SANCTION: A Thriller (29 page)

The President was almost at the top of the Grand Staircase when he was greeted by the head of the Department of Justice, Attorney General Leonard Campbell. Vanderbilt had appointed Campbell to the post at the beginning of his term.

As with the rest of the President’s cabinet members, Leonard thought Graham was an imbecile; but he hid his judgment well. The AG had a rolled up copy of the Wall Street Journal tucked snugly under one of his armpits, while in the hand of the same arm he sported a copy of the Pentagon report. Vanderbilt knew that if Leonard had it, then his entire staff had it. He correctly guessed that Leonard wanted to address the legalities of the shipment.

Vanderbilt fought to keep himself composed. All he wanted to do was run. He wanted to disappear, put the whole thing behind him, the Presidency, the politics, even the anger he harbored for Kelly. Of course, this was only because it was all about to come crashing down on his head. All he really wanted was to escape punishment.

He wondered how all of this could have happened. How could his compass have gotten so far off kilter? Kenneth Paine came to mind again. Kenneth had guided him in many of his questionable endeavors over the years.

“Mr. President, I need to speak with you.” Leonard said with a stern voice. Vanderbilt picked up on something in Campbell’s tone. Defiance, perhaps.

“Okay Leonard, what about?” Vanderbilt asked coyly.

“This.” The AG said setting down his briefcase on one of the staircase’s plush red steps. He waved the report in his hand as if he was fanning something.

Graham imagined the Attorney General attempting to put out the flames that were devouring his career. His stomach grew into an enormous knot. He was overcome with the urge to throw up.

“Excuse me Leonard but I have to…I don’t feel well.” He said stammering back down the stairs toward Cross Hall.

“I bet you don’t.” Campbell uttered under his breath.

“Let’s meet in the oval office. Say twenty minutes.” Graham said turning before he got Campbell’s response.

Graham loosened the tie around his throat. It wasn’t any tighter than usual but at the moment, it felt like the walls were closing in, threatening to swallow his life. Right then, the President decided on what to do. He started to jog back to the bedroom where he had left Kelly. His legs opened up into a dead sprint, after only a few steps. He’d been a runner in high school and the old feeling of freedom came back immediately.

When he got to the bedroom it was empty. The President walked over to a chair in front of a massive window in the bedroom that faced the South Lawn and opened a drawer to an end table. A nickel plated .38 caliber pistol sat on top of a cotton polishing cloth. He picked it up and held it in his trembling hand. Just when he thought he had found the nerve, he heard the bedroom door open. The President was tackled from behind, his head slamming into the wall next to the window. The pistol fell to the ground as he was thrust onto the floor. He saw it for a second but before he could think about reaching for it, his assailant kicked it away. The revolver whizzed across the tightly woven carpet and out of his line of sight. The tears were back.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by his shoulders and yanked upward to a standing position. Graham looked into the eyes of Agent Crane. He was in charge of the President’s security detail.

The room was now busting with secret service agents. In the middle was Edmond Bailey, the National Security Advisor. His face was contorted with anger.

“No way are you getting out of this that easy, Graham.” Said the National Security Advisor.

Edmond hadn’t resigned like he’d promised to. His wife had convinced him that he needed to use his position to stop the President and the shipment to Palestine. He wasn’t supposed to tell Cynthia any of those things but -out of absolute frustration- he had. Instead of quitting, he had spent the night gathering information from his sources at the Pentagon. Despite his best efforts, he was completely unsuccessful at stopping the shipment. He’d caught wind of the ambush and had confirmed it with satellite images, shortly after four in the morning.

The Attorney General was hoping to build a case for treason. But for now, the blatant violation of several congressional orders and a litany of ITAR laws was enough to temporarily remove him from office.

The Vice President was being briefed at that exact moment. It was crucial to determine whether or not the VP knew anything about the shipment before it was sent. If he did, then he would be indicted as well. If not, then he had just been thrust into the Presidency. It was hard for Edmond to believe that Vanderbilt had pulled off such a bold move with relatively few knowing about it. He suspected that the VP was dirty on this too but proving it would probably be impossible.

Edmond and the Attorney General walked side by side behind the detail, as agent Crane escorted Graham from the White House to an unmarked car behind the mansion. Vanderbilt tried to pause before he was put into the car for one last glance at the extreme opulence he had enjoyed for six years but he was given no such opportunity. Crane placed a thick strong hand on the top of Vanderbilt’s head and shoved him down into the back seat. A small army of vehicles rolled forward in front of and behind the car. It would be his last motorcade. As the fleet of squad cars, unmarked sedans and Suburbans moved down the driveway, the White House photographer came racing out of one of the exits near the Rose Garden. She didn’t ask any questions about why Graham Vanderbilt was being carted off like a common criminal. She simply began snapping photos with her black Nikon DSLR.

One of the secret service agents moved to stop her but Edmond placed a calm hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Spare him no indignity. He just sacrificed our boys to gain political favor.” Edmond said.

The agent stepped back into place as the cars filed by, and let the woman document the end of Graham Vanderbilt’s world.

I
mam Nazari sat back in his chair as the Gulfstream jet lined up with the runway for takeoff. He was calm considering the circumstances. There had been plenty of chances for things to go wrong but so far it seemed Allah was blessing the cleric’s every move.

He thought of his second in command, Hassan Bishara. The man worked in the shadows, which Nazari suspected he rather preferred. This would have to change in the new world. Hassan had a hankering for violence. Nazari secretly feared that Bishara would not relent from his path of bloodshed, even after they had won the final victory and declared a Muslim World. He thought it possible that Hassan would turn his focus inward and search out reasons to target his own brothers. It was a concern that the cleric could do nothing about. He couldn’t get rid of the young militant, any more than he could get rid of himself.

“Maybe I’m too soft to see all that needs to be done. Old age has corrupted me.” He said to no one in the large cabin.

Maybe Bishara was just the face and voice that their new group, ‘Ikwhan Jihad’, needed, he thought.

Nazari grabbed the fat leather arms of his chair as the sleek, cream colored jet reached takeoff speed. The aircraft’s wheels lifted from the Tarmac as it climbed aggressively into the sky. Azraq Jiden Island melted into the background, becoming a rocky patch of sand and foliage before disappearing beneath a fluffed layer of clouds.

His mind returned to the Mossad agent. Ben Schweitzer was presumably dead from the impact with the Iranian Defense Ministers ship but Nazari had doubts. There had been no body recovered, no blood, no torn clothing and no sign whatsoever that a human being had been involved in the accident. It irked him. Somehow, the Israeli had managed to become a thorn in his side, the only loose end.

The cleric picked up the phone on the seat next to him and dialed Bishara’s private number. After several rings the phone went to Bishara’s voicemail. Frustrated, Nazari hung up and dialed the number again. This time the phone rang once. Bishara picked up and barked into the receiver.

“What?” He asked.

Taken aback, the cleric paused.

“Who do you think you’re speaking too?” Nazari replied.

“I did not realize… I am just taking care of the last bit of our operation.” Bishara said into the phone.

“Where are you right now?” Nazari questioned.

Hassan stared out over the Golan Heights Reservoir, from a work platform imbedded in the basin wall. He was wearing an Israeli energy commission uniform. Two of his men were also dressed in the attire.

“Golan.” He said plainly.

Hassan didn’t like to talk to Nazari over the phone about their plans. His boss did not appreciate the methods and technology that Israel and the West possessed. They had probably been listening to their conversations ever since he’d assumed control of the Hamas.

“When you’re finished, get back to the homeland.” Nazari ordered, the concern obvious in his voice.

“Yes, father. I will be there as planned.” Bishara said.

Nazari smiled as his plane leveled off at forty-three thousand feet above the Arabian Sea.

“Good.” Nazari said, satisfied.

Being at the reservoir made Hassan very nervous. Security was incredibly tight. Thankfully, he had built a network of allies on the other side in the last ten years. He had paid a hefty sum for the uniforms, security codes and proper identifications to enter the premises. Now, standing thirty feet above the surface of the ninety foot deep Israeli water supply, he wanted to do what he came for and leave before an eyebrow was raised.

“I don’t really have time to talk.” Bishara said as he motioned to one of the men who was unwrapping a small wooden box. The man quickly set the container down and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Bishara turned his back to the men and the reservoir. He sighed heavily. Nazari had little understanding of how things got done. The man failed to realize that Bishara’s entire mission was jeopardized with each second that he wasted on the phone. He looked around at the walls of the reservoir, searching for onlookers, as the Imam spoke into his ear.

“I understand. Make sure you are there. I want you with me when our Jihad begins.” Nazari said.

Bishara agreed and hung up the phone. He turned back and looked at the man whom had taken the box out prematurely. He didn’t say anything to him, a scowl was sufficient to cause the Arab to tremble.

“Place that one there on the barrel. Make sure it’s going to hold. Wrap it all the way around and onto itself, or it will fall off under water.” Bishara said tossing the man a roll of black duct tape. He walked the extra steps and secured one of the other fifty gallon drums and placed another of the wooden boxes against the steel canister. They had brought fourteen barrels in all, which comprised more than half of the Soman chemical that Bishara had obtained. The barrels had been sealed according to industry standards. The boxes contained a waterproof radio receiver, detonator and a small amount of Symtex explosives. Bishara hoped that it was enough to blow the lids off of the barrels once they had been rolled into the water.

The two men finished prepping the barrels and then began rolling them over the reservoir’s steep angled walls. A loud racket ensued, as the ribbed plastic ground down the hard concrete. Once they were all in the water, Bishara and the soldiers left the platform and traveled back through the tunnel that had brought them to the basin. They exited above ground on the other side of the reservoir and got into an energy commission vehicle. Bishara was sure that the radio signal would work up to a mile. What he wasn’t sure of, was whether that held true below the water’s surface.

He retrieved a remote control device from his pocket and laid it in his lap. It was small, about half the size of a pack of cigarettes. In the body of the device was a small keypad, with a green and red light bar at the top.

Hassan threw the truck’s shifter into drive and eased into the gas pedal.

The two men calmly left through the reservoir’s main gate and headed east. After they’d traveled close to a half mile Hassan punched the code into the device and threw it on the passenger floorboard.

There was a significant delay. He felt like an idiot for not testing them. The signal code that he had rigged to the boxes was the same for all of them, they should’ve blown simultaneously. Hassan slammed his fist down on the dash. It was too risky to go back, not that he would have known what to do anyway. He beat his fist on the steering wheel and cursed aloud.

There was a muffled pop in the distance behind them followed by loud wailing sirens. The ground rumbled faintly beneath them.

Hassan had just contaminated the water supply for thousands of Israelis in the Golan Heights. It was true that he had also contaminated the supply to thousands of Arab homes living around the reservoir but it was a small price to pay for such a huge strategic advantage.

Army Specialist Jesse Hanover clutched the back of his headphones and listened again. He heard it for a third time and took them off. Hanover scribbled several sentences on a blank pad of paper and got up from his desk to search for his supervisor.

The twenty-three year old was an interpreter for the Army. A strong work ethic had enabled him to translate six enormous volumes of conversations from Arabic to English, in two short years. While an even stronger sense of duty and integrity meant that he shared none of it with anyone outside of his section. Most of it was usually meaningless to him anyway; the military used analysts to determine the significance of the data.

Hanover’s professionalism had gained him enough trust to be assigned to Imam Nazari’s cellular phone. The National Security Agency had been recording the cleric’s conversations for exactly as long as the man had been in control of the Hamas.

Within an hour, the National Security Advisor, Edmond Bailey, was holding a formal copy of the transcript. He took the sealed envelope, thanked the middle aged Colonel who’d delivered it and closed the door behind him. He took a lukewarm cup of espresso from a walnut end table and gulped. The black liquid flowed down his throat, its bitter flavor enhanced by its age. He leaned against his desk as he extracted a folder from the envelope. Inside was a thin stapled packet with a yellow paper attached to the front. Emblazoned in bold, orange print were the words, ‘Top Secret’. He flipped through the interagency memo behind it–with its endless interpretations and intelligence jargon–to the actual transcript. Edmond read through the conversation twice, then returned to the memo and its interpretations.