Armageddon Conspiracy (11 page)

“Tell them I’m not here.”

She pointed over her shoulder. “They know you are. They followed me up here,” she said in a hoarse whisper. With that, she opened the door and hurried out.

Right away, a man with a linebacker’s neck, square jaw, and small eyes set into a flat face stepped into view. “Mr. Lucas,” he said. “We
need
to see you, sir. Right away.”

“I’ll be ready in a second,” Brent said.

“Please do not use your phone, sir,” the man said.

Brent felt his neck grow hot. “What the
hell
is going on?” he demanded.

“We’ll explain when you talk to us.”

“Well, I’m
not
ready yet!”

“Please be quick, sir,” the agent said, as he backed out and closed the door.

Brent looked out the window through the blur of a sudden downpour. What the hell was going on? The FBI had no right to tell him not to make calls! He grabbed his cell phone and hit the autodial.

Simmons answered on the second ring. “What?”

“Some guys from the FBI are outside my office waiting to talk to me about one of my accounts. Do you know anything about this?”

There was a pause. “No.”

“What do I do?”

“Talk to them. I’ll make some calls and check it out.”

Brent rang off, but instead of opening his office door, he called Betty Dowager, got Spencer McDonald’s direct number, and dialed.

“Spencer McDonald’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Brent Lucas at Genesis Advisors, I need to speak with him.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s in conference.”

“Please interrupt him. It’s extremely important.”

She put him on hold, and after a moment a man picked up. “This is McDonald. What’s this about an emergency?”

“The FBI is outside my office, wanting to talk about one of my clients. I don’t want to do it alone,” Brent said.

“I’m afraid I can’t get there until sometime this afternoon.”

“They won’t wait. They didn’t even want me to make this call.”

“Who is the client?”

“An Egyptian. Dr. Khaled Faisal.”

“Foreign national.” McDonald let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t have a choice in that case. Hear them out and find out what they want. Before you agree to anything at all, call me back.” He gave Brent a cell number.

“Just so you know, Dr. Faisal is one of our largest accounts,” Brent said.

“Be as cooperative and respectful as possible,” McDonald responded. “Your first responsibility is to protect the firm. You don’t want the FBI to suspect you’ve got something to hide.”

Brent hung up, went around his desk, and opened his office door
to find two men in dark suits, white shirts, and sober ties. The big guy who’d already stuck his head in the office stepped forward. “Agent Tom Anderson,” he said in a clipped voice. He was maybe six-two, a little shorter than Brent but probably thirty pounds heavier. Brent guessed him for early forties.

The other man introduced himself as Agent Darius Stewart. He was several inches shorter, thin and wiry by comparison to his partner, and his reddish hair and freckles made his age hard to guess. Anywhere from late thirties to late forties, Brent thought.

The two agents held up wallets with badges and FBI picture ID’s. “We need to speak with you about Dr. Khaled Faisal,” Agent Anderson said.

The way the two agents looked at him made him feel surprisingly furtive. His mouth was dry as he pointed them to chairs.

They sat, and Agent Stewart cleared his throat. “How long have you known Dr. Faisal?”

Brent shrugged. “Not long. I’ve only been with the firm a few weeks.”

Agent Anderson made a note of Brent’s answer. “How would you characterize the relationship?” Agent Stewart continued.

“Professional,” Brent said.

“Ever been to his home?”

“No.”

“Have you disbursed funds to Dr. Faisal or members of his family?”

“No,” Brent said. He added, “Previously money was disbursed from the account, but never to Dr. Faisal or any member of his family.”

“What were the reasons for the disbursements?” Anderson asked. He leaned forward, thick forearms on his thighs.

Brent was surprised by the hostility in the agent’s eyes. “Humanitarian causes and peace projects,” he shot back. He barely knew Dr. Faisal, but Anderson’s attitude was getting under his skin.

Anderson raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Peace projects?” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, sir, but no way.”

“I beg to differ! It’s in our correspondence file!” Brent said, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

Stewart leaned in. “What Agent Anderson is trying to say is that we’ve learned Dr. Faisal has been a major funding source for worldwide terrorism.” He said it in a quiet voice, with none of his partner’s venom.

Brent sat back. “That’s insane! I’ve read the whole account history. The money has gone to the International Red Cross, UNESCO projects, Doctors Without Borders, peace conferences.”

“You know that because he told you that,” Anderson interjected.

“No, I know it because I can read.”

“You see where you
think
the money has gone,” Anderson insisted.

“The last I knew, the Red Cross wasn’t a terrorist organization!”

Agent Stewart raised a calming hand. “We’ve learned that money transfers can be addressed to legitimate organizations yet sidetracked through the assistance of complicit bankers.”

Brent suddenly felt less certain. “You’ve checked with the Red Cross and UNESCO and the others?”

Anderson cut a sideways look at Stewart, who nodded. “They never got the money.”

Brent felt like he’d been slugged, and he sat back and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

Stewart removed a stack of documents from his briefcase and placed them on the edge of Brent’s desk. “I’m sure this is upsetting,
but I assure you we do not suspect that Genesis Advisors or its employees were aware of what was happening.”

Brent nodded. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” he said in a miserable tone.

“And I am aware that this is also a very large account with very large fees. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that.”

Brent took his hands away from his eyes and looked across at the agent. “What do you mean?”

“We’re seizing the account.” Agent Stewart pointed to the stack of documents. “That’s what this paperwork is all about.”

“Dr. Faisal doesn’t get a chance to at least defend himself?”

Anderson sniffed as though Brent had made a joke. “If he feels that we’ve seized his assets wrongly, he’s welcome to make his case in court. He won’t though because if he loses he’ll go to jail.”

Brent was thinking he and the FBI were supposed to be on the same side, but in his guts it somehow didn’t feel that way. “You’re taking his money?”

“Yes.”

“Our attorney needs to review those documents first.”

Anderson gave him a withering look. “You don’t tell the Federal Bureau of Investigation when we can carry out our orders.”

Rather than respond, Brent picked up his phone and dialed Spencer McDonald’s cell number. After two rings, McDonald answered, his voice hushed as if he was in a meeting. “Yes?”

“It’s Lucas. The FBI is accusing Dr. Faisal—”

“Are they seizing the account?” McDonald interjected.

“They want to, but I’m trying to hold them off until you have a chance to get in here.”

“Do they have court orders?”

Brent took the receiver away from his mouth. “Do you have court orders?”

Agent Stewart nodded.

“Let me talk to them,” McDonald said.

Brent held the phone out for Agent Stewart, who stood and leaned across his desk. “This is Agent Darius Stewart,” he said. He looked off into space as he listened to McDonald’s question. “Yessir,” he said after a few seconds. “They were issued under provisions of the Homeland Security Act and signed by Judge Slovenski of the New York Federal Court.” He listened again for a few seconds. “Yessir,” he said. “Dated this morning at nine fifteen.” He listened, then nodded his head. “Yessir. Thank you, sir.”

Stewart handed the phone to Brent. “For you,” he said as he sat back in his chair.

“Sign the agreement,” McDonald said to Brent. “We won’t do any good fighting the seizure order, and right now the most important thing will be keeping this out of the papers. If we cooperate, the feds will keep their mouths shut. If we don’t, you’ll have reporters there in another couple hours.”

“What about Dr. Faisal?” Brent asked, his voice hoarse with barely suppressed anger.

“One of those court orders is no doubt a gag order, forbidding you or anyone in the firm from communicating with your client until the FBI gives permission.”

“So we let them take his money, and we don’t even tell him it’s happened?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” McDonald said. “We’ll get our ducks in a row and then fight this in court. I’ll call you as soon as my
meeting ends, and we’ll get together.”

Brent hung up and glared at Stewart, who paged through one of the documents and pointed to a red tape arrow. “We need your signature,” he said.

Brent’s neck swelled against his shirt collar, and he stared at the arrow.

“Sir?” Agent Stewart prodded after a minute.

Brent finally grabbed the paper and signed. Stewart flipped to the next arrow, and Brent continued until the stack was exhausted.

Stewart placed half the documents inside his briefcase and left duplicates for Brent. “One of the documents you signed—which by the way would have been binding in any case—is a court order forbidding any communication about this case with anyone outside or inside this firm. Failure to abide by that order is a felony. The other documents give us permission to transfer the account’s assets into a Federal holding account until this matter is adjudicated.”

“You didn’t need my signature on those, either, did you?”

Stewart gave him a tight smile. “No, but it makes everything neater and provides evidence of your firm’s willing cooperation.”

“I’m so glad we could be of service.”

Stewart ignored the sarcasm. “Willing support of your country is important,” he said evenly.

“We’ll be in touch with your superiors.”

“By the way, Mr. Biddle won’t have any problem with what we’ve done,” Agent Anderson interjected as he rose from the chair and jerked his cuffs down over his meaty wrists.
“He
is a patriot and an excellent Christian.”

“Good day, Mr. Lucas,” Stewart said with a quick nod. Brent caught the admonishing glance he shot Anderson on their way out.

AS THE VAN SWUNG ONTO
the cross street and picked up speed, Naif Abdulaziz glanced into the dirt-streaked side mirror at where a rain-lashed Park Avenue lay behind them, snarled with endless lines of traffic. On the sidewalks pedestrians scurried as gusts of wind whipped at women’s skirts and tore umbrellas inside out. Naif nodded in satisfaction. Conditions were perfect for his task, which meant that once again Allah’s blessing would assure his success.

The van pulled to the curb in front of a fire hydrant, and the transmission clunked into park. The driver glanced over. He was a Christian holy man, only tonight he wore no collar, only a dirty coat and a tan rain hat whose wrinkled brim flopped down to obscure everything but a pair of wire-framed glasses, a broad jaw ringed with fat, and full lips. “It’s number twelve,” he said.

For several moments Naif studied the large four-story townhouse
with a façade of white marble and a small portico over the front door. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, and pictured his mother and two little brothers standing before the schoolhouse where he once taught and dreamed of becoming a poet. He let the images harden and tasted the scarred emptiness in the part of his soul where gentle words had once made a garden. It was because of the Americans that he’d had to leave everything he loved—his family, his home, his students, and his books—and as he focused on his loss a flash of hatred raced through his body. This was the feeling he was looking for, the way he fortified himself at the prospect of spilling blood.

He opened his eyes and looked again at the elegant townhouse, thinking that these people who loved their lives and their luxuries were about to learn what it was like to meet a true martyr. He buttoned his long coat and tugged the collar up around his face. Pulling on a rain hat similar to the one his driver wore, he slid his silenced Makarov 9mm pistol into one pocket and his combat knife into the other.

Finally, he crawled into the back of the van, took the bouquet of long-stemmed roses from their box, held them high to hide whatever parts of his face the raised collar and hat didn’t conceal, and stepped out the back door into the downpour. Movement was like a release, and the ironbound strength of his purpose flooded his heart. He lowered his head like any poor deliveryman without an umbrella and dashed for the front door of number twelve. He crowded close, shoulders hunched against the rain that blew beneath the small portico. As he rang the buzzer, he pretended to be unaware of the security camera above his head.

A voice came over the intercom box beside the doorbell. “Can I
help you?” a man’s voice asked, the accent European.

“Flower delivery,” Naif said.

A moment later, footsteps crossed what sounded like a marble floor, and Naif slipped the knife from his pocket and held it out of sight behind the roses. The door had a heavy metal frame inset with tall glass panels and fronted with protective metal bars. An inner door opened, and the gauze curtains showed a single silhouette.

A lock clicked and the door swung inward. A short man with a balding head, white shirt, and apron over dark trousers smiled up at him. He held out one hand for the flowers, while his other hand tendered a five-dollar bill. As Naif extended the bouquet he moved beyond the reach of the security camera. He released the flowers as he struck, shoving two fingers of his left hand into the butler’s nostrils, giving the man’s head a savage sideways jerk and slashing the knife along his exposed carotid artery and windpipe. Blood burst across the floor. Naif stepped to the butler’s other side and eased him to the floor. The kill had been soundless.