Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [112]
“Good to see you, Jack,” Wickham said. “Even if it’s under such pressing circumstances.”
Jack was immediately comfortable in his presence. “Good to see you, too, Senator.”
Wickham was trim and well built, with thinning silvery hair that framed an angular, green-eyed face. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray suit, and carried himself with what could only be called Republican charm—warm, fatherly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes. The gentle Texas accent completed the picture.
Wickham’s gaze shifted to Sara in the way that most men seemed to look at her when she entered a room—with sudden great interest.
“I take it you’re Ms. Ghadah?”
Sara shook his hand and smiled. “Sara.”
“Well, Sara, it’s a great, great pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry you’ve found yourself caught up in this mess.”
“Completely by choice,” she said. She added quietly, “I want to stop these madmen as badly as you do.”
Wickham smiled. “That’s good to hear.” He gestured. “Have a seat. Both of you.”
Jack glanced at Wickham’s bodyguard, who didn’t seem to approve of either of them. In a way it was fitting. Jack just found out what it was like to be a Muslim under suspicion. Jack noted, curiously, that the bodyguard had what looked like a laser pointer clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket and wondered what it was for. Did he use it as some kind of defensive weapon? Jack certainly couldn’t imagine the guy giving PowerPoint presentations.
All of this vacated Jack’s mind as he and Sara sank into the two chairs next to Wickham. The senator was quiet for a moment, staring out at the show in progress, applauding as others applauded.
Then he said, “Such noble creatures, don’t you think?”
Jack nodded. “Definitely.”
“Look at that Newfoundland, for example. That thick black coat. The way he sits so straight and tall, waiting for his master’s command.”
“He’s beautiful,” Sara said.
“Did you know that a Newfoundland once saved Napoleon Bonaparte from drowning when he fell off a ship? Napoleon didn’t know how to swim, but Newfoundlands are notorious for their affinity with water. After the rescue, Napoleon himself is supposed to have said, ‘Here, gentlemen, a dog teaches us a lesson in humanity.’” Wickham chuckled. “Indeed.
“Loyalty,” Wickham went on, “that’s what it’s all about. You know the story about Greyfriars Bobby, don’t you, Jack?”
Jack nodded, but the senator pointed to a waiting group of Skye terriers and continued. “Greyfriars became famous in nineteenth-century Edinburgh after reportedly spending fourteen years guarding over the grave of his owner, John Gray. A year after this loyal little dog died himself, in 1873, a statue and fountain were built in the Scottish capital to remember him.”
“I know the story well,” Jack said with a nod. “From the 1961 Disney film about that angel with fur called Greyfriars Bobby.”
Wickham smiled warmly. “Saw it as a boy. Made me what I am today. I don’t just mean the dog lover. I mean the concept of loyalty, dedication, no matter the inconvenience or cost. Without it, you’re nothing.”
Jack was enjoying the conversation, but had more pressing matters on his mind. “Senator, we need to talk about the Hand of Allah.”
Wickham quickly glanced around as if hoping no one had heard, a tiny bit of paranoia that seemed out of character. Then he leaned toward them, keeping his voice low. “Not to worry, son. Thanks to you and Ms. Ghadah here, we’ve got it all under control.”
“You found the guy from Allied?”
“We did indeed. It took some careful maneuvering with people I knew I could trust, but right now he’s in the middle of a sit-down with a contact of mine from Homeland Security.”
“Who is he?”
“A young Saudi kid who went to work for Allied about a year ago. We’re still checking whether or not he’s legal, but I’m guessing he isn’t. Which means our illustrious friend Mr. Soren may be in a bit of trouble—although I doubt he’d