Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4)

by Scott Matthews

  “He’s getting killed in the polls, John,” Nebit said firmly. “He needs to appear to be an angry leader, who won’t let innocent Americans be killed without someone being held accountable.”

  “For god’s sake Layla, we don’t have any evidence that Syria’s involved. What will he do if the threat of war doesn’t work, and another airliner’s shot down?”

  Nebit dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “We’ve got that covered. We’re going to protect all our major airports with drones. We’ll be able to spot any threat and take them out with the Sidewinder missiles they’ll carry. The Air Force assured us they can handle it.”

  Prescott focused on an oil painting of Valley Forge on the wall behind Nebit’s head. He knew how Americans were going to react with armed surveillance drones flying over all the major airports. They didn’t trust the government as it was, without armed drones flying over their heads.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.

  Nebit picked up her reading glasses and put them on. “Use the time you have to get ahead of this. Let your media contacts know that the president is confident the actions he’s prepared to take against Syria will end this crisis. Create the narrative that will make him look like our savior. You’ve done it before.”

  When she began making notes again on her legal pad, Prescott walked out of the Navy Mess without an escort. He knew his way, but wondered how many more times he’d be invited back if this fool’s errand he was being sent on didn’t work.

  Prescott’s reputation as an insider and power broker in Washington would not survive if the gambit they were playing failed. It was bad enough the president was willing to go along with Nebit’s plan to support a bill to release the holdings of the Muslim Brotherhood in America. This would bury them all.

  Trying to ‘wag the dog’ by blaming Syria to divert attention from a failure to defend the homeland while risking war with Syria and its ally, Russia, was madness. Worse, Prescott knew without a doubt that Nebit would make sure he was fingered as the man behind the plan, if it failed.

  As soon as he was alone in the back of his black Mercedes S600, he called his friend, Barry Marshall, the new executive editor of the Washington Post. Nebit might have the ear of the president, but he had the ear of the one man who could salvage his reputation if she tried to destroy him with this.

  “Barry, we need to have lunch today,” Prescott said when Marshall took his call. “Something big is in the wind. You need to know which way it’s blowing.”

  While he waited for confirmation on lunch, Prescott sat back and considered how far he was willing to go to sabotage the president’s plan to risk war just to improve his poll numbers. Outright betrayal was out of the question, but something had to be done, something that would give the president an out and still demonstrate that he could be trusted to protect the country.

  When his car was driving down the ramp to the underground parking at the Prescott Building, he decided what he had to do. He would reach out to the man who arranged for the funds he received to lobby for Muslims in America. If anyone had an idea about who was responsible for shooting down the two planes, this man would.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ryan Walker was an international banker with offices around the world. He handled the transfer of funds from abroad for the lobbying Prescott did in America. While Walker had never admitted the money he funneled to the Prescott Group came from the Muslim Brotherhood, Prescott suspected that it did. After he received the last five million dollars to lobby for Senator Boykin’s Bill, he was almost certain of it.

  Prescott told his secretary to hold his calls and get a hold of Ryan Walker when he stopped briefly at her desk. Alone in the sanctity of his office, where he’d accomplished so much for himself and his clients, he locked the door. He would have to choose his words carefully with the banker.

  When the intercom beeped, his secretary reported that Walker was in London. Prescott took out his encrypted smartphone, found the banker’s number in England, and sat at his desk while he waited for the call to go through.

  “Mr. Prescott, how are things in America?” Walker asked cheerfully. “I was coming to Washington next week, but decided to wait until someone stops shooting down your planes.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to hearing how things are in the rest of the world.”

  “The rest of the world, Mr. Prescott, is waiting for your president to make America safe enough for us to travel there.”

  “And how do you think he should do that, Mr. Walker? Invade Syria? Carpet bomb the Middle East?”

  Walker chuckled. “Oh come, Mr. Prescott. I’m sure there are defense contractors who would pay you handsomely to warmonger for actions like that. Personally, I think you would do well to concentrate your efforts a little closer to home.”

  Prescott paused as doubts began to creep into his mind. If Walker knew who was shooting airliners out of the sky, would he share the information? And could his information really be trusted? Did the man really know something, or was he just trying to appear to be worldly and wise?

  “And how close to home would that be, Mr. Walker?”

  “Right down the hall from your office, Mr. Prescott. Ask your man Hassan,” Walker said. “Now, I have a dinner to attend and I assume you have what you called for. Good evening, Mr. Prescott.”

  John Prescott sat looking at the message on the screen of his phone, telling him the call had ended. What in the world did Walker mean?

  Mark Hassan headed his Middle East division. He was responsible for the lobbying work they did for Middle Eastern clients, clients who had business with the government or American companies. Hassan was Egyptian by birth, certainly, but he’d grown up in America, the son of a Georgetown University professor of Middle East History. Mark Hassan was a bright young man, but his work was limited to clients Prescott brought in. He knew them all personally. None of them, he quickly hoped, would know anything about the deranged idiots who were shooting down airliners and killing hundreds of people.

  He put his encrypted phone away, unlocked his door and told his secretary to hold his calls for a little longer. Prescott moved back to his desk and jabbed the button for Mark Hassan’s extension on his phone set.

  When Hassan appeared at his door a minute later, Prescott waved him in. “Take a seat.”

  Mark Hassan unbuttoned his black cashmere blazer and sat in one of the two leather chairs in front of Prescott’s expansive cherry wood desk. Prescott studied him for a long minute.

  “Mark, you’ve headed my Middle East division for five years now. You’ve done all that I have asked you to do, and our clients like you. Do you like it here?”

  He watched the man blink twice, as he considered where the conversation might be going.

  “Yes, I like working for you. I hope you don’t doubt that.”

  “Sometimes an ambitious man like yourself is asked to work with a client that engages in activities that might not be a good fit for our book of business. That man might not want to jeopardize his own position and be tempted to keep his mouth shut, when he learns about things that client is doing. It’s a natural thing, something I understand. But it’s also something I cannot allow to happen. You understand that, I trust?”

  “Certainly,” Mark Hassan said and shifted his position in his chair, seeming uncomfortable with the turn of conversation.

  “Good. Then tell me, is there a client I should be worried about?”

  Hassan maintained eye contact, but his eyes squinted just a little and he pressed his lips together a little tighter than he normally did. “Why do you think you should be worried about any of our clients?” he asked.

  “Because I just had a conversation with an acquaintance in London, who intimated that you might know who’s responsible for shooting down these airliners.”

  He watched as Hassan lo
oked up at the ceiling for a moment, then slowly let out his breath before looking across the desk. Prescott felt his stomach tighten, as if he was about to be slugged in the gut.

  “It’s your client, the American Muslim Youth Camps Foundation, that might be Sheikh Qasseer’s front for terrorist camps in America, Mr. Prescott,” Hassan said with a slight smile. “And there’s a good chance the man who runs his largest camp in West Virginia is involved in the attacks.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The late morning temperature warmed to 12 degrees by the time Drake left the hospital.

  Casey was driving down Wisconsin Avenue NW and rubbernecking so much at the sights that Drake was about to ask him to change places and let him drive.

  “That’s the Old Stone House,” Casey said, as they drove by. “It’s the oldest house remaining in Washington, built in 1765.

  “What did you do, buy a guidebook for the capital?” Drake asked.

  “Damn straight. Had to have something to read, and I love this place. There’s so much history.”

  “Would you want to live here?”

  “No way!” Casey exclaimed. “Not sure I could afford it. Half the members of Congress are millionaires and the other half wants to be. The counties surrounding the capital are the wealthiest counties in the whole country.”

  “Think of all the new clients you could add,” Drake suggested. “Security work for our politicians, government contracts. You’d soon be among the wealthiest yourself.”

  “Nice try friend, but I’m happy in Seattle.”

  They turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue NW and swept around Washington Circle onto K Street. “Drop me off at the Prescott Building,” Drake said. “I may as well use the time before we meet Liz for lunch to see this foundation’s attorney. Why don’t you go see some of the sights you’ve been talking about? You can pick me up here in an hour, if that works for you.”

  “Roger that,” Casey said. “I’ll go see how the cherry trees are doing along the Tidal Basin. If this cold snap stays around too long, those blossoms might take a hit and I won’t get to see them in bloom.”

  “The Prescott Building is at the intersection of 11th and K Street,” Drake said. “It won’t take me long to hear this guy’s pitch about buying the resort.”

  “Good luck, go do your lawyer thing while I have some fun,” Casey said and pulled to the curb in front of the impressive Prescott Building.

  Drake got out of the car and paused in front of the Prescott Building before entering to admire the sight of a spectacular black Gemballa Porsche 911 parked curbside. The owner of the car, if he worked in the building, was either very brave or very rich to leave a car like this unattended.

  “Now that’s my kind of sightseeing,” Drake muttered to himself.

  Gemballa was a German company that tuned and modified one of the world’s finest sports cars with its own aftermarket parts, to produce a true supercar. Seeing the Porsche beauty made him want to return to Oregon and take a scenic drive somewhere in his own 911.

  Drake tore himself away from the sight and entered the building. The Prescott Group was the only tenant on the top floor.

  He took the elevator up and walked out to meet a young receptionist in the center of a large atrium. The roof above the atrium was composed of blue-tinted triangles of glass to reflect and cool the sun’s rays, while bathing the entry in a calm, serene light. A grouping of plush white leather sofas surrounded a large glass-topped coffee table with rows of neatly stacked newspapers and magazines.

  “May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked.

  “I’m here to see Mark Hassan.”

  “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Hassan?”

  Drake smiled. “If he’s in, tell him I’m here about his offer to buy a ranch in Oregon.”

  “May I tell him your name, sir?”

  Drake was tempted to imitate James Bond and say ‘Drake, Adam Drake’, but curbed the impulse. “Tell him Mr. Drake would like to see him,” he said instead.

  While he turned to look around at the collection of brightly colored modern art displayed on the walls, the receptionist softly relayed his request to Mr. Hassan’s secretary.

  “Mr. Hassan will be with you shortly, Mr. Drake. Would you like an espresso while you wait?”

  “No thank you,” he said. If Hassan was anything like the attorneys he was used to seeing, the offer of coffee was meant to provide time to quickly review a file or let the visitor know whose turf he was playing on. He picked up a copy of the Washington Post and took a seat.

  The front page of the Post was doing its best, he saw, to provide cover for the president in the midst of the current crisis. One headline announced that the Federal Aviation Administration hadn’t recovered the flight recorders from the two downed airliners, and couldn’t fully explain the crashes at the current time.

  Another reported that Army psychiatrists were being interviewed for leads about vets with PTSD that could be suspects.

  The last story below the fold cautioned that an unnamed, but reliable, counterterrorism expert was advising the White House that a rogue nation might well be responsible.

  That’s great, Drake thought. Ignore the obvious threat, because we took a victory lap when bin Laden was killed, and start looking for a new boogie man to blame.

  He tossed the paper down and looked up to see a slender dark-skinned woman approaching.

  “Mr. Drake, I’m Mr. Hassan’s assistant, Monique,” she said with a lilting Jamaican accent. “I’ll take you to him.”

  Drake followed past a ceremonial conference room on full display with its massive oak conference table and black leather chairs, and down a long hallway. Open secretarial work spaces fronted each office, and an interior window behind each secretary allowed a view inside to the attorney and beyond to the skyline of the city.

  Hassan’s assistant stopped in front of a secretary’s desk at the northwest corner office and announced Mr. Drake.

  Drake was ushered in and introduced to Mark Hassan. He noted the man’s dark brown, almost black piercing eyes that reminded him of the eyes of a falcon. The attorney walked around his desk with a bit of a swagger to shake hands.

  “Mr. Drake, I didn’t know you were in town. I trust you didn’t come all this way simply to respond to the offer we made on the Alpine Ridge Ranch. Please, have a seat.”

  “I’m here on other business,” Drake said, as he sat down and faced Hassan. “When I have the opportunity, I like to meet those I might do business with.”

  Hassan sat as well and rocked back in his brown leather executive chair with raised eyebrows. About the same age as Drake, he looked like a young version of Omar Sharif. Straight black hair, parted, over intense brown eyes and a thick black, neatly trimmed moustache.

  “Are we not doing business, Mr. Drake? The offer I made your client is more than generous.”

  “Perhaps it’s because it is so generous. Maybe you felt that my client would overlook some of the conditions you’ve insisted on, if you were willing to pay so much over market value.”

  “Such as?” Hassan demanded.

  “The agreement that the land sale contract is voidable if, at some future time, the activity of operating a youth camp is determined to violate any zoning code, use restriction, or other requirement, county, state, or federal. That’s pretty vague, don’t you think? It’s certainly not in the best interest of my client.”

  Hassan leaned forward and fingered a gold signature ring on his right hand before he asked, “Are you familiar with our youth camps?”

  “You mean the camps of American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation?”

  “Of course I mean the foundation’s youth camps,” Hassan said curtly. “I’m on the board, but you probably knew that. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No, I’m not familiar with your camps,” Drake said, wondering w
hy Hassan had become defensive and a little hostile.

  “You should visit one of our camps then, Mr. Drake. Opening a Muslim youth camp has become almost as difficult as building a new mosque. America professes to welcome all races and religions, unless you happen to be Muslim. If the foundation is going to spend the kind of money we’re offering your client, we need to know the camp has a future, free of endless litigation. How long do you intend to be in D.C.?”

  “Undetermined,” Drake said.

  “Go visit a camp, judge for yourself,” Hassan said. “One of our largest is nearby in West Virginia. You can drive there in a couple of hours. If you don’t feel comfortable with what you see, reject our offer and we’ll find another property.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Drake said as he stood. “Just so you know, I’ve spent my share of time in the Middle East and I consider a number of Muslims my friends. I don’t judge you or your religion by what appears in the papers and I don’t think most Americans do either. Here’s my card. Email me directions and I’ll visit your camp tomorrow.”

  When he reached the door of Hassan’s office, Drake turned. “In case you haven’t heard, Congressman Rodecker is out of his coma. He probably won’t be available for a vote on the bill you were lobbying him for, if it comes up anytime soon.”

  Drake left Hassan’s office without a clear impression of the man. There was a wariness he thought he saw in Hassan’s eyes that wasn’t warranted by anything he had said, except possibly the mention of Congressman Rodecker. Mark Hassan might not have anything to do with the beating of the congressman, but he didn’t look all that happy on hearing the congressman was getting better.

  CHAPTER 22

  Drake and Mike Casey met Liz for lunch at the Old Ebbitt Grill across the street from the White House. She was sitting in a red velvet booth as they entered the historic watering hole.