Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 11

  Mrs. Hazelton rolled her eyes. “The pastor said some things I wish some people paid a little more attention to. The senator was too busy, however, making notes on the back of his bulletin.”

  “I heard every word,” Senator Hazelton said, “just as I do at every senate hearing I attend. Men can multi-task, too. We’ve ordered Champagne, Adam. Would you like something?”

  “A Bloody Mary sounds good, thanks.”

  When their waiter came to take their orders, Drake studied his menu while the senator ordered his Bloody Mary.

  When the waiter left, Mrs. Hazelton turned to Drake. “My husband tells me you drove to West Virginia yesterday with Liz. Was this for the client you mentioned with the ranch in Oregon?”

  Drake nodded. “I met with the lawyer representing the buyer Friday, and had some questions about the youth camps they’re operating,” Drake said.

  “And what did you learn?” Mrs. Hazelton asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered carefully. “The camp counselors, if that’s what they are, looked more like drill sergeants. They had 50 kids out on a nature walk so we didn’t see any of them. The camp itself is impressive, though. They’ve spent plenty of money on the place.”

  “They probably have,” Senator Hazelton told him, “knowing the people on the board of the foundation.” The senator tilted his eyes to the left. “That’s John Prescott over there, Washington’s top lobbyist, having a chat with Layla Nebit, the president’s most trusted advisor. Everything he’s involved with is usually first class.”

  Drake looked in the direction the senator glanced. Prescott was a man in his sixties, who looked like he could run for elected office on his looks alone. He didn’t appear to be having a pleasant time with the woman at his table.

  Prescott was turned away from her, looking out the window toward the White House. The woman was sitting back looking up at the ceiling at one of the beautiful chandeliers. Neither of them was talking, and their body language said they were having a serious disagreement.

  “What’s Prescott doing on the board of a foundation that works with Muslim kids from inner cities?” Drake asked the senator.

  “He does a lot of lobbying for Muslim groups. He represented the Egyptian government and then the Muslim Brotherhood when they took over. I’m not sure what his relationship is at the moment, now that the military is running the country.”

  “So that’s why he’s lobbying Senator Boykin’s bill,” Drake said.

  “Bingo,” the senator said. “He’s the main lobbyist for the bill and it’s being closely watched at the White House, by one Ms. Nebit.”

  When their food arrived, the conversation turned to news from Oregon and politics there. From time to time, Drake looked at the table where John Prescott and Nebit sat and saw they were still disagreeing about something.

  As the remnants of their brunch were being cleared from their table, Senator Hazelton ordered coffee for the three of them and pulled his chair closer to the table.

  “This isn’t public knowledge yet,” he said to Drake, keeping his voice low. “But word is spreading fast around Washington that some unknown terrorist group sent a written demand to the president. It says the jetliners will continue to fall from the sky unless he stops interfering in Syria, stops helping Israel, ends his drone program, and releases all the Gitmo detainees. They claim to have another forty plus MANPADS in America to carry out their threat.”

  “Good lord,” Drake said, feeling a cold dose of dread knot his stomach. “No wonder we’re sending a carrier and cruisers to the Mediterranean.”

  The senator shook his head. “The CIA isn’t buying it. There’s nothing that supports the conclusion that Syria’s involved in this,” Senator Hazelton said.

  “If you’ve been briefed on that by the CIA, certainly the president has the same intel. Why is he accusing Syria, then?” Drake asked.

  “When you don’t have a clue who killed hundreds of innocent people, on two different commercial flights, you can’t admit that, at least not publicly. The president needs to put a face on the enemy and show people he’s doing something.”

  “And risk war?” Meredith Hazelton exclaimed. “Why would he do something like that?”

  “Honey, I don’t know,” the senator said. “He’s getting bad advice, is my best guess. He’s a smart politician, but I can’t see how any of this pleases his base or any of his support groups, let alone be in the best interest of the country.”

  “You said she’s his closest advisor,” Drake’s mother-in-law said, nodding toward Layla Nebit. “Could she be the one giving him the bad advice? She was born in Egypt, I read somewhere.”

  Both men watched the president’s advisor as she left her table. John Prescott remained seated. The idea that someone that close to the president could be influencing his decisions, in a way that benefitted an avowed enemy of the United States, was not something either man was prepared to accept. It would constitute treason, at the highest level of government.

  CHAPTER 32

  John Prescott paid for brunch and left The Lafayette. Instead of leaving the Hay-Adams, he took the stairs to the basement to find an empty booth and a quiet place to drink and sort out the mess he was in.

  He had advised Nebit of his concern that Allah’s Sword, the terrorist group shooting down American planes, was somehow connected to the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation. She was, after all, the one who asked him to represent the foundation and later serve on its board as chairman. He demanded to know what she knew about the people who were behind the foundation, and what her involvement with them was.

  Her response was to look him in the eye and call him a fool for believing anything so unthinkable as to link the camps with terrorists. Then she told him that if he ever repeated such a thing to anyone, she would see to it that he never represented another client in Washington, or anywhere else in the country, as long as she lived.

  When he reminded her that he had been in Washington longer than she had, that presidents come and go and so would she, she coldly told him that they would be around forever and that he did not want them as an enemy.

  Prescott didn’t know who they were, but he’d never been threatened before and didn’t like it one bit. He needed to know more about Nebit, and he knew a couple of people who should know.

  When he entered the Off The Record, Martín, the bar’s maître d’, waved him to his favorite red booth and headed his way.

  “Mr. Prescott, how may I help you today?” Martín asked, as soon as he was seated.

  “Do you still have a bottle of the thirty-year-old Speyside Scotch, Martín?”

  “I keep a bottle just for you, Mr. Prescott.”

  “A double then, and a pot of black coffee. I have some work to do.”

  Prescott took out the encrypted smartphone he now carried at all times and found the home number for Edward Grimes, a senior counterintelligence officer in the CIA. Grimes questioned him a couple of times about a Saudi prince he’d represented who was lobbying Congress for approval to buy a major share of American Airlines. The CIA’s interest in the prince was threatening the effort, and the prince learned that Grimes had a taste for child porn. Prescott used the information to get Grimes to back off, and reminded the man of their secret from time to time when he needed information.

  “Edward, John Prescott. I need a few minutes of your time.”

  “Give me a minute. I have company,” Grimes said.

  “Entertaining yourself, or do you really have company, Edward,” Prescott asked, his voice dripping with innuendo.

  “Screw you, Prescott. What do you want?”

  “Everything you have on Layla Nebit, and any relationship she may have with the Muslim Brotherhood. I need it today.”

  “I’m home. How am I supposed to do that?”

  “You go to your office and get what I need. Or w
ould you rather provoke me and lose your job, so you can stay home every day and watch your movies?”

  He heard Grimes take two deep breaths and waited for a response.

  “Good,” Prescott said when there wasn’t one. “Get back to me tonight.”

  He hoisted the tumbler of amber Scotch in a mock toast to the slimy spook and sat back to wait for the long finish of butterscotch in his mouth. Nebit might have the president’s ear, but money ruled in Washington and he controlled the flow of it through one of the biggest spigots in the city.

  What he needed now was a way to insulate himself from the fallout that was sure to come, if the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation was somehow involved with the terrorists shooting down the jetliners. If Nebit and the Muslim Brotherhood were tied to it as well, he had to get ahead of whatever game they were playing. The question was how to do it.

  Mark Mohamed, the head of his Middle East division, had an unconfirmed suspicion that the foundation was somehow involved in the terrorist attacks. How he came to that suspicion wasn’t clear, but knowing about his employee’s suspicion legally imposed a burden to share the information with the FBI or Homeland Security.

  If Nebit was involved with the Muslim Brotherhood, and they were involved with some terrorist plot, knowledge of that involvement would be difficult to prove. She was a master tactician, as her mentoring the president through his run for the White House had proven. He didn’t believe she would allow herself to be directly implicated, but he did know of a little of her history and saw the possibility for connections. If there were connections, they would be deeply buried in her past.

  There wouldn’t be many people who would know of those connections. Prescott did know of one man who might; the same man who’d suggested he ask his own employee, Mark Hassan, about the terrorists responsible for shooting down the jetliners. The London banker, Ryan Walker. Prescott always suspected the man might have a cozy relationship with the Muslim Brotherhood himself.

  Prescott finished his whisky and poured his first cup of the Blue Mountain Jamaican coffee the bar served. He’d called the banker once already and didn’t want to overuse the source. If Walker was threatened by questions about Nebit, or the Muslim Brotherhood, it could pose a risk to Prescott’s own safety. On the other hand, doing nothing might pose the same risk.

  He found the number for the banker, considered the time difference between Washington and London, and made the call.

  “Mr. Prescott,” Walker answered. “I was just thinking of you and your predicament.”

  “My predicament?”

  “May we speak freely, Mr. Prescott?”

  “My phone is encrypted. Is yours?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the banker said. “I asked if you were prepared to be honest with me, if I ask you some questions.”

  “I believe I always have been honest with you.”

  “I’ll accept that assurance, for now. So tell me, what have you learned from your employee about the planes that are being shot down?”

  “He suspects that the foundation for the Muslim youth camps is somehow involved.”

  “What do you suspect, Mr. Prescott?”

  “That he may be right and that Laya Nebit may also be involved.”

  “And why do you suspect that?”

  Prescott paused, before jumping in with both feet. “She’s the one who got me involved with the foundation. She also threatened me an hour ago, when I asked her what she knew about the people behind the foundation and what her relationship with them was.”

  There was no response for an uncomfortably long time, until the banker finally said, “That was not wise on your part. You should have come to me first.”

  “Do you have that information?” Prescott asked.

  “Information of that sort is very valuable, and very dangerous.”

  “If you have the information, is it something I need to know?”

  “Only if you value your life, I’m afraid.”

  “Name your price, Mr. Walker.”

  When he did, Prescott drew a deep breath and said goodbye to his plan to buy the villa in Antigua he was coveting.

  “I’ll have the information delivered to your office by noon tomorrow,” the banker said. “Consider how you use it wisely.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Jameel Marcus, camp commander and leader of Allah’s Sword, brigade of Sheikh Qasseer’s Army of Allah, directed his driver to park the white van in the 44 acre Red Bank Battlefield Park across the Delaware River from the Philadelphia International Airport. The van was nosed into a designated parking spot so that it provided a clear view out the rear of the van to the airport runways and the planes taking off and landing.

  The drive to Baltimore to deliver the load of produce had been uneventful. They even had time to stop and pick up some chicken at a little red barbeque shack north of the city. From there, they continued on to Philadelphia and crossed over the river on the Commodore Barry Bridge into New Jersey to reach their destination.

  He determined early on in their planning that the park was a popular place for delivery and commercial drivers to open a lunch box and spend a quiet hour.

  Marcus got out of the van and walked around, kicking the tires and stretching. It was cold, with the cooling that came late in the afternoon in March. There wasn’t anything that obstructed the view across the river. The fog that frequently formed along the river was holding off, and what little wind there was wouldn’t bother the flight of the missile.

  Now, it was just a matter of timing and patience. The Delta Boeing 767 that was his target was scheduled to depart at 4:25 p.m. By then, tours of the adjacent and historic Georgian-style house on the old Red Bank Plantation would have ended, and the tour staff would have left. The park would remain open, however. On most occasions, when they’d checked, there were only a few cars still in the park. If anyone paid them any attention, they would only be able to later report that a driver and his companion appeared to be taking a nap in their van before moving on.

  Across the river at the airport was a spotter to call him when the target was pulling away from its gate. He’d never met the spotter and didn’t need to. All he needed to know was that the man would say “Inshallah, it departs.” The spotter would then call again when the plane reached the end of the runway before taking off and say “Inshallah, it flies.”

  By then, he would be positioned in the rear of the step van, with the Russian missile resting on his shoulder. The tailgate would be raised and his driver would be standing by the side of the van on the ground.

  Marcus checked his watch. It was 4:00 p.m. He slipped out of his seat and walked back in the van to the closest row of crates. The lids of the two crates were modified to hold the missile. Nailed together, the two crates would pass inspection by even the nosiest of inspectors, unless they were opened.

  With the familiarity that came with hours of practice preparing to fire the missile, he took the dark green launch tube out of its cradle and hoisted it to his shoulder. He moved his eye in position to imagine that he was sighting down the iron sights, ready to pull the trigger.

  “Jameel, quick,” his driver yelled. “A park ranger is coming.”

  “Calm down. Do as we practiced. Ask him if there’s a problem. If he says the park’s closing, thank him and act like you’re finishing your paperwork on the clipboard. He’ll leave.”

  Marcus put the missile back in its cradle and closed the lid. He checked his watch. 4:07 p.m. There was still plenty of time. He crouched behind the seat of the driver, where he couldn’t be seen by the park ranger, and waited.

  His driver rolled down his window and asked, “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Just checking to make sure you’re okay. Saw that you’ve been here awhile.”

  “My boss wants all his paperwork filled out before I return the van. I was runnin
g late on my route and stopped to finish all his forms. It’s crazy how many there are, but I’ll be finished soon.”

  “No problem, have a good day,” the ranger said and turned to leave.

  Marcus said, “Keep an eye on him and tell me when he’s gone. We’re minutes away.”

  His watch read 4:19 p.m. He expected a call from the spotter in minutes.

  At 4:20 p.m., his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “Inshallah, it departs.”

  Marcus put his phone on speaker and set it on the crate he’d been sitting on.

  “Has he left?” he asked.

  “He’s pulling away just now,” his driver said.

  “Is the escape car here yet?”

  “It’s sitting in the next picnic area. It just flashed its lights.”

  “Get out and get ready to open the tailgate.”

  He knew the driver would go to the rear of the van and act like he was checking the locking lever on the tailgate to make sure it was closed.

  “Inshallah, it flies.”

  “Now,” Marcus shouted, and stepped around the crates until he stood directly behind the tailgate.

  The tailgate flew up and he looked out toward the southwest-northeast runway where he knew the Delta flight leaving for JFK was taxiing. He held the Russian SA-24 on his shoulder, and readied it to fire in the automatic mode that was required for fast-moving targets.

  He saw the Boeing 767 accelerate down the runway and start to lift off. He waited until it was a hundred feet in the air as it flashed by and adjusted his aim for lead and elevation. When he was sure of his sighting, he pulled the trigger and the missile shot out of the launch tube.

  Without waiting to see that he had hit his target, he dropped the launch tube back in its cradle, closed the lid on the modified crates and jumped out of the van. Marcus waited as his ride raced up.

  His driver ran around to lock the tailgate and then jumped back in the cab to drive the van out of the park to a salvage yard. By midnight, the white van would be stripped down and then crushed to keep it from ever being found.