“So what?” Marvin asked.
“There was a lot of land involved. Most of it was communally owned. Under the terms of the revised treaty, the much of the communal lands were declared public lands by the US government. But some of it ended up in the hands of wealthy Americans, such as the Vista Verde Ranch, which is owned by David Benedict.”
“Okay,” Marvin said. “Get to the point!”
Kyle cleared his throat. “Descendants of the original land grant owners never forgot. One of those was a man named Carlos Miranda. He claimed that the heirs to the land grant still had rightful ownership of the Vista Verde Ranch, which was once the largest Mexican land grant in the Southwest.”
“This is nonsense,” Marvin said, increasingly agitated. “Carlos Miranda led a group of land grant heirs on an armed protest. They demanded the Vista Verde ranch be returned to them. After a standoff of about two-weeks, Miranda was shot dead by police sniper. The protest ended.”
“That’s a nice story,” Marvin said. “But you didn’t explain what this has to do with our President being held hostage.”
“Miranda’s son is a boy named Carlito. He was there when his father was killed. He was also with his grandfather, who was killed earlier when he was caught grazing his sheep on the Vista Verde Ranch. The shooter was never found. Carlito grew up hating the police and the government for killing his father. He recently converted to Islam and is now part of the jihadis who are holding the president.”
Marvin scowled. “How in God’s name do you know this?”
“Carlito is the one who called me.”
“Why did he call you?”
“I was there when his father was shot,” Kyle said.
The Situation Room was silent, as the eyes of the cabinet moved from Kyle to Marvin.
“So where do we go from here?” Carter asked.
Marvin again shook his head in disgust. “How can we even pretend to have a rational conversation with these people? They’re crazy, flat out crazy. They’re asking us to pull out of the Middle East, free a couple of hundred terrorists, and give a third of the country back to Mexico. Remember. We don’t negotiate with terrorists. Not now, not ever.”
Carter stared at the screen. “What are you going to do with these demands?” she asked Kyle.
“What any journalist would do with them,” Kyle said. “I’m going to write a story about them as soon as we’re finished here.”
“We should craft a response,” Carter said, glancing at Marvin. “We just can’t tell them to go to hell.”
“Yes we can,” Marvin said. “As the British say, never apologize, never explain.”
“Well then, what do you suggest?” Carter asked.
“As I said,” Marvin replied, “It has been and continues to be our policy that we don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Carter nodded. “That’s something, I suppose. But, what about President Harris?”
“We demand his immediate release and the full surrender of the terrorists,” Marvin said, and scanned the faces around the table. “Is everyone agreed?”
The heads around the table nodded.
“Done,” Marvin said. “Now what are we going to do about rescuing Harris and Blount?”
“I think what Kyle told us about the local boy, Carlito, is instructive,” Sidow said.
“Why’s that?” Marvin asked.
“Because this whole thing could not have happened without some local help,” Sidow said.
“Homer,” Marvin said, “we’ve already established that.”
“Look at the sequence of events,” Sidow continued. “We have a group of Islamic terrorists who have infiltrated this country and were able to hide out in the remote location in northern New Mexico. They were able to conduct a surprise attack on a high-level meeting that was not widely known. Now they hold the leader of the world’s most powerful country hostage.”
“Okay,” Marvin said. “Get to the point.”
“This was not a random sequence of events,” Sidow said. “This was not a bizarre and freak accident. This was a carefully planned and executed attack.”
“You could be right, Homer,” Marvin said. “That these terrorists were in the country is bad enough. It’s likely they were a sleeper cell. They could have been planted and put in place for months, even years, and activated when an opportunity for an attack arrived.”
“I also have a hard time accepting that this could be just good luck,” said the FBI’s Huntington, an angular man who lowered his half-lens reading glasses on his beaked nose and stared at Marvin.
Marvin scanned the group. “All this speculation is useless. President Harris is being held hostage,” he said. “I’m not hearing any ideas about how we get out of this mess.”
“We need to look closely at how we got into this situation,” said Huntington. “That will give us a path as to how we can get out of it.”
From inside the Atlas Global conference room, Hank Benedict waved his hand and barked, “Mister vice-president!”
“Who’s that?” Marvin said, turning to the screen.
“Hank Benedict, sir. Here at Atlas Global at the Vista Verde Ranch.”
“Oh, yes, Dave Benedict’s boy,” Marvin said. “How are you?”
“I’ve had experience negotiating with terrorists,” Hank Benedict said. “I volunteer myself, my men, and my agency to lead the negotiations for the release of President Harris.”
“I appreciate that, Hank. But you and your men helped get us into this mess.”
“And we can get us out.”
“Someone has to,” Marvin said, sighing. “What do you suggest?”
“We’ve reached a stalemate,” Benedict said. “The president is secure, for the moment anyway. This gives us some time. We need to know more about these men and what capabilities they have.”
Marvin shook his head in disgust. “Well, that’s good. Coordinate your intel with the people around this table. For the moment, we’ll just have to leave things as they are. Dawson here seems to be our pipeline to them.” Marvin scanned the room again, and when no one spoke, he continued. “So, in a few minutes, I’m going to tell the American people we don’t negotiate with terrorists and that we demand the president be freed immediately, unharmed. When we meet again, we need to have a plan to end this standoff.”
“We will, sir,” Benedict said.
Marvin looked at his watch. “We’ll reconvene in two hours. I expect to hear how each of you and your departments intend to get us out of this mess.”
The screen on the wall at the Atlas Global room went blank. Kyle drew a deep breath, then stepped into the hallway, tapped his phone screen, and called Frankel’s number.
Frankel picked up immediately. “So what the hell happened?”
“I’m not really sure,” Kyle said.
“What? Were you on the call, or not?”
“Yes. But I can’t share any details about what was discussed. That was the agreement. But I can tell you that they don’t have a plan to free the president. It’s a classic Mexican standoff. Each side is waiting for the other to blink.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not. Marvin is going on national television in the next few minutes to tell the world that everything is under control, and that neither he nor anyone else is going to negotiate with terrorists. Marvin is going to demand the terrorists give themselves up and release the president and Senator Blount unharmed.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Frankel said. “We need a story from you on the detailed demands the terrorists are making, so get to it. We’ll have someone here write the story on Marvin’s televised address. We don’t have much time.”
Chapter 22
Kyle closed the door to Raoul’s office, put his phone down, and watched his laptop screen come to life. What would the jihadis do
when they learned that Marvin refused to negotiate with them? Nothing. They’d accomplished what they wanted. They had President Harris. But, the jihadis already knew they wouldn’t be negotiating with the US. The demands were their way of broadcasting their message. A recruiting tool.
With the world watching, would they commit yet another act of desperation? Would they actually kill the president? Kyle felt like he stood at rim of a deep, dark hole, and the ground beneath his feet was beginning to shake. He pushed the thought from his mind and tried to focus on the story. Once the story was finished, he knew his next move, and he couldn’t do it sitting in Raoul’s office at Atlas Global.
Ninety minutes later, Kyle leaned back and massaged the taut muscles in his shoulder and neck. He reread his story.
VISTA VERDE RANCH, N.M.—Islamic jihadists holding President Barry Harris hostage are demanding that the United States end all military activities in and withdraw from Syria and Iraq, the Herald has learned.
The group, which stormed a semi-secret summit here at the luxurious ranch owned by billionaire David Benedict, also wants the release of the nearly 170 Muslim prisoners still being held at the US prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
In addition, the group is demanding the US relinquish the Southwestern states, all of which were acquired from Mexico in 1848 as part of the treaty that ended the Mexican-American war. The demand is believed to have been crafted by an Hispanic activist and Muslim convert who has joined the jihadists.
Shortly after the jihadist demands were made available to the Herald, Vice-President James Marvin went on national television to say the United States, as a matter of long-standing policy, does not negotiate with terrorists.
Marvin called for the immediate release of President Harris and Senator Blount, who are being held hostage in the main residential lodge at the ranch.
The Herald has learned President Harris and Senator Blount have barricaded themselves in secure rooms in the lodge’s upper floor. Harris and Blount are believed to be accompanied by one Secret Service agent who survived the early morning attack on the lodge about 24 hours ago.
At least eight security agents were killed in the assault. The dead include members of the Secret Service detachment sent to protect Harris, as well as members of Atlas Global security, the private international security firm based at the Vista Verde Ranch.
The contingent of congressional and White House staffs who were present at the secretive meeting have been evacuated. Meanwhile, the jihadists control the ranch’s main lodge, adjoining dining hall, meeting rooms, and library, with President Harris and Senator Blount held hostage in the upper rooms.
Kyle read through the rest of the story, hit the send button, and again leaned back. He closed the lid to his laptop, pushed himself from Raoul’s desk, jerked open the door, and walked down the hall to where he found Raoul sitting in the operations center of Atlas Global.
A bank of screens covered one wall, depicting the outside of the embassies that Atlas Global protected, from a rotating variety of cameras and angles. On the other walls were larger HDTV screens, several of which surveyed the grounds around the Vista Verde lodge and the inside of the lodge’s lobby, dining room, and library. Kyle stood and stared, then turned to Raoul, who sat at a curving console of keyboards and mini screens.
Raoul looked up and over his shoulder, then nodded and pulled the headphones from his ears. “Que pasa, primo?”
“I didn’t know you had cameras inside the lodge,” Kyle said.
“Of course,” Raoul said with a knowing smile. “We’ve been watching these bastards from the beginning.”
Kyle scanned the screens, which showed little activity in the lobby. He glanced at Raoul and asked, “What does all of this tell you?”
“Not much,” Raoul said with a sigh.
Kyle nodded. “It tells me that for the time being, neither Marvin nor the Security Council, nor your boss Hank Benedict know what’s going on with these guys or how to get Harris and Blount out. They can storm the place, but that option isn’t viable.”
“Why not?” Raoul said, with a shake of his head. “Storming the lodge is the ONLY option.”
“Is that what’s being planned?”
“That’s what I’m recommending,” Raoul said.
“It puts the president’s life at risk.”
“But his life is already at risk,” Raoul said. “What other choice is there?”
“There’s got to be a crack in the armor,” Kyle said. “We need to find it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you know the Navajos weave a flaw in every rug and blanket they make,” Kyle said.
“They do?” Raoul said.
“Yeah. It’s done so the spirit of the weaving can escape,” Kyle said.
“What have you been smoking?”
“Listen to me,” Kyle said. “There’s a flaw in the fabric here. We just need to find the right thread, pull and it will unravel. There’s got to be a way to do that.”
“So, what do you have in mind?”
“Remember what the Huntington, the head of the FBI, said?”
“He said a lot of things.”
“About needing to find out how all this happened,” Kyle said. “It will reveal a path to free President Harris and Senator Blount.”
“Okay. But Hank’s working on that.”
“I don’t trust him, Raoul. Do you?”
“I don’t have a choice,” Raoul said. “He’s in charge here.”
“There’s something strange about how all of this happened so damned quickly,” Kyle said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course,” Raoul said. “From the get-go. But we have to deal with the reality of what we’re facing.”
“I figure we have less than 24 hours before the shit hits the fan,” Kyle said. “It’s just enough time for us to unravel this mess. But first, we’ve got to take a little road trip.”
“To where?” Raoul asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Raoul said. “Hank wants me here, with him.”
“Tell him that I have some inside information from the jihadis and you need to go with me to verify it.”
“He’ll want to know what it is,” Raoul said.
“Yeah, you’re right. Explain to him that I won’t tell you unless you come with me. Tell him if you go along, you’ll be in constant contact.”
Raoul paused. His mouth fell open as his eyes were glued to one of the monitoring screens.
“Raoul, what are you looking at?” Kyle asked.
Raoul pointed to the screen. “Ah, Kyle, you’d better check this out.”
Kyle’s stomach soured at what he saw.
The screen provided a view inside the Vista Verde lodge of the towering stone fireplace. Kyle saw the man he reviled, again dressed in black from head to toe, the one who had beheaded Nate Kennard. “That fucking bastard,” Kyle said.
But now, the one he knew to be Tariq, aka Jihadi John, had Senator Blount in front of him, on his knees, his arms bound behind his back, with both men facing the camera. As with the other executions, the Tariq held what looked like the same, thick-bladed knife to Blount’s face, which was red and swollen. Blount’s glasses were gone and marks around his eyes showed that he’d been beaten, his glasses smashed. Blount’s pale eyes were swollen and glistened with fear.
“We have your president and we have Senator Blount,” said Tariq’s muffled, yet still clear and forceful voice.
Kyle recognized it from the Kennard’s execution video.
“But still, you continue to defy our demands,” the black-clad Tariq said. “We are sending a message to all who think they can defy us. It is the will of Allah that our cause should prevail. We will cleanse the world of the kafirs. We will kill your leaders. We
will eliminate all resistance.”
The blade was at Blount’s throat, pressing against the taunt skin just enough to send a trickle of blood down Blount’s neck and onto his white shirt.
“This is a message for Vice President Marvin,” Tariq said. “You think you can show the world how strong you are by refusing to negotiate. But we are not the terrorists. The chief terrorist is you, Vice President Marvin. You and your soldiers are the ones who terrorize the world with your guns, your bombs, and your planes. But we are not afraid. Ours is a holy cause and we will break the chains of our oppressor.”
Tariq shifted, spread his feet, and extended his knife, just as he had done in the earlier videos, pointing it at the camera.
“This is a warning to all who defy our demands. It is a warning that your president, who is in our hands, will soon die. It is warning to all those who are part of the evil alliance against the Islamic State that you and your leaders will die.”
Bracing his knee against Blount’s back, Tariq grabbed the Blount’s small chin with his right hand and jerked it up, exposing and stretching the throat.
Kyle’s stomach tightened, his heart pounded, as Tariq drew the thick blade across Blount’s neck, the blade cutting deeply, unleashing a torrent of dark red blood spilling over the Blount’s chest.
Blount jerked and thrashed, but Tariq held the jaw tight and sawed the blade, stopping only when he struck bone. The senator’s eyes, wild with fear, became unfocused and blank as his body sagged and fell to the side, thumping to the polished stone floor. Tariq the executioner stepped back, his chest heaving, his hands dripping with blood.
Tariq again pointed the bloodied blade at the camera. “You now see how we can so easily spill the blood of an American leader,” he said. “This is just the beginning. We will do this again and again until you know that we are serious and comply with our demands.”
Nausea gripped Kyle’s stomach. He turned to Raoul, who stared back at him, his lips mashed together in disgust.
Enemy of the People Page 16
