapon, check your silencer, and load Salah's too. This could get bloody. But remember, we want L'Enfant."
"Yes, Fadil," Ghazi said. The Renault swung onto the off-ramp, two cars behind the Peugeot.
"Cut the headlights. Leave the parking lights," Fadil ordered.
"Yes, Fadil." Salah killed the headlights as the cars decelerated to sixty kilometers per hour.
Fadil opened a can of shoe polish and wiped his face jet black. "Here." He passed the can to Ghazi.
Ghazi dipped three fingers into the polish, swirled them, and started masking his face too.
The neon sign just off the off-ramp flashed the name of the establishment: Le Cafe du Cote Normandie.
"This looks good," Robert said. He looked over his shoulder, satisfied that they had not been followed.
The Peugeot swung right into the parking
lot.
"Anyone else need to go?"
"I'm fine," Jeanette replied.
"Stay with her," Robert ordered, eyeing the driver. He was so young, just an intern who had started as a volunteer last summer at Sacre Coeur. "I'll be right back. Take off if you see anything suspicious."
"Yes, Father," the driver said.
Robert stuffed the papers under his shirt, then stepped out the rear driver's-side door and walked toward the cafe.
"Fadil, someone's getting out of the car," Salah Abdul-Alim said.
"Pull over!" Fadil shouted. Salah stopped the Renault along a grassy bank 150 meters from the Peugeot. "Ghazi and I will approach on foot. Salah, when you see us reach the vehicle, drive up along the left side. Ghazi, you take out the driver. I will deal with the witch. Understood?"
Both men nodded.
"Good. Let's go."
Fadil and Ghazi jumped from the car and, crouching low, moved along in a ditch to avoid detection toward the back of the Peugeot. They approached the vehicle from the driver's side. The Peugeot's motor was running. No other cars were nearby.
Climbing out of the ditch, Fadil crouched onto the asphalt parking lot just a few feet from the Peugeot. The driver's startled eyes locked with his.
The burst of machine-gun fire from Fadil's Uzi sent splattered glass, blood, and brains across the seat. A cry rose from the back of the Peugeot.
Fadil fired into the door, blowing it open and setting off the car alarm. The target was crumpled in the backseat, screaming. Her eyes were fixed on the driver, whose head hung over the seat.
Fadil grabbed her by the collar and yanked her toward the open door. She started to scream again, but Fadil pressed his hand over her mouth. Like a cat, she clawed and scratched. "Over here," he yelled to Ghazi, who ran around the car and helped him pull her through the doorway and onto the asphalt.
The Renault screeched to a stop just behind Fadil. Ghazi opened the back door as Fadil yanked the woman's hair, twisted her arm behind her back, and shoved her into the backseat.
Fadil followed her in and held her down as Ghazi rushed to the other side. "Let's go," Fadil commanded, pulling the car door closed. The Renault shot back into the black night.
Father Robert was still in the restroom when he heard a cacophony of shrill voices in the restaurant on the other side of the door. Hurriedly he headed to the sink, splashed water on his hands, rubbed them together, and grabbed a towel. In less than an hour, they would be on a ferry for England. And from there, they would board a plane from Gat-wick back to the States. The noise in the restaurant made him nervous. It also made him realize they needed to be on their way. And fast. He tossed the towel aside and hurried through the door.
Wending his way through the knots of patrons who'd stood to look out the front windows, he jogged to the restaurant's entrance and opened the door. A short distance away, the Peugeot's lights were flashing, its alarm bleating into the night air.
Robert sprinted across the parking lot, then stopped in alarm as he reached the open driver's side door. The driver's head was twisted at an odd angle and now hung over the seat, fresh blood seeping from the cranium. Shattered glass covered the front seat and the floorboard. Robert fought to keep his breakfast down, and lost. He bent over and heaved.
Jeanette.
Where was Jeanette? He stood again and looked into the car. The backseat was empty. The passenger doors were open. A smattering of restaurant patrons were now running toward him.
Robert scanned the dark horizon to the right, then scrutinized the parking lot.
On the EO5 expressway, cars raced in both directions, leaving red and white streaks of light in their wake. Sirens grew louder. The police were close now.
What could he do except pray?
And run.
Eastbound Expressway E05
Outside Quillebeuf, France
Ten minutes later
Fadil pinned the woman down, one hand pressing her face into the fabric of the seat. He was proud that his sheer brute strength made it impossible for her to move. Her cries were muffled now, and he wondered whether she could breathe.
He yanked her head up by the hair to see.
She unleashed a piercing scream. "Burn in hell!"
He shoved her face back into the upholstery. This time he momentarily lost his grip and she twisted out of his grasp, half falling to the floor. He grabbed for her, but she was faster. She fought him like a cat, scratching, biting, clawing.
"Pull over!" he screamed to the driver.
"Yes, Fadil." Salah turned onto a rapidly approaching off-ramp, then pulled onto the shoulder.
"Salah. The glove compartment. Get the syringe."
"Yes, Fadil."
"Let me out! Now." The woman kicked at him. He lunged and caught her mid-kick around the waist.
"I can't see it, Fadil."
"Turn on the dome light, you moron! But hurry! The police will be on our rear."
"Yes, Fadil." Salah turned on the dome light.
As he wrestled her back onto the seat, the woman continued to kick wildly, crying and biting and scratching.
"Oh! She kicked me!" Ghazi winced, holding his stomach.
"Hurry, Salah!"
"Got it!" A syringe flashed in Salah's hand. He leaned over the seat and jammed the needle through the woman's skirt and into her rump. Her scream turned into a moan, then she went limp.
"Let's get out of here!"
The Renault's tires squealed. A minute later, they sped down the EO5 expressway, headed toward the coast.
Cote d'Albatre, France
Northeast of Saint-Pierre-en-Port
Two hours, thirty-five minutes later
From the beach near an isolated village on the Normandy coastline, Fadil gazed across the waters of the dark channel toward England. A light breeze blew in from the sea, sloshing gentle swells onto the desolate stretch of beach halfway between the towns of Dieppe and Fecamp. Fadil checked his watch, then looked out at the horizon. The red and green lights of a few seagoing vessels, several miles out to sea, bobbed in and out of view. Other than that -- nothing.
One hour had passed since he had called in their position on the handheld GPS. The boat coming from the sea -- the boat that Abdur Rahman, the second most powerful man in the Council of Ishmael, had promised -- was nowhere to be seen.
Fadil considered his predicament. He congratulated himself as his captive began to moan. Her live capture would catapult his status to the top of the council, perhaps making him a candidate for the coveted council status. To become a member of the Council of Ishmael -- the most powerful Islamic organization in the world -- was more than he could have dreamed of as a boy. But now, with the help of Allah, he would become a council member and sit at the right hand of the great Hussein al-Akhma himself -- if he could finish this mission.
His mind turned back to the captive. The last of the sedative was now wearing off. Once she awoke and started to make noise again, they would have to either knock her unconscious or kill her.
So far, no one had passed by on the beach. But the longer they waited, the greater the chance they would encounter someone. They still had enough ammunition to eliminate a few stray bystanders, but the less noise the better.
He wondered about the accuracy of the GPS device, which he had purchased from a hunting goods store in America and shipped to France. Perhaps he should call again. But that would risk detection.
Fadil wanted a cigarette, but igniting his lighter would be a risk as well. Still, the nicotine urge twisted his insides. He retrieved the pack of Camels from his shirt pocket, popped one out, and stuck it in his mouth. Maybe if he lit the end, he could just keep his palm over it.
A silhouette running toward him on the beach to the right brought his Uzi into a firing position. An excited whisper came from the figure. "Fadil! Fadil!"
Salah. Fadil brought the Uzi down.
"This way." Salah motioned for Fadil to follow him back down the beach.
Fadil broke into a jog, and a few seconds later, three more dark silhouettes were visible, wading in the surf.
"Brother Fadil," one of them whispered. "You have a prisoner for us?"
A large rubber raft bobbed in the surf near the men. Praise be to Allah. Blessed be the prophet. Peace be upon him. "Salah, go get Ghazi. You two bring L'Enfant!"
"Yes, Fadil."
Two minutes later, Ghazi and Salah jogged back down the beach, carrying the woman. They laid her in the bottom of the boat, then shoved it back into the surf.
All six council commandos -- Fadil, Salah, Ghazi, and the three from the sea -- piled into the craft. One ripped a cord, cranking the small motor. Soon they snaked across the rolling inbound swells and out into the black night.
Five minutes later, Fadil reached into his pocket, extracted his lighter, lit a cigarette, and dreamed of glory.
CHAPTER 13
10065 English Ivy Way
Rancho San Diego
Spring Valley, California
Chris opened the front door of his townhouse to the spectacular view of the sun rising just over Mount Miguel. He drew the crisp California air into his lungs, threw back his head, and smiled at the blue sky.
Today will be the day! He smiled. The day I meet Zack! And after I've taken care of Zack, Eleanor will surely call! And after that, my destiny will be assured! He picked up the San Diego Union-Tribune and stepped back into the foyer to the sound of the beeping microwave.
"Green tea's ready," he said to Alvin the parakeet. "Daddy will be right there." The bird chirped as Chris opened the microwave and inhaled the aroma of the green tea that was part of his daily breakfast routine.
Mmm.
He opened the cupboard and retrieved the package of Oreos he had just purchased. The first Oreo went precisely in the middle of an octagonal white ceramic plate. Chris removed the top, exposing the white cream, like a sunny-side-up egg. He reached for a toothpick, then began his morning routine of dissecting the Oreo cream. First he cut a diagonal line through it. Then, crossways to the first cut, he made a second diagonal cut. Repeating the process, he meticulously carved the cream into eight slices.