The Camel Club

“And only hit the president and a few others? That’s a mighty ineffective agent,” Martin said skeptically.

Alex’s gaze was on the TV screen. “Were the five people who went to the hospital a National Guardsman, two older men, a young woman and an elderly woman?”

Martin looked up from the file. “How in the hell did you know that?”

In response, Alex pointed to the screen. “Back up and run that sequence in slow motion.”

They all watched as Brennan started shaking hands along the rope line.

“Okay, stop right there,” Alex cried out.

Martin froze the playback.

“Look at the man’s hand,” Alex said, pointing to the National Guardsman’s prosthetic device.

“It’s a fake hand, Ford,” Sykes said. “A couple of the agents on the line noticed it.”

“Right, I saw him too,” Alex said. “He shakes with his right hand, which is artificial. And you’ll see Brennan shaking five more hands before he went down. Now roll the tape.”

The National Guardsman saluted the president.

“Stop it right there,” Alex said. “See, he saluted with his left hand. Or left hook. One hand and one hook?”

“So maybe he’s waiting to get the other one done,” Martin said impatiently.

“But why shake with your right and salute with your left?”

Sykes said, “I’m left-handed, but most people are right-handed. So I always shake with my right, but I sometimes salute with my left. So what?”

Martin said, “Okay, anybody else see anything?”

Alex kept studying the hand. “Can you zoom in on the guy’s hand?”

Martin and Sykes looked at him crossly.

“Just humor me, guys,” Alex said. “It’s not like anybody else here is spotting anything.”

Martin hit the zoom button until the prosthetic hand nearly filled the screen.

“Check that out,” Alex said, pointing.

“Check what out?” Martin exclaimed.

“The moisture on the guy’s palm.”

Sykes looked at Alex quizzically. “That’s sweat. It was a warm day, Alex.”

“Right. It was a warm day. But artificial hands don’t sweat.”

“Holy shit!” Martin yelled as he stared at the screen.

As the men were leaving a little later, Martin stopped Alex.

“Ford, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a damn hero actually.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Alex said. “And neither do I.”

CHAPTER

58

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS HAD passed, and a panicked America continued to wait for word on its missing president. The National Guardsman’s address had been tracked down, but he was long gone by the time they got there. The other sickened people at the hospital were found to be suffering from a powerful synthetic hallucinogen that was absorbed through the skin. Tests showed that it caused heart-attack-like symptoms, partial paralysis and feelings of imminent doom. The hospital had to call in CIA scientists and technicians to help identify the substance. The CIA quickly informed everyone that it had never used the drug on anyone, but the enemies of America certainly had, the bastards. The good news, however, was that the drug was not fatal, and its effects could be counteracted quite easily by existing medications. It appeared the substance had been transferred when the infected president shook hands with five more people standing in the rope line.

Another body had been found in a garage in downtown Brennan. Alex identified the man as the one driving the ambulance at the hospital. The garage was owned by an American businessman; however, no trace of him could be found. The ballistics report showed that the bullet removed from the dead man was fired from the same gun that had wounded Alex. The bullet had glanced off the Secret Service agent’s arm and embedded itself in a wooden railing. That coupled with the proximity of the garage to the hospital indicated strongly that the switch from the ambulance to Djamila Saelem’s van had taken place at the garage. The president had obviously been transferred from the van to something else, perhaps another vehicle, and then slipped out of the area.

Acting President Hamilton had spoken several times to the American people to reassure them that the country was stable and its leadership running smoothly, and that whoever had done this terrible thing would be severely punished. He demanded that whatever terrorist group had kidnapped James Brennan return him at once, unharmed, or the United States’ retaliation for the brutal act would be nothing short of annihilation for both the perpetrators and any countries aiding them.

However, the kidnapping had clearly stunned the United States. The financial markets had plummeted; people were afraid to leave their homes; the country had come to a standstill. It didn’t help matters that some Muslim extremists were calling upon the kidnappers to kill Brennan if he wasn’t already dead and show his body to the world.

The armed forces and the Strategic Air Command (SAC) were at DEFCON level 2, only the second time SAC had been placed on that level, the other being the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962. Even the events of 9/11 had only pushed the DEFCON level to 3. Military experts warned that depending on how things developed, the DEFCON level might very well go to 1, the highest. Then all bets were off.

The intelligence sector was doing all it could to identify the kidnappers. Diplomatic inquiries were also put out to all quarters. And the Pentagon was itching for a target on which to use its high-tech weaponry.

In a conversation with a senator on the Armed Services Committee, a three-star general said, “We’re through dicking around with these people. No more boots on the ground for them to shoot at. Just missiles through the air. They can kiss their asses good-bye this time.”

The senator did not disagree with him.

Already heightened tensions between the Islamic world and America were ratcheted ever higher. Although no terrorist organization had claimed responsibility, every slain terrorist in Brennan was an Arab. Astonishingly, their prints and other information had been run through NIC’s vast, comprehensive system and nothing had come back. It was unthinkable that the U.S. intelligence community had not a single byte of information about any of these perpetrators, but that indeed seemed to be the case.

Right now most people were not concentrating on that anomaly. They simply wanted their president back. And they wanted answers as to how this could have occurred in the first place.

Late in the evening on the day following the kidnapping Kate Adams knocked on the front door of Alex Ford’s house in Manassas after having called him repeated times without success.

Kate heard the soulful tunes of a guitar coming from somewhere inside. Those sounds stopped, and she listened as footsteps grew closer to the door.

“Yeah?”

“Alex, it’s Kate.”

Alex opened the door. He was unshaven and his hair a mess. He was wearing torn jeans, a dirty T-shirt and no shoes. His eyes were bloodshot, and Kate smelled alcohol on his breath. He was holding a black acoustic guitar in his right hand.

“You never returned my calls. I was really worried,” she said.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” he said curtly.

She stared at the instrument in his hand and then at the bandage on his arm. “How can you be playing guitar with a gunshot wound in your arm?”

“Who needs a sling when you have Jack Daniel’s?”

“Can I come in?”

He shrugged, stepped back and closed the door behind her.