Treason (12 page)

A local coffee shop

Minneapolis, Minnesota

T
he executive director of the OIN, Omar Nader, invited Mary Margaret Delaney to join him for coffee at seven thirty a.m., about three hours before the commercial flight carrying Major Brooke Grant and Representative Rudy Adeogo was scheduled to land at the Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport. He'd chosen the Alle Aamin Coffee Shop on Cedar Avenue in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood of Minneapolis, home to most of the Twin Cities' Somali residents. When he arrived, his guest was already sitting at a corner table. Nader stopped to order at the counter before bringing her a cup of coffee and what looked like a pancake.

“This is
canjeero
,” he said, placing the breakfast treat in front of her. “It is a type of Somali bread, and the coffee is called
qahwe
, which is coffee mixed with cardamom and cinnamon.”

Delaney sipped the coffee. “It's not bad.”

“Not bad?” he replied, sounding offended. “You Americans don't know good coffee, even with all of your fancy-sounding combinations ordered in a Starbucks. In my region of the world, coffee is sacred.”

She broke off a piece of the
canjeero
, tasted it, and frowned.

“I prefer a scone,” she said.

“No doubt a tribute to your Irish heritage.” He glanced around the coffee shop and said, “I chose here so you could get a taste of Somalia and also because it is unlikely anyone will recognize either of us, unless we bump into Leo Mezzrow.”

“Who?”

“A local food critic,” Nader replied, showing off his knowledge about the city. “At least no one in the media attending the White House task force meeting today will be coming here.”

“You don't want to be seen talking with me.”

“While I always enjoy your company, the topic of our meeting this morning is best discussed in private.”

“The last time we met was in Washington during the presidential campaign.”

“Ah, you remember.”

“It's not every day someone arranges for their presidential political candidate to get five million dollars in contributions,” she answered.

“Ms. Delaney, you know it would be against federal campaign laws for the OIN to contribute directly to a presidential candidate such as your former governor Coldridge.”

“And that is why you rallied your ‘citizen activists' and their PACs and Super PACs.”

“When it comes to contributions, we simply follow the example of AIPAC,” he replied. “The Jews have always understood the power of money. We only seek a level playing field.”

“Giving my candidate five million dollars when you gave President Allworth's reelection twice that did not level our field,” she replied with an edge of bitterness in her voice.

“Ah, Ms. Delaney. There's no point in holding a grudge in politics. The OIN hedged its bets by arranging generous donations through our members and their PACs for both campaigns. It wasn't personal. Besides, your candidate didn't lose because of a lack of money.”

“Governor Coldridge lost because the White House ended the crisis in Somalia on the weekend before the election—a crisis that the president had created,” Delaney replied.

Nader shrugged. “There is only so much a political handler, such as you, can control. Don't blame yourself.”

“Oh, I don't. But I do remember who helped us and who didn't.”

“Including Representative Rudy Adeogo?” he asked.

“What's this little tête-à-tête about?” she replied, ignoring his question for the moment. “Why did you ask to meet with me?”

“I've come to do you a favor.”

Delaney took another sip of
qahwe
. Omar Nader and the OIN always had an agenda. They also had a reputation for rewarding friends and vehemently attacking enemies.

“A favor? What's in it for you?” she asked suspiciously.

“Ms. Delaney, I fear Washington has made you cynical. Perhaps my gesture springs only from the goodness in my heart.”

“I stopped believing men acted from the goodness in their hearts after I developed breasts.”

Nader was aware of Delaney's brash reputation, which he personally found amusing.

“My motivation? To be honest, I believe we share a mutual dislike,” Nader said. “My sources tell me that Rudy Adeogo agreed to support your presidential candidate by appearing at a news conference about Somalia, but at the last moment he backed out. He betrayed you. That was a blow to your campaign, was it not?”

“Your sources? Do you mean the army of lobbyists and Washington snoops you pay?”

“What's the Washington cliché? Knowledge is power.”

“Is there anyone in Washington who's not on your payroll besides me?”

His answer was a smug grin.

“Let's not be coy,” he said. “I know you have been searching for information about Representative Rudy Adeogo—negative information.”

He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I am not a fan of Adeogo so you may speak freely.”

Delaney tried another nibble of
canjeero
. She didn't trust Nader.

“Adeogo is the only Muslim in Congress,” she said. “I would think you and the OIN would be strong allies of his.”

“Let's just say the Minneapolis congressman is a bit too vocal and independent for our tastes.”

“Was it his comments the other day about the need for Saudi Arabia and other Arab nations to do more when it comes to fighting extremists?”

“Yes, we would prefer that he would avoid making such statements.”

“Or was it his comment about how Israel should be recognized as a legitimate nation?”

“Zionism always concerns us.”

“There are more than forty thousand Jews living in Minneapolis,” Delaney noted. “Adeogo is just playing to them. As you just noted, Jews have big pockets.”

“And, I also said, so do we. It is not about money. He is naïve about Israel. We are disappointed in the congressman because he is choosing, as you Americans like to say, to not be a team player. He needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Is there something more?”

Nader purposely took another long sip of the
qahwe
that he was drinking. “So you have sources in Washington too,” he replied as he lowered his cup. “You have heard there is a personal matter between us, a personal grudge, but that is not germane to our conversation.”

“When it is personal, it is always germane, especially in Washington.”

“Perhaps another time, but for now, I am here to tell you that I have some information about him, some embarrassing information, that I'm willing to share under the right conditions.”

“What can you possibly tell me about Adeogo that I don't already know?”

Nader drew a large envelope from a satchel and placed it between them. Delaney put aside her
canjeero
and reached for the packet, but before her hand touched it, Nader slapped his palm over the envelope, pinning it on the table.

“Before I allow you to look at the contents,” he said, “you must give me your word that you will not disclose this information to anyone without my permission.”

“It is your material,” she replied. “I guess I can agree to that.”

Lifting his hand, he waved his forefinger at her and said, “Not guess. You need to understand that if you read the contents of this envelope, you will be involving yourself in a situation that involves more than the two of us or even the OIN. It involves individuals who are not to be trifled with. Very serious people.”

“What sort of serious people?”

“Serious people who have the ability to get information not available to the public.”

She sat back in her seat, pulling back her hand. “Are you telling me that you have information in that envelope gathered by an intelligence service? Has a foreign intelligence service been spying on a member of Congress?”

“Let's just say the OIN has many influential members and some of them have access to useful intelligence information.”

She slowly reached forward and retrieved the envelope. Inside it were two papers, which she read carefully before she glanced up. Checking the area around them to make certain no one could hear their conversation, she said, “If these documents are legitimate, Rudy Adeogo is finished as a congressman.”

“No,” Nader replied sternly in a low voice. “We are not going to use this information to destroy his political career. We want him to continue being a congressman.”

“Then why show them to me?”

“We want to
control
him, not drive him out of office, Ms. Delaney. We want to turn him into our puppet.”

“You don't need me to blackmail him.”

“Yes, we do. Adeogo is an intelligent man. He knows the OIN would never make this information public because we would suffer too. Collateral damage. If we threatened him, Adeogo would know we were bluffing.”

“Because you are fellow Muslims.”

“Another of your American sayings seems appropriate: We would be shooting ourselves in our own foot.” He looked into her green eyes. “I've heard Irish women with red hair and green eyes are volatile. Dangerous. As well as sexy.”

“What you've heard is we can be crazy. But you can't trust clichés. Otherwise all Arabs would be bombers, belly dancers, or billionaires.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, chuckling. “The point is that Adeogo will be afraid of you when he learns you have this information because he knows you hate him. He will not risk saying no to you and we can control him through you.”

“What's in this for me?”

“The OIN can be extremely generous.”

“How generous?”

“A yearly retainer for your services as a political consultant. Say in the six figures with a nice signing bonus.”

“Make it high six figures.”

“Agreed, but only if you are successful in controlling him. He is not so easy to manipulate.”

“You let me worry about that. I can make him dance for you.”

Nader glanced at his watch. “I have another meeting, but before I leave, I want to make certain we are absolutely clear. You may use this information to blackmail him, but you are not to make it public. We don't want a scandal, we want to muzzle him.”

“Relax, I understand.”

“Do you
understand
?” he asked in an intense voice.

“Yes, we are dealing with serious men.”

“
Deadly
serious men. They do not play games. They reward those who serve them and…” He did not finish his sentence.

“If it is so risky, I'll expect that signing bonus to be very generous,” Delaney said, tucking the envelope into her monogrammed satchel.

Kamiti Prison

Nairobi, Kenya

W
alks Many Miles checked his cell phone as soon as he exited the Kamiti Prison and saw that Brooke Grant had called. After listening to the message that she'd left, he checked the time and realized that Brooke was still on a flight traveling to her White House task force meeting in Minneapolis.

Although he knew that she wouldn't be able to answer his call, he placed it anyway.

“Brooke, I just got finished interrogating Yaasir Sharif. I finally got him to spill his guts and he told me that you and Jennifer have been targeted,” Miles warned. “The Falcon has issued a fatwa against you both and a third person. I'm not certain who the third target is, but Sharif said it was someone high up in the U.S. military. I know you're still flying to your meeting so I'm going to ask Langley to patch me through to the FBI. We need to get you protection and someone out to your farmhouse to watch Jennifer.”

He paused for a moment and then added, “I love you. Please, please take these threats seriously. I don't want to lose either of you.”

The CIA and FBI have a well-documented history of rivalry and acrimony but within minutes after Miles finished briefing his CIA SAD supervisor, Miles found himself speaking to Wyatt Parker, the FBI's assistant director for counterterrorism.

“My boss just told me,” Miles said in a concerned voice, “that someone shot General Grant less than an hour ago. I believe that shooting is linked to a fatwa issued by the Falcon, and there are two other Americans on his kill list—Major Brooke Grant and her ward, Jennifer Conner.”

“I just got off the phone with Major Grant,” Parker said reassuringly. “We had the airline connect us with her flight so we could tell her that her uncle had been shot. She should be safe on that plane and there's a private aircraft waiting to fly her back to Washington as soon as she lands in Minneapolis.”

“That's great, but you need to send someone out to protect Jennifer Conner too. ASAP.”

“I understand,” Parker said.

“How's the general?” Miles asked. “No one at Langley seemed to know.”

“He's currently in surgery and will be for some time. Critical condition. No one knows if he'll pull through.”

“Do you know who shot him?”

“Not yet.”

“My source here in Nairobi told me the Falcon wanted a high-ranking military official dead. I'm guessing General Grant is the third person named in the fatwa.”

“That makes sense. I'll get word to Major Grant about the fatwa as soon as we're done speaking.”

“I already left her a message on her cell phone,” Miles said.

“You have her private cell number?”

“We're friends. Do you know where Major Grant's farmhouse is located? I can give you the address and directions. Jennifer Conner and her nanny, Miriam Okpara, should be there. A private security company is supposed to be protecting them but there's already been one security breach at her farm.”

“What sort of breach?”

Miles quickly told Parker about how an intruder had managed to appear outside Jennifer's bedroom window without setting off any alarms.

“I'll alert the security company and send two agents to check on things,” Parker said. “If my people believe Jennifer and her nanny are in any immediate danger, they'll get her to someplace safe.”