“Senator, who exactly are we meeting with?” Jack asked.
“I already told you,” Wickham said. “People we can trust. Probably the only people we can trust.”
Then they passed under a set of white stairs that led to the second floor and moved onto the small porch fronting the first-floor entrance.
The interior of the house matched its exterior-old, quaint, with a Victorian-style flavor, all the way down to the furniture. The foyer walls were lined with framed black-and-white photos of the light station in years gone by, along with old photos of Richmond and San Francisco and the bay.
As they stepped inside, Jack could hear voices.
“It’s just past dinnertime,” Wickham said, “so they’re probably all in the dining room to your left. Let’s go in and make introductions.”
It sounded more like a command than a request, but Jack and Sara turned to their left, moving through a doorway into a narrow room dominated by a long white-clothed dining table.
Everyone stopped talking when they entered.
Seven men sat at the table, dirty dishes and drinks and ashtrays in front of them, cigars in hand, the sickly- sweet smell of their smoke hanging in the air. Jack recognized a few of the men immediately, all of them old-timers like Wickham-Senator Mitch Tomlinson, a Democrat from Maine; William Arland, a high-powered financial consultant and former chairman of the Federal Reserve; James Featherstone, an undersecretary at the British Home Office; and Clyde Parkinson, former assistant director of the FBI. The others were undoubtedly movers and shakers of the same caliber, but their faces weren’t familiar to Jack.
Except one.
At the far end of the table sat a man who always got his blood pumping. A man he had hated with such ferocity for the last two years that he felt like leaping across the table and strangling him. It was the man responsible for the smear campaign that had destroyed his career.
He spoke directly to Jack with a distinct Austrian accent. “Have a seat, why don’t you, Mr. Hatfield.”
It was billionaire Lawrence Soren.
33
“What the hell is this?” Jack said, turning to Wickham. “What’s going on?”
“I think you should do as he says. Sit.”
It was like a command to one of his dogs.
Sara looked completely deflated. Jack grabbed her arm and started to back from the table, but Wickham’s bodyguard got up behind them in the doorway and Jack felt the muzzle of a gun against his lower back.
This wasn’t good.
“You and your girlfriend are looking as shy as mail-order brides,” Wickham said with a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of here. We’re the good guys.”
“Is that why I’ve got a gun at my back?”
Now Lawrence Soren smiled. He was about seventy-six years old, with thin blond hair, a pasty-white complexion, and large bulbous blue eyes. Jack had always thought he looked like a former SS officer.
“We have to be cautious,” Soren said. “You’re an unpredictable sort. You’ve certainly proven that over the last several days-if not your entire career. So do be seated. Or, contrary to what the senator says, there will be something to fear.”
Another man stepped in through a doorway behind Soren. He was carrying a Glock 9mm.
Jack and Sara exchanged glances, but what choice did they have? They pulled out chairs and sat, Jack feeling his chest grow tight with tension.
“You need to relax,” Soren said, correctly reading his expression. “All this hatred you hold for me is not healthy. Perhaps if we took the time to discuss the world, we might find we have more in common than you think.”
“I doubt it,” Jack said.
“Oh?” Soren’s thick white brows went up. “Look around you. Here you have a room full of men from all ends of the political spectrum, yet we’ve managed to put aside our differences and come together for a common cause.”
“And what cause is that?”
“Restoring sanity to the world. Surely you can appreciate such a sentiment.”
“Depends on your definition of sanity. Yours no doubt has something to do with preserving the sanctity of your fascist agenda, along with your all-important pocketbook.”
Soren nodded in acquiescence. “There are always concerns about money, of course. We here are men of privilege who have no interest in losing what we’ve earned. Which is why we’ve learned, over the years, to back the winning horses.”
“Meaning what?”
Soren leaned back in his chair. “I think anyone who looks at the world today can clearly see that the Zionists are the cause for all the unrest in the Middle East.”
“ That big lie? You gotta be kidding me.”
“The policies of Israel and the United States are strangling Israel’s neighbors. And it’s obvious to anyone with any intelligence that the Jews rule the world by proxy. Right now, as we speak, preparations are being made to ship plutonium to the Jewish state, out of our very own ports. Here we are, helping the Israelis build their nuclear arsenal while we treat the countries around them, Muslim countries”-he made a point of glancing at Sara-“with complete disrespect, telling their leaders that they’re too unruly and immature to have such weapons of their own.”
“Israel is a democracy and our only ally-”
“And you talk of big lies?” Soren interrupted with a dismissive laugh. “But that discussion is for another time, assuming you have another time. What I’ve just told you is why we, a consortium of concerned citizens, have decided to back the underdog in this race. We’ve begun channeling money and resources into the Hand of Allah in the hope of putting an end to this Zionist stranglehold.”
Jack rose from his chair. “What is wrong with you people?” He turned to Wickham. “Hal, tell me you’re not falling for this racist crap?”
“You’re one to talk about racism,” Soren remarked.
Jack wanted to punch him. Again. He ignored the SOB, continued to stare at Wickham.
The senator shrugged and took a puff off his cigar. “I’m a businessman first, Jack, you know that. These people have control of resources I need. I figure it’s better to make friends with them than to kick ’em in the ass and try to steal it.”
“And commit treason in the process?”
Wickham frowned. “One man’s treason is another man’s revolution.”
“So you lied to me,” Jack said. “You didn’t do a thing with that information we gave you. Haddad and his crew are still out there planning their assault on the Legion of Honor as we speak.”
Wickham said nothing and the gun touched Jack’s back again as a hand on his shoulder forced him down into the chair.
“True regime change is rarely peaceful,” Soren said with affected regret. “We may manage it here in America every four years or so without bloodshed, but all we get for our trouble are the same Zionist puppets with the same policies that are destroying this country and the world. As you know, I had high hopes for our current President, but he’s turned out to be quite a disappointment to all of us on many different levels. So if we’re to succeed in bringing our own vision to fruition, we need to shake things up a bit. The Hand of Allah will help us do that. It’s 1933 all over again. You end the Depression in Germany by firing up the masses, having them reclaim their wealth from the Jews. You end the threat to America’s homeland by scaring the masses, assuring them they will be safe from future attacks if they restore Arab land taken by the Jews.”
“Helluva role model you’ve chosen,” Jack remarked.
“You’re missing the point.”
