True Allegiance

He wrote, “Followed to Omari’s by Secret Service. They contact u?”

Hassan shook his head. Then, as he answered the question verbally with a long, meandering commentary on Koranic philosophy, he wrote, “Tapes hidden but not secure.”

After another twenty minutes of phony discussion about the Koran, Brett said, “Thank you so much. I may have some more questions later, but that’s enough to go on for now. Thanks for coming down. Perhaps you can stop by for dinner, so I can show my appreciation?”

“Why don’t you pick me up at my place?” Hassan answered.

“That sounds fine, Mr. Abdul,” said Brett. “See you tonight.”

When he arrived at Hassan’s apartment that night, Brett could feel the eyes of the federal agents on him. He’d spotted them right off the bat—hell, they hadn’t even bothered to try to be subtle. They picked him up from the moment he left the apartment, through the subway system, and all the way to Hassan’s apartment. When Hassan let him in, he immediately held up a piece of paper to his chest. “They stopped here today,” it said. “The tapes are gone.”

Brett’s face went white. So they’d known all along. And then they’d waited for Hassan to leave the apartment to ransack it. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered to himself.

Then he read the rest of what Hassan had written. “Found your Mohammed,” it read. “Flatbush.” Below it, an address.

Brett nodded slowly. Then, as they made small talk, he wrote, “Sorry. Will pull strings for u. U should b safe here. They r watching.”

He said loudly, “I’ll be ready to go in just a moment, Mr. Abdul. May I use your restroom?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He gripped Hassan by the shoulder. “Thank you.”

Brett made for the small washroom at the end of Hassan’s hallway. Hassan lived on the second floor; Brett stuck his head out the window, took a look. The bathroom backed up to an apartment complex, a small alleyway. He knew he wouldn’t lose his tails for long—they’d catch up with him. But if he could stay one step ahead for just a few more hours, he might have a shot at this Mohammed. He leaned his shoulder against the window frame, rammed it upward. He felt the jolt through his still-healing arm, but he shook off the pain and gradually pushed his feet through the window. Then, hanging by his fingertips, he dropped.

He landed softly, his athletic background taking over. To the back of the alleyway was a dead end brick wall. The only other way out took him to the street, where they’d certainly be watching. He crept up to the corner of the building, glanced down the street—sure enough, there were the cars, and two men outside of them, looking at the door. One smoked a cigarette as he glanced up and down the street. Beyond them, down the street, was a subway entrance.

“Shit,” Brett muttered.

Then he sprinted toward the entrance.

As soon as he made a break for it, they spotted him. He only had a few feet on them, but the adrenaline kept him moving—ten feet, fifteen feet, extending his lead. By the time he hit the top of the entrance, they were a few steps behind. He took the stairs at full speed, five at a time, feeling his feet fly out from under him, stumbling forward, plowing into a man holding a briefcase. The collision knocked him off his feet, and Brett was flying downward into the darkness.

He tucked his chin to his chest, turned it into a barrel roll, popped up onto his feet. They were still running down the stairs, taking them one at a time. He hopped the turnstiles, sprinting full out, breath failing him.

Brett knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer.

He glanced behind him—they were gaining on him now. They’d jumped the turnstiles, and one was yelling into his earpiece. The backup would be there soon.

He took a sharp turn down another flight of stairs…

And found himself on a platform. To his right was a wall; to his left, the tracks. Beyond them, another platform.

Ahead of him was another flight of stairs.

He made up his mind, ran toward the stairs—and then saw a third agent descending them.

He was trapped.

The subway platform began to shake as the train arrived.

“General,” shouted one of the agents, “just come with us. You know we have our orders.”

Brett breathed heavily, bent down and put his hands on his knees. He held one finger to them—All right, just catching my breath, guys—and then looked up at them as the noise of the approaching subway train grew.

He counted down in his head. He could see the lights approaching down the tunnel now, the men closing in from both sides.

Just as the train began to pull into the station, Brett took a deep breath, crouched, took three running steps—and leapt into the space between the platforms. For a moment he hung suspended in the air, the train speeding toward him, the agents behind him stopping short at the edge of the platform…and then he landed, his toes gripping and projecting him forward. He fell to his hands and knees as the train whooshed behind him.

Relief began to wash over him.