Act of Terror jq-2

by Marc Cameron

  Camille snatched up an eight-by-ten photograph of her husband in his dress blue uniform and hurled it at Bundy. The heavy pewter frame caught him square in the shoulder, shattering the glass, then bouncing off the far wall.

  “It’s important for you to know,” Camille hissed, “that I don’t aim to let anyone come bargin’ in my house uninvited! I am not gonna stand here and listen to a single word from you.” She took a half step toward them with an aluminum baseball bat she’d grabbed from behind the door.

  Bundy licked his lips. For an agonizing moment Fargo was afraid he might actually shoot the woman. Instead, the trained Echo simply raised his hands and walked toward the door. Once outside, he turned to look back. “Tell your husband we stopped by,” he said, a little too smug for Fargo’s taste.

  “Oh, I’m gonna tell him, all right.” Cornmeal Thibodaux’s lips pulled back into a hysterical laugh. “And when I do, he’s gonna shove this baseball bat up your ass.” She patted her little boy on the head without looking down. “Don’t worry, sugar. Ass is a Bible word…”

  The house shook when Camille slammed the door behind the two intruders. Brad, her youngest, stood beside her in a sagging diaper. Already rattled, he jumped at the sudden noise and threw back his head to bawl at the ceiling. The older boys were playing down the street. That was a blessing. Both took after their daddy. Only nine and eleven, neither had a smidgen of patience when it came to a bully. Camille was sure they would have done something stupid with the two suits. They probably could have taken the one named Fargo-but the bald one had a mean bone. He was dangerous. Camille had run into men like him when she was tending bar, before she met Jacques. They were men who had a rip in their moral fabric, men who not only lacked a conscience, but reveled in the pain of other folks.

  The look he’d given her sweet little boy made her legs go weak.

  “Mama.” Denny, her seven-year-old-and the most sensitive of her boys-stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by his five- and three-year-old brothers. The three held hands, sobbing quietly as they looked down with their blinking doe eyes that always made her think of Jacques. They’d seen the whole horrible episode.

  “Mama,” Denny stammered, his little voice graveyard quiet. “Were you gonna really hit those men with my bat?”

  “If I had to, sugar.” Not much of a crier herself, emotion showed itself in crimson blotches on her neck.

  “Why was he holding Brad?” Denny was the official spokesman, but all three boys stared down at her, demanding an answer.

  A wave of nausea swept over her and she had to use the bat as a crutch to keep her feet. She caught her breath, patting the top of a squalling Brad’s head. She was a Marine wife, and these were Marine sons. There was no need to lie to them.

  “He was trying to scare me,” she said.

  “Why?” Denny demanded.

  Camille suddenly thought of the other boys playing up the street. A stabbing pain shot low across her abdomen, arcing like an electric shock. A veteran of six pregnancies, she’d never felt a pain so severe.

  Overcome with nausea, she dropped the bat and fell to her knees. She doubled over, cradling her swollen belly, trying to keep from throwing up.

  Denny ran down the stairs to cup his mother’s face in both hands. “Mama! What’s the matter? Should I call nine-one-one?”

  She pulled him closer, tears of agony streaming down her cheeks. “You gotta promise me something, sugar.”

  Ashen faced, the boy nodded quickly, but sounded unconvinced. “I’m gonna go call nine-one-one-”

  Camille grabbed him by his T-shirt as he turned to get the phone. Of all her boys, Denny was the one most likely to obey her.

  Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Searing pain grew like a pool of hot acid in her gut. She pulled her son close to her, using him as a support to stay upright for just a little longer. “Promise me you won’t tell your daddy about those men.”

  “But Mama…”

  “Promise!” Camille screamed like a crazy woman.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Denny stammered. “I promise.”

  Camille fell back onto a pile of laundry, writhing, imagining she was in hell. She was vaguely aware of her son’s voice talking to the 911 operator.

  She prayed that her little guy would keep his word. Jacques could never know about the men. He was sure to kill them if he found out-and that would land him in prison.

  “Oh, Jacques,” Camille whispered, the pain growing more intense. She felt the room close in around her. He couldn’t go to prison. She felt sure she was bleeding to death inside. With her gone, the boys would need him more than ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Washington

  C ongressman Hartman Drake sat against the edge of his desk, accidentally knocking a stack of loose papers onto the floor. He ignored them, focusing on the glossy photographs in his hands. In the great scheme of things they weren’t half-bad pictures. Damning, sure, but the angles were incredible and did a wonderful job of showing off his physique.

  He wasn’t a tall man, barely five feet seven, but the two hours a day he spent in the House gym showed in the way his arms and chest swelled under the starched white shirt. He was particularly proud of the fact he’d been able to bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds for three clean reps on his forty-fifth birthday. His office was rife with photographs of him skiing, horseback riding, mountain climbing, and sky diving. If it was adventurous, he did it, took a photo, and put it on his wall. The lurid photographs he now held in his hands would have fit right in with the other trophies.

  Drake peered over the top of the photographs at his aide, David Crosby. “Nietzsche had it right, you know.”

  “About what, sir?” Crosby sighed, pale eyes casting around the room like a cornered animal.

  “ ‘The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.’ See?” The congressman glared, half grinning, across the top of his black reading glasses. “I’m normal. Anyone other than you see these?”

  Crosby, a freckled Midwestern law school graduate with a sparse blond beard, shook his head emphatically. “I open all the mail myself.”

  Drake breathed a sigh of relief. If he could trust anyone it was his smarmy assistant. He’d helped the kid cheat on his bar exam. Crosby was bought and paid for.

  There were three photographs in all, each showing Drake completely nude, getting athletic with the same busty brunette. They were of excellent quality and left little doubt as to Drake’s identity. In a way, he felt bad for depriving others of a look at the pictures.

  The congressman chuckled a little despite the situation. The bitch must have had one of those hidden nanny cams. He held up the bottom photo for Crosby to see. “Come on, Dave,” he leered. “Tell me you wouldn’t make the beast with two backs if that came along and threw herself at you. I mean, if these get out, who’s gonna blame me? Besides Kathleen, I mean.”

  “Congressman.” Crosby swallowed hard, shying away from looking too long at the photograph of his boss and the brunette. “It’s obvious this is an attempt at extortion. And the timing could not possibly be any worse.”

  Drake nodded, almost absentmindedly. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off that last photo. The girl was drop-dead gorgeous, there was no question about that-with bouncing, pixie-cut hair that made him think she might be Tinker Bell’s evil twin. But this particular photo caught his quads at just the right flex… At least if the photos got out on the Internet, he’d have nothing to be ashamed of in that regard. It was a crying shame Kathleen wouldn’t allow a camera in the bedroom.

  Drake shook his head, forcing himself to focus.

  Crosby went on with his whimpering worry fest.

  “Roger Grantham’s test results came back positive for lymphoma,” he said. “He’s giving a press conference in an hour.”

  Drake slid the damning photographs back in the envelope. So, Grantham would step down as speaker of the House. T
he job was as good as his.

  “You have unprecedented support from the public since you came out with the list,” Crosby said. “Tatum Hanks wants the job, but you’re the party’s certain nomination for speaker.”

  “You think so?” Drake loosened his blue and silver bow tie and undid the top button of his starched shirt. Hanks was majority whip. In other circumstances would get the party nod. But Crosby was right. In the wake of all the terrorist killings, the public and most members of Congress were lined up behind Drake.

  “So what are we going to do?” Crosby said, fidgeting with his hands.

  “David.” Drake smiled. “We are going to make certain I become speaker of the House.”

  “Sir, I mean what are we going to do about the photos? If they get out, we’re screwed.”

  Drake chuckled. “Interesting choice of words, considering.” He put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “There wasn’t any note?”

  Crosby shook his head, looking pale. “No, just the photos.”

  “Don’t look so glum, David,” Drake said. “Remember, I know this girl. I know where she lives.”

  “Do you want me to call someone in to help us… I don’t know… take care of the problem?”

  “Come on, Dave,” Drake belly laughed. “I’ll handle this myself. I step out on my wife once in a while. I’m not some mobster who has people whacked because they cross him. How would that look for the guy who’s about to be the number-three guy in the line of succession for the presidency of the United States?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  New York City

  M ujaheed Beg stood against the peeling yellow wallpaper of the crowded hotel room looking over his shoulder out the window. Six stories below, the clang and clatter of garbage trucks on Thirty-ninth Street helped to drown out the soup of angry voices in the suite with him. The Mervi brooded sullenly, keeping his back to the wall. It angered him that the doctor had insisted on his presence in New York when he was so close to finding out more about the dark woman who had almost stumbled onto him at Arbakova’s house.

  Still, the doctor was his employer. When he’d called to tell Beg to take the five-o’clock Acela Express out of Union Station for New York, the Mervi had grudgingly complied.

  Now he found himself at the Eastgate Tower, standing in a room that was, as many rooms were in Manhattan, little larger than a closet. The hotel was just a short distance from the United Nations. Groups of foreign nationals were the norm, even in the day and age where men with dark skin and a Middle Eastern look were viewed as potential terrorists anywhere else.

  Dr. Badeeb sat on the edge of the queen bed. He lit his sixth cigarette of the evening with the butt of his fifth, grinding out the old one in a glass ashtray on the mattress beside him. He picked a bit of tobacco off his lip and waved away the plume of blue smoke that encircled his face.

  Over the course of the last two hours, eight other men had slipped into the room one at a time, each with dark faces and even darker dispositions. Some smoked, sitting on the low dresser beside the television. Others squatted along the wall, peering sullenly over black beards and thick mustaches.

  The room smelled of old cigarettes, burned coffee, and body odor. Beg was a creature of the desert and yearned for the smell of wind, or at the very least, fresh blood.

  “Brothers,” Badeeb said, waving his cigarette in the air. “Please, we must remain calm. Think of all our young friends. They have become martyrs in our struggle. Do you not see the news and what the Americans are doing to one another?”

  Mustafa Mahmoud, a gaunt firebrand from Lahore, threw up his hands. He had the only chair in the room. “I must ask you the selfsame question, Doctor. Do you not watch the news? This infidel congressman, Hartman Drake, is to be the next speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives.”

  A murmur of consent hummed around the other men in the room.

  Mahmoud continued, his words clicking off his tongue. “Have you not heard what this man says about Pakistan or Palestine or the entire Middle East? He would bomb all Muslim countries off the map if given the opportunity.”

  Badeeb pressed the flat of his right hand to his chest. “I understand your worry,” he said. “But we are compelled to continue with our original course of action. Assets are in place. We have traveled much too far to alter plans at this point in time.”

  Mahmoud stood abruptly and stared directly into Badeeb’s sweating face. Beg moved forward a half step. Watching. The others in the room fell completely silent.

  “My brothers,” Badeeb said, waving Beg to stay back. “I promise you. I myself will take care of Drake when the time is right. I am certain he will be invited to the infidel wedding.”

  “Of course, you know best, Doctor,” the skinny Pakistani muttered. “I am but a simple hotel keeper. But think on this. If we continue on your original plan, and Hartman Drake does not attend this wedding, he will have the power to do untold damage.”

  “I ask you to trust me,” Badeeb whispered, bowing his head.

  Mujaheed Beg held his breath. The doctor paid him well, but there was far more to his work than mere employment. He saw the doctor’s dedication, saw the devotion the man gave to his jihad. Of all the men in the room, Beg was perhaps the only one who could have faith in the doctor’s plan-and when it concerned Hartman Drake, such faith was proving difficult even for him.

  The man needed to die.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Washington 0830 hours

  Nancy Hughes sat in her favorite white wicker chair overlooking the rolling lawn of the Naval Observatory. The grass glistened from an overnight rain. A white porcelain cup and saucer rested on her lap, steaming peacefully in the quiet air.

  She took a sip of her Earl Grey and tipped her head at her new assistant. “Mrs. Peterson is ill today. Think you can handle her duties along with your own?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am.” Amanda Deatherage gave an impish smile that Hughes found unsettling. She was a small girl, not much over five feet tall, with narrow, girlish shoulders and piercing hazel eyes. Her stiff, red wool suit and large Wilma Flintstone pearls gave the impression of a child playing dress-up. She had a tendency to tug at her clothing as if it was bunching up and her stockings sagged noticeably above the heels of scuffed pumps. Her resume was impressive enough and she possessed decent organizational skills. It was the rumpled appearance that had put her number two behind Grace Smallwood on the applicant list.

  “Excellent,” Hughes said, taking another sip of tea before setting the cup on the porch. She took up a small notepad and situated a pair of gold reading glasses on her nose. “So, how will I earn my keep today?”

  Deatherage opened the burgundy leather appointment calendar and studied it for a long moment, pen poised above the pages.

  “Let’s see, ma’am…” She scanned the schedule.

  “Nine a.m., you meet with the head of the Kiva nonprofit… uh

  … at the Smithsonian Castle.” She looked up, mouth open in reverent awe. “That is, like, the coolest thing ever. Anyways, after that, at eleven-thirty, you have lunch with the first lady at Ben’s Chili Bowl…”

  Hughes closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Are you sure? For some reason I thought that was Monday.”

  Deatherage’s auburn bangs bobbed as she shook her head. “It says right here: Secret Service notified… SLOTUS and FLOTUS-Ben’s Chili Bowl eleven-thirty a.m.”

  Hughes made a face as if she’d just eaten something bitter.

  “I prefer you don’t call me that, dear.”

  It was common knowledge that POTUS stood for the president of the United States. The first lady got FLOTUS, a name that made one envision gliding gently above the ground. Nancy Hughes had no problem being the second lady, but the vice president and his wife were saddled with the VPOTUS and SLOTUS — terms that her oilman brother said suggested an erectile dysfunction drug and some sort of skin disease.

  “Yes, ma’am…” Deatherage looked quizzically at the ca
lendar. “Oops… like, I mean the biggest oops ever. You were right, Mrs. Hughes. The dinner with FLOT… the first lady is Monday. After the Kiva meeting today, your schedule is open to work on the wedding.”

  “Excellent,” Hughes said, resisting the urge to point out that Gail Peterson never had “oops” moments when it came to schedules concerning the first lady. “We have a great deal to do and a short time to get it done.”

  “May I ask a question, Mrs. Hughes?”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  “I’m, like, all afraid I’m not working as hard for you as I should be…”

  Hughes lowered her reading glasses. “How do you mean?”

  It looked as though the poor girl might actually be welling up with tears.

  “I… I admire you so much, Mrs. Hughes. You, like, volunteer your time to all sorts of great causes. I just want to be a real help with this wedding.”

  “Of course you’re going to help me, dear,” Hughes scoffed, attempting to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “But you won’t even tell me where the wedding is supposed to be.” Deatherage sniffed back a sob, hand to her chest as she worked to regain her composure.

  “You’re to help with the guest list, dear.” Hughes shook her head. “The vice president believes the fewer people know the location until the last minute, the better for everyone.”

  “I understand.” Deatherage sniffed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is all, like, just such an honor for me.” She turned to the back page of the appointment book. “So far you have sixty member of Congress and fifteen senators who have RSVP’d.”

  “We do expect a fair number of dignitaries,” Hughes said. “Security and transportation are going to be a nightmare. At last count we had heads of state from Australia, the U.K., Germany, and Brazil. Have we heard from any others?”