Treason (33 page)
Gated neighborhood
McLean, Virginia
T
he Honorable Thomas Edgar Stanton had never been awakened by a CIA director arriving at his house at four a.m. on a Saturday morning. Nor had Director Payton Grainger ever made such a house call. The reason for his urgency became clear moments after Stanton opened his front door.
“You woke me up to tell me someone is going to try to assassinate me,” Stanton said, “and you learned this based on a single telephone call, is that correct?”
“This is the first time we successfully intercepted one of the Falcon's calls. An NSA computer was able to match his voice with one of his Internet rants.”
“You make it sound as if I should feel honored.”
“I simply meant to convey the gravity of the threat,” Grainger replied.
“You're sure this isn't jihadist jibber-jabbering?”
“We don't believe the Falcon engages in bluster when it comes to ordering people murdered. To be clear, he didn't mention you by name. He said he wanted a congressman killed at your rally later today in Smithville, but that pretty much narrows it down to you.”
“Representative Rudy Adeogo will also be appearing on stage with me. We were keeping it a surprise until we walked out together. Makes it a bit more dramatic.”
Grainger felt his face starting to flush. “I should have been aware of that information. Obviously, he needs to be warned.”
“Do you know who the Falcon was telling to arrange my demise?”
“A man here in Washington is responsible, but we haven't been able to identify him.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“I came directly to you,” Grainger replied. “I'd like to ask you to cancel your rally.”
“Like hell I will,” Stanton snapped. “This is our country and I'll be damned if I'll be afraid to walk the sidewalks in my own district because of some religious fanatic making a phone call from Africa.”
“With all due respect, your rally has become much larger than a walk down a sidewalk. Protesters are planning on demonstrating against your call for investigative committee hearings.”
“So you've heard the OIN and Omar Nader are busing protesters into Smithville to picket.”
“Your rally has turned into a tinderbox and this new threat only exacerbates the danger. If you go forward, you will be putting your community and constituents at risk.”
“Director Grainger, don't try to lay that at my door. I'm confident the U.S. government and South Carolina authorities can keep Representative Adeogo, my constituents, and me safe. We can't run and hide inside a hole every time one of these Islamist jackasses says he wants to kill one of us, nor can we cancel a political rally simply because protesters will be there.”
Minutes after leaving Stanton's house, Grainger alerted FBI Agent Wyatt Parker, who in turn, asked Brooke Grant to report to the Reston command post.
“The Falcon has put a hit on either Representative Stanton or Adeogo or both of them,” he explained. “It's supposed to happen today at Stanton's rally in South Carolina.”
Brooke checked her watch. It was a few minutes past five a.m. The rally was scheduled to happen in less than twelve hours.
“There's more,” Parker continued. “We suspect the Falcon is sending Akbar as his assassin.”
“If Akbar's in South Carolina, then Jennifer can't be far away.”
“Unless Akbar hasâ” Parker caught himself before stating the obvious.
“She's not dead,” Brooke replied. “She's still valuable to them as a bargaining chip. Besides, I can feel it. She's waiting for us to come get her. If Akbar is going to be at that rally, so am I.”
“I've already got a helicopter standing by.”
By seven a.m., Agent Parker and Brooke had arrived in Smithville, and Parker had briefed the counterterrorism branch of South Carolina's Law Enforcement Division and had alerted a myriad of other Palmetto state and local law enforcement agencies.
By eight a.m., a command post had been established inside the Smithville Police Department to parcel out assignments to all of the different law enforcement agencies being called into town. Special Agent Parker had put himself in command.
By nine a.m., a local television reporter had learned from a talkative Smithville police officer what was happening. The reporter had tipped off the major television networks. Word spread quickly through the national press corps that a terrorist threat had been lodged against Stanton and that Adeogo would be speaking at the rally and also could be a target.
At 9:15 a.m., one of the networks broadcast a story about the threat.
Shortly after ten a.m., the president of Smithville University announced his school would not allow Stanton's supporters to hold their rally on its campus because of threats of violence. Six busloads of Muslim protesters also were spotted arriving in town.
An hour later, at eleven a.m., Smithville's mayor revealed his city would not allow Representative Stanton's supporters to host their rally inside its municipal auditorium or at any city-owned facility, including public parks.
Shortly before noon, a spokesman for Stanton's supporters proclaimed that the four thirty p.m. rally would be held on an undeveloped plot of land located not far from the university campus near the Smithville Medical Center. The property was owned by a staunch Stanton supporter. Carpenters already were busy erecting a stage.
At one p.m., after initially saying the city would not issue the necessary permits for the rally, the mayor reversed himself. He'd received a private phone call from Chairman Stanton and the rally was back on.
A half hour later, a local news station reported that FBI Special Agent Parker had distributed photographs of an Al-Shabaab terrorist identified as Ahmadullah Aba-Jihaad, aka Akbar, to all local lawmen. The station broadcast Akbar's mug shot and informed viewers that the FBI had offered a $1 million reward for information about Akbar when he'd first become a suspect in the shooting of General Frank Grant. That reward was still waiting to be claimed. Almost immediately, armed residents were spotted patrolling Smithville's streets.
“If I see that Muslim bastard, I'll shoot him dead for free,” one man gushed to a network television reporter. Resting his palm on a .45-caliber handgun in a holster strapped to his waist, the longtime Smithville resident added, “I'm a damn good shot and I got plenty of ammo.”
At 2:22 p.m., Omar Nader held a hastily called news conference to announce that Muslim protesters would not be attending the rally but would be demonstrating at a different location in town. With his supporters clustered around him waving brightly colored posters that read:
MUSLIMS ARE PROUD AMERICANS TOO
!
and
STOP DISCRIMINATION! END PREJUDICE
, Nader explained that the Smithville police had cautioned him against confronting rally-goers. “We were told it wouldn't be safe for Muslims to show our faces there,” he claimed. “We might be beaten or shot.”
Twenty minutes later, Nader again appeared on television, this time standing in front of several buses that OIN protesters were boarding. “A city official has informed me that it is illegal for us to demonstrate without obtaining the proper city permits. But the office that issues that paperwork is closed on weekends. We have been threatened with arrest if we demonstrate, but nothing is being done to stop Representative Stanton from holding his rally. This double standard is a clear violation of our rights to free assembly as Muslims.”
Pointing to the buses being boarded, he said, “Given that armed citizens are walking the streets and there is open hostility toward Muslims here, we have decided to leave Smithville peacefully. We do not want to incite violence or be falsely blamed if there is an assassination attempt or a terrorist event later today, as the media has speculated might happen.”
At three thirty p.m., Smithville police slid two wooden barriers aside for FBI Special Agent Parker and Brooke Grant so they could enter the main street leading to Stanton's rally. Parker had ordered local law enforcement to establish a one-mile perimeter around the rally location and detour all local traffic around it. As he drove his unmarked car, with its blue lights in the grill flashing, through a steady stream of spectators walking in the middle of the street toward the rally grounds, Parker noted the festive air in the crowd. “These people look like they're going to a rock concert. They aren't scared one bit.”
Brooke quietly wondered how many rock concerts Parker had attended. He struck her as more of a
Lake Wobegon
fan than a rocker.
Parker stopped their car about twenty feet from where three walk-through metal detectors were being used to screen rally-goers. The edges of the grounds had been roped off with brightly colored plastic police
DO NOT CROSS
tape that was being augmented by uniformed officers standing about ten feet apart to ensure no one slipped under the flimsy barrier without being cleared. At one end of the football fieldâsize property was a stage that rose about four feet above the grass. The hastily constructed platform was twenty feet long and eight feet wide. A red, white, and blue banner that read
FREEDOM DEMANDS VIGILANCE
!
was draped on ten-foot-tall posts behind a podium in the center of the stage. The afternoon temperature had risen to a high of sixty-five degrees outside and many rally-goers were bringing bags of fast food and carrying blankets to spread out on the grass. Based on the number of people in line to pass through the metal detectors, there would only be standing room. It looked as if much of Smithville's population of 29,000 had turned out. Many were carrying American flags. Brooke also spotted a large
DON'T TREAD ON ME
banner being paraded around the field by two stocky men.
“Let's walk,” Parker said, pushing open the driver's door. As he stepped outside, a bomb-sniffing dog hurried up to him, and a South Carolina state police helicopter flew over their heads.
“If Akbar is stupid enough to show,” Parker said, “he'll head for high ground.” He pointed a finger on his right hand south toward the only tall building in the neighborhood. It was the Smithville Medical Center, a six-story brick building about a half mile from where they were standing. “I've sent teams to the hospital to stand watch. Got three agents with field glasses on its roof monitoring these grounds. If Akbar goes anywhere near that hospital, he'll be shot on sight. And we aren't going to let him infiltrate this crowd either.”
Brooke did a 360-degree visual scan. The lot being used by rally-goers was in a neighborhood of mostly 1960-era, rambler-style houses. Three sides of the field were edged by homes and tall elm trees. The only opening was a swath in the northeast corner that butted up to a parking lot that served a half dozen mom-and-pop shops in a tiny strip mall.
“I've had people look up every tree and under every rock,” Parker bragged. “And I'm not going to let Akbar pull any Hollywood antics.”
“What sort of antics?”
“Posing as a cop and slipping through security. We've issued every law enforcement officer a red interactive chip that we brought down in bushels from Washington. It's the latest technology.” He pointed to a red button attached to the shirt collar of a nearby Smithville police officer stationed outside a metal detector. “Each chip is being tracked by a computer at the command post. Each of those buttons contains a sensor that uses cutting-edge DNA technology to positively identify and monitor the officer wearing it. We can identify each officer by name; know where he or she is stationed, when they are moving, even when they duck into a Porta-John to relieve themselves. If Akbar shows up disguised in a police uniform without one of our red buttons, we'll spot him, and if one of our people disappears and Akbar or any other terrorist puts on his uniform or takes that chip, we'll know instantly.”
“What about a suicide bomber?” Brooke asked.
“No way a vehicle can get through our roadblocks. We have sentries standing by with fifty-caliber rifles capable of stopping any motorized vehicle short of an Abrams tank, so a suicide driver will not make it inside. As you can see, we have bomb-sniffing dogs going through the crowds, and we have security checkpoints at every possible entrance into this rally.”
Brooke watched as a thirty-something couple walked through a nearby metal detector. The woman was holding hands with a boy who looked as if he was about four years old.
“Don't touch that doggie!” the mother exclaimed while simultaneously jerking her son's arms away from a police dog who was busy sniffing rally-goers for explosives. “Them is attack dogs and they'll bite your head clean off.”
What kind of parent brings a four-year-old to a rally after being warned a terrorist might be targeting the event?
Brooke wondered.
A skirmish suddenly broke out about twenty yards from where Brooke and Parker were standing. Two uniformed police officers were wrestling with a bearded, heavyset man in overalls and a wool plaid shirt. They knocked him to the ground, and when he continued to resist after they had pinned him down, an officer repeatedly jabbed him with a 50,000-volt Taser.
