“I’m surprised your house isn’t surrounded by media trucks.”
“They haven’t released my name. I’m just the unidentified Secret Service agent who screwed up and let someone kidnap the president.”
He led her into a small family room, and they sat down. The room had very little furniture. In fact, Kate thought, it was so barren that it almost looked like someone was either moving in or moving out. The only thing out of the ordinary was hundreds of shot glasses on one shelf.
“I have a shot glass from every place I visited while on protection detail.” She turned to find his gaze on her. “Not much to show after all those years, is it?” he said.
There was an awkward silence until he said, “You want something to drink?”
“Nothing as strong as what you’re having.”
He rose and came back a minute later with a glass of Coke on ice.
“No Jack, right?” she said warily.
“Nope, I’m actually fresh out. Funny, I had a whole bottle yesterday.”
“So that’s the plan? Stay here and drink yourself to death while you play Johnny Cash ballads?”
“It’s a plan,” he said dully.
“Not a very good one.”
“You have a better idea?”
“You promised to meet with Oliver and the others.”
“Oh, right, the Camera Club,” he said absently.
“No, the
“Whatever,” he said, and started strumming on his guitar.
Kate glanced around the room, and her gaze came to rest on a photo. She picked it up. The man in the picture was very tall and lean with a weathered face and a huge black pompadour slicked back to an exaggerated degree. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he was holding a guitar.
She glanced at Alex, who was watching her closely. “Your father?”
“The one and only Freddy ‘Hot Rod’ Ford,” he said.
“He doesn’t really look like Johnny Cash.”
“I know. More like Hank Williams, Sr.”
She put the photo back down and looked around.
“Not much of a life, is it?” he said.
Kate turned and saw Alex watching her.
“Being a Secret Service agent doesn’t mix really well with a home life,” he said.
She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not after you for your money.”
“Good thing.”
She sat back down, sipped her Coke and said, “You need to meet with Oliver, Alex. Remember, a woman has been kidnapped.”
“Then call in the FBI, although I think they’re tied up on
“They want you.”
He pointed to himself. “Look at me, Kate. If your sister were missing, would you really want me handling the case?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit!”
“Please, Alex, will you meet with them?”
“No, I won’t!”
“Why not!”
“I don’t owe you or anyone else a damn explanation!”
She set down her glass and stood. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She turned to leave, but he put a hand on her shoulder and turned her back toward him.
“I screwed up, Kate,” he said simply. “I didn’t do my job.”
“It wasn’t your fault. They almost killed you.”
“No, they suckered me like I was a rookie. This Middle Eastern security guard just
“You didn’t let him walk away. You figured out what they were up to.”
“Yeah, about sixty seconds too late, and in my job that doesn’t cut it.” He leaned against the wall. “You remember what Clint Hill, Kennedy’s Secret Service guy, told me?”
“That you didn’t want to be like him. Because he’d lost his president.”
“That’s right,” Alex said. “And now I know exactly what the man meant.”
CHAPTER
59
CARTER GRAY HAD BARELY SLEPT since Brennan disappeared, yet the NIC chief had little to show for his efforts. Thirty-six hours after the president had been kidnapped, he was sitting at a conference table at NIC. Across from him, shackled to a chair with two burly guards hovering nearby, was a man answering only to the name Farid Shah, which matched his official documents. Gray knew that it was all phony and had managed to wrest control of Shah from the FBI, based mainly on the fact that he had considerable dirt on the FBI director.
“Farid Shah from India,” Gray said. “But you’re not Indian.”
“My father was Indian, my mother was Saudi. I took after her,” the prisoner said quietly. His wounded arm was taped to his side. They were not going to allow him to wear a sling, since it would also make a very effective suicide tool.
“A Hindu marries a Muslim?”
“Out of a billion people you’d be surprised how much it happens.”
“And how exactly did you get from India to America?”
“America, it’s the land of opportunity,” he answered vaguely.
“Are Muslims now recruiting Hindus as terrorists?”
“I am a practicing Muslim. I’m sure you’ve watched me perform my
“You know, Mr. Shah, you look familiar to me.”
“I’ve found that to most Americans all of us look alike.”
“I’m not most Americans. And how exactly did you get your job as a security guard at the hospital?”
The prisoner looked down at his hands and said nothing.
“And who are these people?” Gray asked as he spread out the photos on the table. “Are these your family?” No reply.
“They were found in your apartment, so presumably, you know who they are. It’s interesting. On the backs of each photo are dates written in Arabic. They appear to be the dates of birth and death and also some other information.” Gray held up one photo of a teenage boy. “This says he was sixteen when he died. It also says he was killed during the Iran-Iraq war. Was he your brother? Which side of the war was he on? Which side were
Gray didn’t wait for an answer that he knew wasn’t coming. He picked up another photo, this one of a woman. “It says she was killed in what is written as the ‘first American invasion of Iraq.’ I’m assuming you’re referring to Persian Gulf One, when
Gray picked up one more picture, that of a teenage girl. He turned it around and read, “‘Killed in second American invasion of Iraq.’ Was this your daughter?” The prisoner was still studying his hands. “You’ve lost all these people, your family and friends in war and insurrection; Muslim against Muslim and then Muslim against American. Is that what this is all about?” Gray leaned in closer. “Is this all about revenge?”
