Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4)

by Scott Matthews

  Drake slid in beside her and let his taller friend have the other side of the booth to himself. “From the look on your face,” Drake said, “I’d say you’re not having a great morning. What’s going on?”

  “Buy me a glass of wine and I’ll tell you,” Liz said with a look of frustration.

  Drake waved to a nearby waiter. “Is this about the Senate Intelligence briefing this morning?” he asked, before turning to the waiter to order a glass of pinot gris and two Sam Adams Boston Lagers.

  “I’m so damn mad at the moment,” she began, “I’m not sure where to start, and this isn’t the place. You’ll hear some of it this afternoon, if you listen to the president’s press conference. But that won’t be close to the whole story.”

  “Does the public ever get the whole story?” Casey asked.

  “They might not get all of it,” she said, “but what they do get is usually true. If what I’m hearing is accurate,” Liz paused and then held up the glass of wine that just arrived, “the old saying ‘in wine there is truth’ is more reliable than anything the president will tell the country today.”

  Their waiter returned, recited the day’s special menu items, and asked if they were ready to order. They weren’t, and studied their menus before Drake leaned closer and said, “Despite the frown on your face, Liz, you look wonderful. Let’s enjoy lunch and tell us what you can later.”

  With a nod and thumbs up, she agreed and asked, “Mike, what’s catching your eye?”

  “Well, since you asked, I’m thinking grilled Fillet Mignon, a side of Clyde’s chili, and a Caesar salad for starters.”

  “Nothing’s changed, Liz,” Drake said rolling his eyes at his friend. “That’s his idea of a light lunch,” he told Liz, in an attempt to lighten the mood or at least change topics.

  They both laughed and continued to do so when they saw that Casey was, indeed, still looking over his menu to add to his list.

  After an hour of small talk, and enjoying a Cobb salad for her and a platter of Chesapeake Bay fried oysters for him, they waited for their check, watching as Casey finished off a slice of cheesecake.

  “Why don’t we walk to Lafayette Square and talk before I call you a cab,” Drake suggested when he’d paid their bill.

  Outside, they walked three abreast to the park. Liz told them as much as she could about the intelligence briefing that morning.

  “SA-24 MANPADS shot down the two airliners, but no group is claiming responsibility. If someone was going to, they would have by now. There’s no chatter, no SIGINT or HUMINT and none of our allies know anything either. Despite a complete lack of evidence, however, the White House considers Syria, acting as Iran’s proxy, to be the most likely responsible party. He’s going to send another carrier and more missile cruisers to the Mediterranean and warning Russia not to interfere if he decides to act,” she explained.

  “Syria’s not that stupid,” Casey exclaimed with a snort of derision. “Even if Iran gave them a nuke, it wouldn’t keep us from leveling their miserable country in response and they know it.”

  “I don’t think Iran is that stupid either,” Liz said.

  “So what does the president do if he can’t find someone other than Syria to blame?” Drake asked. “He’ll be forced to act, and that’ll mean war.”

  The three stopped for a light to cross the street.

  Liz shook her head and said, “All politicians think about are the polls. The president’s getting clobbered because he hasn’t prevented two planes from being shot down. There are 500,000 MANPADS in the world. We make them, Russia makes them. Thousands of them are on the black market and wind up in the wrong hands. This has always been our worst nightmare.”

  They crossed the street and approached Lafayette Square.

  Drake stopped and said, “Syria wouldn’t do this on its own. Could someone be playing us? Terrorists would be touting their ability to hit us. Rogue nations, as crazy as they are, aren’t that crazy. But someone wants us to believe Assad’s doing Iran’s bidding? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Someone like who, Adam?” Liz asked, as she turned to face him and keep her back to the cold wind blowing across the square.

  Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know, Russia so Putin can storm in and become the savior of the Middle East. It would go a long way to ease up the criticism he’s been facing over Crimea. Maybe China, so they can sit back and watch us deplete our treasury on war so we become further indebted to them,” Drake shrugged. “Why not North Korea, just for the hell of it?”

  They finally stopped at the statue of General Rochambeau, the Revolutionary War hero, in the southwest corner of Lafayette Square.

  Casey turned to Liz and said, “Look, Adam’s going to West Virginia tomorrow to check out one of these Muslim youth camps. He’s invited me to go, but I don’t mind staying here. Why don’t you go with him? Getting out of Dodge might be good for you.”

  “And please don’t worry about me being left alone,” Drake mimicked his friend. “I’ll just visit a museum, go to some fine restaurant, and get something to eat. You’re pathetic, Mike.” Under his breath he added, “And obvious.”

  Liz laughed and said, “You’re both pathetic. I’ll go on two conditions; one, if Senator Hazelton doesn’t need me to stay in the capital.”

  “And the other condition?” Casey asked.

  “I drive my car.”

  Casey poked his friend in the ribs. “She probably drives a Prius.”

  “Mike, It’s time he learns to appreciate American cars. I bought a Cadillac CTS VSPORT, because I love to drive,” she said jauntily and patted Drake on his shoulder. “We’ll see if he can handle a woman’s car that’s better than his old 911.”

  Drake graciously withstood the dig and glared at his friend. There was no way to graciously back out of Casey’s matchmaking, even if he wanted to and he really didn’t. He just needed a little more time to adjust to the feelings he’d been resisting. He could get even with his friend later.

  CHAPTER 23

  Drake rose early Saturday morning, got a good workout in the hotel’s fitness center, then returned to his room to shower, shave, and dress for the day. After a light breakfast with Mike downstairs, he was in the lobby waiting for his ride to West Virginia.

  The night before, he went online to see what kind of car Liz bought. Despite his earlier qualms, he was intrigued. The Cadillac CTS VSPORT was a rocket ship, with 556 supercharged horsepower, a tuned chassis designed for the race course complete with Brembo brakes and Recaro seats. Capable of 0-60 miles per hour in four seconds, the car did, indeed, have the performance specs to outperform his old Porsche.

  It lacked the charisma of his classic, of course. But if it performed as well as promised, he couldn’t wait to drive it, if he ever got the chance. His companion seized the high ground for the day by demanding they drive her car, and in doing so, his admiration for her amped up a couple of notches.

  He knew that she was an FBI agent before she was chosen to serve as the executive assistant to the Director of Homeland Security. He also knew that it wasn’t her good looks, as good as they were, that gave her the edge in competing with her male counterparts; she was fearless. When she was wounded by shattered glass from a sniper’s bullet last summer in Oregon, she refused to seek medical attention. Then she coordinated the efforts that prevented a terrorist’s nuclear demolition device from blowing a dam in the mountains. Estimated potential casualties from the breached dam were a hundred thousand people killed in the valley below.

  Two quick honks of a car’s horn brought Drake’s thoughts to the present. He walked out of the lobby to the hotel’s porte-cochere and into the bite of the twenty degree morning air. He was glad he’d worn jeans and a white cable knit sweater under his jacket.

  The silver metallic Cadillac idled outside, with a smiling and beautiful woman behind the wheel
. With a two-fingered salute to her, he circled the car from the front to the rear, despite the cold chill, admiring it. It was every bit as stunning as displayed on the manufacturer’s website. The sharp angles of its aerodynamic design, the red brake calipers behind the spokes of the 19-inch wheels mounted with Michelin Sport tires, and the center-mounted dual exhaust pipes at the rear made him think of a stealth fighter ready to take off down the highway.

  Drake opened the passenger door and slid into the black and yellow leather seat.

  “Wow!” he said. “This is some car.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” she said, amused.

  “Sorry. Good morning, Liz.”

  “Some women would be hurt to think a man was more impressed with a car than its driver. But, since I happen to like most cars more than the men who drive them, I’ll give you a pass this time.”

  “Appreciate it. How long have you had it?” he asked.

  “A couple of months and six thousand miles, to be exact,” she said after looking at the odometer. “I needed something to compensate for the less-than-exciting work I’m doing now. Care to give me directions before we head out?”

  “We’re driving to Romney, West Virginia, about 120 miles west of here. This youth camp is in the mountains nearby.”

  He watched her deftly enter the location in the navigation system and drive away from the hotel, as he savored the scent of her perfume blending with the smell of the leather seats.

  Low-hanging gray clouds hinted at the possibility of snow, making him appreciate the warm cabin of the car and the soft leather of its interior. The clouds also reminded him that he had promised to take her skiing in Oregon.

  “When do you think you’ll be able to come see me in Oregon?” he asked, quickly regretting the opening it gave her to slip back into work mode.

  “Not until we find out who’s shooting down our airliners, and the airports open again. If the president goes after Syria, who knows how soon anyone will be able to enjoy a ski vacation. Damn, I miss my old job,” she pounded on the steering wheel. “At DHS, I was able to do something helpful in a crisis. Now, I just sit on the sidelines and watch.”

  Drake doubted that Liz ever sat on the sidelines. He glanced over and saw she was clenching her jaw and gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white.

  With two hours on the road ahead of them, Drake steered the conversation away from work and asked her about her taste in music, where she worked out, her family and friends, and her favorite restaurants. By the time they reached Winchester, Virginia, a little over half way to their destination, she was smiling and promising him a meal he’d never forget when they returned to D.C. that night.

  With a quick look his way, she abruptly slowed and pulled into the parking lot of a roadside fruit market advertising the best apples in all of Virginia.

  “Would you like to get your hands on my steering wheel for a while?” she asked.

  He considered an appropriate repartee and then quickly shed his seat belt, got out and walked to the rear of the car by the time her door was just opening. He waited patiently for her to exit, then settled into the performance driving seat, snugged the seat belt tight and waited for her to do the same. The road and the day ahead held out promise and he was anxious to get going.

  “Treat her gently, but have some fun,” she said as she fastened her seat belt. “Don’t let her good looks fool you.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, he felt she was trying to get a rise out of him. If she was, it was working.

  Just as he prepared to pull back onto the highway, the upper corner of his rear view mirror signaled that something was coming into the car’s blind spot. When he turned to check, the black Porsche flashed by that he’d seen parked outside the Prescott Building the day before.

  CHAPTER 24

  They followed the black Porsche from Winchester, Virginia, to Romney, West Virginia. Drake wanted to open the Cadillac up to see what its race-tuned suspension and 556 horsepower could do, but seeing the other car for the second time in as many days made him curious. Finding it on the same road to the American Muslim Youth Camp made him suspicious. Luckily, there was no way its owner could connect him with the CTS VSPORT. If the driver looked in the rearview, he would just see a couple on their way somewhere.

  Even though it almost killed him to do so, Drake drove at the unbelievably slow speed limit behind the Porsche.

  “What’s with the slow speed?” Liz asked jokingly. “I expected you to open it up when you had the chance. You aren’t worried that it will ruin your appreciation of your old Porsche are you?”

  Drake smiled. “There’s not a chance of that. While I would like to see why you’re so excited about this car, at the moment I’m concerned about that black Porsche,” he told her, gesturing to the Porsche ahead of them.

  “Wow, first you ignore me for my car and then you lose interest when another fancy car goes by. Aren’t you the fickle one?”

  Her smile let him know she wasn’t overly concerned about losing his attention entirely and Drake smiled back before turning serious. “That car was parked in front of the Prescott Group offices when I met with Mark Hassan.”

  “Are you concerned it’s been following us?” she asked, her attention swiveling ahead.

  “No,” Drake said. “Technically we’re following them. It just makes me wonder where it’s going.”

  “You think it’s going to the camp?” she asked.

  “Possibly,” he conceded with a nod of his head. “Why don’t we stop for lunch and let it get a little further ahead.”

  When they reached the outskirts of Romney, he let the sleek sports car continue on Highway 50 through the town. He pulled off in front of Table 41, the place the manager at the Savoy recommended. It was housed in an old pharmacy and had the best chicken salad and hamburgers in town.

  He escorted Liz into the Bistro, where they were seated beside a long bar that once served as a soda fountain. A bank of drawers, with the various drug names still on them, complemented the masterfully restored original woodwork in the warm interior.

  Taking the manager’s recommendation, they ordered chicken salad and a chicken salad sandwich. While they ate they discussed the mysterious appearance of the Gemballa and what it could possibly mean. While they didn’t race through lunch, they didn’t dawdle either. They were both curious to see if the other car would be at their destination when they arrived.

  They followed the directions from their waitress and drove north out of town on Hwy. 5 into the hills. They found the gravel road she described, and drove up it until they reached a warning sign that prohibited trespassing onto the American Muslim Youth Camp of West Virginia.

  Drake pulled off the road and stopped before heading up a steep driveway lined by thick undergrowth. “If these Muslim kids are coming here from inner cities, they’re going to suffer culture shock out here in the boonies,” Drake said.

  “Maybe that’s what they want,” Liz observed. “Get them as far away from the influences of the gangs and drugs as they can.”

  “Guess we’ll soon find out,” Drake said, and pointed to four young black men walking down the driveway toward them. They were all growing beards and wore plain black T-shirts, jeans and army-style combat boots. They fanned out in a line and blocked the driveway.

  “Stay inside,” he said. “I’ll let them know who we are.”

  Drake got out and started to approach the welcoming party. The tallest of the four standing in the middle of the line held up his hand.

  “See the sign, man. No trespassing.”

  “Trespass is an unlawful intrusion on someone’s land without the permission of its owner,” Drake said calmly. “So this isn’t trespassing.”

  Alpha-boy just stared and pulled out a cheap flip phone.

  “Tell your boss that Adam Drake is here to see
him at Mr. Hassan’s invitation,” Drake said and walked back to the car. When alpha-boy finished his short conversation with someone, the four young men turned and walked slowly up the drive, four abreast.

  “I guess that means we’re supposed to follow them,” he said dryly, putting the car into gear.

  Fifty yards up the dirt driveway, the land leveled out onto a plateau of ten acres or more, surrounded by thick forest. On the south side of the gravel driveway, a wide dirt road that looked like a rural landing strip ended at a cluster of older buildings. The cluster included an old barn and a shop.

  Liz scanned the perimeter of the plateau. “It looks like they have the top of this mountain all to themselves,” she said. “These kids won’t be bothering the neighbors.”

  Drake drove slowly behind his escorts. “This reminds me of a well-equipped hunting lodge with six ATV’s parked in a row in front of the barn, and the three new corrugated steel Quonset huts lined up like barracks.”

  “This foundation has some money behind it,” Liz said. “Those ATVs go for at least five grand each and they don’t look like they were purchased secondhand.”

  The line of escorts stopped in front of the largest of the main buildings, a two-story log cabin with a front porch spanning the width of the first floor. Two men stood on each side of the front door with their arms across their chests, posed like Black Panthers outside a polling place.

  “Why am I getting a feeling that Muslim youth who come here are being trained to be more than just model citizens?” Drake asked Liz as he rolled the car to a stop.

  “It could be they’re hired security to keep people like us out,” she offered optimistically.

  A well-muscled black man wearing khakis and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up strode out and walked to their car. His hair was close-cropped and his wire rim glasses were pushed up over his forehead. He was clean shaven and sported diamonds in each ear.

  Drake lowered the window to talk with him.

  “My name’s Jameel Marcus,” he said, as he reached in through the open window of the Cadillac to shake hands. “Hassan told me you might visit us. Come inside.”