Khaled Ibrahim handed her a note and motioned for the driver to raise the privacy window.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “Read the instructions and then we’ll talk.”
The note was handwritten on stationery from the Hay-Adams Hotel.
Mohamed has been too clever and will be caught. His actions cannot be traced back to us. He must be eliminated and made to disappear tonight. The council has selected you to do it.
“Surely someone else can do this, Uncle. Why me?”
“Because he is in your bed, Layla, and he plans to leave tomorrow. There isn’t time to get someone else close to him.”
“How? How am I supposed to kill him? I’m not a killer.”
Her uncle took a vial from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Put this in his drink. It will act quickly and then call the number on the back of the card I gave you. We will remove his body.”
Layla settled back in her seat, and rested her head on the cool leather. It wasn’t a question about whether she would kill Mohamed; she didn’t have a choice. No woman ever played the role she was playing for the council, as their eyes and ears at the highest level of the American government. She knew even that would not protect her if she disobeyed this order.
The question swirling around in her mind was whether she would be implicated in whatever Mohamed had been doing. She hadn’t been seen in public with him, although the doorman and her security service knew him by name.
Was there something she did or said that would come back to haunt her? Something she let slip when John Prescott confronted her? Then it hit her, right between the eyes.
Prescott knew about Mohamed from the secret CIA file!
The president would protect her from the CIA, of course. He already knew about her mother’s past and hadn’t been concerned. Did Prescott share the file with anyone else? Or had the file been discovered by the FBI when they searched his house, after he’d killed his wife and committed suicide…the same night Mohamed told her he’d go talk to Prescott.
Layla turned to her uncle and asked, “Mohamed killed John Prescott, didn’t he?”
“Get the CIA files from him tonight before you kill him. We need to know how much the CIA knows about the two of you,” he said and knocked on the privacy screen.
When the screen was down, he told the driver to take Ms. Nebit to her condo and let him out at the next corner.
CHAPTER 66
Casey drove down the ramp to the underground parking for the Watergate complex at 2600 Virginia Avenue NW, and paid for an hour of parking.
“High-rent district,” he said to Drake, as he put his wallet back in his pocket.
“The Watergate or the District of Columbia?”
“All of the above, plus the surrounding counties.”
When they walked out of the stale air of the parking structure into the cold afternoon and the light scent of cherry blossoms, Drake pointed to the imposing gray building to the west.
“It looks like an ocean liner about to sail down the Potomac,” he said.
The sharp angles of the building and the alternating bands of windows and balconies did have a nautical look about it.
“Not the prettiest building I’ve ever seen,” Casey said, “but I guess I could get used to it.”
They followed the path through the terraced courtyard, in between the curving walls of the two more recognizable buildings of the Watergate Complex, and continued on to the entrance of Hassan’s building, 2700 Virginia Avenue West.
Inside, they were greeted by a doorman who politely asked who they were there to see.
“Mohamed Hassan,” Drake said.
“Was he expecting you?”
“He asked me to stop by for a drink when I was in town. He’s looking for a new security firm for his investment bank, Wyse & Williams,” Casey improvised and held out one of his business cards.
The doorman took the card and read it carefully before handing it back. “I’m sorry that you missed him, Mr. Casey. He’s returning to London tomorrow. Would you like me to tell him you stopped by?”
Casey took a twenty out of his wallet and wrapped it around his business card. “It’s important that I talk with Mr. Hassan tonight before he leaves, if possible. Would you have him call me at the number on my card when he returns?”
“Certainly, Mr. Casey,” the doorman said with a smile and slipped the gratuity and card in his pocket.”
Outside, Drake said, “You know he’ll never call you.”
“It doesn’t matter. We know where he’ll be.”
It took Drake a second to read the Cheshire grin on his friend’s face before he said, “His last night in town, with his lover.”
“I’ll have Kevin find out where she lives and after dinner with your in-laws tonight, we’ll go see if we’re right.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
After a quick shower back at their hotel and a change of clothes, Drake and Casey were ready for the dinner Meredith Hazelton insisted on before they returned to Oregon.
“Mom tends to go a little overboard when she has me over for dinner, so be prepared,” Drake said, and then added, “not that that would bother you.”
Casey stopped in front of the white brick row house in Georgetown that Drake pointed out and defended himself. “You make fun of the way I can eat, but I know you envy me. Never gain a pound and don’t have to work out.”
As predicted, Casey thoroughly enjoyed a feast of Tournedos of Beef in mushroom and red wine sauce, an onion-potato gratin, and asparagus.
“Mrs. Hazelton,” he said, when the last speck of the gratin was gone, “that was terrific! Drake said you are a great cook, and I totally agree.”
Drake had noticed that Senator Hazelton was unusually quiet during dinner.
“Liz told me the president is satisfied that Sheikh Qasseer is responsible for shooting down our jetliners as Iran’s proxy. Do you agree with his conclusion?” Drake asked.
Senator Hazelton took a moment to refill his wine glass and locked eyes with Drake, as he considered his answer.
“I’ve been fortunate to have been involved in intelligence oversight for my last two terms on the Senate Select Intelligence Committee,” he said. “I have a close relationship with several senior officials in the intelligence community. They tell me there is evidence that the sheikh shipped fifty MANPADS here, and that Iran knew about it. I’m not convinced the sheikh carried out the attacks at the request of Iran.”
“Is there a difference between knowing about the missile shipment and ordering that they be used against us?” Drake asked.
“I think there is, for two reasons. Iran will always be happy whenever anyone attacks us. They danced in the streets on 9/11. So saying Iran knew about the attacks and may have approved of the plan isn’t a stretch,” the senator said.
“But they have too much to lose if they provoke us. Iran’s real proxy, Hezbollah, is fighting for its life in Syria. They’re calling it the Grand Battle that was promised by the Prophet 1,400 years ago. Shia Muslims fighting Sunni Muslims, in a battle that’s to be a prelude to the return of their Mahdi, a prophet who disappeared a 1,000 years ago, and the establishment of a world-wide Islamic state.
“I just don’t see Iran inviting an attack by us, or Israel, that would harm its ability to provide support to Hezbollah in Syria.”
“If it’s not Iran, senator, then who do you think is behind this?” Casey asked.
“Well, I don’t believe John Prescott was,” the senator said emphatically. “I knew John for over twenty years. I can’t believe he would do something like this. He represented a lot of clients from the Middle East, and would do just about anything to lobby successfully for them, but he wasn’t an Islamist.”
“I know there are things you can’t discuss with us, but you haven’t answered Mike’s q
uestion,” Drake said. “Who do you think is behind this?”
Senator Hazelton looked down and watched the red wine he was swirling in his glass. “Since the Muslim Brotherhood was overthrown in Egypt, it’s been behind most of the unrest in the Middle East. With the way it has lobbied for us to restore it to power, and flexed its muscle and influence here in Washington without success, it’s possible they’re playing a long game and maneuvering us to take out Iran and make them the preeminent power in the region.”
“How would you prove that?” Casey asked.
Senator Hazelton looked directly at Drake. “Find the guy who’s orchestrating the whole thing for the Brotherhood.”
CHAPTER 67
Drake and Casey left Senator Hazelton’s row house a little after 9:00. FBI Special Agent Kate Perkins was leaning against the driver-side door of their rented Tahoe.
“To what do we owe the honor, Agent Perkins?” Drake asked. “Or have you just been following us, I should ask?”
“Should I be following you, Mr. Drake?”
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Liz called me. She said she was worried about you, and then asked me if I could return the handguns we took from you after the shootout at your hotel. She said you were returning to Oregon tomorrow. Why is she worried about you, Mr. Drake?”
“She probably gets that from my mother-in-law. They’re pretty close. How are you coming with your hunt for the rest of the MANPADS, and the people using them?”
“We’re still looking, but we’ll find them. We know who financed the operation and where the money went,” she said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“So you believe John Prescott’s your guy?” Drake said. “Have you discovered why he would do something like this?”
“I suppose you have a theory?” she challenged.
“I don’t believe he’s your man. You don’t kill three plane loads of innocent people, kill your wife, and then kill yourself because you feel guilty about killing her.”
“And you know how killers think?” she asked.
“I’ve prosecuted killers,” Drake said simply. “And I do know a little about how they think, Agent Perkins. Is there another reason you’re here, besides telling me that Liz is concerned?”
Kate Perkins pushed away from the Tahoe and stepped inside Drake’s personal comfort zone. “I did a little research on you, and found that you have an affinity for going after terrorists and bad guys yourself, instead of letting us do our job. Still playing Delta Force soldier, without the uniform, and I think you’re doing the same thing here in Washington. Am I right, Mr. Drake?”
He looked down at her aggressive posture and smiled. “With or without the uniform, every citizen has a duty to protect his country. Sometimes a helping hand from us citizens, even if we’re not wearing a uniform, can be useful.”
Agent Perkins held his gaze for a long moment, and then turned and walked to the back of an unmarked black Suburban and raised the lift gate. From a cardboard box, she removed two handguns and returned to stand in front of Drake and Casey.
“Mr. Casey, I believe the Colt CQBP is yours and the Kimber belongs to Mr. Drake,” she said as she handed the guns to them. “If you discover something you think might be useful tonight, Mr. Drake, call me. My number is on the card I gave you at the diner.”
Drake and Casey watched her get in her Bureau car and drive off.
“Is she setting us up, returning our handguns?” Casey asked.
“More like she’s telling us to go find something that will be useful, without saying it,” Drake said.
Before they drove away, Casey checked his phone and found a text from Kevin.
“Kevin found Nebit’s unlisted address,” he said. “She lives in a luxury condo, not far from Mohamed’s apartment.”
“Then let’s go see if she’s entertaining him tonight,” Drake said. “Along the way, we need to come up with a plan to get past security. We didn’t do very well at the Watergate.”
Casey entered the address in the GPS and drove off in the direction indicated on the navigation screen. “A place like this will have 24/7 security. With the security clearance she’d have to have, she probably has her own private security as well. We’re not going to talk our way in.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Drake said. “What if we get her to invite us in?”
“She doesn’t know us, why would she do that?”
“Because the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence is going to ask her to see us, that’s why.”
“Will the senator do that?”
“He will when I tell him that Nebit might know something that will lead us to the guy he told us to find.”
CHAPTER 68
Mohamed Hassan knew something was wrong before they finished the first glass of the 2000 Cháteau Margaux he’d selected for their last dinner together. Her quick peck on his cheek at the door lacked the hungry passion he was used to.
And she hadn’t mentioned the display of Flame Lilies that were sitting on the end of her granite-topped kitchen island.
“Layla,” he said, “the lamb smells wonderful. Did you come home early to prepare our dinner?”
There it was again, the quick look away as she tucked her legs under herself on the sofa before answering.
“I wanted the lamb done the way you like it, Mohamed. Besides, the president can get along without me for one afternoon.”
“I doubt that, my dear, but I appreciate your devotion. How is the president doing, with all the problems he’s dealing with?”
“He’s coping, looking for a way to save face with these terrorist attacks.”
“Will he go after the sheikh?”
“Oh my god,” she hissed, “that’s what my uncle meant. You’re involved in these attacks.”
Mohamed watched calmly, as she stood and stared at him.
“When did you talk to your uncle?” he asked.
“What have you done, Mohamed?
“What I was ordered to do, Layla. Now sit down and answer my question. When did you talk to your uncle?”
He watched as she fell back onto the sofa, her eyes blazing in anger.
“Today,” she said defiantly.
“Is he here, in Washington?”
He waited for her to answer.
“So, he’s here in Washington. What did he tell you?”
“That you’d been too clever and would be caught.”
“And what else did he tell you?”
As smart as she was, Layla was not trained as an agent. Her glance toward the small black clutch on the glass-topped entryway table gave him the answer to his question.
Mohamed got up and kept an eye on her as he walked to the entryway.
“Did he tell you to kill me?” he asked, as he picked up the clutch and held it out to her. He saw her eyes widen in fear and went to the kitchen island, where he dumped the contents of the clutch out on the cold gray surface.
“One leather fashion wallet with credit cards, some cash, lipstick, and an iPhone,” as he recited the inventory of the clutch, “and a clear glass vial containing what, poison?” The vial went into the pocket of his gray blazer.
“Did you kill John Prescott, Mohamed?” she asked softly.
“And Mark Hassan as well,” he said. “They were ‘loose ends’, as you Americans like to say.”
“Am I another loose end as well?”
“Just as I am, it seems. What I don’t understand is why your uncle, the chairman of the Brotherhood’s Intelligence Action Committee, would sacrifice me? My plan was developed years ago, and the council approved it.”
“Why would the council approve such a reckless plan?” she asked.
“Because America drew a line in the sand and didn’t enforce it, Layla. Your precious president promised the wor
ld Iran would not be allowed to develop nuclear weapon capability, and then stood by and watched them do it. Do you really believe Iran just wants to destroy Israel? It wants to destroy its oldest enemy, Layla, all of us who are Sunni Muslims. We’ve been at war since the Prophet died 1,400 years ago, without clearly naming his successor. Iran must be destroyed, and we needed a way to get America to do it for us.”
“So you convinced Sheikh Qasseer to use his followers here in America to shoot down jetliners? So the president would attack Iran?” she cried. “The sheikh isn’t Iran, Mohamed. Why would the president do that?”
“But the CIA believes he’s Iran’s proxy, Layla,” he said. “I made sure of that.”
Layla shook her head in disbelief. “What now, Mohamed?”
“Come, let’s have the lamb you fixed for me, finish this expensive wine, and we’ll see if there’s a way we both can get out of this alive.”
When she went to the kitchen to serve the first course of their dinner she’d prepared, a mushroom-hazelnut salad, Mohamed refilled her wine glass and added a healthy dose of the Flame Lily poison when she wasn’t looking.
CHAPTER 69
Drake waited for the security guard to buzz them into the lobby of Nebit’s elegant luxury condominium. Walls of glass and curving wraparound terraces for each floor gave the place a futuristic promise of über luxury.
“And I thought the Watergate West was swank,” Casey said.
“The perks of being a powerful civil servant,” Drake responded.
When the tall, glass door with its discrete gold numbers clicked open, they confidently approached the guard’s desk.
“Ms. Nebit is expecting us,” Drake told him.
Without taking his eyes off the two of them, the guard announced their presence to his well-known resident over the condominium’s intercom system. “Ms. Nebit, there are two men here to see you. They say you’re expecting them.”
“Your names, please?” he asked.
“Mr. Drake and Mr. Casey, on behalf of Senator Hazelton,” Drake answered.
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 22
