While the man’s eyes seemed friendly enough, his crushing handshake sent a subtle warning that he was not a man to mess with.
They were led inside to an office that was Spartan, but well-equipped with two computer monitors on a gray metal desk, a flat screen TV on the wall behind the desk, a commercial-size copier/printer/fax machine, and a bank of four gray metal file cabinets.
Marcus took his seat behind the desk and motioned them to two metal folding chairs in front of the desk.
“I’m curious about why you are here, Mr. Drake,” the man asked, his voice harsh and flat. “The foundation’s brochure explains what we do.”
“Yes,” Drake answered cordially. “It says you work with Muslim youth. I wanted more information. When Mr. Hassan invited me to visit, I decided to take him up on it. Where are the rest of your campers?”
“Out hiking on our nature trails.”
“How many campers are here, currently?”
“Each barrack sleeps twenty, plus the counselors. All three barracks are full.”
“That’s a lot of bodies. What do they do when they’re not out hiking?” Drake pressed, trying to sound curious instead of like he was conducting an interrogation.
“We teach them how to cope in America, as Muslims,” Jameel said curtly. “Teach them skills they need to survive.”
Drake turned to Liz and asked if she had any questions.
“Do you live here year round, Mr. Marcus?” she asked radiating polite curiosity.
“Why’s that important?” he demanded. “Did you come here to see the camp or to interrogate me?”
Liz leaned forward, smiled sweetly, and said, “I work for U.S. Senator Hazelton, Mr. Marcus. If you’re here all the time, I thought I might arrange a visit for some members of Congress, to acquaint them with your work. It could prove beneficial to your mission and it would be good for representatives to see Muslims helping their youth in a positive light.”
Jameel Marcus pointedly looked at the military-style watch on his left wrist and stood. “I doubt that would be good for the boys, having a bunch of politicians out here. Talk to the foundation if you want. I have something I need to take care of. The boys will escort you back to the road.”
They followed him out and watched him march off to the large shop next to the camp’s old barn. Inside, several young men were working on the inside of a fairly new delivery van, hanging sheets of metallic-looking polyurethane.
When they got to Liz’s car, Drake held out the keys.
“Go ahead and drive,” she said waving him off. “I’m going to call my assistant and get her started investigating Jameel Marcus and these camps. Something’s not right. Given their stated mission, they should have been all over the chance to show off to the politicians.”
Drake slid behind the wheel nodding in agreement. As he started the engine, his eyes scanned the camp looking for the black Porsche he was certain was here or somewhere nearby.
CHAPTER 25
Two hundred yards down the gravel road from the training camp, Mohamed Hassan trained his Zeiss binoculars on the silver Cadillac as it headed back to town. When it turned the corner and drove out of sight, he laid the binoculars down beside his Sig P226 pistol with a threaded barrel and sound suppressor, and drove out of concealment and down to the driveway.
The same four Muslim men who escorted the silver Cadillac onto the property turned as they heard the purr of the Porsche. When he lowered the driver-side window, they recognized him and waved him on.
Hassan drove slowly to keep from raising dust along the long driveway and pulled off in front of the shop. Jameel Marcus stood there with several of his men.
Hassan got out, stretched, and walked to greet Marcus. “Assalamu `alaykum,” he said.
“Ua alaykum us salaam,” Marcus returned.
Hassan walked to the back of the white step van and watched the men inside covering the walls and ceiling with sheets of infrared heat shield polyurethane.
Marcus joined him. “It will be finished by tonight.”
“Let’s talk inside,” Hassan said, and turned toward the camp’s office in the log cabin. Marcus followed a couple of steps behind him.
“Close the door,” Hassan ordered when they were alone in the office. “Show me where you will fire the missile.”
Marcus sat at his desk and brought up a map of an airport on his computer.
“Across the river from the airport is a park,” he said, pointing to one of the monitors he turned so Hassan could see. “It was a plantation before the Americans used it as a fort to keep the British from using the river as transportation in their Revolutionary War.”
“Will you have any trouble getting the step van into the park?”
“No, the park is open to the public from dawn to dusk each day.”
“When does the sun set tomorrow?”
“Sunset is 6:10 pm.”
“And when does the target take off?”
“Scheduled departure is 4:55 pm.”
Hassan nodded his head approvingly. “You have done well, my friend. Who will fire the missile? Is he well trained?”
“I will. I was trained on the SA-24 in Pakistan. We can’t train here with these missiles, but I remember.”
“When will you leave?”
“Early tomorrow,” Marcus reported. “We have arranged to pick up supplies for the camp in Baltimore, from our regular supplier. The van will be loaded to conceal our weapons, if we’re stopped. Then, we’ll continue on to the park. The boxes of supplies will shield me when the tailgate is raised. When we return, the load of supplies will validate our travel.”
Hassan studied his young accomplice for a moment. “Are you and your men prepared to do what is necessary, if you are captured?”
Marcus stood and smiled across the desk at Hassan. “Isn’t martyrdom every Muslim’s dream? Don’t worry, we will do our duty.”
Hassan considered the response and then returned the smile. “Good. Walk me to my car and tell me about the visitors who just left.”
Marcus held the door open for Hassan and then followed him outside. “You mean the attorney and his woman?”
“Have you had any others since they left?” Hassan asked.
“You’ve been watching us.”
“I am careful. That’s why I have survived in this war we fight.”
“Your cousin sent him here. He wanted to see one of our camps. He asked where all our young Muslims were, and what they do here.”
Hassan continued on to his car and turned when he got there. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth. We teach them the skills they need to survive.”
Hassan opened the door of his black 911 and got in. The car was now covered with a fine coat of dust and he needed to find a car wash before returning to town. He lowered the window and said, “I will tell the sheikh of your good work. Perhaps we will work together again, Inshallah.”
Driving as slowly as the Porsche would allow, Mohamed Hassan looked back in the rearview mirror at the foolish Shia warrior. He had not yet learned how to tell a friend from a foe. By the time he realized he was being set up, it would be too late.
CHAPTER 26
Drake parked on Marshall Lane, a half block off Main Street in Romney, and waited for the black Porsche 911 to drive by.
When they pulled onto the road leaving the youth camp thirty minutes ago, he saw the reflection from either a rifle scope or binoculars flashing in the winter sun. He could just make out the familiar roof line of a Porsche two hundred yards or so back up the road.
“At least we know it wasn’t a coincidence, seeing the Porsche on the way here,” Drake said. Liz was holding a pen and notepad pulled from the glove box in anticipation of the Porsche’s passing. “When we get the license number for the Porsche, see if you can work your
magic and find out who’s following us.”
“There’s no magic involved. I still have contacts in the Department of Homeland Security who do favors for me occasionally,” she said.
“How’s your old boss, Secretary Rallings, doing?”
“He’s on his ranch in Montana recovering from his heart attack. He won’t admit it, but I think the stress of worrying about the next terrorist attack caused his heart condition. His wife says he’s restless and bored, but otherwise he’s doing fine.”
“He should be glad he’s not involved in this crisis. The president has a history of letting cabinet members take the fall when things don’t go well.”
Drake was reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his cell phone, when he saw the black Porsche drive by on Main Street. It was going too fast for Liz to get the license number.
“When I pull out,” he said, “use my phone and take a picture of his license plate. You’ll be able to expand the picture enough to read it.” She nodded and took the phone.
He waited until the other car was a block away before he followed it. As Main Street ended and became Highway 50, Liz took three pictures in rapid succession, checked them and said she had it. Drake fell back and let the Porsche pull ahead another hundred yards.
“It’s a New York plate,” Liz said, as she took out her iPhone and searched her contact list for her friend at DHS. “Let’s see who this guy is.”
Drake listened as she greeted her friend and then asked him to run the New York plate on the black Porsche. While she was on hold waiting for the owner’s ID, Drake couldn’t resist the temptation.
“How good a friend is he?” he asked, trying to sound innocent.
Liz turned and smiled. “What makes you think it’s a him?”
“I heard his voice. It’s either a him or a her with a very deep voice and a moustache.”
Liz hit him in the chest and held out her hand. “Pen,” she mouthed as her friend came back with the owner’s ID.
“Mohamed Hassan,” she repeated and then, “New York, New York. Thank you David, I owe you one. Tell your wife hello for me.”
“For your information,” she said to Drake, “David does have a moustache and he’s very good looking. Jealous?”
“I always wanted to grow a good ‘stache, but couldn’t stand the way it tickled my nose,” he said as he ignored her tease. “You think you could see if your assistant can learn anything else about Mohamed Hassan?”
As she called her assistant, out of the corner of his eye he caught her smiling. Drake relaxed and forced himself to concentrate on keeping his eyes on the road.
They drove for another ten minutes without speaking until Liz’s assistant began her report on one Mohamed Hassan. Drake saw her raise her eyebrows with a puzzled expression, when he glanced her way.
“Does it say why Interpol flagged him?” she asked. After a pause, “Okay, see if you can find out where he’s staying in D.C. I’ll see if my former counterpart in the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau has anything on him. Thanks, Kerry.”
“Well,” Drake said sarcastically, “This just keeps getting better and better. Who is this guy?”
“No one seems to know. He’s apparently an investment banker from London, with known ties to the Muslim Brotherhood. Interpol’s not sure if he’s just a moneyman, or if he’s been involved in some of their operations. His travels seem to match up with several assassinations around the world, but that’s all they have on him so far.”
“Why in the world is he following us? There’s nothing we’re doing that would interest the Muslim Brotherhood?”
“You don’t spend enough time in Washington,” she said shaking her head. “The Muslim Brotherhood and their front organizations are everywhere and they’re interested in everything Muslim. There’s one man on the Advisory Council of DHS and the White House routinely asks for the Brotherhood’s advice on Middle East policy. They’re working very hard to get democracy and former President Morsi restored to power in Egypt.”
“So you’re suggesting this guy might have followed us because we’re looking into the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation and its bid to buy a ranch in Oregon?”
“Or,” she said, “maybe he has some interest in this West Virginia youth camp.”
“If Mohamed Hassan is Muslim Brotherhood, a youth camp in West Virginia would seem to be small potatoes for someone who travels the world like he does.”
Liz thought a moment. “Of course, we don’t know if Mohamed Hassan is driving his Porsche. He could have loaned it to someone.”
Drake considered that for a moment. “I saw this black Porsche 911 the first time parked across the street from the Prescott Building. I went there to meet with the attorney for the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation, Mark Hassan. I guess it might be a coincidence they’re both named Hassan.”
“If there is a connection,” she cautioned. “It’s a common name. You’d better find out before your client sells his ranch.”
“If there’s a connection and Mohamed Hassan is who Interpol thinks he might be, we’d better find out what he’s doing here in West Virginia,” Drake warned.
CHAPTER 27
It was five thirty when they got back to Washington on a cold Saturday evening. Liz made dinner reservations at a French restaurant near Union Square and she promised to make him forget the weather when she dropped him off at his hotel.
Drake found Casey waiting for him in the bar.
“Have you heard? The president is going to get the airports open again,” Casey said and waved to the TV above the bar.
Drake sat next to his friend. “No, we didn’t have the radio on in Liz’s car.”
“He’s going to protect the major airports with armed drones. The Air Force has assured him they can identify and eliminate any threat before a terrorist can launch a MANPAD.”
“Will that work?” Drake asked frowning at the television. “You’re the pilot.”
Casey raised his hands, palms up, and said, “Who knows, it’s never been done before. I wouldn’t want to be the general who told the president it would, if another plane goes down.”
Casey motioned for the bartender to bring a beer for Drake and some peanuts so he wouldn’t have to share his already half empty bowl.
“Did you find a safe place for the congressman to stay when he’s released?” Drake asked.
“Not yet. He’s one of the new ones who live in their offices while they’re here, doing the people’s work,” Casey explained. “He doesn’t have an apartment, so we’re working on it.”
“I could ask Senator Hazelton if he can stay with him,” Drake suggested after a moment of thought. “If he’s still worried about the congressman’s safety, he can arrange for someone else to protect him at his place so you can get back to Seattle.”
Casey turned to Drake and grinned. “Do I sense that you’re trying to get rid of me? Maybe so you’ll have more time to spend with Liz?”
“I just spent the day with her, Mike. That’s more time than I’ve spent with a woman since Kay died. I don’t need more time.”
“Why are you going to dinner with her tonight, then?”
“Because she made me promise last year in San Francisco I would go to dinner with her when I was in town. I couldn’t say no.”
Casey took a handful of peanuts and threw a couple in his mouth. “You know, it’s okay to like her. Kay would have wanted you to move on.”
Drake sighed and finished his beer. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? When do you need to get back to Seattle?”
“I called Megan while you were gone. I told her I’d be home as soon as possible, next week probably, when we’re finished here.”
“If I stay on, when you leave with your team, can you loan me a few things from the armory you keep on your Gulfstream?” Drake asked.
“W
hat happened, did some redneck in West Virginia give you a bad time?”
“Right reason, but it wasn’t a redneck.”
“Probably plenty of them still around there,” Casey said. “You know how that term was used in the 1920’s and 1930’s?”
“Am I about to learn?”
Casey nodded, “Indeed you are. Striking coal miners in West Virginia wore red handkerchiefs around their necks or arms as part of their informal uniforms. Hence, the term redneck.”
“How long have you waited to tell someone that?” Drake asked, shaking his head.
“Just thought you needed to know, before you embarrass yourself someday. Lawyers aren’t the only ones who know a few things. So,” Casey continued, “if it wasn’t a redneck, what was it that got you thinking you needed some weaponry?”
“A black Muslim on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, at the youth camp we visited. We didn’t see any inner-city youth, but we were greeted by a welcoming committee. They looked a lot like the new Black Panthers.”
Casey ordered them another round of beers. “It sounds like Congressman Rodecker was spot on to try and head off the sale of the Alpine Ridge Ranch. Some of his constituents were nervous about the people who would run the place. Black Panther types wouldn’t be welcomed down there.”
“Did he tell you about that in the hospital?”
“He’s been trying to figure out why he was attacked,” Casey said. “He thinks it was more than just his opposition to the Boykin Bill. He thinks it might be the help he was giving the opponents of the sale to get some zoning changes.”
“Interesting,” Drake said. “The attorney at the Prescott Group said he drafted the land sale contract with contingencies because of the possibility of zoning changes.”
“If it’s true, the congressman won’t be safe as long as the foundation thinks they have a chance to buy the ranch,” Casey calculated. “I guess we’re not going home quite yet.”
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 9
