by Mark Mannock
A panicked buzz spread through the audience. Some stood up, making ready to leave, others stared at the stage, transfixed.
I turned to the band leader. “Play on.”
Let music calm the savage beast.
Chapter 37
“You have ten seconds to give me your name, your actual name, or your world is about to fall apart.” Peterson was leading the interrogation.
The woman sat handcuffed in the chair. Her bottom lip quivered as a tear slipped down her cheek. She offered no response.
“Not speaking will not be to your advantage,” the special agent continued.
Still nothing.
Abe Peterson had allowed me to be present for the questioning; I was in the family now.
“All right, let me help you out here. Your name is Sua’d Bahri. You’re married to Salah Bahri and have a young daughter named Thiyiba.”
The floodgates opened. The single tear turned into a torrent. Her hands shook as she released an anguished wail. “No, please no!”
We waited several minutes as the woman composed herself enough to speak.
When she began, her voice sounded little more than a whisper. “If you know all of that,” she said, “then you know by arresting me you have sentenced my daughter and my husband to death.”
Her distress flushed the room with emotion.
“Your daughter and your husband are safe,” replied Peterson. “They’re now in US protective custody, as are your fellow prisoners from Batn-El-Hajar. The Shararaa terrorist camp has been destroyed.”
“I do not believe you. You are lying.”
Abe Peterson glanced at me. As he nodded, I suddenly knew why I was in the room.
“Sua’d, I need to tell you a story,” I began.
When I’d finished the woman in front of me looked wide-eyed.
“I will say nothing until you bring me my husband and daughter.” She crossed her arms and sat back into her chair like a petulant child.
Peterson didn’t respond. Then he walked out of the office.
Two minutes later, the agent returned. “Your husband will be here in ten minutes. Your daughter is off site. That will take longer.”
I could see his strategy, give a little, take a little.
“Will that do?”
The woman breathed a lengthy sigh. She still shook, but less so.
“I’ll speak when my husband is here.”
The arms remained folded.
Ten long minutes later, the door opened. Two Secret Service agents walked into the already crowded space. Standing between them was Salah Bahri.
Salah ran to his wife, kneeling down beside her chair. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, while staring up at Abe through a stream of defiant tears.
Abe Peterson ignored him and got down to business.
“If you are to have any chance of seeing freedom again in your lifetime, you’ll need to cooperate with us, and you will need to do it right now.”
Sua’d nodded, her open expression showing all the signs of submission.
“I’ll tell you what I can.”
Peterson sat down opposite her. “First, how did you plan to kill President Blake?”
“No, no… that was not my intention, nor my instruction.” Sua’d’s agitation sparked again, her voice peaking in anger. I thought her denial sounded sincere, but I guess they all did.
“You expect us to believe you undertook face-altering plastic surgery and smuggled yourself into the White House to play some music?” Peterson sounded edgy, his tone aggressive.
“I speak the truth. I will tell.”
Peterson grunted. “Tell.”
“They have held me captive with no contact with the outside world since I left the terrorist camp in the Batn-El-Hajar Mountains. They told me if I didn’t do everything they asked of me, they would kill Salah and Thiyiba.”
“What did these people ask you to do?”
“At first, nothing. They brought me to Washington in a private plane. Immediately, they took me to a clinic where I was instructed to cooperate with the surgeons who would alter my face. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice if I wanted to save my family.”
“And afterward?”
“We traveled to an apartment somewhere on the edge of the city, so I could recover from the operation. They gave me painkillers.”
“Vicodin?” I interjected.
“Yes,” she replied. “I recovered quickly, and my scars healed well.”
“How many people stayed with you?”
“Always the same three men—all Sudanese, all Shararaa.”
“What happened next?”
“After two weeks, they brought a violin to the apartment. They also brought some music for me to practice. I didn’t understand why.”
“The music that you performed tonight?” I inquired.
“Yes, at first, I found it difficult. I had not played for a very long time. But it all came back to me.”
“What else did they give you?” asked Peterson.
“Only a new bow and some rosin.”
Peterson paused his questioning. These answers were not what he expected.
“Tell me about your instructions tonight? What did you have to do when you got to the White House?”
“That was the thing, I had no other instructions. I just had to come and play.”
Abe Peterson’s face became clouded with anger.
“We know they sent you here to assassinate United States President Jefferson Blake. You may or may not have been working under duress, but we know what you came here to do.”
“No, no, I…”
“If you are not honest with us, you will never see your family again.”
“No, again, no… you don’t understand.” Sua’d’s eyes welled with tears.
“No…”
Just then my earbud rang out, “Nicholas, you’re due on stage.”
The president of the United States waits for no man.
Chapter 38
They’ll live forever in my heart
Our brothers lost along the path
Ain’t nothing gonna stop us
Claiming what we’re owed
As we proudly march down freedom’s road
The words to P.D. Bailey’s classic song echoed around the garden. The audience listened, transfixed by the powerful sentiment of the old bluesman’s vocals. President Jefferson Blake sat at his table. At one point, I thought I caught him wiping a tear from his eye. Next to him, the Sudanese president perched straight and attentive. His country had also paid a great price to live in democracy.
As I belted out the fierce Hammond organ solo the song demanded, I put every available inch of my being into the music. They asked us to play the tune just before the two presidents made their speeches. It was to be a moment. It was a moment.
I knew I should share in the relief of those around me, and the music should transcend any hesitation within me, but something just didn’t sit right, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
When the song finished, the audience, including the two presidents, stood applauding. Even the Marine Band clapped from their rooftop stage.
It was over. I needed to move on.
Jefferson Blake made his way to the podium, chatting with President Sabbir as they strode side by side. The order of events had been rearranged in the shadow of the sudden departure of the Sudanese violinist. After the US President’s speech, both the heads of state would move to the front of the band stage where President Sabbir would present Blake with the decorative lyre. The instrument lay on display on a stand at the corner of the platform. One of the Sudanese official party would retrieve it to pass to their president. After the presentation concluded, we were to continue playing. We’d been directed to remain on stage throughout the speeches.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States,” came the voice of the executive master of ceremonies.
Blake took to the podium as more applause resounded around the space.
The man exuded confidence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome…”
As much as I wanted to, I struggled to focus on the president’s words. Fragments of information were hitting my brain like hail on a cracking windscreen. What had just happened here?
“Together we celebrate the foundation of liberty and free thought that our two nations strive for …”
Sua’d Bahri had seemed genuinely upset at the accusation that she was here to kill the president, surprised even. But maybe she’d been surprised because we caught her.
“Like our own battles, the road to freedom for our friends in Sudan has not been easy. In fact, I know that from firsthand experience.”
Nervous laughter from the crowd.
Sua’d and Salah’s reactions seemed sincere when they saw each other. Their behavior didn’t indicate a conspiracy.
“As P.D. Bailey just sang to us, ‘They’ll live forever in my heart, our brothers lost along the path.’ Many honorable people, men and women, have fallen as both our great nations have fought for freedom. We will not forget them. Our gratitude is eternal.”
If Sua’d was telling the truth, why in God’s name was she here tonight? What possible benefit would the Shararaa gain from her being here?
“I say to you all, it is time to move forward, to celebrate who we are as nations, and what each of our glorious countries stand for on the world stage…”
Could Sua’d have been used to smuggle a weapon into the event, a bomb, perhaps? No, no chance. Security at the White House ran way too tight for that. Besides, the Secret Service agents had now removed her instrument, and its case. They took no chances.
Blake was winding up.
“So, in conclusion, I would like to thank President Sabbir and all our Sudanese friends who were unable make it here tonight. Welcome to the United States of America!”
The resounding applause filled the Rose Garden with warmth. Again, the guests rose to their feet.
Again, I had nothing.
Chapter 39
At the podium, Jefferson Blake stepped to one side, allowing President Sabbir to begin his address.
“Thank you so much for your warm welcome, Mr. President…”
I gazed across the garden. From the performer’s stage, I had an unobstructed view of the guests. Two tables of high-level Sudanese sat with their US counterparts, paying dutiful attention to their leaders. Scanning the perimeters, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary apart from Jack Greatrex failing to blend in as he scrutinized the crowd from the northern portico. At the entrance to the garden area, I saw Kaitlin Reed also casting a watchful eye. Team Sharp just wasn’t letting this go.
“We share a true and valued relationship with the American people…”
My head kept telling me the threat was over. Abe Peterson must have felt the same way, or he would be out here with his president rather than continuing to interrogate the Sudanese imposter. Clearly, he trusted his team to protect Blake while he gleaned more information from Bahri. It was a matter of prioritizing. He couldn’t be in two places at once. Despite, or perhaps because of that, my own senses remained on alert. The sniper’s eye.
“So, thank you, Mr. President, for your generosity, your hospitality and your friendship. I would now like to present you with a small gift.”
Again, applause filled the garden. The two presidents made their way over to the front of our stage. As prearranged, the Marine Band played a majestic fanfare as the presidents strode forward. For a last time, I scanned every face. There was no one who I could positively or even possibly say looked like Atha Riek’s brother. At least not by appearance. Jefferson Blake’s risky plan to call the terrorist out in person was a washout.
On cue from the MC, three members of the Sudanese party stood and headed toward the stage. The two men walked either side of a tall woman in a flowing, gold formal gown. I hadn’t noticed her earlier, if I had I would have remembered, she was stunning. Head held high, black folds of hair cascading over her shoulders, her beauty was captivating as she strolled forward. An agile cat, gracefully prowling high on a rooftop. The presidents advanced toward us, Secret Service agents flanking them. The four agents focused their attentions away from their subjects, casting their eyes in a continual sweep across the crowd.
As the three Sudanese moved closer to the presentation area, and the lyre, I studied the two men. They walked with a regimented gate, like soldiers. I figured them to be bodyguards. That meant they may be a threat… or maybe just bodyguards.
The two presidents arrived in front of us, waiting for one of the Sudanese to pass the gift. The woman in gold reached the stage. As she leaned forward to take the instrument, she peeked across the platform toward the Sudanese president. He offered her a warm smile. For an instant, the women in gold hesitated, but then it was gone. She turned back and picked up the lyre, glancing up at me just as the stage lights lit her face.
That was the moment I knew we were in trouble.
Chapter 40
The grace of a cat; Al Fahad, the Leopard.
We’d got it wrong. So very wrong.
I raised my arm to yell into my sleeve mic. It was a wasted gesture. The Secret Service had turned it off, its proximity to the sound equipment interfering with their frequency.
The woman in gold must have noticed my reaction. She sped up her pace. A frantic look across the front of the stage confirmed there was no weapon in sight. Just music gear. Then I saw it. Sua’d Bahri’s violin bow lay half-hidden at the foot of her chair. It was one of the newer models, made from carbon fiber.
In the same moment I laid eyes on the bow, the woman dropped the lyre and lunged forward.
“Blake, down!”
Jefferson Blake must have heard me over the band, but the Secret Service men didn’t. They remained focused on threats coming from the audience.
A look of confusion crossed the president’s face, his eyes searching for understanding.
My Hammond organ stood between the woman and me. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was intending, but I didn’t plan on waiting to find out. Leaping onto the organ, I used it as a springboard to vault the ten feet toward her.
I didn’t make it.
The woman tugged on the end of the bow. Out of nowhere, a long carbon-fiber blade appeared in her hand, its smooth surface glistening under the lights. She swung the knife high, slashing through the air toward me. Its sharp edge cut like a surgeon’s scalpel through the skin on my right shoulder as she drove it upward.
“You are too late,” she spat.
She withdrew the blade and whirled back toward the two presidents. Blake, realizing the urgency of the situation, moved to put himself between the assassin and the Sudanese leader. Damn presidential hero.
As I lay bleeding on the edge of the stage, my muscles swimming in pain, I saw the Secret Service agents turn. They drew their SIG Sauer pistols from their holsters as they pivoted, but it was too late. They wouldn’t get a shot. When Blake ran to protect the Sudanese president, he’d put himself between the agents and the woman.
I‘d almost made it to my feet when a freight train collided with the side of my face. The power of the Shararaa bodyguard’s blow sent me plummeting back to the floor of the stage. Suddenly, I was seeing two US presidents and two women with freakin’ long knives. A dazed second later, one of the woman’s bodyguards collapsed next to me as he took a round to the rear of his head. One down, but not enough.
The distraction had given the woman all the time she needed. As she raised the blade in her right hand, she stepped forward and plunged it down toward the US president’s face. He saw it coming and feinted to the right. Another wasted gesture. This woman was a professional; she’d never intended to hit Blake’s face. In a powerful sweep, she followed the feint, aiming the blade lower, toward the president’s chest.
I was too slow to stop her, but I sure as hell wasn’t giving up that easily. Using my one working arm, I pushed forward, throwing all my bod
yweight in the assassin’s direction. I connected with her shoulder just as the blade tore into Blake’s shirt. She toppled to the left, her knife arm falling with her, but it wasn’t enough. The stiletto sliced through the silk and plunged deep into the president’s torso. He grunted in agony.
As the woman and I hit the ground together. She yanked the knife from the president’s flailing body, and faster than I thought possible, had it at my throat. I felt the blade pierce my skin as I attempted to roll underneath her. Trapped under her weight, I struggled to release my uninjured arm. Then, reaching frantically, grabbing at anything I could find, my fingers touched the base of a microphone stand that had fallen from the stage. I snatched it up and pounded her hard on the side of her head. As she slid off me, the knife skimmed across the skin on my neck.
Another gunshot snapped through the air. At first, I thought an agent had shot the woman, but no. The second Shararaa bodyguard went down. Why in God’s name hadn’t they targeted the damn woman?
Then I had the answer I didn’t want.
The woman in gold had rolled with the blow. Now, perched on a single knee, blood streaming from her head, she held a strangle grip on the US president’s neck. He wheezed noisily as he gasped for air. The woman’s other hand gripped the stiletto, poised an inch above Blake’s heart. There was no clean shot that would take out the assassin without risking the president.
“No one move, don’t even breathe,” instructed the woman.
We all stopped. With half the Secret Service aiming their weapons at her, the gold dress turning crimson red, she didn’t recoil at all. A cold killing machine.
For a split second, I thought that surely she must realize it’s over.
“Bear witness to your president’s harrowing death—a fitting end for my brother’s murderer. Where are your apostles of freedom now?”
Her fingers tightened around her weapon, her shoulders hunched forward as she drew back the blade an inch.
“Die, damn you,” she hissed, plunging the blade downward.