by Mark Spivak
During the years that followed, Salman Al-Akbar became the public face of terrorism for the American public. He eluded capture for the rest of President George Cane’s administration—through the invasion of Sumeristan, the removal of its dictator Hussein Ghazi, and the painfully slow withdrawal of American troops—despite an ongoing effort by the CIA to track his whereabouts. Al-Akbar took special delight in the production of taunting videos, which were released to the media at holiday time or on the anniversary of the attacks. Even worse, Husam al Din eventually spawned the New Caliphate, a paramilitary group with 50,000 troops and the sworn goal of turning Sumeristan into a strict Islamic state.
Al-Akbar’s assassination was greeted with jubilation throughout the country. Crowds spilled out spontaneously into the street, waving American flags and chanting “USA!USA!!USA!!!” Their enthusiasm seemed unaffected by the fact that the New Caliphate had beheaded 22 Westerners within the previous month, including two journalists, three missionaries, and five members of the Antiquities Department at the University of Baghdad.
“Last night,” declared President Atalas in an address to the nation from the East Room of the White House, “the brave men of our Navy Seals struck a blow for democracy and against terrorism. They successfully eliminated one of this country’s most bitter enemies, and they did so without collateral damage to local citizens. This was an extremely dangerous mission. It was undertaken without permission from the Kabulistan government to use their airspace, which meant their helicopters could have been shot down at any time. I want to express my gratitude to them for their heroism, and I congratulate the CIA for a sustained and successful struggle to isolate the whereabouts of this brutal terrorist. I think we can all sleep more soundly tonight knowing that he has been removed as a threat to our society.
“However, we need to be mindful that the struggle against terrorism goes on. Over the past month, I’m sure most of us have seen the atrocities committed by the New Caliphate, that group of murderers who have inherited the mantle of Husam al Din. We must remain vigilant in our fight against this menace. As President, you have my promise that we will continue to do so.”
Despite the fact that Salman Al-Akbar no longer posed much of a threat to anyone, the administration indulged in some celebrations of their own.
“This man has a spine of steel,” said Vice President Curt Bassen, in a TV interview recorded the following day, as he shamelessly heaped praise on his boss. “Obviously we succeeded, but the raid was a considerable risk. We had no idea if the Kabulistan military would track the helicopters or not. If they did, they would certainly have interpreted them as the vanguard of a hostile attack, and they would have launched retaliatory action. Being present in the Situation Room while the raid was taking place was one of the high points of my forty years in public life. We had a very tense couple of hours, but the President never betrayed any signs of stress—he was as calm and collected during the operation as he would have been on the golf course.”
However, not everyone was celebrating. Two days after the raid, as Chet Wallko headed for the Senate chamber, he was waylaid by a reporter and camera crew from Fox News.
“Senator,” said the reporter as he held the microphone up to Wallko’s mouth, “the country is overjoyed at the killing of Salman Al-Akbar recently by a team of Navy Seals. Any plans to sponsor a Congressional resolution honoring them as heroes?”
“I won’t be sponsoring one, no. I’m proud of the Seals and admire their bravery, as always, but this is very far from a triumph for the United States.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Salman Al-Akbar hid out in Kabulistan for many years. He practically sunned himself in the backyard of the Police Academy and played backgammon with the Superintendent, while we had no clue as to his whereabouts. The Kabulistan government obviously knew where he was. So if I sponsor any resolutions, it’ll be for the removal of the CIA Director.”
“Senator—“
“This guy could have been ordering from Domino’s, if they had Domino’s in Kabulistan. He could have joined the rewards program and gotten himself a slew of free pizzas during those twelve years.”
“Sir, don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”
“Not at all,” said Wallko flatly. “I certainly can’t criticize the president for taking action when Al-Akbar’s whereabouts were finally confirmed, but this whole situation points to a systemic failure in our intelligence community. And it’s far from new—Robert Hornsby was a former CIA director, and we were still blindsided by the Mayday attacks. It never seems to get any better. So before we start popping the Champagne, let’s get to the bottom of why our intelligence guys are sleeping.”
Out in St. Louis that afternoon, Richard Haft sat watching the bank of TVs in his office. He systematically went from Fox to CNN to MSNBC as Wallko’s remarks went viral.
Chapter 9
Jasper Marshall’s rented Hyundai glided across the flat plains west of St. Louis. At the wheel was Joe Guthrie, his friend and confidant. The two men had met fifteen years earlier, when Marshall managed a Home Depot store and Guthrie worked as the foreman of an oil rig. From the beginning, they had complemented each other perfectly. Marshall was outgoing and charismatic, the type of person other people followed; Guthrie was taciturn, blunt, and shy, but scrupulously honest and loyal.
“Thanks for coming out here with me, Joey.”
“Hell, thanks for havin’ me. I still don’t know what you need me for.”
“Moral support, I guess.”
“Hope you can get it by remote control.” He grinned. “I’ll be waitin’ for you in the parking lot.”
“That’s good enough.”
“You got any idea what these boys want with you?”
“Not a clue. I was hoping you could give me some background on them, since you were in the oil business.”
“Hell, I wasn’t in the oil business—I was in the business of squeezin’ the shit out of the ground. But I did meet some folks that worked for the Hafts.”
“And?”
“The way I hear it, they’re a trip. Total control freaks, the kind of guys that look at everything. And their people in the field were as twisted as they come. They were always usin’ some underhanded trick to suck more profit out of a deal.”
“Well, look on the bright side. Maybe they want to make a donation.”
“To us? Better hope not, unless you’re ready to sign over your first-born.” He chuckled. “Of course, you never liked that kid much anyway, did you?”
When Marshall founded the Angels of Democracy twelve years before, Guthrie had come along as his Operations Commander. Shortly afterward, the two men took early retirement to focus on the group. Guthrie made out better on his retirement plan than Marshall, largely due to stock options, but the financial side of the organization had been a struggle from the beginning.
“Whatever it is,” said Jasper, “it was important enough for them to pay our way out here.”
“That’s about the equivalent of buyin’ a candy bar for those guys. Tell you one thing, though: when you talk to the Haft brothers, you’d better hold on to the fillings in your teeth. Way I hear it, they can take ‘em out without you even knowin’.”
The unassuming main entrance to Haft Industries was set into a twelve-foot high chain link fence that surrounded the complex in all directions. An armed security guard checked their credentials, then printed out a map to the building that housed the offices of Sheldon and Richard Haft. The Hyundai passed several miles of production facilities, squat buildings that resembled airplane hangars.
“Look at this,” marveled Guthrie. “These boys own some acreage, don’t they?”
“So it appears.”
“Guess they can afford it.” He pulled up alongside a sleek, modern office building and checked the map. “Here we go, buddy. I’ll be out here if you need m
e.”
“Joey, thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“Nothin’ to it,” he grinned. “If you’re not out in a couple of hours, I’ll call the police. You hold on to those teeth, hear?”
On the top floor of the building, the elevator opened to a sprawling suite of offices. Another armed security guard checked Jasper’s appointment slip and wordlessly motioned him to the right. He opened the door marked Sheldon Haft, President and Chief Executive Officer.
“Good morning, Mr. Marshall! Thank you so much for coming.”
The woman shook his hand firmly. She was perhaps sixty, with perfectly coifed gray hair; she wore a tweed suit accented with a single string of pearls.
“Well, thank you very much for having me. Would you be Mrs. Haft, by any chance?”
“Oh, dear.” The woman laughed. “No, I’m Mr. Haft’s executive secretary, but thank you for the compliment. Please come this way—Sheldon and Richard are expecting you.”
She led him into an elegant, wood-paneled room that contained more square footage than Jasper’s house in Pasadena. The brothers rose and greeted him with enthusiasm. They were tall and physically imposing, but their finely chiseled features somehow made them seem smaller. Their silver hair was thinning, and Sheldon wore delicate steel-rimmed glasses. Both men exuded a placid, genial self-confidence that put Jasper at ease. If you didn’t know better, you would have pegged them for senior accountants at a Big Four firm rather than two of America’s wealthiest industrialists.
“Have a seat, please, Mr. Marshall.” Sheldon motioned him toward a large, comfortable armchair, and the Hafts settled into an overstuffed sofa. A pile of file folders sat on the glass coffee table in front of Sheldon. Jasper’s attention was captured by a vividly colored mural mounted on the wall above the brothers.
“You’re familiar with Thomas Hart Benton?” asked Sheldon.
“I’ve seen some of his paintings in museums, yes. Also a lot of reproductions, but never anything that good.”
“It’s not a reproduction, actually,” said Sheldon pleasantly.
“Oh, I’m really sorry—“
“Not to worry.” He laughed. “We inherited the painting from our father. He bought it long before the price of these things shot through the ceiling.”
“We’re very glad you took us up on our invitation,” said Richard. “We know you’re busy, and we look forward to speaking with you.”
“Well, I’ll admit that I’m very curious as to why I’m here.”
“We’ll try to get directly to the point, although there are some facets of this situation that are a bit complicated.” Sheldon cleared his throat. “My brother and I have been following your organization, Mr. Marshall, and we like what we see. We’re very impressed with your operation.”
“Thank you very much.”
“How many members do you have now?”
“Slightly fewer than a thousand. Around nine hundred.”
“I thought it was more than that, but no matter. We have an intuitive feeling that you share many of our values and convictions.”
“That may well be, sir.”
“We might disagree on some specifics, but I think the three of us sense that the country is heading in the wrong direction. There are many policies of the current government that are contributing to this. But what we see when we look at the American landscape today is a nation that has lost its way—a place that once thrived on individual initiative and entrepreneurship, and which is now being weakened from within by dependence on the federal government. And for all that dependence, the government is sloppy and wasteful, a poor steward of our resources.”
“That sounds about right to me.”
“Now, we’re aware that you live in Southern California, and we know that you’ve been involved in many of the issues surrounding our southern border. We know you have spoken out about the dangers of illegal immigration.”
“It’s a delicate issue, sir.”
“Of course, it is. But when we look at it, we see many disturbing things. There are highly skilled engineers, technicians and computer scientists who can’t get visas, who are subjected to a lengthy and very expensive process before they can enter the United States. At the same time, there’s a wave of immigrants pouring across the Mexican border every day, illegal and unskilled. I think we’re both aware that the government is subsidizing these people and footing the bill for their families.”
“That sounds on target, yes.”
“As you say, Mr. Marshall, it’s a delicate issue,” said Richard. “We’re not insensitive to the plight of these people. And we’re not against immigration: our great-grandfather came here from Germany in 1880, but he did so legally. And we’re certainly not opposed to hardship cases, people who face real dangers and persecution in their native countries.”
“Our feeling,” said Sheldon, “is that the border has become unbelievably porous because the current administration has hampered the agents patrolling it. It’s not a particularly nice thing to say, but we think the Atalas government supports illegal immigration from Mexico because they know those immigrants will ultimately become citizens. And when they do, they certainly are not going to vote Republican.”
The three men shared a laugh.
“So I’m wondering, sir—”
“You’re wondering where I’m going with this, and how it relates to you.”
“Yes.”
“As my brother said, we’re impressed with you and your organization,” said Richard. “We believe you stand for old-fashioned values of decency and responsibility. As far as we can see, you support the re-introduction of those values back into society, but in a compassionate way.”
“Generally speaking, sure.”
“But I think it’s probably fair to say that you’re hampered by a lack of money.”
“Pretty much so. I think we could have a much greater impact, but nobody’s ever heard of us.”
“Precisely. That’s why we’d like to make an investment in you and your operation.”
“Really?”
“Let’s look at the situation on our southern border for a moment,” said Sheldon. “It stretches for nearly two thousand miles. There are forty-five legal border crossings, with 330 ports of entry. Yet we have something like 500,000 people coming across illegally each year. There’s some dispute about the numbers, particularly how many are caught or turned away, but the general consensus is that we’re netting at least 200,000 illegal immigrants annually. Now, we know that those people aren’t climbing into the family Buick and heading to one of the forty-five stations. They’re coming across rivers, climbing over mountains in rural areas, or being transported in trucks by professional guides.”
“True.”
“Most people don’t realize that the Border Patrol only controls about 700 miles of our border with Mexico, and they’re only empowered to intercept immigrants over about 130 miles of that land. We constantly hear about the 17,000 Border Patrol agents, but most of those people are sitting around at legal crossings, waiting for the Buicks. So the first thing we need to do is expand the enforcement zone for those agents.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“We have the machinery in place now,” said Sheldon affably. “It’s working its way through Congress. Either we’ll get formal legislation, or some committee will pass a resolution.”
“That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“It’s just the beginning. After we’ve expanded the enforcement zone, though, the reality is that there won’t be more than a few hundred agents clustered in one place. That’s not enough to do the job. They’ll need some backup, and we think that’s where you’ll be able to come in.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Say we step in and fund your organization so that it expands rapidly. We isolate the four or si
x most vulnerable spots on the border, the places with the highest illegal traffic. We double the amount of manpower, thus more than doubling the number of arrests. But we do it in a sensible, peaceful way.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Jasper, “and please correct me if I’m wrong. You want me to expand the Angels of Democracy, place men on the Mexican border and arrest illegal immigrants?”
“No, no,” said Sheldon patiently. “You won’t arrest them. You’ll be functioning in exactly the same way as you behave now—as Good Samaritans, people who enhance the fabric of the country by assisting law enforcement and promoting harmony.”
“How many people are we talking about?”
“We’ve targeted six crucial areas,” said Richard. “These are places with the highest volume of illegal immigrants and the lowest number of Border Patrol agents. Assume for a moment that you hire two hundred Angels of Democracy to assist each of those areas. The impact will be tremendous.”
“Sir, with all due respect, this is going to cost a fortune. You’d have to pay those guys at least forty or fifty thousand dollars a year. On top of that you’d have to train them, give them uniforms, equipment and a headquarters to work out of. That’s at least $75,000 per person in expenses. You’re talking $18 or $20 million per location, multiplied by six.”
“Actually, you’re pretty close. We’ve done some studies on this.” Sheldon reached for one of the file folders on the table. “The estimated figure is $17.3 million per year for each new location. It would drop significantly after that, because you have a one-time cost in material.”
“Still, this would cost well over $100 million the first year. That’s a lot of money.”
“Mr. Marshall,” said Richard, “we could raise the money tomorrow by selling that painting on the wall above my head, the one you like so much. But don’t worry. We’re as fond of it as you are, so we wouldn’t sell it. Rest assured that we have the resources.”
