Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [128]
Moving around to the back of the van, Swain took out a key and unlocked the doors. He gestured for Haddad to open it.
“Another new martyr for the cause,” he said. “We want her with you when you pull the trigger.”
Haddad studied him quizzically then reached forward and pulled the van doors open.
Inside was a woman, bound and gagged, her large eyes staring up at them—a woman Haddad recognized immediately.
It was al-Fida’s girlfriend.
Sara Ghadah.
37
Legion of Honor, San Francisco
“Invitation, please?”
The woman at the reception dais was young, beautiful, and not the least bit impressed by two old guys in their finest evening attire.
Jack hated tuxedos with a passion, especially the way this one tugged at his still tender shoulder—and Tony didn’t seem all that enamored with them either as he dug around in his inner jacket pocket and produced the oversized invitation Danny Pescatori had scored for him. It had taken them nearly twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, which started just outside the Roman triumphal arch entrance to the Legion of Honor and ran all the way down the long stone ramp toward the shimmering blue pool of the circular fountain that fronted the palace. It was dark out, and the ramp was lit on either side by small glowing globes placed low to the ground.
Whenever Jack visited the palace he felt as if he’d stepped into another part of history, back to a grander time, when our nation was still young and buildings like this were symbols of our greatness. A massive, magnificent neoclassical structure, it had been an Armistice Day gift from Alma de Bretteville Spreckels, who wanted to honor California’s fallen soldiers of World War I with a world-class museum. If it weren’t for the moon-dappled bay beyond, with views of the Marin headlands and the brightly lit Golden Gate Bridge, you might mistake it for one of the many ancient buildings of Rome or Athens.
The woman took the invitation from Tony. “Your names?”
“Anthony Antiniori and Jack Hatfield,” he said.
She passed the information along to an assistant who carefully ran a ruler down a reservations list and checked them off.
Now she was all smiles. “Welcome to the Legion of Honor, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”
Tony doffed an imaginary cap, then the two men moved into yet another line, queuing up for the body scanners just inside the entrance.
Jack knew that the Secret Service would have done a background check when Tony RSVPed, but it would have been a cursory one. Jack was banned from the U.K. but that wouldn’t show up on a level-one scan, designed to make sure that domestic felons and watch-list terrorists weren’t trying to get in. Given the many events a President attended, it was the quickest filter available to his security team. The thinking was that no one would have an invitation that the White House did not want here.
A large banner spanning the archway read CELEBRATE THE ART OF ISLAM!, which Jack still thought a bit ironic, considering the circumstances. He didn’t think tonight’s celebration would be exactly what the museum curator had in mind. Another irony, thought Jack, was the French motto sculpted above the stone entrance, “Honneur et Patrie.” “‘Honor and Nation,’” sneered Jack, “yeah, right.”
The security line, like the line to the dais, was full of San Francisco dignitaries, all dressed as if they were going to the Oscars. The capacity of the museum was fifteen hundred people, and there had to be close to that many tuxedos and black evening gowns in evidence, movers and shakers from all over California, from movie stars to politicians. This was one of the biggest tickets of the year. Of course, the room was also packed with the poseurs, those Pacific Heights inheritance cases whose inheritances had long been diminished or had disappeared entirely. Like most provincials they strutted and displayed their fake jewels most dramatically.
The mayor and his wife stood not three feet away, and Jack was pleased to see that even he hadn’t been spared the security check. Just beyond the line,