Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Read online

  The Assembly chamber erupted into sheer bedlam. It seemed every representative was screaming and shaking their fists at Gazali. Several lawmakers even got out of their seats and attempted to rush the podium, but were turned away by uniformed security officers that appeared as if out of nowhere. No one had ever seen such an uprising in the Assembly chambers before—and certainly, Khan had never seen such a loud outpouring of emotion.

  Through this chaos, Ulama al-Khan made his way off the dais and to a side hallway toward the back exits. He knew he had lost. The memory of Kamal Ismail Salaam was too powerful and Susan Salaam was almost as popular in Egypt as her husband—perhaps even more so, because of her bewitching beauty.

  Several Assembly members siding with Kalir shook their fists, shouted, and even tried to grab at al-Khan as he made his way off the dais. Supreme Judiciary security officers, led by the chief of security of the Supreme Judiciary Council, Major Amr Abu Gheit, who was assigned as al- Khan’s personal bodyguard, roughly pushed the protesters out of the way, even clubbing one across the head with a pistol butt.

  What fools, al-Khan thought. They would actually consider physical intimidation to try to turn him aside? Several more assemblymen rushed to their colleagues’ aide, but Gheit and the rest of al-Khan’s bodyguards had no trouble subduing them as the presidential candidate made his way out of the chamber.

  As he emerged from the chamber into the back hallway, he turned to Gheit: “Take down the name and political party of any representative who even dared look angrily in my direction,” he ordered.

  “Why? So you can have your henchmen kill them as well?”

  Khan turned. There, standing before him, was Susan Salaam. Her husband’s aide and national security adviser, Ahmad Baris, was standing with her. A few Assembly aides and staffers were milling about, fascinated by a confrontation between these two political rivals.

  “Madame, it is good to see you alive,” Khan said evenly. Aware of the growing crowd gathering to watch them, he stepped forward to Susan as if reaching out to shake her hand, lowered his voice, and said, “But you should not have returned to Cairo. Your life here in Egypt is finished. Go back to the United States and start a new life.”

  “General Baris warned me not to return to the capital, to go into hiding until just before the funeral and to go back into hiding immediately afterward,” Salaam said, her voice loud enough for all to hear. “But all I could think about was what happened to us at the celebration, and I knew I had to confront you directly, to see your face as I accused you directly—”

  “Accuse me? Of what?”

  “I have been able to piece together what happened that morning at the mosque. You substituted your own handpicked Judiciary guardsmen for the presidential guards that normally would have been on duty during the procession, and you gave them strict orders to always face the procession, not scan the crowd for any sign of danger. By the time the assassins were in place, it was too late for them to react to save my husband.”

  “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with that terrible attack, Madame?” al-Khan said. “That is purely ridiculous! Why, I was no more than five steps behind you and your husband—I could have been blown to bits as well! Why would I put myself in such harm? I even helped pull you clear of danger once I realized what was happening! You seemed prepared to throw your body in front of that bomb in a vain attempt to save your husband from his destiny. I gave you the chance to live.”

  “Maybe the rumors that you wore a Kevlar bulletproof shroud under your robes are true—because bystanders farther away than you were severely injured, while you and that rat-snake Zuwayy walked away unscathed—”

  “Unscathed? They told me one of my lungs had to be re-inflated, and His Highness King Idris the Second of Libya suffered flashblindness and loss of hearing that still lingers! We were lucky to escape with our lives! You actually think we would have engineered such a sloppy and dangerous assassination attempt in such close quarters?”

  “I think you put yourself in just enough harm so no attention would be drawn to you directly,” Salaam argued.

  “You are delusional,” al-Khan said, dismissing her with an angry wave of his hand. “I am glad to see you are alive, Madame, and I pray for you and your late husband. But I warn you, do not spread false rumors or try to discredit my good name. There are laws against such activities.”

  “There are laws against subversion, conspiracy, and treason too, Khan,” Salaam said bitterly. “But since when have you ever been concerned with the law, except when it most benefits you? You hide behind your robes and the holy Quran like a desert scorpion, hopping out into the sunlight just long enough to strike, then hide in the shadows once again and wait for your victim to die before devouring him.”

  “Take great care, woman,” al-Khan warned. “You try my patience.”

  But Susan hobbled over to block his path. “I will get you for what you did, Khan,” she hissed. “If it takes my very last breath, I will avenge my husband’s killer—you and your puppet master, Zuwayy.”

  “Get out of my way, woman,” Khan ordered. His bodyguards were ready the instant he made eye contact. They had been staying back, visible but not intrusive, threatening but not imminently so, but when al-Khan motioned for them, they moved like coiled snakes. One of them grabbed for Salaam’s cane, the other for her right arm.

  But as fast as they moved, Susan was faster. She let the man grabbing her cane pull her toward him, then merely redirected her momentum slightly, driving the crook of the cane up into his throat. The hall echoed with the crack of his larynx, and he collapsed to the floor, clutching his shattered windpipe. Then she immediately swung the cane with her left hand and cracked it hard against her second attacker’s right kneecap. Even though she heard more bone crack, the big, burly bodyguard did not go down, but twisted Susan’s right wrist around and down, trying to force her to the floor.

  Susan didn’t resist, but simply twisted faster. The bodyguard lost his grip with a howl of pain when he tried to put weight on his right leg, sinking down to his left knee, and Susan was free. She watched and waited. The second bodyguard did exactly as she thought he would: He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his side arm, a fearsome-looking Spanish-made Star Z-84 mini-submachine gun. Susan simply swung the cane as if she were making a two-wood tee shot, aiming not for the gun but the bodyguard’s head. The snap! they heard was the left side of his jaw, and he went down hard.

  A stunned Khalid al-Khan stared in amazement at the writhing men at his feet. The entire fight had lasted only seconds, but both highly trained bodyguards looked as if they might be in critical condition. “Obviously you have done a lot more than just be the supportive wife of a president, Madame.”

  Susan hefted the cane. It was just an oaken cane, but now al-Khan could see that the crook was larger, its tip was menacingly pointed, and the shaft had decorative inlays in it that obviously served to help grip the cane in defensive situations. “A skill taught by some friends from Nevada. Weapons—and fighters—are all around you, Khan.”

  “Are you insane, woman?” he breathed. “Are you gloating? Look at what you have done! You’re a madwoman! Or are you trying to live up to your ridiculous nickname, Sekhmet the Goddess of the Hunt?”

  “I want you to know that you and I are enemies, Khan,” Susan said, her voice low but hard as the oak in her cane. “I know you set up the assassination of my husband, and I know you are using your terror network to force any opposition into hiding or into silence. I know you are being funded by Zuwayy of Libya, and I know if you gain the presidency, that you will move to join the Muslim Brotherhood and force Egypt to join an alliance of terror that will cut off all Western aid and strangle our country. I will do everything in my power to stop you.” Several security officers ran up to the growing crowd just then. Both General Baris and al-Khan barked orders at them, but the chief justice of the Supreme Judiciary’s voice, authority, status, and perceived threat were far more powerful than
Baris’s, and Salaam and Baris were roughly led away.

  They were met outside by dozens of reporters and cameras, and the security guards slinked away as Susan and Ahmad approached them. “That was not very wise, Susan,” Baris said under his breath. “Khan needs only the slightest excuse to have you arrested, deported—or killed.”

  “I wanted to let him know that we’re not done fighting,” Susan said resolutely. “Beating up his bodyguards will be nothing compared to what I’m going to do to him on election day.” She stepped over to the reporters and bank of microphones and started answering questions:

  “Yes, I attended my husband’s memorial service,” Susan responded to the first question. “Upon the advice of my husband’s national security adviser, General Ahmad Baris, I attended in secret. I was also present at his interment in the family cemetery at Giza. It is a credit to General Baris and his staff that you did not know I was there. After the mourners left, I was able to perform the burial ritual.” She held up her left hand, showing a large man’s ring on her middle finger as well as her engagement ring on her ring finger. “I have Kamal’s wedding ring, and he now has mine. I also placed topazes on his eyes, so he will not be blinded by the suns of heaven when he crosses over.

  “Yes, I spoke with Ulama al-Khan just now. We greeted each other with warmth and relief that neither was very seriously injured from the attack. He explained his objection in the National Assembly to me very well, which I fully accept. His concern was that new elections not be clouded with any constitutional challenges during our nation’s most critical time. I assured him that I will do what’s best for Egypt and myself.

  “Yes, of course, my husband’s murderers should be hunted down, but only to be brought to justice, not retribution. This should be a time of healing, not revenge. I’m sure that’s what my husband would have wanted, and I know that’s what Dr. Kalir and Ulama al-Khan want too.

  “Yes, with the help and support of my friends in the National Democratic Party and the people of Egypt, I am a candidate for president of Egypt. Of course, my doctors will have to give their blessing as well—I am strong and determined, but I’m not foolish enough to think I know more than my doctors.

  “I suffered some damage in my left eye and some burns, but I’m feeling all right, kwaysa ilhamdu lillah, shukran. Thank you.

  “Yes, I believe I can work with Ulama al-Khan in a National Democratic Party-led government. The Ulama and I share many of the same beliefs: that Egypt can and must be the spiritual, moral, and philosophical leader of the Arab world and show by example the power and courage of the Arab people. My husband believed strongly in this, and I shall continue to work to make this idea a reality.

  “No, I have absolutely no intentions of leaving Egypt except for brief visits abroad or in some capacity with the government.

  “Yes, I still hold dual nationalities—I can’t change my place of birth. But out of respect for my husband and to his countrymen, and reflecting the love I have for all Egyptians, I’m staying. I have no plans to reside in the United States or anywhere else but Misr, insha’allah. Sabah el kher. Shukran. Thank you all.”

  General Baris and Captain Shafik escorted Susan out of the National Assembly building into a waiting car. “I think it went pretty well, don’t you, Ahmad?” she asked.

  “The interview was fine,” Baris replied. “But this is a dangerous game you’re playing, Sekhmet. Men like Khan do little all day but dream up ways to defeat, humiliate, or eliminate their political opponents. Unless you want to reduce yourself to their scum-sucking level, stay away from political intrigue.”

  “I have no illusions of this—Khan wants to see me dead,” Susan said. “Khan failed to do the job before, so he will ensure it’s done now.”

  “And you somehow believe these American commandos will help you?” Baris asked. “I must tell you, Sekhmet, I think it is dangerous to have those men in Egypt. We know nothing about them. The American government obviously knew nothing about them except to tell us that they are not part of the American government whatsoever. They are privateers, former military men who now work for whoever pays them.”

  “Then they can work for us,” Susan said. “We have no military behind us now. These men are skilled enough to take one of our warships—they can do a lot of harm to al-Khan’s men, possibly even to the Libyans as well.”

  “To what end? Do you expect them to kill al-Khan or invade Libya for you?” Baris asked. “That’s a fantasy, Sekhmet. They have obviously been paid by a very wealthy individual, company, or conglomerate to perform a task. If they don’t do the assigned task, they won’t get paid. As soon as they’ve rested and gathered some intelligence information, they’ll be gone—leaving you with whatever chaos they’ve created. I don’t think you want that.”

  “What I want, General, is for Egypt to be free from murdering scum like al-Khan or terrorists like Zuwayy,” Susan said bitterly. “I sense something in McLanahan. He is in great pain, yes—losing both his brother and his wife in so short a time must be devastating for him. If he has a child, it must make the pain even greater. But there is something else about him. I sense another conflict within him.”

  “He is certainly not like the others,” Baris agreed. “I would guess he is a trained soldier, but not necessarily a commando. And he knew of your background—specifically, he mentioned your Air Force background, with definite pride in his voice. If I had to guess, I would say he is a former American air force officer, perhaps even a high- ranking officer.”

  “So if he is not a commando, perhaps he’s out of his element,” Susan surmised. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be where he is, fighting for money instead of for his country.” Susan turned to Amina Shafik. “Any information on McLanahan’s background, Amina?”

  “No, Madame,” Shafik responded. “It’s very unusual. My contact in the American Air Attache’s office at the American embassy in Cairo has no record of a Patrick McLanahan in the American military. Their records go back about five years.”

  “Can we search any farther back?”

  “Not from the Air Attache’s office,” Shafik replied. “For that, we would need help from the Mukharbarat el-Aama.”

  “The General Intelligence Staff is still loyal to me—I can get that information,” General Baris said. “But it may take some time. Should we trust this McLanahan and his men until we find out who and what they are?”

  “Should we? No—I should trust no one,” Susan said. “But will we trust them? Yes—for now. Be sure they have all the information they need—every map, every photograph, every piece of data. Make sure they have access to any base, every unit, and every weapon system.”

  Baris shook his head, then half-turned in his seat to look directly into Susan’s eyes. “Listen to me, Sekhmet: Your life is in incredible danger here,” he said. “I know you want to carry on your husband’s work and avenge his death, but is running for president worth risking your life?”

  “What do you suggest I do, General? Run?”

  “In the United States, we have a chance to rebuild our power. We can wait for al-Khan’s government to implode. The people will welcome you as a conquering hero then. You would be proclaimed president.”

  “But what about the people that I would be leaving behind?” Susan asked. “They’d be at the mercy of al-Khan and through him, Jadallah Zuwayy. I won’t abandon the people of Egypt to save myself.”

  “The people of Egypt will survive—we have for thousands of years,” Baris said. “I can trace my own ancestry back seventeen hundred years, Sekhmet. A dozen different empires, dictators, and religious oligarchies have occupied our nation. We Egyptians have an annoying way of surviving men like al-Khan.”

  “That doesn’t mean the innocent should suffer because the next despot or conqueror feels it’s time to move in,” Susan said.

  “The Egyptian people won’t be entirely innocent,” Baris said. “Khan will be voted in by an overwhelming majority, even if Prime Minister Kalir decides to ru
n again. Should not the people be allowed to choose their own government, their own fate?”

  “No one should be permitted to rule by force, intimidation, fear—or murder,” Susan said bitterly.

  “Even if al-Khan is a murderer, the people of Egypt will still choose by whom they will be ruled. Whether Khan is the president or not, people will follow him because they choose to do so.” Baris lowered his head sadly. “You may hate me for saying so, Sekhmet, but the reason al-Khan survives—and your husband, my friend, did not—is because the people want a man like him as president.”

  “Wha ... what did you say, General?”

  “I said, the people get the leaders they want, my friend,” Baris said. “Your husband was a great man, a great statesman, a hero to Egypt. He helped put this nation back in touch with the rest of the world and ended the isolation and ostracism we have been facing for fifty years. But men like al-Khan survive, and many say he has more power, much more power, than Kamal Ismail Salaam ever had. Khan preaches power, Sekhmet, not cooperation. He preaches leadership. Kamal wanted Egypt to join the community of nations, especially the Western nations. Khan survives, and will become president, because people like what he says.”

  “Even if he gets his power by murder, death, and betrayal?”

  “Betrayal to you is another man’s patriotism, Sekhmet,” Baris said. “Murder and death to you is justice, vengeance, action, and destiny to another. Which is right? Which is wrong? I suppose it depends on your point of view.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this, Ahmad,” Susan retorted, her eyes wide in surprise. “Killing my husband, the president of Egypt, was not justice. Conspiring to align Egypt with a bunch of murderous anarchists like Zuwayy and the Muslim Brotherhood is not patriotism.”