The Camel Club (Camel Club 1)

He walked back down to the nurse’s station and stopped at the fourth tile over from the exact center of the station. Then he turned around and walked back toward the front entrance. Anyone watching him would just assume he was making his rounds. He counted off his paces in his head, nodding to a pair of nurses who walked by as he did so. Near the front entrance he turned right, counted his steps down this hallway, turned, pushed open the door to the exit stairs, counted his steps down two flights and found himself in the basement corridor on the west side of the hospital building. This corridor ran into another that carried him north and then emptied out into the rear exit area. A wide asphalt drive was located here that sloped upward to the main road running behind the hospital. Because of the grade and poor drainage, it often flooded here after even a moderate rain, which was another reason why everyone preferred entering through the front.

As he stood there, Adnan visualized several times a particular maneuver in his head. Finished, he went over to a pair of double doors, unlocked them and stepped inside, closing the doors behind him. He was now in the hospital’s power room, which also housed the backup generator. He’d been coached on the basics of this room by the security firm, in case there was an emergency. He’d supplemented that coaching by reading the manuals for every piece of equipment in the room. There was only one that he was really interested in. It sat on a wall across from the generator. He opened the box with another key on his chain and studied the controls inside. It wouldn’t be difficult to rig it, he decided.

He locked up the power room and went back inside the hospital to continue his rounds. He would do this every day, until the day came.

A little while later Adnan’s shift ended, and he changed out of his uniform in the hospital’s locker room and rode his bicycle to his apartment about two miles away. He prepared a meal of flat bread, dates, fava beans, olives and a piece of halal meat that he cooked on the stovetop in his tiny kitchen.

Adnan’s family had raised livestock and grown dates in Saudi Arabia, no small feat in a country with only 1 percent of its land arable, but they had suffered great hardship. After his father’s death the al-Rimis fled to Iraq, where they grew wheat and raised goats. Adnan, as the eldest son, became the family’s patriarch. He began butchering meat in accordance with Islamic law so it was halal, and the additional monies that this endeavor provided had been very welcome.

Adnan sat in his apartment staring out the window and cradling a cup of tea, his mind drifting back to that time. Goats, lambs, chickens and cattle had met their end at the point of his very sharp knife. These animals had to be slaughtered from their necks while Adnan spoke God’s name. Adnan never struck the spinal cord while doing his butchering, for two reasons: It was less painful to the animal, and it allowed convulsive motions to remain, which hastened the drainage of blood, as required by Islamic law. Under that law no animal could witness the death of another, and the animals had to be well fed and rested. It was a far cry from the mass killings of the “stun and stick” method used by American slaughterhouses. Yes, the Americans were the best at killing lots of things quickly, Adnan thought.

As he sipped his tea, Adnan reflected still more on his past. He fought in the decade-long Iran-Iraq war where Muslim slaughtered Muslim by the thousands in some of the fiercest hand-to-hand fighting history had ever seen. After that conflict was over, Adnan’s life returned to normal. He married, raised a family and did his best to avoid giving the megalomaniac Saddam Hussein or his minions cause to harm him or his family.

Then 9/11 happened, Afghanistan was invaded and the Taliban quickly fell. Personally, Adnan had no problem with any of that. America had been attacked and it had struck back. Adnan, like most Iraqis, did not support the Taliban. Life went on in Iraq. And even with the international embargo on his country Adnan was able to earn a modest living. And then, the U.S. declared war on Iraq. Like all his countrymen, Adnan waited with dread for the bombs and missiles to start falling. He sent his family away to safety, but he remained behind because it was his adopted country and was about to be attacked by another nation.

When the American planes came, Adnan watched in silent horror as Baghdad became one continuous fireball. The Americans called it collateral damage, but to Adnan these were men, women and children blown apart in their homes. And then the American tanks and troops came. There had never been any doubt in Adnan’s mind as to the outcome. The Americans were simply too powerful. They could kill you from a thousand miles away with their weapons. All Adnan had ever had to fight with was his gun, his knife and his bare hands. And it was said that the U.S. had missiles that could take off from America and vaporize the entire Middle East minutes later. This terrified Adnan. There was no way to beat such a devil.

Still, after Hussein had been toppled, there was hope. Yet that hope quickly turned to despair as violence and death took hold and civil society simply disappeared. And when the American presence truly became an “occupation,” Adnan felt his duty was clear. So he fought against them, killing his fellow citizens in the process, an act that sickened him but one that he somehow rationalized away. He had killed Iranians during the war between the two countries. He had killed Arabs and Americans in Iraq. He had slaughtered animals using his knife. It seemed to Adnan that his whole life had been consumed with taking the lives of others.

And now his own life was the only one left. His wife and children were dead. His parents, brothers and sisters were all gone too. It was only Adnan still here on earth while his family resided in paradise.

And here he was in the United States in the palm of his enemy. This would be his last stand, his final act of a life spent attacking and being attacked. Adnan was tired; he’d lived eighty years in only half that time. His body and mind could not endure much more.

He finished his tea but continued to look out the window as a group of children ran around the playground of the apartment complex. There were black children and white children and brown children playing together. At that age, differences in color and culture meant nothing to them. Yet, unfortunately, that would change when they became adults, Adnan knew. It always did.

CHAPTER

36

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, SIR?” Tom Hemingway asked as he walked into Carter Gray’s office. This space was rumored to be the only square inch of the NIC facility that was not under electronic surveillance.

Sitting behind his desk, Gray motioned Hemingway in. “Shut the door, Tom.”

For a half an hour the two men discussed various geopolitical events coming up, the state of several world crises and Hemingway’s take on some key developments in ongoing intelligence operations in the Middle and Far East. Then the conversation turned to other matters.

“The Secret Service agents who were out here today?” Gray said.

“I fully cooperated with them, sir, at least NIC’s version of full cooperation. I hope I did the right thing extricating you like that.”

“You did. The agents they were meeting with initially that I spoke with?”

“Warren Peters and Tyler Reinke. Both good men. They were assigned to represent NIC’s interests during the investigation. I believe they were processing some evidence found at the scene for the Secret Service.”

“I spoke to the president about Ford and Simpson. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

“I understand that Simpson is your goddaughter?”

“Yes. Jackie is Roger Simpson’s only child. I was honored when he asked me to be Jackie’s godfather, although I’m not sure if I’ve been a good one.”

“She looks like she’s done all right for herself.”

“I love her like a daughter.” Gray looked a bit embarrassed by his words and quickly cleared his throat. “An internal audit is being conducted over Patrick Johnson’s death. The FBI will be involved.”

Hemingway nodded. “I think it’s a good move. I can’t believe there’s anything to it, but we have to cover the bases.”

Gray eyed him clo

sely. “And why don’t you think there’s anything to it, Tom?”

“A house and cars he couldn’t afford? Drugs found in the house? Seems straightforward. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“It’s the first time it’s happened here,” Gray said. “Did you know Johnson well?”

“As well as I knew any of the data supervisors. By all accounts he was excellent at his job.”

“How did he strike you?”

Hemingway thought about this. “From my limited contact he was a man whose ambitions outstripped his opportunities.”

“A keen insight for someone you admittedly didn’t know all that well.”

“That assessment could apply to half the people here. Quite frankly, they want to be you. But they never will and it bothers them.”

Gray sat back in his chair. “I’ve taken a good look at Johnson’s file. There was nothing in there to indicate that he would be turned. Do you agree?”

Hemingway nodded.

“But then again, the same could be said of virtually all the people who have been turned against this country. It has more to do with psychology than bank accounts.”

“There are others here who knew Johnson better than I did.”

“I’ve spoken with them,” Gray said. “I’ve also spoken with his fiancée. She believes the drug business is absolute garbage.”

“Well, it’s not surprising that she’d defend him.”

“Tom, I recall that the centralization of all intelligence databases was completed four months ago. Is that correct?”

“Yes, with the proviso that we only recently completed integration of the Transportation Safety Administration’s files from their Screening, Coordination and Operations Office. That was due to some legal hang-ups with Homeland Security, among others.”

“Any more significant glitches in the system?”