“Yet, here you are.”
“As are you—but not for long.”
Hawk felt the rope fall from his wrists. He rubbed them and turned around in his chair to face Kejal. “Are you going to help me get out?”
Kejal nodded.
“They’ll kill you, you know.”
“That’s why you’re going to beat me up before you leave,” Kejal said.
“I can’t do that.”
“You must or, like you said, they will kill me.”
“Kejal, come on.”
“I won’t take no for an answer, but before we do that, I need to tell you a few things.”
Hawk stood. “Go on.”
“First, I want to thank you for returning my bike in one piece. I was very angry, but I know why you did what you did. As a result of being with you on the mountain that day, I began to see the world in a new light. That’s when Uncle Jaziri began not only teaching me English but also educating me on the evils of Al Hasib and other groups like them. I’m not sure what would’ve happened to me if you hadn’t gone with me to tend my herd.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but your uncle is the one who deserves all the credit,” Hawk said. “He was a good man and I’m saddened to hear of his passing.”
“He was a very good man. He would also want me to help you, which is why I’m here. Al Hasib has stolen a weapon, which is why I imagine you’re here.”
Hawk nodded. “It wasn’t that difficult to figure out, was it?”
Kejal flashed a faint smile. “If you plan to stop them from using it, you need to go to the Strait of Hormuz.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“They are going to target oil tankers and create chaos with the markets.”
“That’s their goal?”
Kejal shrugged. “I’m not sure. I hear whispers when I get into meetings, information I’m sure Fazil or any of the leaders wouldn’t want someone as lowly as me to hear. But I’ve heard them nevertheless.”
“And you’re sure about this?”
“A team of several men was dispatched there two days ago to deploy the weapon. I’m not sure when they plan to start firing it, but the results will be disastrous.”
“And Fazil has no other plans?”
“I can’t be certain of anything else. I don’t have the clearance to attend such meetings. I just glean what I can from listening to the men talk. But Fazil always seems to be planning something, and there’s been talk of something really big. Maybe this attack in the Strait of Hormuz is what they were talking about.”
“Thanks, Kejal. I only need to know one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How do I get out of here without being seen? Given my current state, I don’t think I would fare well if I had to engage any guards.”
Kejal gave Hawk an escape route as well as the keys to one of Al Hasib’s vehicles located in the garage.
“Take my keffiyeh, and make sure to wrap this scarf around your mouth,” Kejal said as he handed the scarf to Hawk along with a card. “Show this access card to the guard at the gate, and they shouldn’t give you any problems. And don’t forget your pack in the corner.”
Hawk patted Kejal on the shoulder. “Your uncle would be proud of the man you’ve become. Good luck on your mission to avenge your uncle’s death. I wish I could talk you out of it though.”
“No one will be able to do such a thing.”
Hawk slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave before Kejal called out.
“You’re forgetting something,” Kejal said.
Hawk turned around to see Kejal pointing to his face.
“Can’t we do this another way?” Hawk asked.
“No, we—”
Hawk delivered a wicked blow before Kejal finished responding, knocking him out cold.
“You’re a good kid,” Hawk said. “I hope you stay alive.”
He threw Kejal’s keffiyeh on and entered the hallway to make an escape.
CHAPTER 17
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG WANTED TO CANCEL all his campaign appearances for the next couple of days to avoid the onslaught of questions sure to be directed toward him by a frothing media. The sudden death of President Michaels had caused a firestorm of coverage, not to mention the endless chatter on the airwaves about the looming constitutional crisis. But Congress quelled the furor by delaying the election for a month—and the media had now found a new story to latch onto. The kind of attention that accompanied such a controversy was not what Young needed if he was going to upset Peterson, who’d emerged as the frontrunner.
Young’s campaign manager, Blake Mayfield, quashed any ideas of slipping into the shadows and waiting out the media’s maelstrom regarding Peterson’s accusation shown live on the Internet and since replayed thousands of times on every news program in America.
“How do you think it’s going to look if you cancel now?” Mayfield asked. “You’re going to look guilty as sin.”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
“Wait. You didn’t—” Mayfield said before stopping himself. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I need at least some shred of plausible deniability.”
“Look, everyone knows Peterson is a snake in the grass. His defense plan is to make friends with everyone, let them plunder what’s left of our country, and move us toward some one world order. And that’s the last thing we need right now.”
Mayfield removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “That’s the message we need to be selling right now, not turning tail and waiting it out. Let’s go on the offensive, instead of staying in a defensive posture.”
“I’m not sure how well that will play with the American people.”
Mayfield shrugged. “I’m not sure we have any other choice. Peterson is a political veteran. He knows how to destroy his opponents to gain power. It’s his modus operandi if you study all his previous election campaigns.”
“And has anyone tried the tactic you’re suggesting?”
“Not successfully, but—”
“Perhaps we need to strike a different tune then.”
“I disagree. Everyone else who has fought back against Peterson when he wanted them to hide tried to do it using scandals and dirt. You’re going to hit back by outlining the truth regarding the policy he’d implement if he were to win. That will speak volumes to voters, not only about what kind of man Peterson is but also what kind of man you are. Noah Young isn’t the kind of man who stoops to his opponent’s level and slings mud—he’s a man of action and cares about his country. He’s a patriot. That’s the kind of message you want to send.”
“That’s also the truth.”
“We’ve got that working for us then, which is more than we can say for Peterson, isn’t it?”
“You know what Peterson and that Russian ambassador were really going to talk about today? They were going to—”
Mayfield plugged his ears. “Lalalalala. I don’t want to hear it. Plausible deniability, remember?”
Young stopped. “Fine. I want to tell someone the truth.”
The door swung open and Young’s chief of staff, Hal Knightley, stepped inside.
“Why don’t you tell the truth to the feds since they’re here to speak with you?” Knightley said without skipping a beat.
“Were you listening outside?” Mayfield asked.
Knightley shook his head. “No, but I heard what the president just said before I stepped inside.”
“Why don’t you knock next time like a polite politician?” Mayfield snapped.
“Polite politician?” Knightley said with a chuckle. “You haven’t been around Washington very long, have you?”
“Cut it out,” Young said. “This is serious. The feds are really here to speak with me?”
Knightly nodded. “They arrived about fifteen minutes ago and are requesting an interview immediately.”
“Tell them they’ll have to wait,” Young said. “I’m not ready t
o speak with them.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mayfield said. “If word gets leaked out that you refused to speak to them—”
“Someone is going to start a rumor no matter what you do,” Knightley said. “If you’re not comfortable speaking with them right now, tell them to go take a hike. They work for you anyway.”
“The FBI’s top brass is all loyal to Michaels,” Young began. “I think they still blame me or see me as somehow responsible for his death.”
“That’s something they need to get over,” Knightley said.
“Not if they’re going to use it against Noah just to destroy his campaign,” Mayfield said. “All it takes is one source whispering something to a Washington Post reporter and it’s going to be taken as the gospel truth by most Americans. Any chance at nuance is lost once they begin that game.”
“That’s par for the course in Washington politics,” Knightley said. “We all know that. So, I’m just asking what difference does it make if he wants to take some time to think about it and develop a strategy with all his advisers? This is a critical point in the campaign. If we make the wrong move, it’ll be over before you can say President Peterson.”
“And I think the wrong move would be to put off the FBI and give anyone there with a grudge an opportunity to torpedo the campaign,” Mayfield said.
Knightley put his hands on his hips. “Well, Mr. President, you’re in charge. It’s your campaign. But if I were you, I would tell them to stick it in their ear. You’re running the country and don’t have time for petty accusations like the one Peterson brought today on the Internet. For all we know, he set that up himself just to bring you down.”
Young sighed and shook his head. He stood and paced around the office, mumbling to himself.
“Does he always do this?” Mayfield asked.
“Get used to it,” Knightley said. “I’m not sure if he’s speaking with the ghost of Lincoln or the spirits that are simply tormenting him. But he talks to them all the time.”
Young glared at Knightley. “This is how I like to process things. Do you have a problem with it?”
Knightley looked wide-eyed at Young. “Whatever works for you. It’s your thing.”
“I need to make a call,” Young said. He sat down at his desk and dialed his secretary. “Can you get me General Van Fortner on the line?”
“Certainly, Mr. President,” she said.
A few seconds later, Van Fortner answered the phone.
“Mr. President, how are you?”
“I’ve had better days, though lately there haven’t been many good ones.”
“Are you catching a lot of flack for that stunt Peterson pulled?”
“So, it looked like a stunt to you?” Young asked.
“What else could it have been? Like you would’ve authorized any such spying on Peterson. That’s just ludicrous. And it’s not like he could prove it anyway.”
Young didn’t say a word.
“Mr. President, are you still there?”
“Still here, General,” Young said. “Are you aware that the FBI arrested J.D. Blunt and have accused him of orchestrating that whole debacle with Peterson?”
“That’s absurd. I’ve known J.D. forever, and I know he does a lot of crazy stuff, but he’d never do something like that on his own volition. If he did it, someone with a lot of sway put him up to it.”
“Look, I didn’t call you to talk about that,” Young said. “I wanted to ask you what you think I should do right now. The FBI wants to speak with me, and I haven’t even talked with my lawyer yet. How bad do you think it will look if I tell them to forget it?”
“I’d wait and speak with more of your advisors,” Fortner said. “You can never be too careful in cases like these. The implications of what a conversation with them will mean could dramatically impact the election—for good or for bad. You just don’t know what it’ll be. And not speaking to them will also have a similar effect. But if you engage in a conversation with them, at least you can control the narrative.”
“Good point, General.”
“Now, if it backfires on you, please don’t hold me accountable.”
“Okay, I’ll grant you immunity if that’s the case,” Young said.
“Excellent,” Fortner said with a nervous laugh. “Now I can sleep with a clear conscience tonight, knowing I’m not going to be tossed in federal prison for any bad advice that I gave the president.”
“I appreciate your perspective, too.”
“Any time, Mr. President,” Fortner said before he hung up.
Young froze. With bulged eyes and a furrowed brow, he stared at Knightley.
“What is it, sir?” Knightley asked.
“I just heard a click on the line right before I hung up.”
“You’ve never heard that before?” Knightley asked.
“Someone was listening in on my call, weren’t they?”
Knightley nodded. “See. What did I tell you?”
Young seethed as he glared at Mayfield. “Go tell the FBI that I need more time.”
CHAPTER 18
Washington, D.C.
BLUNT TOSSED AND TURNED all night as he slept on the hard cot one of the FBI agents had brought into the interrogation room. At the first glint of sunshine trickling through the blinds, Blunt got up, ready to put the night behind him and face a new day. He wanted to hear news that whatever secret operation was underway would have occurred overnight and that he could be released.
An agent knocked on the door, gaining Blunt’s permission before placing a cup of black coffee on the table and slipping out into hallway.
“Didn’t I already tell these jackwads I don’t drink coffee?” Blunt groused before dropping the cup into the trash. He then yelled, “A real breakfast would be nice.”
A half hour passed before Justin Frazier entered the room.
“How’d you sleep?” Frazier asked.
“You owe me big time after this,” Blunt said, his voice gravely. “I’ve had better nights sleeping on the dirt during combat.”
“In that case, I’ve got sort of a good news-bad news scenario for you,” Frazier began. “Which do you want to hear first?”
“Might as well give me the good news since none of the news I ever get from the intelligence community is truly good news.”
“Tonight, you’re going to get to sleep on a real bed.”
Blunt eyed Frazier closely. “And the bad news?”
“It’s going to be at one of our safe houses.”
“Damn it, Justin. A safe house? Really? What the hell is going on that you have to keep me detained for another night?”
“The truth is, we don’t know how long we’re going to need to keep you.”
“This is ridiculous. Just let me go home and keep me under surveillance there.”
“Too many loose lips around this place,” Frazier said. “Of course, if this was at the NSA, I could trust everyone to do the right thing and keep their mouths shut. But this is the FBI, and this place has become so politicized that I don’t want to risk blowing this thing apart.”
“Can’t you at least tell me what’s going on?”
“I wish I could, I really do. But we’re keeping this operation on a strict need-to-know basis only in order to protect against any leaks.”
“I think I have a right to know what’s going on,” Blunt said as he narrowed his eyes. “You know I have the clearance for it.”
“You also know I could arrest you for what you did.”
“I’d like to see you prove it. Now, I want my lawyer.”
“You’re not getting a lawyer, J.D. You’re here on your own accord so we can help catch a criminal who is attempting to sabotage this country. Now, I’ve said more than I should have already, but that’s all you’re going to get out of me. In an hour, an FBI agent will escort you to a safe house where you’ll stay for the duration of this op. Is that understood?”
“If we ever go fishing again, I just migh
t feed you to the sharks,” Blunt said with a growl.
“Did you get your morning coffee?” Frazier said before hitting his forehead with his index finger. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t drink coffee. You’re just this grumpy no matter what time of day it is.”
Blunt pointed at the cot. “You’d be grumpy, too, if you had to sleep on that damn thing all night. I thought for sure you were preparing me for an interrogation this morning.”
Frazier smiled and shook his head. “You never change, do you, J.D.?”
“My need for sleep has never changed, nor has my hatred for coffee,” Blunt said. “And last night I got no sleep, and some green-behind-the-ears agent dropped off a steaming hot cup of coffee first thing this morning after I told them I don’t drink the stuff.”
“Perhaps I can schedule a massage at the safe house for you. Would you also like a mani-pedi?”
“I don’t know what the hell a mani-pedi is, but I hope you choke on it.”
“It’s not a drink,” Frazier said. “It’s a—oh, never mind.”
Blunt watched Frazier leave the room and disappear down the hallway. Desperate to get out of the FBI offices, Blunt eased up to the door and jiggled the handle. It was locked.
“Those punks are imprisoning me,” Blunt muttered to himself.
He proceeded to sit down on the cot, burying his head in his hands.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Blunt was led out the back of the FBI headquarters in a black SUV. The two agents assigned to watch him asked questions that signaled they had no idea who he was. After a few minutes, Blunt stopped their get-to-know-you inquisition.
“How old are you guys?” Blunt asked.
One man was thirty, while the other was twenty-eight.
“And you seriously don’t know who I am?” Blunt asked. “Haven’t you watched the news?”
“Wait a minute,” one of the agents said, snapping his fingers. “Weren’t you that senator who faked his death? I think I do remember this story now.”
Blunt sighed. “Yeah, that was me.”
“Why’d you do it?” the other agent asked. “I’m always curious why people want to disappear. Was it for love? For money? Or were you running from something?”
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