The Assassin's List (24 page)

“I can only guess,” Pastor Steve said. “In our inner cities, Muslim organizations deliver materially in a way our government and churches don’t. They build community centers, patrol the streets and get people organized. In our prisons, converting to Islam means you have protection when you’re inside, and someone with money to help outside. When welfare reform came along, Saudi money stepped in when the government stepped out. Saudi-funded Islam has just done a better job reaching out to the disaffected and angry among our people.”

“But that doesn’t explain the appeal of radical Islam to well-educated, middle-class Americans. Not all the people who have been arrested on terrorism charges have been inner-city welfare types,” Drake said.

“You don’t have to be poor and uneducated to feel disaffected and angry. If you’re told that family breakdown, racism and poverty result from Western decadence and immorality, fundamental Islam can seem pretty attractive. By converting to Islam, people who feel they’re invisible and unimportant now belong to a powerful and moral civilization without borders. They’re told that someday they’ll rule the world, like Islam did in the days of the Caliphs. Hope of utopia has powered more than one ‘ism’ in the last hundred years.”

“Do you think American citizens, who grew up in our culture and aren’t taught in
madrassas
, to revere martyrdom, can be trained to be martyrs?” Drake asked.

Pastor Steve nodded slowly. “I’d have to say yes. Minority groups who perceive themselves as underdogs and blame America for their perceived oppression, can probably be persuaded to become martyrs. The reward of paradise, coupled with the teaching that Mohammed himself desired martyrdom, as bin Laden taught, is pretty powerful stuff.”

“Are they brainwashed by this religious training, or is it hatred that motivates them?”

“Hatred and religious doctrine have motivated people for two thousand years. Do you know who the original terrorists were?” Pastor asked, getting up to walk to his bookcase and pull a volume from the shelf.

“Terrorism has been with us for a long time, but no, I don’t know who the original terrorists were,” Drake answered.

“Marco Polo wrote about a secret sect of Islam using murder and assassination as a weapon of terror, ostensibly to keep the religion pure. The master of the cult, known as the Old Man of the Mountain, kept young boys at his court who would do anything he asked them to do. It’s said he promised them paradise if they carried out his assassination orders. Marco Polo wrote that he witnessed young men jumping off the Old Man’s fortress wall to their death to prove how the master controlled them. Does that sound anything like what we’re reading about today in Iraq, Afghanistan, Israel, London? Why should America be any different?”

Drake didn’t have an answer. After finishing his coffee, he left, promising he would see Pastor Steve in church soon.

Chapter 42

Drake was driving back to his office when his cell phone jarred him from his thoughts about American martyrs.

“Detective Carson just called. He’s having coffee where you saw him last. Said he needed to talk to you,” Margo said. “If you are still in the area, you might want to see him. It sounded like it was urgent.”

“I’m on 217. I’ll turn around and go meet him. If he calls again before I get there, tell him I’m on my way.”

He wondered what the detective had that was so urgent. He knew more than he did last week, but he wasn’t confident that Carson had made much progress. When he pulled into the Starbucks parking lot ten minutes later, Detective Carson waited for him at a window table.

Carson stood when he entered and gestured for him to have a seat. Carson didn’t wait for him to get comfortable before he started.

“I’m getting a lot of heat, Drake, to bring you in for questioning about some dead guys on your farm. I don’t have jurisdiction for that. I’m told it might have something to do with the murder at Martin Research. I do have jurisdiction to question you about that. I thought I’d save us both some time, and ask you up front what you might know about any connection.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with your investigation, does it?” Drake asked. “You’re getting pressure because of the imams’ protests. Are you sure you want to hear what I might know? If you think this is going to make your life easier, you’re dead wrong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the guy being investigated for killing three men. You think I can just ignore that?”

“If you’re smart, which at this point is questionable, you’ll walk away from this. Just do your job and find out who murdered Janice Lewellyn. The FBI is involved, but, if I give you some off-the-record information, will you tell me everything you’ve learned and leave this alone? Can you live with that, or do I walk out of here?”

Detective Carson looked at Drake with a decade of resentment smoldering in his eyes before he nodded.

“Stay. Maybe I came on a little too strong. You need to know there are people downtown who want to hang you for killing those Muslims. They don’t want another scandal, or to be accused of covering up a profile killing. Me, if guys came on my farm, with the weapons they carried, I’d kill them too. Regardless of their religious persuasion.”

“It had nothing to do with their religious persuasion. It was dark. All I knew was, they were armed, and surrounding my home. End of story. Except I can’t believe they came after me because I was looking into the murder of Martin’s secretary.”

“So what were you looking into?” Carson asked. “I’ve run down all the leads. None of the people I talked to looked dangerous.”

“Did you talk with the ISIS manager? You detect anything unusual about some of the help they hired as security guards? Sam Newman did, and he’s dead. I did, after visiting ISIS, and three goons came gunning for me. That give you some clue how this all ties together?”

Drake could see Carson didn’t want to hear what he was telling him. He didn’t want to be on the wrong end of a police investigation that the feds would probably commandeer and then would look for a scapegoat if there was a mess to clean up. He felt sorry, for a second, for the cop who’d been promoted beyond his capabilities.

Drake softened his approach. “Look, trust me that you don’t want to get caught up in the stuff that’s out of your jurisdiction. But, if you share with me what you know, and it winds up that it’s all connected, I’ll see you get credit for all of it.”

“Why would you do that? You’re the one who blew the whistle on me. All I did was what any cop would have done with a scumbag like that. He was going to walk unless I did something.”

“That was then, this is now. I was just pissed you screwed up my case and the guy walked because of you. I could have won that case, regardless of what you thought. This is bigger than our past differences. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

“Martin’s secretary was the proverbial straight arrow. Wrong place, wrong time. Martin’s the same straight arrow and a workaholic. Logs at least eighty hours a week. His employees love him,” Carson recited. “I don’t think Sam Newman committed suicide. He was a devout Catholic, and his priest said he was a regular at confession. There wasn’t enough gunshot residue on his hand, and we can’t find his dog. According to Martin, that dog would never leave his master. There just isn’t any reliable evidence that he had anything to do with the secretary’s murder, or that he killed himself. Someone else was involved, had to have been.”

“So, where does that leave us?” Drake asked.

“Nowhere. None of the employees at Martin Research had any problems with Mrs. Lewellyn, as far as we can tell. The reports of earlier break-ins haven’t led to anything. I’m still trying to get budget approval for an outside computer expert to go over the malfunction in the security system. The ISIS records show the entire system went down about the time we figure Mrs. Lewellyn was murdered. ISIS says it wasn’t shut off, that the system just crashed. I just don’t buy it.”

“What do the guys at Martin Research say? Do they agree with ISIS?”

“They say they don’t have a reason to doubt ISIS. Without access to the ISIS computers, they can’t analyze the cause of the malfunction. Personally, I think they’re scared to admit their system might not be as good as they think it is.”

That could be, Drake thought, but it didn’t mean ISIS wasn’t lying. Sophisticated security systems are redundant security systems. If one part of the subsystem isn’t working, the system knows it immediately and switches to a backup subsystem. Proving that someone deliberately shut a subsystem off, without having access to the security system itself, would be impossible.

“Can you demand access to the ISIS system, so you can check things for yourself? You don’t need budget approval for that,” Drake suggested. “In the meantime, I’ll give you anything I turn up if you’ll do the same.”

Carson finished his coffee and stood when Drake did.

“That’s not a bad idea—see if someone starts squirming. Something I’m good at. I’ll tell the folks downtown we talked,” Carson said.

Chapter 43

Wednesday morning broke with promise, another picture-perfect day. Drake arrived at the Portland International Airport Flightcraft terminal at 7:45 a.m. They were all waiting for him next to the Gulfstream Secretary Rallings had reserved.

Senator Hazelton introduced him to Secretary Rallings, his aide, and the Secretary’s two-man security detail. The Secretary of DHS was shorter than he appeared in his pictures, but no less distinguished. In his late 60s, he looked every bit the former Ivy League boxer he was, powerful in his upper body, with a pugnacious bulldog face. He reminded Drake of Winston Churchill.

His aide was a bright young MBA type hoping a stint in Washington would establish a foothold for his career. The two bodyguards were the aide’s perfect foil, a reassigned FBI agent and a former Hostage Rescue Team leader. They introduced themselves, and their former careers, in a not so subtle way. The message was clear—stay out of our way because we’re the pros.

There was another person in the party, and from the disgusted look on her face, she hadn’t been told Drake was included. Her eyes tightened when she saw him, and her mouth turned down at the corners. It wasn’t a frown, exactly, but it sure wasn’t a smile.

Drake shook hands with the two men traveling with the Senator. He knew them both. Bob Allen was a former Oregon State Trooper and the Senator’s personal bodyguard. Tim Richards was the Senator’s chief of staff.

As soon as they were all seated in the Gulfstream, the pilot announced they would be airborne shortly for the flight to Hermiston, one hundred eighty-five miles east up the Columbia River Gorge. The Secretary and the Senator were seated across from each other in the first row of seats, with their security details seated behind them. Drake and the others accommodated themselves in the remaining eight seats.

Drake made a point of sitting across from Liz Strobel. As they accelerated to lift off, Strobel lost control of her composure and hissed over the roar of the engines, “You agreed to keep me informed, and now you’re trying to do my job. I resent this!”

“I’m not here to do your job, Administrative Assistant Strobel. I’m here to protect the Senator, at his request,” he said with a smile. “You have the Homeland to protect, but you never know when a Senator might run into a crazy constituent. Surely you don’t have a problem with that?”

“What I have a problem with is you. I stuck my neck out for you and your father-in-law. I’m not jeopardizing my career just because you’re seeing terrorists behind every bush.”

Drake leaned toward Strobel and invaded her personal space. “You’d better pray I’m wrong, and this is just a figment of my misguided imagination. You’ve never seen a terrorist, let alone fought one, and you don’t have a clue how they think. God help us that you’re supposed to be protecting us. All you care about is your pathetic little career. Stay out of my way, and remember the day you may have underestimated the enemy, and me.”

The rest of the short flight to Hermiston was quiet. The Secretary and the Senator talked quietly while everyone else enjoyed the scenery. Strobel sat stiffly in her seat, staring out the portside window at the river below. Drake thumbed through the
Sports Illustrated
he’d brought, and hoped Strobel was right and he was wrong about seeing a terrorist in every Umatilla depot uniform.

At 8:30 a.m., the pilot announced they were approaching their destination and began their descent to the small town of Hermiston. Its small municipal airport was just twelve miles east of the depot.

As the Gulfstream taxied toward the terminal, Drake spotted Mike’s white Yukon parked next to the one-story building that served as the city’s municipal airport terminal and flight control tower. Mike stood next to his SUV wearing a Mariner’s baseball hat, sunglasses, and a lightweight windbreaker and jeans. Drake knew the windbreaker concealed more than Mike’s lean body.

When they were allowed to deplane, Drake led the Senator’s small party over to Mike and introduced them. While Mike was getting everyone seated, and the Secretary and his people were escorted to the vehicles the Army had provided, Drake walked over to the pilot.

“We should be back in two hours. On the outside chance we might need to get out of here quickly, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in or near the plane. I’m not expecting trouble, but I want you to be ready in case something happens. There are a lot of people who don’t appreciate what’s being done at the weapons depot. There are enough nuts around to make me nervous. If I call, or my friend Mike, next to the Yukon, calls, have the plane ready to take off the minute we get here. We’ll be about fifteen minutes out.”