Treason (27 page)

“What do you mean by better messaging?”

“To defeat someone such as Stanton, you need to turn his biggest asset into an even bigger liability. Stanton has seniority, longevity, and he is chairman of the House Permanent Intelligence Committee. Everyone knows that. So you find ways to turn all of those achievements against him.”

“Running against Washington is hardly a new message.”

“You know more about campaigns than you said,” Harper replied. “It's true, running against Washington is popular. It's especially appealing to Republicans who dislike big government, and I just told you that voters in his district are putting Republicans, not Democrats, into local offices. But Powers failed to capitalize on it. He should have accused Stanton of being a ‘world congressman' as opposed to being a South Carolinian congressman. He should have zeroed in on Stanton's chairmanship and how much time he spends on international affairs. You could argue that keeping the world safe benefits the good voters of the Third District, but deep down, they want their elected official to focus on their wants and their needs. That is something Stanton has left for his staff to handle. There were other issues that made Stanton vulnerable according to the polls.”

“Such as?”

“Stanton's independence. He broke from other South Carolinian congressmen on several votes that mattered in his state. Again, this is because he tends to take a national view rather than a purely parochial view. As a Democrat, he also voted in favor of several social issues that conflict with traditional conservative values, such as federal funding for liberal causes that many Christian Southern voters find repulsive.”

Harper rose abruptly from her desk and extended her hand for him to shake. “I'll discuss your request about your million-person march with the president and get back to you.”

Standing to shake her hand, Nader said, “Ms. Harper, it is even clearer to me now why the president appreciates and depends on your political instincts.”

Four hours after that White House meeting, Malik Kalb, an associate professor of mathematics at Smithville University, rapped on the office door of Dr. Robert Powers, who waved him inside. For several minutes, the two colleagues chatted about campus affairs and then Kalb said, “Dr. Powers, as you know, I am a practicing Muslim and there were some on the hiring panel here who were wary about employing someone of my faith to teach in a Southern Baptist school when I applied.”

“Do you feel you are being slighted?” Powers asked, his voice suddenly filled with concern. “Has someone said something to offend you?”

“No, no. Just the opposite. I have been welcomed and have taken some joy in having first-year students being surprised that I am a Muslim.” He paused and then added, “Many of my students never give up trying to convert me.”

Powers chuckled. “That comes with the turf.”

“I believe it is important for students to be exposed to a Muslim and for all of us to learn, respect, and appreciate our different religious traditions and values,” Kalb continued.

“As do I, so what has happened that brings you to my office to discuss religion rather than Alexander Grothendieck and algebraic geometry?”

“Not long after I was hired, you took leave to run for the U.S. Congress,” Kalb said.

Powers cracked his knuckles before interlocking his fingers behind his head. He leaned back in his office chair, which needed oiling and squeaked loudly. “My campaign was a disaster, but I'm glad I did it because I genuinely felt it was time for change. Our representative has been in office eighteen terms, that's thirty-six years.” He unclasped his fingers and leaned forward, causing another screech. “Are you thinking about running for political office, Malik? Are you coming to me for political advice?”

“Oh no, not me,” Kalb replied. “I am wondering if you still feel a change is needed and, if so, if you could be persuaded to run again.”

Powers shook his head, indicating no. “Thanks, but I prefer academia, although I must confess that university politics are equally as deadly as any in Washington.”

“This time around would be different for you. I have been contacted by people who are willing to donate money if you would consider challenging Representative Stanton.”

“What people?”

“Muslims who are deeply concerned about Representative Stanton's recent Islamophobic comments. They believe he is reckless and is fueling anti-Muslim sentiment.”

“Imagine that. Muslims wanting to help finance a Southern Baptist professor's run for political office,” Powers replied good-naturedly. “Now I've heard everything.”

“You looked beyond my religious beliefs when you helped me get hired here, and my Muslim friends do not see you as a Southern Baptist professor, but as a fair-minded and just man who respects religious freedom and tolerance.”

“That's gratifying, but I've already been down this road, and Stanton is considered unbeatable.”

“Robert, I'm not talking about a few thousand dollars. In addition to sizeable contributions, these people have access to some of the top political strategists and media experts in Washington. With their help, you would have a real chance of winning.”

Powers suddenly realized that Kalb's offer was more serious than he'd assumed. “How much money are you talking about?”

“Whatever you need to win,” Kalb said in a low voice. “That is what I was told to tell you.”

“House races in Ohio, New Jersey, and California have cost upwards of twenty million dollars each. When I ran against Stanton, I raised $125,000 and much of that came from a second mortgage and maxing out my credit cards.”

“Whatever it takes. They aren't joking.”

“You didn't say who these people are or what they want in return?”

“Chairman Stanton has enraged the Muslim community. These contributions would be coming from individuals in every state. The political advisors would come from Washington and be volunteers.”

“Money always comes with strings.”

“Only one string—you must defeat Stanton.”

Interstate 66

West of Washington, D.C.

M
ajor Brooke Grant felt frustrated as she maneuvered her Jaguar XF sedan into the far left lane of the eastbound Dulles Toll Road so she could use her E-ZPass to merge onto Interstate 66 and continue her drive into Washington, D.C. It had been nine hours since the FBI's HRT unit had stormed the Perfect Hideaway cabin in southwest Virginia and rescued Cassy Adeogo. But Akbar, Aludra, and Jennifer remained at large.

Brooke tried to push from her mind thoughts about what Akbar might do to Jennifer in retaliation for Cassy's escape. Her hatred toward the radical Islamic murderer grew every day that Jennifer remained his prisoner.

It was nearly ten p.m. when she reached George Washington University Hospital to check on her uncle, and even though visiting hours were over, the security guards and nurses there allowed Brooke to come and go as she pleased.

She had known that her aunt Geraldine would be at the bedside of the still unconscious General Frank Grant in the private ICU room, but at this hour, she was surprised to see Lieutenant Colonel Gabe DeMoss with them. After giving her aunt a hug and kiss, and learning that her uncle's condition had not changed, Brooke acknowledged DeMoss.

“Colonel, don't you ever sleep?”

“I was about to ask you the same question,” he replied. Glancing at the general, DeMoss added, “Your uncle is one of the finest officers I've ever known. I want to be here when he wakes up.”

Brooke was not surprised by his loyalty. As far back as Brooke could remember, her uncle had been a charismatic and dynamic leader who was admired and loved by those who served under his command. Her own father had chosen to be a preacher and had been a quiet and gentle leader. Uncle Frank, aka Pooh Bear, had been the opposite. Growing up in the panhandle of Oklahoma, the general had been a rebellious teen with a hot temper. University of Oklahoma recruiters had offered him a full-tuition football scholarship, but the Vietnam War was raging and Grant knew his chance of getting drafted was high, so he opted for West Point instead of going to a state school. The military had perfected his natural leadership abilities. Grant had graduated near the top of his class and volunteered to fight in Vietnam near the final days of that conflict when everyone else was avoiding that unwinnable quagmire. Aunt Geraldine had told Brooke that her uncle had returned from Southeast Asia a much-changed man. The flash point anger and recklessness were gone. Grant had evolved into a bold and reflective leader who in the midst of chaos remained sure-footed. Shortly after Brooke's parents had been murdered during the 9/11 attacks and she had moved in with her aunt and uncle, Brooke had snuck into General Grant's study. Her eyes had been drawn to a large leather-bound Bible lying on one corner of his desk. It had belonged to her father. Inside the cover, she'd found sheets of white paper with lists of names on them. She'd never seen those papers before and knew from the penmanship that her uncle had written them and placed them there. Years later, she would ask her aunt Geraldine about the names on those pages, and she would be told they were lists of soldiers who had died fighting under his command. Every fatality. Every man. Those soldiers each had names and General Grant never wanted to forget the sacrifice that those serving under him had made to keep his family safe and free.

That was the caliber of man now lying before her in the ICU still unconscious.

Brooke's cell phone vibrated, shaking her from her thoughts and signaling her that she had an incoming text. She only gave her private cell phone number to a few individuals, and when she didn't recognize the digits on the phone's caller ID, she assumed it was a pesky advertisement until she read the message.

Annapolis harbor. Eastport. Slip 15. Aludra.

Gabe DeMoss was still with her and Aunt Geraldine in her uncle's hospital room and he noticed the hopeful look that swept across her face.

“Is it Jennifer?” he asked.

“I know where she is!”

“How's that possible?”

“I gave Aludra my cell number when she called me from that grocery store. She's been helping us.”

“Call Agent Parker,” DeMoss said. “Tell him to send the HRT.”

Brooke already was dialing Parker's number at the Reston command post, but he didn't answer. The call switched over to the duty officer.

“Get me Agent Parker right now!” she demanded.

The duty officer put her on hold momentarily and then returned. “I couldn't reached him at his home and he's not answering his cell.”

“He's supposed to be available at all times,” she complained, clearly frustrated.

“Sometimes his cell doesn't get a good signal.”

“In this area?” Brooke snapped. “Keep trying.”

DeMoss, who'd overheard her part of the conversation, dialed a number on his cell phone and handed it to her. “Here's Parker. I've got him on the line.”

Brooke snatched the phone from his hand and told Parker about Aludra's text.

“I'll notify HRT and meet you in Annapolis,” he said.

“I know Eastport.”

“That's right, you graduated from the naval academy, didn't you?”

“The marina is across the street from the Annapolis Maritime Museum on Back Creek. I'll meet you at the museum parking lot.”

“Same drill as before, Ms. Grant,” Parker replied. “We let the HRT guys do their thing. No cowboy antics.”

Brooke handed the phone back to DeMoss.

Aunt Geraldine looked concerned. “Oh, sweetie, be careful.” She quickly kissed Brooke's cheek and said, “Bring Jennifer home safe.”

DeMoss chased Brooke down the ICU corridor into the hospital elevator.

“The pier where she's being held is about forty miles from here according to Mapquest,” DeMoss said, glancing at his phone's screen.

“HRT will be flying out of Quantico,” Brooke replied.

DeMoss hit another app on his phone and said, “That's about a twenty-three-minute trip by air according to the Internet. Probably quicker in a helicopter.”

The moment the elevator door opened, Brooke broke into a run with DeMoss right behind her.

“Even in your Jaguar, we can't beat them there,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Just watch me. Buckle up.”

“Brooke,” he said, calling her by her first name, “the last thing we need to do is arrive with a parade of cop cars with flashing lights and sirens chasing us because you've been speeding.”

What he was saying made sense, but as soon as they'd crossed the D.C. limits and reached a twenty-five-mile stretch of Highway 50 that poured into Annapolis, the Jaguar's speedometer hovered at 95 miles per hour.

“Use your Bluetooth to tie into my car's dash,” Brooke said. “Get Parker on the line so we can find out what's happening.”

As DeMoss was linking his cell phone to the Jaguar's dashboard speakers, Brooke had another thought. “How come you were able to reach Parker on your cell when his own people couldn't find him?”

“Remember Hillary Clinton and her multiple cell phones? Parker carries two. The FBI dispatcher should have had both of Parker's numbers.”

“But why did you have it?”

“I work at the White House, remember? I can get anyone's number.”

Parker's voice suddenly came through the car's speakers. “Ms. Grant, where are you two?”

“A few miles outside Annapolis.”

“Jeezz, how'd you get there so fast? I'm at least a good twenty-five minutes behind you.”

“Where's the HRT?”

“They've been getting a positive ID on the boat that's in Slip fifteen. It's a trawler-style—another Internet vacation rental—a thirty-six-foot motorboat whose owner lets tourists use it when he's not in Annapolis. A couple named Jacob and Sally Johar from Indianapolis picked up the keys a few hours ago from a restaurant near the pier. The bartender there had them sign paperwork. He helps the owner keep track of renters.”

“Let me guess,” Brooke said. “You couldn't find any record of a Jacob and Sally Johar from Indianapolis. They used fake IDs.”

“That's right,” Parker replied. “Now remember. Stay out of the way.”

Neither Brooke nor DeMoss saw anything unusual when she turned her Jaguar off Eastern Avenue onto Second Street en route to the museum visitors' lot. There were no signs of the HRT. The lot itself was empty and ghostly quiet. Brooke parked and glanced at the marina and boats that were docked directly across the street from the museum. Their cabins looked as if they had been sealed for the winter. The decks of the smaller crafts were covered with large blue tarps.

“I don't see the HRT,” Brooke said.

“They might be in the water. They're trained to board ships without being noticed. They even have scuba gear that doesn't emit telltale bubbles.”

Brooke glanced through the car windows again. She was trying to identify which boat was the thirty-six-foot trawler in slip fifteen. Two lights at the marina's edge cast a light over the pier.

“I think that's it,” she said, nodding at an older Albin trawler. Unlike the other boats, which appeared to be empty, there was a light inside its cabin behind curtains that covered the boat's portals.

“Point it out,” DeMoss said.

As Brooke was raising her hand, the trawler exploded. Yellow and red flames shot from its deck. Windows in two nearby houses were shattered by the blast and pressure from the shock wave caused the Jaguar's sensitive car alarm to sound. For several moments, smoke completely obscured the ship's skeletal remnants.

Two black vans raced down Second Street and turned into the lot, stopping directly in front of the Jaguar. FBI agents bolted from both vehicles with guns drawn

As Brooke turned off the car alarm, an agent jerked open the vehicle's driver-side door. “I'm Major Brooke Grant!” she yelled, raising her hands.

The HRT commander recognized her from the rescue at the Perfect Hideaway cabin and redirected his men toward the pier.

“What the hell happened?” DeMoss asked as he stepped from the Jaguar and hurried toward Brooke and the HRT commander.

“Was Jennifer in that boat?” Brooke asked. “Does anyone know where she is?”

“It was a trap,” the commander replied. “The boat was detonated the moment two of my divers boarded it.”

He turned his back to Brooke and DeMoss and ran toward slip fifteen, where his men were frantically searching for the two agents who'd last been seen climbing aboard the trawler. Brooke and DeMoss hadn't seen them because they'd boarded on the side not visible from the parking lot.

Brooke was about to follow him when her cell phone vibrated. It was another text.

USN Golf Course. 4th hole. She's still alive. Aludra

Brooke read it twice.

Brooke knew the exact location of the fourth hole because she'd golfed on the U.S. Naval Academy links as a midshipman. It was the closest green to the water's edge and the quickest way to reach it would be by boat.

Her eyes were drawn to an inflatable dinghy hanging from the davit arms of a larger sailboat docked at the pier.

“Help me get that dinghy in the water,” she told DeMoss.

“What? Why? Where are you going?”

“A text. Jennifer is on the fourth green at the academy's course.”

“Brooke, it's another trap.”

“If Akbar wanted me dead, he would have killed me by now. He's a trained sniper, remember?”

“Let the HRT handle it. Let's wait for Parker to get here.”

“Jennifer can't wait. Now help me launch this dinghy.”

It took them only minutes to get it into the water. As they sped away, Brooke heard someone calling from shore. It was Agent Wyatt Parker ordering her to return. She ignored him, so he called her cell phone.

“Where the hell are you going?” he demanded when she answered.

“The green on the fourth hole on the academy's golf course. I got a text.”

“I'll send the team. Return to shore. I don't want you and DeMoss killed.”

“There's no time for that,” Brooke said before pocketing her phone.

The water was calm and the dinghy's three-horsepower motor made good time from the creek into the Severn River and around Horn Point. They reached the entrance to Carr Creek and Brooke beached the boat on the banks of the golf club. She climbed an embankment up onto the fairway with her pistol drawn. DeMoss, who was unarmed, followed her.

The fourth hole was almost directly in front of where they had landed, and when she reached the green, she saw what appeared to be a person lying next to the flag marking its hole. She hesitated and waited for DeMoss to come up beside her.

“Someone is lying there,” she said pointing with her drawn pistol. “Their legs and hands are tied.”