Hassan knew from his cousin that the president, without Prescott’s knowledge, also benefitted from Muslim Brotherhood money that made its way into his campaign coffers. There was no way the president could have ignored the demand of the Brotherhood to restore its assets. To do so would be political suicide, especially with his re-election campaign already gearing up.
Before Hassan met with the reporter from the Post, he had to know if anyone involved with Sheikh Qasseer’s camps were involved in shooting down the jetliner. He paid for their untouched drinks and left, pausing on the sidewalk to use his cell phone before he hailed a cab. He searched through his contacts and quietly called the man who ran the largest of the camps 340 miles away in West Virginia.
“Assalamu Alaykum, Brother Jameel,” Mark Hassam said softly in greeting.
“And peace be upon you also, Brother Mark,” Jameel Marcus answered. “Heard you are buying more land for us.”
“We made an offer out west. I haven’t heard from the owner yet.”
“More camps are needed. People are begging to join us.”
“How are things, Jameel?”
“I have fifty young men who seem receptive. We could use more money to spread around, though.”
“I’ll see what I can do. How are the other camps doing?”
“Okay. We’re the biggest, but the others are doing okay?”
“Anyone out west, say in California, who’s graduated and found his way?”
“That is my highest hope, and I believe one has,” Jameel Marcus answered, adopting a line from the Muslim Brotherhood’s creed to answer the veiled question.
“All right, my brother, keep up the good work.”
Damn, he thought, as he slipped the phone into his coat pocket. Jameel, a black felon from Chicago who converted to Islam while in prison, confirmed his worst fear. Jameel, a soldier in the Army of Allah, was boasting in his own way that one of their soldiers was responsible for bringing down the jetliner in Los Angeles.
Hassan flagged down a cab coming his way. It was time to meet the distinguished member of the Fourth Estate who owed him a favor, and spin the story the way his boss suggested. Far away from any search for terrorists operating from a string of secluded camps run by the Army of Allah.
CHAPTER 11
Drake was in his office early Tuesday morning. He was going over the foundation attorney’s twelve-page proposal to buy the Alpine Ridge Ranch, when his secretary came in. Margo and her husband lived in Drake’s old condo directly above the office. A private back stairway connected the two units
“Morning Margo,” Drake called down from the loft. “Grab a cup of coffee and join me.”
When she walked up and sat in front of his desk, her red and puffy eyes told him that the treatment the oncologist recommended for her husband was more aggressive than she’d hoped it would be.
“I’m guessing you didn’t sleep well last night,” he said.
Margo sipped her coffee. “Good guess. They want to operate.”
“How soon?”
“The day after tomorrow. They’re going to do a radical retropubic prostatectomy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Margo. Go take care of Paul. There’s nothing here that won’t keep until after his surgery.”
“He’s at work. He wants to make sure his cases are reassigned to detectives he likes. So you’re stuck with me for the day. Besides, I could do with thinking about something else for a while. What are you working on?” she asked.
“I’m reviewing an offer to buy the ranch where we stayed Saturday night. Why don’t you go through this and break out the contingencies.”
She stood and glanced at the letter he handed her. “What’s the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation?”
“Good question. Officially, it’s a 503(c)(3) charitable religious foundation headquartered in Washington, D.C. They want to buy the ranch to work with inner city Muslim kids. They’re well-funded and well-connected, but something’s not right. This offer, for example. If anyone objects to any of their activities on the ranch, they want to be able to walk away and get their money back. Either they’re paranoid or planning on upsetting the neighbors from the git-go.”
Margo took the offer and her cup of coffee and headed down to her desk, and the solitude it provided her for the morning. It was a place where she could focus on something other than her husband’s cancer and news of the tragedy in Los Angeles.
Drake sat back in his chair. There was no way he could advise Steve Simpson to accept the offer, despite the windfall that was being offered. It wasn’t a purchase as much as it was a proposal to temporarily lease the ranch for some unspecified purpose. What he couldn’t get his head around was why this foundation was involved in something like this in the first place. There were plenty of ways to give kids a camp experience without buying a four thousand acre cattle ranch.
One way to find out about the foundation was to call his father-in-law, the senior U.S. Senator from Oregon. Maybe Congressman Rodecker knew something about the foundation and shared it with the senator. Accounting for the time difference between left and right coast, he saw that he might reach the senator before he left his office for lunch.
Drake found the senator’s office number on his contact list and called.
“Senator Hazelton’s office, may I help you?”
“Yes, please tell the senator his son-in-law is calling.”
Drake hadn’t seen the senator and his wife, Meredith, since Christmas when they were in Oregon for the holidays. Since Kay died, they were the only family he had left and he missed spending time with them.
“Adam, sorry to keep you waiting,” Senator Hazelton apologized as he came on the line.
“I’m the one interrupting your day, Senator,” Drake said. “Do you have a minute, or should I call you at home tonight?”
“Fire away. We’re having a working lunch in the office. I have as much time as you need.”
“I have a new client,” Drake explained. “The owners of the ranch near Klamath Falls you called me about. Something called the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation is trying to buy the place. Are you familiar with this foundation?”
“Give me a second to close my door,” Senator Hazelton said, “and we’ll talk.”
Drake heard the senator clearing his room and then returning to the phone.
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Adam. That foundation is what we’re working on right now. Congressman Rodecker came to see me again. Now he’s getting pressure from a lobbyist from that foundation to support a bill he doesn’t like.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“If he voted for Senator Boykin’s bill when it reached the House, they’d make sure no one ever questioned anything about the donation.”
“I don’t follow,” Drake said. “Why would anyone question the donation? The foundation’s a registered 501(c)(3), isn’t it?”
“It is, but the rumor is the foundation’s funding is foreign money. They haven’t filed the required reporting forms, so no one knows for sure. But some of us are questioning why they haven’t been penalized for late filing.”
“So what’s the Boykin Bill?”
“Senator Boykin’s bill will release all U.S. assets of the Muslim Brotherhood that we froze at the request of the new Egyptian government,” Senator Hazelton explained.
“I see,” Drake said. “Do you know a lawyer by the name of Mark Hassan, with the Prescott Group?”
“I do. Why?” the senator asked.
“He’s the lawyer making the offer for my client’s ranch.”
“Have you met him?”
“There’s no need to meet him,” Drake answered. “The offer is unacceptable. I can tell him that from here.”
“Let me suggest something, Adam. What if you tell Hassan your client has concerns about the
offer that might be negotiable? That you’re going to be in Washington and would be willing to meet with him,” Senator Hazelton said. “Hassan’s the one pressuring Congressman Rodecker. You could help me figure out what’s going on with this foundation and this bill his firm is quarterbacking for Senator Boykin.”
“I can’t right now, Senator. Margo’s husband is having prostate surgery the day after tomorrow, and I need to be here for her. Maybe in a couple of days, when I can fly the friendly skies again.”
“Just come when you can,” Senator Hazelton requested. “There’s something that smells about all of this.”
Drake nodded in agreement as he ended the call.
Senator Hazelton was the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. If he had reason to be suspicious of the American Muslim Youth Camps Foundation, Drake’s suspicions were confirmed. Perhaps meeting the lawyer would give them all some answers, even if the odds were slim it would change his mind about the offer. It would, however, give him a chance to see his in-laws and the senator’s national security advisor, Liz Strobel.
CHAPTER 12
John Prescott stepped out of the elevator on the top floor of his building, and entered the lobby of his firm with a big smile on his face. He greeted his receptionist, Tamika, by name and walked to where his secretary stood at her desk. Marlene handed him the morning’s phone messages and a copy of the Washington Post newspaper.
When she helped him off with his overcoat and hung it in the closet in his office, he sat down at his desk to read the Post. The story above the fold revealed that the FBI was looking for an Iraqi vet with PTSD in California as a “possible person of interest” in the downed jetliner investigation. While the vet wasn’t called “a person of interest” yet, the story strongly implied that he was and would be apprehended soon.
Mark Hassan called the night before and told him about his meeting with the reporter from the Post. Hassan assured him that he would be pleased with the story that was going to run, and Prescott was forced to agree. It was a good story and certainly deflected the spotlight away from talk of Islamic terrorism. It was crazy how corrupted the press had become.
Prescott finished the Post story and was reviewing his scheduled appointments for the day, when his secretary knocked lightly on the door. “The White House is calling on line one, sir,” she told him.
“I’ll send a car for you,” a now familiar voice commanded when he picked up the receiver. “Meet me at Off The Record in an hour.”
Prescott started to respond that the famous bar at the Hay-Adams Hotel didn’t open until 11:30 a.m. when his summoner ended the call. As he hung up, he reminded himself that Layla Nebit would know the bar’s hours. He also knew that when the bar opened to the public didn’t mean a thing to the Princess of Power in the West Wing.
He had enough time for the two phone calls he needed to make before his meeting. The first was to Mark Hassan.
“I’m meeting with Layla Nebit in an hour. How are we coming on Senator Boykin’s bill?” he asked.
“The Senate won’t be a problem, as expected. The House is wary of the bill, but most of the representatives have been contacted by the Muslim spokesman in their districts. I think the majority of them are afraid of being called Islamophobes. There are a few new members in the House who are organizing opposition. I’m still worried about them,” Mark Hassan reported.
“How many are there?”
“Five.”
“What do we have that we can use against them?”
“They’ve all received small contributions from the American Muslim Youth Camps Foundation, but that’s all we have so far.”
“Do what you need to do to crush any opposition,” Prescott ordered. “Get back to me by the end of the day. I’ll tell Nebit we have it handled. Don’t make me a liar.”
Prescott’s second call was to his source in the FBI.
“Let me guess,” Josiah Bennett, the deputy director of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division, said. “You have a lunch meeting and you need to know what we’ve learned about the jetliner.”
Prescott faked surprise. “Josiah, I’m appalled that you would think that. I thought we might have lunch sometime this week.”
“If you’re buying? Now, what is it you want to know, John?”
“Have you found the vet you’re looking for?”
“Damn reporters,” Bennett snorted. “I have no idea how that story got started. There is no vet with PTSD that we have any reason to believe was involved with bringing down that jetliner. The MANPAD tube we found was a Soviet SA-24. No one wants to say the ‘T’ word, but this has foreign terrorist involvement written all over it.”
“How long before that gets out?” Prescott asked.
“The way this White House controls the media, who knows.”
“All right, thanks, Josiah. I’ll be in touch.”
Prescott sat back in his chair. When he’d arrived an hour ago, he thought the prospects for the Boykin Bill looked good. Now, they were starting to darken like the clouds in the gray winter sky outside.
He needed to rethink what to tell Nebit. As soon as the manhunt focused on foreign terrorism, any link the White House had to the Muslim Brotherhood would become toxic, especially for someone like Nebit. Given their working relationship, it would rapidly turn toxic for him as well.
The press had looked the other way when her family’s ties to the Brotherhood were first rumored. Only talk radio and conservative pundits voiced concern. But, that wouldn’t be the case this time. They would sharpen their claws as soon as terrorism became the word of the day. The fact that she was one of the most powerful people in D.C. would only postpone the inevitable for so long.
The trick was going to be keeping the White House happy, until he found a back door he could sneak out of. At the moment, however, all he could see was a solid brick wall as long as he was seen as Nebit’s lapdog. Maybe it was time to change that perception.
Prescott walked through the lobby of the Hay-Adams Hotel and made his way downstairs to the Off The Record bar. She was sitting alone and he was stunned to see her slender hand wrapped around the stem of a martini glass. The usually controlled woman never drank during business hours.
Nebit signaled to the bartender to bring another for Prescott, before he sat down.
“We have a problem,” she said, and handed him a plain manila folder. “No one outside the White House has seen this.”
Prescott opened the folder and stared at the single page inside.
In the name of Allah, the most merciful, you have been warned.
Unless all of the demands listed below are fulfilled, your planes will continue to fall from the sky.
Stop supplying the rebels in Syria.
End all financial and military aid to Israel.
End the President’s drone program immediately.
Release all Guantanamo detainees immediately.
There are 49 remaining SA-24’s in America.
To make sure that you understand this message, another will be used today.
Allah’s Sword
“When did you get this?” he asked.
“It was on the back seat of my limousine this morning,” she said. “I have no idea how it got there.”
Prescott waited for the bartender to leave after his martini was delivered. “My god, Layla. What’s the President doing about this?”
“Hoping this isn’t real,” she said, with a tight smile. “He’s screaming at the Director of National Intelligence at the moment. I had to leave.”
She’s looking for a way to distance herself from this disaster too, Prescott thought. Maybe there is a way we can both survive this. “What do you need from me?” he said.
She finished off her martini and leaned closer. “You know this town, John. What options will we have if another plane is shot down?”
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br /> CHAPTER 13
Drake was running along Worden Road a half mile from his farm before sunrise Wednesday morning when his watch vibrated signaling an email. He wasn’t sure about the new Dick Tracy gadget. His secretary insisted that he try it out, so he’d stay in better touch with the office.
He’d decided to take the morning off and get in a good run. He needed to find a way to get to Washington as soon as possible, but he figured the message would wait until he finished his five-mile run.
“Come on, Lancer,” he said to his dog running beside him. “I’ll race you home.”
Drake watched as Lancer put his head down and sped off. Show off, he thought. Drake increased his pace and chased after his dog. When he reached the long gravel driveway leading up to his house, Lancer was waiting with his tail wagging, ready to play again.
“Stay,” Drake commanded and jogged up the two hundred yard driveway. When he was fifty yards from the old stone farmhouse, he whistled for Lancer to join him and sprinted for home.
He’d reached the first step on the back porch and before he could turn around, felt a not-so-gentle nudge on his right glute, as Lancer tagged him.
“Looks like you lost, big guy,” he laughed, as he scratched behind his dog’s ears. “Maybe that will stop your gloating when we reach the driveway on our run.”
Drake opened the door and followed Lancer through the mud room to the kitchen, where he opened a can of grain-free protein dog food. When his dog was happily attacking his breakfast, he checked his email message. It wasn’t from his secretary. It was from the woman he was hoping to see again when he got to D.C.
“CALL ME. IT’S IMPORTANT!”
Drake found her number.
“Hi Liz,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Congressman Rodecker’s in the hospital,” Liz said. “Senator Hazelton wants you here as soon as possible.”
Drake sat down at his kitchen table and asked, “What happened?”
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 4
