Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Read online

  “Take it any way you like,” Hassan said.

  Deciding that he said all that needed to be said, Drake turned and left the office.

  Hassan rose behind his desk and watched Drake walk away down the hall.

  Casey was parked across the street in front of an old Methodist church when Drake walked out of the Prescott Building.

  “How was the meeting?” Casey asked when Drake sat down in the passenger seat of the Tahoe.

  “Remember how we poked the hornet’s nest in West Virginia? I just did it again.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I told him there was no way in hell we were going to sell the ranch so it could be run as another of their paramilitary training camps,” Drake said and smiled. “That’s when he told me that repeating such an accusation would be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous like they might sue you?”

  “I think he meant dangerous as in dangerous. It was a warning.”

  “What do you want to do about it?”

  Drake saw Mark Hassan walk briskly out of his building and head west on K Street.

  “I think I want to know a little more about the man who just threatened me. There he goes,” he nodded.

  Casey turned and looked across the street. “Black hair, 5-9, in the blue suit?”

  “That’s the one.”

  The Tahoe was parked on the south side of a two-way street. Hassan was headed the other way.

  “By the time we get turned around to follow him, we’ll lose him,” Drake said. “Why don’t you follow him and see where he’s going? Once he’s a block or so away, I’ll turn around and pick you up.”

  Casey handed him the keys and crossed the street to follow Hassan.

  Drake waited until he saw Hassan cross 10th Street NW before he got out and took Casey’s place behind the wheel. When he saw Casey cross the street as well, he drove east and looked for a place to turn around. Two blocks away, he spotted an alley on the other side of the street. He pulled in, reversed quickly, and drove back up K Street.

  Searching ahead on the sidewalk, he didn’t see his red-headed friend on the block he was on, or as far as he could see on the next block.

  He saw that Casey could call him without alerting Hassan he was being followed if he wanted. Half the people walking on the sidewalk were using their phones.

  Drake pulled to the curb in the first parking space he found and waited for Casey to call. He could always catch up with him when he learned where he was. What they did then would depend on Hassan. If he was going about his business as usual, watching him would be a waste of time. Discerning whether it was business as usual would be the hard part.

  He was drumming his fingers on the top of the steering wheel when Casey called.

  “Where are you?”

  “Three blocks up K Street at the Hamilton Crowne Plaza.”

  “Is Hassan there?”

  “He’s waiting for someone, I think.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He just ordered two drinks.”

  “You’re in the bar?”

  “They call it the 14K Lounge.”

  “What do you want to do?” Drake asked.

  “Have a beer, have something to eat, see who he’s meeting.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Can’t let you have all the fun.”

  “Only fair, I guess. I’m parked on the street a block away. If he heads this way, call me so I have time to move.”

  “Want me to bring you something?”

  “Hang up and enjoy your beer.”

  While he waited, Drake called Liz. There was too much he didn’t know about Mark Hassan and the work he did for the foundation.

  “Liz, you have a moment?”

  “Sure, where are you?” she asked.

  “Sitting in our rented Tahoe, while Mike’s keeping an eye on someone who just threatened me, why?”

  “We need to meet. There’s a lot going on you need to know about.”

  “When are you free?” Drake asked.

  “Give me an hour. Meet me where we had dinner.”

  Drake sat back and waited, focusing his attention on the pedestrian traffic flowing by. He didn’t have a solid reason for following Mark Hassan, just an instinct that the man’s threat was one he needed to take seriously.

  Hassan was too calm when confronted with an allegation about the youth camps being paramilitary training centers. Calling it all “slanderous” was a lawyer-like deflection that fell way short of the vehement denial Drake would have made if it wasn’t true.

  It wasn’t that someone threatened him. As a prosecutor in the District Attorney’s office in Portland, he’d been threatened by men he considered to be more dangerous than Mark Hassan. It was that the threat seemed an inappropriate response to such an obvious provocation.

  Drake’s phone vibrated in his hand.

  “Hassan’s party just arrived,” Casey said. “He could be Hassan’s brother. Hassan’s agitated about something and the other guy is trying to calm him down. No, back that up. The other guy is getting in his face. Hassan’s looks like a schoolboy being disciplined by his principal.”

  “Can you get a picture of the other guy?”

  “Just did, he’s facing me three tables away.”

  “When the other guy leaves” Drake said, “Give me a heads up. I’m going to see if I can find out who he is. Finish your mid-morning snack and I’ll come back and get you.”

  Before Drake could find the right channel on the radio to check the news, Casey called back.

  “He’s heading your way. Hassan’s right beside him.”

  Drake started the engine, ready to pull out and follow the other man. Casey was right. The two men had enough physical similarities that they looked like brothers. Mark Hassan turned left and headed toward Drake and the other man turned right and walked to the intersection.

  When there was an opening in traffic, Drake pulled out and used a parked car to shield him from Hassan as he walked by. The other man crossed the street and continued on down 14th Street NW toward the White House.

  At the intersection, Drake waited for the oncoming traffic to allow him to turn down 14th Street NW. The other man was a block ahead on the left and still walking.

  Fortunately, the traffic this near the White House moved slowly enough that he didn’t have to worry about being forced to drive by his target. Keeping up with him was the challenge.

  At F Street, the man turned left for three blocks and then south again down 12th Street NW. Drake was just able to see him enter the Evening Star Building when he made the turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

  There was no way he could park and hope to find which office the man entered. Drake pulled into the underground parking ramp and paid $9.00 for a one-hour parking pass so that he could find out who occupied the offices above.

  On the second level down, he slowed and knew he didn’t need to get out and check the office listings. It was too much of a coincidence for the man he’d been following to not be the owner of the black Gembala 911 Porsche parked in the space reserved for Wyse & Williams Investment Bank of London, Mohammad Hassan’s firm.

  CHAPTER 44

  Drake drove back and picked up Casey, who was standing in front of the Prescott Building.

  “Did you find out where he was going?” Casey asked, as he opened the door and got in.

  “I did. I even know who he is.”

  “That was quick. Who is he?”

  Drake turned to watch traffic and pulled away from the curb before answering. “He’s the guy in the black Porsche, the one who followed me to West Virginia. His name is Mohamed Hassan and he’s a banker from London. Interpol thinks he might be a moneyman for the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “What the hell!” Ca
sey exclaimed. “What’s he doing meeting with the attorney for the foundation?”

  “I don’t know, Mike. Maybe they’re brothers. They look alike and both of their last names are Hassan. Maybe the Muslim Brotherhood is a big contributor to the foundation. I’m just glad I don’t need to have anything more to do with any of this.”

  “So we’re going home?” Casey asked.

  “Liz wants to meet us in a bit. She has something she thinks I need to know, and I’m having dinner with her tonight. Tomorrow morning all right?”

  “That works for me,” Casey said. “I’ll let my pilot and my wife know we’re flying west in the morning.” He looked happy at the thought.

  Drake drove around the block and got on Massachusetts Avenue to meet Liz. When they drove past Union Station, Casey turned to see if they were being followed again.

  “Déjà vu,” Casey said. “The silver Chrysler 300C is three cars back.”

  “This is getting old. When we find a place to park, let’s introduce ourselves. I don’t like being tailed.”

  Two blocks beyond Union Station, Drake turned left and drove around the block so he could park in front of the restaurant. The silver 300C followed.

  They were early for lunch and there were several parking spaces open on the street. Drake drove down the block and chose an open space that left an open space for the 300C two spaces back. He hoped it would pull in so they could have a little chat.

  As the Tahoe was coming to a stop, Drake saw in the rearview mirror that the silver car was parking two spaces back.

  “You take the passenger side, I’ll see what the driver has to say,” he told Casey.

  Both men jumped out and quickly walked back. Before they passed the first car, the Venezuelan embassy car pulled out and accelerated down the street.

  “Guess they didn’t want to hear what you had to say,” Casey said.

  Drake shook his head. “I think they know what I wanted to say. If we see them again, I’ll make sure they hear it.”

  They found Liz waiting for them in a booth in the wine bar.

  Drake slid in beside her, leaving Casey alone on the other side.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “It’s been an interesting morning.”

  “For us too,” Drake said. “You go first.”

  Before she did, the waiter brought a small loaf of bread with garlic butter and left menus. When he left, she said, “There’s not much news about the terrorist attacks, really. The intelligence committee briefing we received this morning was about the same as the last one. The Air Force still can’t explain why the drone didn’t spot the shooter with the missile before it was fired. They’re pretty sure it was fired from the back of a white delivery van or something similar, parked across the river. They think it must have had infrared shielding of some sort that prevented the drone from seeing the shooter inside.”

  “I thought it was a secret there were armed drones guarding our airports when the last plane went down,” Casey said. “How would they know to use infrared shielding?”

  “It must have leaked somewhere,” Drake said.

  “It had to have been a pretty quick leak, because the president’s decision to fly the drones was only made a couple of days at most before the third plane was shot down,” Liz said.

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me about?” Drake asked.

  “What I wanted to talk about is some pretty sensitive stuff,” she said and leaned forward with her elbows on the table. “You said something earlier about the ranch your client has in Oregon that made me curious. You both have Top Secret security clearances from your time in Delta Force so I can talk about this, but it can’t leave this booth.”

  Drake and Casey both nodded their understanding and leaned forward to hear her.

  “The CIA is working hard to identify the terrorists and find out where the missiles came from. A well-placed informant in Syria they work with to supply the rebel forces told them Iran is working through a proxy to shoot down our planes,” she said.

  “Is this informant reliable?” Drake asked.

  “They apparently worked with him before in Libya,” she said. “He’s Muslim Brotherhood and was helping them track down Gaddafi’s missing MANPADS.”

  “What’s he doing in Syria for the CIA?” Casey asked.

  “Where do you think the rebels are getting their shoulder-fired missiles?” she said.

  “From the CIA?” Casey asked.

  “From Gaddafi’s missing stockpile the CIA recovered,” Drake said. “The informant is the CIA conduit, right?”

  “That’s my guess,” Liz said. “They won’t confirm it, of course.”

  Casey sat, perplexed. “I don’t get it. Why’s the Muslim Brotherhood helping us? I thought we were on the outs with them, since they were overthrown and we didn’t do anything.”

  “They’re helping us because they want to regain power, and they want their assets released,” Drake said. “They want Senator Boykin’s bill passed. But why is this something you thought we should know, Liz?”

  “The informant didn’t name the proxy, but the CIA put together a short list. The radical cleric Sheikh Qasseer’s name is at the top of the list. He’s been on a watch list for some time, but they also have information that he’s a contributor to the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation.”

  Drake and Casey exchanged looks.

  “I met with the attorney for the foundation just this morning. I told him, among other things, my client wasn’t about to sell his ranch so it could be run as a paramilitary training camp,” Drake said quietly. “I threw it out to see how he would react, and wound up being threatened.”

  “And now we’re being followed by cars from the Venezuelan embassy,” Casey added.

  The waiter approached their table and they all sat back.

  “I think we need a bottle of your pinot noir,” Drake told the waiter, pointing to the first wine at the top of the list.

  When the waiter left, Liz turned to Drake and asked in a hushed and incredulous voice, “Could the foundation have something to do with these terrorist attacks? My God, some of the most powerful people in the city are on its board of directors.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Liz,” Drake said quietly shaking his head. “Mike saw the foundation’s attorney I met with talking to Mohammad Hassan. They look like they could be brothers and both have the same last names. If he’s the moneyman for the Muslim Brotherhood as Interpol believes, there could be a connection.”

  “If there is,” she replied, “there’s probably a money trail. With the people involved with the foundation, no one’s going to want to look into it.”

  “They may not have to,” Casey said. “I might have some information this afternoon that will help.”

  Drake approved of the wine he’d ordered when it was presented, and raised his glass when it was poured, “To interesting times.”

  After the others joined in the toast, they discussed what they should do with their suspicions, finished off the bottle of wine and the loaf of bread, and decided to stay and have lunch.

  Unnoticed by them, a man from the Venezuelan embassy’s security detail planted a tracking device under the rear of the white Tahoe Drake parked outside.

  CHAPTER 45

  Mohamed Hassan closed the door of his office in the Evening Star Building to take the call from “Raul,” a.k.a. Carlos Mora, the chief of security for the Venezuelan embassy and head of station for the Venezuelan secret service.

  “Raul, my friend, que pasa?”

  “Your friend knew he was being followed,” Mora said. “He even led two of my men into Union Station so he could take their picture. So I put a tracker on his car.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s in a restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue, with a woman and his tall friend.”

&nbs
p; “I need to know where he is tonight. I have something planned for him.”

  “No problem. Call me when you need to know.”

  The Venezuelans did good work, Mohamed knew. They’d been trained by the Cuban secret service and were able to afford all of the latest equipment with their oil money. Since Russia’s resurgence and renewed ties with allies in the Caribbean and South America, Russia and Venezuela were powerful friends if one wanted to attack America. Their joint hatred of America made them useful tools.

  To give America a justifiable reason for attacking Iran, it had to be seen that it was provoked into using its military might. If America was seen as attacking Iran on behalf of Israel, as Israel continued to request, Russia would have to join the fight to honor their security agreement with Iran.

  If, on the other hand, Russia and Venezuela believed they were merely accommodating Sheikh Qasseer’s jihadist strike at America, they were more than willing to provide assistance. All he had to do was keep his real endgame a secret from both of them. Hassan knew he was going to have to think of a good explanation for the hit on the attorney from Oregon if Carlos Mora ever asked to keep deeper questions from surfacing.

  Hassan’s next call was to Jameel Marcus at the youth camp in West Virginia.

  “Are your men ready, Jameel?”

  “They’re ready. When do you want them?”

  “Tonight,” Hassan said. “Have them here in D.C., by evening. What will they use?”

  “They have AK 74’s, two with GP-30 40mm grenade launchers, and a supply of the Russian RGD-5 hand grenades. I’ll send some of the PVV-5A plastic explosives if you think they’ll need it.”

  “How have you planned for them to do it?”

  “They’ll be in two cars, two men in each,” Marcus said. “If he’s driving, they’ll take him in his car. If he’s on foot, they’ll make it look like a drive-by.”

  “Are they prepared to enter his hotel if necessary?”

  “They are martyrs, Mohamed. They’ll go after him, wherever he is.”

  “Good, good,” Hassan said. “He can’t be allowed to stop us. Call me when they get here.”