The Assassin's List (16 page)

“Anything else you think I should know before the meeting tomorrow? I don’t want any surprises, after the problems I created when I agreed to take those bodies off your hands. The FBI hates it when we step in, then leave them holding the bag when we leave town.”

“No, that’s all I know. If you learn anything about ISIS or the Valencias before the meeting, I’d appreciate a call.”

He watched her walk out before taking out his wallet to pay for their drinks. She reminded him of Kay in a lot of ways. She was tall, beautiful, and self-confident. Kay was passionate about teaching and Liz seemed passionate about her work with DHS. He hoped her passion was more about protecting the country than her career, though. If it was just about her career, she wouldn’t risk it to save his neck. He would know tomorrow, one way or the other.

Chapter 26

Saturday morning started out to be a warm day. After a decent night’s sleep and a run with Lancer, Drake treated himself to a chorizo scramble breakfast with chorizo sausage, red potatoes, sweet onions, jack cheese and three eggs at the nearby Black Walnut Inn and Vineyard. The scramble was only on the menu during the winter months, but he knew the owner, who was also the Inn’s chef.

The Inn was designed to look like an old Tuscan villa, with ochre walls and a red-tiled roof. Set atop a south-facing ridge with a new vineyard planted below, it was one of the newest attractions in the area. Drake was able to enjoy it all without being a guest at the inn. To be neighborly, he had offered to cut his hourly rate in half if his legal services were ever needed. So far, he had the better end of the deal.

After fortifying himself for his meeting with the JTTF, he took his time driving into the city. Driving usually relaxed him. Today, his mind was wrapped around the puzzle of ISIS.

Thirty minutes after leaving the Black Walnut Inn, Drake pulled into the parking garage across the street from the Crown Plaza building and found a parking spot on the top floor. Shoppers were out early this Saturday morning, eager to work off their pent-up need to spend their week’s earnings.

Walking across the street brought him to the security guard station just inside the building that housed, for the most part, government offices. Drake signed the register for visitors, took off his watch, put his wallet and keys in the tray, and walked through the metal detector. On the other side, he collected his things and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The elevator opened onto a reception area for the Portland FBI office.

“Adam Drake,” he told the young receptionist behind a bulletproof glass enclosure, “I’m here to meet with Liz Strobel and the JTTF.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here,” she said, and punched an extension number into her console before saying, “Mr. Drake is here to see you, Ms. Strobel.”

Before he had time to sit, a metal door with a security pad opened and Liz Strobel motioned for him to follow. She looked every bit the executive assistant of the Director of DHS this morning. She wore a camelhair jacket over a dark brown blouse and striped slacks. Her tightly pressed lips didn’t allow a word of greeting to escape them.

Following her down a long hallway, Drake entertained the thought that her passion for her career had probably triumphed. Strobel walked ahead of him into a conference room where three men sat at a long mahogany conference table. There were only two pictures on the walls, a picture of the president and a picture of the twin towers before they collapsed. The American flag stood in the corner beside the two pictures. It was an appropriate place to meet with the terrorism task force.

Bruce Burton sat on the right side of the table across from where Drake stood. He had met Burton before, but hadn’t dealt with him since he took over the JTTF. Six feet tall, probably two hundred pounds, he looked like someone who had played football in college, which he had. Burton played halfback at Notre Dame.

“Hello, Bruce,” Drake said, reaching across the table to shake his hand.

“Adam,” Burton said, shaking his hand without standing. “You’ve met John Mason from the Secret Service and on my left is Robert Jorgenson. He works with me on the task force. Have a seat. We have a few questions for you.”

Jorgenson was the youngest of the three men on the other side of the table. A gung-ho FBI newbie, from the looks of him. Crew-cut blond hair, and a dark gray suit that didn’t conceal a body hardened by hours in the gym. Baby-blue eyes he was trying his best to make look fierce. Drake gave him a nod that wasn’t returned.

“Perhaps you could start by telling me why you killed the men who came to your farm last night?” Burton began.

“Self-defense, Bruce,” Drake answered coldly.

“You could have called nine-one-one and waited for help. Maybe there’d be someone alive to question besides you,” Burton responded.

Drake felt his pulse starting to race. It was always the Monday-morning quarterbacks who wanted to know why you didn’t retreat.

“If I had waited, Bruce, the person alive right now wouldn’t be me. Besides, the law doesn’t require me to retreat before using deadly force against the imminent use of deadly physical force, and you know it,” Drake said, quoting Oregon’s law regarding deadly force. “You’ve read the reports by now, you know what happened out there.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea what happened all right,” Burton said. “You did what you were trained to do—kill the enemy before he kills you. John got the Secretary to obtain your service record. You might be a little rusty, but I’d say you’re still an efficient operator.”

Drake looked at the man across the table without reacting to his statement. Delta Force soldiers were known as operators. Their records were supposed to be sealed, to protect the identity of men who did things the government needed done. He wasn’t happy that Burton knew enough about him to call him an operator.

“Look, I’m not here to bust your balls, Drake,” Burton said. “But before we stand up for you with the press and the Muslim clerics, I have to be convinced there was no way you could have avoided killing those three men.”

“My dog woke me up, signaling danger outside. I saw three men surrounding my house, armed with AK 47s and one MP5. Those are weapons I recognized. They are not used for peaceful purposes in the dead of night. My only chance against all three of them was to take them out one at a time. I tried to subdue them, but they kept fighting. One whispered ‘
Allahu Akbar
’ with his last breath. The last one, the guy I thought was their leader, turned his MP5 on me at the last second. I didn’t have a choice,” Drake explained.

Glancing briefly at each of the others seated at the table, Burton said, “Why don’t you tell him what we learned about these three, John.”

John Mason leaned forward, opened the file in front of him, took out three photos clipped to NCIC printouts, and slid them across the table to Drake.

“You don’t need to read their rap sheets,” Mason said, “mostly robberies, assaults, carjackings and drugs. We identified them from their fingerprints, which were about the only things they hadn’t altered since leaving prison. They converted to Islam in prison, took new Muslim names, and disappeared. Their parole officers didn’t know where they were and had no idea why they were in Portland. They haven’t broken any laws that we know of, since they left prison. Until last night, that is. That’s all we know at this point. We don’t know where they were living or how they’ve been supporting themselves.”

Drake was surprised they had all been living with no known means of support and no new crimes they were being sought for. Usually felons either tried to go straight, at least initially, or reverted to their old ways of supporting themselves.

“Okay,” Burton said, after Mason closed his file and sat back in his chair, “so these guys were bad guys, despite what the imams are telling us. You have any idea why they came after you?”

Drake met Burton’s gaze directly and shook his head. “None of my old cases or anything I’m working on now would give these guys any reason to want me dead. The only possible connection, and it’s nothing I can prove, is my poking around the murder at Martin Research, starting two days ago.”

“Liz told us about you following this ISIS guy yesterday and the drug dealer he met for lunch. Why do you think this has anything to with the other night at your farm?”

Drake looked at Burton and smiled. “I don’t believe in coincidences, or random acts of violence. I doubt that you do either. I visited the ISIS office Thursday afternoon, trying to find out what caused the security lapse at Martin Research. At about the same time, the head of security at Martin research was killed. Whoever did it, tried to make it look like a suicide. That same night three guys came after me. The next day I see the ISIS manager having lunch with a felon I convicted, who apparently has access to a private ISIS facility in Hood River. That’s why.”

“It’s not against the law to have lunch with a parolee,” the blond kid injected, rolling his eyes. “Maybe he was interviewing the guy for a job at their ranch up there, you ever consider that?”

“No hotshot, I didn’t,” Drake said, tired of the hostile looks he’d received from the kid since entering the room. “And if you were using the brain the FBI hired you to use, you wouldn’t consider it either. ISIS can’t hire felons and have firms that do secret research for the government as clients.”

As the kid started to get out of his chair, Burton took control of the situation. “Sit down Jorgenson, and keep quiet. Maybe you can learn something.”

Looking back at Drake, Burton continued, “The ISIS manager’s meeting with someone you know is a felon doesn’t impress me. Maybe he doesn’t know the guy’s a felon. I’m more interested in any information you might have that warrants my involvement. We’re sitting on three bodies in the morgue. Ms. Strobel is concerned there might be a connection between the murder at Martin Research, these dead Muslims, and the Secretary’s visit next week. You have anything that indicates a terrorist threat is mixed in with all of this? Anything that I should let the Secret Service worry about?”

Burton was a good man, but Drake could see why this meeting had been called. The JTTF and the FBI weren’t about to jump into another terrorist investigation. Their last one blew up in their faces. They had arrested and jailed a Portland lawyer after a misread fingerprint linked him to a terrorist train bombing in Madrid. It cost the government two million dollars when they settled his lawsuit.

“You know the terrorism angle better than I do, Bruce. The dots are possibly there, but I don’t see how they’re connected,” Drake admitted, and watched relief flood over Burton’s face.

“Good. Glad you agree with us. We’ll do everything we can to smooth over the killings on your farm. Ms. Strobel will keep you advised about that, and we’ll back up your story about when and where things took place. If there’s anything we can do to help with the police investigation, you call me,” Burton said as he stood, signaling the end of the meeting.

Drake left, realizing he was on his own. If ISIS sent the three gunmen his way, as he suspected, it was up to him to prove it.

Chapter 27

David Barak, aka “Malik,” left his twenty-seventh floor penthouse, one block off the Las Vegas strip, to head to the airport. He was accompanied by his personal bodyguard, Jamal James, a former defensive tackle for the San Diego Chargers. At six foot eight inches and three hundred fifty pounds, Jamal was a menacing presence that Barak was proud to have in his employ. Jamal wasn’t just a big body. His eyes shined with intelligence, his movements were both graceful and quick, and he was loyal. People were impressed that a man of such obvious strength and quality was his servant. Barak was most impressed with the man’s unswerving loyalty. The President of the United States might have his Secret Service to stop bullets for him, but Barak had Jamal.

“Jamal, when we get to Oregon, I want you to have the biggest steak the chef at the ranch can find,” he said, as they took the elevator down to the waiting limousine. “You’ve been a loyal friend. Is there anything you might want to do while I’m busy for several hours?”

“No sir, dinner will be enough. I thought I’d just wait for you in the plane. Still haven’t gotten used to flying around in so much luxury,” Jamal said with a wry smile on his broad face. “The quarterbacks always got the private jets.”

In America, Barak had learned that symbolism was everything. Bodyguards, expensive cars, private planes, big homes, and clothing and watches that cost as much as two-thirds of the world earned in a year, were symbols of achievement, worth, and superiority. He had chosen to put his headquarters in America’s gaudiest city, where symbolism was everything. It reminded him every day why America was a fraud and had to be destroyed. A country that celebrated actors above teachers, banned its religions from public places and catered to man’s most basic instincts, in the most vile and public ways, could not be allowed to remain the world’s leader.

So he put on the symbols America cherished and was recognized as a business leader, a man of means. His company, ISIS, was a world leader in security services and executive protection. Because of its success, he had access to the secrets of many of the world’s largest corporations and its most famous and influential people. Soon, he would make use of that access to shock the rich and powerful. He would make them all wish they had not allowed their governments to make war on Islam.