Inside Threat (19 page)

“Hey, gang! Enough goofing. We've got a world to save. Time to get back to work.”

There was a little bit of grumbling, but not a lot. Within seconds, the analysts were back at their stations, totally focused on the tasks at hand.

Something must be going on around here,
Khadi thought.
They didn't put up much of a fight.

“Come on back,” Scott said with a smile, leading the way to his office.

“What's keeping the kids so occupied . . . if I may ask?”

“You may. There's tons of chatter going on,” he answered over his shoulder. “Mostly about more of these smaller-scale attacks. We've got warnings all the way from Des Moines to Dubuque.”

“Wow, Des Moines to Dubuque? What is that, 150 miles? You guys must really be stretched.”

Scott stopped and turned. “Okay, Bangor to Bakersfield. That better?”

“Much. Speaking of attacks—how are you doing?”

Lowering his voice, he admitted, “Still a little sore. Gotta tell you, it freaked me out a little more than I'm letting on.”

“As it should. You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, just have to process a little more. Having a little squirt at home changes things.”

“Again, as it should. So, do you see any connections within all this intel—any threads tying the attacks together?”

“Some. All the players are homegrown. All individuals or small-cell. I'm just looking for a bigger picture to all this other than them wanting to be a giant pain in the collective American keister.”

Khadi thought for a moment. “Could they be white noise? You know, trying to distract you from a bigger play?”

Scott nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, could be. That would certainly give a purpose. Give me a second.” He moved off toward Evie. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” he called back to her.

That was easier said than done. The room he called his office was really little more than a closet. There was just enough room for his desk, an executive chair, and a rolling secretary's chair that was missing a caster. It was on this second chair that Khadi now precariously balanced herself.

“So, no present for me?” Scott asked a couple minutes later as he breezed into the room and began organizing into a pile some papers that were spread across his desk.

Here goes,
she thought. “Don't you think it would be bad form for one to butter somebody up with a gift just before asking said person for one's old job back?”

Scott stopped short, his eyes lifting to meet Khadi's. She could tell that he was trying to read whether or not she was serious.

Leaving the papers where they lay, he sat down and said, “Well, truthfully, I've never really seen anything wrong with buttering someone up, especially if I'm the butteree.”

She bent down to her bag. When she came up, she was holding an infant onesie. It was black and on the front were written the words:

Mommy's All Right!

Daddy's All Right!

She could see Scott's face light up.

“Wait for it,” she said. With as much flair as she could muster, she flipped the outfit around. On the back was written in a half-circle arc:

They Just Seem A Little Weird!

“No way! Tara is going to kill you,” Scott shouted as he snatched it out of her hands. “It's awesome!”

It was so good to hear Scott laugh—to see the sheer delight he took in the moment. When he laughed, everything seemed right in the world. Somehow, some way, all things would work out, and good would always find a way to triumph over evil.

Please, God, let this work out. Let him say yes.

“Yes,” Scott said, the smile still big across his face.

“Yes what?” Khadi asked, taken off guard.

“You buttered me up for a reason. I'm telling you it worked. When can you start?” he asked, folding the onesie and setting it on his desk.

“Don't you want to hear why? I've got a whole sob-story speech prepared for you.”

Scott leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “You know, as appealing as that sounds, I think I'd rather just say yes.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time today, Khadi's eyes filled up with tears. She was coming home. Back to the people she loved. Back to where she was making a difference, protecting people who truly deserved protecting.

“Now, of course, we're going to have to start you at the bottom. Wouldn't be fair to everyone else if we just put you back in your office. I figure maybe we'll start out with you assisting Evie and let you work your way up.”

“Of course,” Khadi said, her heart falling as she tried to keep a smile on her face. “That would only be fair.”

Wow, that was unexpected. But then again, why should it be? Why should you expect to be able to simply waltz back in and . . .
Her thoughts were brought up short by a mischievous grin that was beginning to spread across Scott's face.

“Jerk,” she said with a laugh, relief flooding her body. “But seriously, I'd be willing to step into whatever job you want me in. I don't care where or what it is. I just want to be in a place where I can most help out the team. I know I have no right to expect—”

Scott held up his hand to interrupt her. He was still laughing. “Please, Khadi, stop! You're slipping into your prepared speech, and the absolute pitifulness of it is going to either have me crying or busting a gut laughing.”

“So I'm back in?”

“You're back in.”

“At my old job?”

“At your old job.”

“At my current salary?”

“This is the government.”

“It was worth a shot,” Khadi said, amazed at how quickly their old bantering habits fell back into place. “When can I start?”

“You tell me,” Scott said, picking up the onesie and admiring it one more time.

“Let me give my two weeks to the senator today. How about September 28?”

“Perfect. I'll have Gooey move his boxes out of your office, and we'll give it a coat of fresh paint.”

“Ummm, I almost hate to ask, but . . .”

Scott leaned back in his chair so that its back was against one wall and his feet were propped against the wall opposite. “Not much to it. It's just the typical guy finds apartment, guy moves into apartment, guy's seven-foot boa constrictor busts out of its cage and escapes into the walls of the apartment building only to be rediscovered when it falls through a bathroom vent fan onto the lap of another tenant who just happens to be availing herself of the facilities at that precise time, guy gets evicted story.”

“Happens all the time.”

“No doubt. So Gooey's been in a motel for the last couple of months, and he needed a place to store some of his stuff. Just a heads-up, though. When you start, you may want to bring a supply of scented candles.”

“Already on my list.”

“It's good to have you back on the team, Agent Faroughi,” Scott said.

“It's good to be back, sir,” Khadi said with a wink.

Wednesday, September 14, 6:20 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

Majid Alavi eased the white utility van through the open warehouse doors, then watched in the rearview mirror as they closed behind him. Suddenly, there was a thump on the side of the van. He spun around. Then another, and another. Soon it sounded like a storm of hard, meaty hailstones was raining blow after blow on the side panels.

Then a chant began outside. Alavi chuckled as he made out the syllables—
Mc-Don-Alds, Mc-Don-Alds, Mc-Don-Alds
. He glanced to where Ubaida Saliba was crouched with a hand on the door handle. Alavi nodded, and Saliba slid back the door.

A cheer rose from the dancing, chanting warriors.

“Form up,” Saliba called out. Immediately, the men formed a line, albeit with plenty of good-natured jostling and gibing.

Alavi unbuckled his seat belt and joined Saliba. As the men stepped forward one by one, Alavi handed each a bag containing a quarter-pounder and a large fries, while Saliba pulled a large Coke from one of the six full cardboard drink carriers he had been frenetically trying to keep from tipping over.

For most of the return ride from the last McDonalds—they had gone to four, so as not to raise suspicion by ordering twenty-four identical value meals from one location—their conversation had been reduced to “Slow down!” “I am going slow!” “Go slower!” “Any slower and I'll be going backwards!” “Just slow down!”

“Allah bless you,” Saliba said to each man as they took their meals. Alavi remained silent, watching the gleeful expressions on the faces of these chosen few who had existed the last few days primarily on cheeses and vegetables.

Ramadan would officially begin at sunset. At that point, Saifullah wanted all the men to be fed and ready to focus on God and on the task at hand. But in the few hours of daylight that remained, he had decided to boost the men's morale by sending Alavi and Saliba on an old-fashioned fast-food run.

Alavi had briefly considered pointing out the inconsistency of Saifullah's now providing the very food for which three days earlier he had caused two of the men to be beaten. Prudence won the day, and he had decided against it. He knew there was always a deeper reason for whatever the old man did.

The answer came later in the day. “If you teach your men to respect you, they will go to their deaths for you,” the wise imam had eventually told Alavi, while handing him the keys to the van. “But if you teach your men to love you also, they will still go to their deaths for you . . . but with smiles on their faces.”

The last man in line received his meal.
Mission accomplished,
Alavi thought. Smelling the fries had created in him a ravenous hunger.

He reached to grab the final two bags for himself and Saliba, but found a third still remaining. Looking out of the van, he searched for anyone not eating. It didn't take long for his gaze to fall on Quraishi—the defiant one from the first day's beating—still sitting on his bunk sharpening his knife. The man's eyes were on Alavi as he slowly stroked his blade across the stone.

Alavi held up the white paper bag. With a defiantly bored shrug, Quraishi slowly and deliberately sheathed his knife and slipped the stone into a small pouch, which he set squarely in the middle of his pillow. Then, easing himself up, he stretched and began a casual stroll toward the van.

Who does this idiot think he is?
Alavi wondered as he felt the heat beginning to rise in his face. Many of the men were watching Quraishi, more and more heads turning with each relaxed step he took. Some of the men were grinning and elbowing each other.
His fans,
Alavi thought.
Something's got to be done about this guy. This whole week, it seems he's made a point of trying to challenge me and to weaken the authority structure Saifullah has worked so hard to establish.

Slowly, with a bored look on his face, Quraishi continued his approach. When he was about ten feet away, an indignant Saliba yelled out, “Who the—?”

But Alavi silenced him with a raised hand. A self-satisfied smile appeared on Quraishi's mouth.
He thinks he has me cowed. Seems it's time for an example to be made.

Alavi sized the man up. Quraishi had about three inches and forty pounds on him.
Proceed carefully but conclusively with this one.

The big man finally arrived in front of the van's side door and stood staring at Alavi. Every eye in the warehouse, including, he was sure, those of Saifullah, was on the threesome.

“Hungry?” Alavi asked.

“I could eat,” Quraishi said smugly, holding out his hand for the bag.

Taking hold of the bag from underneath, Alavi lifted it towards Quraishi. But before the other man could take hold of it, Alavi turned it over. Fries needled to the ground, and the cardboard box holding the burger bounced once, ejecting its contents, which landed in an elongated three-layer stair step on the dusty ground.

Never once taking his eyes from his adversary's, Alavi reached toward Saliba, who deposited a Coke in his outstretched hand. He tipped it and squeezed until the lid shot off, spewing its sticky liquid onto Quraishi's boots and pant legs. As the events took place, Alavi could see the other man's expression turn from anger to rage to dark hatred.

Reaching for the final two bags, Alavi said in a low, firm voice, “Get a mop and clean this mess up. Or else someone's liable to slip and hurt themselves.”

He had just shouldered past Quraishi, when he heard, “Give me your bag.”

“Sorry, no time for you to eat,” he answered without stopping or turning around. “You've got work to do, mop-boy.”

“I said, give me your bag.” These words were followed by a snatch at the bags Alavi was carrying. With surprising speed, Alavi brought his right elbow arcing backward, catching Quraishi on the temple. The man grunted, stumbled, but didn't go down. Using his momentum, Alavi completed his body twist and drove the steel toe of his left boot into Quraishi's jaw with a sickening crunch.