by Tim LaHaye
Joshua shook his head. “Not all Israelis …”
“Okay, true,” Harmon shot back, grinning, “but you’ve read the Old Testament … our wandering in the desert under Moses … arguing, squabbling. Since when have Israelis ever been able to agree on much of anything?”
Joshua chuckled. “Seriously, Joel. I think you need someone else to plead your position to Bensky. Not me. This is when I wish I could substitute my wife, a brilliant lawyer with terrific negotiation skills. But not me. I’ve never been strong on diplomacy. If I open my mouth, I’ll be a bull in a china shop.”
Harmon halted and lifted his index finger into the air. “We need a real hero like you, who loves Israel, who has already helped to defend her.” Then, after pausing and lowering his hand, he added, “And a man who has connections …”
“What kind?”
“Let’s be honest, if Tulrude wins your presidential election, Israel will be in serious trouble. Tulrude has abandoned all support for our nation. On the other hand, if Hewbright wins, our future looks a lot brighter. When Hewbright was in the United States Senate he consistently backed Israel on security and terrorism issues. And we happen to know, Josh, that you, your wife, and your entire Roundtable group are backing Senator Hewbright. And we also know that the senator admires you.”
“And here I thought I knew something about clandestine surveillance,” Joshua remarked. “You Israelis always impress me with the accuracy of your covert intelligence.”
By now the helicopter was in view. As the two men approached it, Joshua still didn’t feel any differently about the upcoming meeting with the prime minister.
He said a silent prayer.
God, help me keep my feet on the ground during this meeting … and my foot out of my mouth.
Office of the Prime Minister of Israel, Jerusalem
The meeting lasted over an hour. Some heated words were exchanged, but Harmon and the three other members of the Hamonah Party kept the rancor to a minimum. Prime Minister Bensky listened throughout but talked little. He left that up to his two advisors, Chad Zadok, his chief of staff, and Dimi Eliud, his press secretary.
Near the end of the meeting Zadok looked up from his digital clipboard and said, “The prime minister appreciates your thoughts on the U.N. peace proposal. Thanks for dialoguing with us. However, the prime minister has another meeting.”
Joel Harmon leaned forward in his chair, his hands open, as if he was going to grab someone by the shoulders. “Please, Mr. Prime Minister, can you at least share with us that you are open to our concerns, that you are willing to delay this dangerous deal with Mr. Coliquin and his envoy?”
“Why?” Zadok shot back, “so you and your fledgling little Hamonah Party can have more time to muster coalition strength behind your weak position?”
“This treaty with Coliquin and the U.N. is bad for Israel. Some truths are self-evident,” Harmon said, shooting a quick glance at Joshua.
Now Dimi Eliud jumped into the fray. “Quoting from America’s Declaration of Independence isn’t the right answer for an Israeli problem.” Then she directed her attention to Joshua, who had been silent. “Or does Colonel Jordan think differently?”
Joshua smiled but didn’t bite.
Chad Zadok joined in. “Yes, why don’t you share your thoughts with us, Colonel Jordan?”
Joshua’s smile quickly evaporated. Instead of answering, he looked at Prime Minister Sol Bensky, who gestured for him to speak.
“I would rather not,” he said, hedging.
“And I would rather you did,” Bensky said in a soft voice. “I have heard many things about you, Colonel Jordan. Some good and some not so nice. So please speak freely. What do you think about this peace proposal? About Secretary-General Coliquin?”
“I tremble,” Joshua began.
Chad Zadok latched onto that. “You what?”
“I said I tremble.”
“You? The great Colonel Joshua Jordan, trembling with fear?” There was derision in Zadok’s voice.
“I tremble,” Joshua continued, “because of what I have read.”
“About what?” Bensky asked.
“I have studied the Bible for the last two years,” Joshua replied. “I am no scholar, but I tremble at what it says in 1 Kings 11:1.”
Benksy’s face looked as if he were searching his memory, but coming up blank.
Joshua quoted the verse from the Old Testament. “‘Solomon, however, loved many foreign women —’”
“How dare you!” Zadok cried out.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Joshua said, disregarding the chief of staff, “adultery can come in many different forms, don’t you agree? I know you must see that God has warned Israel throughout Scripture about entering into political treaties and intrigues with foreign powers — political adultery — when it can cause the nation to depart from God’s purposes.”
Dimi Eliud jumped to her feet. “Gentlemen, this meeting is over.”
Sol Bensky said nothing. He sat motionless in his high-backed chair, glumly staring straight ahead, as Joshua, Joel Harmon, and his small entourage tentatively rose to leave. Then the group was briskly escorted from the room. Zadok and Eliud closed the door and quickly returned to their chairs across from the prime minister.
Zadok led off. “Now you see, sir, exactly what we are dealing with. Joshua Jordan is the foreign enemy here. He is the agitator. And our young, impressionable member of the Knesset, Joel Harmon, has been taken with Jordan’s radical views.”
“You still have a strong coalition in the Knesset behind you,” Dimi Eliud added, “for a while. We don’t know how long that will hold. The treaty with the U.N. must be signed immediately.”
“And,” Zadok added, “Colonel Jordan must also be neutralized before he wins any more converts to his anti-Coliquin views. Sadly, he does have a certain influence among some Israelis.”
“But he is a defender of Israel,” Bensky said limply, “and I for one appreciate the RTS technology he designed … and for his zeal for our nation. This is so difficult.” Bensky put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it slowly.
“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister,” Zadok said in a voice that was soothing, almost musical, like chimes in the wind, “we understand. That is why you must allow us — Ms. Eliud and myself — to take care of this Colonel Jordan business. You needn’t worry about it anymore.”
“Yes,” Dimi Eliud added, “Joshua Jordan can be taken out of the equation. And very quickly.”
Eliud and Zadok locked glances. Without a word, all three knew what had to be done.
TWENTY-TWO
Washington, D.C.
When Abigail received the text message, it was a jolt. It was from former Department of Justice Prosecutor Harley Collingwood. His text simply said “Meet me at Jefferson Memorial” and gave the time.
So once again Abigail chartered the family’s private jet from the hangar at JFK and flew down to Washington. And once again, Cal went along for the ride. Abigail had been so absorbed in trying to dig up further information on the potential threat against Senator Hewbright that she had been able, for a few hours at least, to put her husband’s excruciating legal dilemma out of her mind. But not entirely. She couldn’t forget that Collingwood’s inside information about the activities of the prosecutors in Attorney General Hamburg’s Department of Justice office might be her only hope. Collingwood might know how they had managed to get Attorney Alan Fulsin to spin his false story about Joshua’s alleged plan to create a takeover of the defense and security apparatus of the U.S. government.
Abigail and Cal had just landed at the private hangar at Reagan International, and she was about to step into the limo when she said to Cal, “So, you’ll be all right?”
He nodded with a smile. “Mom, I’m old enough to take care of myself. Don’t worry.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “I’ll fill you in later. I’ll be okay. Really.”
She hesitated. “Something’s going on. Anyth
ing you want to share?”
“Mom, get to your meeting. You’re going to be late.”
Ignoring her maternal instincts, Abigail ducked into the backseat. The driver closed the door and hopped behind the wheel.
After ten minutes of heavy traffic along the Potomac, Abigail’s Allfone lit up. It was John Gallagher. When she answered, he gave her the update on his Hewbright investigation. “Okay, Abby. Here’s the dope. I’ve been in contact with the FBI agent, as you know.”
“Right. Agent Boling.”
“We’ve been talking. I got him to open up. No small miracle, by the way. It turns out that shortly before the disappearance of this Hewbright campaign worker, this Perry Tedrich guy, he had a visit from someone on Hewbright’s national campaign staff.”
“And?”
“Hewbright’s assistant campaign manager. Woman by the name of —”
“Katrena Amid.”
“Abby, you take all the fun out. Right. That’s her. You know her?”
“Just met her once. In Denver, after one of the Senator’s speeches.” Abigail didn’t yet elaborate about the sixth sense she had around Katrena. After reflecting a moment, Abigail followed up. “But you’re sure it was her — Katrena Amid — who visited Perry Tedrich right before he disappeared?”
“Sure I’m sure. Why?”
Abigail didn’t respond.
Gallagher went on. “You know, Abby, you never told me why you thought that Hewbright might have some kind of mole or dirty operative within his staff. Wanna share that with your good buddy John Gallagher?”
“Not yet, John.”
“Any reason?”
“I don’t want my ideas to color your investigation.”
“Wow. Now you’re sounding like my old supervisor at the Bureau. Always went by the book.”
“It’s just that I have such a high regard for your ability, John. I need your untainted impressions. All of this could be just a wild-eyed theory. Maybe I’ve got you chasing a fantasy.”
“On the other hand, one thing is not fiction.”
“What’s that?”
“Hewbright’s Wichita election guy was murdered and dumped in a shallow grave. Nothing make-believe about that.”
Bethesda Convalescent Center
On his second visit, Cal could see a remarkable change. Former President Corland was sitting up straight, his eyes bright and clear, and his speech — while still slow — was intelligible and coherent. When Cal arrived, Corland’s wife had told Cal that her husband was having “one of his better days.” Then she headed down to the cafeteria, leaving Cal and Corland alone with a nurse nearby.
Corland asked Cal, in a series of strained words, about his plans for the future.
“Law school,” Cal said.
Corland smiled and nodded. “Following your mother …”
“Sort of. Though she never pressured me. I was going into art at first. Actually had some of my paintings shown in a gallery up in Boston. But things changed, and I decided to go in another direction.”
“Happens sometimes,” Corland said and then nodded to the nurse to leave them alone. She smiled and dutifully left that area of the day room.
He noticed that Corland followed her with his eyes too. Now the only person in sight was a Secret Service agent seated on a chair just outside the room, out of earshot.
Corland immediately opened up. “I wanted you here … to tell you …”
“What?”
“Secrets.”
Cal didn’t know how to respond.
“Can I trust you?” Corland said.
“Yes. Absolutely. But why me?”
“I trusted your dad. And he was right about what he told me in the White House. About threatened attack. But my people wouldn’t listen. They undercut me. Nuclear attack … new Jersey … never would have happened … if they had believed your father. I’m glad his Roundtable … tried to help. At least New York was saved. I wish your Dad was here for me to tell this to …” Corland stopped. Then after thinking something through, he continued. “But he’s not.”
“No,” Cal said with emotion in his voice that had suddenly arisen and surprised even him. He struggled to say it. “I wish he was here too.”
“So,” Corland said with a smile, “I have to trust someone. I’ll tell you then. Trust you. Maybe you … are like your dad?”
Cal smiled. It was an accolade he didn’t think he had earned, but he nodded and leaned back in the soft chair in the sunroom to listen.
Corland proceeded to explain about his White House physician having health problems himself, and how his personal doctor had to resign. President Corland had been treated for his condition of transient ischemic attack, a syndrome that threatened his ability to continue in his duties if not kept under control. The public had not been told about it up to then. When Corland’s own White House physician left, Jessica Tulrude insisted that until a new White House doctor was appointed, Corland ought to use the vice president’s personal physician — Dr. Jack Puttner. Up to that point, Corland pointed out to Cal, his own doctor had prescribed only blood thinners to decrease the risk of blackouts.
“But Puttner gave me something else,” Corland said, “and right after that … after a speech in Virginia, I had that terrible attack in the limo. Almost died.”
“What kind of medicine?”
“Not sure,” Corland said. Then his face took on an intense, twisted grimace. “But I think … Dr. Puttner and Tulrude … tried to kill me.”
TWENTY-THREE
“The idea was easy to understand. Elegant in its simplicity. Joshua Jordan was a domestic terrorist.”
Former federal prosecutor Harley Collingwood spoke matter-of-factly as he stood on the bottom steps of the Jefferson Memorial. The crowd was sparse that day. Even so, he kept his voice low.
He continued, “I looked over all the evidence we had to support that theory of the case against your husband. I was given the file by the DOJ lawyer supervising the whole case — not just the charges against Joshua, but those against you and all the members of the Roundtable. That attorney was Assistant Attorney General Dillon Gowers. So I read it all through. Several times. The theory was that when your Roundtable group hired those ex-special-ops guys to stop the portable nuke from entering New York City, that was a powerful piece of evidence we could use to convince a jury that you were running a private vigilante force, bent on usurping the United States Government. Sure, you intercepted the truck and kept it out of New York. But your special-ops volunteers paid a dear price when the terrorists detonated it along the New Jersey shore. And so did the thousands of people in the nearby town who died in the blast. It was just blind luck that the heavy winds blew the radioactive cloud out to sea and more people didn’t die.”
Abigail interjected, “Harley, we tried to warn the federal authorities through multiple avenues about the nuke. Our private intelligence sources told us the bomb was bound for New York, and we told the government that. But they did nothing.”
“Sure, we knew you’d probably assert a Good Samaritan defense. On the other hand, as I viewed the case, I felt we could overcome that defense, but it required one important piece that was still missing.”
Abigail put her finger on it. “Attorney Allen Fulsin.”
“Right. Of course, we had Fulsin in our corner already, but the stuff he gave us in the FBI 302 reports — that Joshua was talking about revolution and all that — could all be explained away logically. It was clear Joshua was talking politics and social change, not armed uprising. So I told Assistant Attorney General Gowers — I said, ‘Look, you need something stronger from Fulsin, if that’s possible, or you’d better contemplate ditching this case.’ A week later, he sent me an email. In the attachment was a second statement from Fulsin, and what Fulsin alleged in this new witness statement was incredibly powerful. He claimed Joshua had said it was time for an armed militia to arm-wrestle our national defense out of the hands of the Defense Department — by force if nec
essary — and that he was creating his own private army. But as I looked at Fulsin’s second statement I noticed it was not an FBI 302. It was a supplemental statement from Fulsin, which had been transcribed directly by Gowers himself during his own interrogation — with no other witnesses present. That’s when I got suspicious.”
A couple of joggers appeared on the walkway along the Potomac, heading their way. Collingwood stepped further up the stairs toward the Jefferson Memorial, and Abigail followed.
“So I started digging around,” he continued. “I found out that in the intervening week when the second interrogation took place and his second statement was obtained by Gowers, Fulsin had been threatened with a phony criminal charge of ‘human trafficking’ by Gowers. Apparently, Fulsin had a girlfriend from Canada living with him who had entered the United States illegally. So Gowers railroaded Fulsin with this ridiculous criminal charge, alleging that Fulsin was running a business of bringing prostitutes into the country. Fulsin got scared. That did the trick.”
Abigail scampered up a few more stairs ahead of him, until she was standing over Collingwood and stopped him in his tracks. “So Fulsin was coerced into making up false testimony against Joshua by being threatened with a phony criminal charge himself?”
Collingwood looked visibly uncomfortable. “Look, Fulsin’s no saint. He just wanted to get close to the Roundtable so he could spill the beans to Tulrude’s staff in hopes of currying favor. They took the information and gave it to Hamburg so it could be used in a prosecution, but Fulsin ended up getting nothing out of the deal.”
Abigail shook her head, astonished. “I knew Tulrude’s people were corrupt, but I had no idea how corrupt. And Assistant Attorney General Gowers — he was part of this?”
“He as much as admitted to me that after Tulrude became president the gloves were off — no limits — Joshua Jordan was to be destroyed. Your Roundtable and your media outlet, AmeriNews, has made life a nightmare for Tulrude, with all of your investigative reports, starting with her longstanding objections to your husband’s RTS system when she was vice president. Then, when President Corland had one of his blackouts and the North Korean ship launched the nukes at New York and the Pentagon utilized the RTS anyway and saved the entire city, Tulrude came out and said that yes, of course she authorized it and tried to take the credit. She even repeated that lie to Congress in the aftermath. AmeriNews was the only source that ran with that story about Tulrude’s false statement, and the exposé AmeriNews ran about Tulrude violating the law by directing A.G. Hamburg to launch politically motivated criminal prosecutions. Your husband’s, as an example.
