“That would be hard to do. The Patriot Act’s banking provisions flag anything over $10,000 from a foreign bank. That’s why there are a lot of transfers for $9,999.00. But even then, it starts getting suspect.”
“Okay, that’s assuming it came in through normal channels. What if it didn’t? What if they were given an offshore account to draw on? What if they got cash? What if a Lamborghini showed up in their driveway and they sold it? I don’t know how, I’m sure you have ways to find out.”
Davis seemed to be on board. “You think they know he’s alive?”
“I don’t know.” Roarke thought for a second. “I don’t think so, unless Gloria and Bill are as good at acting as their son. But I’d say no. Maybe he’ll make an entrance someday, but right now he’s dead. He’s provided for them. That gives them comfort. Beyond that, I don’t know what to think. I’m sure he’s kissed off everyone else who used to be important to him, too. But it’s worth checking. Old girlfriends, teachers, anyone we can come up with.”
“The money still has me stymied. I can’t quite figure how he could have done it without setting off alarms.”
“Maybe he had some help.”
Davis gave the idea some thought. “Like Haddad?”
“Exactly,” Roarke said.
Luis Gonzales listened to his dreams. Since he was a child he felt the Prophet himself spoke to him through dreams. He saw signs and faces. There were words that showed him the way, and warnings that foretold where he would fail. For years his dreams provided encouragement and comfort. Then, shortly before Teddy Lodge was to ascend to the presidency, they became darker. His sleep turned fitful. His plan failed.
Now his sleep brought new dreams. Millions of people in a wide shot. A thunderous, rumbling crowd but with only one voice. Individuals pop into view. They’re hypnotized by the speaker. Phrases, not sentences. No one blinks. The wide shot again. There’s movement to the crowd. First a gradual wave in one direction. Wider. Suddenly, it changes. A million people scattering in a million directions. The one voice is replaced by shrieks and screams. A wall rises around them: a wall of marble buildings and monuments. Wider still. Smoke begins to obscure the masses. Wider. Now the outline of the United States. Smoke engulfing the entire nation. Then he zooms through the smoke to another part of the world. A flashback. More screams, but this time his own. He is a young man sitting alone in a courtyard, rocking back and forth. Holding a little girl in his arms.
Gonzales suddenly awoke. Everything remained clear: The Prophet speaking to him…connecting present to past…past to present. Today he was Luis Gonzales. In another time, Ibrahim Haddad. He was both the man wreaking havoc and the tortured soul.
He needed his inhaler.
“I really do worry about my liberal friends.”
Actually, Elliott Strong had no liberal friends. For that matter, he had few friends at all. But he continued to pummel the enemy. “They’re living in a fantasy world. The liberals complain, ‘Nobody likes us. Nobody. Not the French. Not the British. Germany, no. Japan, no. We’re all alone.’ Well, they’re right about part of that. But do they do anything with the knowledge? No! Well, let me tell you, having alliances with countries that don’t stand by us are a waste of time. Their armies are a joke. Their economies couldn’t last a day without our help. It’s time we all recognize that everything comes down to one little area of the world: one plot of land where the future — whether it’s peace or the end of days — will be determined. Not Europe. Not Asia. Not Africa. The Middle East, people. Wake up to reality. If we’re to survive, we need to make friends with the people we’ve made enemies of. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Forget these Machiavellian wars, people. Islam is spreading, even in the United States. The most recent census? Well, let me give it to you in broad terms. According to the U.S. Department of State, Islam is one of the fastest-growing religions in the country. Within a few years, America’s Muslim population is expected to surpass the Jewish population. Did you get that? Let me say it again slower. Soon, there will be more Muslims in America than Jews. That will make Islam the country’s second-largest faith after Christianity, my friends.
“They’re here in the United States of America. And they’re not leaving. They come as immigrants. About seventy-eight percent versus twenty-three percent who are born here. I can’t give you exact numbers, but best estimates indicate there are approximately six to eight million American Muslims. And if you think this is anything new, read your history books! The earliest Muslims to arrive in this country came as slaves from West Africa in the mid-1550s.
“So what will happen when they become the number-two religion? They’ll demand more. They’ll get their people elected. They’ll get their agendas through Congress — all within their rights as Americans.” He let that thought settle in before continuing. “Their right and their privilege. They’re not going away. How’s that for a reality check? And what are we doing to prepare for this inevitable shift in American culture? I could go to the phones and let you try to guess, but I’ll make it easy for you, because I know what we’re doing for that eventuality. Exactly the wrong thing! We keep supporting the one nation in the world that turns all these people, every one of them, into our enemies.” He finally drew in a breath. “No wonder we’re so damned hated.”
Strong felt he had lectured enough. He lightened his voice, seeking to take the edge off his attack that never once mentioned Israel directly. “There’s room for all of us. I’m not saying don’t support an old ally. But we need to create new ones.” This was Teddy Lodge’s position for anyone smart enough to notice. “New ones,” he repeated. “Nations that will become more important to the well-being of the world. I wish my liberal friends would understand that.”
Elliott Strong’s circle of friends couldn’t make up a good card game. He always explained he didn’t get out much because he slept when everyone else was awake. And the few daytime hours he had, he spent preparing shows or on the air.
Most of his outside contact came through e-mails. He used the Internet to find out what was happening in the world, not to help him shape his views.
Strong’s only real relationship was with his third and current wife, Darice. She doubled as his producer, and like the other women he married, she was mainly around to cook and occasionally screw. Since there was no place to go, she never went out. On the rare occasion Strong ventured beyond Lebanon, Kansas, Darice stayed home.
He eventually expected there’d be a number-four in his life. When? Maybe after he moved his show to Washington. Strong went to his callers.
“Elliott, you haven’t said whether you’re going to Washington. What’s the story?”
Strong shot Darice a cold glance. He wanted to avoid the question. She needed to do a better job screening.
“Well, I want you to go,” he declared. He gave a cut sign, a slice across the throat. Darice dropped the caller. “On August 18, you and the others will all be our reporters for the general’s great march,” he continued. “You’ll give us the experience of being at the biggest rally ever held in Washington, D.C.” He leaned back in his chair. They’ll have a great deal to describe, he thought.
“Use your cell phones. Call. We’ll be on the air with nonstop, commercial-free programming. If America wants to hear what’s really going on, they’ll tune to Strong Nation.”
Another day at the computer. Michael O’Connell added more words to his hit list: