Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Did the Hand of Allah truly have MI6 in their control? Or was it the other way around?

“I assume you have everything in order,” Swain said. “Your men will all be in place at the proper time?”

“Yes,” Haddad said, still trying to recover. “Yes, of course.”

“All right,” Swain told him. “The big man’s speech is scheduled to begin at twenty-one hundred hours and they’re usually pretty punctual about these things. Someone on the inside will slip away well before then, and the door to the kingdom will be open and waiting for you.”

Haddad considered this and nodded.

“I assume you know your way around those tunnels?” Swain asked.

“I have been through them personally,” Haddad said. “There will be no mistakes.”

“Good. That’s what we like to hear.”

We? Haddad thought. Was he speaking of Zuabi or someone else entirely?

Haddad was becoming uneasy.

A waitress came over, asking Swain if he wanted something to eat, but he waved her away. Rather rudely, Haddad thought, as if she were somehow beneath him.

Not a promising sign, and not a good way to stay unnoticed.

“There’s just one last thing,” he said to Haddad. “A slight change in plans.”

Haddad’s discomfort grew. “Oh?”

“We’re going to need your full commitment on this mission.”

“Of course,” Haddad said. “As always.”

Swain shook his head. “I don’t think you understand. Your full commitment.”

It took Haddad a moment to realize what he was saying. The request was surprising to him, considering what a valuable soldier he had been over the years, but if this was Allah’s will, then he would give himself without question.

He did, however, have to wonder.

Why now?

Was it because of what happened in Sofia? Or what he’d done to Abdal al-Fida in London? Had the imam deduced that the fool’s death wasn’t a suicide and felt he had to punish Haddad for going against orders?

Haddad did not think Zuabi could be so small-minded, but the imam had been showing signs of weakness lately. His willingness to consort with infidel outsiders like Swain was ample proof of this.

But Haddad knew that whatever happened truly was Allah’s will. And if he was to die tonight to help bring about the fall of the infidel, then so be it. He would sacrifice himself a thousand times if he could.

He looked at Swain. “I give whatever Allah requires of me.”

“Good,” Swain said, then checked his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have a plane to catch. But I’ve brought a gift for you.”

One of Haddad’s eyebrows went up. “What sort of gift?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Getting the message, Haddad pushed his plate aside then dropped some bills on the table and stood.

“Show me,” he said.

Swain grinned then got to his feet and gestured for Haddad to follow. A moment later they were outside and walking down the street. They turned together into a narrow alley where a van was parked.

Haddad wondered if he had been too quick to accept this man as an ally, yet he sensed no threat in Swain’s demeanor. He did not think this man was capable of subtlety. If he meant you harm, it would be telegraphed.

Moving around to the back of the van, Swain took out a key and unlocked the doors. He gestured for Haddad to open it.

“Another new martyr for the cause,” he said. “We want her with you when you pull the trigger.”

Haddad studied him quizzically then reached forward and pulled the van doors open.

Inside was a woman, bound and gagged, her large eyes staring up at them-a woman Haddad recognized immediately.

It was al-Fida’s girlfriend.

Sara Ghadah.

Legion of Honor, San Francisco

“Invitation, please?”

The woman at the reception dais was young, beautiful, and not the least bit impressed by two old guys in their finest evening attire.

Jack hated tuxedos with a passion, especially the way this one tugged at his still tender shoulder-and Tony didn’t seem all that enamored with them either as he dug around in his inner jacket pocket and produced the oversized invitation Danny Pescatori had scored for him. It had taken them nearly twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, which started just outside the Roman triumphal arch entrance to the Legion of Honor and ran all the way down the long stone ramp toward the shimmering blue pool of the circular fountain that fronted the palace. It was dark out, and the ramp was lit on either side by small glowing globes placed low to the ground.

Whenever Jack visited the palace he felt as if he’d stepped into another part of history, back to a grander time, when our nation was still young and buildings like this were symbols of our greatness. A massive, magnificent neoclassical structure, it had been an Armistice Day gift from Alma de Bretteville Spreckels, who wanted to honor California’s fallen soldiers of World War I with a world-class museum. If it weren’t for the moon-dappled bay beyond, with views of the Marin headlands and the brightly lit Golden Gate Bridge, you might mistake it for one of the many ancient buildings of Rome or Athens.

The woman took the invitation from Tony. “Your names?”

“Anthony Antiniori and Jack Hatfield,” he said.

She passed the information along to an assistant who carefully ran a ruler down a reservations list and checked them off.

Now she was all smiles. “Welcome to the Legion of Honor, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”

Tony doffed an imaginary cap, then the two men moved into yet another line, queuing up for the body scanners just inside the entrance.

Jack knew that the Secret Service would have done a background check when Tony RSVPed, but it would have been a cursory one. Jack was banned from the U.K. but that wouldn’t show up on a level-one scan, designed to make sure that domestic felons and watch-list terrorists weren’t trying to get in. Given the many events a President attended, it was the quickest filter available to his security team. The thinking was that no one would have an invitation that the White House did not want here.

A large banner spanning the archway read CELEBRATE THE ART OF ISLAM! which Jack still thought a bit ironic, considering the circumstances. He didn’t think tonight’s celebration would be exactly what the museum curator had in mind. Another irony, thought Jack, was the French motto sculpted above the stone entrance, “Honneur et Patrie. ” “‘Honor and Nation,’” sneered Jack, “yeah, right.”

The security line, like the line to the dais, was full of San Francisco dignitaries, all dressed as if they were going to the Oscars. The capacity of the museum was fifteen hundred people, and there had to be close to that many tuxedos and black evening gowns in evidence, movers and shakers from all over California, from movie stars to politicians. This was one of the biggest tickets of the year. Of course, the room was also packed with the poseurs, those Pacific Heights inheritance cases whose inheritances had long been diminished or had disappeared entirely. Like most provincials they strutted and displayed their fake jewels most dramatically.

The mayor and his wife stood not three feet away, and Jack was pleased to see that even he hadn’t been spared the security check. Just beyond the line, Jack saw the new governor talking with his predecessor, both of them laughing over some unheard joke.

The crowd was too dense to know for sure, but Jack doubted that Senator Harold Wickham or Lawrence Soren or Swain or any of the other men he’d met on that island were present. He’d have caught a glimpse of one of them by now. He imagined they were all far away by now, in transit or already relaxing in their homes, waiting to read about the success of their treachery in tomorrow’s newspapers. That was further indication that whatever they were planning was still a go. Otherwise, those men would be here.