Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4)

by Scott Matthews

  Meredith motioned to the door for Drake to go in. “He wants a word with you in the library before dinner. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

  Senator Hazelton was sitting in a brown leather chair, with an opened bottle of bourbon on a round glass-topped iron end table beside him. He looked up from a file he was reading and stood. At sixty-one, his Paul Newman blue eyes still sparkled and his trademark well-trimmed silver mane was still full and thick.

  “Thanks for getting here so quickly, Adam,” the senator walked over and welcomed him with a quick man-hug. “Care for a drink?”

  “Sure,” Drake said, as he looked around the room while his father-in-law walked to a wet bar at the far end of the den. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered both walls, filled with an extensive collection of first edition books on American history, politics, and the Constitution.

  “I’ve added a few new ones since I had to move the collection here from Portland,” Senator Hazelton said, returning with a bourbon glass etched with an “H”. The Hazelton’s home had been destroyed when a team of terrorists fired a thermobaric grenade into it when the Secretary of Homeland Defense was visiting them for dinner.

  Drake poured himself two fingers of the amber whiskey and sat on the leather sofa facing the senator. “I asked Mike Casey to bring a two-man protection detail for Congressman Rodecker. He’ll be guarded for as long as we think that’s necessary.”

  “Sadly, I’m afraid it might be for a while,” the senator said, shaking his head. “I told you about our five young Turks in Congress. They’re working together to rally opposition to the Boykin Bill. Before Roger Rodecker was attacked, the other four thought they were being followed. This wasn’t a random attack. Someone was trying to intimidate all of them. Luckily, the others haven’t been bothered thus far.”

  “Is this bill that important?”

  “It is for the Muslim Brotherhood, certainly. Our releasing its assets would send a clear signal to the generals in Egypt that they may not have the support they think they have.”

  “But won’t strong-arm tactics only strengthen opposition to the bill?” Drake asked.

  “Sure,” the senator nodded. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but there are a lot of things going on that don’t make much sense. The Muslim Brotherhood has quietly exerted their influence before, without resorting to this type of behavior. No one is quite sure why they feel the need to do so now.”

  “Their democratically-elected president hadn’t been ousted before either,” Drake pointed out.

  Senator Hazelton raised his glass and conceded the point. “So, with that said, why is someone hitting us now?”

  Before Drake answered, the senator’s wife knocked on the door and announced that dinner was ready.

  As both men stood, Drake looked his father-in-law squarely in the eye and said, “Because they’re not afraid of us. Congress has allowed the president, unchecked, to undo everything we’ve fought for since 9/11.”

  “That’s not fair, Adam, even if it appears to be true,” Senator Hazelton said and motioned for Drake to walk ahead of him as they left the library. “As Commander in Chief, the president has the authority to bring our troops home, whenever he decides it’s time. The Constitution only gives us the power to declare war and authorize expenditures for it. WWII was the last time Congress actually declared war. Since then, all our presidents have pretty much done what they pleased.”

  “I didn’t mean any disrespect, senator,” Drake stopped and said before walking down the stairs. “But when I see the president trying to negotiate his way to peace without a word of protest from Congress, it makes me angry.”

  Drake started down, then turned on the first step and said, “You know as well as I do this is not an enemy you can trust, senator. President Jefferson understood that in 1801 when he created a navy to kick some Islamic butt in Tripoli. We need to keep doing the same until they beg for peace, not us.”

  When the two men reached the bottom of the stairs, Drake felt he’d said too much. He knew his view of the enemy was different than a politician’s who hadn’t seen the things he had. But the men who ran the country needed to get serious about people who declared war against you and weren’t going away, just because we withdrew troops from their part of the world.

  CHAPTER 17

  When Mohamed Hassan operated in America, he conducted his official business as an investment banker. His firm’s Washington, D.C. executive offices were in the historic Evening Star Building on Pennsylvania Avenue, 2,500 feet from the White House.

  As Washington worked to become the new Wall Street following the collapse of Lehman Brothers in 2008, most major investment firms opened offices there. The offices were placed in the capital to facilitate the demands of the U.S. government for financial intelligence around the world, but also to keep abreast of what the Federal Reserve was doing. Nothing moved the world markets like the decisions of the Fed’s governing board. Washington became the place to operate as an international investment banking firm. Outfits like Hassan’s Gulf Alliance Capital of London blended in perfectly.

  Washington also became a necessary base of operation for the Muslim Brotherhood, well before the eruption of the so-called Arab Spring. For the most part, the West that Islamists vowed to destroy was the Great Satan America; more so than its European puppets. To defeat the enemy, one had to know the enemy and what it was planning. Mohamed Hassan came to know his enemy very well. His lover was the one woman in America who knew all of its current secrets—Layla Nebit, the personal advisor of the president.

  Hassan drove his black Gembala Porsche 911 this night from the first floor underground parking level of the Evening Star Building out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. He headed to Layla’s ultra-chic millionaire condo in Georgetown. The two had been lovers since their meeting in London three years ago. Her seduction was planned as meticulously as any mission he’d been assigned. When she accompanied the president on a visit with the Prime Minister of England prior to a G12 conference, Hassan struck.

  Layla opened her door with a glass of champagne for him. She wore a black, sheer lace robe that did little to hide her black bra and panties.

  “You’re late,” she pouted.

  “Very nice” he said as he admired the view.

  “This isn’t just for you, Mohamed. I get tired of wearing business clothes all day.”

  “Of course, but you never dress like this for anyone in the White House,” he said feigning jealousy.

  She reached up and started to undue his necktie. “Of course not, not with this in mind anyway,” she teased as she pulled him inside.

  Later, they were sitting up against the pillows arranged along the tufted black satin headboard of her bed as they finished the last of the Veuve Champagne Cliq she preferred. He asked, “Is the president still willing to support our bill?”

  Layla set her empty champagne flute on the night stand and snuggled against him. “He wants to, but he doesn’t see how he can do anything right now that will appear to favor the Brotherhood.”

  “Doesn’t he realize,” Mohamed said patiently, “that if it’s discovered the MANPADs being used are the ones he’d gathered up in Libya and then supplied to the rebels in Syria, that he’ll be blamed? That’s what Iran and the Shias want. They want to embarrass America for being on the wrong side and fighting against Assad and Hezbollah in Syria. He needs to help us fight them, for his sake as well as ours.”

  Of late, she seemed to be more concerned with politics in her adopted country than the jihad they were both committed to.

  Hassan set his champagne glass down and lightly traced the curve of her breast against his chest with the tips of his fingers. “If the president was convinced Iran was responsible for shooting down the jetliners, would he be willing to take action?”

  “It’s possible,” she said, as she smiled up and slipped her hand slowly down his
chest. “But he would have to be certain Iran was behind this. There could be no mistake coming back to haunt him.”

  Later when he was sure the exhausted Layla wouldn’t wake up, Hassan slipped out of her bed. He made his way in the dark to the sofa nearest the balcony, retrieved his clothes and moved silently down the hall to her office.

  Her white MacBook Pro was asleep on her desk, and he opened it quickly to the file that contained her White House notes. He’d obtained her password from a keystroke device he used on the laptop not long after their affair began. Layla was the president’s most-trusted advisor and confidante. While she was a brilliant political strategist, she was also somewhat naïve about her role in the civilization jihad that began over thirty years ago.

  She was tasked by the Muslim Brotherhood to direct and influence the affairs of state by utilizing her close relationship to the current president. The Muslim Brotherhood’s plan was to destroy Western civilization from within by presenting Islam as an honorable alternative to the excesses of the West. By exploiting the policies of cultural relativism, multiculturalism, and diversity, along with intolerant political correctness, they would prove the American idea no longer worked.

  In this, they were remarkably successful, far more successful than the leadership of the Muslim Brotherhood dreamed possible. America was untethering itself from its historic underpinnings and was adrift. It was floundering in a choppy sea of secularism.

  But there was also a war being fought in the Middle East; between the aggressive and belligerent Shia Islamists, sponsored by Iran and led by Hezbollah, and the more patient Sunni jihadists.

  The Shiites of Iran could not be allowed to dominate the Middle East, or undo everything he, Layla, and the Muslim Brotherhood had achieved in America thus far.

  His plan to make sure that didn’t happen was simple. Sell MANPADS acquired in Syria by Sunni fighters to Sheikh Qasseer and encourage him to use them against America. Then make sure it was discovered the sheikh was acting as Iran’s proxy. With a whisper in the president’s ear that he needed to act against Iran, sit back, and let the might of America’s military destroy the enemy of the Brotherhood.

  As he downloaded the document, he fervently hoped Layla’s notes from her meetings with the president would help him accomplish all of that.

  CHAPTER 18

  The uproar across the country was instantaneous when the major networks broke the news Friday morning. It was confirmed, by an anonymous administration source that the second jetliner Wednesday evening was intentionally shot down.

  “CLOSE THE AIRPORTS!” the Washington Post demanded.

  “AIRLINES THREATEN FLIGHT CANCELLATIONS IF SAFETY CAN’T BE GUARANTEED,” the Los Angeles Times warned.

  “PRESIDENT PROMISES JUSTICE! CONSIDERS MARTIAL LAW,” the New York Times assured the nation.

  Radio talk show hosts were more critical.

  “If this president wasn’t blind, he’d see that al Qaeda isn’t on the run. It’s attacking us here because he didn’t finish the job over there,” a former congressman from a flyover state opined.

  “Try and negotiate your way out of this one, Mr. President,” another host challenged.

  Drake was having breakfast in the Savoy Suites Hotel with Mike Casey as he scanned the front page of the Post.

  “You think they know who they’re looking for?” Drake asked, refilling his coffee cup from the carafe on their table.

  Casey spread a generous amount of strawberry jam on his toast and said, “Not unless some group’s stupid enough to take credit for the two planes. The FBI keeps a close eye on the known terrorist groups operating here.”

  “That’s not going to help much with our open-border policy. Any terrorist with a shoulder-fired missile who wants to pay us a visit can find a way in. More than a million of the man-portable air defense system missiles have been manufactured in the world. Gadhafi alone had 20,000 of them, and 15,000 of his stockpile are reported missing in Libya.”

  “Well, if the airlines stop flying and the economy slams to a halt,” Casey said, pointing to the headline on the paper Drake had just put down, “they’d better find these guys pretty quick. When the funerals start showing up on TV, people will be in the streets if this drags on for very long.”

  Drake just shook his head. “Then imagine what will happen if martial law is declared.”

  “I can’t,” Casey said. “But, if that happens, I’m going to be back home with Megan and the kids.”

  “About us getting home, what’s the latest on Congressman Rodecker?” Drake asked.

  Casey took his cell phone out to call his protection team leader at the hospital. “I’ll check.”

  The other tables in the restaurant were being used, for the most part, by businessmen and women in the capital to do business in one form or another. He assumed a majority of them had flown to the capital. What were they thinking about the safety of their travel home? Would they trust the FAA when air travel was declared to be safe again? Would anyone ever feel safe in the air again?

  Casey finished the call. “Good news. They think he’s coming around. We should get over there.”

  Drake signed for their breakfast and asked for their rented Tahoe to be brought up. It was cold when they got outside to wait beside the valet stand. Despite the temperature, the sky was clear and held the promise of a sunny day.

  At the hospital, Casey led the way to the congressman’s private room on the sixth floor. Both men from the protection detail were standing in the hall outside the room.

  “The doctor and his team are inside,” Ryan Mitchell, the former Army Ranger told them as they approached. “They’re bringing him out of his coma. I just got here to change watch with Brad. He says the nurse he’s been flirting with told him we should be able to talk with the congressman soon.”

  “That’s good news,” Casey said. “You two go get some coffee. Drake and I will stay here and talk with the doctor when he comes out.”

  Before the two protectors reached the elevator down the hall, the door to the congressman’s suite opened and a pretty young nurse stepped out.

  “Doctor Wah will be out shortly,” she informed them. “You’ll be allowed a few minutes with the congressman, but don’t expect much. As I told Brad, the man you had guarding him, he might not be coherent right away. We understand that you need to speak with him, but please don’t agitate him.”

  Drake watched her walk away. “Brad has good taste.”

  “I only hire the best,” Casey said, with a grin. He was still grinning when the doctor joined them.

  “Since you’re not family,” Dr.Wah said curtly, “I can only give you a general accounting of his condition. He is conscious and in great pain. He was beaten savagely, but he will recover in time. He may not remember anything about the attack. Please do not pressure him to remember. You may see him, but only for a few minutes.” With that, the diminutive doctor turned and followed the nurse down the hall.

  Drake and Casey entered Congressman Rodecker’s room. One nurse inspected the bandages on his head, while another nurse checked to make sure all the monitoring leads were secure. The RN at the foot of the bed wrote notes on his chart. When they finished and left the room, Drake and Casey moved to each side of the congressman’s bed.

  His face was swollen and bruised, but his eyes were open and followed them intently.

  Drake leaned down and introduced himself. “My name is Adam Drake. I’m Senator Hazelton’s son-in-law. This is Mike Casey from Puget Sound Security. His men have been here protecting you, in case your attacker returned. Is there anything you can tell us that will help identify him?”

  Rodecker nodded slightly and spoke softly through swollen lips. “Twenties, black.” After two deep breaths, he continued, “Ragged beard, diamond in both ears.” Another pause, then, “Yelled that ‘Akbar’ thing… I smelled marijuana.”


  The beeping of the heart rate monitor accelerated and the RN returned and waved for them to leave.

  “That’s enough, out,” she said, as she shooed them out the door.

  In the hallway Casey said, “That’s not much to go on.”

  “No, but it points in one direction,” Drake responded.

  CHAPTER 19

  John Prescott was escorted to the Navy Mess on the ground floor of the West Wing of the White House, where he found Layla Nebit eating lunch. She was sitting at the head of a long table in the Ward Room of the mess, making notes on a legal pad next to a plate of Salad Nicoise. The red of the seared tuna nearly matched the color of the dark mahogany paneling in the small private room.

  Nebit took off her purple reading glasses and looked up at Prescott. “I thought you should know, the president is holding a press conference this afternoon. I’ve spent the morning going over the points I want him to make.”

  Prescott pulled out a chair and sat down. There wasn’t another place setting on the table and he clearly wasn’t invited to join her for lunch. “Are you going to blame Syria and Iran for shooting down the two airliners?”

  “He knows the idea was yours,” she said. “So for your sake, it had better work. He will announce that he’s sending another aircraft carrier and three more guided-missile cruisers to the Mediterranean. He will display the discarded tube from the Russian SA-24 MANPAD, and say we have clear evidence that it belonged to Hezbollah in Syria. He will also warn that any interference by Russia, in any action he may be forced to take in Syria, would be construed as an act of war.”

  Prescott sat back, stunned. “Layla, I never suggested that we go to war. I was thinking about a leak from some anonymous administration source, that you’re just looking into the possibility that Syria was responsible. The media would run with it and deflect attention away from any security lapses that may have occurred.”