Treason (34 page)

“I'll hit you again!” the officer hollered after two jolts. “Stop resisting.”

Parker and Brooke reached them as the two officers were helping the now handcuffed and compliant suspect to his feet.

“What'd he do?” Parker asked.

“He's carrying a gun,” an officer explained.

“Yeah, that's right, and I got a permit to carry it too,” the man complained. “I'm going to sue your asses!”

“Didn't you read the posters?” Parker asked him.

“What posters? And who the hell are you?”

“FBI, and there are posters clearly visible everywhere around here that prohibit anyone except law enforcement officers from carrying firearms within a hundred yards of this designated area, even if they have conceal gun permits.”

As he was being led away, Parker turned to Brooke and said, “Akbar would be a complete idiot to try anything. Not even a cockroach could crawl into this rally without us noticing.”

The radical Islamic terrorist Ahmadullah Aba-Jihaad, aka Akbar, had enjoyed watching two policemen stun a redneck South Carolina rally-goer with a Taser before handcuffing him. He'd watched the dust-up through field glasses from his vantage point roughly a half mile away. He'd also spotted Brooke Grant hurrying over to confer with the policemen. He only wished that he'd been given permission by the Falcon to shoot her as well as his congressional target.

Akbar had been watching Brooke and FBI Special Agent Parker since they had stepped free of their unmarked car near the front gate of the rally. He'd seen Parker point toward the Smithville Medical Center, the highest vantage point in the area. It is where Akbar had expected the FBI to post agents.

Did they think him stupid enough to go there?

He had not scaled a tree nor hidden himself under a rock. He had found a safe haven inside one of the Smithville infidels' most sacred refuges. The Smithville Church of Believers was a colonial, rectangular brick building, northeast of the rally grounds. It was across the street from the strip mall parking lot, and its towering white steeple was clearly visible from the rally grounds. It was home to one of the town's most prominent and largest congregations. The two-story, redbrick sanctuary had a decorative portico with four gleaming white columns outside its oversize double front doors. On the roof a few steps behind that portico was the church's steeple, which looked every bit like the spires found on thousands of other churches in American cities. It was what had caught Akbar's eye when he'd first surveyed Smithville for a shooting spot. It rose high above the sanctuary's pitched roof and had been built in diminishing sections that could have easily collapsed into each other.

The base of the steeple was a redbrick square with a single octagonal porthole on each of its four sides. It stood about eight feet above the black shingled roof. Rising atop it was a section called the “lantern” because in colonial days this was where lights had been hung to guide churchgoers toward God's house at nighttime. Each of its sides was an open archway and birds often could be seen resting on the edge of the two-foot-high wall that ringed its base.

Atop the lantern was the belfry, an enclosed wooden square that housed electronic bells that could be heard through large vents cut inside its facade. Rising from the belfry was the final level, the spire, which resembled an upside down ice cream cone. At its peak was a narrow four-foot-tall cross painted bright gold.

Construction workers had added the steeple to the church's roof in four sections with a large crane. The only piece of it that a man could hide inside was the lantern, and that was where Akbar had crawled, having scaled the building on Friday night under the cover of darkness. From the street, an onlooker could see through the lantern's four open sides. But from the street no one could see behind the lantern's two-foot-high knee wall that formed its base, and that was high enough for Akbar to duck behind.

From his perch Akbar had an unobstructed 360-degree view when he peeked over the lantern's knee wall. When he'd heard through the earbuds he was wearing to monitor police calls that the university president had cancelled the rally at Smithville University, he'd given up hope of having a shot at either congressman. The campus where the rally was originally scheduled to take place was about a half mile east of Akbar's steeple hiding place. By then it was daylight, so he had no choice but to remain hidden.

It was at that point when Allah had smiled on him. The rally had been moved to an even better location directly west of the steeple. In fact, the stage being built was an even closer target than the university's outdoor arena to Akbar's east. The only adjustment Akbar had needed to make in his hiding spot was to turn his body from facing east around to the west.

He checked his watch. It was 3:45 p.m.

It was almost time.

Stanton political rally, vacant lot

Smithville, South Carolina

R
epresentatives Stanton and Adeogo sat across from each other on matching tan leather chairs inside a forty-five-foot-long luxury motor coach provided by one of Stanton's supporters. The bus was parked about fifty feet from the rally grounds, where the crowd was becoming more and more boisterous in anticipation of their arrival on stage.

Stanton's private cell phone rang. It was President Sally Allworth.

“Mr. Chairman, I've just been informed by my chief of staff that our intelligence services have intercepted another telephone conversation between the Falcon and his Washington contact,” Allworth said in a concerned voice. “This traitor with the code name Viper told the Falcon that Akbar is in Smithville and ready to shoot his target.”

“Did he mention whether the lucky fellow is me or Representative Adeogo?” Stanton asked in a cheerful voice.

“Thomas,” she replied, calling him by his first name, “this is not a game. This is not a joke. The assassin shot General Grant and murdered Jennifer Conner's nanny. Director Grainger is telling me that his agency has one hundred percent certainty that Akbar is going to attempt to murder you and Representative Adeogo when you go out on that stage. You must call off your rally.”

The seriousness of her tone disturbed him, but it did not shake his resolve.

“I appreciate your concern Madam President, and your call is touching, but I am going to repeat to you what I said earlier this morning to Director Grainger. I am not going to be intimidated by a terrorist talking on the phone to another terrorist. This is America, and we cannot allow a radical jihadist to frighten us or disrupt our democratic process. I am confident in the FBI's ability to protect me.”

“I appreciate your bravery, but I will urge you once again to cancel this rally until we have a chance to catch this killer.”

“And when will that be, if ever?”

“If you aren't going to cancel it, then delay it until next week. I have just gotten off the phone with the head of the Secret Service and I've instructed him to get his people involved in protecting you.”

“Thank you, but we've already got a nice crowd here, and I'm not going to disappoint them. Representative Adeogo is sitting here with me. I will pass along your concerns to him.”

“I have a better idea: If you don't mind, let me speak to him directly.”

Stanton passed Adeogo the phone.

“Congressman,” Allworth said, “I have been trying to talk some sense into Chairman Stanton. We have just intercepted a second phone call from the Falcon instructing his followers here to assassinate Stanton and you. I have urged him to postpone the rally until I can get both of you Secret Service protection. Hopefully, you can talk some sense into him. But I'm asking you to not go forward with this rally. These terrorists have caused enough suffering and havoc.”

“I have listened to Chairman Stanton's side of your conversation, Madam President,” Adeogo said, “and I must agree with him. We should not have to hide our faces on our own soil. Much of a terrorist's power comes from scaring people, making them afraid. If the Chairman cancels this rally, it will show that we are afraid, and that will send a horrible message to Americans that we are incapable of protecting our own people. That the terrorists have won.”

“And what sort of message will you be sending if either of you is shot?”

“A message that says boldly, we will not be afraid.”

Adeogo handed the phone back to Stanton, who said, “You have your answer. It's not the one that you wanted to hear from either of us, but I expect that is not a surprise to you or Ms. Harper. Recently, I have been giving her several answers that she doesn't like.”

“That's politics. This is about life and death.”

“No, Madam President. It's about freedom.”

Rumors began sweeping through the crowd at 4:45 p.m. that something was wrong. Why hadn't the four thirty p.m. rally started? Inside the luxury motor home, Chairman Stanton finished the last of a bottle of water and said, “These vests are darn uncomfortable.” He was referring to the bullet-resistant vests that the FBI's Parker had insisted both of them wear under their white shirts, ties, and suit jackets.

For a man who had been warned by the president that an assassin might be lurking outside to end his life, Stanton seemed oddly at ease, even jovial. He had been all morning.

When he'd arrived in Smithville by private helicopter near nine a.m., Stanton had ignored Parker's request that he remain in seclusion and instead had strolled down Main Street. He'd entered Smithville's most frequented coffee shop, where he'd taken a seat at a corner table and had proceeded to hold court for several hours, listening intently while his constituents told him their concerns.

Stanton was an old-school politician. A gifted extemporaneous orator, he could speak passionately about any current event, but especially about intelligence issues. In Washington, he was known as a tough, sharp-tongued inquisitor who could make even the most veteran federal bureaucrat squirm. But a different side of him emerged when he was listening and talking to voters in his South Carolina district. He was one of them, and despite the status and acclaim that he had achieved in Washington, D.C., which allowed him to rub shoulders with the president, foreign heads of state, and the nation's most elite intellectuals and power brokers, Stanton felt most at home with blue-collar workers and South Carolina farmers in a greasy spoon café that smelled of bacon.

When he'd finally been forced to leave the café and wait inside the donated RV for the rally, there was no doubt in his mind that he had made the right choice in coming to Smithville despite the threats being made to him and Adeogo.

Adeogo also seemed happy that he'd been included. He had been greeted by Stanton's aides when he arrived in town shortly after two o'clock. He had left Washington Friday night in an unmarked police car with two D.C. patrol officers. They had driven halfway to Smithville before stopping for the night in a hotel. Dheeh had not said much when he had left their house. She was still furious that he had slept with Mary Margaret Delaney. But Cassy had begged him not to go and had cried and refused to stop hugging him when it was time for him to depart.

If President Allworth had wanted to change his mind, Adeogo thought, she should have put Cassy on the phone.

Adeogo had come to Smithville to redeem himself, but he'd also come because he despised Omar Nader and the OIN. He suspected that Nader had somehow been involved in providing Mary Margaret Delaney with the sealed court transcript about his brother Abdul Hafeez. The OIN's insistence that every Muslim fall in line with its decrees was no different, in his mind, from the demands made by radical Islamist extremists who insisted everyone obey their self-righteous dogma. They were twin sides of the same coin. When he learned that Delaney had been found dead on an overlook along the George Washington Parkway, he had wondered if Nader and the OIN were involved. But when the Park Police announced that Delaney had taken her own life, he decided that his initial suspicions had been based on unfounded paranoia.

Just the same, he was eager to verbally attack both Nader and the OIN at today's rally as well as lend his support to Stanton and his call for closer scrutiny of radical Imams and mosques.

“Let's wait until five o'clock to start this show,” Stanton said.

“That's a half hour later than we planned,” Adeogo responded. “Are you having second thoughts about going outside? Did the president's call change your mind?”

Stanton laughed. “Naw, it has nothing to do with President Allworth's call. That crowd isn't going anywhere, and making them wait will only get everyone more excited and hyped up for when we finally do go out on stage. I'm certain reporters are already on the air speculating about whether we've changed our mind. Might as well not let all that conjecture go to waste. Getting out there by five will still give us time to appear live on the local news and make the national newscasts at six.”

Adeogo was impressed by Stanton's savvy. “I can see why you have been so successful, but I'm afraid your tutelage is being wasted on me. My chances of being reelected are nonexistent despite the opportunity that you are affording me today at your rally.”

“You call possibly being shot an opportunity?” Stanton chuckled.

“Given my popularity right now in America, it might be best. Some political commentators are suggesting that I staged my own daughter's abduction to cover my complicity with my brother and Al-Shabaab.”

“You can't control either the news or what people say about you. The media is calling me the new Senator Joe McCarthy, and I've been warned the OIN is going to pump millions, if necessary, into defeating me. I've also heard the White House is conspiring behind my back on the Hill with my colleagues to strip me of my chairmanship. I suspect Mallory Harper is behind Omar Nader's decision to come down here and protest, and I wouldn't be surprised if she isn't secretly advising him about how to defeat me. So, my friend, we're in the same boat, and you might have a better chance of getting reelected than I do.”

Adeogo shook his head, indicating no, and said, “I didn't realize the ugly side of politics. Given all that has happened, I regret ever running for Congress.”

Stanton knew about regrets. The lengthy time that he had spent in Washington had taken a huge toll on his personal life. His had been a long-distance marriage and he had been a long-distance father to their children. His beloved spouse had stuck with him, and his kids greatly admired him. But there was no way that he could reclaim the thousands of hours that had taken him away from them. He could not and would not give in to those regrets. The trade-off had been a life that mattered in his eyes, a life of true public service.

“Let me give you some advice,” Stanton said. “Never underestimate the American people's willingness to forgive. This great nation of ours was settled by people seeking second chances and redemption. Forgiveness is in our blood, and we appreciate someone who gets up after they get knocked down. You can come back from all of the negative press and attacks, but only if you talk directly to the people and speak to them from your heart.”

“If that is true, then why are you concerned about losing to a college professor?”

“Because the second thing that Americans love after redemption is a fresh face spouting new ideas. With longevity comes blame for everything that has gone wrong during my tenure. Voters believe the next politician who comes along must be better than the one in office, especially if they haven't held public office before, only they rarely are.” Stanton laughed and added, “Your election is a prime example. Didn't you come to Washington with a broom in your hand ready to sweep all of us veterans out the door?”

Stanton's chief of staff appeared. “It's five now. Are you ready?”

“Okay, Representative Rudy Adeogo,” Stanton said, standing, “it's time for us to see if these bulletproof vests work.”

Adeogo didn't smile at his humor. As they stepped from the RV, which was parked in the strip mall lot adjacent to the field, Stanton and Adeogo were enveloped by five South Carolina state troopers and two FBI agents. A path had been cordoned off for them, and as they crossed the asphalt, both noticed two ambulances with their engines running. Those were the only other vehicles in the parking lot and, along with Agent Parker's unmarked car, the only ones permitted within a mile of the rally. Homeowners had been told to keep their cars locked in their garages and not attempt to drive them before or during the rally. All vehicles parked on the streets or in driveways were driven or towed outside the area. The FBI was taking no chances with car bombs.

“Let's hope neither of us leaves in one of those,” Stanton said as they stepped by the two emergency rescue vehicles. When they reached the field, they moved quickly through the gauntlet of police officers separating them from the crowd. Stanton was the first to climb the four steps to the platform, appearing before the crowd at the same moment his local campaign manager was finishing his recitation about the wonderful job “the Chairman” was doing for South Carolinians in Washington.

Applause, cheers, whistles, and a few air horns that his staff had discreetly distributed greeted Stanton as he stepped behind the wooden podium, borrowed from a local high school, with his hands raised as if he were a prizefighter who had just scored a knockout. For the moment, Stanton took pleasure in soaking in all of the sights and sounds around him as he searched the crowd for familiar faces, whom he then waved to while mouthing their names. He loved this and it showed on his weathered face. Directly before him were his people, the reason why he served in Washington. To his right on another hastily built platform were television cameras from all of the networks, and in a separate area roped off from the crowd were the media. Stanton recognized several of them too. Until this controversy, he had considered many of them his friends, but they had turned against him, reminding him that no politician could ever truly be a friend with those who earned their living praising or skewering them.

After basking in the revelry, Stanton quieted the crowd.