Treason

by Don Brown

  “Roberson Fowler.” The senator extended his hand. “Welcome to Hilton Head. I finally meet the man who not only took care of my niece, but shredded the Reverend JamesOn Barbour on national television. You are a credit to the Navy, Lieutenant.”

  Fowler gave an extra squeeze, and Zack felt warmth radiating from the man’s hand. Not what he expected. “Thank you, Senator. Just trying to do my job.”

  “Well, now . . .” The senator shot Zack a devilish grin, looking like J.R. Ewing on the old Dallas reruns. “We should get you out of uniform and into something more comfortable.”

  “Come on.” Marianne smiled up at him. “I’ll show you to your room. You can change, and then we’ll hit the beach before dinner.”

  “Alberto!” Fowler summoned a graying Spanish man out of the front door. “Please help the lieutenant with his bags.”

  “Of course, Senator.” Alberto’s Latin accent was appropriately sophisticated.

  Marianne took Zack’s hand and led him into the grand foyer of the large home. Zack caught himself just before his jaw dropped at the sight of the shining marbled floors and soaring ceilings. Fine furniture and gold and brass lamp stands filled the foyer and living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided an unobstructed view of the blue Carolina sky, powder-white dunes, and the Atlantic in the background. Marble fountains gushed streams of water both inside and outside this political palace by the sea. And against the soothing sound of trickling and gushing water, an elaborate stereo system flooded every crevice of the mansion with the melodic, opening strains of Zack’s favorite classical work, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.

  So this was what political power bought.

  For years—tucked someplace almost away from conscious thought—he had dreamed of entering politics. But it was always in the future. Now as he glanced around and thought about the senator’s warmth and charismatic personality, the old dream surfaced.

  Marianne interrupted his thoughts. “Your room is the third door on the right.” She gestured toward a hallway leading out of the foyer. “Meet me here in fifteen. Then I think Uncle Pinkie has dinner reservations in a couple of hours.”

  When Zack returned to the foyer wearing a Tar Heels T-shirt and swimming trunks, Marianne hadn’t yet made her appearance, so he walked into a sunroom and looked out at the ocean.

  The houseman appeared, holding a tray with various tropical drinks.

  “Would you care for something, sir?”

  “Do you have a Diet Coke?”

  The man looked amused. “Diet Coke? But of course.”

  The man stepped behind the bar, scooped crushed ice into a glass, filled the glass with Diet Coke, and handed it to Zack. “For you, with pleasure, sir.” He bowed slightly as Zack took the Coke. “And now, the ensign has requested you join her on the beach.” He gestured toward a glass door leading to a foliage-lined path outdoors. “If you take the path toward the ocean, you will find her there.”

  Zack donned a pair of aviator sunglasses to dim the late-afternoon sun. The fine white sand felt warm, almost luxurious to his feet as he walked through an opening in the dune ridge between the house and the beach.

  Marianne, trim, tanned, and exquisite looking in a white swimsuit, sat in a beach chair under a red and white umbrella, facing the ocean. There was a vacant chair beside her.

  “Beautiful afternoon,” he called out as he approached.

  She looked around, smiling at him. “Have a seat.”

  “So. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” He leaned his head back as he sat down, enjoying the ocean breeze on his face.

  “I guess you’re wondering about this whole thing, huh?”

  The sip of Coke was refreshing in the hot afternoon. “I have to admit to more than a hint of curiosity.”

  She removed her sunglasses. “I know you might not believe me. But this really wasn’t my idea.” She laughed lightly. “Although I must confess, I don’t mind having you here for a few days.”

  “I don’t mind it much myself.” He took another sip of Coke, then set the glass in the sand beside his chair. “An all-expense-paid vacation without having to use leave. My own private jet to fly me to Hilton Head. No telling what it cost the taxpayers.”

  “Ah, yes. The taxpayers.” Marianne smiled, adjusting her sunglasses.

  “Uncle Pinkie said you were probably a conservative.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “He’s a powerful guy, Zack. You impressed him with how you handled my trial.” She reached over and patted his hand. “That’s why a Navy plane brought you all the way across the country.” She sipped her piña colada. “In a sense, you earned it.” She stared off toward the rolling breakers, then looked back to Zack. “Uncle Pinkie wants to talk to us at dinner.”

  “Us meaning . . . ?”

  “Uncle Pinkie, Sally, you, me, and the ever-present bodyguards.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “It just might be more exciting than you can imagine.” She grinned. “Up for a walk on the beach?” She stood up, ducked under the beach umbrella, and offered her hand.

  “Why not?”

  She shot him a laughing, flirty look, tossing her hair, and pulled him from his chair.

  CHAPTER 45

  Law offices of Wellington Levinson

  Wells Fargo Plaza

  Century City

  Los Angeles, California

  Terrie Bearden stood in the doorway of Wellington Levinson’s office, announcing her presence by lightly tapping the doorjamb with her long, red fingernails.

  “Yes, Terrie?” Levinson peered at her over the top of his glasses.

  “Mr. Rahman is here to see you.”

  “Help me out. What’s his problem again?”

  “He claims three Muslim Navy chaplains are being discriminated against by the Navy.”

  “Really? Muslim chaplains. Does he realize I’m Jewish?”

  “He must. I saw him thumbing through Not Guilty out in the lobby, and he was staring at the picture of you and the Israeli prime minister on the wall.”

  “Initial retainer?”

  “When I spoke with him on the phone yesterday, I made it clear you required the seventy-five grand up front, boss. I didn’t know if he was serious or just another crackpot. But I’ve checked with our banker in Nassau. Mr. Rahman wired every dime into our Bahamian account yesterday afternoon.”

  “Excellent.” Levinson felt a smile creep across his face at the thought of another nonrefundable retainer tucked away in his offshore account. “And he knows there’s no guarantee that we’ll take his case?”

  “Wells Levinson.” Terrie put her hands on her hips and shot him a half-affectionate, half-impatient smirk. “How long have we been together?”

  “Okay, okay.” He grinned and threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Just being anal retentive again. Bring him in. And bring a legal pad. I want you to take notes.”

  A moment later, she reappeared at the door with an Arab man dressed in a white suit, white shirt, and white tie. “Mr. Rahman, I’d like to introduce Wellington Levinson.” Terrie then stepped aside as the two men shook hands.

  “This is an honor,” Rahman said.

  “What can I do for you today, Mr. Rahman?” Levinson motioned the Arab and Terrie Bearden to be seated.

  “I represent the Muslim Legal Foundation. We pay legal fees on a case-by-case basis to defend religious liberty in instances where Muslims are being discriminated against because of their faith.”

  “I see.” Levinson sat back and steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the padded arms of his chair. “And you have such a case now?”

  “Yes. The Navy has arrested three Muslim chaplains for crimes of which they are innocent.”

  “What sort of crimes?”

  “The murder of the Israeli ambassador. Then there was the bombing of an airplane.”

  “I knew the Israeli ambassador. Not well, but I spoke with him at several functions. I thought his murde
rer committed suicide.”

  “Precisely,” Raman said. “His killer was a deranged Marine who called himself a Muslim. He did not represent the millions of peace-loving Muslims around the world. Unfortunately, the killer’s suicide was not enough for the U.S. government. Now the Navy searches for a live scapegoat. We believe the government is embarking on a witch hunt.”

  “The fact that I’m Jewish does not concern your organization?”

  “We trust you, Mr. Levinson. We know of your great work in defending Armani Sirhan, who was also Muslim. I have read Not Guilty several times in preparation for this meeting.”

  Levinson stared into the man’s black eyes, knowing an agenda somehow existed behind all this. What was it? More importantly, what did it matter? “I am flattered. But if you read the epilogue to Not Guilty, you know how difficult that trial was for me personally. Congressman Jacobs was a Jewish brother with a loving wife, children, and grandchildren. I attended his funeral before I was retained by Mr. Sirhan. I am now a persona non grata in the Jacobs family. That pains me.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Levinson. We are all part of the brotherhood of man and all have our human struggles. But you also wrote in your epilogue, at the end of the day, you did the right thing. Sirhan was a mentally ill, delusional fanatic who had lost touch with reality. As you pointed out, your conscience would not allow the execution of another human being whose real crime was being delusional.”

  My conscience plus a two-million-dollar fee, plus the book deal and movie rights that came out of winning the case. “You have done your homework, Mr. Rahman.”

  “Mr. Levinson, we believe that you, of all people, are best equipped to fight religious persecution against these three defendants.”

  “Three defendants, you say?” Levinson glanced at Terrie. “I rarely represent more than one client at a time. This could be a drawn-out, expensive proposition for your organization.”

  “We understand the value of your services, Mr. Levinson. We believe this would be a simple matter for you. We’re told the military prosecutors are young, inexperienced, and ill prepared. Against you, there would be no contest.”

  “True”—Levinson shot a quick smile at Terrie Bearden, who was sitting to one side, taking notes—“but three defendants are still three defendants. And despite the inexperience of the Navy prosecutors, my preparation level is unmatched regardless of who the prosecutor is. I prepare not just to win, but to crush my opposition. That is why I have never lost a trial, sir.”

  “We understand, Mr. Levinson. And we are prepared, today, to wire to your Bahamian account a nonrefundable retainer in the amount of 3.3 million dollars per defendant.”

  Levinson raised an eyebrow. “Your organization is prepared to advance a nonrefundable retainer of ten million U.S. dollars for our firm to handle this case?”

  Abdur pulled a cell phone from inside his white jacket. “This case is of immense importance for religious liberty around the world. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Give the word and I make the call. You can confirm receipt of the retainer before I leave here today if you’d like.”

  Wells glanced at Terrie Bearden. She gave him a single nod.

  “I do adhere to the principle that all Americans are entitled to a fair trial. And if your organization is prepared to take a stand to defend religious liberty, then our firm is interested in standing with these chaplains.”

  “Good. Then shall I make the call?”

  “By all means.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Fowler compound

  Palmetto Dunes Plantation

  Hilton Head Island, South Carolina

  Zack and Marianne returned from their walk on the beach and parted company at the foyer to shower and dress for dinner. A half hour later, Zack headed back to the foyer, where Senator Fowler, looking as distinguished as ever, waited for him.

  The senator extended his hand and flashed a warm smile. “How was your afternoon on the beach with my favorite niece, Lieutenant?”

  “Nice and relaxing, sir. We walked down the beach to the Crown Plaza and sat under the palmetto trees and enjoyed the ocean breeze. I never realized Hilton Head was so beautiful. So is your place here, Senator.”

  “Thank you.” Fowler made a sweeping gesture around the foyer and great room. “This place is owned by a family trust. I discovered Hilton Head back when President Clinton spent his ‘Renaissance Weekends’ here during his first term. There are no decent beaches in Louisiana. And even if there were, you get bothered by constituents. Here, for the most part, you’re left alone. Of course, I still travel with security guards.”

  Fowler pointed through the front window at two muscular men, both in dark blazers, who looked like middle linebackers for the Carolina Panthers.

  “I call ’em Mutt and Jeff.” Fowler chuckled. “They’re good guys, and darn good shots. One’s got a nine millimeter, the other totes a forty-four magnum. When I’m here, at least two security guards are always on duty. Mutt and Jeff will be following us to dinner tonight. They probably won’t be needed, but you never know.”

  I can’t believe I actually like this guy. “That’s probably a good idea, Senator.”

  “Now, Lieutenant, you’re going to have to stop that.” Fowler smiled as he slapped Zack on the back.

  “Sir?”

  “I understand you’re a good naval officer and respectful of members of Congress, but behind closed doors, and when we’re out on the town, please, my close friends call me Pinkie. I’d be honored if you would do the same. After all, I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna be good friends.”

  Zack blinked in surprise.

  “Woo, doggie!” Fowler howled before Zack could answer. “We got the best-looking dates tonight on the East Coast or what?”

  Zack followed his gaze down the hallway. Marianne and Sally walked toward the foyer, sandals clicking on the marble, their sun-bronzed skin a beautiful contrast to their pastel outfits. A moment later, Fowler circled his arm around Sally, and Marianne, smiling up at Zack, took his hand. Fowler gave them both a smile of approval and announced that he was hungry and it was time to go.

  “You drive, Sally,” Fowler ordered as the burly bodyguards opened the doors of the BMW. Zack got in the backseat with Marianne. The bodyguards jumped in a Suburban and followed the BMW out of Palmetto Dunes.

  Ten minutes later, the makeshift motorcade crossed through another traffic circle, exiting onto Greenwood Drive. Sally steered into a small upscale shopping area called The Gallery of Shops and parked. From the exterior, Juleps looked to be a quaint, intimate, upscale restaurant located in the Gallery.

  “Good to see you tonight, Senator.” The proprietor, a smiling middle-aged man in a sports jacket, greeted the party at the front door. “We’ve got your room waiting for you. And the chef has already prepared your favorite appetizer.”

  “Thanks. You’re a good man.” The senator’s smile was effusive.

  The owner led the quartet into a small, candlelit dining room, away from the other restaurant patrons. The bodyguards stood just outside the door with their hands clasped over their belt buckles.

  A smiling, trim, middle-aged woman with graying hair and a white apron entered the room, holding a steaming tray. “Pecan shrimp with sweet pepper sauce. The senator’s favorite. And I took the liberty of bringing two bottles of our finest Argentinean merlot, just for the senator.”

  “Merlot okay with everybody?” Fowler glanced at his companions.

  “Iced tea for me.” Zack smiled and braced himself for the chiding remarks that surely would follow. None came.

  The server poured the merlot and then returned a few minutes later with Zack’s iced tea.

  Fowler took a sip from his wine glass, popped a shrimp in his mouth, and focused on Zack. “I understand you’re a Republican.”

  “Yes, Senator. I’m a registered Republican.”

  “Pinkie.”

  “Sir?”

  “Remember, my friends call me Pink
ie. I consider you to be a friend.”

  Sally and Marianne exchanged wide-eyed looks as Fowler popped another shrimp into his mouth. “So what do you say?”

  “Well, sir,” Zack said, “if Marianne refers to you as ‘Uncle Pinkie,’ then I suppose I can do the same.”

  Fowler bent over with a belly laugh. “I like you, son. Takin’ your cue from a good-lookin’ woman. You’ll go far in life and politics.”

  “All right, Pinkie. ”

  The first use of “Pinkie” by Zack brought laughter from the senator. Soft chuckles from Sally and Marianne followed.

  “To friendship and politics.” The senator raised his wineglass. The two women lifted theirs, and Zack raised his iced tea glass. “We’ll work on the sir thing later.” The clink of glass on glass sounded almost musical. “So tell me, Zack, have any political aspirations?”

  Zack stifled a smile. “I’ve thought about it. Maybe down the road.”

  “I understand you were in the College Republicans at Carolina.”

  What else does this man know about me? “That’s right. I was the membership chairman, which was quite a challenge in Chapel Hill.”

  “I’ve heard Chapel Hill called the Berkeley of the East.” Fowler chuckled.

  “Precisely. Which is why the job was a hard sell.”

  “Have a shrimp.” Fowler passed the plate to Zack, who lifted a prawn by the tail. “Now go ahead and dip it in some of this lip-smackin’ sauce. You know, I bet membership chairman for the College Republicans was a volunteer job.”

  “Right.” Zack took another shrimp from Marianne, who held out the plate.

  “No point in doing a volunteer job in politics when you can get paid.”

  “Good point.” Is he offering me a job on his staff?

  Fowler drained his Argentinean merlot, poured another glass, and took another sip. He flashed a smile of satisfaction.

  “Are you interested in a congressional seat?”

  Whoa. “Given the right opportunity, sure I’m interested.”