The Babel Conspiracy Page 8

  Alex Harner chuckled. “To be sure. Fatah has invested over ninety-five million in London alone.”

  “How can they be so wealthy? The PLO went bankrupt after Arafat backed Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War,” Trisha said.

  “Old news,” returned Harner. “Money is now pouring into both Fatah and Hamas from Iran. Clearly, Iran is getting ready for war. You’ve heard of the ‘Iran War Dial’?” When no one answered, Harner continued. “It’s the clock that compiles various expert predictions on how close we are to an Israeli/Iranian conflict. The clock is almost at midnight. Many in Iran are desperate to bring about world chaos in order to usher in their Mahdi, their Messiah.”

  “Gentlemen, please.” Renee pursed her lips. “No one wants to hear about wars or Messiahs. And you make terrorists sound like . . . well, like . . . entrepreneurs.”

  “Exactly,” Harner returned. “And their commodity is terror which they sell. They even have their own bureaucracy with office staffs of forty-thousand-dollars-a-month men, complete with secretaries and company cars. And it’s the faction that does the most damage that gets the most money. So all the groups, including Kamal’s, have to outdo each other in order to get the big bucks. It’s like an incentive program.”

  “Come now, we’re here to enjoy ourselves,” Renee said, picking at her diamond bracelet. “This conversation is depressing all the ladies. Let’s hear no more of it.”

  Trisha glanced at Alexander Harner and Senator Garby. “You both seem well informed.”

  Harner smiled and leaned closer to Trisha as though about to reveal a secret. “Neither the senator nor I uphold violence and terrorism for any reason. We are, however, not unsympathetic toward the Arabs. We believe they have been maligned and misrepresented to a certain extent. I own and operate one of the largest oil companies in the west and . . . .”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Harner,” Trisha said.

  “Alex, call me Alex, please.” When Trisha remained silent, Harner shrugged and continued. “With the energy crisis being what it is, and with Middle East hostility being what it is . . . well, I have to keep informed.”

  Trisha frowned. “This sympathy of yours isn’t due to the fact that your company has never experienced any major terrorist attack? Rather startling good fortune when you consider that no other oil company can say the same.”

  Alexander Harner shook with laughter. “Money, Trisha, money! I pay protection. Simple as that. Are you shocked? Of course, I see by your face that you are. But you needn’t be. Businesses do it everyday. Oh . . . maybe not in outright payments, but in the form of ‘gifts’ shall we say. ‘Gifts’ given to the right people can buy a remarkable amount of friendship.”

  “You mean you’re paying off the terrorists? That you are giving money to our enemies?”

  “Oh no, no. You misunderstand. I’m paying a protection force to guard my oil fields in hostile lands. Perfectly legal. Nothing untoward.”

  Trisha studied him. There was something about the man that made her uneasy. “Well, Mr. Harner, politics seem vastly more complex than airplanes.”

  • • •

  Mike pulled off his suit and flung it across a chair.

  “You know, I forgot to congratulate Trisha on her achievement,” Renee said, as she lingered nearby.

  “What achievement?” Mike hoped he didn’t sound too interested.

  “Getting you to dance so long. It must be a new record. You know how you abhor it. How in the world did she manage?” After a brief pause, her lips curled into a smile. “Or is she your newest playmate? That isn’t like you, Michael, mixing business with pleasure, although I’ve always thought that rule of yours rather silly. Well, is she . . . are you two having an affair?”

  Mike pulled an undershirt over his head. “No.”

  “Really? Then why do I sense something between you?”

  “That’s your own dirty little mind working overtime. And why the interest? You’ve never questioned me about anyone before.”

  “Well, it’s just . . . .”

  “Trisha is not the type who would have a cheap, little affair with the first guy who asked.”

  “Cheap? Not a word you normally use when discussing our ‘arrangement.’ I don’t understand . . . unless . . . unless you did ask and she refused. Michael, did she refuse you?” Renee released what sounded like croaking laughter. But when her husband didn’t respond she positioned her body into what was supposed to be a seductive pose, except too much alcohol had made her clumsy and almost comical looking.

  “Save it, Renee,” Mike said frowning. “I’m not up for it, not when you approach sex like a vampire. I don’t feel like being drained just so you can feel replenished.”

  “It’s always turned you on before. Besides, I like knowing that while I mean little to you, no one else means more.”

  Her honesty startled Mike. He supposed it was the liquor talking, making her so unscripted. She was sure to forget about it in the morning. He watched her sink onto the bed.

  “Michael, the Garbys have invited me to DC to help host a big fundraiser and I’ve accepted.”

  “Well, isn’t that what you’ve been angling for all this time? I’m happy for you. Maybe now you’ll see how unsuitable they are to lead our country.”

  “I’ve heard the talk, too. But since when do you pay attention to rumors?”

  “I know about the crowd he hangs with, and they’re bad apples, Renee.”

  “You mean Alexander Harner? I don’t think much of him either. He’s an oil man. But the Garbys . . . well . . . they’re the kind that shapes history.”

  “But what kind of history?” Mike asked in a mocking tone.

  “Don’t act so superior. Just tell me what you heard about Senator Garby that makes you so cynical?”

  “For starters, while in South America he formed some unsavory friendships . . . some dangerous friendships.”

  “Like?”

  “Like with known terrorists.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “It’s no secret that Garby is sympathetic to the Palestinian cause, and during his senatorial campaign it was rumored that some finances came from these sources, in a round about way, of course. The money was well laundered, and nothing was ever proven. It’s also no secret that he works closely with pro-Islamic lobbyists in Washington.”

  Renee jutted her chin. “That doesn’t prove anything. Lots of senators and congressmen are backed by special interest groups. Personally, I refuse to listen to such gossip. I don’t care what anyone says. I like the Garbys. They fascinate me. And . . . they are powerful.”

  Renee was right. In spite of the controversy and Garby’s plummeting poll numbers, money kept pouring, like Monsoon rains, into his presidential campaign. The news outlets, including all the major TV anchors, were pushing hard to make the senator a household name. It was as though an edict had been issued to “puff” Garby. But careful evaluation revealed a poor performance record. His attendance in the senate was spotty; his voting record exposed inconsistent views and conflicting loyalties. In reality, he was a lackluster candidate with no record to extol.

  “You don’t realize how powerful Senator Garby is,” Renee pressed.

  “Is that why you’ve been following after him like a hound?”

  “Oh Michael, really, you’re impossible. Why am I trying to explain? You just don’t understand. Your problem is you associate with too many cattlemen.”

  “No, that’s your problem. Deep down, Renee, you’re terrified you’ll never get rid of the smell of cow dung. And you’re right; you’ll never be anything but a small town girl.”

  • • •

  Audra lay naked beneath soft pastel sheets. Next to her was Ace Corbet. “That tickles,” she said as he traced her face with his finger.

  “You are cute, cutie.” Ace grinned as he stared at her from
his propped position.

  “And you do have class,” Audra returned in a mocking tone which Ace failed to discern.

  “I told you you wouldn’t be disappointed.”

  “And you were right,” she lied, as she sank deeper into her pillow and thought about the past hour with Ace. She had been feeling especially lonely. Bubba Hanagan had more or less moved in, and against Audra’s better judgment, she had given him a key to the apartment. He had reciprocated by giving her, his. But she had seen that mocking look on his face because he knew she’d never use it. What woman in her right mind would ever go to his apartment? But after all was said and done, the arrangement worked. Both went their separate ways, no explanations necessary.

  But Bubba had not been to the apartment for three days, and it was Saturday night. That gnawing ache inside had taken her to Grobens. Five Black Labels on the rocks had made Ace Corbet’s usual advances, enticing.

  Now, she was filled with mild disgust, coupled with boredom, and she wished Ace would leave. It was three in the morning and she wanted to get some sleep. But he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. She was thinking of how to get rid of him when she heard a voice.

  “Hey, Audra! Looks like you’re having quite a party. Don’t mind me. I just came for my boots.”

  The couple sat up. Ace clenched his fists in anticipation of having to fight an irate lover and looked dumbfounded when he saw the muscular Hanagan leaning calmly against the door frame—arms folded like a cigar-store Indian, a big, toothy grin plastered across his face.

  Audra was white with rage. “You could have knocked or something! You could have shown some common decency!” Her anger was fanned by the knowledge that Ace wouldn’t have to use those clenched fists.

  Bubba just laughed. “I won’t take long. You two keep doing whatever it was you were doing.” With that, he entered the room, rummaged through the closet until he found a pair of tan work boots, tied the laces together, and slung them over his shoulder. “Catch you later.” He flashed a smile again then disappeared.

  In one swift motion, Audra jumped out of bed, and not even bothering to put anything on, ran to where Ace’s clothes lay piled on a chair. “Get out! Get out!” she shrieked, as she threw his clothes at him. “Just get out of here!”

  • • •

  CHAPTER 6

  “God, where are You?”

  Trisha knelt in the front row pew of her little church in upper Everman. Her heart was broken. Only this morning a bus of Everman elementary children was blown up by a terrorist bomb. Forty children died. Only four survived and all with life-threatening injuries. And last night, after police tried arresting a known drug dealer in lower Everman, a riot—the second one in a month—broke out, killing two policemen, injuring a dozen more, with thirty rioters arrested.

  Trisha was already an hour late for work but still she remained kneeling. Her mooring was slipping. That had never happened before. No matter the circumstances, she had always felt God’s presence, had know that all would be well.

  But now . . . everything seemed fluid.

  The world was going mad. Innocent people were being murdered on a scale never seen before. And her personal life was rocky, too. Tomorrow, she’d be going to the seaside hangars where the very future of PA hung in the balance; where the success of their P2 could have profound effects on the war on terror.

  So much pressure.

  And he would be there, too, adding to the stress—a man she had no business loving. She kept her head bowed for what seemed like hours until at last she felt that familiar stirring in her heart, heard that still small voice.

  “I am your refuge and strength. A very help in times of trouble. Whom shall you fear? You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you.”

  • • •

  Joshua installed his cloning software on Senator Merrill’s computer. He didn’t know how much time he had, an hour maybe. That’s how long he figured the meeting for the campaign staff would last. He had to maximize the opportunity. Headquarters was waiting for the cloned data. It would prove if Merrill was the friend to Israel he claimed to be.

  More than ever, Israeli Prime Minister Behrman needed to know just how much he could count on Merrill after he became the new U.S. president. Important information Behrman would need at the UN since Israel had so few allies left.

  Pressure was mounting for another land-for-peace deal that included Israel surrendering its lucrative oil rights in the Golan—where barrels of oil were said to be in the billions. Their offshore Mediterranean natural gas rights were also in question. Then there was Russia. Their troops and weaponry were all over Syria, a country that bordered Israel.

  Headquarters already knew Senator Garby’s position to be staunchly anti-Jewish, and with clandestine ties to ISA, the Islamic State of America.

  Joshua watched the screen tick off the cloning progress. He had already removed the malware that had corrupted the system and necessitated calling in Global Icon. The malware was sophisticated. Hardly what you’d expect to be used against a political campaign.

  That raised the question of who sent it and why—all questions headquarters would have to answer through their secretly owned company, Global Icon, the very tool that enabled the Mossad to gain access to numerous Fortune 500 companies looking to secure their systems. GI obliged by giving them state-of-the-art security software, but software containing a “back door” for the Mossad to enter and scoop up a plethora of information such as which companies or executives supported ISA.

  Joshua drummed his fingers against the polished cherry wood desk. The task was taking longer than expected. And with Cassy, nothing was certain. It would be just like her to leave the meeting and pop in to see what he was doing. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw the screen flash “completed.”

  No sooner did Joshua slip the cloned hard drive into his briefcase then Cassy came bouncing into the room. Her brown hair was tipped orange today.

  “How’s it going?” Cassy slid a chair close to his and leaned her elbows on the desk.

  “Did you know your uncle’s computer contained malicious code that could send information back to the attacker?”

  “Yes, I just didn’t know how to get rid of it.”

  “Well, it’s gone now, and you won’t have to worry about it again. I’ve installed several security layers. I defy even the NSA or Echelon to hack you now. The question is why would anyone want to infect this computer with such a sophisticated virus?”

  Cassy rose, her face taut. “Opposition research. Every campaign is always looking for dirt on the other guy, to use wherever they can. That, and to learn their opponent’s strategy. Things like budget, names of big donors, where they’re going to put their marketing dollars, etcetera.” She tapped the leather bound notebook in her hand. “That’s why I keep that kind of information in here.”

  “You won’t need to after I’ve completed my installations.”

  “We’ll, see,” Cassy said, not sounding impressed. “I have to go. I’ll check back with you in a few hours. Oh . . . by the way, do you own anything beside casual business wear? Like a decent suit?”

  “Of course . . . why?”

  “You’ll need it. Remember there’s a cocktail party here tonight for our important local contributors.”

  “Nothing to do with me. Count me out.”

  “No can do. Read your contract. It says right there in black and white that Global Icon agrees to assist in auxiliary matters for the appropriate fee.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! How does a cocktail party qualify?”

  “You’re an internationally known company. I want our donors to know that their private information is being protected. So, see you at eight.” Then she bounded out the door leaving Joshua puzzled.

  Up to this point, Cassy had barely left his side. Now she seemed to want to distance herself. His Mos
sad training had taught him to observe changes in behavior and he clearly saw that Cassy’s behavior had just changed.

  But why the invite to the party?

  It didn’t make sense. And something else, too. She seemed to know more about the malware and why it was installed than she let on.

  Okay, he’d play her game.

  It would give him more time to dig around Senator Merrill’s computer. So far, his preliminary investigation showed nothing of interest. But between his continued scrutiny here and headquarters doing its analysis in Dimona, maybe that would change, too.

  • • •

  “So you came.”

  Joshua ignored the smug look on Cassy’s face as he adjusted his tie. Truth was, he was curious about why he was invited. That, and he wanted to see her in a social setting. He was curious about that, too, though he’d probably let his tongue be cut out before saying so. It implied he was interested, the last thing he wanted to admit to himself or anyone else. Still, a woman with violet eyes the size of plums had to be someone worth getting to know.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” Cassy added.

  “You’ll get my bill in the morning.”

  “I was hoping this was pro bono.”

  Joshua ignored her as he scanned the campaign headquarters. It was filled to capacity with elegantly dressed women laden with expensive jewelry, and men, some wearing two-thousand dollar Armani suits, a few others wearing twenty-two thousand dollar Zegnas—the donors Cassy talked about, and big ones.

  “Nice turnout.” He was about to reach for one of the crystal Champagne glasses carried by a black-tux-clad waiter when Cassy caught his hand.

  “Not so fast, mister. You’re on duty.” With that she pulled him through the large room that had been emptied of desks and chairs, and began introducing him to everyone along the way. And for more than an hour, they made the rounds.

  “I think that’s about it. I think we’ve covered everyone,” Cassy said, steering him to a quiet corner.