The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  Go and make a new life for yourself and our Susan. Try to forgive me.

  I shall always love you both,

  Kenneth

  She lay next to him, pulling the sheet up to her neck, lost in her thoughts. He couldn’t imagine the pain she must have suffered. He was ashamed that he had felt his own problems so important. But the parallels in their lives were so unexpected. He lowered the letter to his lap and waited.

  “I was shocked, of course. Momma had never shown me the letter or discussed it. All she ever spoke about was her hatred of the people of Virginia for deserting him, and for David Potterfield for spreading the lies.”

  “Potterfield? What did he have to do with what happened to your father?” Braxton knew that Potterfield was now the Senior Senator from Virginia. He was a powerful man on the Hill who enjoyed wielding that influence.

  “He was Father’s opponent for the Senate position. He won, of course.”

  “Was there any proof that Potterfield was involved?

  “No,” she replied reluctantly, “but who else had so much to gain? And from what I’ve read about him, he gets a lot of his work done behind the scenes.”

  “How does that email tie into this all?”

  “After I read the letter, I had to do something to avenge Father. I decided to get all the information I could on Potterfield and tell him that someone knew what he did. I wasn’t sure how to do it until Mohammed gave me the idea.”

  “Ramal was involved?”

  “No, not directly. I never told him about Father. We were taking the multimedia course and Mohammed was always talking about networking. He was awfully shy but we just hit it off. One afternoon he mentioned the old remailers. It sounded like the ideal solution. I had Mohammed teach me all about email and Internet utilities. I got Potterfield’s private address from one of the Internet newsgroups, found a remailer, and started sending him messages.”

  Braxton gasped. “What did you think would happen? You didn’t expect him to just confess did you?”

  “I don’t know what I expected. I just had to do something. I had to let him know that someone still remembered.”

  “Didn’t you think it could be dangerous?”

  “I didn’t think they would be able to find me. Then Mohammed was killed. At first I was afraid someone had identified us, but since he hadn’t really been involved and nothing else happened to me, I decided it was just a coincidence.”

  Coincidences. Too many coincidences.

  “This morning I found the message from the remailer. That’s what you saw on the screen. It scared me, I didn’t think he would reply. I’m sorry I reacted so badly.”

  “No, I was wrong to be sneaking around like that.” He reached over and hugged her.

  “Will you help me? Help me find out who destroyed Father?”

  This was not a tearful pleading; her voice was firm and resolute. She was looking for a commitment from him. Uncharacteristically, he answered without hesitating. “Of course. But what can I do?”

  She looked over to the clock. It was 9:30.

  “I almost forgot! You can start by getting dressed. We’ve got an appointment.” She abruptly jumped out of bed, threw off her robe, and ran naked into the bathroom.

  “We’re going to see a lawyer,” she called over the rush of the shower.

  Chapter 39

  Takagawa Communications, Crystal City, VA

  Tuesday, 9:30 a.m.

  HAJIMA CLOSED THE folder on his desk and dropped his head into his hands. He had completed his investigation and had failed.

  Knowledge of the GPS resolution problem had been limited to a handful of employees. He had interviewed—interrogated might have been the more accurate description—all of them. Additional background checks had been performed by his security staff. He was now confident none would have exposed the fault.

  He had ordered a complete trace of all related communications. They had been strictly limited to internal Takagawa systems; no external documents were ever produced. How had Greystone learned of the setback?

  He was missing something. Or was he simply thinking too hard?

  He dropped his hands, lightly wrapping his right fist in his left palm and placing them just above his waist, at the hara, the center of the body’s ki. He sat back and closed his eyes. Next, he took a breath then held it. When he exhaled, his body had already begun the silent descent.

  Meditation had helped him solve many problems over the years. Business, social, and moral obstacles had all succumbed. Perhaps this would be another example.

  He let his thoughts flow freely, like ripples on a pond, passing through each other with ease. There were no prejudices, no assessments. Just stillness.

  He arose from the state thirty minutes later calm and refreshed. He smiled.

  For almost a year, Greystone had been providing Hajima with confidential information on their competitors’ efforts as well as legislative drafts and proceedings related to the Potterfield Bill. Hajima had assumed that the disclosures had been due to spies in the associated organizations. A time-honored technique ably described in The Art of War.

  It had been his age that betrayed him. He had ignored what his younger subordinates would have seen immediately.

  Takagawa had been hacked. Greystone had a tap on the Internet.

  Greystone and Theater were becoming more and more dependent on Takagawa. Once the Bill passed, Takagawa would have control over manufacturing of the devices. And their distribution around the world.

  But that was nothing compared to knowledge of the tap.

  Now he knew he would return to Japan triumphant.

  * * *

  “Mistah Chairman, after due consideration on this item, ah move we accept the amendment as proposed.”

  Potterfield smiled on hearing the rich southern drawl echo through the chamber. Senator William Branchflower, Senior Senator from Louisiana, was an anachronistic good ol’ boy who had been a fixture in Washington politics for forty years. Potterfield would be surprised if Branchflower even knew what the Internet was; his aides often commented that the Senator believed ball-point pens were a communist plot. But Billy Joe had promised to move the amendment, and he never reneged on a promise.

  “Second,” added Senator Farantino.

  “The amendment to the Bill has been moved and seconded. Is there any further discussion?” Potterfield had nursed the proposal through preliminary debate all morning. He doubted any member of the Committee, including himself, had any idea what it really said. Nicholson had prepared a synopsis for him with citations back to the specific sections. So far it had been enough to satisfy most of his colleagues.

  “Mr. Chairman, if I may?” came a voice from Potterfield’s right. Right on time. Christine Rasmussen was a second term senator from Georgia. She was a staunchly conservative Republican, backed by major corporate interests in Atlanta, many in the military electronics business.

  “The chair recognizes the Honorable Senator from Georgia.”

  “Mr. Chairman, members of the Committee. As you know, I have been uncertain as to my support of this Bill. While we Georgians surely want to assist emerging democracies, we also recognize a solemn obligation to never weaken our own national security.

  “I am, therefore, very pleased to see the addition of this amendment. I personally want to thank the Chairman and his staff,” she glanced to Potterfield, “for addressing the concerns of Georgia’s citizens so completely. This amendment ensures that the Bill will foster the spread of democracy throughout the world, without endangering American lives and American safety.”

  Potterfield nodded in recognition of the compliment, then leaned back and relaxed as his colleague went through her well-rehearsed monologue. He wondered how supportive she would be if she knew that one of Potterfield’s constituents would be garnering the lion’s share of the business.

  Despite her support of the amendment, in many ways Rasmussen was his most dangerous opponent. Young, well-spoken, and very
attractive, she was an example of the new wave of anti-establishment Republicans. She deserved what she got.

  He, on the other hand, was 75 and had been in Congress for nearly thirty years. The voters were looking for younger, more photogenic, representatives and Potterfield’s aging, pock-marked countenance didn’t hold up. It had taken all of his considerable resources to hold his seat in the last election. The party leaders had let him know it was his last campaign.

  For now, however, he had his seat and his power. And much of that power came from the Chairmanship. Potterfield believed in hard work, and in the inherent fairness of reaping its rewards. Since taking over the Committee, he had sponsored a number of key pieces of conservative legislation. The final jewel in his legacy was to be the Promoting Freedom and Democracy Bill.

  “The greatest impact of this amendment, however, will be its power to bring the benefits of democracy to all citizens of the world,” Rasmussen continued, “rich and poor, black, white, Hispanic, and Oriental. “And democracy creates opportunity for everyone, including those here in the great United States. All will be enriched by a flood of creativity and potential.”

  “Blacks”? The “poor”? What the hell did this pampered socialite know about black poverty? Potterfield knew, however. He had known every day of his life.

  David Potterfield had been born on the poor side of Richmond. His father had disappeared when he was three, leaving his mother and three brothers to fend for themselves. He was the first born, and was given responsibility for his siblings while their mother was working. She hadn’t had much time to give to them, but she had taught them to have confidence in themselves and faith in God. Her simple faith had kept the family together through years of adversity. She had seen a spark in her Davey early, and sent him to the parish’s parochial school. The Sisters took him under their wing, guiding him through the strange subjects, and filling in his social lapses. History and literature taught him of a world much wider than he had ever imagined. He began to see a life away from the rundown farms and dilapidated shanties that had been his family’s only future.

  Potterfield also discovered he had a gift for getting people to do things his way. Not by brawn, but by using his brain. Whether it was trading kitchen chores for a few stolen exams or taking credit from the Sisters for an accidental delivery of much-needed supplies, he grasped opportunity where he saw it. He cultivated this gift slowly, constantly testing its limits, but never reaching so far as to risk exposure. He didn’t see this as manipulation; it was simply doing what the Sisters had taught: taking advantage of what God had given him. In four years, he became a power to be reckoned with in the school, demanding respect from black and white alike.

  Unfortunately, during his senior year his mother became seriously ill. As the man of the house, it was his responsibility to support the family. After graduation he stayed at home, working as much as he could, to help his mother keep and maintain their home. He watched over and comforted her until she had died a year later. Her only request was that he stay and see his younger brothers through school.

  The next four years tested his resolve more than any others, before or since. His brothers had a different view of life. They were lazy to a fault and could only see their way to dead end jobs and nights of drinking. What was the point of wasting time on useless education? Potterfield cajoled, threatened, and bribed his brothers through the ordeal. Before it was over, he was on a first name basis with teachers, politicians, and the police. These were contacts he would carefully cultivate over the next decade.

  His brothers finally set out on their own lives and, at twenty-three, he was free to complete the plan he had laid out years before. A few telephone calls from the parish and he became the first in his family to attend college. Seven years later, he returned to Richmond with a law degree and a fire to use the system to help himself and his people. But there were no positions in the prominent Richmond law firms for blacks—we were Negroes then, he remembered—so he set out to make it on his own.

  Potterfield could hardly be called charismatic. He was tall, over six feet, and gangly, with a coarse, weathered face. But he had a down-to-earth appeal that drew people to him. Opening a small storefront legal aid office in Richmond, he drew the disenfranchised from throughout the city. A few high-profile cases gained him fame, or at least notoriety, and the clients increased; as did his fees. Ten years later the small office had grown into a major law firm.

  Looking for new challenges, he had been drawn to public service. Conservative, with a strong following in the black community, he was the ideal candidate for a Republican Party seeking new faces to meet the challenge of the mid-twentieth century southern electorate. They had embraced him in his initial campaign as State Representative.

  Over the years it had been a mutually advantageous relationship; after eight years as State Representative, Potterfield had successfully run for US House of Representatives, then eight years later won a difficult campaign for Senator. Now Senior Senator and leading Party spokesman, he was one of the most powerful men in Washington.

  At least for a while longer, the Rasmussen’s of the country took their lead from him.

  “And so, for all of these reasons, I wholeheartedly endorse and support this key amendment to our Bill.”

  “Thank you, Senator Rasmussen, for that insightful analysis,” Potterfield quickly replied. “Are there any other comments on the amendment?”

  His eyes scanned over the panel, slowly pausing at Senator Hastings, the senior Democrat on the Committee. His vote was critical, yet thus far, he had been uncharacteristically silent.

  “Mr. Chairman?” Hastings finally asked.

  “Yes, Senator Hastings. We would very much appreciate your capable evaluation at this juncture.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’m afraid I do not share the unbridled enthusiasm expressed by my colleague from Georgia. It is my belief that any involvement by the United States in foreign entanglements is a danger to the independence of both our country and that of our allies. The days of unbridled imperialism have long passed. And history shows that however well-intentioned so-called ‘hands-off assistance’ may be, American lives have consistently been put in jeopardy.”

  Hastings hesitated, as if struggling to find the right words for his thoughts. Beads of sweat appeared on Potterfield’s brow. But he needn’t have worried.

  “I do, on the other hand, sympathize with some of my colleagues who feel an obligation to support, in some manner, emerging democracies. Much as countries like France supported our fledgling country over two centuries ago. Personally, I have decided that the present amendment, as brought forth by our Chairman, offers an acceptable balance. I will vote for the amendment as submitted.”

  Potterfield breathed a quiet sigh of relief and watched as the rest of the Committee silently weighed Hasting’s decision. He didn’t know what had changed the Senator’s mind, but he felt the mood of the room decidedly shift in his direction.

  Nick had been right after all.

  Potterfield nodded regally and orchestrated further debate for about fifteen minutes. As the rhetoric drew to a close, he called the question.

  “All those in favor signify by raising their hands . . . Those opposed . . . The ayes have it. The amendment passes eleven to five.”

  The climatic rap of his gavel resonated through the chamber.

  Chapter 40

  Richmond, Virginia

  Tuesday, 11:40 a.m.

  GODDARD HAD EXPLAINED that their appointment was with Wilson Lexington, the Lynch family lawyer. Lexington’s office was on the outskirts of Richmond, and the pair were now speeding south on I-95 in Goddard’s BMW to reach the capital of Virginia in time for a 12:00 noon appointment.

  Braxton had begun the trip by reviewing the contents of a folder Goddard had given him as they left. It was a complete history on the last year in the life of Senator Kenneth Lynch.

  By all accounts, Lynch had been a very effective and very popular Sen
ator. Committed to representative government and to the people of Virginia, he had already served two terms in the senior chamber and enjoyed popular and media support. His victory had been a foregone conclusion. The nomination of the aggressive black lawyer, David Potterfield, had been a last minute gamble on the part of the Republicans. None of the party’s regulars would touch the spot.

  Then, only one month before the election, local Richmond papers began reporting on inquiries into Lynch’s relationship with a questionable real estate developer, Thomas Coopersmith. Coopersmith had been buying up large tracts of government property, ostensibly for a new planned community. As the weeks went by, records of conversations and illicit payments appeared showing Lynch had profited handsomely from the dealings. Surprisingly, the incumbent had not denied the accusations. In interviews, he dismissed the attacks as ludicrous and was quoted as saying that “the people of Virginia know me and what I stand for. They will draw the correct conclusion about the evidence.”

  But the evidence had continued to grow. Almost daily there were new revelations of secret letters and contracts. By the time her father had acknowledged the reality of the threat, it was too late. Potterfield had taken sixty percent of the vote.

  “That’s quite a story,” he said when he had finished with the file. “Was there ever any follow-up on the Coopersmith affair after the election?”

  “None that I could find. Once Potterfield took office, the story just disappeared. But the damage had already been done.”

  “How do you think Lexington can help?”

  “He was Father’s best friend and handled all of the family’s legal business. He was also in the Virginia state legislature. I’m hoping he knows something about the accusations that will help us.”

  “Haven’t you talked to him about this before?”