Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

“Hassan Haddad,” Jack said.

“And you’re sure there’s one of these underground bunkers in Lincoln Park?” Karras asked.

“Absolutely,” Doc told him. “And a section of it that leads straight to the Legion of Honor.”

“How do you know all this?” Max asked.

Doc grinned. “Because, my dear, I’ve seen it firsthand. I used to work in those tunnels.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“It was my first deployment, straight out of boot camp, about a year before they closed the whole operation down. That’s why I stayed here-fell in love with the city. I must’ve traveled the length of those bunkers a thousand times. And I can tell you, they aren’t just limited to Lincoln Park and the Legion of Honor.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“They run all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s like an express highway system down there, but without the traffic.”

“Okay, so we know of a possible way into the building,” Jack said.

“Not possible,” Doc told him. “Probable. The Legion of Honor was built back in nineteen twenty-four.” He gestured to Karass and pointed to the blueprint on-screen. “Show me the subbasement on that thing.”

Karass did as he was told and the blueprint came up on the screen. Doc pointed to it. “Back in my day, there was a way into the tunnels by an elevator located in this subbasement right about here. They sealed that off after the tunnels were closed but there was a special hatch built close by, in case the elevator wasn’t working.” He shifted his finger to point out the location of the hatch. “It’s a few years since I’ve been down in that basement, but the last time I saw that hatch it was secured by a simple chain and padlock.”

“Wouldn’t the Secret Service know about this?” Tony asked.

“No doubt they would and they’d have a man guarding it,” Doc said. “But if these savages have a friend on the inside, who’s to say he couldn’t neutralize the agent and open the hatch?”

“Jesus,” Max said. “Can’t we just call in a bomb scare?”

“With what proof?” Jack said. “They get a hundred of those a day, and they undoubtedly do routine sweeps.”

“So what’s the solution?” Karras asked.

Tony said, “A two-pronged attack. Doc has a friend he thinks can give him a pretty good idea where the exterior entry point to the bunkers is. I say we wait for cover of darkness then go and see what we find.”

“And what’s the second prong?” Jack asked.

“You and me,” Tony said, then reached into his pocket and took out the VIP invitation to the gala that Danny Pescatori had snagged for him. “Better break out your tuxedo, brother. We’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the President tonight.”

Hassan Haddad sat at a corner table in the Bilal cafe, savoring some of the best meat and potato curry he’d had in months, when the man he was waiting for finally arrived.

It was well past the hour of their appointment, and Haddad had considered a number of times simply getting up and walking away. But as he waited, quietly sipping hot tea, the spicy smell of the curry kept wafting in from the kitchen and he knew he couldn’t leave this place until he’d at least sampled it.

He wasn’t disappointed.

This meeting had not been Haddad’s idea. He had been going about his business these last two days, making preparations as needed, procuring Chilikov’s device from the shipping yards, and selecting seven men out of a field of twenty who he thought would best serve Allah.

Many of Allah’s soldiers showed great confidence when a mission was proposed, but the moment it became a reality some found their confidence start to wane, and Haddad had to know who he could and could not rely on to carry out his orders. The last thing he needed was another Abdal al-Fida on his hands.

Haddad had interviewed each of the twenty, looking for any signs of regret or weakness or fear, and had relied on his instincts to choose the men he needed. All of his preparations had been made and his men were now in position, and everything was going as planned-until he received an unexpected phone call that morning on his pay-as-you-go cell phone.

Only one person knew its number.

“ Assalamu alaikum, my friend,” the familiar old voice said.

Imam Zuabi.

Haddad expressed surprise at the sound of his voice. Had something gone wrong? Was this a call to tell him to abort? Such a thought sickened Haddad after all he had gone through to make this moment a reality.

But his imam gave him assurances that all was well.

“I am merely calling to wish you the blessings of the Prophet, my friend. Allah is smiling on you every moment of every day. He knows that what you do to avenge us is not without sacrifice, and He thanks you for your efforts. As do I.”

“There is no need to thank me,” Haddad said. “I am His servant. I do as He asks without question.”

“Excellent, my friend. Excellent. Because there is someone I would like you to meet. Someone who has been helping us carry out Allah’s plan.”

Haddad frowned. “I do not understand. I have all the men I need. They are ready and committed to the cause.”

“Yet you have asked many times about our benefactors, no? The people who have helped us these last years, procuring for us the things we need. Helping us smooth the way.”

“Yes, of course,” Haddad said. “I’ve been curious, but-”

“Today that curiosity will be sated,” Zuabi informed him.

Haddad didn’t understand. “What are you asking of me, Faakhir?”

“That you go to the Bilal restaurant at one P.M. today and order tea. A man will be there shortly and present himself to you. He is your final key to gaining entry to the place you seek. It is important that you meet him so that you may form a bond of trust.”

Haddad knew it would be unwise to refuse this request, so he agreed-as Zuabi knew he would.

Haddad sat in the restaurant just long enough to get hungry as he waited for this man to arrive-a man he had known nothing about until the imam’s phone call. He was deeply disturbed by this turn of events.

He did not like surprises.

Twenty minutes into the hour, the bell over the door jangled and a tall, muscular-looking man with a crew cut and sunglasses entered the restaurant and walked without hesitation to Haddad’s table.

He gestured to the chair opposite Haddad. “May I?”

“By all means,” Haddad told him, recognizing a British accent, not unlike his own. The man looked very dangerous and Haddad did not know what to make of him. Was he not Muslim? And if not, how could he possibly have a role in what they were about to do?

But even more disturbing was the thought that Imam Zuabi would associate with someone like this. If this man worked for one of their benefactors, what did these benefactors want for the money they’d given to Zuabi? Whose agenda was Haddad being asked to carry out? That of Allah or some unseen entity?

The man pulled out a chair, sat, and removed his sunglasses. The eyes behind them were like ice. “Good afternoon, Mr. Haddad. I’ve heard many great things about you.”

“I wish I could say the same of you,” Haddad answered. “Shall I order you tea, Mr…?”

“Swain,” the man said. “Adam Swain.” He showed Haddad a set of credentials. “I’m with MI6.”

Haddad’s eyes widened but the man held up a hand to reassure him. “Take it easy, mate. We’re on the same side.”

It wasn’t for that reason Haddad was aghast. He knew that Imam Zuabi had been working with certain people within the British government to help-which is why Haddad had traveled here on a diplomatic visa-but he had no idea how deeply Zuabi’s network went.