Treason (19 page)

Leaping to his feet, Miles bolted toward his target, firing another two-round report. When he reached the gunman, the man's eyes were fluttering, blood was flowing from his mouth. Miles fired a final shot into the terrorist's face.

Moving quickly, he claimed the sentry's AK-47 and retrieved an additional forty-round magazine from the dead fighter's clothing. He was hoping to find a satellite phone, but the only other item in the man's vest was his packet of khat. Miles took it too. It might prove useful easing the pain in his rib cage.

Hurrying into the cockpit, Miles checked the helicopter's instrument panel. The communication equipment had been stripped away.

It had been nearly three hours now since the crash. Miles had no idea if a rescue team had been sent or would be. But he felt certain news of the crash would spread to El Wak, a city where every scrap of metal was considered precious. Its residents would be drawn like flies to the leftovers. He could wait and see if they would help rescue him. But that was risky. It might be more profitable for them to tip off their billionaire neighbor or capture him for Boko Haram or Al-Shabaab, knowing that both would pay a reward.

There was only one major highway that passed through El Wak and it was north of the crash site. Umoja Owiti's security guards and terrorists would have traveled on the Isiolo Mandera highway before veering off to reach the helicopter crash. He could follow their tracks north to the highway. But what would he do after he reached that roadway?

Swinging the AK-47 over his shoulder, he began walking north.
One step at a time
, he told himself. There would be phones in El Wak.

As he walked, another thought came to him. The SAD team helicopter had been flying over miles of desert primarily populated by lizards, snakes, and spiders. How was it that the African billionaire Umoja Owiti's security guards had known where to position themselves to shoot down a helicopter with an RPG? They would have needed to know its flight plan. In Kenya, only the six members of the SAD team and two pilots had known the route, and all of them except him were dead.

He reached a chilling conclusion. Someone in Washington, D.C., who was aware of the secret mission had betrayed them.

A Virginia cabin

Somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains

J
ennifer Conner heard a woman scream, but she needed to make certain it wasn't her own brain playing tricks on her.

“Cassy?” she whispered.

“Yes,” her fellow captive replied. “I hear it too. He's beating her.”

As they listened with their heads covered by hoods, a door opened followed by a loud slap, like someone smacking their open palm against a tabletop.

Cassy yelped.

Another slap.

Jennifer's hood was ripped off.

“You're next!” Akbar threatened.

Jennifer could see him now. He was standing in between them. A black leather belt was dangling from Akbar's right hand. He'd looped the belt in half by grasping its tip and metal buckle together. Lifting it to his shoulder, Akbar brought it down hard, striking Cassy across her shoulders. He'd already removed her hood but Jennifer couldn't see the eleven-year-old's face because Cassy had curled her body into a fetal position on the floor and was covering her cheeks and eyes with her bound wrists.

Another cruel whip across Cassy's back caused her to scream. Akbar raised his belt again and brought it down with such force that the belt's tip flew loose from his grasp. Now in a frenzy, he didn't bother to re-loop the belt. He continued swinging it like a whip, striking her again and again.

“Stop!” Jennifer yelled.

Turning his face away from Cassy, Akbar said, “Now, it's your turn!”

He swung, hitting her buttocks with the leather. As he pulled back his hand, she readied herself for another blow, instinctively tucking her knees against her chest as she lay on her side. She raised her duct-taped wrists over her face just as Cassy had done.

This time when he struck her, she did not scream. She was no longer on the floor in the cabin. She'd withdrawn inside the mansion in her mind. He struck her again. But she had entered a room with a window that looked out onto a happy place beyond the glass. A unicorn, bright blue with a pretty pink horn, was prancing next to a waterfall and pool of clear water.

Crack.
He struck again.
Slap.
Another hit. Jennifer was focused on the unicorn. It turned its head, glancing up from the pool, and winked at her before it opened its magnificent feathered wings and with a single leap left the ground, gracefully soaring higher and higher, until the unicorn disappeared in pillow-shaped clouds.

Jennifer heard Cassy sobbing.

She left the room inside her mind where she was hiding, exited the mansion, and opened her eyes. The two girls were alone. Akbar was gone.

“No one ever hurt me like that,” Cassy said. “I'm not brave like you are.”

“I wasn't here.”

Jennifer told Cassy about the mansion. She told her about the room. The one with the window. The one with the blue unicorn and his pink horn and his wings, and when she finished, Cassy had stopped crying.

“I wish I could see your unicorn,” Cassy said.

“Let's give him a name,” Jennifer replied. “If we give him a name maybe he'll come back and I can introduce you to him.”

“But he's not real. He's imaginary.”

Jennifer didn't respond.

“There's nothing wrong with having an imaginary friend,” Cassy said. “I had one when I was little. Her name was Kat, like Kit-Kat, and she was my very best friend. BFF. We'd drink tea in the afternoons and I told her all of my secrets.”

“What happened to her?” Jennifer asked.

“She went away.”

The door opened and both of them immediately raised their hands over their faces and tucked their knees into their chests. But it was Aludra. Her eyes were puffy and her lips swollen.

“Come use the toilet,” she said. “You need to clean yourselves.”

“He beat you too, didn't he?” Cassy said.

“Do you need to use the toilet or not?” Aludra snapped.

“My father has never hit my mother or me,” Cassy said.

“You're a child. You don't know.”

“I do know. My grandfather used to hit my grandmother. All the time. My father hated it and when he got old enough, he ordered him to stop. He said it was wrong.”

“No, it was your father who was wrong for interfering and not respecting your grandfather. It is allowed,” Aludra said. “It's written in the Hadith.”

“What's that?” Jennifer asked, joining their conversation.

“A holy book,” Cassy said.

“The teachings of the Prophet,” Aludra replied.

“I've never heard about it.”

“A woman came to the Prophet and begged him to stop her husband from beating her. He did not admonish her husband, but ordered her to return to him and submit to his wishes. That is what is written in the Hadith.”

“My father says some stories are more important than other ones,” Cassy replied.

Aludra raised her hand to slap Cassy but then changed her mind. “Do not disrespect the teachings of the Prophet,” she lectured. “Do you need to use the toilet or not?”

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “I need to go.”

Aludra cut through the duct tape on her legs and wrists, freeing her. “Come on,” she ordered.

When Jennifer finished, Aludra used duct tape to bind the teen's ankles and wrists again.

“What about you?” she asked Cassy.

“I need to wash before I pray,” she replied. Aludra cut through the tape but Cassy stumbled when she tried to stand. Aldura took her arm and helped her into the bathroom. After Cassy finished using the toilet, she moved to the sink. Cupping her hands under the faucet, she splashed water over her eyes and cheeks.

“Lift up your blouse,” Aludra ordered. Cassy was standing in front of Aludra facing a mirror over the sink.

Cassy looked at the older woman's reflection and raised her shirt. Cassy's back was a roadmap of red marks and swollen skin. Aludra undid the cap from a tube of ointment.

“This will help,” Aludra said. She gently rubbed the cream on Cassy's back.

“Why did he do this?” Cassy asked. “We didn't do anything.”

“He hit you harder than the other girl,” Aludra said, ignoring her question. “It's because you are one of us.”

“But I'm not like him or you.”

Aludra took her hands away from Cassy's shoulders. “You are a Muslim. You have an obligation.”

“Your cousin, Halgan, is one of the kindest persons I know,” Cassy said. “Would you let him beat her with his belt?”

Al Arabic newsroom

Northwest Washington, D.C.

R
eporting live from Al Arabic's Washington studio, Ebio Kattan warned viewers that the footage they were about to be shown contained a threat so disturbing that children should be taken from the room.

“Followers of Allah, glory be to His name, heed my declaration,” the Falcon declared moments later on a video that had been e-mailed to Kattan. His black eyes stared through a narrow slit in his black ski mask. “Rise up and join us! This is not the work of one, two, or three people. All Muslims are responsible for carrying on jihad until we establish the Islamic state under Sharia law. Fight the infidels or face their fate.”

For several more seconds he continued his rant until his image was replaced on the screen by footage that Akbar had taken of Cassy Adeogo and Jennifer Conner as hostages. A close-up angle showed Cassy whimpering after being beaten. As the camera drew back, Jennifer was shown, bound with duct tape, immobile on a tile floor as if she were in a trance.

“America must release two dozen of our brothers from prison or I will remove the heads of these daughters of the damned!” the Falcon threatened before he ended his message by praising Allah.

Reappearing on the television screen, a clearly excited Kattan breathlessly announced, “The Falcon did not set a deadline in this exclusive message that was e-mailed directly to me. He did not disclose when the United States must free two dozen prisoners currently being held at Gitmo—a U.S. military prison in Cuba. We will broadcast his next message as soon as I receive it.”

Brooke Grant watched the Falcon's threat on a wall of television monitors while standing next to Special Agent Wyatt Parker inside the Reston command post.

The image of Jennifer lying helplessly on the floor after being beaten caused her eyes to swell with tears, but she fought to control the fury that filled her body, knowing that showing her emotions would be counterproductive—especially in Agent Parker's presence. In as calm a voice as she could muster, she said, “This idea of yours, Agent Parker, isn't going to work.”

Parker ignored her as they watched the Al Arabic network switch from showing Ebio Kattan inside its Washington studio to a reporter stationed outside Representative Rudy Adeogo's house in the Tacoma Park neighborhood of D.C.

“We are expecting Representative Rudy Adeogo to make a statement any moment now,” the reporter announced.

Parker turned his head and glanced at Brooke. “Your enthusiastic support is most appreciated,” he said in a sarcastic voice.

“I'm just being frank,” she replied. “I'm familiar with the bureau's Behavioral Change Stairway Model for high-stakes hostage negotiations. I know about the five steps—active listening, empathy, developing rapport, gaining influence, and ultimately achieving behavioral change. But you can't apply those hostage negotiation techniques to a religious fanatic like the Falcon. You can't have empathy with him, develop rapport, and you will never change his mind.”

“Major Grant,” Parker said, “how many hostage negotiations have you personally handled?” Without waiting for her reply, he said, “Let the experts handle this.” He noticed the tears in her eyes and was about to say something about her emotions, but stopped himself.

“The Falcon is not interested in negotiating,” Brooke said. “The only chance we have of saving Jennifer and Cassy is by finding out where he is holding them and sending in a team.”

“There's a reason why the Falcon didn't give us a deadline for releasing prisoners,” Parker countered. “He knows it's an unrealistic demand. It's bluster. He'll come back with a more reasonable demand as long as we don't challenge his authority. We need to stick to the plan and establish empathy and develop trust.”

“You aren't listening. You can't trust a rattlesnake. The only way to negotiate with the Falcon is by putting a bullet in his head. I learned that lesson dealing with his protégé in Somalia.”

“Really, Major Grant? A bullet to the head,” Parker said flippantly.

He returned his gaze to the television monitors where Representative Adeogo and Dheeh were now being shown stepping onto the front porch of their white brick rented home.

“I would like to read a brief statement,” Adeogo explained as reporters clustered around. While his voice sounded calm, his hands were quivering as he read from a sheet of paper. Photographers jostled for position while television camera crews zoomed in. The front yard of the house was overrun with the media.

“Cassy,” he began, “your mummy and daddy love you and are doing everything we can to bring you home. Be brave. Listen to the people who are holding you.” He looked up with teary eyes and was met by a chorus of clicking cameras. Not wishing to misspeak, he returned to the written text that Agent Parker had personally approved. “I would like to speak to the men holding you. Our daughter and Jennifer Conner have no control over the actions of the U.S. government. These girls are innocent children. You, the caliph, can grant amnesty. We acknowledge your love and devotion to Allah, the Merciful, and we would ask you to use your authority to spare our children's lives. We urge you to follow the example set by the Prophet Muhammad, who protected people of the Book. We ask that you follow the Prophet's example in caring and protecting children. Just as Allah shows all of us mercy, we plead that you will show us mercy.”

He folded the paper.

Reporters began shouting, but neither Adeogo nor Dheeh acknowledged them as they retreated into their home.

“Perfect,” Parker said. “Having a U.S. congressman be respectful and acknowledging that the Falcon is clearly in control is going to feed his ego and buy us time. Citing Allah's mercy was pivotal. I feel confident the Falcon will bite and get word to us about how we can negotiate an end to this.”

Brooke was about to utter a one-word profane response, but caught herself when the scene on the television monitors shifted to the White House. President Sally Allworth was about to deliver a national statement.

“Our nation has once again come under assault by terrorists,” the president said. “We've all heard it said, ‘One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter.' That's a catchy phrase, but it is misleading.”

The president was sitting behind her desk in the Oval Office with her hands calmly folded in front of her. “Freedom fighters do not need to terrorize a population into submission. Freedom fighters target the military forces and the organized instruments of repression keeping dictatorial regimes in power. Freedom fighters struggle to liberate their citizens from oppression and to establish a form of government that reflects the will of the people. Now, this is not to say that those who are fighting for freedom are perfect or that we should ignore problems arising from passion and conflict. Nevertheless, one has to be blind, ignorant, or simply unwilling to see the truth if he or she is unable to distinguish between those I just described and terrorists.”

Raising her voice slightly, she continued: “
Terrorists
intentionally kill or maim unarmed civilians, often women and children, often third parties who are not in any way part of a dictatorial regime.
Terrorists
are always the enemies of democracy. And today we are dealing with the acts of terrorists, not religious devotees fighting for some noble cause. We are dealing with common criminals and cold-blooded murderers.”

Allworth paused, but did not shift her gaze from looking directly into the camera, while reading from a teleprompter. “This time these despicable killers have targeted children, the most vulnerable of our citizens. They consider them bargaining chips. Is there anything more heinous and repulsive than using innocent children as pawns? All of us are praying for the safe return of little Cassy Adeogo. All of us are praying for her parents, Representative Rudy and Dheeh Adeogo, and for Jennifer Conner whose short life already has seen several lifetimes of death and tragedy.”

Slowing her speech to make her words sound more sympathetic, she said, “We are praying for them as a nation, one unified people whether we are Muslims, Christians, Jews, or adherents to other faiths. We are unified in praying on behalf of all civilized people, who respect the diversity that makes our world unique and a wonderful place created by a loving God, no matter what name that God is called or how that deity is worshiped.”

The tone of her voice shifted again, this time to one of steely determination. “To those terrorists holding our children, let me be clear. The complicated and heartrending issues that perplex mankind are no excuse for violent, inhumane attacks, nor do they excuse not taking aggressive action against those who deliberately slaughter innocent people. We will not tolerate your barbaric tactics. We will not lower our resolve to placate you. We will not succumb to your bullying and threats. Each and every one of you will be held accountable for your actions. You will be exposed as the frauds and cowards that you are and you will be punished. We will not excuse your actions and neither will our creator when you stand before Him on judgment day. You will pay the ultimate price for your actions. We will hunt you down and we will kill you.”

She had cribbed her speech from one given by Ronald Reagan.

Inside the Reston command post, Brooke turned to look at Parker. “Obviously, the White House didn't get your memo about appeasing the Falcon so you could develop empathy and rapport with him.”

Ignoring her jab, Parker continued staring straight ahead at the television screens.

Chief of Staff Mallory Harper appeared inside the White House briefing room behind a bouquet of microphones answering reporters' questions.

“Will the president free two dozen prisoners being held at Guantanamo?”

“The president will confer with her cabinet and consider all options.”

“Does that mean she will meet the Falcon's demands?”

“It means exactly what I said. The president will confer with her cabinet and consider all options.”

“You're not answering my question. Our country doesn't negotiate with terrorists or ransom hostages. Is the president going to change that policy and release those terrorists in exchange for those two girls' lives?”

“You can ask the same question a dozen times,” Harper replied, “and I will still give you the same answer. The president will confer with her cabinet and will consider all options.”

“So you're saying that the president might release them?”

Harper smiled and walked away from the podium.

Instantly, the television networks began broadcasting live discussions inside their studios with Middle Eastern scholars and retired FBI hostage negotiators. Brooke noticed one guest who seemed to slide from one monitor to the next, appearing on every network.

“Islam means the religion of peace,” Omar Nader assured viewers. “The aim of Islam is to establish peace between man and Allah, the Creator of all; between man and man; and between man and the rest of Allah's creations. In the Holy Quran, God deals with the issue of terrorism by teaching Muslims
never
to become terrorists. Two of the Prophet's earliest teachings are: ‘
Al-Fitnatu ashad-du minal qatl
'—meaning that in the sight of Allah, ‘persecution, or making people constantly fear for their lives, is much worse than killing.' And also: ‘
Lâ ikrâha fid-dîn
'—‘There shall be no compulsion in religion,' that is to say, that no one has the right to force others into complying with their demands or compelling others to follow their line of thinking.”

Continuing in a soothing voice, Nader said, “Your president called these people criminals and that is accurate. They do not represent our religion or our people. They are fanatic criminals.”

Parker had seen enough. “Major Grant, let's go into my office. I have some fresh intel to share with you.”

He walked directly to a locked file cabinet where he retrieved a red folder. “Early this morning, we got a positive DNA match from the blood recovered from the paring knife—the one found in your kitchen lying next to the body of the victim there.”

“Her name was Miriam Okpara,” Brooke said.

“As we suspected, the victim, ur, Ms. Okpara, stabbed one of the kidnappers who abducted Jennifer.” Parker handed her a photograph of a man. “He goes by the single name Akbar but his full name is Ahmadullah Aba-Jihaad. It's his DNA on the paring knife.”

Brooke studied the lean, hollow face in the picture. “How'd you happen to have his DNA?”

“Because Akbar, aka Ahmadullah Aba-Jihaad, was once a prisoner at Gitmo. He was captured in Afghanistan in 2002 but was released after five years when he signed an agreement stating he would no longer take up arms against the U.S.”

“He signed a paper, an agreement, and we let him go?”

“About thirty percent of the Gitmo prisoners who we have released have returned to fight against the U.S. In Akbar's case, we released him to Yemen, where he subsequently vanished. It appears he and a woman named Aludra used falsified papers and names to re-enter our country. We've tracked them to the same northern Virginia mosque that Cumar and Fawzia Samatar attended. A radical Imam named Mohammad Al-Kader has developed a following there and, we suspect, could be involved in various plots against the U.S.”