Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  Then he said, “Such noble creatures, don’t you think?”

  Jack nodded. “Definitely.”

  “Look at that Newfoundland, for example. That thick black coat. The way he sits so straight and tall, waiting for his master’s command.”

  “He’s beautiful,” Sara said.

  “Did you know that a Newfoundland once saved Napoleon Bonaparte from drowning when he fell off a ship? Napoleon didn’t know how to swim, but Newfoundlands are notorious for their affinity with water. After the rescue, Napoleon himself is supposed to have said, ‘Here, gentlemen, a dog teaches us a lesson in humanity.’” Wickham chuckled. “Indeed.

  “Loyalty,” Wickham went on, “that’s what it’s all about. You know the story about Greyfriars Bobby, don’t you, Jack?”

  Jack nodded, but the senator pointed to a waiting group of Skye terriers and continued. “Greyfriars became famous in nineteenth-century Edinburgh after reportedly spending fourteen years guarding over the grave of his owner, John Gray. A year after this loyal little dog died himself, in 1873, a statue and fountain were built in the Scottish capital to remember him.”

  “I know the story well,” Jack said with a nod. “From the 1961 Disney film about that angel with fur called Greyfriars Bobby.”

  Wickham smiled warmly. “Saw it as a boy. Made me what I am today. I don’t just mean the dog lover. I mean the concept of loyalty, dedication, no matter the inconvenience or cost. Without it, you’re nothing.”

  Jack was enjoying the conversation, but had more pressing matters on his mind. “Senator, we need to talk about the Hand of Allah.”

  Wickham quickly glanced around as if hoping no one had heard, a tiny bit of paranoia that seemed out of character. Then he leaned toward them, keeping his voice low. “Not to worry, son. Thanks to you and Ms. Ghadah here, we’ve got it all under control.”

  “You found the guy from Allied?”

  “We did indeed. It took some careful maneuvering with people I knew I could trust, but right now he’s in the middle of a sit-down with a contact of mine from Homeland Security.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A young Saudi kid who went to work for Allied about a year ago. We’re still checking whether or not he’s legal, but I’m guessing he isn’t. Which means our illustrious friend Mr. Soren may be in a bit of trouble—although I doubt he’d see much more than a fine. It isn’t likely he knew what was going on under his nose. Not many would.”

  “What about the shipping container? Did you find it?”

  Wickham nodded. “We did. But it was clean. So either the device has already been taken or it never existed at all.”

  The “already been taken” part caused Jack some distress. “Has the President been apprised?”

  “Yes, but he’s playing it cautiously. He doesn’t want to jump until we have concrete evidence. That USB key will help. Do you have it on you?”

  Sara took it from her pocket and handed it across to him.

  Wickham turned it in his fingers. “Amazing how much the world has changed, isn’t it? In my day it would have been a simple slip of paper left at a designated drop zone. Now we can transfer all the world’s secrets with the touch of a key. Something that WikiLeaks bastard learned to our great detriment.”

  “What about Hassan Haddad?” Jack asked. “Have you located him?”

  “We have evidence he came into the city a couple days ago on a diplomatic visa, but we haven’t been able to find him so far.”

  That was a second bit of bad news.

  “Senator,” Jack said, “with Haddad on the loose and an empty container, shouldn’t they be thinking of canceling the gala tomorrow night?”

  Wickham scoffed. “Not a chance.”

  “But—”

  “I know what you’re gonna say, Jack, but I don’t think you understand the magnitude of the situation. The Legion of Honor is having a black-tie gala to celebrate the art of Islam.”

  “How touching,” Jack said.

  “You see the problem,” Wickham said. “It’s open only to high-end museum patrons and the whole damn point of the exercise is to demonstrate solidarity and acceptance among people of all cultures, to put all this anti-Muslim sentiment behind us. If we jump the gun and accuse the Hand of Allah of a terrorist plot that doesn’t exist, we’ll have more PR damage than we’ll know what to do with.”

  “And if it does exist, we may have more real damage than we know what to do with, including a dead President.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Wickham said. “That place will be sealed up tight. No way anyone who even smells of trouble will make it through those doors without being fully scanned. Even the big museum patrons and politicians.”

  Jack still didn’t like it. His gut told him they were thinking too small, too locally. And there was still the unexplained reference to the “twins.” “What about the British government? Any progress on that front?”

  Wickham balked. “Come on, Jack, this is a very delicate matter. We have to move slowly and with deliberation before we can determine who’s friend or foe over there. Trust me, we’ll be looking into this Zuabi character and any ties he might have to MI6 or the Home Office. It’ll all come out in the wash.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I think our first concern,” Wickham said, “is finding Hassan Haddad. Even if the legion is secure, I’m not particularly comfortable with him running around in the wild.”

  “I agree with that. So what’s the plan?”

  “My man in Homeland Security is trying to get something out of Allied about this character, but he’s playing by the rules so who knows how much luck he’s having? In the meantime, I’ve put together a small team to look at this thing. People who can be trusted. We’ve taken over the bed-and-breakfast at a little island lighthouse station for the night to work out a strategy. Sent the caretakers on a short vacation so we can talk freely.” He looked at Jack and Sara. “I’d like you two to join us. I’m sure the others would love your input. Especially you, Sara, since you seem to know the most about who and what we’re up against.”

  Jack and Sara exchanged a glance, then Sara said, “Absolutely. Count us in.”

  Senator Wickham smiled that charming Texas smile of his, then took a fond, parting look at the arena and got to his feet. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Why don’t we head on out there now?”

  32

  The East Brother light station was practically unknown outside of the Richmond–San Rafael area. Established in 1874, it was located just off Point San Pablo in the northern part of the bay, perched atop one of the tiny islands called the Brothers. Ships making their way to Sacramento, through the strait between the San Francisco and San Pablo bays, had to negotiate numerous small islands and indented coastline that were treacherous at night or in fog. The lighthouse was the solution. East Brother Island was dominated by a large two-story beige Victorian-style bed-and-breakfast, fronted by the rectangular tower of the lighthouse itself. Despite being only a quarter mile from the shore, the island was isolated and quiet, except for the occasional bray of a foghorn.

  It was the perfect place to get work done without interruption.

  When Jack spent time in his apartment off the Embarcadero, he often looked toward the Richmond Bridge from his bay window, thinking about the night he’d spent at the light station with Rachel. He had fallen in love with the place back then—at least that love was real—but all these years later he had yet to repeat the experience.

  Wickham’s driver took them down a desolate, rutted access road that threatened to destroy the limousine’s suspension. After about twenty thumping minutes they reached an old, dilapidated pier.

  The light station stood just across the water, the windows of the house lit up, the lighthouse beacon shining like a large star in the night sky. It was a foggy night, but the light broke through the fog in dispersed rays.

  There was a twenty-eight-foot open Chris-Craft waiting for them, its pilot nodding to them politely
as Jack, Sara, Wickham, and his bodyguard stepped aboard. The sun was down and the air had grown chilly, the sea breeze whipping at their clothes and hair as they found seats and sat down.

  Wickham and his bodyguard sat in back, and the senator took a cigar from his pocket, lighting it under a cupped hand as the pilot started the engine. Then, as they pulled from the dock, he contentedly tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air.

  “Gorgeous foggy night,” he said over the whine of the motor. “Nights like this make it hard for me to go back to Texas. Or worse yet, D.C.”

  “There’s no place else on earth like the bay,” Jack said.

  Sara’s jacket apparently wasn’t doing its job, because she sidled up next to Jack, trying to use his body to buffer the cold wind. As the boat rumbled, skimming the surface of the water, he put an arm around her and pulled her close, thinking about their brief encounter back in Faisal’s apartment. As corny as it might sound, he felt as if he’d finally found his soul mate, the one woman in this world he would ever want or need.

  A Muslim woman, if that didn’t beat all.

  She nestled her head against his shoulder and murmured softly. “Who are these people we’re meeting?”

  “Friends of the senator. Probably upper-echelon law enforcement and government types. People he thinks he can trust.”

  “Why out here? The isolation?”

  Jack nodded. “Barely a smudge on the map. They want to stay as far off the radar grid as possible. Just like—”

  He stopped himself but it was too late.

  “Brendan and Alain and the others?” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

  “No need,” she said. “It is like our headquarters in Paris. That is a tribute to my fallen comrades.”

  She pulled him closer and kissed his cheek and for a moment he managed to forget what they’d been through, and tried to think about what was to come.

  The key was stopping Hassan Haddad, wherever he might be. If he was out there in the wild with some kind of explosive, they all needed to be very worried.

  Jack thought again about nearly bumping into the man outside that pub near al-Fida’s flat.

  If only he had known.

  If only.

  After several minutes they pulled up to a long dock and boathouse that extended from the side of the island. There were already two boats moored side by side there, a thirty-eight-foot Downeast cruiser with an open cockpit and an older, smaller Luhrs. Two rubber dinghies with outboard motors bumped up against the dock on the opposite side. Beyond them was a fast Novurania rigid inflatable. Jack guessed it was used by a caretaker to speed over to the shore for provisions. He probably came and went in a larger vessel, better equipped to handle bigger loads from the mainland.

  The pilot maneuvered their small boat into an empty space next to a ladder, then tied the boat down and gestured for everyone to disembark. They all climbed up and stepped onto the dock, then moved up a short ramp that led under an umbrella of trees onto the island itself. They continued along a small cement concourse past the old wooden fog signal building—which was little more than a large wooden shed with two pneumatic foghorns mounted on its roof—and moved toward the Victorian bed-and-breakfast on the far side of the island.

  West Brother Island was visible just beyond this, a dry, elongated chunk of earth that was crowded with cormorants, gulls, and other bay birds sharing the bare, steep rock. Nesting pelicans had taken over the entire grassy area of the island. Just as with humans, the strongest birds had the best real estate. Off to their left, about one mile across the bay, was the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, its iron cross-work frame obscured by the fog.

  “It’s beautiful here,” Sara said.

  “Tell that to my ex-wife.”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, forget I said that. It’s not worth talking about.”

  Poking up from the center of the concourse was the large rounded surface of a cistern. Jack knew that there were no water lines out here and the island had been specially designed to collect rain. Water was so scarce, in fact, that the night he and Rachel visited, they hadn’t been allowed to shower before bed. Such a privilege was granted only to visitors on extended stays.

  They moved past the cistern toward the main house, and the closer they got, the more reticent Jack began to feel. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but he suddenly felt as if something were off, his fight-or-flight instinct quietly kicking into gear.

  He glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, Mr. Laser Pointer, who was standing just to his right, then turned to Wickham himself as they approached the house.

  “Senator, who exactly are we meeting with?” Jack asked.

  “I already told you,” Wickham said. “People we can trust. Probably the only people we can trust.”

  Then they passed under a set of white stairs that led to the second floor and moved onto the small porch fronting the first-floor entrance.

  The interior of the house matched its exterior—old, quaint, with a Victorian-style flavor, all the way down to the furniture. The foyer walls were lined with framed black-and-white photos of the light station in years gone by, along with old photos of Richmond and San Francisco and the bay.

  As they stepped inside, Jack could hear voices.

  “It’s just past dinnertime,” Wickham said, “so they’re probably all in the dining room to your left. Let’s go in and make introductions.”

  It sounded more like a command than a request, but Jack and Sara turned to their left, moving through a doorway into a narrow room dominated by a long white-clothed dining table.

  Everyone stopped talking when they entered.

  Seven men sat at the table, dirty dishes and drinks and ashtrays in front of them, cigars in hand, the sickly-sweet smell of their smoke hanging in the air. Jack recognized a few of the men immediately, all of them old-timers like Wickham—Senator Mitch Tomlinson, a Democrat from Maine; William Arland, a high-powered financial consultant and former chairman of the Federal Reserve; James Featherstone, an undersecretary at the British Home Office; and Clyde Parkinson, former assistant director of the FBI. The others were undoubtedly movers and shakers of the same caliber, but their faces weren’t familiar to Jack.

  Except one.

  At the far end of the table sat a man who always got his blood pumping. A man he had hated with such ferocity for the last two years that he felt like leaping across the table and strangling him. It was the man responsible for the smear campaign that had destroyed his career.

  He spoke directly to Jack with a distinct Austrian accent. “Have a seat, why don’t you, Mr. Hatfield.”

  It was billionaire Lawrence Soren.

  33

  “What the hell is this?” Jack said, turning to Wickham. “What’s going on?”

  “I think you should do as he says. Sit.”

  It was like a command to one of his dogs.

  Sara looked completely deflated. Jack grabbed her arm and started to back from the table, but Wickham’s bodyguard got up behind them in the doorway and Jack felt the muzzle of a gun against his lower back.

  This wasn’t good.

  “You and your girlfriend are looking as shy as mail-order brides,” Wickham said with a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of here. We’re the good guys.”

  “Is that why I’ve got a gun at my back?”

  Now Lawrence Soren smiled. He was about seventy-six years old, with thin blond hair, a pasty-white complexion, and large bulbous blue eyes. Jack had always thought he looked like a former SS officer.

  “We have to be cautious,” Soren said. “You’re an unpredictable sort. You’ve certainly proven that over the last several days—if not your entire career. So do be seated. Or, contrary to what the senator says, there will be something to fear.”

  Another man stepped in through a doorway behind Soren. He was carrying a Glock 9mm.

  Jack and Sara exchanged glances, but
what choice did they have? They pulled out chairs and sat, Jack feeling his chest grow tight with tension.

  “You need to relax,” Soren said, correctly reading his expression. “All this hatred you hold for me is not healthy. Perhaps if we took the time to discuss the world, we might find we have more in common than you think.”

  “I doubt it,” Jack said.

  “Oh?” Soren’s thick white brows went up. “Look around you. Here you have a room full of men from all ends of the political spectrum, yet we’ve managed to put aside our differences and come together for a common cause.”

  “And what cause is that?”

  “Restoring sanity to the world. Surely you can appreciate such a sentiment.”

  “Depends on your definition of sanity. Yours no doubt has something to do with preserving the sanctity of your fascist agenda, along with your all-important pocketbook.”

  Soren nodded in acquiescence. “There are always concerns about money, of course. We here are men of privilege who have no interest in losing what we’ve earned. Which is why we’ve learned, over the years, to back the winning horses.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Soren leaned back in his chair. “I think anyone who looks at the world today can clearly see that the Zionists are the cause for all the unrest in the Middle East.”

  “That big lie? You gotta be kidding me.”

  “The policies of Israel and the United States are strangling Israel’s neighbors. And it’s obvious to anyone with any intelligence that the Jews rule the world by proxy. Right now, as we speak, preparations are being made to ship plutonium to the Jewish state, out of our very own ports. Here we are, helping the Israelis build their nuclear arsenal while we treat the countries around them, Muslim countries”—he made a point of glancing at Sara—“with complete disrespect, telling their leaders that they’re too unruly and immature to have such weapons of their own.”

  “Israel is a democracy and our only ally—”