By the way Martin was looking at him, it suddenly struck Alex that the man already knew the answer. He shot a glance at Simpson, who was now looking nervously down at her thick-heeled pumps. That’s why she was here. Oh, shit!
He looked back at the director.
“I’m waiting for your answer,” Martin said.
Alex cleared his throat, buying time. “Sir, they’d analyzed the handwriting on the note, and I wanted to get the results.”
Martin gave Alex a look so scathing the agent could actually feel the swells of perspiration under his armpits.
“Don’t ever bullshit me, son,” Martin said in a very low, steady voice that was somehow far more threatening than the man’s prior tirade. The director looked over at Simpson. “Agent Simpson informed us that you told her an old friend had convinced you to get up a head of steam on this case and go for it.” He paused and said, “Who was that ‘friend’?”
Talk about a casual slip of the tongue coming back to crater your life. Alex’s mind was racing from how he was going to afford his mortgage after he was fired from the Service in disgrace, to how he could kill Jackie Simpson and not get the death penalty.
“I don’t really recall that conversation with Agent Simpson, sir.”
“It was this morning. I’m not sure the Service needs agents with memories that poor, so you want to load up and try again? Keep in mind that there are two careers in question here, and one of them is just starting out.” He again shot a glance at Simpson.
“The identity of the person isn’t important, sir. I’d already concluded that I was going to keep investigating the case because certain things didn’t add up, that’s all. It’s solely my responsibility. Agent Simpson had nothing to do with my decision to go to NIC. She was merely doing what I told her to, and reluctantly at that. I’m prepared to take the full consequences for my actions.”
“So you won’t answer my question?”
“With all due respect, sir, if I thought it had the slightest bearing on this case, I would answer it.”
“And you’re not going to let me be the judge of that?”
For a lot of reasons Alex was not going to tell the director of the Secret Service that a man calling himself Oliver Stone, who sometimes occupied a tent across from the White House, and who’d been known to harbor a few conspiracy theories, was the “old friend” who had convinced him to keep investigating. It just didn’t seem like a good idea right now.
Alex nervously licked his lips. “Again, with all due respect, it was said to me in confidence, and unlike some people, I don’t break confidences.” He didn’t look at Simpson when he said this, but then he didn’t really have to. “So you can just stop the buck right at me, sir.”
The director sat in his chair and leaned back. “You’ve had a good, solid career at the Service, Ford.”
“I’d like to think so.” Alex felt his breath quicken as he sensed the axe coming.
“But it’s the end of the career that people remember.”
Alex almost started laughing because this was exactly what Stone had told him, for an entirely different reason, of course. “That’s what I’ve heard, sir.” He paused and said, “I’m assuming I’m being transferred to another field office.” When the Service was ticked off at an agent, it usually sent that person to one of the least desirable field offices. Although, in this case, that might have been wishful thinking. Disobeying a command from the director would probably result in his immediate expulsion from the Service.
“You just take the rest of the day off. Then starting tomorrow you’re officially transferred out of WFO and back to presidential protection detail. Maybe standing post in some doorways will knock some sense into you. Quite frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Half of me wants to kick your ass right out of the Service this minute. But you’ve put in a lot of good years; it’d be a shame to see that go right in the crapper.” He held up a finger. “And just so there’s no miscommunication, you are not to go near the Patrick Johnson case in any way at all, even if your ‘old friend’ tells you otherwise. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Now get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER
33
DJAMILA GAVE THE BABY HIS BATH while Lori Franklin played with the other two boys on the elaborate play set in the backyard. As she was dressing the little one afterward, Djamila watched the others from the nursery window. Lori Franklin didn’t spend enough time with her children, at least in Djamila’s estimation. Yet even the Iraqi woman had to admit that the time the mother did spend with her sons was real quality time. She read to them and drew with them and played games with them, spending patient hours with her three sons as they grew and changed every day. It was clear that Lori Franklin adored her boys. Now she was pushing the middle child on the swing while giving the oldest a piggyback ride. They all ended up chasing each other around the yard before collapsing in a pile. The peals of laughter reached all the way to Djamila, and, after a few seconds of fighting the urge, Djamila found herself laughing too at this heartwarming spectacle. Sons. She wanted many sons who would grow up tall and strong and take care of their mother when she grew old.
Djamila abruptly stopped laughing and turned away from the window. People should never take for granted what they had. Never! Especially Americans, who had everything.
Later, while Djamila and Franklin were preparing lunch, the latter closed the refrigerator door with a puzzled look.
“Djamila, there’s kosher food in here.”
Djamila wiped off her hands on a towel. “Yes, miss, I buy some at store. I use my money. It is for my meals here.”
“Djamila, I don’t care about that. We’ll pay for your food. But you must know that kosher is, well, it’s Jewish food.”
“Yes, miss, this I know.”
Franklin flashed a confused look. “Am I missing something here? A Muslim eating Jewish food?”
“Jews are people of the Book, in the Qur’an, I mean. As are Christians too, miss. And Jesus, he is recognized as a very important prophet of Islam, but he is not a god. There is only one God. And only Muhammad communicated the true word of God to the people. But David and Ibrahim, who you call Abraham, are important prophets too for Islam. We respect them for what they did. It was Ibrahim and his son Ishmael who built the Kaaba and established the practice of hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca.”
Franklin looked impatient. “Thanks for the theology lesson, but what does all that have to do with food?”
“Muslims must eat food that is deemed lawful, or halal, and avoid what is haram, or unlawful. These rules they come from the Qur’an and fatwas and other Islamic rulings. We cannot consume alcohol or eat the meat of pigs, dogs or monkeys or other animals that haven’t died by human hand. We can only eat the meat of animals that have the cloven hoof and chew the cud and only fish that have the fin and scales, just like the Jews. The Jews, they prepare their food in ways acceptable to Muslims. As example, they drain all blood from the meat. Muslims, we cannot drink blood or have anything to do with blood in our food. And Jews do not kill the animal by boiling it or by electricity, although they do not declare three times, ‘Allahu akbar,’ that means God is great, when they slaughter the animal. But we Muslims recognize God by saying his name before we eat the food. And God will not let his people starve if they can’t find halal food. You say God’s name over the food, it is halal. Not all Muslims will eat the food of Jews, but if I cannot find halal food, I will eat the kosher.”