Drake was surprised they had all been living with no known means of support and no new crimes they were being sought for. Usually felons either tried to go straight, at least initially, or reverted to their old ways of supporting themselves.
“Okay,” Burton said, after Mason closed his file and sat back in his chair, “so these guys were bad guys, despite what the imams are telling us. You have any idea why they came after you?”
Drake met Burton’s gaze directly and shook his head. “None of my old cases or anything I’m working on now would give these guys any reason to want me dead. The only possible connection, and it’s nothing I can prove, is my poking around the murder at Martin Research, starting two days ago.”
“Liz told us about you following this ISIS guy yesterday and the drug dealer he met for lunch. Why do you think this has anything to with the other night at your farm?”
Drake looked at Burton and smiled. “I don’t believe in coincidences, or random acts of violence. I doubt that you do either. I visited the ISIS office Thursday afternoon, trying to find out what caused the security lapse at Martin Research. At about the same time, the head of security at Martin research was killed. Whoever did it, tried to make it look like a suicide. That same night three guys came after me. The next day I see the ISIS manager having lunch with a felon I convicted, who apparently has access to a private ISIS facility in Hood River. That’s why.”
“It’s not against the law to have lunch with a parolee,” the blond kid injected, rolling his eyes. “Maybe he was interviewing the guy for a job at their ranch up there, you ever consider that?”
“No hotshot, I didn’t,” Drake said, tired of the hostile looks he’d received from the kid since entering the room. “And if you were using the brain the FBI hired you to use, you wouldn’t consider it either. ISIS can’t hire felons and have firms that do secret research for the government as clients.”
As the kid started to get out of his chair, Burton took control of the situation. “Sit down Jorgenson, and keep quiet. Maybe you can learn something.”
Looking back at Drake, Burton continued, “The ISIS manager’s meeting with someone you know is a felon doesn’t impress me. Maybe he doesn’t know the guy’s a felon. I’m more interested in any information you might have that warrants my involvement. We’re sitting on three bodies in the morgue. Ms. Strobel is concerned there might be a connection between the murder at Martin Research, these dead Muslims, and the Secretary’s visit next week. You have anything that indicates a terrorist threat is mixed in with all of this? Anything that I should let the Secret Service worry about?”
Burton was a good man, but Drake could see why this meeting had been called. The JTTF and the FBI weren’t about to jump into another terrorist investigation. Their last one blew up in their faces. They had arrested and jailed a Portland lawyer after a misread fingerprint linked him to a terrorist train bombing in Madrid. It cost the government two million dollars when they settled his lawsuit.
“You know the terrorism angle better than I do, Bruce. The dots are possibly there, but I don’t see how they’re connected,” Drake admitted, and watched relief flood over Burton’s face.
“Good. Glad you agree with us. We’ll do everything we can to smooth over the killings on your farm. Ms. Strobel will keep you advised about that, and we’ll back up your story about when and where things took place. If there’s anything we can do to help with the police investigation, you call me,” Burton said as he stood, signaling the end of the meeting.
Drake left, realizing he was on his own. If ISIS sent the three gunmen his way, as he suspected, it was up to him to prove it.
Chapter 27
David Barak, aka “Malik,” left his twenty-seventh floor penthouse, one block off the Las Vegas strip, to head to the airport. He was accompanied by his personal bodyguard, Jamal James, a former defensive tackle for the San Diego Chargers. At six foot eight inches and three hundred fifty pounds, Jamal was a menacing presence that Barak was proud to have in his employ. Jamal wasn’t just a big body. His eyes shined with intelligence, his movements were both graceful and quick, and he was loyal. People were impressed that a man of such obvious strength and quality was his servant. Barak was most impressed with the man’s unswerving loyalty. The President of the United States might have his Secret Service to stop bullets for him, but Barak had Jamal.
“Jamal, when we get to Oregon, I want you to have the biggest steak the chef at the ranch can find,” he said, as they took the elevator down to the waiting limousine. “You’ve been a loyal friend. Is there anything you might want to do while I’m busy for several hours?”
“No sir, dinner will be enough. I thought I’d just wait for you in the plane. Still haven’t gotten used to flying around in so much luxury,” Jamal said with a wry smile on his broad face. “The quarterbacks always got the private jets.”
In America, Barak had learned that symbolism was everything. Bodyguards, expensive cars, private planes, big homes, and clothing and watches that cost as much as two-thirds of the world earned in a year, were symbols of achievement, worth, and superiority. He had chosen to put his headquarters in America’s gaudiest city, where symbolism was everything. It reminded him every day why America was a fraud and had to be destroyed. A country that celebrated actors above teachers, banned its religions from public places and catered to man’s most basic instincts, in the most vile and public ways, could not be allowed to remain the world’s leader.
So he put on the symbols America cherished and was recognized as a business leader, a man of means. His company, ISIS, was a world leader in security services and executive protection. Because of its success, he had access to the secrets of many of the world’s largest corporations and its most famous and influential people. Soon, he would make use of that access to shock the rich and powerful. He would make them all wish they had not allowed their governments to make war on Islam.
Barak was concerned about the developments in Oregon. It was where he had chosen to make his first strike, and he couldn’t afford to fail. As he made his way to the Las Vegas Executive Air Terminal and his private Gulfstream G650, he knew he would have to do something about the attorney Kaamil had allowed to live. He could not be permitted to jeopardize their plan. He would have to find a way to throw the man off their track.
In four short days, when the Secretary of Homeland Security was assassinated, the world would learn that the jihad could reach everywhere. Then, those on a list of twelve of the most influential American leaders and celebrities would receive an invitation to convert to Islam-or face the consequences. He had the means and the ability to make sure they understood that opposing Allah meant a swift and sure punishment. He smiled, as he thought about headlines announcing the beheadings of Hollywood stars, television anchors, politicians and a few billionaires. People who thought they were above the violence their government’s bombs had brought to so many in Arab lands.
As his plane took off for the flight to his training facility outside Hood River, Barak stared down at the flat land that reminded him of his homeland, and the life, war with the Jews had taken from him. He had vowed at his father’s funeral that he would avenge his death a thousandfold. With Allah’s blessing, and the Brotherhood’s support, he was close to keeping that vow and getting his revenge.