by David Spell
“I don’t have any complaints, either,” Chloe said. “With my background in intelligence, I got a call from the CIA within a week of getting discharged. What was funny was that I had spent a few years as an analyst and was having a great time but then one day my supervisor asked me if I wanted to go to operations. I’d never even thought about it. Of course, I’d heard about Admiral Williams, Sandra, Chuck, and Kevin. They were already legends within the Agency.
“When I found out that Sandra had requested me to come work with you guys, I was shocked. I made an appointment with her and we talked for an hour. She told me that Admiral Williams had recruited her to ops from analysis and after reviewing my file, psych test, and training records, she believed I’d be a good fit. It was a great ride until Sterling screwed us all.”
“He certainly did that,” Jimmy agreed. “But karma really bit him in the ass.”
A server brought their meals and they hurriedly started eating, not knowing when Bamya would leave the bar. After devouring half of his Club Sandwich, Jones wiped his mouth and looked at his partner who was working on her grilled chicken salad.
“I heard from a semi-reliable source, Scotty, that you’re a beast in the gym. How long you been working out with him and Chuck?”
Wilkerson’s face lit up at the compliment. “Off and on for a year, I guess. I’ve learned so much from them both. I started power lifting in the Army and won a few competitions but I’ve gotten a lot stronger training with Chuck and Scotty. They’re both great coaches. They’ve also been sharpening my self-defense techniques, as well. Have you ever seen Chuck hit the heavy bag?”
“No, but I saw him hit Scotty and knock him out!” Jimmy laughed.
“What? Did they get into a fight?”
“Let’s just say Scotty isn’t the brightest bulb in the hallway sometimes and he made the mistake of challenging Chuck to a friendly sparring session when we all worked for the CDC. He knew that Chuck had been a professional MMA fighter and had a bunch of fights under his belt but Mr. Smith decided he could take the boss.”
“What happened? Never mind, target’s moving,” Chloe said, jumping to her feet, watching Abdallah and his bodyguard exit the One World Tavern and turn left.
Jimmy threw a fifty-dollar bill on the table and followed his partner out the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
WESTLAND, MICHIGAN, TUESDAY, 1505 HOURS
The crowd of reporters was much larger for this press conference at the Westland Democratic Club. At least fifty local and cable journalists were on hand to hear the former presidential candidate’s take on the destruction in New Jersey. The podium was covered with microphones with CNN and MSNBC even airing the event live.
Bashir strolled in wearing a dark suit and a red power tie, stopping behind the lectern. He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and scanned the room, noting where the cameras were located.
“Thank you all for being here today. Once again, we are dealing with a terrible loss of life that our government is using as an excuse to target Muslims and people of color. As soon as the FBI released its initial findings for the incident in Trenton, it was clear that once again the Asher administration intends to make Muslims the scapegoats for their own failures.
“The United States and Israel have a strategy of targeting Islamic nations that refuse to do their bidding and have brought this philosophy onto our homeland. Any type of attack or perceived terrorist attack is automatically attributed to Islam. Let’s never forget that America is a nation that’s had its share of home-grown terrorists who were white supremacists.
“Of course, our hearts go out to everyone who lost a loved one in New Jersey yesterday, but let’s not turn this tragedy into another situation in which we blame the wrong people. It’s very likely that these criminals who committed this heinous crime were gang members who wanted to kill as many people as they could.
“President Asher has a history of murdering Muslims all over the world. We can’t let his federal storm-troopers continue to slaughter innocent people. There are even reports from yesterday that government agents shot down several of the possible suspects as they attempted to surrender.
“I am calling on the United Nations to step in and provide impartial investigators to monitor the FBI and local authorities as they investigate these attacks in Washington, D.C., and in Trenton, New Jersey. I call on the Department of Justice to cooperate with the UN to make sure these investigations are conducted fairly and without bias. I will now take questions.”
The room was suddenly abuzz as a number of voices began shouting questions. Saleem pointed to a middle-aged, African-American woman in the front row.
“Go ahead, Veronica.”
“Thank you, Senator,” CNN’s Veronica Benson said, as she stood, looking at her notepad. “You have been very critical of the president and his administration after these two incidents. You’ve also made it clear that you don’t believe that these are terrorist incidents. How do you think President Asher should be responding and if radical Muslims are not responsible for these attacks, who is?”
“As I have said all along,” Bashir paused to take a sip of water, “the president has shown his hatred for Islam in many ways. Look at Iran, for example. He declared war on that wonderful nation and the US military killed thousands of innocent Muslim civilians as a punishment for the acts of a few rogue individuals.
“What should the president do? He should allow the UN to participate and monitor the investigations. As for the second part of your question, at this point we have no idea who the criminals are. Everything that I have seen would seem to point to some type of gang activity.”
When Saleem paused, hands shot up, the reporters again attempting to yell over each other.
“Marcos, what is your question?” Saleem pointed to a Hispanic reporter from MSNBC.
“Senator, where are you getting your information that these terror attacks are gang-related incidents? I grew up in Los Angeles. I’ve been around gangs and reported on them for many years. From everything that I’ve seen and heard, there’s no credible evidence to support that claim. Also, do you really believe that President Asher is going to ask the United Nations to assist in this investigation?”
Bashir glared at the reporter. He only called on reporters who had a liberal bias. Marcos Salazar fit this profile, regularly attacking the current president for his tough immigration policies.
“The fact of the matter is that we don’t know who the criminals are,” Saleem answered. “The FBI is already stating that these incidents are related to radical Islamic terrorism. This type of language allows President Asher to continue his racist attacks. As for the United Nations becoming involved, it is clearly the correct course of action. I call on the president to do the right thing.”
With this, the former Senator strolled off the stage as the reporters continued to yell their questions after him.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C., WEDNESDAY, 0940 HOURS
FBI Director Cameron Pickard stood in front of the assembled reporters in the press room at the White House. Before being tapped to lead the Bureau, Pickard had risen through the ranks as a federal prosecutor, eventually serving in the criminal division of the Attorney General’s office. Pickard knew how to talk to the media.
The president and the head G-man stood together on the small stage, but Asher allowed Pickard to run the briefing. After reading the latest press release, Cameron patiently took questions about the investigation into the two terror incidents. His standard reply, however, left the assembled group of the nation’s leading reporters frustrated.
“I’m sorry, this is an ongoing investigation and at this point, I can’t comment on the specifics of the case.”
Another reporter tried a different tact. “Director Pickard, is there any truth to the rumor that the Justice Department is in negotiations with the United Nations to bring in UN personnel to help with these investigations?”
The question caught Cameron o
ff-guard and he hesitated before answering.
“Can I answer that, Director?” President Benjamin Asher asked, stepping to the podium.
“Of course, sir.”
“There are no rumors about the UN helping us with anything,” he said, staring down the young reporter. “I’m sure you would never make up stories, but if you are alleging that there are rumors, someone is lying to you.
“And I’m not sure exactly what kind of help the United Nations could give us. The United States foots almost a quarter of their budget to keep them afloat so that they can all get together and talk about how bad America is.”
“Mr. President,” a woman on the first row yelled out, “how do you respond to Senator Bashir’s claims that you are anti-Muslim and that your administration is using these attacks to frame Muslim-Americans in a bad light?”
A slight smile crossed the President’s face. “Senator Bashir? The failed presidential candidate? The guy who picked a pedophile and a pervert as his running mate? That Senator Bashir?” Asher paused and shook his head before continuing. “I don’t assign too much credibility to someone like Mr. Bashir. I think he’s got enough issues in his own life to work on before he starts throwing stones at us.
“My administration stands on our results. We’ve welcomed people from all backgrounds— Muslims, Hindus, Jews, and Christians into the United States to participate in the American dream. Of course, we want good people and not people who hate us. We want people who are willing to contribute to our society. As for the idea that we are targeting any group, Mr. Bashir clearly has no idea what he is talking about. My job as the President of the United States is to protect our citizens. It just so happens that I’ve had to protect them from some very radical elements of Islam over the last few years.”
The president nodded at the FBI Director and the two men walked off the stage and out of the room.
Five minutes later, they were seated in the Oval Office, drinking coffee in front of the president’s desk.
“What does that stupid son-of-a-bitch Bashir think that he’s accomplishing, Cam?”
Pickard placed his coffee cup on the table beside him before answering.
“I’ve spoken to my Counter-Terrorism Director, Valerie Morris and the former CT director, Larry Purvis.”
“Now my CIA Director.”
“Yes, sir. They both think that Bashir is knee-deep in some really bad stuff. We don’t have any proof that he knew anything about these attacks ahead of time, but at the same time, Larry and Val both believe that he’s being used as a mouthpiece to deflect some of the attention from the terrorists and to put it on you.”
Asher stared at the other man, processing what he had just heard. He finally shook his head in disbelief.
“He was so close to becoming the president. He was leading in all the polls and if he had picked anyone else but Maxwell Sterling to be his VP, he would’ve won. He could still run again, although now that his radical side is coming out, I doubt he would have the same support.”
“Mr. President, I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve investigated him in every way that we can legally and he’s squeaky clean. Of course, there might’ve been things we missed because of privacy and search and seizure laws…”
The President nodded in understanding. “I wonder if our friends at the Agency might be able to help us to dig a little deeper?”
The FBI Director shrugged and smiled. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir, but I do have something else that you will interest you. This is needs to remain a secret for the next couple of days, but we managed to get someone inside a terror cell in New York City.”
ONE WORLD TAVERN, E 43RD STREET, NYC, WEDNESDAY, 1810 HOURS
“As-Salam-u-Alaikum,” the short, stocky Palestinian man greeted Abdallah as he entered, guiding him to his reserved table.
“And to you, Anwar,” Bamya answered. “How is your family?”
“By Allah’s grace, everyone is well, Sayyid. Will you have the usual this evening?”
“That would be fine, Anwar,” Abdallah nodded, pulling several files from his briefcase, and laying them on the table as the other man hurried off.
Nassar was already sitting at the bar thirty feet away, sipping on a Taybeh IPA beer, keeping his eyes on Abdallah. A minute later, Anwar placed a cold bottle of the Palestinian beer in front of Bamya, as well. There weren’t many places in New York where he could get a beer from his homeland. That was one of the reasons he paid Anwar a small stipend each month to keep this corner table reserved for him in the evenings.
The One World Tavern had become the place that he frequented several nights a week before he went home. He enjoyed having dinner as he finished up his day’s work from his job at the United Nations. At the moment, the chef was preparing lamb kabobs and rice for him to enjoy with his beer. Anwar was the co-owner of the establishment, an acquaintance from Palestine. The bar was nice enough to fit in here in Manhattan, but just seedy enough to provide Abdallah with a place to unwind and occasionally meet with some of his fellow jihadists.
There were no meetings tonight, just dinner, a few beers, and a little work. As a delegate to the UN for the PLO, Bamya stayed busy pushing papers through the right channels, trying to gain any advantage he could for his homeland. Coupled with his covert leadership of the Brotherhood, the Palestinian did not have much time to himself.
It had been over a week since he had enjoyed a woman’s touch. Maybe it was time to call the escort service again. What a decadent nation this was, he thought. With just a phone call, I can have a beautiful prostitute show up at my apartment.
Forty minutes later, Anwar removed the empty plate and beer bottle from in front of his guest and placed a third Taybeh on the table. Now that he had eaten and was working on beer number three, Bamya noticed the young woman seated across from him. He didn’t remember seeing her come in, but he had been focused on reading his files and preparing for the important meeting that he had the following morning.
The Palestinian was immediately interested. Her light brown skin, short hair, and athletic frame had him staring. She wore a burgundy top with black slacks. The gold hoop earrings made Abdallah think of an African princess. The woman sat by herself, gazing into her glass of white wine. A second glass sat untouched across from her.
Feeling his stare, she turned to looked at Bamya, a sad expression on her face. Embarrassed that he had been caught looking, he nodded and smiled before looking away. After finishing her glass of wine, the woman ordered another, her date still not having arrived. Abdallah acted like he was reading through one of his folders as he finished his beer, occasionally stealing a glance at the beautiful black lady.
When he held up his empty bottle to Anwar, Nassar looked at his boss with a questioning look. Abdallah never had more than three beers, and usually stopped at two. After the bar owner placed another Taybeh on the table, Bamya put his hand on his friend’s arm.
“That black woman over there. Who is she? I’ve never seen her in here before.”
“I don’t know, Sayyid. She said that a man would be joining her.”
Abdallah nodded his thanks and stood, taking a long pull from his beer. He put all of his files away, glancing back to see if she was still alone. The second chair at the table remained empty as the woman checked her phone and then dropped it to the table, a disgusted look on her face. The beers had given him a slight buzz and the courage to walk the twelve steps over to her table.
“Good evening.”
She turned and looked into his eyes. There was sadness there but also a hint of amusement.
“I saw you sitting here by yourself. Would you be interested in joining me at my table for dinner?”
The young woman looked at him for several seconds before answering.
“I thought you’d already eaten?”
Her voice was sultry, cultured, and educated. This African-American lady was at least fifteen years younger than him but the Palestinian was hooked. He laug
hed nervously.
“I did eat, but I would eat again if you would join me. My treat, of course.”
This time, her long expressionless stare almost sent him back to his table by himself. When she answered, though, Abdallah felt his heart jump.
“Sure, why not? I had a date,” she sighed. “Someone I had met online, but he just texted me and said he had other plans tonight that he had forgotten about when he asked me out.”
The woman stood, grabbing her purse and the unused glass of wine from the table, and followed Abdallah back to his corner alcove. Bamya glanced over at Nassar, giving him a slight nod. The bodyguard merely shrugged and ordered himself another beer.
After they were seated, Abdallah spoke up. “What’s your name?”
“Angela. What about you?”
“My name is Abdallah.”
Angela rewarded him with a smile. “I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I thought this would be a nice date. He seemed pleasant enough when we talked on the phone and FaceTime but I guess I wasn’t what he was looking for.”
“No need to apologize. I’m sorry that he treated you that way. Let’s see if we can make your evening better. May I order for you? The owner is a friend of mine and I’d like you to have a nice experience after what you’ve been through.”
The young woman smiled again. “Yes, that would be nice.”
“That was delicious!” Angela exclaimed, an hour later, wiping her mouth with a cloth napkin.
Abdallah had ordered a plate of lamb kabobs over rice for his guest and a fifth beer for himself. He had offered Angela another glass of wine but she had demurred after three glasses, drinking water with her meal. They had chatted about a number of topics as she had eaten. Bamya had learned that she was a financial advisor who worked in the MetLife building a few blocks away.
