The Camel Club

“But he was wet.”

“Yeah, but if you wanted it to seem like someone had swum all that way, what would you do?”

Kate thought for a moment. “Dunk him in the water.”

“Right, you’d dunk him in the water. And then there’s motivation. No one I talked to knew anything about Johnson dealing drugs. Hell, his fiancee was so ticked she threatened to sue me for even suggesting it might be true!”

“Like I always said, Secret Service doesn’t miss the details.”

“But come on, it’s not like we’re inherently better than the FBI with this stuff. They should’ve seen it too. I think there’s a lot of pressure from up top to put this to rest the easy way.”

“If someone brought him to the island and they didn’t want to use a car for fear of being seen, what would they do?”

As they were talking, they saw a police boat slowly pass.

Alex and Kate looked at each other and said together, “A boat!”

“That’s not something that’s easy to hide,” Alex said slowly.

Kate looked up and down the waterfront. “I’m game if you are.”

They threw their ice cream containers in the trash and headed down to the water.

It took them a solid hour, but they finally found it when Kate spotted a tip of the bow sticking out from the drainage ditch.

“Good eyes,” Alex complimented.

She slipped off her sandals and Alex his shoes and socks. He rolled up his pants, and they scrambled down there as a couple of passersby watched curiously. Alex ran his gaze over the old wooden rowboat, stopping at one point and putting his face very near the hull. “That looks like a bullet hole.”

“And that could be blood,” Kate said, pointing to a small dark patch near the gunwale.

“Which doesn’t make a lot of sense, unless they killed Johnson in the boat and then took him to the island. It was foggy that night, so I guess it could’ve been done without anyone seeing.”

“So what do you do with all this?” Kate asked.

Alex rose and pondered this. “I’d like to see if the blood matches Patrick Johnson’s or if it’s someone else’s. But if the director finds out I’ve been poking around this case again, I’m going to end up in a brand-new Service outpost in Siberia. That is, if he doesn’t kill me with his bare hands.”

“I can nose around,” Kate offered.

“No. I don’t want you anywhere near this. Some of the thoughts going through my head are downright scary. For now we’ll just have to leave it alone.”

CHAPTER

42

CAPTAIN JACK LOOKED AT THE note that had just been delivered. The message was coded but he’d memorized the key and quickly deciphered it. It was hardly good news:

Gray met with me today. He accessed some files, but I can’t find out which ones because he put an override on. He mentioned the resurrection of the dead to me personally. I discovered he made the same statement to other senior people here. He’s obviously fishing, to see who would jump at the bait. That’s why I sent this by courier. Go ahead with plans. I will hold down this end. Communicate via Charlie One from now on.

The problem with trying to communicate in this day and age was that it was virtually impossible to do so in secret if you used modern technology. Spy satellites were everywhere, and faxes, computers, cell and hard-line phones and e-mails were all potentially monitored. It was no wonder terrorists had resorted to couriers and handwritten messages. Ironic, that modern surveillance technology was driving them all back to the Stone Age. Charlie One was simple to use: coded messages on paper delivered by a trusted messenger, with the paper destroyed after being read.

The Secret Service advance team would be arriving in Brennan very soon. Shortly after that, the president would fly into Pittsburgh on Air Force One, and the most heavily guarded motorcade in history would make its way to Brennan. There they would be confronted by what some would consider a ragtag army of mostly forty-something men and one young woman. Yet Captain Jack would bet on his crew. He took his lighter and burned the letter to ash.

After she’d said her final prayer of the day, Djamila stood in front of her bathroom mirror and studied her features. Today was her twenty-fourth birthday; however, she thought she looked older than that; the last few years had not been kind to her. There had never been enough food and not enough clean water, and there were far too many nights of sleeping without a roof over her head. And bullets and bombs dropping all around you aged you faster than anything else. At least she now had enough to eat. America was the land of abundance, she’d often been told. They had so much, she thought, and it was hardly fair. It was said that there were homeless people here and children who went hungry, but she didn’t believe that. It couldn’t be possible. That was just American propaganda to make people pity them! Djamila swore in Arabic at this thought. Pity them?

She was twenty-four years old, alone and halfway around the world from where she belonged. Her family was all gone. Murdered. She felt the lump in her throat growing. And a moment later she was choking back the tears. She quickly wet a towel and put it over her face, letting the cool fabric dry the tears.

Recovered, she grabbed her purse and van keys and shut the door to her apartment, being careful to make sure it was securely locked.

She had been told that there would always be one of Captain Jack’s men watching her van wherever it was parked. They could not afford to let the vehicle be stolen. There was not time to get another one like it.

Captain Jack was a strange man, she thought. An American who spoke fluent Arabic was not common. He seemed to know the customs and history of the Islamic world better than some Muslims. Djamila had been instructed that whatever he told her to do she must obey. It had not seemed right at first, taking orders from an American. Yet, after meeting him in person, there was an aura of authority around the man that she couldn’t deny.

Driving her van around the area in the evening had become a ritual for Djamila. It was as much to unwind after a long day of playing nanny to three energetic boys as it was to commit to memory the various roads and shortcuts necessary to her task. She drove into downtown Brennan and passed by Mercy Hospital. Adnan al-Rimi was not on duty, but Djamila wouldn’t have known him if she saw him. In the same vein she had no reason to look to the right and eye the apartment where, at that moment, a pair of camouflaged M-50 sniper rifles were trained on the hospital as part of a practice round.

Her path took her by the auto repair shop. Out of habit she drove down the alley past a set of overhead doors situated there, their windows painted black. Her route on that day would take her through the southern tip of the downtown area, and then she would head west on the main road leading out of Brennan. In thirty minutes’ time her part would be over. She prayed to God that his wisdom and courage would guide her.

She continued her trek and soon passed by the ceremonial grounds. All she knew was that the president of this country would be speaking here before a very large crowd. Other than that, the grassy piece of earth meant little to her.

Her travels had taken her past the home of George and Lori Franklin, her employers. It was a very pretty home, if you liked the traditional architecture of America. But what Djamila enjoyed best about the Franklins’ home was the backyard. It was full of green grass to run across and trees for climbing and places to hide when she was playing games with the boys. Having grown up in a desert climate, Djamila had to admit that America was a very beautiful country. At least on the outside.

Djamila’s route back to her apartment took her past the Franklins’ house once more. As the van glided by, Djamila instinctively looked to the upper dormer windows where the three boys slept in two rooms. She had found herself becoming more and more attached to them. They were fine children who would no doubt grow up as haters