True Allegiance

The thumb drive, it turned out, contained one video. She watched it three times before she began to make out faces. It looked like a young, slim Muslim man, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. He shook hands with another man wearing a white Islamic robe. As the video continued, a third man entered the frame: tall, spare, white-bearded. The third time Ellen watched the video, she realized she was staring at the face of Imam Anjem Omari.

Prescott finally called Ellen that night. They met at a conference room in the hotel—Prescott sat at one end of the long conference table, with Tommy Bradley at his elbow. They placed her at the opposite end. She felt like a little girl called into the principal’s office. But realizing that’s exactly how Prescott wanted it, she steeled herself for the confrontation.

She was surprised when Prescott grinned at her. “Have you seen your husband yet, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

That little riposte, Ellen quickly figured, meant they were tailing her. “Not yet, Mr. President,” she said. “In fact, I’m not quite sure where he is.” She figured Prescott must already know that—otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked. He knew better than to ask questions to which he didn’t know the answers.

“Well, why don’t we bring him up here? Tommy?”

Her heart almost leaped out of her chest. She swallowed it. She wouldn’t let them use Brett against her. “Why don’t we attend to business first, sir?”

“Your choice, Mrs. Hawthorne,” Prescott said amiably. “How do we come to an agreement about the situation in El Paso?”

“Some border security would be nice, Mr. President.”

He laughed loudly; the tinny sound ricocheted around the paneled room. “Other than that, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“We may be at an impasse.”

He leaned forward, a sudden seriousness coming over his face. “I’m sure you can do better than that. Look, see it from my perspective. We just faced the most serious terror attack in our nation’s history. All I’m trying to do is rebuild. And all I need is some time, some calm in the country. You’ve seen the situation in Detroit. The world’s on fire.”

“Whose fault is that, Mr. President?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said, it’s your fault, Mr. President.” Ellen couldn’t hold it back any longer. A husband gone for years. A state in ruins. And this man—this man!—claiming to be the victim? “With all due respect, we wouldn’t have this situation on the border if it hadn’t been for your cheap political tactics of nonenforcement, and then forceful opposition to Governor Davis’s plans to do something to secure that border. The reason Governor Davis won’t help you is that he simply doesn’t trust you.”

Prescott looked like he’d been hit with a tire iron. His face went red, his fists clenched. “Okay, Ellen,” he said softly. “Our conversation appears to be at an impasse.”

He stared at her, enraged. Then, he continued, “Now, would you like to see your husband?”

He signaled to Tommy Bradley, who got up and opened the door to the conference room. Two Secret Service agents ushered in General Brett Hawthorne. His face was bruised, his clothes were filthy. He looked awful. His hands were gashed and scraped, the knuckles bloody.

For a moment, Ellen felt miles away. Her husband blurred through her tears. Then she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He stood there awkwardly, then raised his hands to her head, stroked her hair. She breathed in the smell of him. The wonder of him.

Then he saw Prescott’s smiling face and came back to earth.

She kissed his cheek. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

He gently pushed her back. Then he turned to the president, his hands open, pleading. “Mr. President,” he said, “you need to call Imam Omari here, right now, and get some answers.”

“And why is that, General? We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Look, Mr. President. I spent the last day tracking down leads on one of the men I spotted in Tehran. A man named Mohammed. I tracked him down through my contact—he has him on tape talking with Omari. I got away from your boys long enough to find this Mohammed’s apartment. I fought my way through two men, one of them a henchman for Omari. And then I forced him to talk. Mr. President, I think we’re looking at a nuclear attack on American soil. I tried to track the bomb itself, but I lost the men down near the harbor when your men picked me up. I’ve seen this strategy before, in Afghanistan: they draw you in with one bomb, then use a second to kill those who help. I think what happened at the bridge was the preliminary attack.”

Prescott paused. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Then he said, slowly, “I don’t believe you.”

“You already knew,” Brett mused, enraged.

“I did. And I don’t believe your intelligence is better than my CIA, my FBI, my Department of Homeland Security. I don’t buy this Jack Bauer routine you’re putting on. I think you’ve got delusions of grandeur, and that you always did.”

“Then why am I here?” Brett said.

“Because,” said Prescott, “I want your wife to know that what happens next is up to her.”