Treason (9 page)

The Oval Office

The White House

Washington, D.C.

D
espite his stature, Chairman Thomas Stanton didn't have a government issued, lightly armored Cadillac at his disposal, which was the vehicle the federal government provided its upper-rung Washington bureaucrats for their personal safety. Members of Congress realized that images of them being chauffeured around Washington at taxpayers' expense in luxury cars wouldn't sit well with their constituents. They had to come up with their own alternatives. Stanton had a staff member ferry him around town so he could make phone calls or read in his car's rear seat.

As his driver neared the first Secret Service barricade outside the White House, Stanton glanced outside at the neoclassical home of the nation's president with a mixture of pride and envy. The pride came from knowing that the White House was the only private resident of a world leader that was open to public tours. It was the people's house, not its occupants'. That appealed to his Lincolnesque view of a government “of the people, by the people and for the people” even though Stanton knew that Lincoln had not originated that phrase when he uttered those famous lines in his Gettysburg Address. In one of the earliest English translations of the Holy Bible, printed in 1384, John Wycliffe had declared that the bible was not the property of the church but “This Bible is for the government of the people, for the people and by the people.” It appeared that even presidents occasionally plagiarized.

Stanton's envy came from his disappointment in knowing he would never be president. He'd run for the nation's highest office the same year Sally Allworth had entered the race. Although Stanton had been viewed as the sure winner of their party's nomination—and should have been—he had found himself caught in an unexpected wave of anti-Washington voter sentiment that political consultant Decker Lake had helped foment for Allworth. This anger and the sense that the federal government had become ineffective and unresponsive crippled Stanton. Political historians would later compare it to the fervor that led to a farmer-frontier-worker political rebellion in 1828 against the Eastern establishment that had landed Andrew Jackson in the White House. Stanton had been painted as the ultimate Washington insider, a veteran legislator in a Congress that had disappointed voters for decades. In contrast, Sally Allworth had been the fresh-faced outsider. There was a Norman Rockwell purity to a woman who had never intended to seek office until her senator husband had collapsed dead. Reporters had cast her as a plain-speaking, earnest
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
newcomer and—with Decker Lake behind the scenes subtly directing—portrayed Stanton as a relic, another old white man who cut deals in a smoke-filled back room. By the time Allworth claimed her first primary win, Stanton didn't need his half-glasses to read the writing on the wall. A party loyalist, Stanton had buried the hatchet and stumped for Allworth after she had secured their party's nomination. He'd drafted much of her foreign policy platform, including her position on fighting terrorism. They'd worked well together, but neither had any genuine affection for the other. Respect was expected, friendship was not, nor was it particularly wanted.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman, for coming to see me,” President Allworth proclaimed as soon as he entered the Oval Office. “Let's have a private chat.” She nodded toward the two sofas in front of her desk near a rug embroidered with the Great Seal of the United States.

As soon as they were seated, Allworth addressed him by his first name, “Thomas, the two of us have always been able to speak candidly, which I greatly appreciate, so let's get right to it. I understand from my chief of staff that you intend to move forward with committee hearings about the embassy attack in Somalia.”

“Ms. Harper and Director Grainger were not especially convincing in suggesting that I not hold them,” Stanton replied. “As I'm certain they told you, my staff has obtained troubling information that suggests the CIA was warned at least four hours before the embassy was attacked but took no safeguards to protect our ambassador and staff.”

“Yes, that's a very, very serious charge,” Allworth said. The president paused for a moment—a subtle gesture intended to show Stanton that she understood the gravity of what he'd said. “Mallory is handling this for me,” she continued, “and she has assured me that Director Grainger has a plausible explanation and has launched a thorough investigation.”

Stanton and the president both knew that in Washington, leaders chose their words carefully, knowing that no matter how innocent a conversation may seem, it might be later used against them. The president's reference—“Mallory is handling this”—might sound as if it was merely a matter of the president delegating authority. But Stanton had a more suspicious interpretation. The president had a buffer—a possible scapegoat—in case events in Mogadishu blew up in her face. She could argue that she was unaware of any possible wrongdoing and her only fault had been to trust her chief of staff and the CIA director.

“If you are confident Director Grainger's probe will not find any mishaps, then I'm certain my committee will not find any either,” Stanton said.

“Please do not misinterpret my reason for inviting you here to discuss this,” Allworth replied. “If mistakes were made, I want to know them, and if someone in my administration acted improperly in any way, I will take the appropriate action. I am not opposed to you holding hearings.”

“With all respect, Madam President, then why did you ask me here to discuss this?”

“Because two American terrorists just tried to murder me,” Allworth said in a clearly irked tone. “Because two Americans attacked me in our nation's capital, the very heart of our democracy. The public is scared. Where will these radicals strike next? Who will they try to kill? Is it safe to go into a grocery store? Is it safe to send your children to an elementary school? What about your favorite bar or your church on Sunday? The objective of terrorism is to terrify, and these attacks on me inside the National Cathedral and on the streets outside it have made Americans feel vulnerable and unsafe. Certainly you understand that?”

“Yes, Madam President, I do.”

Before he could continue, she said, “This is why I asked Mallory and Director Grainger to speak to you about delaying your hearings. It was not, and let me repeat that, it was not because I am concerned about what you might find. It is because holding hearings right now would further undermine the public's confidence in the government's ability to protect us from attack.”

“Without being argumentative, let me suggest that hearings which showed no mistakes were made in Mogadishu might bolster confidence.”

President Allworth shot Stanton a stern look. “Mr. Chairman, our people were taken hostage in Somalia. From what I've been told, that was because the local general there didn't protect our embassy—that his own troops turned on him—so we may have not done one thing wrong. But the fact that our people were held hostage and two of them were murdered and those murders were shown on the Internet—those facts alone are going to erode public confidence. We don't need a hearing right now rehashing that horrific incident. A hearing would play into the terrorists' hands by sparking more fear and terror. What difference will it make if you wait to conduct your hearings after Director Grainger has time to fully investigate what happened and there's some distance between those hearings and the embassy attack and attempts to murder me? Giving time for the public to regain confidence in our ability to protect our people doesn't seem like an unreasonable request.”

Near the Somalia-Kenya border

T
he irony was not lost on the Falcon.

Speeding across an empty desert at night in a nation where half of its ten million residents survived on less than one U.S. dollar per day, he had excellent cell phone service.

Since the collapse of the twenty-two-year-old dictatorship of Mohamed Siad Barre in 1991, Somalia had been ravaged by what its few remaining poets called “the endless wars.” U.S. foreign policy experts were more blunt, describing Somalia as “the most dangerous place in the world.” It was ruled by anarchy and best known for piracy, kidnappings for ransom, harboring radical Islamists, corrupt leaders, more guns per resident than could be found in nearly any other nation, and widespread abuse by its citizens of a local drug called khat. Yet in this oasis of poverty, filth, depression, decay, and death, the Somali telecommunications industry flourished. It was the best in Africa.

The Falcon had watched Brooke Grant and her teenage protégée on the Al Arabic nightly newscast fleeing from reporter Ebio Kattan. He rarely missed watching the news and, like all narcissists, he'd been delighted when Kattan told viewers that he was responsible for the murder of the CIA's Gunter Conner in Germany and that he was now causing terror in America.

But there was another reason in addition to his ego for why he welcomed worldwide attention. He was waging two wars: one with terror, the other with publicity. Social media had made Major Brooke Grant a larger-than-life hero. She had outsmarted Al-Shabaab in Mogadishu and had helped kill its number two leader, Abdul Hafeez. The Al Arabic network had cast her as an avenger, taking revenge for her parents' death during 9/11. A popular Syrian blogger had compared her to Zenobia, an Arab warrior queen who had ruled the Palmyrene Empire (present-day Syria) in 267 after her husband and stepson had been murdered. Zenobia had been beloved by her subjects because she'd walked beside her foot soldiers rather than riding a stallion into battle. She'd spilled blood. So had Major Brooke Grant.

Like her, the Falcon had become a social media icon. He was described in the West as the world's master terrorist and in the Arab world revered by many as a faceless, ageless, unyielding sword of Allah.

The conflict between the United States and radical Islam now bore two human faces: hers and his. For this reason alone, he was obligated to kill her.

His contempt for Brooke ran deeper than their symbolic rivalry. Allah had created women to be lesser than men, and any female who challenged those divinely inspired roles disrespected Allah and deserved death.

The Falcon's cell phone rang. “Are you near?” a voice asked.

“Expect us in thirty minutes.”

Shortly after midnight, the Falcon's four-vehicle motorcade entered the town of El Wak, a city of 16,000 that is divided by the Somalia and Kenya border. As was the case in many villages in Kenya's North Eastern Province, El Wak's residents were mostly Somalis. After passing through the slumbering hamlet, the convoy arrived at a walled estate about a mile outside the city's western edge.

Uniformed guards opened a heavy, motorized, ornate gate, allowing the vehicles to enter and continue forward to a Moroccan-style mansion where a dozen servants waited under a brightly lighted portico. The house's chief butler, a white man dressed in a white tunic, greeted the Falcon.

“Welcome to the home of Umoja Owiti,” the butler declared in a heavy English accent. “Everything has been prepared for you and your fellow travelers. Please permit me to escort you inside to be personally welcomed by Mr. Umoja Owiti, the master of this estate, while the staff delivers your men to their sleeping quarters.”

“Our vehicles?”

“The staff will park them out of sight in Mr. Owiti's private garage.”

The Falcon followed the butler up four wide polished marble steps to the mansion's front entrance, where two armed guards in blue uniforms emblazoned with a bright gold insignia that contained the initials UO were stationed. The house's open foyer was three stories tall and had walls covered with gold leaf with shimmering black-and-white floor tiles.

“Sir, you might wish to remove your shoes,” the butler said. “I can offer you silk slippers that are most comfortable, or if you would prefer, you may wish to walk barefoot.”

The Falcon glanced down at the tiny sparkles around his feet.

“Each floor tile contains seventy-five slightly raised diamonds,” the butler explained. “Mr. Owiti believes walking on diamonds helps increase blood flow in the feet. He will be barefoot.”

The butler replaced his shoes with slippers.

A knee-high basin for foot washing was near the front doorway. The Falcon removed his shoes and a woman instantly appeared with a cloth and motioned him toward the basin. She washed and massaged his feet while on her knees, gently dried them, and then disappeared.

From the foyer, the butler led him through a series of hallways until they reached another pair of uniformed guards stationed outside two oversize ornately carved walnut doors. The room that the Falcon entered behind those doors was cavernous with a domed roof that rose from the center of the mansion. Water tumbled down from boulders stacked thirty feet high inside this massive chamber. The pool beneath the stone was big enough to accommodate eight adult bathers. Across from it was a larger-than-life statue of a Masai warrior made of black opal, which was more rare and expensive than diamonds. The Masai, a semi-nomadic tribe in southern Kenya, were feared fighters, and the muscular figure—dressed in a bloodred short skirt and flowing cape—clutched a gold-plated spear in his right hand and an oblong white shield in his left. He stared straight ahead. The Falcon gazed up at the dome ceiling and realized it was a programmable digital screen that was showing a cloudless African blue sky. The floor was cream-colored marble, cool to the touch. A half dozen settees, all covered with animal skins—giraffe, zebra, and leopard—were placed in a semicircle, facing a larger settee upholstered with the hide of a white rhino.

“
As-salamn Alaykum
,” Umoja Owiti said, rising from the largest settee. He opened his arms as he stepped forward to embrace his hooded guest. “Please, come sit, eat some dates, you must be hungry.”

Seeing the Falcon's bare feet, Owiti exclaimed, “You have walked across my floor of diamonds! A bit outlandish, but my African wife insisted our home pay homage to our continent's natural resources. Come, come and sit with me.”

Owiti ordered his English butler to bring slippers for the Falcon. “We can't have you getting cold feet,” he said, laughing. “I keep this room cooler than many of my guests desire. My love of air-conditioning is an unfortunate habit developed while living in America.” Placing his hands on his watermelon-shaped belly, he added, “Another unfortunate gift from the West. Their foods are much too fattening.” Owiti was a tall man with a round face and thick black glasses. He pointed at the domed ceiling above them.

“I can create any climate in this chamber,” he bragged. “Even snow—and make it appear to be any time of the day that I wish.” Picking up an iPad next to his settee, Owiti dimmed the ceiling until it became pitch black and there were only stars above them. Clearly pleased, he returned the scene to its noonday appearance. “I arrived this morning from a different time zone, so while it is currently after midnight outside, inside this chamber it is only a few minutes before noon.”

“Tell me, my friend,” the Falcon replied, “at what times do you pray in your computer-controlled world?”

In a slightly irritated tone, Owiti replied, “I pray five times daily, as required by the Holy Quran and, as you can see, Allah has blessed me.”

Owiti was wearing white cotton slacks and a white collared shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He motioned toward a zebra-covered chaise near his own where trays of dates had been placed on knee-high tables.

“Would you prefer tea or coffee?” he asked.

“Neither.”

Owiti pressed a button on an iPad and within moments, a woman brought him hot tea. “How do you eat and drink when you are wearing a mask?” the billionaire asked. “When you have sex with a woman, do you still hide your face? Is there no one you trust?”

“Allah sees my true face, as He does the faces and hearts of all men.”

Owiti frowned and said, “You don't have to convince me of your piety.” He nodded toward the oversize statue across the room from them. “Did you know my grandfather's people were Masai warriors? I will tell you a story. One day my grandfather saw a beautiful Somali woman and he took her and afterwards demanded she become one of his wives. She refused, so my grandfather threatened to kill her family. My grandmother was a Muslim who could read and one day my grandfather asked her about the Quran. Rather than teaching him how to read, she read to him every night, but she was a clever woman and because he was illiterate, my grandfather didn't realize she was inserting her own words into the holy book.”

“That is blasphemy. Punishable by death,” the Falcon said.

“Please,” Owiti replied in a sarcastic tone. “Do not all men use the scriptures for their own purposes?” Continuing, he said, “My grandmother manipulated my grandfather. So you see the Masai blood of a warrior is in my veins, but so is the Somali blood of my wise manipulator, and the mixing of both makes me who I am.”

The Falcon noted that he clearly enjoyed telling that story.

“Now let's talk business and why you have come to my home,” Owiti said. “Tell me, did you encounter any soldiers from AMISOM near the border?” The billionaire was referring to troops from the African Union Mission to Somalia, a military force composed of soldiers sent by other African nations into Somalia to prop up its fragile, pro-Western government. A large percentage came from Kenya.

“No, they were snoring in their beds,” the Falcon answered.

“I want to punish Kenya,” Owiti declared. “The Americans will never fight us in Somalia after being embarrassed by what they call Black Hawk Down. They will use Ethiopians, who are believers in the Book of Lies, and Kenyans. The only way to reclaim Somalia is by driving out AMISOM.”

“Yes, as you say, AMISOM is a puppet. The fingers inside belong to Americans. They are using their money to avoid spilling their own blood. I need your money to spill American blood on American soil,” the Falcon said. “You are both a servant of Allah and a wealthy man, are you not?”

Owiti laughed. He often was described as the world's richest African. His first fortune had come from diamond and uranium mines. Later, he'd expanded into oil and natural gas production, telecommunication and Internet services, as well as traditional publishing. He owned businesses in Eastern Europe and had his toe in China. His Kenyan home was one of ten mansions scattered across the globe, including a multimillion-dollar Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park. Each house came with a separate wife.

“Allah has smiled on me but I am a businessman as well as a devout Muslim,” Owiti replied, “and I trust the actions of men, not their rhetoric or dreams. Helping you will put my family, my fortune, and myself at great risk. What will I gain from taking these risks?”

“The glory of serving Allah,” the Falcon replied.

Owiti took a sip from his drink without replying, making it clear by his silence that he expected more.

“You want to punish Kenya for supporting AMISOM,” the Falcon continued. “I will do that for you. But that is nothing compared to how I will use your money to create chaos in America. A shrewd businessman should be clever enough to benefit financially from what I will do.”

“Knowing in advance that another 9/11 attack is coming could be profitable.”

“What I am planning eclipses the Twin Towers. With your financial assistance, I will destroy three of America's most important cities in one glorious act, striking a blow for Allah.”

“You will destroy three cities simultaneously? An ambitious task, but ambition sometimes surpasses a man's ability.”

“I am not a man who proposes the impossible. I have people in place in America, including one at the highest possible level. He tells me what the American president eats each morning, who she meets, and when she goes to bed at night.”

“You have a spy inside the White House?”

“My friend, how else do you expect me to destroy it? If you help me, I will kill their president and destroy that city. I will wipe this abomination called Washington from earth's face. This is not a threat, it is a promise that I swear to you.”

“And how will you accomplish this?” Owiti asked.

“I will share details of my plan with you, but not now. First, I will present you with a gift of blood. I will punish the Kenyans for supporting AMISOM. That should please you.”

“Yes, it would greatly please me.”

“Two hundred kilometers from here is the town of Mandera. My gift of blood to you will happen there. I will leave at first light. I already have men waiting there for me to join them.”

“That is a seven-hour drive from here,” Owiti said. “It will be faster and more comfortable for you in one of my helicopters. But it would be best if you landed outside the city. I do not want the Americans to discover my role. Now tell me more about your plan to destroy Washington.”