Escape (20 page)

"Well said," Plaut agreed. "Bill, wasn't there more to that story? Didn't the Colorado attorney general actually respond to the State Department request by spending taxpayer dollars to fly to Saudi Arabia?"

"Yes," Florence replied and found his place on the page. "According to the article, he first met with members of what I assume is the equivalent of the bar association in Saudi Arabia, where these so-called lawyers, and this is another quote, 'couldn't believe that a jury would actually believe the word of a mere Indonesian maid over a rich Saudi businessman.' I guess in Saudi Arabia only wealthy rapists are to be believed."

"No surprise there, either," Gilbert noted. "The women's rights movement hasn't exactly set up shop in the desert. They have to be covered from head to toe, they're not allowed to drive, or vote, or even leave the country without the written permission of a male relative. The punishment for violating any of these rules is public lashing or even stoning."

Silverstein slammed a big fist on the table, making the others jump. "What I don't get is why our government continues to act like these Saudi Arabian assholes are our friends," he said. "It's the Saudi government that supports these madrasah schools that teach a sick, twisted version of Islam and preach jihad. Hell, the Saudi government even sponsors telethons to raise money for terrorists like Hamas. But our State Department asks the Colorado attorney general to go hat in hand, or better yet, on his hands and knees, and apologize for putting a rapist in prison."

"But we need their oil and military bases so we can fight the War on Terror," Epstein said facetiously.

"Yeah, yeah, even though the worst of the terrorists are from Saudi Arabia and get a lot of their money from Saudi Arabians in and out of the government," Silverstein growled. "Doesn't anybody ever get tired of our government substituting political expediency for moral convictions?"

The priest, Sunderland, turned to Karp. "What about you, Mr. District Attorney? We know better than to ask you about the Campbell case. But what is your response to someone who says that he has a right to commit certain crimes because they are part of his cultural or religious beliefs?"

"Then they can commit them in their own countries," Karp replied. "There are no fatwas here that allow someone to break our laws."

The Breakfast Club applauded and raised their orange juice glasses. "Down with fatwas," Gilbert said.

"What I want you to put down are your glasses before you hurt someone," Marjorie said as she appeared with a plate of pancakes. "Here you go, Butch. Can I bring you some syrup or maybe a little special honey?"

The Breakfast Club howled again with delight.

Thirty minutes later, as they watched Karp walk off down West Broadway, Plaut said, "We have to be more careful about things we hear out of his office. We don't want to jeopardize our Deep Throat, do we, Bill?"

"Not if we want to keep her employed," the newspaperman replied. "She's already uncomfortable with the spying, even though she knows it's for the greater good."

"I still don't know why we don't just tell him about our suspicions about what happened to Vince and what we know about the Sons of Man," Gilbert said.

"Tell him what about Vince? We're in the same boat with Butch as we are with V. T. There's no proof. Just a bunch of old fogies who stumbled on something bigger than they know what to do with."

"Don't you think Jaxon already told him about the Sons of Man?" Sunderland said. "Surely he's been told about the book, and his daughter, Lucy, was the last one who talked to Cian Magee."

"The book was written in 1930," Hall said. "There's nothing we have that proves the group still exists—if it ever did, for that matter. What's to say it wasn't a work of fiction?"

"What about the attempt on Senator McCullum's life?" Gilbert pointed out.

"The official version is that the former police officer who fired the shots was actually trying to hit the police chief because he'd been released from the force," Hall noted. "We only suspect that he was after McCullum. As you know, the assassin was killed by John Jojola before he could talk."

"Mr. Karp isn't about to take us into his confidence on what he does or doesn't know about the Sons of Man," Plaut said. "And we do suspect that there are other spies in the DAO. We cannot afford to be exposed, or the truth may never come out. But I think we need to do something."

"Which means we find a way to talk to V. T. Newbury without revealing our identities?" Florence asked.

"That's my opinion. But this club is a democracy, so let's put it to a vote. All in favor say 'aye.'"

Marjorie the Waitress reappeared just as the men voted in favor. "What's with these 'ayes'? You sound like a bunch of ancient mariners," she said. "Oooh, good one," Gilbert laughed. "We were just voting."

"What for? Whether it's time to take a nap or drink more prune juice?" Epstein grinned wickedly. "Nah, just whether those tits are real or fake." Marjorie rolled her eyes. "No wonder your wives kick you out of the house first thing in the morning. What's with men? From the moment they're born to the second they die, they're fixated on a couple of specialized sweat glands."

Epstein made a face. "Ugh, talk like that and I might forget to stare at yours."

The waitress laughed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wreck your fantasies. I know that's about all you have left."

"Were we right or wrong?" Florence asked.

"How many voted for: 'Those puppies are real?'" Marjorie asked.

"All of us," Gilbert replied.

"Then you're not as senile as you look."

Inside the mosque office, Dean Newbury and Imam Jabbar watched a security monitor as Jaxon and the interpreter, Marie Smith, left the grounds. The men were soon joined by a tall blonde woman and a short man who looked like he was from the Middle East. He had droopy brown eyes and an oversized eagle's beak for a nose.

"Do you think he knows about Khalifa?" the woman asked.

Newbury thought about it for a moment. "It's difficult to tell, Ajmaani," he said, using the name the woman assumed to pass herself off as an Islamic extremist from Chechnya. Her real name was Nadya Malovo, and she worked for Russian employers, who for the time being had told her to cooperate with Dean Newbury in this project.

"It's a federal case, and my people were able to delete any cross-reference to the name Muhammad Jamal Khalifa on the national crime computer. They're keeping the name Rondell James away from the press," Newbury continued. "There's no way for the NYPD or the District Attorney's Office to track him down with what they've got. I think we're okay, but it really is quite unfortunate that this incident took place. It could have ruined everything." He shot Jabbar and Malovo a hard look.

"I had nothing to do with his training," Jabbar protested.

"You vouched for him," Malovo hissed. "And then didn't keep track of what he was up to after you kicked him out. He should have been eliminated."

"That might have been worse," Jabbar insisted. "His fatherin-law is respected in the mosque. He might have asked a lot of questions."

"Isn't he asking questions now?" Newbury asked.

Jabbar shook his head. "Nobody knows that Khalifa was the bomber. The story is that after he and his wife fought, he left to go on jihad to Pakistan. The family's been told that if the authorities find out, they'll be deported to Kenya. They're in the country illegally, and I've hinted that our brothers in Nairobi might not appreciate the Jumas helping the infidels identify an American jihadi."

"In my opinion, leaving them alive is a risk," Malovo said. "What if they figure out that Khalifa was the bomber? They might go to the authorities and connect him to the mosque."

Jabbar ignored her. Malovo was dangerous, but Newbury and the other man in the room were calling the shots. "Killing them would raise more questions," Jabbar replied. "We're keeping an eye on them. The father spends most of his free time here. We insisted that Khalifa's wife, Miriam, take a job as our receptionist. She is the woman sitting outside the door now. We made it clear this was not a request... not if she wanted to stay away from the immigration officers."

Newbury thought about it for a moment. "You'll excuse us for a few minutes, please," he said to Jabbar.

The imam cleared his throat. He didn't like it when these people cut him out of the inner circle. He'd performed as requested and was an important figure in the events that were about to change the world. But the other three were clearly waiting for him to depart. "It is almost time for prayers," he said. "I should go."

When he was gone, Malovo spoke first. "How do we know for certain that Jaxon is not playing at this new role?"

"We don't," Newbury replied. "But my sources tell me that the 'defection' to private enterprise is real. His former colleagues at the FBI are angry with him, especially because he took several other agents with him. We've also discovered that Jaxon apparently has money problems, which got him into trouble with the Italian mob. He's been paying them back in cash and with favors that neither a federal salary nor his FBI badge could cover.

Also, we have a source within the District Attorney's Office who's overheard conversations between him and Karp that would corroborate that he is persona non grata with the federal agencies."

"Is this the same source who tells us that the split between Karp and your nephew is real?" Malovo queried.

Newbury caught the hint of sarcasm and didn't like it. He wasn't used to being challenged—as the most senior and ruthless member of the Sons of Man Council, he wasn't about to tolerate insubordination from a mere assassin now. Who did this woman think she was talking to? If she kept it up, he'd send her tongue back to her Russian bosses. "My sources are my own, Ajmaani," he replied coldly. "And I will be the judge of my nephew's role." Malovo wasn't easily cowed. "I think this is a dangerous game you play," she said. "Jaxon is nobody to be trifled with and neither is your nephew. They're not idiots, and we've had quite enough interference from their Jew friend Karp."

Newbury felt the anger flush his cheeks, but he said nothing. He was well aware that he was taking a chance with V. T., but he was doing so in the hopes that his nephew would "see the light" and someday replace him on the council. He wanted the Newbury name to continue on, since his own son, Quilliam, had rejected his birthright, enlisted in the Marines, and died in Vietnam.

Not that family could always be trusted. His brother, Vincent, had spied on him and betrayed the brotherhood when he took the rare copy of the Sons of Man book from Dean's office, which found its way to that Celtic bookstore owner. The bookseller, Cian Magee, had begun to tell Lucy Karp, the bitch daughter of his enemy the district attorney, about their organization. But fortunately, he'd been killed and the book destroyed before too much was revealed.

Dean had also murdered his brother by ordering his chef to lace Vincent's dinner with foxglove, the natural source of digitalis, a heart medication his brother was taking. However, in large amounts, digitalis had the opposite effect, and his brother had died of a massive heart attack, which the family doctor had ruled "natural causes."

Dean Newbury felt no remorse for killing his brother, nor would he feel any if it turned out that his nephew couldn't be persuaded that the only hope for Western civilization was the iron-willed leadership of the Sons of Man. It was just an old man's hope that he would be around to initiate the new world order and that his DNA, if not his direct heir, would remain to guide the council in the centuries to come.

"I'm watching my nephew carefully," Newbury replied evenly. "And as we all know, his test is coming, which he will either pass or fail with fatal implications. As for keeping Jaxon close, that was at the direct request of our friend, The Sheik, here." He turned to the other man, who'd been quietly listening to the debate.

When that man now spoke it was in French. "Enough of this argument, I wanted this infidel Jaxon pulled into our web. The reasons are twofold. One, he is a dangerous opponent, especially when we do not know where he is or what he is up to. There is an old Arabic saying that it is good to draw your enemy's attention to the horizon, so that when he realizes the danger comes from within his own tent, the dagger will already be in his back. The second reason is personal. I am not prepared to say why at this moment, but just know that I want the blood of this man. I want him to know that he failed to stop the new era."

Newbury looked at Malovo and shrugged as if to say that the matter was closed.
Because I allow it to be closed,
he thought. He would use this "Sheik" for his own purposes. He thought the man acted like a child and was too blinded by pride to see why the very idea of Muslim world domination was a joke. The extremists were living in the fifteenth century. They couldn't agree on a common purpose, or who would lead them, without starting a hundred-year feud and spending more time killing each other than they did their enemies in the West.

Dangerous, yes, Newbury thought as he looked at The Sheik, in the way that a crocodile is dangerous when you don't know where he is, but no more than raw material for boots and purses when you do. They made good bogeyman, too, and could be used to frighten the American public into placing the reins of power into the hands of anyone who could protect them.

The Sheik had come to them because he needed assistance to pull off a plan that was brilliant in design. The man could not use his real name, due to his current position in Saudi Arabia, but his idea was much more subtle than that of men like bin Laden. If it worked, the world would be changed forever.

The amusing part was that The Sheik, for all his brilliance, believed that would mean a worldwide caliphate, in which a single Islamic leader would rule. Once the Sons of Man were in power in the United States, these Middle Eastern bandits with their minds stuck in the fifteenth century would learn the difference between a nation that had the means to destroy them and one that would actually use those means. The terms would be simple. Disobey once, and Medina, the second holiest city in the Muslim world, would disappear. Another infraction and the remains of Mecca would smolder and glow for a thousand years. There would be no hiding in the mountains of Pakistan from weary U.S. soldiers, because those mountains would be turned into a nuclear wasteland, the mouths of their caves melted shut. There would be none of this "reasoned response" or any effort to minimize civilian deaths—
kill them all and let their Allah sort them out.

"Speak English," Malovo scowled. Her French was worse than Newbury's, though she was fluent in Arabic, which he was not. "It's easier for all of us."

The Sheik answered in French. "It is bad enough that I have to play any part other than conqueror in the land of my enemies. But I will not speak their filthy language, and Mr. Newbury does not speak the language of The Prophet."

"But France is a Western nation," Newbury noted, not that he really cared about what language they spoke. But he was a student of what motivated people, which was a way to determine their weaknesses.

"It will be an Islamic nation soon," The Sheik smirked. "Even without our project, they would soon be overrun with millions of poor, angry Muslim immigrants, and there will be yet another bloody French revolution. If their history is any indication, once our goals are achieved, the infidels in France; will surrender. The blood of unbelievers will flow nonetheless in rivers beneath the Arc de Triomphe."

"And what about your 'partners,' like myself and Ms. Ajmaani?" Newbury asked lightly.
Such poetic idiots these sand niggers,
he thought,
blood in rivers indeed.
"Beneath which of our monuments do you plan to spread the red deluge?"

The Sheik pulled back from what he really wanted to say. "We are not greedy," he replied. "We will be content with our former empire, plus perhaps a bit more of Europe, where so many of our oppressed people await the day of liberation." He inclined his head toward Malovo. "Of course, we may need to ... negotiate ... with our friends, the Russians, regarding Muslim territory in Chechnya."

"Non-negotiable," Malovo smiled back, also not saying what she wanted to say. "The access to warm-water ports and oil is a national security issue."

"Friends ... there will be time to work out the details," Newbury interjected. "We need to keep our minds on the immediate task as we take these first steps toward ..." he paused, knowing both of the others were thinking the exact words he was—the final struggle—but for now he only clasped his hands in front of him and added "... those future negotiations."

Newbury steered the conversation to business. The Sheik's plan was brilliant, but it was also complex and would require precise timing and total commitment. "When is the package from the Philippines due?" he asked. "Three days before the plan goes forward," Malovo responded.

"Is that enough time?"

"It will be enough. His role is simple, though obviously extremely important from both a tactical and strategic standpoint. We don't want him to arrive too soon and risk him being identified by the federal agencies who are not part of our plan."

"What about Jabbar and his people?" Newbury asked.

"They'll do," Malovo replied. "We need foot soldiers who are totally committed and don't expect to survive. Where else do you find that, except among those who believe that they're paving their way to Paradise? Amazing what the promise of virgins will do for a man."

The Sheik scowled. "I don't like your sarcasm. The mujahideen all over the world will rise up when they hear what has happened here."

"True, there will be plenty more willing to die for Allah," Malovo replied. "More than enough."