Treason (21 page)

George Washington University Hospital

Washington, D.C.

M
ajor Brooke Grant saw the shadow moving on her left as she exited the Whitehurst Freeway toward Pennsylvania Avenue. It was almost dawn and she was on her way to visit her uncle Frank after an all-night session at the Reston command post. A loud thump caused her to brake her Jaguar XF. She'd smacked something. A cat? On earlier trips, she'd spotted strays ducking in and out of the bushes between the freeway and 26th Street N.W.

Flipping on the hazard lights, she stopped in the middle of the road to investigate. The frustrated commuter behind her immediately honked his horn as he became the first in a four-car backup. Brooke spotted the smashed animal on the pavement close to her front tire but it wasn't a cat. It was a squirrel and it was dead.

Brooke's eyes were puffy when she reached the hospital's ICU ward, where her aunt Geraldine had spent the night in a chair next to her husband's bed.

“What's wrong, honey?” Geraldine asked. “You've been crying.”

“I hit a squirrel,” Brooke replied.

Geraldine hugged her and whispered, “You know all this emotion isn't about some mangy old squirrel.”

Her aunt was right. Brooke had fatally shot three men and killed another with a knife in Somalia. None of those deaths had caused her to tear up. But now she began to blubber.

“It's about your uncle, and Jennifer, and that other girl,” Geraldine said.

“Someone else too,” Brooke explained. “Walks Many Miles is missing in Kenya. A helicopter that he was riding in was shot down. I'm afraid, Auntie. I'm afraid about Uncle Frank and Jennifer and now he's missing too.”

“Honey, you're human. But sweetie, being scared and worried is a complete waste of time and energy. Worry doesn't accomplish anything but rob today of its joy. You need to stay focused and keep doing what you're doing. You need to find Jennifer.”

“How can you not be worried about Uncle Frank lying in bed in a coma?” Brooke asked, looking at her unresponsive uncle in his bed. “What if he doesn't wake up? What if he wakes up and his mind is gone or he can't walk or even talk?”

“Don't you even say those things! You got to think positive. Your Jennifer is going to be rescued and your uncle Frank is going to wake up and smile and be fine. And your Indian friend is going to show up in Africa. Now you tell me something. How is me sitting here worrying and crying about all this—how is that going to change the outcome? Do you think if I sit here blubbering about your uncle, it's going to help him wake sooner? Now praying, that will help. But all I can do is be grateful that your uncle didn't die on that highway and be grateful that when I opened my eyes this morning, he was still with me, and what happens tomorrow, well, that's between your uncle and the good Lord, but me crying isn't going to do any good.”

“Auntie,” Brooke said, “you're the strongest woman I know, but I'm not that strong and I don't have your faith. I'm angry at God. Angry that He's allowing this, that He's allowing bad people to hurt good people, people who I love.”

“And what would you have God do? Send a lightning bolt to strike them dead?”

“Yes, that would be a great start. I wish He'd kill every last terrorist out there, beginning with the Falcon. I wish He'd wipe them off the face of the earth. We don't need them here.”

Geraldine let out a sigh. “Your father and mother taught you better.”

“And both of them were murdered by terrorists.”

“Don't misunderstand me, child. There is evil in this world. That is what your parents and your uncle and you have dedicated your lives to fight against. But that evil isn't God's fault. He's not behind it.”

“Auntie, I don't believe there is a devil who takes control of people's hearts and minds.”

“It isn't the devil, Brooke, it's called free will. God gives you a choice because He knows true love can only happen when someone chooses to love someone else, and that includes us loving Him. If God sent down that lightning bolt, you wouldn't love Him because of who He is. You'd love Him because you were afraid of Him and that's not love, that's fear and intimidation. And if He saved your uncle's life, I would love Him because He did that. But that's like buying love. No, I have to love God unconditionally and be thankful for each day without putting conditions on that love. What happens happens and we should be grateful that God created us and gives us the time that we have with each other—whether tomorrow comes or it doesn't.”

Brooke shook her head and said, “I'm not grateful. I'm angry.”

“Well, you need to pull yourself together then,” Geraldine replied. “You need to stop your boo-hooing and feeling sorry for yourself because that isn't going to help your uncle, Jennifer, or your fella.”

Brooke stepped over to the bed and touched her uncle's hand. It felt cold. His face was still heavily bandaged, he was intubated, and there seemed to be more IV tubes in both of his arms than before. “I can sit here awhile, Auntie,” she volunteered, “if you want to go home and rest or take a shower.”

“Me? Now you know I'm not leaving your uncle's bed here. When he opens his eyes, he isn't going to care one hoot if I've had a shower and am rested.”

“Can I bring you anything?”

“I could use my morning coffee. Black without anything.”

“I remember,” Brooke said. “I used to smell it first thing in the morning.”

“Your mommy and daddy were never coffee drinkers. But me and that old man in the bed there, we drank gallons of it and sometimes on weekends, he'd add a bit of something-something to it.”

“Your coffee?”

“A bit of Irish whiskey. Your uncle, he likes to be all gruff and stern, but he's got a playful side too. He just don't show it much, especially to you. He never did understand how to raise a girl.”

“Gruff? You just gave me a lecture telling me to stop crying.”

“Did I?” she said, smiling. “Well, I guess I was channeling him. Now you hurry downstairs. They have a Starbucks in the lobby there.”

“I'll ask if they can add a shot of whiskey.”

“Oh, you're being a little snip! And I'm glad. I like this Brooke better than the one who walked in here crying!”

The GWU hospital lobby was moon-shaped with a Starbucks to Brooke's right when she exited the elevators from the ICU. The coffee shop was at one end of a spacious seating area with chairs and tables. At the opposite end was a full-service cafeteria where hospital cooks were flipping pancakes and frying bacon. Brooke had just gotten into line at the Starbucks counter when Lieutenant Colonel Gabe DeMoss appeared.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “I was hoping I'd bump into you here.”

“I'm just getting coffee to take upstairs to my aunt,” Brooke explained.

“You should have more than coffee. This hospital has a really good breakfast selection. Come with me and I'll introduce you to a delicious egg sandwich that the short order cook makes. Besides, I'd like to speak to you privately.”

Brooke stepped away from the Starbucks line and followed DeMoss through the dining hall into the cafeteria where she chose a medley of mixed fruit in a plastic cup while he chatted with the short order cook working at a grease-covered grill.

“It would be more private if we ate in the outside courtyard,” DeMoss said after they'd paid the cashier. “It's not that cold this morning but cold enough that we'll be the only ones sitting there.”

A glass door led to a patio area. From their metal seats, she could see a steady stream of commuters emerging from the nearby Foggy Bottom Metro subway stop going to work.

“How's the sandwich?” she asked.

“Delicious. Usually, I'll have a bagel, but the ones they sell here are store bought. I spent time in Manhattan so I'm a bit of a bagel elitist.”

Brooke was only half listening as she poked a plastic fork into a green melon cube. She was thinking about Jennifer and Walks Many Miles. Despite her aunt's lecture, she remained worried.

“Let's talk about your uncle and why he was a target,” DeMoss said.

“He was shot because the Falcon has promised to murder everyone I love. He's out for revenge, and I've put everyone I care about in harm's way.”

“It's not only you. I believe General Grant was shot because he was zeroing in on the identity of the mole who everyone is calling the Viper. Did your uncle tell you anything in private about the mole when you had lunch with him after the president was attacked at the National Cathedral?”

“You mean after you finished telling us during your briefing that Fawzia Samatar had gotten a text while hiding in the closet?”

“Yes, a text sent to her on a burner phone by someone at the funeral.” DeMoss flashed a smile and added, “Ironic, right? A burner phone used to text a message to a woman who commits self-immolation.”

Brooke didn't find that funny. Ignoring his comment, she said, “You told us the burner phone had been bought by President Allworth's reelection campaign and had been used by someone who probably worked inside the White House.”

“That's right. Did your uncle mention a specific name—someone inside the White House who he suspected of being the Viper?”

“No. No names.”

“He didn't tell you who he thought might have used that phone to send that text?”

“Wouldn't he have told you if he knew a name?” she asked in a puzzled voice.

“Yes, probably, but I got the feeling that morning that he was holding something back from me. I believe he had a specific name, but he didn't tell it to me before he got shot.”

“He? How do you know the Viper isn't a woman?”

“You're right. It could be a woman.”

“I wish my uncle had told me a name. If I knew who the Viper was, he or she would be dead right now. That traitor is responsible for Jennifer and Cassy being abducted and the murders of those poor girls at school and Jennifer's nanny, who happened to be a very good friend of mine. I'll have no trouble pulling the trigger.”

“Are you any closer to finding Jennifer and Representative Adeogo's daughter?” DeMoss asked in a concerned voice. “The NSC is receiving daily reports, but if someone in the White House is under suspicion, those reports might be heavily edited.”

“I'm not aware of anyone holding back information from the White House or NSC.”

“Well, there hasn't been much in the reports that I'm being shown.”

“That's because no one has much to report. Most of the tips that we have gotten about the girls have been dead ends.”

“Helpful citizens and crackpots,” he said, taking another bite of his egg sandwich. Brooke had eaten only about a third of her fruit cup. She hadn't had much of an appetite since Jennifer's abduction. She pushed it aside.

“We received a lot of tips yesterday after Representative Adeogo made his emotional appeal on national television,” she said. “But none of them has led anywhere.”

“I assumed that press conference was scripted by Wyatt Parker. It was a page right out of the FBI's hostage negotiator's handbook.”

“Parker doesn't think outside the box and neither do the agents working for him.”

“You probably don't move up the FBI chain of command by taking risks,” DeMoss said. “You sound disappointed in him.”

“Frustrated would be a better description. There are two different teams reporting to Parker. One is focused exclusively on finding Jennifer and Cassy. That's almost exclusively FBI agents. The other is hunting for the Viper and is a collaborative effort with the CIA and Homeland Security. Neither are being aggressive enough for me.”

“And you're being briefed by both teams?”

“I'm working side-by-side with Parker and see everything that he sees, but my main focus is finding the girls.”

“And you disapprove of what Parker is doing?”

“I don't think Parker feels the same urgency I do.”

“Any chance he's hiding information from you?”

“No, why would he? I attend all of the Viper briefings and read all of the incoming intel. He'd better not be keeping information from me.”

“How about from the White House and NSC?”

“You already asked me if Parker is censoring his reports to the White House. I don't know of any decision to keep information from the White House and NSC and don't know why he would.”

“Good,” DeMoss said, adding, “the latest material I received from Parker was about the SAD team being shot down in Kenya.”

“Then you're current. Parker's team is trying to determine if it was a fluke that terrorists happened to be in the area when the SAD team flew over them or if the team's helicopter was specifically targeted because the Viper knew about the mission and sent word to the Falcon.” Brooke hesitated to think for a moment and then asked, “Did the reports that Parker sent to the White House and NSC contain detailed information about the SAD team?”