Knockdown
Page 17
Cavanaugh’s beefy face got even redder.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be speaking to the White House later today,” he said. “Then we’ll see just how high and mighty you are.”
“Yeah, I guess we will,” Barry said.
Cavanaugh turned to include Gretchen in his ire for the first time since entering the room.
“I haven’t forgotten about you, Ms. Rogers. I’ll be speaking to the Secretary shortly, as well, and I’m going to recommend in the strongest possible terms that you be suspended. When you found out what Agent Rivers was doing, you should have arrested him rather than joining in his lawless behavior. Have you never even heard of due process? Those men you shot at the freight yard were either American citizens or else were here in this country legally.”
Barry said, “So were the men who hijacked those planes on 9/11.”
Cavanaugh ignored that and went on, “It’s entirely possible that all three of you will be arrested on murder charges before the day is over.”
“Are we to consider ourselves in custody, then?” Jake asked tightly.
Cavanaugh looked like he wanted to say yes, but after a second, he shook his head.
“Not at this point. If any of you leave this jurisdiction, however, you’ll be considered fugitives.” Cavanaugh looked around the room, snapped, “That’s all,” and walked out, his back stiff with obvious anger.
An ominous quiet hung over the room for a long moment before Walt Graham sighed.
“Cavanaugh was right,” he said. “You’re lucky, all three of you. I’m not sure why he didn’t just have you arrested.” Graham looked at Barry. “Could be he’s a little leery of the pull you’ve got. He knows you have some friends in high places.”
“Maybe,” Barry said with a shrug. “After all this, maybe not.”
In a hollow voice, Jake said, “The worst part about it is that, in a way, he’s right. Some of those innocent people wouldn’t have died if we hadn’t been trying to stop the Zaragosa cartel from getting Saddiq into the country.”
“Don’t do that,” Barry said sharply. “Don’t take their evil on your shoulders. They’re the ones who pulled the trigger. Nobody forced them to.”
Graham said, “Barry’s right. Don’t try to rationalize what they’ve done. There’s no excuse for any of it. None.”
Jake knew they were right. He said, “What are we going to do now, Mr. Graham?”
A grunt of humorless laughter came from Graham.
“You heard Cavanaugh. You’re suspended, Rivers. You won’t be doing anything.”
“But this wasn’t the end of Saddiq’s plan. As bad as it would have been if we hadn’t interfered with their plans, derailing that train in the freight yard wasn’t nearly dramatic enough. They wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to get Saddiq into the country just for that.”
The creases on Graham’s forehead deepened as he said, “That sounds suspiciously like you’re planning to continue poking your nose into this.”
Barry said, “Do you have any confidence that a bunch of Deep State bureaucrats like Cavanaugh will actually investigate what’s going on? Or will they concentrate on damage control and covering up anything and everything that might make them and their agencies look bad?”
Gretchen spoke up, saying, “Homeland Security’s not like that. We’ll get to the bottom of this, you can count on it.”
“If you really believe that, sweetheart,” Barry said, “I’ve got some of that proverbial oceanfront property in Arizona to sell you.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she snapped. “Or honey, or dear, or anything else like that.”
Barry held up his hands, palms out. “Sorry. You’ve got to remember I’m a dinosaur, a relic of the patriarchy.”
“Well, you don’t have to revel in being out of touch with the times.”
Barry shrugged and grinned at her, then turned back to Graham, “I want to get my truck. I left it up on Las Cruces.”
“I can send someone to get it,” Graham said.
“No, you can’t. There are fail-safes. It can only be started in certain ways.”
“You didn’t booby-trap it, did you? Is somebody else going to get hurt?”
“No, of course not.” Barry paused. “Probably not. But I still think you need to let me pick it up. I’ll bring it back down here.”
“Blasted right you will. I’m sending a couple of men with you to make sure of it.”
“That’s fine,” Barry said. “And I want Jake to come along, too.”
“Why?” Graham’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Barry?”
“Me? Nothing.”
Barry’s tone of mock innocence didn’t fool anyone in the room.
“Well, I haven’t been suspended yet,” Gretchen said. “Not officially. So I’m going along, too.”
“Fine. I don’t trust any of you, so having you all in the same place with my agents keeping an eye on you is probably a good idea.” Graham looked from one to the other of the three of them. “But I’m warning you right now . . . if you try anything else crazy, there won’t be a thing in the world I can do to help you.”
“You don’t need to worry about us,” Barry said. “It’s Bandar al-Saddiq—and whatever he’s got planned for this country—that ought to be on your mind. Because I’ve got a hunch it’s not going to be anything good.”
CHAPTER 40
The Pacific Northwest
The driveway to reach the estate was actually an asphalt road that climbed more than a mile to the top of a hill with a spectacular view of waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of a steep cliff. The ocean stretched as far as the eye could see to the west.
The house was a massive fortress of stone, concrete, steel, and glass arranged in a stunning vision of cubist architecture. Few, if any, would call the place pretty, but no one who laid eyes on it would ever forget it.
A vast parklike area surrounded the mansion. Walking and biking paths serpentined their way through groves of trees and colorful flower beds. Nearer the house were tennis courts, an Olympic swimming pool, and a helipad. Clearly, whoever lived here was as rich as Midas, with such a staggering amount of wealth that it was almost meaningless.
When one could buy anything, what was the point of life? Bandar al-Saddiq asked himself that question as the luxury car in which he rode rounded the last turn in the long driveway and he got his first good look at the bizarre castle on top of the hill.
The driver was a jovial, round-faced man, who, after several futile attempts at making friendly conversation, had given up the effort. The man sitting next to Saddiq was a much more somber sort, with close-cropped dark hair and the bulge of a weapon under his suit coat. He was a professional security man, either privately employed by the man who owned this estate or a member of an executive protection firm. Saddiq had seen plenty of them over the years. He had said almost nothing during the drive from the private airport where Saddiq had been picked up after the flight from Texas in his host’s jet.
“Why wasn’t I brought out here on a helicopter, instead of making this long drive?” Saddiq asked when he noticed the helipad.
“The chopper’s got mechanical problems right now,” the driver replied with a glance over his shoulder.
“Your employer doesn’t have more than one?” Saddiq asked dryly. “Judging by the looks of this place, I would think he’d have an entire fleet of them.”
“Well, actually, he does own several more of ’em. But they’re all in use at other locations right now. Far-flung business empire and all, you know.”
“Of course.”
Saddiq looked over at the expressionless bodyguard. The man might as well have not even heard the conversation, for all the reaction he showed.
The road turned into a circular driveway. The man at the wheel followed it around the house—which actually looked a little like something out of a nightmare to Saddiq—past the swimming pool and tennis courts, past a large garage with room for at least a dozen vehicles, pa
st a barn and stables with an attached corral in which four magnificent horses grazed, and through the park to a small, graveled circle with a gazebo in it.
To the left of the gazebo was a golf driving range, to the right a gun range with a long open shed where several people could stand to shoot. There was also a machine to throw clay pigeons for skeet shooting.
No one was at the gun range, but a lone man stood at one of the tees with a golf club in his hands. He drew it back, poised for a second, and hit his drive. It flew straight and true, at least two hundred yards. Saddiq didn’t know much about golf, but he was impressed anyway.
The man turned away from the tee and put his club back in a golf bag that was sitting nearby. He wore khaki trousers and a polo shirt. He was in his sixties, or perhaps his seventies. His eyes had the deepest bags under them that Saddiq had ever seen on a human being. The man reminded him a little of a basset hound, only instead of drooping, his ears stuck out straight from his head like wings. The large skull between them was naked and shiny. A small tuft of silver hair adorned his chin.
“Welcome to my home,” the man greeted Saddiq in a gravelly voice. He put out his hand. “I’m Alexander Sherman.”
“Mr. Sherman,” Saddiq said as he shook hands with the American billionaire, overcoming the natural revulsion he felt at such familiarity with an infidel. “It’s good to meet you at last.”
“I feel the same way,” Sherman assured him. “I heard that you had a little . . . trouble on your way here.”
“On my way into the country, yes. But not since then.”
“My apologies for the inconvenience. I was told that Francisco Zaragosa would be the best man to handle the job.”
Saddiq shrugged and said, “There was nothing wrong with his plan, really. It was just that two extremely stubborn individuals took it upon themselves to stick their noses into something that was none of their business.”
“Yes, I know the men of whom you speak. I assure you, they will be dealt with.”
“They ruined our operation in El Paso, too,” Saddiq said. He tried to control the fury that burned within him, but it threatened to boil to the top and explode.
Sherman waved a thick-fingered hand and said, “Not at all, not at all. The end results matter less than the fact that there was another terrorist attack directed at a railroad. That’s the second one in less than a week.”
“Yes,” Saddiq agreed. “But it draws attention to what we’re doing without the sort of damage we wanted and anticipated.”
“No matter.” Sherman laughed. “It’s still plenty to scare people, and that’s what we’re after!” He gestured toward a golf cart parked nearby. “Come on, let’s go to the house. My chef is preparing dinner. Everything will be halal, I assure you.”
For some reason, that assurance annoyed Saddiq, but he put a smile on his face and got into the golf cart. Sherman put his golf bag in the storage area behind the seat and then climbed in next to Saddiq. The bodyguard stepped up onto the back of the cart and hung onto its frame, obviously intending to ride back to the house with them.
“Harry, just put the car out front. You’ll be taking Mr. Saddiq back to the city later,” Sherman told the driver. He started the golf cart and followed the asphalt drive back toward the monstrosity that was his home.
As they approached the place, Sherman chuckled and said, “Ugly son of a gun, isn’t it?”
“The house, you mean? No, it’s quite striking.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Sherman said. “It looks like something a toddler would build out of blocks. I know that. But it serves my purpose. Only a filthy rich eccentric would live in an eyesore like this, right?”
“You . . . want to be considered eccentric?” Saddiq asked with a frown.
“Eccentric and colorful. When you act like that, people laugh at you behind your back. When they laugh at you, they don’t take you seriously.” Sherman looked over at Saddiq, who realized suddenly that the older man’s gray eyes were as cold as chips of ice. “And when they don’t take you seriously, they don’t pay any attention to what you’re really doing.”
For the first time, Saddiq thought that perhaps Allah had brought him together with a suitable partner in the war against the Great Satan.
Sherman had reached out through intermediaries in Paris and let it be known that he wanted to get in touch with an ambitious young leader in the network of Islamist terror groups. Saddiq had investigated the man as thoroughly as he could from long distance and had not been impressed. Sherman struck him as a buffoon. But a very rich buffoon, and there was a chance he might prove to be a useful idiot.
America was full of those.
Now, however, Saddiq saw that Sherman might bring something to their partnership other than limitless funds. Whatever the man was really after, he believed in it. Saddiq had seen that in his eyes.
For the moment, Sherman resumed his charming patter as he drove the golf cart to the garage and left it there for someone else to deal with. The casual, uncaring nonchalance of the very rich.
Another bodyguard was waiting at what Saddiq assumed was the house’s rear door. Both black-suited men fell in behind Sherman and Saddiq as the American led the way into the house.
It was as luxurious inside as it was odd-looking outside. Spanish tile, gleaming marble, gold and silver and chrome, thick carpet, paintings and sculptures that should have been in a museum somewhere, every sort of electronic gadget imaginable . . . Everywhere Saddiq looked was something else that loudly proclaimed Alexander Sherman’s wealth.
A woman in a burqa met them in a large, comfortably furnished room with one wall that was almost entirely glass. The view was of the pine-topped cliff rising on the other side of a little cove.
“Bring us juice,” Sherman told the woman, who bowed slightly and withdrew. He turned to Saddiq and went on, “I’ve told my servants to dress so that their appearance won’t be offensive to you.”
“That was not necessary, but it is appreciated,” Saddiq said with a smile. “Even in the short time I’ve been here in America, I have seen many women dressed shamelessly. This will be different someday.”
“If good fortune smiles on us, it will be.”
Saddiq decided to be blunt. He said, “Mr. Sherman, you are not Muslim.”
“Nope, not even close. I was raised a Catholic, but I left the Church—or the Church left me, however you want to put it—and these days religion has no real part in my life. I’m more interested in something that will actually help people.”
“You do not believe that religion serves a purpose?”
Sherman shrugged and said, “It helps some people get through the misery of their lives, I suppose. Pie in the sky by and by, by and by. I’d rather change things right here on Earth, in this life.” He seemed to be warming to his subject as he went on. “This country is deeply, severely flawed at its core. It’s badly in need of real, fundamental change.”
Saddiq cocked his head to the side and said, “I believe you supported someone who claimed he would bring fundamental change to this country. For his trouble, his defenders were soundly rebuked and almost everything he accomplished was demolished by the one who came after him. That trend has continued, has it not?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I really thought he would make a difference; that was why I helped get him elected. But then he turned out to be just a slick bag of hot air, and the country turned their backs on us.” Sherman’s voice had started to tremble with anger. He drew in a deep breath and controlled himself. “That’s water under the bridge. Mistakes were made. But I learned from those mistakes. I learned that you have to break something apart before you can remake it in the image of what it should be.”
Again, the coldness in Sherman’s eyes made a tiny shiver go down Saddiq’s own spine. But they were getting down to the basics of what had brought him here, so he pressed on.
“These attacks on the railroads we have planned, their intended result is economic damage?”
Saddiq thought that his host was overstating the situation. If all the railroads were to collapse overnight and stop rolling, the situation would be bad, certainly. But other methods of transportation would take up the slack, and business would go on.
“And in a lot of places,” Sherman continued, “it’s not just goods. People don’t move without the railroads, either.”
Saddiq nodded. “The subways, the commuter trains . . . the famous El in . . . Chicago, is it?”
“That’s right. Every large city in this country has an extensive rapid transit system. What happens if people can’t get to work? Businesses don’t open. The whole thing snowballs. The stock market starts to drop, panic sets in . . . This country operates on a very delicate balance, my friend. It doesn’t take much to upset that balance.”
Saddiq didn’t consider this infidel his friend, but he didn’t correct the man. Instead, he said, “We have struck twice now at the railroads that carry freight—”
Sherman chuckled and said, “Yeah, I lost some business myself with that derailment in Nevada. One of my companies owns that hazardous waste containment facility, you know.”
“Yes, I am aware. But now that we have warned the Americans that their rail lines are at risk—”
“We wake them up even more,” Sherman interrupted again. He smiled. “We’re going to derail a commuter train on the Babylon Branch of the Long Island Rail Road.”
“Babylon . . .” Saddiq breathed. “A name from my part of the world.”
“That line is one of the busiest commuter rail lines in the country, if not the busiest. We take one of those trains off its tracks as it’s coming into a station, thousands of people will die.” Sherman lifted a finger. “It won’t be as symbolic as taking down the Towers, of course . . . but the death toll is what we want. We want people afraid to ride the trains. We want people afraid to go to work. That’s what will start the economy spiraling down, and once that happens, it’ll be impossible to stop.”