The Camel Club (21 page)

CHAPTER
32

A
LEX E-MAILED HIS UPDATED
report to Jerry Sykes as soon as he got back to WFO. Unlike his first filing, however, the response this time was very swift. The phone call didn’t merely instruct him to go to Jerry Sykes’ office, or even the SAIC’s. He was ordered to report immediately to Secret Service headquarters and meet with none other than the director of the Secret Service.

Okay, Alex thought, this was probably not a good sign. It was close enough to WFO that Alex could walk, and he did. The time in the fresh air allowed him to ponder his future after the Service, which might be coming faster than he had envisioned, in fact about three years faster.

He had met the current director face-to-face only a couple times before. They’d been social occasions, and the few minutes of chitchat had been quite pleasant. Alex’s gut was telling him that this encounter wouldn’t be nearly as chummy.

A few minutes later he walked into the director’s spacious office. Jerry Sykes was there, apparently trying to disappear into the sofa he was perched on, and, much to Alex’s surprise, Jackie Simpson was sitting next to Sykes.

“You want to close the door, Ford?” Wayne Martin, the director of the Secret Service, said.

Close the door
. That was definitely not a good sign. Alex obeyed this instruction and then sat and waited for Martin to start speaking. He was a large man who favored striped shirts with big cuff links. He’d worked his way up through the ranks and was one of the agents who tackled John Hinckley after his attempt to assassinate Reagan. Martin was studying a file in front of him. Shooting a quick glance at it, Alex thought it appeared to be his Service history. Okay, this was
really
not looking good.

Martin closed the file, sat on the edge of his desk and said, “Agent Ford, I’ll get right to it because, believe it or not, I’ve got a lot of things to do today.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said automatically.

“I got a call from the president a little while ago. He was on Air Force One. The man was on his plane going to a string of campaign events, and he took the time to call me about
you
. That’s why you’re here today.”

It was as though all the blood were evaporating from Alex’s body. “The president called about
me,
sir?”

“Would you like to take a guess what about?”

Alex shot a glance at Sykes, who was studying the floor. Simpson was looking at him, but she didn’t appear to be in a helpful mood.

“The Patrick Johnson case?” Alex could barely hear his own voice.

“Bingo!”
Martin boomed, slamming a fist down on his desk and causing everybody to jump.

“Since you’re batting a thousand, Ford, you care to take another guess as to what you
did
that prompted a call from the president of the United States?”

Alex had no saliva left in his mouth, but the man obviously wanted an answer. “I’ve been investigating the death of Patrick Johnson. That’s what I was ordered to do.”

Martin was shaking his head halfway through this answer. “The FBI is the lead investigative agency on the case. My understanding is that you were assigned to merely observe that investigation so as to protect the interests of this agency. And that our only connection to the deceased is that he was technically a joint employee of this agency and NIC. But in reality he was fully under NIC’s control and jurisdiction. Do you disagree with that assessment?”

Alex didn’t even bother to glance at Sykes. “No, sir.”

“Good, I’m glad that we’ve got that established. Now, the FBI found drugs at Mr. Johnson’s residence and is following up along those lines, which would tend to indicate that he was selling said drugs and generating considerable income from that endeavor. And consequently, his employment at NIC was not being considered as possibly connected to his death. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good again.” Martin stood, and Alex braced for what was coming. He wasn’t disappointed.

Martin erupted, “Now, with all that said, would you care to tell me what in the living hell you were thinking when you went out to NIC and questioned none other than Carter Gray about this matter?” This was conveyed in what could only be described as one long drill sergeant scream.

When Alex finally found his voice, he said, “I thought that to cover all the angles, going out to NIC was proper. They had run an analysis on a note for us and—”

“Did you or did you not interrogate Carter Gray?”

“I did
not,
sir. He showed up and offered to take us to Johnson’s work space. Until then, I was merely speaking with two junior subordinates who were not being particularly cooperative.”

“Did you threaten to seek a warrant to search the NIC premises?”

Alex’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “That was just a routine jab at—”

Martin smacked his desktop again. “Did you!”

Sweat now christened Alex’s face. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you learn anything useful while you were there? Did you find a smoking gun? Did you find evidence to implicate Secretary Gray in some nefarious plot?”

Even though he well knew these were rhetorical questions, Alex felt compelled to answer the man. “We learned nothing that was particularly helpful to the investigation. But again, it was on Secretary Gray’s initiative that he showed us around, sir. And it was only for a couple of minutes.”

“Let me fill you in on the politics of our business, Ford. Secretary Gray didn’t randomly run into you at NIC. He was alerted to your presence and purpose and came down to see you. He told the president that he felt compelled to do so because if word leaked out to the media that NIC was not being cooperative in a criminal investigation, it would reflect badly on him and his agency. As you know, Secretary Gray and the president are especially close. So things that reflect badly on NIC and Secretary Gray don’t make the president happy. Are you following this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you also aware that under Secretary Gray’s initiative a full internal investigation is being conducted at NIC with regards to the Johnson matter and that the FBI will be assisting in this?”

“No, sir, I was not aware of that.”

Martin didn’t appear to be listening now. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “According to your first report, you’d concluded that Mr. Johnson was probably a drug dealer, and you were going to let the FBI track that lead down. That was it. You filed that report last night. Now this morning you showed up at NIC asking a bunch of questions that were in clear contradiction to your initial conclusions. My question to you is, what happened between the time you filed the report last night and your going to NIC this morning that made you change your mind?”

By the way Martin was looking at him, it suddenly struck Alex that the man already knew the answer. He shot a glance at Simpson, who was now looking nervously down at her thick-heeled pumps. That’s why she was here.
Oh, shit!

He looked back at the director.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” Martin said.

Alex cleared his throat, buying time. “Sir, they’d analyzed the handwriting on the note, and I wanted to get the results.”

Martin gave Alex a look so scathing the agent could actually feel the swells of perspiration under his armpits.

“Don’t ever bullshit me, son,” Martin said in a very low, steady voice that was somehow far more threatening than the man’s prior tirade. The director looked over at Simpson. “Agent Simpson informed us that you told her an
old friend
had convinced you to get up a head of steam on this case and go for it.” He paused and said, “Who was that ‘friend’?”

Talk about a casual slip of the tongue coming back to crater your life
. Alex’s mind was racing from how he was going to afford his mortgage after he was fired from the Service in disgrace, to how he could kill Jackie Simpson and not get the death penalty.

“I don’t really recall that conversation with Agent Simpson, sir.”

“It was
this
morning. I’m not sure the Service needs agents with memories that poor, so you want to load up and try again? Keep in mind that there are
two
careers in question here, and one of them is just starting out.” He again shot a glance at Simpson.

“The identity of the person isn’t important, sir. I’d already concluded that I was going to keep investigating the case because certain things didn’t add up, that’s all. It’s solely my responsibility. Agent Simpson had nothing to do with my decision to go to NIC. She was merely doing what I told her to, and reluctantly at that. I’m prepared to take the full consequences for my actions.”

“So you won’t answer my question?”

“With all due respect, sir, if I thought it had the slightest bearing on this case, I would answer it.”

“And you’re not going to let me be the judge of that?”

For a lot of reasons Alex was not going to tell the director of the Secret Service that a man calling himself Oliver Stone, who sometimes occupied a tent across from the White House, and who’d been known to harbor a few conspiracy theories, was the “old friend” who had convinced him to keep investigating. It just didn’t seem like a good idea right now.

Alex nervously licked his lips. “Again, with all due respect, it was said to me in confidence, and unlike some people, I don’t break confidences.” He didn’t look at Simpson when he said this, but then he didn’t really have to. “So you can just stop the buck right at me, sir.”

The director sat in his chair and leaned back. “You’ve had a good, solid career at the Service, Ford.”

“I’d like to think so.” Alex felt his breath quicken as he sensed the axe coming.

“But it’s the
end
of the career that people remember.”

Alex almost started laughing because this was exactly what Stone had told him, for an entirely different reason, of course. “That’s what I’ve heard, sir.” He paused and said, “I’m assuming I’m being transferred to another field office.” When the Service was ticked off at an agent, it usually sent that person to one of the least desirable field offices. Although, in this case, that might have been wishful thinking. Disobeying a command from the director would probably result in his immediate expulsion from the Service.

“You just take the rest of the day off. Then starting tomorrow you’re officially transferred out of WFO and back to presidential protection detail. Maybe standing post in some doorways will knock some sense into you. Quite frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Half of me wants to kick your ass right out of the Service this minute. But you’ve put in a lot of good years; it’d be a shame to see that go right in the crapper.” He held up a finger. “And just so there’s no miscommunication, you are not to go near the Patrick Johnson case in any way at all, even if your ‘old friend’ tells you otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Now get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER
33

D
JAMILA GAVE THE BABY HIS BATH
while Lori Franklin played with the other two boys on the elaborate play set in the backyard. As she was dressing the little one afterward, Djamila watched the others from the nursery window. Lori Franklin didn’t spend enough time with her children, at least in Djamila’s estimation. Yet even the Iraqi woman had to admit that the time the mother did spend with her sons was real quality time. She read to them and drew with them and played games with them, spending patient hours with her three sons as they grew and changed every day. It was clear that Lori Franklin adored her boys. Now she was pushing the middle child on the swing while giving the oldest a piggyback ride. They all ended up chasing each other around the yard before collapsing in a pile. The peals of laughter reached all the way to Djamila, and, after a few seconds of fighting the urge, Djamila found herself laughing too at this heartwarming spectacle. Sons. She wanted many sons who would grow up tall and strong and take care of their mother when she grew old.

Djamila abruptly stopped laughing and turned away from the window. People should never take for granted what they had. Never! Especially Americans, who had everything.

Later, while Djamila and Franklin were preparing lunch, the latter closed the refrigerator door with a puzzled look.

“Djamila, there’s
kosher
food in here.”

Djamila wiped off her hands on a towel. “Yes, miss, I buy some at store. I use my money. It is for my meals here.”

“Djamila, I don’t care about that. We’ll pay for your food. But you must know that kosher is, well, it’s
Jewish
food.”

“Yes, miss, this I know.”

Franklin flashed a confused look. “Am I missing something here? A Muslim eating Jewish food?”

“Jews are people of the Book, in the Qur’an, I mean. As are Christians too, miss. And Jesus, he is recognized as a very important prophet of Islam, but he is not a god. There is only one God. And only Muhammad communicated the true word of God to the people. But David and Ibrahim, who you call Abraham, are important prophets too for Islam. We respect them for what they did. It was Ibrahim and his son Ishmael who built the Kaaba and established the practice of hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca.”

Franklin looked impatient. “Thanks for the theology lesson, but what does all that have to do with
food
?”

“Muslims must eat food that is deemed lawful, or
halal,
and avoid what is
haram,
or unlawful. These rules they come from the Qur’an and fatwas and other Islamic rulings. We cannot consume alcohol or eat the meat of pigs, dogs or monkeys or other animals that haven’t died by human hand. We can only eat the meat of animals that have the cloven hoof and chew the cud and only fish that have the fin and scales, just like the Jews. The Jews, they prepare their food in ways acceptable to Muslims. As example, they drain all blood from the meat. Muslims, we cannot drink blood or have anything to do with blood in our food. And Jews do not kill the animal by boiling it or by electricity, although they do not declare three times,
‘Allahu akbar,
’ that means God is great, when they slaughter the animal. But we Muslims recognize God by saying his name before we eat the food. And God will not let his people starve if they can’t find
halal
food. You say God’s name over the food, it is
halal
. Not all Muslims will eat the food of Jews, but if I cannot find
halal
food, I will eat the kosher.”

Lori Franklin was frowning at her nanny. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t understand that. I pick up a newspaper and pretty much can count on at least one story of Jews and Muslims killing each other somewhere. I know it’s not all that simple, but you’d think if you eat their food and they’re in
your
Bible, you could find
some
way to get along.”

Djamila stiffened. “It is not about
food
that we differ. I could tell you much—”

“Yes, well, I really don’t want to get into it. I have to meet George after lunch. He forgot his plane tickets for his flight tonight. Honestly, George can’t remember anything. You’d think an investment banker would have a better memory.”

After lunch was over and Lori Franklin had left, Djamila put the children into her van and drove to the park. On the ride over, her thoughts turned to her recent past.

She had known young men who’d trained with her in Pakistan that kept what they called journals of sacrifice,
their
sacrifice. The West, she knew, called them suicide diaries. She had read accounts in the papers of these diaries being found after the young men had died for Islam. Djamila had thought about what the last day of her life would look like. In her head she ran through what she would be thinking when the time came, how she would react. She had many questions and some doubts that troubled her. Would she be brave? She had imagined herself being noble and stoic, but was that unrealistic? Would she instantly be transported to paradise? Would anyone mourn her? And yet this also made her feel guilty, for her love of God should be enough; as it was for all Muslims.

Under normal circumstances it would have been unheard of for women to be deployed in terrorist cells with men, since there were strict rules and tribal customs forbidding unrelated men and women from being around each other. However, it had become quickly evident that Muslim men were almost always placed under heavy scrutiny in America, whereas Muslim women were given much more leeway. Thus, Muslim women were being engaged in much greater numbers now.

Djamila had grown close to one man she’d trained with. Ahmed was an Iranian, which instantly made her suspicious because there had never been harmony between Iran and her country. Yet he described a world in Tehran that was different from what she’d been told in Iraq.

“People want to be happy,” he told her. “But they cannot be happy if they are not free. You can love and worship God, without other people telling you how to live every part of life.” Then he went on to tell her that Iranian women could drive, vote and even hold seats in the Parliament. They were not forced to cover their entire face, just their hair and body, and they had started to wear cosmetics. He also told her that satellite dishes were being smuggled into the country in large numbers, and that, even more astonishing, men and women sat in cars while music played on the radio. If you knew where to go and the right things to say, you could get around the rules and the mullahs. You could have a chance to live life, if only for a little time, he had said. Djamila listened very intensely whenever he spoke of this.

He had also told Djamila that her name, which meant “beautiful” in Arabic, was most fitting to her. Most fitting, he’d said with respect and admiration, his gaze averted from hers. This comment had made her very happy. It had given her possibilities for a future that she had not thought realistic. However, he also spoke often of his coming death, even writing down in his diary the very day and hour that he planned on dying for God. But he would never show her the date he had chosen.

Djamila didn’t know if he’d fulfilled that wish or not. She didn’t know where he’d been sent. She would read the newspapers looking for his name or his picture telling of his death, but she’d never seen it. Djamila wondered if he ever read the newspapers looking for
her
picture and the account of
her
death
.

He’d been a fledgling poet who had modest dreams of seeing his verses in print for other Arabs to read. His poems were filled with tragedy that Djamila knew came from years of violence and suffering in Iran. One of the last things he told her was, “When one has lost everything except one’s life, it doesn’t make that life more valuable, it only makes the
sacrifice
of that life more potent. To die for God, life could have no greater purpose.” She would never forget those words. They gave her strength and her life meaning.

The Qur’an said that any man or woman who has led a righteous life while believing in God enters paradise without the slightest injustice. But Djamila had learned that the only way for a Muslim to be
guaranteed
passage into paradise was to die as a martyr during an Islamic holy war. If that was so, and Djamila prayed every day that it was true, then she would willingly make that sacrifice. The life after must be better. God would not let it be otherwise; she was certain of this.

Sometimes Djamila would imagine her poet joining her in paradise, where they could live in eternal peace. This thought was one of the very few that could still bring a smile to her lips. Yes, Djamila would like to see him again, very much. In life or death, it did not matter to her. It did not matter at all.