Abuse of Power (35 page)

Wickham and his bodyguard sat in back, and the senator took a cigar from his pocket, lighting it under a cupped hand as the pilot started the engine. Then, as they pulled from the dock, he contentedly tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air.

“Gorgeous foggy night,” he said over the whine of the motor. “Nights like this make it hard for me to go back to Texas. Or worse yet, D.C.”

“There’s no place else on earth like the bay,” Jack said.

Sara’s jacket apparently wasn’t doing its job, because she sidled up next to Jack, trying to use his body to buffer the cold wind. As the boat rumbled, skimming the surface of the water, he put an arm around her and pulled her close, thinking about their brief encounter back in Faisal’s apartment. As corny as it might sound, he felt as if he’d finally found his soul mate, the one woman in this world he would ever want or need.

A Muslim woman, if that didn’t beat all.

She nestled her head against his shoulder and murmured softly. “Who are these people we’re meeting?”

“Friends of the senator. Probably upper-echelon law enforcement and government types. People he thinks he can trust.”

“Why out here? The isolation?”

Jack nodded. “Barely a smudge on the map. They want to stay as far off the radar grid as possible. Just like—”

He stopped himself but it was too late.

“Brendan and Alain and the others?” she said.

“Sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

“No need,” she said. “It
is
like our headquarters in Paris. That is a tribute to my fallen comrades.”

She pulled him closer and kissed his cheek and for a moment he managed to forget what they’d been through, and tried to think about what was to come.

The key was stopping Hassan Haddad, wherever he might be. If he was out there in the wild with some kind of explosive, they all needed to be very worried.

Jack thought again about nearly bumping into the man outside that pub near al-Fida’s flat.

If only he had known.

If only.

After several minutes they pulled up to a long dock and boathouse that extended from the side of the island. There were already two boats moored side by side there, a thirty-eight-foot Downeast cruiser with an open cockpit and an older, smaller Luhrs. Two rubber dinghies with outboard motors bumped up against the dock on the opposite side. Beyond them was a fast Novurania rigid inflatable. Jack guessed it was used by a caretaker to speed over to the shore for provisions. He probably came and went in a larger vessel, better equipped to handle bigger loads from the mainland.

The pilot maneuvered their small boat into an empty space next to a ladder, then tied the boat down and gestured for everyone to disembark. They all climbed up and stepped onto the dock, then moved up a short ramp that led under an umbrella of trees onto the island itself. They continued along a small cement concourse past the old wooden fog signal building—which was little more than a large wooden shed with two pneumatic foghorns mounted on its roof—and moved toward the Victorian bed-and-breakfast on the far side of the island.

West Brother Island was visible just beyond this, a dry, elongated chunk of earth that was crowded with cormorants, gulls, and other bay birds sharing the bare, steep rock. Nesting pelicans had taken over the entire grassy area of the island. Just as with humans, the strongest birds had the best real estate. Off to their left, about one mile across the bay, was the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, its iron cross-work frame obscured by the fog.

“It’s beautiful here,” Sara said.

“Tell that to my ex-wife.”

She looked at him. “What?”

He shook his head. “Actually, forget I said that. It’s not worth talking about.”

Poking up from the center of the concourse was the large rounded surface of a cistern. Jack knew that there were no water lines out here and the island had been specially designed to collect rain. Water was so scarce, in fact, that the night he and Rachel visited, they hadn’t been allowed to shower before bed. Such a privilege was granted only to visitors on extended stays.

They moved past the cistern toward the main house, and the closer they got, the more reticent Jack began to feel. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it but he suddenly felt as if something were off, his fight-or-flight instinct quietly kicking into gear.

He glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, Mr. Laser Pointer, who was standing just to his right, then turned to Wickham himself as they approached the house.

“Senator, who exactly are we meeting with?” Jack asked.

“I already told you,” Wickham said. “People we can trust. Probably the
only
people we can trust.”

Then they passed under a set of white stairs that led to the second floor and moved onto the small porch fronting the first-floor entrance.

The interior of the house matched its exterior—old, quaint, with a Victorian-style flavor, all the way down to the furniture. The foyer walls were lined with framed black-and-white photos of the light station in years gone by, along with old photos of Richmond and San Francisco and the bay.

As they stepped inside, Jack could hear voices.

“It’s just past dinnertime,” Wickham said, “so they’re probably all in the dining room to your left. Let’s go in and make introductions.”

It sounded more like a command than a request, but Jack and Sara turned to their left, moving through a doorway into a narrow room dominated by a long white-clothed dining table.

Everyone stopped talking when they entered.

Seven men sat at the table, dirty dishes and drinks and ashtrays in front of them, cigars in hand, the sickly-sweet smell of their smoke hanging in the air. Jack recognized a few of the men immediately, all of them old-timers like Wickham—Senator Mitch Tomlinson, a Democrat from Maine; William Arland, a high-powered financial consultant and former chairman of the Federal Reserve; James Featherstone, an undersecretary at the British Home Office; and Clyde Parkinson, former assistant director of the FBI. The others were undoubtedly movers and shakers of the same caliber, but their faces weren’t familiar to Jack.

Except one.

At the far end of the table sat a man who always got his blood pumping. A man he had hated with such ferocity for the last two years that he felt like leaping across the table and strangling him. It was the man responsible for the smear campaign that had destroyed his career.

He spoke directly to Jack with a distinct Austrian accent. “Have a seat, why don’t you, Mr. Hatfield.”

It was billionaire Lawrence Soren.

33

“What the hell
is
this?” Jack said, turning to Wickham. “What’s going on?”

“I think you should do as he says. Sit.”

It was like a command to one of his dogs.

Sara looked completely deflated. Jack grabbed her arm and started to back from the table, but Wickham’s bodyguard got up behind them in the doorway and Jack felt the muzzle of a gun against his lower back.

This wasn’t good.

“You and your girlfriend are looking as shy as mail-order brides,” Wickham said with a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of here. We’re the good guys.”

“Is that why I’ve got a gun at my back?”

Now Lawrence Soren smiled. He was about seventy-six years old, with thin blond hair, a pasty-white complexion, and large bulbous blue eyes. Jack had always thought he looked like a former SS officer.

“We have to be cautious,” Soren said. “You’re an unpredictable sort. You’ve certainly proven that over the last several days—if not your entire career. So
do
be seated. Or, contrary to what the senator says, there
will
be something to fear.”

Another man stepped in through a doorway behind Soren. He was carrying a Glock 9mm.

Jack and Sara exchanged glances, but what choice did they have? They pulled out chairs and sat, Jack feeling his chest grow tight with tension.

“You need to relax,” Soren said, correctly reading his expression. “All this hatred you hold for me is not healthy. Perhaps if we took the time to discuss the world, we might find we have more in common than you think.”

“I doubt it,” Jack said.

“Oh?” Soren’s thick white brows went up. “Look around you. Here you have a room full of men from all ends of the political spectrum, yet we’ve managed to put aside our differences and come together for a common cause.”

“And what cause is that?”

“Restoring sanity to the world. Surely you can appreciate such a sentiment.”

“Depends on your definition of sanity. Yours no doubt has something to do with preserving the sanctity of your fascist agenda, along with your all-important pocketbook.”

Soren nodded in acquiescence. “There are always concerns about money, of course. We here are men of privilege who have no interest in losing what we’ve earned. Which is why we’ve learned, over the years, to back the winning horses.”

“Meaning what?”

Soren leaned back in his chair. “I think anyone who looks at the world today can clearly see that the Zionists are the cause for all the unrest in the Middle East.”

“
That
big lie? You gotta be kidding me.”

“The policies of Israel and the United States are strangling Israel’s neighbors. And it’s obvious to anyone with any intelligence that the Jews rule the world by proxy. Right now, as we speak, preparations are being made to ship plutonium to the Jewish state, out of our very own ports. Here we are, helping the Israelis build their nuclear arsenal while we treat the countries around them, Muslim countries”—he made a point of glancing at Sara—“with complete disrespect, telling their leaders that they’re too unruly and immature to have such weapons of their own.”

“Israel is a democracy and our only ally—”

“And
you
talk of big lies?” Soren interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “But that discussion is for another time, assuming you have another time. What I’ve just told you is why we, a consortium of concerned citizens, have decided to back the underdog in this race. We’ve begun channeling money and resources into the Hand of Allah in the hope of putting an end to this Zionist stranglehold.”

Jack rose from his chair. “What is
wrong
with you people?” He turned to Wickham. “Hal, tell me you’re not falling for this racist crap?”

“You’re one to talk about racism,” Soren remarked.

Jack wanted to punch him. Again. He ignored the SOB, continued to stare at Wickham.

The senator shrugged and took a puff off his cigar. “I’m a businessman first, Jack, you know that. These people have control of resources I need. I figure it’s better to make friends with them than to kick ’em in the ass and try to steal it.”

“And commit treason in the process?”

Wickham frowned. “One man’s treason is another man’s revolution.”

“So you lied to me,” Jack said. “You didn’t do a thing with that information we gave you. Haddad and his crew are still out there planning their assault on the Legion of Honor as we speak.”

Wickham said nothing and the gun touched Jack’s back again as a hand on his shoulder forced him down into the chair.

“True regime change is rarely peaceful,” Soren said with affected regret. “We may manage it here in America every four years or so without bloodshed, but all we get for our trouble are the same Zionist puppets with the same policies that are destroying this country and the world. As you know, I had high hopes for our current President, but he’s turned out to be quite a disappointment to all of us on many different levels. So if we’re to succeed in bringing our own vision to fruition, we need to shake things up a bit. The Hand of Allah will help us do that. It’s 1933 all over again. You end the Depression in Germany by firing up the masses, having them reclaim
their
wealth from the Jews. You end the threat to America’s homeland by scaring the masses, assuring them they will be safe from future attacks if they restore Arab land taken by the Jews.”

“Helluva role model you’ve chosen,” Jack remarked.

“You’re missing the point.”

“No, I’ve got it. Scapegoating works. I experienced that firsthand.”

“This is not scapegoating,” Soren said. “It’s about forging a strategic alliance with someone who can control hundreds of millions of people and billions of dollars in resources. If you took just a moment to listen to him, you’d realize that Faakhir Zuabi is a great visionary and a great leader. And I think our partnership with him will be of benefit to all of us. Including you.”

Jack balked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re a wonderful communicator, Jack. You have a friendly, trustworthy manner about you, but you can be a bulldog when you need to and people respond to it.”

“That’s all in the past, thanks to you.”

“Something that can be easily remedied. What if, in the face of devastation, you were to become the spokesperson for America?
Our
spokesperson.”

“Wait—you want me to
join
you?”

Soren shrugged. “It’s either that or die.”

Sara stood now, her eyes blazing. “You wanks are certifiably insane.”

Hearing that expression come from Sara’s mouth shocked Jack nearly as much as anything else he’d heard here.

Soren offered her a patient smile as the bodyguard nudged her back into the chair. “We’re merely pragmatists, my dear. You cannot blame anyone for that.” He looked at Jack again. “So what do you say, my friend. Are you with us or no?”

Jack stared at him, the urge to leap across the table still burning in his gut. “Up yours.”

Soren sighed. “I expected as much. But I had to try.” He rose from his chair and gestured. “Gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the parlor upstairs? I believe Mr. Hatfield and his lovely friend here have an appointment.”

Chairs scraped back around the table, the men all glancing at Jack and Sara as they filed out past the thug with the Glock and disappeared from sight.

Soren, however, stopped just shy of the doorway and turned. “It’s a shame, Jack. You and I have been at odds for so long. Imagine what we could do if we were to come together for a common cause.”