Fazil laughed heartily. “Such boldness and courage and passion. It’s why we’ll make a great team.”
“Perhaps there is a language barrier between us. So let me clear this up for you once and for all: I will never partner with you.”
Fazil shook his head and chuckled. “Oh, but I think you will. You are full of the American bravado, but it will not get you far in a negotiation. And that’s what we are doing here.”
“A negotiation? This sounds more like you trying to give me an order.”
“Call it whatever you wish, but you will do what I ask.”
“I swear you are either deaf or stupid.”
“I could say the same about you,” Fazil said. “Perhaps you fail to understand the gravity of the situation facing Alex once she arrives. My men are—how can I put this delicately—rather deprived in certain areas of their lives. Giving themselves over to a cause as great as the jihad waged by Al Hasib means certain pleasures must be sacrificed. But if you continue to refuse my invitation to work for me on this upcoming mission, I would not hesitate to give them a reprieve, if you understand what I mean.”
“I clearly understand what you mean, and I can promise you that I will scatter your ashes to the four winds after this is all over, regardless of what happens with Alex and J.D. while they’re in your custody.”
“I can assure you that they’ll be well taken care of,” Fazil said. “And based on your answer, I’m glad that you have come around to see things my way and have chosen to embark on this mission.”
“And what exactly is this mission?”
“I want you to help me kill Noah Young.”
Hawk laughed. “You are insane, aren’t you? Do you honestly believe I’m going to kill the president for you?”
“Not kill the president. Help me kill the president.”
“This won’t end well, even if you succeed.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m betting it will end better than my last attempts at seeking revenge on U.S. soil, if for any reason other than you won’t be there to stop me this time.”
“You know I can’t do this.”
“Can not or will not? There is a considerable difference. From what I can see, you look completely healthy and capable of doing what I need to be done.”
“And what do you hope that I’ll be able to do for you?”
“I will send you the information you need in due time. Until we speak again,” Fazil said.
He hung up and watched the feed as Hawk seethed, storming around the hangar, looking as if he wanted to hit something. Fazil couldn’t help but laugh when he saw Hawk slam him fist into the side panels of one of the planes parked just inside.
“See Jafar,” Fazil said looking across the room toward his bird, “I told you Mr. Hawk would eventually come around.”
CHAPTER 8
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG WOULD’VE PREFERRED to meet with the blackmailer at Camp David or any other site along the campaign trail. Potentially explosive news surrounding such a meeting could be kept under wraps much easier away from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. But with the election nearing and his campaign advisors recommending Young stay in Washington to tend to business and present a picture of experience and strength from the White House, he complied.
The procedure for sneaking the man into the White House was rather simple. He posed as an aide for one of a handful of senators Young was scheduled to meet with that morning. Such protocol wasn’t out of the norm as aides sat in on meetings that weren’t sensitive in nature oftentimes. No one even raised an eyebrow or asked who the man was as he followed closely behind Sen. Milton Delaney.
“I appreciate this, Milt,” Young said as Delaney entered the room with his aide, who went by the alias of John Smith.
“I’m more than happy to help,” Delaney said, “and more than happy to get your support on the immigration bill I’ll be submitting in January.”
“Of course,” Young said. “Whatever you want.”
Delaney smiled and shook Young’s hand before slipping back down the hallway. If anyone noticed Delaney had lost his companion, word never got back to Young that afternoon.
“Please have a seat,” Young said, gesturing toward an open chair across from him.
Both men sat down. Young leaned forward and asked his guest if he wanted coffee or water. He declined and suggested they get straight to business.
“I must begin by saying that this is highly unusual,” Young said. “Such demands often land you in prison or under surveillance by the Secret Service.”
“In that case, I appreciate you keeping quiet about this meeting, if anything for your own sake. As I warned before, I have plenty of stopgap measures in place should this not play out to my liking.”
“All right then. Let me see if I can address your concerns. But first, I must know your name.”
“I know this may be irritating to you, but I’m not ready to give up my identity,” the man said. “You know me as John Smith, which is about as much as I want to say about it. It’s for my own protection—and possibly yours too, you know, plausible deniability and the like.”
Young sighed and shook his head. “I don’t like this. I try to be transparent with my governing as well as who I’m meeting with.”
“Then maybe you should’ve been transparent with the American people in the first place about the real reason why President Daniels is dead.”
“The truth is complicated,” Young said.
“Doesn’t look that complicated to me,” Smith shot back. “Daniels looked angry and vindictive as he committed suicide. Something had clearly gone wrong.”
“He snapped, plain and simple. But if I had gone out and told the American people that Daniels committed suicide because he flipped out, no one would’ve believed
