The mayor had no choice but to comply.
That night, electric lines all over the city went down. Actually, that wasn’t precise enough: electric lines just outside the city went down. The suburbs surrounding Detroit were plunged into blackness. Grosse Pointe, Dearborn, Ferndale, Oak Park—they all went dark at approximately 8:00 p.m., right in the middle of dinner. The calls to Detroit Energy began flooding the company; calls to the police force skyrocketed as criminals took advantage of the cover to begin looting.
Levon’s police were conveniently busy elsewhere.
Within forty-eight hours, Detroit Energy had turned back on the power throughout Detroit. “We have seen the error of our ways,” Montefiore told the media. “Crime springs from despair; despair springs from poverty. The only way to combat poverty is to allow young people, students, hard-working parents to keep receiving their electricity. Electricity makes a better life.”
He didn’t mention the billion-dollar check the city of Detroit signed, based on borrowing against junk bonds. Neither did Levon. Neither, of course, did the headlines.
Brett
BRETT COULDN’T STOP SWEATING.
It wasn’t that Prescott’s threats scared him. Not after the public scandal with Dianna Kelly, bullshit though it was. Not after Afghanistan. Not after Iran. Not after spending years apart from Ellen. Prescott would be better off burying the whole situation politically, avoiding the backlash, making some payoff to Omari. This would blow over.
Brett wasn’t sweating for himself. He was sweating for Hassan.
He’d been a fool. He knew that now. He’d been a fool far too often: trusting Prescott, serving in his administration, and then telling Omari that he knew about Mohammed’s association with him. Omari could backtrack the story.
He’d been vague enough about where he’d obtained the information, he reminded himself. But there could only be a certain number of possibilities. Doubtless, Omari was tracking down every single one.
Then Brett thought of Prescott, and started sweating even more. How had the Secret Service found him at Omari’s home, unless they’d tracked him? And if they’d tracked him, wouldn’t they have tracked him to Hassan’s house? He’d thought he’d lost them, but where had they reacquired his trail?
He sat in his hotel room, itching to do something. His hands clenched closed, open and closed. But now he feared using the phones—they’d surely be tapped by this point. He wouldn’t be able to get free of the guards again. Somehow, he had to warn Hassan what was coming. He didn’t trust Prescott not to pass on Hassan’s information to Omari somehow. If that happened, Hassan would be as good as dead.
He had no choice.
He picked up his phone and dialed Hassan’s number. Hassan picked up on the first ring. “General Hawthorne,” he said. Brett picked up on the cue right away—Hassan knew they were listening.
“Hassan Abdul, I’ve heard so much about you. A mutual friend of ours referred me to you. He said you could answer some questions about Koranic philosophy for an article I’m writing about my experiences in Afghanistan and Iran.”
“I think I might be able to contribute.”
“Can you come over to speak in person?”
“Absolutely. What is your address?”
Brett gave him the address, then turned up the volume on the television. He knew they’d hear the conversation he was about to have with Hassan—their surveillance tools weren’t going to be thwarted by Joy Behar braying the background—but he figured the noise might mask their movements somewhat.
Fifteen minutes later, Hassan knocked at the door.
“Mr. Abdul, so good of you to come,” Brett said. He took out a pad of paper and wrote hastily as he spoke. “I was wondering if you could fill me in on the definition of jihad in non-Islamist jargon.”
He wrote, “Followed to Omari’s by Secret Service. They contact u?”
Hassan shook his head. Then, as he answered the question verbally with a long, meandering commentary on Koranic philosophy, he wrote, “Tapes hidden but not secure.”
After another twenty minutes of phony discussion about the Koran, Brett said, “Thank you so much. I may have some more questions later, but that’s enough to go on for now. Thanks for coming down. Perhaps you can stop by for dinner, so I can show my appreciation?”
“Why don’t you pick me up at my place?” Hassan answered.
“That sounds fine, Mr. Abdul,” said Brett. “See you tonight.”
When he arrived at Hassan’s apartment that night, Brett could feel the eyes of the federal agents on him. He’d spotted them right off the bat—hell, they hadn’t even bothered to try to be subtle. They picked him up from the moment he left the apartment, through the subway system, and all the way to Hassan’s apartment. When Hassan let him in, he immediately held up a piece of paper to his chest. “They stopped here today,” it said. “The tapes are gone.”
Brett’s face went white. So they’d known all along. And then they’d waited for Hassan to leave the apartment to ransack it. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered to himself.
Then he read the rest of what Hassan had written. “Found your Mohammed,” it read. “Flatbush.” Below it, an address.
Brett nodded slowly. Then, as they made small talk, he wrote, “Sorry. Will pull strings for u. U should b safe here. They r watching.”
He said loudly, “I’ll be ready to go in just a moment, Mr. Abdul. May I use your restroom?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” He gripped Hassan by the shoulder. “Thank you.”
Brett made for the small washroom at the end of Hassan’s hallway. Hassan lived on the second floor; Brett stuck his head out the window, took a look. The bathroom backed up to an apartment complex, a small alleyway. He knew he wouldn’t lose his tails for long—they’d catch up with him. But if he could stay one step ahead for just a few more hours, he might have a shot at this Mohammed. He leaned his shoulder against the window frame, rammed it upward. He felt the jolt through his still-healing arm, but he shook off the pain and gradually pushed his feet through the window. Then, hanging by his fingertips, he dropped.
He landed softly, his athletic background taking over. To the back of the alleyway was a dead end brick wall. The only other way out took him to the street, where they’d certainly be watching. He crept up to the corner of the building, glanced down the street—sure enough, there were the cars, and two men outside of them, looking at the door. One smoked a cigarette as he glanced up and down the street. Beyond them, down the street, was a subway entrance.
“Shit,” Brett muttered.
Then he sprinted toward the entrance.
As soon as he made a break for it, they spotted him. He only had a few feet on them, but the adrenaline kept him moving—ten feet, fifteen feet, extending his lead. By the time he hit the top of the entrance, they were a few steps behind. He took the stairs at full speed, five at a time, feeling his feet fly out from under him, stumbling forward, plowing into a man holding a briefcase. The collision knocked him off his feet, and Brett was flying downward into the darkness.
He tucked his chin to his chest, turned it into a barrel roll, popped up onto his feet. They were still running down the stairs, taking them one at a time. He hopped the turnstiles, sprinting full out, breath failing him.
Brett knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer.
He glanced behind him—they were gaining on him now. They’d jumped the turnstiles, and one was yelling into his earpiece. The backup would be there soon.