Hawk nodded. “It wasn’t that difficult to figure out, was it?”
Kejal flashed a faint smile. “If you plan to stop them from using it, you need to go to the Strait of Hormuz.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“They are going to target oil tankers and create chaos with the markets.”
“That’s their goal?”
Kejal shrugged. “I’m not sure. I hear whispers when I get into meetings, information I’m sure Fazil or any of the leaders wouldn’t want someone as lowly as me to hear. But I’ve heard them nevertheless.”
“And you’re sure about this?”
“A team of several men was dispatched there two days ago to deploy the weapon. I’m not sure when they plan to start firing it, but the results will be disastrous.”
“And Fazil has no other plans?”
“I can’t be certain of anything else. I don’t have the clearance to attend such meetings. I just glean what I can from listening to the men talk. But Fazil always seems to be planning something, and there’s been talk of something really big. Maybe this attack in the Strait of Hormuz is what they were talking about.”
“Thanks, Kejal. I only need to know one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How do I get out of here without being seen? Given my current state, I don’t think I would fare well if I had to engage any guards.”
Kejal gave Hawk an escape route as well as the keys to one of Al Hasib’s vehicles located in the garage.
“Take my keffiyeh, and make sure to wrap this scarf around your mouth,” Kejal said as he handed the scarf to Hawk along with a card. “Show this access card to the guard at the gate, and they shouldn’t give you any problems. And don’t forget your pack in the corner.”
Hawk patted Kejal on the shoulder. “Your uncle would be proud of the man you’ve become. Good luck on your mission to avenge your uncle’s death. I wish I could talk you out of it though.”
“No one will be able to do such a thing.”
Hawk slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to leave before Kejal called out.
“You’re forgetting something,” Kejal said.
Hawk turned around to see Kejal pointing to his face.
“Can’t we do this another way?” Hawk asked.
“No, we—”
Hawk delivered a wicked blow before Kejal finished responding, knocking him out cold.
“You’re a good kid,” Hawk said. “I hope you stay alive.”
He threw Kejal’s keffiyeh on and entered the hallway to make an escape.
CHAPTER 17
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG WANTED TO CANCEL all his campaign appearances for the next couple of days to avoid the onslaught of questions sure to be directed toward him by a frothing media. The sudden death of President Michaels had caused a firestorm of coverage, not to mention the endless chatter on the airwaves about the looming constitutional crisis. But Congress quelled the furor by delaying the election for a month—and the media had now found a new story to latch onto. The kind of attention that accompanied such a controversy was not what Young needed if he was going to upset Peterson, who’d emerged as the frontrunner.
Young’s campaign manager, Blake Mayfield, quashed any ideas of slipping into the shadows and waiting out the media’s maelstrom regarding Peterson’s accusation shown live on the Internet and since replayed thousands of times on every news program in America.
“How do you think it’s going to look if you cancel now?” Mayfield asked. “You’re going to look guilty as sin.”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
“Wait. You didn’t—” Mayfield said before stopping himself. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. I need at least some shred of plausible deniability.”
“Look, everyone knows Peterson is a snake in the grass. His defense plan is to make friends with everyone, let them plunder what’s left of our country, and move us toward some one world order. And that’s the last thing we need right now.”
Mayfield removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “That’s the message we need to be selling right now, not turning tail and waiting it out. Let’s go on the offensive, instead of staying in a defensive posture.”
“I’m not sure how well that will play with the American people.”
Mayfield shrugged. “I’m not sure we have any other choice. Peterson is a political veteran. He knows how to destroy his opponents to gain power. It’s his modus operandi if you study all his previous election campaigns.”
“And has anyone tried the tactic you’re suggesting?”
“Not successfully, but—”
“Perhaps we need to strike a different tune then.”
“I disagree. Everyone else who has fought back against Peterson when he wanted them to hide tried to do it using scandals and dirt. You’re going to hit back by outlining the truth regarding the policy he’d implement if he were to win. That will speak volumes to voters, not only about what kind of man Peterson is but also what kind of man you are. Noah Young isn’t the kind of man who stoops to his opponent’s level and slings mud—he’s a man of action and cares about his country. He’s a patriot. That’s the kind of message you want to send.”
“That’s also the truth.”
“We’ve got that working for us then, which is more than we can say for Peterson, isn’t it?”
“You know what Peterson and that Russian ambassador were really going to talk about today? They were going to—”
Mayfield plugged his ears. “Lalalalala. I don’t want to hear it. Plausible deniability, remember?”
Young stopped. “Fine. I want to tell someone the truth.”
The door swung open and Young’s chief of staff, Hal Knightley, stepped inside.
“Why don’t you tell the truth to the feds since they’re here to speak with you?” Knightley said without skipping a beat.
“Were you listening outside?” Mayfield asked.
Knightley shook his head. “No, but I heard what the president just said before I stepped inside.”
“Why don’t you knock next time like a polite politician?” Mayfield snapped.
“Polite politician?” Knightley said with a chuckle. “You haven’t been around Washington very long, have you?”
“Cut it out,” Young said. “This is serious. The feds are really here
