Treason (14 page)

Terminal 1—Lindbergh

Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport

T
he pilot's voice sounded stern as the arriving Washington, D.C., flight taxied to the gate at the Midwest's busiest airport.

“Two passengers need to disembark because of an emergency,” he announced. “Please remain seated until they have deplaned and the flight attendants inform you that it is safe for you to leave your seats.”

Craning her neck, Ebio Kattan glanced up the jet's aisle just in time to see Representative Rudy Adeogo and Major Brooke Grant hurrying from the plane. The reporter's cell phone buzzed. It was her producer at Al Arabic's Washington bureau.

“General Frank Grant, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, has been shot,” he informed her.

“His niece and Representative Adeogo just left the plane!” Kattan replied.

“Get footage of them. Now!”

Unbuckling her seat belt, Kattan darted into the aisle, startling those still seated near her. A flight attendant said, “Please remain seated.” But Kattan ignored her and called to her cameraman. “We've got to go!” He stood, opened the bin above his seat, grabbed his camera, and followed Kattan. Neither bothered to take their carry-on luggage as they hurried down the aisle and literally shoved the flight attendant out of their way.

Kattan ran up the movable ramp into the terminal. But she didn't see Adeogo or Grant in the terminal. She paid no attention to a sign that welcomed visitors and explained that Terminal 1 was named after Charles Lindbergh, a Minnesota native who was the first American to fly solo nonstop across the Atlantic. Passengers walking toward her stepped clear as she and her cameraman hurried toward the main terminal. She still hadn't spotted Brooke or Adeogo by the time she reached the TSA security exit.

As Kattan had expected, reporters were waiting inside the
main terminal for Adeogo to appear. They watched as she and her
cameraman descended an escalator into the baggage claim area where Adeogo was supposed to hold a press conference.

“Where'd they go?” Kattan asked when she reached the reporters.

“They're still on the plane,” one of them answered.

“I was on that plane and watched them get off.”

The journalists swarmed around her.

“Did you interview them?” one asked.

“Did they say anything about General Grant being shot?” demanded another.

“No, they rushed off before I could get to them.”

“Then where are they?” someone asked.

From the confused expression on Kattan's face, it was obvious she didn't know.

An airport security guard, followed by a middle-aged official dressed in a business suit, came through an unmarked door.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a loud voice, “I've been sent to inform you that the congressman and Major Brooke Grant have boarded a private aircraft for a return flight to Washington, D.C. There will be no statement from either of them here this morning.”

“What about the White House task force meeting?” a reporter called out. “Has it been cancelled?”

“You'll have to talk to someone else about that. All I can tell you is that they are on a private jet heading back to Reagan National.”

The journalists immediately began calling their producers and editors on their cell phones. In the mist of their chatter, a cameraman yelled out: “FOX has something!”

There were no television screens mounted in the baggage area but the cameraman had FOX news streaming live on his cell phone.

A yellow ribbon across the base of the broadcast read:
exclusive breaking news
.

“Islamic terrorists have killed fourteen Americans in the Washington, D.C., area and critically wounded the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in three separate attacks that appear to have been coordinated acts of terrorism,” the FOX anchor proclaimed.

“An Islamic jihadist known to law enforcement as the Falcon uploaded a statement about the attacks on a website monitored by FOX News moments ago crediting his followers in the United States with carrying out the violence. Those attacks include the murder of eight teenage girls and their instructor at an elite Potomac, Maryland, girl's school, and four others at a rural Virginia farmhouse. The Falcon also claimed he was responsible for the shooting of Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman General Frank Grant earlier this morning.”

Images of a police SWAT team armed with assault rifles flashed on the screen. The officers had cordoned off the riding arena at the Madeleine Thackeray School for Girls.

“FOX News has confirmed that two girls have been abducted by terrorists during this morning's attacks.” After pausing for a second to allow the gravity of his words to settle in, the anchor continued. “The girls have been identified as Cassy Adeogo, the eleven-year-old daughter of Minnesota U.S. Representative Rudy Adeogo, and Jennifer Conner, the fourteen-year-old daughter of a former CIA employee named Gunter Conner who was murdered late last year by Al-Shabaab terrorists. The congressman's daughter was kidnapped from the girl's school. Jennifer Conner was abducted from a Virginia farmhouse owned by Major Brooke Grant, the niece of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Frank Grant, who was critically wounded earlier in the day. We expect President Allworth to be making a statement about these horrific murders and the kidnappings within the hour.”

A reporter standing next to Kattan said, “Hey, aren't you the Al Arabic reporter who was in Somalia with Brooke Grant when our embassy was attacked last year? You broke those stories about her and Gunter Conner. Tell us what you know about the Falcon. Why have terrorists kidnapped Conner's daughter?”

Another reporter said, “I saw your story—where you were chasing Major Grant and that girl in a parking lot.”

Several reporters shoved microphones at Kattan and began filming her. But the Al Arabic correspondent had no interest in helping her competitors with background information. She spun away from the pack and hurried toward an escalator that would carry her up to the airline ticket counters.

“We're going back to Washington,” she told her cameraman, who once again fell in behind her. “If necessary on a chartered flight.”

Political consultant Mary Margaret Delaney had been quietly watching the ruckus in the baggage area and she now walked briskly toward the escalator. As it rose, she slipped forward until she was directly behind Kattan's cameraman.

By the time the trio reached the top step, Delaney was close enough to hear Kattan lecturing her cameraman. “The abduction of those two girls is the breaking story now. We've got to get to Adeogo in Washington. No use trying Grant. She'll never talk to me.”

Delaney turned to her left while Kattan and the cameraman turned to their right in the direction of the ticket counters. Delaney had heard enough. She had come to the airport directly from her breakfast meeting with the OIN's Omar Nader. She had not come to confront Representative Adeogo nor to blackmail him. The airport was much too public a place for that scene. No, she had come simply because she had wanted to see him face-to-face. She had wanted him to realize that she was dogging him and she had come because she wanted to secretly feel the thrill of knowing that she had finally learned his secret and now had the power to destroy him.

As she watched Kattan walking away from her, Delaney thought,
You have no idea that you were only inches away from me and a real exclusive. You are scampering back to Washington, D.C., to chase a story when the documents in my bag contain evidence that could ruin Rudy Adeogo
.

Delaney smiled.
All in good time
, she thought.
All in good time.

George Washington University Trauma Center

Downtown Washington, D.C.

A
waiting government car raced Major Brooke Grant from Reagan National Airport to the downtown university hospital where her uncle, General Frank Grant, had undergone nearly five hours of surgery. She found her aunt Geraldine sitting next to his bed in an ICU ward.

As she was hugging her aunt, the hospital's chief surgeon entered the room.

“Only single-digit millimeters separated the bullet from your uncle's spinal cord and main arteries,” the doctor explained. “We almost lost him a couple times in surgery, but he's a real fighter.”

General Grant's face was wrapped with bandages, a breathing tube was jutting from his mouth, and both of his meaty arms were attached to IVs. He was unconscious and completely unaware of the heroic efforts that the team of surgeons and battery of nurses had performed to keep him alive.

“We are not out of the woods yet,” the surgeon continued. “There's always the threat of blood clots, but our biggest concern is swelling inside his brain.”

“He was shot in the jaw, not the brain,” Brooke said nervously.

“That's correct, but the general's brain was violently shaken by the gunshot when it shattered his jaw. Pressure is building inside his skull and there is no place for it to expand.”

“What does that mean—no place to expand?” Brooke asked.

“The brain swells just like your thumb if you accidently strike it with a hammer. Pressure inside the skull is called intracranial pressure, or ICP, and we measure it in millimeters of mercury, which we refer to as mmHg. The ICP for an adult is seven to fifteen mmHg. Anything above twenty mmHg is worrisome, and there's a high risk at forty mmHg and above of permanent brain damage.”

“We can't let that happen,” Brooke said.

“That's why I'm going to take him back to surgery in a few minutes so we can insert an inner cranial brain pressure monitor to keep tabs on what is happening. We've already given him medication to help reduce the swelling. If that doesn't work, we'll insert a shunt or valve to release fluids from inside the skull to further reduce the pressure.”

“What happens if you can't get the pressure down?” Brooke asked.

The surgeon glanced at Geraldine, who said, “Go ahead and tell us. We want the good and the bad.”

“If the shunt or valve doesn't work, we'll remove a piece of his skull, because we can't let the pressure hit sixty mmHg. I'm afraid that amount of pressure would be fatal.”

As the doctor spoke, two nurses arrived and wheeled the general out of the room toward a surgery suite.

“Doctor,” Geraldine said as the surgeon was leaving, “I will be praying for God to guide your hands.”

Brooke moved her chair next to her aunt's so they could hold hands while they prayed. When Brooke opened her eyes, she saw that Lieutenant Colonel Gabe DeMoss had entered the room. The White House liaison quickly recounted for Brooke how he and the general had been driving to CIA headquarters when a rented truck had dropped building materials onto the highway, intentionally stalling traffic so that a sniper could get a clear shot at the general.

“No one has been arrested,” DeMoss explained. “But I was just informed by the FBI that agents believe the man who shot your uncle is also the same one who killed the three security guards at your farmhouse. He didn't bother to take any of the spent shell casings with him after he shot your uncle and fired from the woods at the farm. Clearly, he's not worried about leaving evidence behind.”

“He had accomplices—beginning with the truck driver. What have you learned about them, especially the ones that might have helped him abduct Jennifer?” Brooke asked.

“The flatbed truck was rented from a local building supply store,
but the names on the agreement are fake. The FBI is reviewing video
tapes from the store's security cameras. We're hoping they'll be able to get a positive ID with facial recognition software. Clearly, the attack at the girls' school and the one at your farm were done by the same group of terrorists, but we haven't identified anyone yet.”

Aunt Geraldine interrupted them. “The general's jaw was shattered so he won't be speaking anytime soon after he wakes up. He's not going to like that one bit. He's going to be furious that Jennifer has been abducted.”

Brooke forced a smile. Geraldine Grant was oak-strong. As a couple, the general and his wife of forty years seemed an odd match physically. She was willowy while he was a bear of a man. He was the highest-ranking military officer in the United States Armed Forces. But inside the Grant household, she was clearly in charge. Deeply religious, she held the unofficial honor of being the youngest participant in the Bloody Sunday March in 1965 when six hundred peaceful protestors crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge over the Alabama River outside Selma on their trek to Montgomery. State troopers and local police had shot tear gas into the crowd and had attacked marchers with nightsticks. Geraldine had only been nine years old, but because of her small size, she'd looked much younger, which her parents later theorized was what had saved her from a vicious beating. Neither of them had been so lucky. Geraldine had watched helplessly as two deputies knocked her parents to the pavement, struck them repeatedly with nightsticks, and dragged them into a police wagon. Although Geraldine had been sobbing (she later insisted it was because of the tear gas fired into the crowd), she had continued marching through the melee until a sympathetic journalist had pulled her out of harm's way. Her resilience in continuing to protest that horrific morning had been a preview of the determined woman that she would later become.

“Brooke,” Geraldine said, “being here with your uncle is my place. Yours is finding that child and getting that youngster home. You need to get going now.”

DeMoss said, “President Allworth has asked to meet with you and Representative Adeogo. I said I would drive you to the White House.”

“Honey,” Geraldine said to Brooke, “you go with him now and don't you even think about going home tonight to your farmhouse. You're going to stay in your old bedroom.”

“It would be much safer,” DeMoss added. “The Pentagon has sent a protective detail there and has one here in the hospital.”

“I'd like that, Auntie,” Brooke replied, kissing her aunt's cheek. “What about you?”

“I'm not leaving your uncle's side. When he opens his eyes, my face is going to be the first that he sees—that he'll want to see. I'll be just fine now. You go see the president and tell her that I am praying for her and our country.”

Brooke went directly from her uncle's room to speak to the ICU charge nurse. “When will they be bringing my uncle back here?” she asked.

“They're installing the monitor and taking a few more steps to help stabilize him.”

“Can you check right now to see if the pressure level inside his skull is dropping?”

The nurse made a call.

“I'm sorry, Major Grant, but the doctor said it is still elevated.”

“What's the number?”

“Thirty-nine.”

Brooke fought back a feeling of panic rising within her. The surgeon had said anything forty or above could cause permanent brain damage. Before she could ask another question, someone touched her shoulder. It was her aunt Geraldine, who had stepped out into the hallway and spotted her. “Honey,” Geraldine Grant said, “don't you worry about your uncle. He's a tough old bird. Besides, Jesus is with us. He isn't going to let anything happen to him that is not supposed to happen. Now go on.”