True Allegiance

That bright and sunny Tuesday morning, the CEO of Detroit Energy, Gerald Montefiore, found himself accosted by dozens of cameras. Montefiore was an overweight, well-tailored, shorter, elderly gentleman with a Monopoly-man mustache. Glaring into the cameras, he told the mayor and the city of Detroit, “No one has the right to steal, even if they vote to steal. And the mayor’s new paramilitary force, his new police force, they can’t violate the law just because they have the guns.”

Levon responded on behalf of the mayor’s office. “Our new police force represents the community of Detroit,” he said solemnly. “And we can’t be bought by any corporation. The city of Detroit is not for sale. America is all about the fair shake, all about caring for the least of us. Every citizen has a right to running water, clean air, and electricity. If Detroit Energy refuses to make its product available to everyone, we will be forced to take measures to enforce the rights of the people of Detroit.”

Montefiore refused to attend a meeting with Levon and Mayor Burns. Instead, he sent his lawyers. Levon refused bluntly to even get in a room with them. “Eels,” he told Burns. “You just let me take care of this.”

The mayor had no choice but to comply.

That night, electric lines all over the city went down. Actually, that wasn’t precise enough: electric lines just outside the city went down. The suburbs surrounding Detroit were plunged into blackness. Grosse Pointe, Dearborn, Ferndale, Oak Park—they all went dark at approximately 8:00 p.m., right in the middle of dinner. The calls to Detroit Energy began flooding the company; calls to the police force skyrocketed as criminals took advantage of the cover to begin looting.

Levon’s police were conveniently busy elsewhere.

Within forty-eight hours, Detroit Energy had turned back on the power throughout Detroit. “We have seen the error of our ways,” Montefiore told the media. “Crime springs from despair; despair springs from poverty. The only way to combat poverty is to allow young people, students, hard-working parents to keep receiving their electricity. Electricity makes a better life.”

He didn’t mention the billion-dollar check the city of Detroit signed, based on borrowing against junk bonds. Neither did Levon. Neither, of course, did the headlines.

Brett

New York City

BRETT COULDN’T STOP SWEATING.

It wasn’t that Prescott’s threats scared him. Not after the public scandal with Dianna Kelly, bullshit though it was. Not after Afghanistan. Not after Iran. Not after spending years apart from Ellen. Prescott would be better off burying the whole situation politically, avoiding the backlash, making some payoff to Omari. This would blow over.

Brett wasn’t sweating for himself. He was sweating for Hassan.

He’d been a fool. He knew that now. He’d been a fool far too often: trusting Prescott, serving in his administration, and then telling Omari that he knew about Mohammed’s association with him. Omari could backtrack the story.

He’d been vague enough about where he’d obtained the information, he reminded himself. But there could only be a certain number of possibilities. Doubtless, Omari was tracking down every single one.

Then Brett thought of Prescott, and started sweating even more. How had the Secret Service found him at Omari’s home, unless they’d tracked him? And if they’d tracked him, wouldn’t they have tracked him to Hassan’s house? He’d thought he’d lost them, but where had they reacquired his trail?

He sat in his hotel room, itching to do something. His hands clenched closed, open and closed. But now he feared using the phones—they’d surely be tapped by this point. He wouldn’t be able to get free of the guards again. Somehow, he had to warn Hassan what was coming. He didn’t trust Prescott not to pass on Hassan’s information to Omari somehow. If that happened, Hassan would be as good as dead.

He had no choice.

He picked up his phone and dialed Hassan’s number. Hassan picked up on the first ring. “General Hawthorne,” he said. Brett picked up on the cue right away—Hassan knew they were listening.

“Hassan Abdul, I’ve heard so much about you. A mutual friend of ours referred me to you. He said you could answer some questions about Koranic philosophy for an article I’m writing about my experiences in Afghanistan and Iran.”

“I think I might be able to contribute.”

“Can you come over to speak in person?”

“Absolutely. What is your address?”

Brett gave him the address, then turned up the volume on the television. He knew they’d hear the conversation he was about to have with Hassan—their surveillance tools weren’t going to be thwarted by Joy Behar braying the background—but he figured the noise might mask their movements somewhat.

Fifteen minutes later, Hassan knocked at the door.

“Mr. Abdul, so good of you to come,” Brett said. He took out a pad of paper and wrote hastily as he spoke. “I was wondering if you could fill me in on the definition of jihad in non-Islamist jargon.”