Grunberg eyed the three video monitors displaying Karlson’s desk and office from hidden cameras. “Now look,” he pointed, “he’s telling the other two about what he’s seen.”
They watched as Deeba stood and peered over the desk at a manilla envelope on the credenza. In large red letters was stamped a single word; CLASSIFIED. She whispered something to the sound tech who stood to keep watch for the senator’s return. Deeba hurried behind the desk with the cameraman. He filmed while she expertly extracted the documents from the folder and flipped through the pages. In less than a minute, they had scanned them all without stopping to examine any of the pages. She slid the documents back into the envelope and placed them exactly where she found them. All three then took their places in front of the desk.
“Christ, she’s good!” Karlson exclaimed. “Tell me she hasn’t pulled that one before.”
“I think we have what we need,” Lawton added. “Let’s finish this up. Matt, is this security video being stored anywhere else in the system?”
Grunberg broke his attention from the monitors and glanced back. “It records through the central surveillance system of the building, then the data is burned to a DVD. Other than that, the hard drives re-record over themselves, and there are no duplicates.”
Lawton’s brow furrowed as he leaned in closer. “This is absolutely critical,” he said in a near whisper. “There cannot be any record of this event. Are we clear?”
“As we discussed earlier,” Grunberg huffed with annoyance at being questioned. “I am the only one with access to these files. I will personally go down and erase the hard drive and destroy the DVD within a couple of hours.”
Lawton nodded, patting him on the back. He turned to Karlson and gave her a wink. “Intermission is over, senator, and time for act two.”
“Well, then,” she said, “let’s not keep our guests waiting any longer.” She walked back to the door leading to the office, then turned and gave Lawton a thumb’s up.
“I’m terribly sorry about that,” Karlson announced louder than necessary as she pushed through the door. “The president does not call often, and when he does, he expects an immediate response.” She walked back behind her desk, careful not to acknowledge the documents on the credenza. She settled back into her chair, flashed her most charming smile, and said, “Now, where were we?”
Deeba Gohar struggled to keep her thoughts on the remainder of the interview. She had recognized a few of the names written in the documents pirated from the good senator. Abu Dahl was an insurgent who had been imprisoned for what, eight years? Everyone knew Sirhan Abbas was the leader of all united freedom fighters throughout the Middle East. So why would their names come up now in a classified US military document? What was the connection between the two? She wanted to read it in its entirety and decided to view the footage in the van as they drove back to the studio.
In another day or two, it would no longer be a secret. The world would know every detail. She worked to subdue the smile that kept curling her lips. Just a little longer with this self-inflated windbag, she told herself. Then, the fireworks would begin.
This interview itself was a plus for her career, but the secret document’s discovery would launch her to new, unimagined levels. If this didn’t get her the position as network anchor, nothing would. She had been close to locking it down once before, but at the last moment, it had been rescinded. She knew why immediately. Girosh Mohammad oversaw and controlled everything at Al Jazeera back at the main studio in Doha, Qatar. He had denied the promotion. The reason was supposed to be a secret, which meant that everyone knew. He was sleeping with the woman who became the new anchor. This bombshell story would change everything. He would have to promote her this time. But just in case, she had a little ammunition of her own, namely some video footage from a hidden camera showing Mr. Mohammad having his way with the current anchor in her dressing room. Mohammad would be forced to offer Deeba the anchor slot, or the steamy porno starring himself being serviced by the lovely Talla Marwesh would find its way into the hands of his wife. An anonymous email would do the job quite nicely. She contemplated sending the video anyway, even after accepting the new position. After all, the pig should pay.
17
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
The new Airbus A319 CEO class jet descended gracefully from the azure Caribbean sky. It kissed the hot concrete runway with a chirp and huff of blue smoke. The pilot taxied to a secluded corner of the US Air Force Base and shut down the engines.
The owner of the wide-bodied craft had arranged this controversial visit months earlier. With the help from a long list of special interest groups and curried political favors, the television mogul had made the otherwise impossible flight a reality. Inside, twelve excited passengers unbuckled their seatbelts and mingled about, congratulating themselves on their contributions to the noble cause.
Marissa Danforth was an outsider to the tight-knit group. The young freshman congresswoman from Minnesota strolled among the throes of Hollywood and Washington, DC elite as they laughed and conversed about movie roles, pending legislation, and the day’s upcoming activities. She sipped gourmet coffee from bone china and nibbled on a freshly baked croissant, listening intently. Marissa smiled with nervous excitement and thanked her good fortune for being added to the guest list. Now all she needed was to be welcomed into their fold.
Her attendance was a last-minute addition, and she had only been casually introduced to the other passengers. To be fair, it wasn’t her reputation or deeds that earned her passage. She owed that distinction to her older sister, Glenda Danforth, a rising actress who took up the cause of the lead organizer. Glenda was currently on location in Madrid, shooting her next movie, and unable to attend. She sent Marissa in her place.
Marissa’s stance on issues such as this current crusade had caused an uproar in her home state. She was elected by a slim margin, then proceeded to ignore her own campaign pledges, adopting an alternative agenda as soon as her black pumps touched down in DC. She now faced a recall petition less than a year into her first term. It was doubtful she would hold the seat for another.
Although she strongly believed in the cause that brought these people here today, her direct involvement had a more selfish motive. She was looking for them to take up her cause and help propel her into a senate seat. So far, the plan was not working. She walked among these VIPs remaining hopeful but feeling invisible. Without their support, she was destined to return home to scrutiny, censure, and obscurity.
There was a sudden flurry of activity, and Marissa caught a glimpse of their hostess. Erin Laurent emerged from her aft bedroom suite wearing a subtle but flattering Claiborne outfit in vibrant blue. The other passengers gathered around, heaping praise. Thanking her for including them on this momentous journey.
Laurent was an actress first and foremost, but her activism played a strong second. She had sworn a personal oath to fight for the freedom of the infamous prisoner of Guantanamo Bay. Now, after a year of staging worldwide rallies and protests and building a loyal and very vocal following, the day had finally arrived.
Laurent’s last two films were box office flops despite the hype and sizable personal investments spent on promotion. They were decent movies. But audiences dwindled since she became a vocal opponent of her own country. Most of Hollywood stood beside her, blaming her dwindling success on the political backlash. Behind the scenes, however, the big production companies subtly began distancing themselves. Her name was poison to a good script. Erin Laurent had destroyed her own marketing potential. People could no longer imagine her in any of the roles she played. Not when they remembered her screaming into a bullhorn at police, calling them the real enemy.
These days, when she wasn’t marching for her latest protest endeavor, she was seen out on the town with the owner of Global Access Media. Rumors that the two were romantically involved circulated in the tabloids and gossip shows. The fact that this entourage was traveling on Ethan LeClair’s pe
rsonal jet had not gone unnoticed. Every major paper would be covering this story of the prisoner’s release as it unfolded. Of course, GAM would be the only network with the inside scoop. One reporter and cameraman were allowed on the plane. It was no secret who wrote their paychecks.
Erin Laurent worked her way through the length of the jet, talking animatedly to friends and supporters. When she reached the cockpit, she unclipped the microphone from its cradle, turned to face her guests, and squeezed the talk button. Her voice came through the premium audio system clear and bright.
“Friends… we’ve done it!”
Instant applause and joyful cheers went up as they all shared the moment of self-congratulation and closure to an enduring year-long process. They were still hugging and shaking hands when Laurent continued.
“I am about to walk into the bowels of this notorious prison to free a man whom justice has ignored. He will be given a second chance at life because of what we here have accomplished. I can’t thank you all enough for your unwavering support through this ordeal. Senator Dunwade, you stood with us from the beginning and brought our cause to the forefront with your speech at the capitol. Valerie Tynes and Victor Manly, two fine actors and my good friends, your contributions helped carried us forward when we needed you most. Congresswoman Marissa Danforth, you went against your own party base to rally for our cause. That took balls, lady! I know your sister, Glenda, is very proud of you.” Laurent pointed to Danforth, giving her a wink.
“It’s been a long, hard road,” she continued. “The costs have been high, both personally and professionally. But at the end of this day, each of us can proudly proclaim, ‘I share in the deeds and actions of Abu Dahl from this day forward.’”
There was another warm round of applause, and Laurent basked in the glorious moment. She then gave the sharply dressed young flight attendant a nod. The man stepped forward, turned the release bar, and pushed open the cabin door.
The bright tropical morning sun flooded into the plane, instantly raising the temperature and humidity. A stairway was rolled into place, and Laurent walked down the steps toward an awaiting green army sedan. A uniformed officer stepped forward and greeted her.
“Good morning, Ms. Laurent. I am Lieutenant Hodges, and I will be escorting you to meet with Major Geddings.”
Laurent put on a smile as Hodges opened the back door of the sedan. Turning to the rest of her group, she shouted, “Wish me luck,” giving a thumb’s up, then sliding into the no-frills vehicle. She found the interior even more understated than the outside. Thankfully, the drive would be a short one.
The sedan pulled away and crossed the military airport, arriving at the security gate of the prison entrance minutes later. A tall gate of chain link and barbed wire began to open. The sedan proceeded through to a small guard shack at an inner gate manned by two sentries. Hodges pulled up and displayed his credentials to a bar code reader. The device beeped, and the guard nodded, waving them through the second gate as the first closed behind. Hodges drove to a parking area and pulled in near the entrance, then came around and opened the passenger door. “Follow me, please,” he said.
They entered the building, walked past two armed guards, then came to a long, high stainless steel counter. Hodges grabbed a clipboard, passed it to Laurent, and asked her to sign in and show her identification. She scribbled her name and slid her passport to the duty officer behind the counter. The officer, a middle-aged hulk of a man in desert camos with a severe buzz cut, scanned her ID. He handed it back, along with an identification card on a lanyard.
“As you know, Ms. Laurent,” he said in a deep southern drawl, “this is a secure military installation. You are required to wear this identification while on the base. Stay close to the lieutenant here, and do not seek entry into any areas other than where he directs you. Is that clear?”
Laurent had been briefed on what she saw as pretentious military protocols that were to be followed to the letter. “Yes,” she said, nodding, “I understand.”
The duty officer pushed a button under the counter and a security door unlocked with a loud metallic clank. Hodges directed her in and down a wide, cream-colored hallway to an orange door with a small wire mesh window. He opened it and ushered her inside.
Laurent found herself in a sparsely furnished meeting room where two other officers sat conversing. As she entered, the officers rose to greet her.
“Good morning, Ms. Laurent, I am Major Geddings, and this is Colonel Bradley.”
Laurent offered a smile and shook their hands.
“As you’re no doubt aware,” he continued, “the man you are here to collect is extremely dangerous, and—”
She put up her hand and stopped him mid-sentence. “You have never found him guilty of a crime in court, Major. That makes him a political prisoner.” Her eyes narrowed with a defiant glare.
Both Bradley and Geddings had seen Laurent in action before. They knew there would be no reasoning with her. That battle was lost long ago, and it was not their job to change the outcome.
“Ms. Laurent,” Geddings said when he was sure she was done making her point. “I serve at this base as the chief psychiatrist for all patients and soldiers.”
The actress began speaking again, but Geddings held up a finger.
“It is not my intention to stop you from carrying through with your plan. But I would be remiss if I did not at least attempt to warn you about the man you have come to free.”
Laurent rolled her eyes and turned away.
“Hear me out,” he insisted. “This is for your own good. I have done a thorough psychological profile of this man. You need to understand that Abu Dahl is evil incarnate. He is personally responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of innocent people. As well as being a murderer, he has brutally raped girls as young as eleven years old. He personally coordinated attacks that decimated entire villages. You say he was not found guilty of these crimes, and that’s true. That is only because the people who would testify against him live in fear. The price, you see, for speaking out against him is death.”
Geddings looked away, searching for words that might be heard by a woman who had already decided not to listen. Words that might save her life.
“I don’t agree with what you’re doing,” he continued. “Having said that, I don’t wish to see you harmed in this misdirected endeavor. For your own sake, do not leave this man unattended. Do not allow him access to a weapon, or you will die at his hands. He may act otherwise, but know that he detests you because you are a woman that speaks your mind. Do not believe for a moment that he views you as anything more than a useful tool that he would strike down the moment he deems you unnecessary. Do what you must but get as far away from this man as soon as you possibly can.”
Before Laurent could formulate a rebuttal, the outer door opened. In stepped two large guards escorting a thin, dark man in an orange jumpsuit. He was manacled at the wrists and ankles, the chains jingling as he shuffled in. His deep-set eyes swept from left to right, studying everyone in the room. His gaze fell upon Laurent, locking there as if he were breathing in her image, scanning her from top to bottom. He caught the scent of her perfume the moment he entered. It lingered like a strong sweet taste on his tongue. He glared hungrily at her red lips and exposed cleavage, feeling equal amounts of disgust and lust. His pulse quickened, and he felt a throbbing in his groin. His eyes gave away nothing.
Laurent stepped toward the prisoner with arms extended. “Mr. Dahl, I have been looking forward to this moment for so long!”
Ignoring the towering guards on either side, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. The backs of his shackled hands were squeezed against her firm thighs in the embrace. He slid them up, feeling the outline of her panties through her slacks. Recalling the role he needed to play, he stopped moving before she realized he was groping her. He switched from predator to victim, leaned forward, and whispered, “Please, take me from this terrible place!”
Sergeant Dobbins spoke up. “Technically, he is not free until he is aboard your aircraft and off this base.” His statement was met with an icy glare from the actress.
Before she could launch a retort, Geddings said, “The only one here that can make that decision is Colonel Bradley.”
Bradley eyed Laurent a moment before responding. “No.”
“Colonel, if you please! I’ve come a long way to free this man who has been unjustly—”
“Young lady, the security of this entire facility is my responsibility. This man will remain shackled until he no longer represents a threat to my personnel.” He looked to Dobbins. “Sergeant, please escort this prisoner and this civilian off my base.”
Laurent huffed indignantly and turned away.
Major Geddings caught her by the arm and squeezed softly. “Please remember what we’ve told you here today,” he whispered. “The advice offered was for your own personal protection.”
Laurent’s eyes narrowed as though she were thinking about saying more. The expression cooled as she turned away, falling in step behind the guards and the prisoner as they filed out of the room.
The colonel looked to Lieutenant Hodges. “Unshackle him when you arrive at the aircraft. Offer the restraints to the pilot. I would expect him to have some common sense. Especially if he’s ex-military.”
Hodges nodded wordlessly and followed after the entourage.
Erin Laurent’s glow returned as they loaded into the sedan for the short trip back to the airport. She and her group of activists had gone up against the most powerful military in the world and won! She reminded herself to contain the enthusiasm until safely aboard the plane. Then they could finally celebrate their incredible accomplishment.
ENEMY WITHIN THE GATES Page 9