“Assuming Mohamed Hassan is working for the Muslim Brotherhood and hears pillow talk, my hunch is he’s somehow involved in shooting down the jetliners. What does the Muslim Brotherhood stand to gain? Nothing would kill their chances of getting their assets released and being restored to power quicker than being proven to be terrorists,” Drake said.
“Adam’s right,” Liz agreed. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“There’s something else that doesn’t make any sense,” Drake added. “The youth camps are linked to Sheikh Qasseer in Bahrain. He’s contributed a lot of money to the foundation. He’s a Shia Muslim. The Muslim Brotherhood is Sunni Muslim. Those two branches of Islam hate each other, as much as they hate Israel and America. Why would they be working together?”
Senator Hazelton sat back and rested his chin on steepled fingers. After a moment, he said, “Maybe we’re missing the bigger picture. If Sheikh Qasseer is responsible for killing Americans, the president will send a fleet of drones to kill him with the blessing of Congress. If Qasseer is acting as a proxy for Iran, how long will it be before he goes after Iran, either alone or with Israel? The Muslim Brotherhood might have sacrificed some of its assets, but it would have succeeded in eliminating the biggest obstacle to its supremacy in the Middle East.”
“Making us innocent tools of the Brotherhood,” Liz summarized. “So, what do we do about it?”
“Nothing at the moment,” Senator Hazelton said. “I’m going back to Langley to run this by the Director. Let’s see what the FBI finds at the camp in West Virginia. If it’s possible that we’re being manipulated into a war, we have to be very careful if there’s a fox guarding the hen house.”
“As in the White House?” Drake asked. “If it’s true, I’d call it treason.”
CHAPTER 62
Before Drake left the senator’s office, Liz got a call from Special Agent Perkins.
The FBI raided the West Virginia youth camp at dawn. Two SWAT teams from the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group (CIRG) were flown from D.C. in modified Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters for the raid.
Agent Perkins reported that they found the camp deserted. Forensic teams were being flown in to search for evidence of explosives and any evidence that would help identify the occupants of the camp. No delivery van was found, but tire tracks for such a vehicle were located where Drake saw the white van.
Nearby residents were being questioned, and several were reporting that two busloads of young men and an 18-wheeler truck and trailer left the camp early in the morning two days ago.
The FBI was expanding its search for the buses and the 18-wheeler, Agent Perkins reported, and was preparing raids on other American Muslim Youth Camps in nearby states.
“They knew we’d be coming for them,” Drake said.
“If they anticipated that, then they must have had a plan to hide sixty men, buses, and a semi somewhere,” Liz said. “How far could they get in two days?”
Drake shook his head. “They wouldn’t need to hide the men. They could just drop them off along the way and let them disappear. The FBI needs to focus on finding the semi. They’ve taken everything from the camp that would incriminate them.”
“But what does that leave us with?” Liz asked. “The FBI has resources to find the semi, but that doesn’t prove they’ve been shooting down the planes.”
“It leaves us with Mohamed Hassan and his lover,” Drake answered. “I’m going back to the hotel. Mike might have something that will help us find him. I’ll call you after I’ve talked with him.”
Casey was in their room when he returned to the hotel, studying the information his young hacker forwarded to him.
“Pull a chair over and look at this with me,” Casey said, sitting at the desk with his laptop open. “Kevin hacked the server at Wyse & Williams here in D.C.”
Drake joined him at the desk. “What am I looking at?”
“All I’ve been through so far is investment-type memo’s he sent to London. There’s nothing in his emails and or expense account records that tell us anything, except that he entertains a lot.”
Drake watched as Casey scrolled through a series of memos. “Since Kevin was able to penetrate the IT system at the firm’s home office in London, can he get into any of his personal accounts over there?”
“And who says you aren’t computer savvy?” Casey asked. “That’s what Kevin’s working on now. Using the passwords he uses here at his office in D.C., he thinks he can come up with the likely password he uses there. He’ll let me know when he’s found a way in. What did the senator say?”
Drake got up and sat on the end of his bed. “The CIA thinks he’s an operative for the Muslim Brotherhood. The big piece of the puzzle is that he’s sleeping with Layla Nebit, the president’s advisor.”
Casey shook his head. “So the granddaddy of all terrorist organizations has found a way to get close to our president. Does the CIA think she’s an agent of influence for the Brotherhood, or just a useful idiot that doesn’t realize that she’s helping them?”
“The senator didn’t say, but my guess is she’s the one who tipped Hassan off about the president ordering armed drones to fly over the airports. Whether it’s pillow talk or actual espionage doesn’t really matter. That information allowed the terrorists to go undetected and bring down another plane.”
“So why doesn’t the CIA do something about her?”
“This is Washington, Mike. The president doesn’t trust the CIA or the military. Maybe the CIA is keeping its powder dry until they need to expose her and embarrass him, or let him know they know when they need his support on something.”
“That’s cynical. Americans are dying and the CIA’s playing politics?”
“We both know how bureaucrats operate. That’s why we left the Army.”
“It’s still criminal,” Casey insisted. “You’d think anyone that close to the president would be vetted and sent home, even if they did so quietly.”
“Not if she’s an advisor the president personally vouches for. Who’s going to tell him he doesn’t get to choose his own team?”
“So she’s off limits. We can still go after Mohamed, can’t we?”
Drake smiled. “No one’s stopping us. We know where he works and what he drives. Did Kevin find out where he lives here in D.C.?”
Casey picked up his cell phone. “I’ll check. While I’m doing that, why don’t you call down and order us a couple of burgers and fries so we can work through lunch.”
Drake did as his tall, lean and bottomless pit of a friend asked. By the time he was finished ordering room service, Casey wrote Mohamed’s address on a notepad and passed it to him.
“Watergate West, how appropriate,” Drake thought, as he read Casey’s note. A suspected terrorist and operative of the Muslim Brotherhood living in that D.C. landmark.
Watergate was built by an Italian company backed by Vatican money. It was known for its luxurious digs, its international flair and air of political intrigue. Mohamed had style and wasn’t afraid to operate out in the open.
CHAPTER 63
Drake waited while Casey finished talking with Kevin and consumed his lunch.
“Ready to go find Mohamed?” he asked.
Casey stood and leaned back on the low dresser across from his bed and said, “Kevin got into Mohamed’s account in London. He received a million dollars from the sheikh in Bahrain. He transferred that amount the same day to the foundation’s coffers here in Washington.”
“Qasseer contributed nine million dollars directly to the foundation,” Drake said. “Why route a million through Mohamed’s account?”
“I have no idea,” Casey said. “Why don’t we ask him?”
They decided to try his office in the Evening Star Building first. Casey drove the Tahoe to the iconic landmark located between the U.S. Capitol and the White Hous
e on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Mike, let’s take a turn through the building’s underground parking and see if his black Porsche is here,” Drake said. “It was in one of the reserved spaces on the first level near the elevators when I was here.”
Casey paid the $9.00 one-hour parking fee and drove down the ramp.
As soon as they made the first turn, Drake said, “Mike, over there. He’s in the car, the tail lights just went on. Pull in behind and block him.”
The Tahoe accelerated with a squeal of its rear tires and then slid to a stop behind the Porsche 911 supercar.
Drake held up his hand to stop Casey from getting out. “Let’s wait and see what he does.”
They couldn’t see the driver through the darkened windows of the Porsche, but they only had to wait for a couple of seconds before he started honking to get them to move.
When they didn’t move on, an angry young black man jumped out and stormed to the driver’s side of the Tahoe.
“Move the damn car, man!” he shouted at Casey.
Casey lowered his window. “Where’s the owner, Mohamed Hassan?”
“Don’t know any Mohamed Hassan. Now move your car!”
Drake got out and walked around the front of the Tahoe. “Then why are you driving his car?” he asked, and moved to the man’s right while Casey slid out and blocked to the left.
The driver backed up and raised his right hand to show them the car’s keys. “Hey, I was hired to drive this car to New York. You have a problem with the owner, go talk to him.”
“Is he in his office?” Drake asked.
“How should I know? Car transport service I work for sent me over to get the car and drive it to New York.”
Drake and Casey exchanged looks. “Give me the number of your company. Go stand by the car while I verify that,” Casey said.
Drake walked to the passenger side of the Porsche and looked in. He could just make out a small red duffel bag with a water bottle on top of it in the passenger seat.
“Who ordered the transport?” he heard Casey say.
Casey listened and put the phone in his pocket. “Mohamed told them he was returning to London and wanted it transported to New York. They don’t know where he was when he called.”
They turned and got in the Tahoe as the driver began a creative tirade about their lineage.
“Where to?” Casey asked.
“Find a place to park and let’s go see if he’s in his office.”
The receptionist for Wyse & Williams, Investment Bankers of London, politely informed them she didn’t expect to see Mr. Hassan that day. When asked if he’d be in the next day, she directed them to try his London office and gave them his business card.
“Do you think he’s gone back to England?” Casey asked when they were in the elevator.
“If he’s involved in shooting down the jetliners, now would be a good time to leave. Let’s make sure and check his apartment.”
They were driving west to the Watergate Complex on the Potomac, when Drake got a call from Liz.
“Special Agent Perkins came to see me after you left,” she said. “She shared what they found on Prescott’s computer, and you’re not going to believe it; the whole terror plot was his doing.”
“What do you mean the whole plot was his doing?”
“He had a spreadsheet that listed payments that were made for the whole operation; from round-trip airline tickets to Pakistan for ‘missile training’, to shipping costs for the missiles from Bahrain to America.”
“And all of this was on his computer for anyone to find? I don’t believe it.”
“It was encrypted, Adam. Not everyone could have broken the encryption like the FBI did.”
“Even if it’s true, it doesn’t tell us who else is involved,” Drake said. “Where are the guys from the camp? What was Mark Hassan’s role? What about Mohamed Hassan and Layla Nebit? They’re involved, I’m sure of it.”
“The FBI thinks it has its guy,” Liz said. “Apparently the president’s satisfied as well. He’ll reach out with a drone for the sheikh, and the FBI will roll up the rest of it.”
“Liz, I’m with Mike and he’s exhibiting road rage driving in your city’s traffic. I’d better go. I’ll call you later.”
Casey turned and asked, “What road rage? We’re sitting at a stop light!”
“I needed to get off the phone, before I said something I would regret. The FBI found something on Prescott’s computer that makes them think that he’s the guy responsible for shooting down the planes. The president now gets to take his victory lap, and tell America to relax and fly the friendly skies again, that it’s all over. I don’t buy it.”
Casey pulled forward when the light changed and said, “Why don’t you think Prescott’s behind this?”
“If he’s smart enough to put this together, he wouldn’t leave a spreadsheet on his computer. First Mark Hassan kills himself for taking money that no one knew was missing. Then Prescott kills his wife and commits suicide. If he’s just killed three plane loads of innocent people, do you think he’s going to feel remorse for killing his wife?”
“If Prescott isn’t responsible, then who is?”
“My money is on Mohamed Hassan. Drive on, James. Let’s find him and see if I’m right.”
CHAPTER 64
Mohamed took a last look at the Potomac River flowing past his Watergate West apartment. He purchased the corner unit on the tenth floor for its view, and would miss the feeling it gave him to find such pleasure in the heart of the country he hated. He was here, undetected, and commanded a deadly strike at the enemy. All the while enjoying the best the decadent place had to offer, including the bed of the lovely woman who advised the president.
Layla sent a text message, in the code they had devised, that the Pentagon was preparing a joint plan with Israel to attack Iran’s nuclear facilities. The strike would also reduce its Parliament Building and Presidential Palace to piles of rubble. His plan had worked.
Best of all, he did it without even one of his Sunni brothers having to sacrifice his life or fire a single shot directly at America.
His plan was simple, to provide the crazy and arrogant Sheikh Qasseer with 50 MANPADS after he boasted that was all he needed to bring America to its knees. The rest was easy; funding the mission through the foundation the sheikh established for his camps, getting the missiles smuggled across America’s unprotected northern border, and making sure the sheikh’s favorite camp commander carried out the strikes as planned.
They did fail to kill the attorney. But even that worked out well, with the FBI then raiding the camp in West Virginia in response and beginning a manhunt for the jihadists and the rest of the MANPADS.
Eventually they would track down all those dropped off from the buses, along the way to the neighboring camp in Pennsylvania.
When they tracked the buses, they would find the missiles in the underground bunker in Pennsylvania. To their dismay, they would discover that the missiles were the very ones America had recovered in Libya and provided to the Syrian rebels at the request of the Muslim Brotherhood.
Of course, that news would be denied by the CIA, but he had a plan. An anonymous source would leak the information. The world would know just how two-faced America’s leaders were in their support of the Arab Spring they liked to take credit for.
Will the greatness of my cunning never stop amazing me? He turned from the balcony windows and surveyed his apartment. He was leaving nothing behind that would tie him to the attacks in any way. The laptop with the encrypted spreadsheet he planted on John Prescott’s computer was in a dumpster in Falls Church, Virginia. Its hard drive was in another dumpster in Fairfax, Virginia.
The encrypted Ironkey drive was in his pocket, where it would remain until he got back to London. The only other loose end was his lover, and he had a
plan for dealing with her.
Layla loved exotic flowers and he arranged for her to receive an arrangement of one of the rarest of them all, Flame Lilies, or Gloriosa Superb, that night. He also had a small vile of colchicine, the poison each and every Flame Lily contained. Three drops of the liquid would kill a good size dog, and he had 10 ml of the poison in a small glass vial.
It was more than enough for a fatal dose he planned on putting in her favorite night cap of heated Dom Benedictine B&B. Symptoms wouldn’t develop for ten to twelve hours, and would be attributed to an overdose of pills from the half-empty bottle of colchicine medication, commonly used for gout, found in her medicine cabinet. Since she was a proud and vain woman, the fact that she had a bottle of gout pills purchased online, from a non-existent pharmacy in Canada, might never be questioned. At least, not before he was out of the country.
Mohamed checked his watch and saw he had thirty minutes until his appointment for a haircut and style at his favorite men’s grooming lounge. He was feeling good about the way the day was going. He thought he would have a massage and manicure, before shopping for the perfect wine to compliment the rack of lamb he’d been promised for dinner. Life was good when Allah smiled upon you, he reflected as he left the apartment.
CHAPTER 65
Layla was upset by the call she received in her West Wing office, but she complied with the request to leave in the middle of the afternoon and go home. The hand-delivered note, and the business card that accompanied it, was something she could not afford to ignore.
The world knew the man she was summoned to meet as the distinguished senior journalist for the Times of London. His reporting on war and turmoil in the Middle East was a staple for diplomats the world over.
She knew the man as her uncle, and the chairman of the Muslim Brotherhood’s Western Intelligence Action Committee. He was sitting in the back of her limousine when it pulled up in front of the West Wing of the White House.
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 21
