Monday Night Jihad (11 page)

Saturday, December 20

CTD North Central Division Headquarters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Jim Hicks entered Interrogation Room 3 and saw Abdel al-Hasani sitting at a stainless steel table on a stainless steel chair. The man was shirtless, his left side heavily bandaged. His left hand was covered in surgical tape. A handcuff just above the bandages was connected to a medium-gauge chain that slipped down through a hole drilled into the surface of the table and came back up through an identical hole eighteen inches to the right of the first, connecting to a cuff on his right wrist. The only piece of furniture that was not bolted to the floor was a second chair, which Hicks now sat in.

Hicks placed his knife on the table just out of Abdel’s reach and said, “Your brother was a foolish man.”

Abdel’s eyes slowly lifted to Hicks’s, then slipped back down.

The look was not what Hicks had expected. He prided himself on being able to read the eyes of those he questioned, and Abdel’s stare was filled with hopelessness mixed with a cry for help. Go slow with this one, he thought. He’s dying to talk but needs to be convinced it’s okay.

“I have to admit,” Hicks continued, “I admired Aamir’s strength and courage. But I don’t understand his actions.”

“Aamir was a true believer in the Cause,” Abdel said, not lifting his eyes from the table.

“And you, Abdel? Are you a true believer in the Cause?”

“I am a true believer in Allah. I am a true believer in the Prophet.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Abdel remained silent, his eyes burning a hole in the table.

Hicks reached for the knife, slid it into its sheath, and placed it back on the table. “Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”

“It was part of my preparation.”

“You mean you learned an entire language just so you could come here and blow yourself up? Very impressive, but also very foolish. What a shame to waste a mind like yours on one push of a button.”

“My mind was created by Allah and for Allah,” Abdel said quietly. “I use it for what he requires of me.”

“And this attack—this attempt to rip apart the bodies of innocent women and children—is this what Allah requires of you? Or did someone else ask you to do this?”

Again the eyes, again the look, again the withdrawal.

“Abdel, you are an intelligent man, much smarter than your brother. He was convinced of the lies. He became confused about what is really black and what is really white. But you . . . you always had a seed of doubt, didn’t you? You always knew that something didn’t connect between your loving Allah and the murder of innocents.” Hicks’s voice continued to rise as he spoke. “Who did it, Abdel? Who took the Allah of your youth and turned him into a butcher? Who took the beauty of your childhood faith and smeared it with blood? Who convinced you to commit this atrocity? Give me a name, Abdel! I need a name!” Hicks was standing now, leaning across the table.

Abdel sat silently. Thirty seconds passed. One minute passed.

Hicks remained hovering over the man, his hands planted firmly on the table, not a muscle on his body moving. One minute thirty. Two minutes.

Suddenly, Abdel’s whole body heaved a massive sigh, as if he was releasing years of doubt and sorrow. Without looking up, in a voice barely audible, Abdel al-Hasani uttered one word: “Hakeem.”

Saturday, December 20

United States

The man unconsciously rubbed the brass medallion between his thumb and index finger. Sometimes he flipped the disk and caught it; sometimes he spun it on a table. But mostly he just rubbed it. It was like a reminder deep down in his pocket, an aid to help him think.

The medallion was a disk about the size of a half dollar. Around the rim of its front was etched the same word in seven different languages: onore, honneur, honor, Ehre, and also Greek, Farsi, and Cyrillic. In the middle of the medallion were engraved three daggers, handles set equidistant, their tips touching in the center. The daggers were barely visible after so many years of rubbing. The reverse side was blank.

The brass disk had not always been a medallion. Before being melted down and re-created, it had been a 7.62 mm cartridge allegedly removed from an unexpended AK-47 clip that had been fired by Saddam Hussein—a gift for a small boy from his uncle.

Hakeem Qasim sat brooding at the desk in the dark hotel room. Even after all these years, he could still detect the slight odor of the brass as he rubbed it. The only light in his room came from CNN, long since muted. The government was remaining tight-lipped about the attack on the Mall of America, so the news channels had exhausted their facts on the failed terrorist attempt hours ago. Until new information broke, they were just filling time with stories like the girl with the big hat who worked in the third-floor Hot Dog on a Stick who had confessed to staring in shock as the liquid rolled back and forth in the slushie machines immediately after the explosion.

This was to be the beginning of my revenge, Hakeem thought.

Much had occurred in Hakeem’s life since the murder of his family. Two days after the surgical strike on Uncle Ali, he had gone to live with his mother’s brother, Ibrahim, in Ramadi. He had taken nothing with him; all his possessions had been destroyed in the explosion except the clothes he wore and the bullet on its chain around his neck.

Hakeem had met Uncle Ibrahim only once before. Ibrahim was known to have connections to the Cause—an Iraq-based international terrorist organization focused on dealing justice to imperial America and Western Europe. Because of that, Hakeem’s mother had insisted that her family keep their distance. But now, in this orphaned boy, Ibrahim had seen an opportunity to create a weapon potentially more powerful than anything the Cause had stashed in its secret arsenals in the southern al-Hajarah desert. He saw a chance to create a mole.

So before Hakeem’s physical and emotional wounds had had a chance to heal, Uncle Ibrahim introduced him to a man simply known as al-’Aqran—the Scorpion. Each day this mysterious man spoke to Hakeem about revenge and about the importance of family honor. He talked about the boy’s place in the Cause. He sermonized about the evils of America, the virtue of patience, and the glory of a martyr’s death.

“Your day will come, Hakeem,” al-’Aqran had told him, “the day that you bring honor back to the name of your father. Satan’s great puppet, Bush of America, took your family, your future, and your honor. He wanted your uncle Ali, but did he care whom else he slaughtered? Did he care about your life or the lives of your mother and father? No, they were nothing—throwaway lives, dung.

“But while you wait for your revenge, you have a challenging task ahead of you, young warrior. You must become one of them. You must live like them, talk like them, drink like them, fornicate like them. . . . Ah, I see by your face that you worry. Don’t, for Allah knows your motives. He knows your heart. You must take a career and excel. You must take a wife and have children. You must appear exactly as one of them.

“However, you will be living with a secret—a purpose no one will know about. People will look at you and see one of them, but you will not be one of them. You will live in the decadence of the imperialist society, and when the time is right, you will help destroy that society. Those who have humbled you and your name will themselves be humbled by your hand, young Hakeem, by your hand. The honor of your family depends upon you.”

When he wasn’t being indoctrinated into al-’Aqran’s hatred of the West, Hakeem was learning languages, cultures, and the intricacies of bomb making. This intense education continued for two years.

One day the Scorpion came to the boy and abruptly removed the AK-47 cartridge from around Hakeem’s neck. Three days later, he presented the medallion to the boy. “For your life ahead, you cannot carry with you something as conspicuous as the gift your uncle Ali gave to you. So I have recast it in a form that can stay with you forever and always remind you of who you truly are.”

The next morning, they had left Ramadi. After a journey of many weeks, twelve-year-old Hakeem found himself alone, abandoned at the gate of a monastery.

For the next fourteen years, Hakeem had lived as another person. The only links he kept to his former life were his medallion and his deep-seated hatred. Al-’Aqran had told him that someday he would be contacted, and then his revenge could begin. The contact had come ten months ago. Since that time Hakeem had lived a double life, doing his job while he prepared to destroy his society, loving his family even as he prepared to abandon them.

In less than ten days, the double life would end. He would once again be fully Hakeem, son of Mustapha Qasim, nephew of Ali Qasim, soldier of the Cause, hand of vengeance! He would bring America to her knees and restore honor to the family of Qasim.

But the first step in that restoration had not gone as planned.

He picked up the remote control and flipped through the cable news stations. Each channel seemed to rub his failure in his face, doing nothing to help his dark mood. He flung the remote across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

How could they have disgraced me and the Cause like this? The plan I created was so detailed! I’d worked on it for years, hoping for the opportunity to unleash it! The training of these fools was supposed to have been perfect. My contacts promised me. This was to be the beginning of a new era of terror in America! This was to be the beginning of my revenge! Instead, it’s another misstep—another black eye to the Cause.

He held the brass disk in front of his eyes. It glowed blue from the television. He could faintly see the well-worn daggers—one for Father, one for Mother, one for Uncle Ali.

Uncle, I once promised you that when I was called upon, I would fight the Great Satan. I have waited many years to avenge my family. I have been very patient for my retribution in your name. Forgive me, Uncle, for my failure in this first attack. I promise you that in nine days, I will restore honor to the Qasim name!

Sunday, December 21

Grand Hyatt

San Francisco, California

Riley awoke from his dream with a start. That’s one thing about war, he thought. You can get it out of your days, but you can never get it out of your nights. He shook his head, trying to get the images out of his mind, as if his brain were an overgrown Etch A Sketch. He glanced over at the clock—6:52 a.m.

Through his open curtains he could see that dawn had just begun to break. Not that the sun stood much of a chance in this weather. San Francisco was a beautiful city most of the year, but these overcast, drizzly December days were enough to put chills in any man’s bones.

Riley put on his hotel robe and walked to the window. Through the gray he could make out the Golden Gate Bridge, and closer to him was the island prison of Alcatraz. This was the same view he’d had the last two times he was here. He had always wanted to drive the bridge and tour the prison, but the only times he’d been in the city had been for football—not a lot of free time to sightsee. Some summer I’ll come back, rent a convertible, and cruise the California coast from Napa all the way to San Diego. Maybe it’ll be for my honeymoon, he mused. Although, I guess finding a girlfriend first would help.

The “whole marriage thing” was a common discussion/sore spot between Riley’s mother and himself. The conversation always seemed to boil down to his mom not understanding how someone who was as great a catch as her son could still be single.

“When are you going to settle down and start a family? Your father and I want to be able to hold our grandkids on our laps without fear of breaking a hip! And don’t tell me you can’t find anyone. The girls have got to be falling all over you,” his mother would say.

“Yeah, but not the kind of girls I’m looking for,” would be his reply.

His fame, his odd schedule of PFL and off-season air force reserves, and his general ineptitude with women all combined to make his chances of ever having a meaningful relationship with a young lady about equivalent to the Detroit Wildcats’ chances of ever having a meaningful relationship with the PFL Cup.

The cold dampness seemed to seep through the window, causing him to involuntarily shiver. Grabbing the remote control, he turned on Fox News to see if there were any further developments from the Mall of America attack.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, the 7 a.m. wake-up call came. He automatically picked up the receiver of the phone and dropped it back down, never taking his eyes off the screen. The graphic for FOX NEWS ALERT rolled onto the screen along with its accompanying sound effect. The talking head gave a quick intro and then threw it to Greg Peterson live on-site in Bloomington, Minnesota.

“The mood in the Twin Cities is somber today as people come to grips with the realization that suicide bombing has come to America. The FBI, Homeland Security, and local police are all declining to comment when it comes to details of the attack on the Mall of America. Through witnesses, we have learned that there were three attackers. One was subdued by law enforcement officials inside the mall; another was killed, also in the mall; and the third detonated his device in the north parking lot, which you can see behind me now. The police are keeping a wide perimeter, but we are told that at least fifty cars sustained damage from projectiles, and countless others lost windows and windshields during the blast.

“The two officers killed during the attack—twelve-year veteran Jonathan Weems and rookie Wesley Katagi—were both members of the Bloomington Police Department. Although the mall is closed today, people have been flocking to a makeshift memorial for the two slain officers just outside the mall property at 24th Avenue South and Lindau Lane. There they have been leaving flowers, cards, and other tokens of love and appreciation for the sacrifice these brave men made. Also, early word is out that a fund is being established for people to help the two widows and five children that are left behind. Back to you, Karen.”