Hell's Choir (NICHOLAS SHARP THRILLER SERIES Book 3)

by Mark Mannock

  I offered my hand, as did Jack. Jumaa had already met the man.

  Peterson glanced at the president, who gave him the slightest nod. “Mr. Sharp and Mr. Greatrex, I owe you my deepest thanks,” he said.

  “How so?” I asked.

  The agent appeared sheepish. It wasn’t a disposition that suited him. “When the then vice president was in Sudan, I was on leave. It was the birth of my first grandchild. We planned it before they announced the Sudan trip.”

  “Abe tried to withdraw his leave application when he heard where I was going. I wouldn’t hear of it,” interrupted the president.

  “I was, in effect, ordered to take time off by the vice president and my wife. I wasn’t happy. When Vice President Blake went AWOL, I was downright furious.”

  “But it all worked out, my old friend,” reassured the president.

  “Yes, it did, and from what I understand it was thanks to you two,” said Peterson, looking at Greatrex and I, “with a fair amount of help from Mr. Al Fadil.”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate the contribution made by our beloved leader,” I ventured, while casting a glance at Jefferson Blake.

  “Yes, I’m aware just how stubborn he can be,” replied Peterson.

  We shared a group chuckle. Nicholas Sharp: right at home in the Oval Office.

  Blake invited us to take a seat on the pair of elegant couches I’d seen a hundred times on television. Abe Peterson stood next to the door.

  “Now, tell me, what can I do for you?” he asked.

  I told the president everything we had learned. Greatrex and Jumaa filled in the gaps.

  “Suffice to say, Mr. President, it is our unsolicited recommendation that you do not announce, nor hold the state dinner for the president of Sudan until your safety can be assured,” I announced.

  President Blake looked over to Peterson.

  “Sir, I agree with these gentlemen. We’d place you in a position of needless risk if we move forward with our plans,” he added.

  The agent spoke like an ally, but from his expression I saw that he held little hope.

  Jefferson Blake was silent for a few moments. I wasn’t sure whether he was considering our request or wondering how to let us down easy.

  “The moment a person takes this job,” he began, “he or she is agreeing to be at risk. Whoever holds the presidency of the United States automatically becomes one of the most revered figures in the world… and one of the most reviled. I’m a big boy—I was aware of the dangers coming in the door.”

  “But sir—” interrupted Peterson.

  Blake held up his hand. “I know what you will say, Abe, and I appreciate it. The bottom line, however, is that our friends in Sudan are still going through turmoil. They require our support. The people of our own country need to see we are here and ready to help. I fear that the previous administration may have led Americans to believe that being a moral citizen of the world was not worth the trouble.”

  The president sat back and considered his words.

  “Everyone in this room has made sacrifices to keep me alive,” Blake took his time to look all of us in the eye. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, but the bottom line is clear in this situation. If you kept me safe for a purpose, it was so I could be a moral leader who doesn’t back down under threat. I’m sorry, gentlemen, the visit and the state dinner will proceed.”

  No one said a word as the weight of the president’s words hung in the silence. Those of us that knew the man hadn’t expected a different outcome.

  “Mr. President, I understand and respect your position. Could I, however, ask you one thing? Would you allow Jack and I not only to be present at the dinner but also to access some government resources so we can hunt around for more information on the Shararaa’s plan and Sua’d Bahri’s whereabouts?”

  Jefferson Blake spoke. “We have the Secret Service, the FBI, the CIA and Homeland Security all working on this, and you two figure you’ll find something they missed? What do you make of that, Agent Peterson?”

  Across the room, Abe Peterson frowned. “Sir, we are better resourced than any other protection system in the world. Our sole mission is the safety of you, your family and your colleagues. We know our job, Mr. President, and we are trained to do it well.” The agent paused for a moment, then a smile crept onto his face. “On the other hand, when you were in Sudan, sir, and in deep strife, it was Mr. Sharp, Mr. Greatrex, and Mr. Al Fadil who got you out. I say bring them on board, sir.”

  “Done deal. Nicholas, Jack, you’re in, and it will be easier than you expect,” declared the most powerful man on earth.

  Jefferson Blake appeared amused by the bewilderment on our faces. “Well,” he said, “the fact is, the Sudanese president has requested that P.D. Bailey and his band perform at the state dinner, so you two will be there, anyway. Jumaa will be there as one of my most trusted advisors on Sudan.”

  “Are there other performers?” asked Greatrex.

  “The Sudanese government is bringing some musicians. I imagine the evening will end up being the exchange of culture that the Shararaa interrupted so devastatingly in Khartoum,” said Blake.

  “Do you have a date set yet?” I inquired.

  “I understand it is to be in three weeks,” responded the president.

  “That doesn’t leave us much time,” said Greatrex.

  “I have every confidence in you all,” replied the president. “I should add that General Devlin-Waters spoke to the Secret Service this morning to update them with your latest information. Nicholas, hearing you speak of the possibility of Atha Riek having a brother tight with the Sudanese government is very concerning. If that intel is true, there is little doubt there will be another attempt to disrupt our democracy and this administration.”

  “With respect, Mr. President, I think it will be more than that,” I said.

  “In what way, Nicholas?”

  “I believe this has become personal. If there is a brother—and it sounds like there is—I’m certain he will come directly after you.”

  Blake seemed to be pondering my words. “Personal… You may be right.”

  The president didn’t seem fazed by the idea.

  Jumaa interrupted the silence. “Mr. President, can you tell us when you will announce the Sudanese president’s visit and the state dinner?”

  “Well, about that…” replied the commander-in-chief.

  Chapter 27

  It was only a few minutes’ walk from the Oval Office to the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room.

  It took Jack Greatrex and I much longer to make the journey. After we had left President Blake, we spent the best part of two hours with Abe Peterson in a small West Wing office, thrashing out scenarios and exchanging information. It was clear that the president was in expert hands, protected by such a dedicated operator.

  During our meeting, Peterson took a phone call. As he listened, his face tightened in concern. “Our sources have now confirmed that Atha Riek had a twin brother, fraternal, not identical,” he told us.

  “In other words, no one knows what he looks like,” I added.

  “Exactly,” replied the agent. “Insiders close to the Shararaa say both siblings were equally dedicated to their cause. They rarely met in person and all communication remained extremely secretive.”

  “What a family,” said Greatrex, “bound by common hatred.”

  “I’m going upstairs to tell the president,” announced Peterson. “Please remain here.”

  Blake had invited Greatrex and I to watch the afternoon’s press briefing announcing the Sudanese official visit, although he requested we stay out of sight. The president’s time in Sudan and his method of extraction had been kept under wraps. News outlets reported that several US personnel had died in an attempt on Blake’s life during the coup, but no more.

  Jean Staples, the White House press secretary, would run the briefing, but President Blake wanted to announce the Sudanese president’s visit and state dinn
er himself. He wanted to send a message.

  When the press secretary walked up to the podium at the front of the small auditorium, members of the White House press pool sat relaxed, business as usual. When she announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States,” the mood suddenly became deferential, ties smoothed, skirts adjusted, backs straight.

  “Please, sit down,” instructed Blake as the reporters took to their feet after he strode on to the podium. “I’ve asked Jean to give me a little time here because I’d like to inform you all of an important visit to Washington by the head of a country we hold in the highest and warmest regard. I speak of my good friend, President Sabbir of Sudan.”

  Jefferson Blake continued his speech, giving a brief history of the relationship between the two countries and praising Sudan’s move toward democracy. He spoke briefly about Sabbir’s success in crushing the recent coup. Finally, he announced he would take questions.

  Hands across the room shot up. Jean Staples managed the journalists like a teacher with a tough class.

  “Mr. President. This will be your first official state visit since taking office. Can you tell us about the menu and entertainment for the event?”

  Staples shoulders relaxed, she seemed relieved the questions were coming in light.

  “My office will make announcements as information is confirmed,” said the president. “I can tell you, however, that the Sudanese president has requested that American blues and soul legend P.D. Bailey perform.”

  “Mr. President, as a widower, can you inform us who’ll undertake the first lady’s traditional duties?”

  Not very subtle.

  Blake winced slightly and said, “My daughter Cassandra has offered to help with the arrangements.”

  Several representatives of the press gallery nodded in approval.

  Then from the center of the room, “Mr. President, Tom Saunders, Washington Post. There are rumors circulating that your recent extradition from Sudan was difficult and not processed through regular diplomatic and security procedures. Can you elaborate on that, sir?”

  Press Secretary Staples spoke before Blake could get a word out. “We will not be addressing rumors in this forum, Tom, you know better than that. Next question.”

  President Blake showed no reaction as the exchange took place.

  “Mr. President, Juliet Bross from the New York Times. Sources have told us that a terrorist group in Sudan held you captive. Can you confirm that, please?”

  Murmurs echoed across the room. The jackals were becoming emboldened.

  “Again, we will not be addressing unsubstantiated rumors,” said Staples.

  Then from the back corner, a rather weary-looking reporter with the craggy, weather-beaten manner of a veteran scribe stood up, unasked.

  “Joe Connors, Mr. President, freelance for Time magazine.”

  “Now, Joe, you’ll have to wait…” attempted the press secretary.

  The journalist refused to be ignored, and Jean Staples was struggling.

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr. President, but I’ve just returned from the Batn-El-Hajar region of Sudan. I recorded an interview with an eyewitness who stated that you were actively involved in the death of the terrorist leader, Atha Riek. Can you please confirm that?”

  Connor’s last words were drowned in the uproar.

  “I will call this briefing off if you people can’t behave in a civilized—”

  “No!” said the booming voice from behind the podium microphone. “I would like to address these insinuations.”

  The room dropped to an immediate silence. The president of the United States had something to say.

  “For the last few weeks, our country has been in mourning. We’ve mourned the loss of President Carlton, and we’ve mourned the loss of the brave American personnel who gave their lives to protect not only me but, more importantly, our democratic values. We have grieved together as a community, and we have grieved privately as the friends, families, and colleagues of those lost. For those closest to our fallen heroes, the tears will continue for an unimaginable time. To you all, I offer my thoughts, my prayers, and the support of a grateful nation.”

  The president paused to look around the room. The collective focus was undivided.

  “But you already know thoughts and prayers are not enough.”

  Eyebrows raised.

  “It was my decision to protect you, the American public, from the details of the events in Sudan. I believed that as a nation we needed time to heal without distraction. That time has now passed.”

  There wasn’t a sound from the journalists. No one wanted to interrupt.

  “Now, to the truth… From Khartoum, I was taken by force to the northern Batn-El-Hajar region, in the mountains. They held me in a cave…”

  For twenty minutes, the president told his story. By the time the Jefferson Blake was almost done, the most inquisitive, talkative journalists in the world sat in a silent fog of disbelief.

  The president offered a brief half-smile. “When you retrieve your ability to speak and write, I urge you to discard your initial instinct to blame this on religious tension. We are better than that. We must be better than that. This despicable group hid behind the pretense of religion, but it is not who they were. They were snakes and murderers, men without conscience, and most certainly without justifiable cause. I repeat, it was not Muslim believers who held me captive, it was a small cluster of rancid bullies, traitors to their own county and religion. I ask you to remember that before you pass judgment.”

  The president stepped back from the microphone for a few quick seconds as the more liberal members of the press nodded in approval.

  Then, “Mr. President. You haven’t spoken of your escape or the death of Atha Riek?”

  “It was my good fortune that two of our own countrymen plus one brave Sudanese citizen infiltrated the terrorist enclave to rescue me. Please don’t ask their names. Like the heroes they are, they wish to remain unidentified. Together, we decided that we wouldn’t leave without the hostage families. To do so would have guaranteed their immediate deaths. There was a firefight, and we made it out, all of us.”

  Whispers rippled across the room.

  “You may say that the man before you is a politician, words are easy. I may be in politics now, although that was never my intent, but on that night in Sudan, as we fought to survive and to liberate, I was not a politician. I was an American. I acted with a strength of resolve that I honestly believe most righteous people would in the circumstances.

  “Let me be clear in saying that it was that resolve that gave me courage that night. Courage to pull the trigger that ushered Atha Riek from this mortal world.”

  The room erupted.

  The president stood at the podium, motionless, waiting for calm.

  “Mr. President, have all the potential bombers been reunited with their families?”

  “Almost all. For obvious reasons of security, I cannot give you more information.”

  Her name.

  “I can, however, tell you this. It has recently come to our attention that the Shararaa leader, Riek, had a twin brother. We understand that although not identical twins, the siblings shared the same demonic hatred of democratic values. I’m told the brother, name yet unknown, is equally responsible for my capture and the deaths of our American personnel. We believe he is planning a new attempt on my life and that of President Sabbir. The president and I have spoken—we both agree that we will not cower in the face of this threat. We will not hide away until the danger is over. The state visit remains on the schedule and will not be postponed.”

  Jefferson Blake lowered his head for a moment. When he looked up his eyes radiated the strength of steel.

  “I have no doubt that Riek’s sibling has access to this press conference, so I’ll now address my comments directly to him.

  “We don’t know your name yet, but we will. We don’t know where you are yet, but we will. The one thi
ng that we do know right now is what you are. You are a worthless coward and a bully. You hide behind Allah’s word, you kill in God’s name, but that doesn’t disguise your true character. You are a pathetic and spineless murderer.”

  Jefferson Blake paused again, scanning the room like a lion waiting to be challenged, his features masked in concentration. When he resumed, it was directly into the television camera at the rear of the space. America may hear his words, but he spoke to only one person.

  “And it is me you should come after, not the people who surround me. It was me who shot and killed your brother. It was my finger that pulled the trigger. This is now personal, it’s between the two of us, no one else. But, I warn you, be wary. I carry with me the unbridled resolve that will end this story with me standing over your grave, arm in arm with my fellow apostles of freedom. As many before me, I have sought and found a depth of conviction that will see you and your kind of morally bankrupt killers stripped of your ability to threaten, bully and slaughter others… forever.

  “Deeper than your hatred resides in you, my own resolve for the pursuit of freedom is boundless.

  “I say to you, you better come after me soon, because if you don’t, I am most certainly coming after you!”

  A deafening applause ruptured the silence.

  President Jefferson Blake left the podium and strode right past Greatrex and I standing in the corridor. We joined Abe Peterson in trying to keep up with his boss.

  “What did you think, Abe?” asked the president.

  “Sir, with respect, I thought it was both the most inspiring and the dumbest presidential speech I’ve ever heard.”

  The president smiled and walked on.

  Chapter 28

  Washington was never my favorite place in the world. Too much hustling and too many self-obsessed wannabes attempting to climb the political food chain. As we drove down Wisconsin Avenue toward the 495, I wondered what chance we’d have of tracking down Sua’d Bahri in this maze of humanity. Our intelligence had told us that the US capital was her intended destination, but so far neither the FBI nor the Secret Service had found any trace of her.