Treason (37 page)

“Ah, you are turning up the heat.”

“Parker didn't have access to what was happening in Kenya, but you did. As a member of the NSC, you knew about the SAD team's flight to El Wak and you also were briefed about the goat herder and woman who helped Miles.”

DeMoss smirked but did not challenge her reasoning.

“And I saw you sitting next to my uncle at Decker Lake's funeral. It was you who sent that text to Fawzia Samatar telling her to light herself on fire and attack the president.”

“Congratulations, Major Grant,” he said sarcastically. “You've pulled together all of the pieces. It was that text to Fawzia that caused your uncle to become suspicious of me. During the funeral, he saw me reach into my pocket and fidget with a cell phone. I'd already written the message. All I did was hit send, but in the short time it took for me to do that, he noticed. He thought it was disrespectful for me to be sending a text.”

Brooke interrupted him. “Let me guess, he began zeroing in on you when he learned the text to Fawzia had been sent from a burner phone—a phone bought by the president's reelection committee and stored in a box at the White House—a box that you had access to.”

“Bravo. They were careless. There were no records kept of who took one of the burner phones to use when they were conducting campaign business versus doing their government jobs.”

“Were you responsible for my uncle being shot?”

“I had to do something, and killing him made the most sense. So yes, I arranged for him to be attending a meeting at the CIA that morning and then I told Akbar and the others where they could trap him by having that rented truck dump debris on the highway. I hadn't planned to go with him that morning, but then he invited me.”

“And you opened the passenger door to the car so Akbar could get a better shot at him, didn't you?” she demanded.

“Yes, it was a game time call. I opened the passenger door and then Akbar failed to kill him.”

“Why? Why would you do it? Parker was in it for the money. Is the Falcon paying you too?”

“No, I don't give a damn about the money. Don't you get it, Major? I am your worst nightmare. I am an American jihadist.”

“That's impossible.”

“Why? Because I am not an Arab or a Somali?”

“You weren't raised as a Muslim.”

“But I am one now. I thought I was going to die when I was captured by the Taliban in Afghanistan. Have you ever been tortured, Major Grant? Denigrated? Abused? There are things worse than death. They twisted my arms and legs and tied them together, leaving me hanging inches above the ground for hours. No one can stand that much pain. They beat the soles of my feet. You can't imagine how many different ways a man can inflict pain on another human being. One morning, I asked for a copy of the Holy Quran. I hoped maybe they would stop beating me if I acted interested in their religion. But then I began reading it.”

“And you became a Muslim?”

“Not at first, but I began feeling at peace. I actually started praying for them. They didn't believe me at first, but they kept me alive, and when they became convinced that I was not deceiving them, they began teaching me, explaining why they—why we—must fight against infidels, against the Great Satan. I began to understand. I became one with them. It was a biblical-like transformation. My torturers became my saviors.”

“I was told you escaped after being held as a prisoner for nine months,” Brooke said.

“I didn't escape. They forced me out. I wanted to stay with them and fight with them, but the Falcon convinced me that I could help them more by staying in the Army and working in the Pentagon.”

“Stockholm syndrome.”

“No, not at all. I am not a victim, Major Grant. During those nine months, my entire perspective changed. I became a true believer.”

“In what? Murdering innocent children and families?”

“I don't expect you to understand. You and your uncle are blind to the truth, to our higher purpose. You are like a robot programmed to believe democracy and capitalism are superior when neither is.” DeMoss glanced down at General Grant. “I've been waiting to be alone with your uncle. I can't afford having him wake up from his coma. But until this morning, every time I came to visit him, your aunt was standing guard. And then finally, she leaves him alone and now you've interrupted us.”

Brooke felt weak, as if her legs were about to go out from under her. She grabbed onto the bed's foot railing to steady herself.

DeMoss was still holding the syringe in his hand. “There should be enough in this shot for you too,” he said. “I've been told it's quick, painless, and untraceable. You'll be found at your uncle's bedside. What a touching end to the Brooke Grant story. Here with her beloved uncle. I will be gone before anyone finds either of you.”

She tried to stop her legs from quivering. She failed. One of them buckled and she was forced to tighten her grip on the rails to continue standing.

DeMoss snickered as she swayed, helpless.

Brooke did not have enough strength in her legs to attack him. She didn't have enough to flee into the hallway for help.

She screamed.

What came from her mouth was a guttural noise from deep inside, a blending of rage, fury, and frustration.

The hospital security guard, who'd been taking a bathroom break earlier when Brooke had come down the hallway, heard her. He nearly knocked Brooke over when he flung open the door to General Grant's room.

DeMoss had just inserted the needle into General Grant's skin but he hadn't yet pushed in the syringe's plunger.

The guard reached for his pistol, which was in its holster.

“Don't be a fool!” DeMoss threatened. “You know who this patient is. If I inject him, you'll be responsible for killing him.”

The officer lifted his left hand away from his sidearm.

“It's over,” Brooke said. “Give up.”

“It's not over until I say it's over,” DeMoss replied.

Brooke was only half listening now. She was focusing on what she needed to do to save her uncle. In one quick motion, she removed her right hand from the bed railing and swept her fingers up the security guard's left leg, plucking his sidearm from its holster. She had not been watching DeMoss when he'd been talking. She had been staring at her uncle's twitching eyelids, and she had seen the general open them.

As she raised the guard's handgun, General Frank Grant jerked his hand upward from the bed, shoving DeMoss's hand away from his chest, taking the syringe with it.

Brooke fired the pistol as a startled DeMoss looked blankly at the now fully awake general before slipping backward into a heavy machine monitoring the general's vitals. He slid down its front to the floor with the syringe still in his fingers.

Brooke's body began to tremble and she collapsed.

The gunshot drew other security guards and nurses. Within minutes, Brooke was back in her hospital bed. Miles burst into her room. Her first impulse was to think that she'd been dreaming. None of that could have happened.

“Brooke,” he said, “how did you know about DeMoss?”

During the next several moments, she explained the clues that had convinced her that DeMoss was the Viper. “All this time,” she said, “I thought he was coming to visit my uncle because he cared about him, about both of us. All he was really looking for was an opportunity to murder him. When I told DeMoss that the three of you were downstairs having breakfast, he saw his chance.”

“Agent Parker, and now Colonel DeMoss,” Miles said. “How could we have been so easily fooled?”

“Because we are Americans. We believe people are good and decent until they show us otherwise. It is one of our greatest virtues and our greatest vulnerabilities.”

U.S. Capitol Rotunda

Washington, D.C.

A
n American flag was draped over Representative Thomas Edgar Stanton's casket, which was on the catafalque that had been built to hold President Abraham Lincoln's remains when his body had lain in state.

Thick red velvet ropes encircled his coffin. Inside that oval, soldiers from each branch of the armed services stood at attention facing inward.

President Allworth and Congress had agreed that “the Chairman” should be granted the honor of lying in state, a privilege only automatically granted to presidents. This was the final night for viewing, and a select few had been invited to pay their respects after the rotunda had been closed to the public.

As Walks Many Miles pushed Brooke Grant forward in a wheelchair across the highly polished marble floor directly under the Capitol dome, they saw Representative Rudy Adeogo, his wife, Dheeh, and daughter, Cassy, standing outside the velvet ropes paying their last respects to Stanton.

“How's Jennifer?” Adeogo asked when he saw Brooke approaching.

“She's doing better,” Brooke replied. “But there are days when she retreats into her fantasy world.”

“A happy world of unicorns and rainbows,” Miles said. “I'm sometimes envious.”

“How are you, Cassy?” Brooke asked, reaching over to affectionately touch the girl's shoulder.

“I miss Jennifer,” Cassy answered. “I hope she's not angry that I left her in the awful cabin. I had to!”

“She understands. Don't you worry one little bit.”

“Do you think you could enroll her in my new school? It's in Virginia, and my father said it's not far from where you and Jennifer live—and it has horses. She won't find a unicorn there, but we got plenty of real horses and I could introduce her to the new friends I've made. Everyone is nice.”

“What a thoughtful idea,” Brooke replied. “I'll talk to her about it.”

Cassy grinned.

Glancing at Stanton's closed casket, Adeogo said, “I respected the Chairman. He was a good and decent man.”

“He made a lot of enemies as soon as he began questioning whether radical jihadists were infiltrating our government,” Miles said.

“Yes, he did, but I was not one of them,” Adeogo replied. “And I would say the events of the past several days prove he was right.”

“What happens now?” Brooke asked.

“The fight between good and evil continues,” Adeogo replied, turning philosophical. “The Falcon will kill anyone who doesn't submit to his radical perversion of Islam. In my eyes, the OIN is equally tyrannical when it smears anyone who dares question its viewpoint and tactics. I'm only a freshman member, and who knows if I will be reelected if I decide to run again. But while I am in Congress, I will push for the investigative hearings that the Chairman wanted held. We should not be afraid to ask tough questions during dangerous times. It is the only time that tough questions really matter. And we should never be bullied by thugs who wrap themselves in religious garb but are the opposite of everything that is holy.”

“We are trapped in a violent circle,” Brooke said. “First there was the violent embassy attack in Mogadishu and then the Falcon sent that Somali American couple—Cumar and Fawzia Samatar—to kill President Allworth at Decker Lake's funeral. My uncle is shot. Jennifer's nanny and my friend, Miriam, is murdered. Cassy's school is attacked. Our girls are abducted and finally Representative Stanton is murdered. Will there ever be peace?”

Glancing around them, Adeogo said, “How many great American patriots have lain in state in this magnificent Capitol building? Three immediately come to mind. Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, and Ronald Reagan. Different generations, different political parties, different personalities and ways of governing. But each faced very real threats to our government. It was men such as them, and men such as the Chairman, who held up a lamp during dark times. They were human. They made mistakes, but they believed in our great nation and our right to direct our own futures. I am proud to serve among such men.” He looked at Brooke and added, “I am proud to be among such men—and women.”

“I don't know why we simply can't live and let live in peace,” Dheeh Adeogo said. “It could be so simple. Love one another and treat your neighbors as you want to be treated. It's a tenet of all great religions.”

“There will never be peace as long as there are men in this world like the Falcon,” Brooke answered. “He cares nothing about love or peace. He only lives for his empowerment and personal gratification. To me, he personifies evil. Not because he hates America but because he hates everyone who doesn't bend down to him.”

For several more moments, they spoke in hushed voices about Chairman Stanton. When they parted, all of them had tears in their eyes. The emotion inside them had welled up because of his death. But those tears were not signs of resignation or of defeat. His assassination and the discovery of treason inside the FBI and NSC had caused them to become more resolved in their fight against terrorism and oppression.

Brooke was not ready to return to her hospital bed after they left the Capitol grounds. She had spent nearly eight days there, was tired of the confinement and eager to be discharged.

“I want a hot dog,” she declared to Miles as they were leaving the Capitol. “Let's go to Ben's Chili Bowl.”

“No way am I buying you a spicy hot dog smothered in chili,” Miles replied. “Your doctors have you eating bland food for a reason. You'll be out in a couple days and then we can go there.”

“Let's compromise. We go to Ben's and you eat a chili dog and I'll get a milk shake.”

Because of its notoriety, Ben's Chili Bowl stayed open long after other well-known eateries had closed. It was after midnight by the time Miles wheeled Brooke inside the eatery with its 1950s diner decor. He helped her into one of the booths that lined the wall across from the bar where a half dozen customers were perched on chrome stools eating.

“Ah, that smell,” Miles said

“Aroma, not smell,” Brooke said. “Comfort food.”

“I've never thought of hot dogs as comfort food,” he replied.

“They are to me.”

From her seat inside the booth, Brooke could watch a television mounted on the restaurant's rear wall near a bright red-and-white backlit plastic menu. Brooke glanced at the screen at the same moment Al Arabic reporter Ebio Kattan appeared.

It was too noisy for them to hear what Kattan was saying, so Miles slipped from the booth and walked over to the television to listen.

“Kattan's done it again,” Miles said, when he returned to his seat. “She's gotten a scoop and every network is rebroadcasting her report.”

“What now? Is it the Falcon?”

“I'm not sure. She's discovered three supertankers carrying crude oil have vanished somewhere in the Pacific after leaving an African port.”

“An African port? Did she say who owned them?”

“Some African oil company. I didn't recognize it.”

“Where were they last seen?”

“Heading north toward the Sea of Japan.”

“How about the tankers?” she asked as she fished her cell phone out of her pocket. “Did you catch the names of any of them?”

“Ah, one was called
Sea
something.”

“That's not real helpful.”

“Why does it matter, Brooke?”

“Because three supertankers carrying millions of dollars worth of oil don't just disappear, especially in waters frequented by Russia, China, and North Korea. Something is going on.”

“One of them was named
Sea Master
, I think. I'm sure that's what one of them was named.”

Brooke typed
Sea Master
into an Internet search engine on her phone.

“Oh no,” she said seconds later.

“What?”

She slid the phone across the booth's red Formica tabletop separating them so he could read the name.

“Umoja Owiti,” Miles said aloud. “He owns those ships.”

Suddenly, neither of them was hungry. Their minds were on more important matters than chili dogs and milk shakes.