by Mark Mannock
“What are the chances of success?” asked Greatrex, sitting next to me in the hire car. “Jumaa is in regular contact with the families and has his local Sudanese network running overtime, yet no one has heard anything.”
“There’s always the possibility that Bahri isn’t even in Washington. When we interrupted their plans in Sudan, they probably took her to ground while they regrouped. She could be anywhere in the county,” I added.
“The FBI will cast its net wide, but that’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Too much,” I said. “Plus, we’re working against the clock here. It was a hell of a speech that the president made today, but he virtually called Atha Riek’s brother out. ‘Come and get me.’”
“I was wondering about that,” Greatrex responded. “I’m sure he did it on purpose.”
“The more we learn about Jefferson Blake, the more I reckon he does nothing by accident. His convictions drive him.”
“I wish that happened more around this town.”
“Amen to that,” I replied.
“The question is, though, why did Blake do that? Why call him out? He basically urged him to attempt something soon.”
“Try this,” I suggested. “The president doesn’t want this situation plaguing the country for too long. He’s saying, ‘Let’s sort it now.’ With the state visit coming up, he’s setting the stage rather than letting Riek’s brother take control.”
“It also means that the terrorists may rush. He wouldn’t have a vast amount of time to reformulate a bulletproof plan,” said the big fella.
“Exactly,” I replied. “Blake is laying down the rules.”
“Cunning.”
“Somehow I doubt Abe Peterson and his team are expressing that sentiment at the moment.”
As we passed through the enormous stone gates of the general’s estate in Maryland and headed up the winding drive, I felt the events of the day catch up with me. What we needed was a drink and some downtime. General Devlin-Waters had offered to put us up while we were in Washington; he had plenty of room in his sprawling mansion. As I considered the evening ahead, I was sure we would get the drink, but maybe not the downtime.
There were other complications. I would be sleeping under the same roof as Kaitlin Reed. Nicholas Sharp: the man who brings it all upon himself.
“So,” began the general,” ensconced in his favorite winged armchair in the mansion’s formal lounge room, “we have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes sir, we do,” I agreed. I hoped he was talking about the terrorists and not Kaitlin.
He was.
“First things first. While everyone is searching for Sua’d Bahri, I suggest we focus on the state visit. That seems like the most feasible time that an attack would happen if Atha Riek’s brother wants to take out both presidents.”
“Agreed,” said Greatrex, “but my gut is telling me that the state dinner is also the most likely event within the visit.”
“Why so? asked the general.
“A couple of reasons,” replied Greatrex. “Number one, I reckon an assassination at the state dinner would make more of a public statement, and public statements are what terrorists are all about.”
“And number two,” I chipped in, “Jefferson Blake did almost everything except send Riek’s brother an invitation to the dinner.”
“Yes,” replied the general. “I agree. It may have been a very smart move by the president, naming the time and place.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” observed Jumaa, who was once again with us. “Riek’s brother will be many things, most of them bad, but he is not a fool. You cannot survive hidden in plain sight for over thirty years without being very shrewd. Besides, his planning skills must be outstanding. The Shararaa have been consistently effective despite their limited numbers. As you Americans say, they punch well above their weight.”
“Thanks for making us feel that much better, my friend,” I responded, tongue firmly in cheek. “But I sense you’re right. We are dealing with a mind who thinks well ahead of the game.”
“I believe you are all underestimating yourselves and the country’s security services,” announced Kaitlin Reed as she walked into the room.
I sat up straight in my armchair. Boyish charm.
“Each one of you is right,” declared the general. He got up and moved in front of the fireplace as Kaitlin flopped down. “This terrorist is smart, we are smart, the security services are smart. It comes down to who predicts the other’s behavior first.”
“And who will risk everything to be the last one standing at the end,” I added.
“Precisely,” said our former leader. “That is why I’m putting my money on the people in this room.”
No pressure there.
Two hours later we’d all agreed that outside the immediate search for Salah’s wife, planning a strategy for the state dinner was our highest priority. Ideas bounced around like popping corn, until finally, we had a plan.
“Well, that’s it,” declared the general. “To sum up our thoughts: Nicholas is P.D. Bailey’s keyboardist, meaning that both he and Jack will be at the dinner. I’ll arrange for the White House to appoint Kaitlin as assistant events manager for the banquet. She can help the president’s daughter, Cassandra, plan the affair. Given Kaitlin’s tour-managing background, that shouldn’t be a problem. Jumaa, through your role as the president’s special advisor on Sudan, you’ll volunteer to be the liaison coordinator with the Sudanese government’s team.”
“These arrangements should, between us, offer a broad landscape of the whole event, both in its planning and on the night.”
“It sounds like a thorough plan when you put it that way,” said Greatrex.
“Yes, particularly when you consider that this is all on top of the president’s regular security,” noted Kaitlin.
I looked across the space at Jumaa. He understood the reach of the Shararaa better than any of us. Shoulders hunched forward, he tapped repeatedly on the arm of his chair.
“It’s good,” I said, “but is it good enough?” Nicholas Sharp: glass half-empty.
Everyone in the room was silent. No one seemed to want to answer my question.
Finally, Jumaa spoke up. “No, it is not good enough. Everything we’ve planned, the Shararaa will expect. If they keep coming at the president, either president, it is because they know how to deal with the measures that are in place.”
“Then what do you suggest?” asked the general.
Stone-cold silence.
I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath and waited a moment before speaking. Then I told them all what I had in mind.
Chapter 29
Ten days had gone by with no news on Sua’d Bahri’s location. The authorities had swept the city and come up dry. Jumaa’s network of Sudanese residents had fared no better. With only another ten days until the state visit, we had no fresh intelligence to help us.
Like everyone else, Greatrex and I felt frustrated beyond words. We couldn’t act if we had no information to act on. My phone rang as we ate a leisurely breakfast in the general’s kitchen.
“Nicholas, it’s Abe Peterson.”
“What’s up?”
“We might have a breakthrough, even if only a small one. A local resident down here in Gaithersburg, Montgomery County, says she saw a woman matching Bahri’s description being led into an apartment complex on Frederick Avenue. She couldn’t make a positive ID from the photo but said it may well be our girl.”
“Have you been down there?” I asked.
“We’re here now, with our FBI colleagues, about to go in.”
“Jack and I are on our way. Text me the address.”
“Will do, but you better hurry. If the press gets hold of this, they’ll be all over it in no time. If you and Jack want to stay off the radar, you don’t want to be seen here.”
“Got it.”
Thirty minutes later, Greatrex and I pulled up outside an aging apartment building set well
back off Frederick Avenue. The cinder-block construction and the ‘old but not yet retro’ architecture told us that this wasn’t an upmarket complex. The age and condition of the cars out the front confirmed the impression.
We got out of the car. I called Abe. “We’re here.”
“Come on up. Apartment 317 on the top floor. Although there’s not much point, it’s a bust.”
A young female agent who seemed not long out of Quantico let us in the front door. Abe Peterson stood in the apartment’s cramped lounge room talking with a tall man in an FBI raid jacket.
“Nicholas, Jack, this is Special Agent Doug Humphries.”
We shook hands.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing here to see,” said Humphries.
Abe nodded in agreement. “Whoever was here has bolted. We can’t even confirm if it was our girl.”
“We have agents going door to door,” added Humphries.
“I’ve pulled my people off,” added Abe. “If they start flashing Secret Service credentials, someone will call the press.”
“Do you mind if we poke around?” I asked.
Humphries looked at Peterson, who nodded.
“Sure thing,” he answered, “but touch nothing.”
“Got it,” I replied.
It didn’t take Greatrex and I long to explore the apartment. Two small bedrooms, a kitchenette attached to the lounge and a tiny bathroom. The entire place appeared somewhere between clean and dirty, non-committed.
I walked into the bathroom. Signs of recent habitation were obvious: cosmetics, toothpaste, and some over-the-counter medications in the cabinet.
“Whoever left here didn’t take a long time to pack,” said Greatrex.
“Or they didn’t need this stuff where they were going,” I replied.
One step to my right and I looked down at a bin. A few cellophane wrappers that would have come from the medications lay at the bottom. I was just turning away when a plastic jar under the wrappers caught my eye. I kneeled down for a closer inspection. There was no label, but there was one pill in the bottom of the jar. I poured the pill into my palm and read the number stamped on it: IP 110.
“That’s Vicodin,” said Special Agent Humphries as he entered the compact room. “We’ll bag it and send it to the lab, but I doubt they’ll come up with much.”
“Vicodin’s a painkiller,” I responded. Nicholas Sharp: insightful observer.
“It is,” replied Humphries, “but that means little. Someone here may have been in some pain, equally they may have been dealing in opioids. I’m sure you’re aware there’s an opioid crisis in our country at the moment. They wouldn’t be the first dealer in this neighborhood.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It could mean anything… or nothing.”
I brushed passed the agent and went back to join Greatrex and Abe Peterson in the lounge room. As Humphries left the bathroom, he tripped on a piece of torn linoleum. His hand automatically reached out to the door handle for support.
“Damn, they haven’t fingerprinted that doorknob yet,” he exclaimed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter for shit anyway, there are plenty more.”
As he lifted his fingers off the door handle, he swore again. “Double shit, there’s something sticky on the doorknob.” The agent raised his hand to his face and looked at the yellow sap like substance stuck to his palm. “Well, that just about confirms it,” he said.
“Confirms what?” asked Abe Peterson.
“I’d bet my pension that this stuff is cannabis resin, or more accurately cannabis rosin.”
“Rosin, what do you mean?” I inquired.
“Rosin is the new thing,” replied Humphries. “They take almost any cannabis product like a flower or hash and add high heat and pressure. The process produces solventless hash oil. It’s a quick, and not too difficult, method that yields a golden sap with extremely high potency.”
“Well, you learn something new every day,” said Greatrex.
“Yup,” replied Humphries. “And that means they used this place as some sort of drug-processing facility.”
“It’s more than likely that the woman our witness observed coming in here merely needed to feed her habit,” added Abe.
“Right,” agreed the FBI agent, “but we’ll get the pill bottle tested, anyway.”
Peterson turned to Greatrex and I. “Sorry guys, we’ve wasted your time coming down here.”
“Not to worry,” I replied. “We had nothing better to do.”
We shook hands and the big fella and I left the building.
Just as we climbed into our car in front of the apartment block, I heard a voice.
“Mr. Sharp, Mr. Sharp, could I have a word with you?”
I looked up to see Joe Connors, the journalist who’d introduced himself as a freelancer working for Time at Jefferson Blake’s press conference. Damn.
I saw little point in denying who I was, but I could certainly feign not knowing him.
“Yes, I’m Nicholas Sharp, but I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“My name is Joe Connors, sir. I’m a freelance journo currently employed by Time magazine.”
“Yes, Mr. Connors. What can a humble musician such as myself do for you?”
“I think we both know that you are a little more than just a humble musician, Mr. Sharp. Please take a look at this.”
The journalist drew a cell phone out of his pocket. Set on the gallery app, it featured a single photograph. A crouching figure cast in a dim light appeared: me. It was a long-distance shot taken with a telephoto lens. I was certain of that because no one would have been up close at that moment. If they had, I would’ve shot them. My hand held a gun, and almost out of the image, but still clearly visible, was the face of Jefferson Blake.
The night of our escape from the Shararaa camp.
“Is there anything you would like to tell me, Mr. Sharp?”
Greatrex had moved around the car and was now standing behind me. “Is there a problem?”
I showed him the phone. He grunted.
“No, Mr…. er… Connors, I’ve nothing to say to you.” This wasn’t the first time a photo had got me into trouble.
“It would be better if we talked, Mr. Sharp. You may know I’ve recently returned from Sudan, where I researched President Blake’s extradition from the county.”
“Yes, I think I saw your face on television, at that press conference.”
“Now, Mr. Sharp, please don’t go playing games with me. I’ve been around a bit too long for that.”
“What do you want me to say, Mr. Connors?”
“I want the full story of Jefferson Blake’s escape from Sudan from beginning to end… exclusively.”
I felt frozen in the moment. A well-thought response seemed as scarce as the hair on Jack Greatrex’s head.
“And if I choose not to talk to you, Mr. Connors?”
“If you don’t talk, I will publish everything I have, including your name. Presuming that Mr. Greatrex here was the man with you in Sudan, I will, of course, publish his name too.”
Greatrex grunted again.
I thought for a moment.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Connors. All you have is one photograph that some overimaginative person has Photoshopped together to make up a fascinating bit of fiction.”
There’s a reason I don’t play poker.
Connors smiled. Smug. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sharp, I also possess video of an interview recorded with an eyewitness to your escapades. One of the Shararaa guards up on the surrounding hills that night.”
This wasn’t getting any better.
“As previously stated, I’ve nothing to say to you. Now, if you excuse us, we need to go.”
Connors shrugged his shoulders. For a moment, I thought he would back off. I was wrong.
“Mr. Sharp, I understand your surprise. You’ll require a little time to process this. I’ll give you my number. Please call me by the end of the evening.”
He pr
oduced a business card.
“Oh, one more thing. As a gesture of goodwill, to let you know I am a man of scruples, I’ll share some additional information that may benefit you.”
Neither Greatrex nor I responded. We just stood like fools, staring vacantly at the journalist.
“My informant tells me the Shararaa have added three more names to their hit list. These people seem very upset with you.”
With that, Joe Connors turned and walked away.
Chapter 30
Greatrex and I drove into Georgetown. The busy area was littered with throngs of people and a score of eateries. We needed to sit and talk. Joe Connors’s news had muted our appetites, but not our thirst. We chose an out-of-the-way Mexican café, sat down at a table at the rear, and ordered two beers with a plate of nachos. The food remained untouched by the time we hit our second beer.
“So, if we let this Connors guy publish, we will cop a tsunami of life-changing publicity, all of it uncomfortable,” said the big fella.
“I agree.”
“I can’t think of too much worse,” he continued.
“It would also mean we couldn’t attend the state dinner. The critics would say that having someone else on the Shararaa’s assassination list at the dinner would be reckless. We’d be out of the picture.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Greatrex, “you thought of something worse.”
“You know I’m loath to be in the spotlight here. Despite being in the music industry, it’s just not our style. Would we be smarter walking away from the whole situation?”
“Explain.”
“Well, the Secret Service protects Jefferson Blake. These people have kept presidents alive for decades if not hundreds of years.”
“Mostly.”
“Yeah, all right, point taken,” I replied. “What good are we doing here? We’re just a couple of amateurs. Take this morning’s little investigation in Gaithersburg. I’m busy looking for reds under the beds while the FBI professionals put the actual picture together in five minutes. As detectives, we’re out of our league.”
