Brink of Chaos (12 page)

She shouldn’t have been so stunned. After all, Abigail had reviewed the reporter’s file once before. Yet there was that one little detail in those materials that she must have tucked away somewhere in her memory. Then it came back to her when she was in Denver, attending the Hewbright-for-President campaign event. Now that she was back in New York and had the big manila envelope in hand with all the documents, she checked it again — just to be sure. She had to be absolutely certain.

Now she was. It was right there in the photo — that unusual ring on Coliquin’s finger. Her head was reeling. Abigail was seated on the wraparound couch in the living room of her Manhattan penthouse with her feet up on the coffee table. She normally would have taken time to gaze through the big windows and enjoy the sunset over New York. But not today. Not with what she had just seen in the file photo. She had been leafing through the unpublished article on Alexander Coliquin by the late Curtis Belltether, the eccentric online journalist, and his other materials. It was the same piece that had been mailed to AmeriNews and the Jordans by Belltether, apparently right before he was shot to death in his hotel room two years before. With a landslide of ever-breaking news to cover, the AmeriNews staff sat on the article. But then, when Coliquin was elected secretary-general of the United Nations, his nasty background suddenly became newsworthy.

Now, as Abigail poured over her copy of the dead journalist’s notes
and his draft article, and the photo, it all came back to her. She realized that the contents of the reporter’s file had become important in ways she could not have imagined.

Just then, Deborah, who was in New York for the weekend, swung open the front door of the penthouse and announced herself. She strode into the room with Cal. She was slurping a huge plastic cup of soda.

“Well, howdy,” Abigail called out, perking up a little. “How was the movie?”

“Pretty good,” Cal said.

“Average,” Deborah said, then added, “I’m jumping into the shower. I feel grubby.”

Cal dumped himself down on the couch and looked at his mother hunched over the Belltether file.

“Homework?”

“Always.”

“Dad’s case?”

“In a way.”

“That’s a shocker!” Cal said sarcastically and gave a bright smile.

Abigail chuckled and set the file on the coffee table. “This might be tangentially related. It’s the investigative report by Curtis Belltether.”

Cal thought for a moment. “The reporter we talked about at the Roundtable meeting … the one who was murdered?”

“Yep.” Abigail nodded.

Cal studied his mother’s face. She wasn’t doing a good job of hiding her feelings. “Okay, Mom, what’s up?” he asked.

She motioned to the file. “When I met with Senator Hewbright in Denver, something triggered a suspicion. So I did some digging on my computer when I got back to Hawk’s Nest that night. Then I had even more suspicions. And then this. For me it was confirmation.” She turned on the couch so she could look straight at Cal. “Every once in awhile in life you stumble across something, and once you see it, you can’t get it out of your head. Something bad. Evil perhaps. And you know that once you see it, you can’t just sit by like a passive observer, as if you’re in a theater watching a movie. You have to do something. You have to take action.”

“You’ve completely lost me …”

“Senator Hewbright,” Abigail said. “He’s a good man. This country needs him as president. We discussed all this during the Roundtable.”

“Right.”

She chose her words cautiously. “I think he’s in deep trouble.”

“As in …”

“Personal danger.”

Cal thought for a few seconds. Then something registered on his face, and he quickly pulled out his Allfone. “Don’t know if this has anything to do with it, but saw this blurb on AmeriNews.”

“I confess,” Abigail said, “I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to read it recently.”

“I got you covered, Mom.” Cal tabbed through the recent news releases until he found the article. He handed the device to his mother. “Here it is. Story out of Wichita. The head of Hewbright’s campaign for that city was found dead. It’s pretty clear it was murder.”

“What is going on here? Two politically related murders. Things are definitely not right.” Abigail read the article. When she was done, she turned to her son. “Cal, we need to get hold of John Gallagher. Immediately.”

John Gallagher was seated in a small roadside diner, reading the plastic menu. He knew what he really wanted to eat — blueberry pancakes slathered with real butter and real maple syrup, a large side of hash browns, a side of sausage links and bacon, and a breakfast steak, cowboy style.

But alas, that was pure fantasy. He was watching his weight. The waitress finished waiting on several fellows in jeans and cowboy hats, then sauntered over to Gallagher. “What’s yer desire, darlin’ — breakfast or early lunch?”

“My desire, darlin’,” Gallagher cracked, “is a breakfast big enough to choke a horse. And this looks like the kind of place that could accommodate me. But instead, I’ll take coffee, black, no sugar, and an English muffin, no butter, and sugar-free strawberry jam.”

She jotted it down and threw him a smile. “Live long and prosper, city slicker.”

Gallagher leaned toward the plate-glass window and took in the view of the North Platte River and the mountains in the distance. A moment later, the person he was scheduled to meet was standing next to the table.

FBI Agent Ben Boling reached down and shook Gallagher’s hand.

“Sit down. I’ll buy you some coffee and breakfast,” Gallagher said.

Boling sat but shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m all caffeined up and had something to eat already.”

“Not surprising. You strike me as an early riser, Boling.”

“And you strike me as a nonriser.”

Gallagher guffawed. “Gee, didn’t think you knew me that well.”

“Your reputation precedes you. So, how have you been since leaving the Bureau?”

“Well, how do you think I look?” he said, stretching his arms out to exhibit his slimmer torso.

“Honestly, Gallagher, I can’t remember how you used to look. Remember, I didn’t work counterterrorism with you guys in New York. I’ve always done the mundane stuff — kidnapping over state lines, murder, mayhem. A little fraud on the side.”

“Well,” Gallagher said, “I wouldn’t call that mundane. Your investigation into the death of Perry Tedrich, Senator Hewbright’s Wichita campaign manager, sounds an itsy-bitsy bit exciting.”

“So, that’s what this meeting is about?”

“Bingo. I’m doing some checking, a favor for some friends, people who care about Hewbright’s health and personal safety.”

“Like the FBI doesn’t?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So, let me guess. You’re here at the behest of that bunch of gun-twirling vigilantes known as the Roundtable?”

“Ben, they’re good people who’ve been given a bad rap.”

“All I know is what I read in the Bureau’s 302 reports.”

“And you believe those?”

“Gallagher, I know you had a reputation as a maverick, buking the system, pushing the boundaries. But don’t expect me to trash the Bureau.”

“‘Course not. You got a kid in college and another in grad school. Rocking the boat doesn’t make sense for you. You see, I’ve done my homework too.”

“I’d be very careful. I could stand up and walk out of this place.”

“I know you could, but I don’t think you will.”

“Why not?”

“Because as special agents go nowadays, you’re one of the good ones. Staying on even though you’re hamstrung by Tulrude’s insane rules
and restrictions. And even with Attorney General Hamburg turning the Bureau into a politically correct day camp, you’ve managed to stick it out and still do your job well — which makes us different.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Because I was never smart enough to figure out how to do that. So I just left. But then again, for me it was time.”

The waitress came with Gallagher’s English muffin. When she left, Boling gestured to Gallagher’s skimpy breakfast. “Pretty Spartan.”

“My doc says I need to change my nutritional habits if I want to stay around for a while, which I definitely do. I’ve got some unfinished business.”

“Like?”

“Helping you catch the person who’s stalking Senator Hewbright right now … and planning his death.”

“You talk like that, and it makes my heart go all pitta-pat, makes me want to whip out my little pocket pad and start taking notes. After Miranda-izing you first, of course, seeing as you just inferred a threat against a candidate for the presidency of the United States.”

“But you’re not going to.”

Ben Boling leaned back in the booth. “No, I’m not. Instead, I’m going to ask you what you know, and where you got the information.”

“What I know is that there may be a risk to Hewbright from within his own campaign. And I got the tip from Abigail Jordan.”

“Ohhh …,” Boling said, rolling his eyes. Then he added, sarcastically, “At least you’ve got a source that isn’t controversial.”

“She’s top notch. Controversy doesn’t mean she doesn’t have credibility. I can’t tell you details yet, but she has some strong suspicions, and I think she may be right on target. So the question is — do you want to save the senator?” Gallagher raised a toasted English muffin, shook his head with a sorrowful look as he examined it, and took a large bite.

Boling leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Okay. I need to trust you here. Which is probably my first mistake.”

Instead of giving another smart-aleck zinger, Gallagher just listened as Boling continued.

“You probably figured out why I’m up here in Casper, Gallagher. Hewbright’s Senate seat is from Wyoming. His local office is here in Casper. So I’m doing the obvious.”

Gallagher offered his take on that. “Obvious as in, scrounging for leads among the locals from Hewbright’s stomping ground. And as in, questioning Hewbright’s local office for details on the campaign worker killed in Wichita?”

Boling smiled.

“Any leads?” Gallagher asked.

“Not yet. And if I had any, I couldn’t tell you the gritty details. You’re a civilian now, Gallagher. Sorry.”

“And of course,” Gallagher said nonchalantly, “you checked the records for the visitors to the Wichita campaign office where the victim worked. To see who, from Hewbright’s circle of confidants, may have visited there shortly before Tedrich’s disappearance?”

“Did you even consider the fact,” Boling shot back, “that the murder may have been purely random — with no political connection to Hewbright’s campaign at all?”

“Could be,” Gallagher replied, “but I’d still check it out, people in—people out.”

“Don’t worry. The local police are already doing the spadework.”

“I’d check it yourself. Real close. Find out who from Hewbright’s national staff may have visited Tedrich unofficially right before he vanished.”

Boling squinted. “I just might do that.” Then he added, “So, Gallagher, I just have one question.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s Abigail Jordan’s interest in all this?”

“Seems clear enough to me,” Gallagher said with a shrug as he popped the rest of the English muffin into his mouth. When he was done and his mouth was empty, he wiped it with a napkin and then finished his thought.

“She wants to save America.”

As she sat with her mother in the family’s New York penthouse, Deborah Jordan felt particularly low. She had just realized that she was like her father in one way — she too could bury her hurt and pretend it wasn’t there. But only for a while. Eventually it would come bubbling out. Like now.

Deborah had to admit her mother was right. “Okay. Sure. At the time, yes, I was devastated.”

“I know you were, dear,” Abigail said, “but what about now? How do you feel about Ethan?”

“I know it was the right thing to do,” Deborah said. She was pensive but sure she was right. Outside, the night had fallen and the lights of the New York City skyline outlined the skyscrapers, as if they were studded with tiny blinking jewels.

Deborah rested her foot on her overnight bag, which was already packed on the floor in front of her. “I like Ethan,” she said. “He’s a good man … just not the one for me. Since we broke up I’ve been absolutely convinced of that. But I owe him some contact. I want to find out how he’s doing.”

There was a flicker of a smile in the corner of Abigail’s mouth. “Oh, he’s probably been dragged into a world of trouble, considering that your father’s his boss now …”

Both of them burst into laughter.

Deborah reached out and rubbed her mother’s hand. “You really miss Dad, don’t you?”

“Honey, I ache for Josh. I know the Lord is allowing this for some reason. But it does hurt being away from him.”

“I miss him too,” Deborah said. “My constant prayer is that all of us — you, Dad, Cal, and I — can have a grand reunion sometime. Very soon, I hope.”

“I feel in my heart it’s going to happen. You may be too young to think this way — but I also feel this wonderful peace — about all of us being together with the Lord. Heaven is going to be the ultimate reunion.”

“Lately you and Dad seem to be talking end-times stuff constantly. It’s pretty clear you think things are rushing toward the last days, don’t you?”

“I know some of the media coverage makes us look like we’re running around crying that the sky is falling. But when God lays it out in the Bible, and you see the pattern of world events converging — lining up the way that Scripture describes — I think it would be wrong to keep quiet about it.”

Deborah tapped the back of her mother’s hand with her finger. “This,” Deborah said, “is going to be a problem for you, Mom. I’m hearing all kinds of stuff at the Pentagon about how the feds are going after nontaggers. That’s what they are calling you people who didn’t get the BIDTag. On the other hand, there’s something else … maybe good news.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s this guy, Tom Birdow, he works at DISA, the defense information agency. He’s always stopping by my desk —”

“My daughter, the man magnet!”

Deborah tried not to smile but found it impossible. “Oh, you are such a mom …”

“Alright, so this Tom guy …”

“Yeah, he’s always dropping tidbits of information about what’s happening with the Security Identification Agency and Homeland Security regarding the BIDTag. Right before I came up here, he mentioned a possible amnesty program for nontaggers. President Tulrude shot it down, but Tom heard it may come up again.”

Abigail smiled and looked out at the black sky and the twinkling lights of the city. “Don’t worry about that, darling,” she said to her daughter. “I won’t be getting a BIDTag. That’s all there is to it.”

Deborah’s eyes flashed like she wanted to pursue it, but instead, she switched to something else. “What were you and Cal talking about earlier — after we got home from the movie?”

“About some concerns of mine, about Senator Hewbright’s campaign and the senator himself.”

“Concerns … like what?”

Abigail leaned over and pulled her daughter close. “My dear, have I told you lately how proud I am of your position at the Pentagon?”

Deborah rolled her eyes and smiled. “Nice dodge, Mom.”

“No, not dodging. The fact is that you work in the Department of Defense. Given that, I have to be careful about the things I can share with you.”

“Come on …”

“I’m serious. I don’t want to put you in a compromising position because of information you learn from me. You know, about the Roundtable. Things like that.”

“So — you’re shutting me out?”

“No. I’m protecting you.”

“I still think that’s a lame excuse, pardon my bluntness.”

“Once in a while you remind me so much of your dad. Blunt is okay. Sometimes.”

Abigail looked down at Deborah’s overnight bag on the floor. “I’m sorry to see you leave, but you’d better get going so you can catch your cab to the station. The zip train isn’t going to wait.”

As Deborah stood up and gave her mother a long hug, Abigail whispered in her ear, “Who knows, dear, how God might use your position at the Pentagon.”

The banquet hall was filled with fourteen hundred campaign contributors, who had all given at least $20,000 apiece. In the soft glow of
the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, President Tulrude was wrapping up her address to her party faithful.

The waitstaff hurried the plates from the table, careful not to intrude on the president’s address. In the back of the room, one of the smiling waiters had his Allfone turned on video function and was holding it discreetly under a towel with the lens pointing at the president.

“And no one can deny,” she said, “my impressive record on national security. Since my succession to the White House and the implementation of my BIDTag program, not a single act of terrorism has been perpetrated against this great nation. When I took over, we had domestic airplanes being shot at and a nuclear nightmare in New Jersey. Today we are safer than we have ever been. Terrorists like Anwar al-Madrassa and his ilk are on the run, hiding in their caves. We have them stymied because they cannot sneak their operatives across our borders. They can’t have their thugs show up at airports, malls, public buildings, sports stadiums, or train stations — because if they do, our BIDTag scanners will pick them up. If they have been tagged, then we have access to their data. And if they haven’t been tagged, our nationwide scanners in every public place will alert us — so either way, in a heartbeat, we’ve got them!”

That provoked a standing ovation. It lasted a full minute. When the crowd finally returned to their seats, Tulrude continued, “We have answered the pundits who said my program wouldn’t work. We have responded to the civil-liberties advocates — I know many of them personally and respect them — and the courts have upheld the constitutionality of my identification program. As for the fanatics who wail and moan about my bringing about the end of the world, wondering whether I have a 666 on my forehead …” The room erupted in raucous laughter. “As for them,” she continued, “if they say I’m the devil, well, then I say to hell with them!”

Gleefully, the audience rose again to their feet, laughing, shouting, and applauding wildly.

In a sparsely furnished apartment off Ibn-e Sina Road, the reigning terror King, Anwar al-Madrassa, was holding court. His three deputies sat on the floor in front of him. Madrassa was lounging on a worn couch next to a tea table, on which stood a tarnished brass hookah. The screen on Madrassa’s personal laptop was illuminated. They had just finished watching a video on YouTube.

Madrassa smiled beneficently. “So, you all paid close attention to President Tulrude’s remarks?”

The deputies on the floor nodded in unison.

“And what did you notice?”

One lieutenant offered a thought. “She is arrogant.”

“Of course, of course,” Madrassa said, brushing it off. “She is an American infidel.”

Smiles and chuckles from the men on the floor.

Another deputy shouted out. “She is very proud of her BIDTag program.”

“Ah, yes,” Madrassa said, nodding, “boasting that there have been no attacks on her homeland since it began. What she does not know is that we take our time. And now, my beloved friends, that time has come.”

He reached down to his laptop and tapped a corner of the screen, then waved his finger over the menu until two photographs appeared. Under each was a name in Arabic.

Madrassa explained, “I have been in touch with certain intermediaries. They, in turn, have been in contact with the highest political powers. You see? From this humble little apartment, Allah be praised, our influence has now reached all the way up to the meeting places of world leaders. By using their blind assistance, we will begin to mount our most dramatic campaign of all. The first stage is ready to begin. Would you like to see for yourselves who will be the first targets of our fiery retribution?”

The eyes of the men on the floor flashed.

Anwar al-Madrassa turned the screen so they could examine the
faces. “Two infidel enemies of our most holy jihad have set themselves against us … but not for long.”

On the screen was a photo of a man and of a woman. Under the pictures were names.

Joshua Jordan. Abigail Jordan
.