Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4)

by Scott Matthews

  Drake shook his head when he noticed Casey’s devout attention to his menu. “Mike’s hungry, Liz, but I’m listening. What did you find out?”

  “It’s complicated, but I think the foundation may be a front for the Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “I’m not that hungry,” Casey said, and put his menu down. “What makes you think that?”

  “The American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation is a 501(c)(3) non-profit foundation,” she explained. “It hasn’t filed the IRS Form 990, as required, for the last three years, so we don’t know who its contributors are. We do know that John Prescott was a lobbyist for the Muslim Brotherhood when it was in power in Egypt. He receives a million dollars a year for serving as board chairman.”

  “How do we know that?” Drake asked.

  “His tax returns. Four of the other nine board members receive half a million dollars a year each for four quarterly board meetings. Three of the board members lead Muslim organizations thought to have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, and the fourth is the president’s closest advisor.”

  “So the fourth board member is Layla Nebit,” Drake said. “Does she have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  Liz shook her head. “Not directly. She was born in Egypt and educated here. Her mother was a movie star in Egypt and her father was a professor at the American University in Cairo. He left that position and came to the states when he fell under suspicion of being a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. He denied it, of course, but to admit it meant spending the rest of his life in an Egyptian prison, being tortured by the Mukhabarat, their secret police.”

  “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Casey said. “There’s no way someone with possible ties to the Muslim Brotherhood would be allowed to serve as the president’s closest advisor.”

  “Maybe,” Liz admitted. “She’s counseled the president throughout his political career, not just in the White House. So he trusts her, and he gets to pick and choose his advisors. But look at the way our foreign policy has changed since she’s had the president’s ear. She’s also the White House official who handles inquiries about the administration’s position on Senator Boykin’s bill.”

  Drake asked for a moment to consider his menu when the waiter arrived and then said to Liz, “Let’s say the foundation is a front for the Muslim Brotherhood, or has ties to it. Has anyone paid any attention to these youth camps the foundation is operating?”

  “I looked into that,” she said. “Initially, the FBI put the camps under surveillance. They’re all located in remote, rural locations. The camps knew they were being watched. Then the Muslim lobby here in Washington raised a fuss about religious discrimination, and the FBI backed off.”

  “Unbelievable,” Casey exclaimed. “So there’s nothing the government is doing to protect people from these nuts?”

  “Until they directly act against us, there isn’t,” Liz said. “White supremacists operate paramilitary ‘survival’ training camps all over America and the law allows it.”

  Drake had heard enough. “The government might not be able to do anything about the other camps, but there’s no way we need one in Oregon. Alpine Ridge Ranch will have to find another buyer if they still want to sell the ranch.”

  “Does that mean we go home?” Casey asked.

  “If you think Congressman Rodecker doesn’t need protection any longer, I guess we can,” Drake said. “Has he made arrangements for a place to stay, or is he staying with Senator Hazelton?”

  “He is staying with the senator for the rest of this week,” Liz said.

  “There’s your answer, Mike. I’ll pay the foundation attorney a visit today, because I’m not going to stick my nose into something here and get crossways with the FBI again. We could leave tomorrow.”

  “You’re still coming for dinner tonight, right?” Liz asked Drake.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.

  Casey started to ask if he could come along, when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He excused himself and walked from the rear dining room to the covered entrance of the restored row house and stepped outside to take the call.

  “Boss,” Kevin McRoberts, his IT guru and company hacker said, “you asked me to look into that foundation in Washington. You won’t believe what I found.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You know the bank in San Francisco that was involved in that thing with Mr. Drake? All of the contributions made to the American Youth Camp Foundation are made from accounts in a bank in London owned by the same banking conglomerate.”

  “How much are we talking about, Kevin?”

  “The foundation received forty five million dollars in the last calendar year. It’s on pace to receive even more this year.”

  “Did you try to get into the conglomerate’s IT system?” Casey asked.

  “No, I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

  “Good, let’s hold off on that for now. Good work, Kevin. I’ll talk with Drake and get back to you.”

  Casey stood on the front steps of the Tabard Hotel and wondered what charitable work the nonprofit foundation was doing with the dirty banking conglomerate they’d run into before. Should he tell Drake and get him chasing after ghosts again?

  As he turned to go back inside, he didn’t notice two Venezuelan secret service men watching him from a car parked across the street. Nor did he know they had been following him, from the time he left the Savoy Suites Hotel that morning with Drake.

  CHAPTER 41

  Casey returned to his table in time to order breakfast.

  “That was Kevin,” he said, as he looked to Drake. “Remember the Pacific First Security Bank of California in San Francisco?”

  “I remember the bank and the bank president, why?” Drake asked.

  “The American Youth Camp Foundation got forty five million dollars last year from the universal banking conglomerate that owns that bank,” Casey said.

  The previous fall, Drake uncovered a plot to take down America’s electrical power grid. The bank was involved, with the operation being run by a neo-fascist group out of a fortified basement in the bank president’s home. The banker fled the country in a private jet bound for Cuba before he could be arrested. His role in the matter was still under investigation by the FBI and Interpol.

  “Is the bank president involved with the foundation?” Liz asked.

  “I don’t know,” Casey said. “I thought we needed to discuss it before I, uh, ask Kevin to look into it.”

  “You mean hack into the banking conglomerate’s system?” Liz asked. “Can he do that?”

  “I am not aware of the full range of my employee’s skills,” Casey said, “and I will not confirm such a plan to commit such an act.”

  Drake laughed. “No one is aware of all the skills young Kevin has, Mike. What I would be interested in knowing is who’s involved with this banking conglomerate. Who owns these accounts contributing forty five million dollars to the foundation? Do any of them involve our bank president from San Francisco? And what’s some neo-fascist group, if that’s who this is, doing sending money to a Muslim foundation in America?”

  “Not to get too far off topic,” Liz said, “but the Nazis and the Muslims worked together in WWII. I think both of them are technically classified as “fascist” due to their belief systems.”

  “That’s all we need, Liz, getting those two groups back together again. Adam, are you okay with me asking Kevin to have a look?” Casey asked.

  “I’m not sure it’s necessary, Mike,” Drake said. “I’m advising my client to reject the foundation’s offer for his ranch. This sounds like something Liz needs to get someone in the government to investigate. No need for you or Kevin to take any risks on my behalf. Enjoy your breakfast and let’s wrap things up and go home.”

  After breakfast in the historic inn, Liz left for her morning staff meeti
ng in Senator Hazelton’s office. Casey was on his way to the airport to have his Gulfstream readied for the trip home, so Drake decided to walk the short distance to the Prescott Building. It was time to tell the foundation’s attorney he was advising his client not to sell them his ranch.

  It was cold in the capital at ten in the morning, but it was still warm enough for Drake to enjoy walking down Massachusetts Avenue. He would have liked to visit the war memorials and the Smithsonian, but events of the week kept him busy. Still, as he looked around at the busy center of government, there were places and institutions every citizen needed to see and know about.

  He was looking down the broad avenue when he sensed a car slow behind him. As it passed to his left, he saw that it was a dark silver Chrysler 300C. The side windows were tinted and he couldn’t see who was driving the car. He noticed that it carried foreign mission license plates.

  Seeing a car in Washington with diplomat, consul, or staff foreign mission license plates wasn’t unusual; they were everywhere. But the way the car slowly drove past and then accelerated away stirred an old sensation of danger.

  The license plate had a blue border on top, a red border below and a white center with a large letter S followed by two letters and four numbers. Drake committed then to memory: S LC 2254.

  He was three blocks farther down Massachusetts Avenue when the same car passed him again. This time it slowed just enough to get a good look at him and then continued on. Now he was certain. He was being followed.

  Drake took out his cell phone and called Casey.

  “Mike, I’m five blocks down Massachusetts Avenue from the Tabard Inn and I’m being followed. How far away are you?”

  “Ten minutes. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get on Massachusetts, somewhere between 10th St. and 9th St. and park. I’ll walk on by and see if a silver Chrysler 300C comes by again. License is a foreign mission plate, S LC 2254.”

  “Got it,” Casey said. “Want me to follow them?”

  “Yes, let’s find out who this is.”

  Drake continued walking, alert now to every car that passed. It was possible that someone at the youth camp guessed who it was that paid them a visit the night before. Even so, there wasn’t any reason for them to be following him in a car with foreign mission license plates.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “You’ll love this,” Casey said. “The license number you gave me belongs to the Venezuelan embassy. LC is the two letter designation on all their vehicles.”

  “What interest could Venezuela possibly have in me?”

  “No clue. I’m parked between 10th and 9th. Stroll on down and let’s see what these guys are up to.”

  Drake picked up his pace. Other than the crisis swirling around the city because of the terrorist attacks on the jetliners, his visit to Washington was fairly uneventful, the youth camp visitation aside. Now there was a new element involved and he couldn’t guess why.

  Two blocks down the avenue, he spotted the white Chevy Tahoe waiting where Casey parked it in the middle of the block. If the silver Chrysler kept to the same pattern of surveillance sweeps as before, it should be driving by any moment.

  A car slowed and he watched in his peripheral vision to see if it was the silver Chrysler. It wasn’t. It was a black Chrysler 300C this time with the same foreign mission plates.

  “Mike,” Drake said hurriedly after hitting redial, “follow the black 300 just going by. Same embassy plates.”

  If they were using a two-car team to follow him, Drake knew there was something serious going on and it involved a foreign country that wasn’t exactly a friend.

  CHAPTER 42

  Drake kept walking down Massachusetts Avenue until Casey called back.

  “The black Chrysler pulled around the corner and let a guy out,” he said. “He’s headed your way. Five nine, dark complexion, black hair, and dark overcoat.”

  “Any sign of the other Chrysler?”

  “Haven’t seen it. He may have dropped someone off as well. You probably caught them off guard by walking.”

  “Union Station’s up ahead,” Drake said. “I’m going to keep walking and then go inside and see if I can get photos of these clowns. When I call you, pick me up out front.”

  “If you need help, call me. Two against one isn’t a fair fight.”

  “Who said anything about a fair fight?”

  “Roger that,” Casey said.

  Drake picked up his pace and continued until he crossed at North Capitol Street NW. He kept walking down Massachusetts Avenue past the National Postal Museum. As much as he wanted to stop and see why on earth there was a national postal museum, he crossed First Street NE and entered Washington’s Union Station.

  Inside the national landmark, with its soaring vaulted entryway and spectacular Main Hall, he played the role of first-time tourist. Turning slowly to take in the statuary and the 96-foot high white coffered ceiling shining with gold leaf, he took out his cell phone and began taking pictures.

  Without focusing on the pictures he was taking, Drake scanned the entryway he just passed through until he spotted the man Casey saw being dropped off. The man was walking beside another man carrying a folded newspaper in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Both men turned and walked toward a kiosk in the middle of the East Hall. When Drake began slowly turning to complete a panoramic shot of the vaulted ceiling, both men turned away to study the offerings of the kiosk.

  Moving on, Drake stopped beside the café in the center of the Main Hall and looked at a menu posted on the wall. In its glass-covering, he saw in the reflection the two men turn back toward him.

  When they continued to stare at him, he focused his cell phone on the menu and whistled softly, as if the prices there were shocking, and fiddled with the focus setting. He also switched the camera icon to “selfie” mode and twisted just enough to frame the two men over his shoulder.

  With a clear frontal shot of both of them, he walked out of the Main Hall to the Amtrak ticket counter and stood looking at the posted schedules. After a minute, he put his cell phone to his ear and called Casey.

  “Call me when you’re out front,” he said. “Let’s see if we can lose these guys.”

  Three minutes later the vibration in his pocket let him know his ride was waiting.

  Drake spun on his heel and walked quickly to the entryway and out to the white Tahoe parked at the curb. As soon as his door closed, Casey quickly pulled out onto Columbus Circle and then accelerated down Louisiana Avenue NE.

  Twisting around in his seat, Drake watched for one of the Chrysler 300’s or any other car with foreign mission plates following them.

  “Looks like we’re clear, Mike.”

  “What now?”

  “Let me think,” Drake said. “I still need to talk with the foundation’s attorney. Let’s head there. I’ll call Liz. She might be able to get someone to identify these guys. While she’s working on that, I’ll see if the attorney’s in.”

  By the time he called Liz, told her what he needed, and forwarded the picture of the two men to her, Casey pulled up in front of the Prescott Building.

  “I’ll find a place to park where I can keep an eye on you when you come out,” Casey said.

  “I shouldn’t be long,” Drake said, as he was getting out. “How long can it take to say no deal?”

  In the elevator on the way to the top floor, he ticked off the things he’d learned about the American Muslim Youth Camp Foundation. The foundation operated what appeared to be paramilitary training camps for Muslim youth, if the camp in West Virginia was representative of the other camps. The foundation was doing more than just providing summer camp experiences for young Muslims; it generously funded a number of organizations that were thought to have ties to the Muslim Brotherhood. And perhaps most importantly, the West Virginia Camp manager
fit the description of the man who beat up Congressman Rodecker.

  When he gave the receptionist his name and asked to see Mr. Hassan, he was again asked to wait until she checked to see if Mr. Hassan was in. This time, Hassan’s assistant came out to meet him before he had time to sit down and scan the latest news in the Washington Post.

  “Mr. Hassan has a moment to see you before his next appointment,” the assistant said and turned to lead him to Hassan’s office.

  “A moment is all I need,” Drake said. It was time to see if his suspicions about the foundation and the camps it ran were true.

  CHAPTER 43

  Mark Hassan sat behind his desk with his hands folded calmly in his lap. “Has your client decided to accept our offer, Mr. Drake?”

  Drake sat down and mirrored Hassan’s confident posture. “I’m advising him to reject your offer.”

  Hassan turned his head to look out the window, and turned back with a tight smile on his lips. “Why would you do that?”

  “I think you know why. I visited the camp in West Virginia and met the camp manager. I looked into your foundation, as well as the organizations and the causes it supports. I also learned a little about where your money comes from. In short, there’s no way in hell I’d let my client sell his ranch to you to be run as another of your paramilitary training camps,” Drake said to see if Hassan would rise to the bait.

  “Those are slanderous accusations you’re making,” Hassan said. “They have a way of being taken very seriously in this town.”

  “Truth is a complete defense to a charge of slander, Mr. Hassan. I don’t think your foundation would like to test that in court.”

  “That’s a decision the foundation’s board would have to make. I might be willing to overlook your words today, Mr. Drake, but it would be dangerous for you to repeat them elsewhere.”

  Drake stood. “That sounds a little like a threat. I hope that isn’t what you meant it to be.”