Monday Night Jihad (23 page)

But Scott waved him silent. His mind had slipped into the zone. The terrorist’s statement made no sense—‘because I’ve come to your shores.’ He processed the statement, mentally comparing it to other code words and chatter he had picked up. Nothing. Run through the statement again—‘because I’ve come to your shores.’ C’mon, what’s missing? An accent! Try it with an accent—‘because I’ve come to your shores.’ Be-cause. Be cause. The Cause.

“Todd, are you sure of the words? Could he have said something like, ‘The Cause has come to your shores’?”

“Sure, I guess. I was a little wigged out.”

“Dude, you’re awesome! They’ll be throwing parades for you! I gotta go talk with some folks. I’m sure we’ll get you out of here soon.” Scott reached deep into his cargo pockets again and pulled out another Yoo-hoo, sliding it across the table. “Is there anything else I can get you while you’re waiting?”

“Well, I didn’t really want to mention it again. I know so many other people are really hurting. But I’m thinking I should have somebody look at this.” Todd lifted his shirt revealing an entire left side that was black and blue. “I think I busted a few ribs when the crowd was pushing down on us. I should probably make sure nothing inside is messed up.”

“Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“Well, yeah, the lady who brought me in here. She said that I could talk to a medical person after I’d been debriefed.”

Scott looked toward the two-way glass, his face a mixture of anger and disgust. “Two minutes! That’s the amount of time you have to get a doctor in here. You understand?” Turning back to Todd, he said, “I’m so sorry, buddy. We’ll get someone in here right away. I gotta go, but I’ll be back to check on you when I can. You all right here?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Scott.”

Scott burst out the door and headed down the hallway toward the other interrogation room. Suddenly, Hicks bolted out of the other door. They met halfway between the two rooms, and both said in unison, “It’s the Cause!”

Riley ran upstairs and hurriedly turned the locks on the front door. “Grandpa, I am so sorry. I fell asleep in the basement and didn’t hear a thing.”

His grandpa didn’t answer at first. Then with a wry look he nodded toward Riley’s left side. “You being a little overcautious there, son?”

Riley looked down and gave an embarrassed grin. Without thinking about it, he had slung the M4 over his shoulder before running to open the door. “You know those media types. Gotta find ways to discourage them.” He slid the rifle off and set it by the doorway, then gave his grandpa a huge hug. He ushered him into the great room, which was now well heated from the fire that Riley had left on all night, and settled him into his recliner. “Coffee?”

“You gotta ask an air force man if he wants coffee?”

Riley laughed as he went into the kitchen to put on a pot of Costa Rican Tarrazu. “So, what are you doing here, Gramps?”

“Well, your dad and I talked, and we figured that after what happened, you’d have revenge on your mind. We thought it best that one of us come out to talk with you. I drew the assignment—him being a navy guy and all.”

Riley stood in the kitchen and leaned on the cold granite of his center island. “You looking to talk . . . or to talk me out of it?”

“Just talk, son; just talk. I learned long ago that I couldn’t talk you or your dad out of anything. So, your wandering around strapped with an M4 makes me think that we weren’t too far off in our assessment.”

“Grandpa, I’ve never seen anything like it—not in Afghanistan, not anywhere. I had my hands inside a guy’s body trying to stop the bleeding as he died. And the worst part? I know somewhere people are dancing and celebrating what happened last night. What would you do? I mean, if you still had a chance to make these murderers pay, could you stay home?”

Grandpa took a few moments to sort through what he was going to say. Finally he looked Riley in the eye. “Can’t say as I could, Riley. I’ve told you before that I’m much less concerned about what you do than I am with what’s in your heart. If you go after these guys out of hatred or revenge, it’ll eventually tear you up inside.”

Riley walked over with two cups of thick, black coffee—no time to dainty up your joe in the field.

“Mmmm, strong stuff,” Grandpa said appreciatively.

“I remember what you always said: ‘It’s not coffee unless you can stand a spoon in it.’” Together they chuckled softly. “Listen, I know that what’s in my heart is not good right now. But if hate is what it takes to get me motivated to get back in the game, then so be it.”

They both sat silently, looking at the floor and sipping their coffee.

Finally, Riley broke the silence. “I know, I know. That’s messed-up thinking. It’s just . . . where was God last night? Where was He when people were getting blown to pieces and getting trampled? Where was He when I sent Sal away to his death? Why didn’t He stop me from killing my best friend? I mean, what kind of God is that? Where’s His love? Where’s His compassion? Where’s His power?”

Grandpa took a minute before answering, then said, “Riley, I learned long ago that there’re two kinds of people in this world. One kind looks at the circumstances and lets them define God. The other kind looks at God and lets Him define the circumstances. What do you know to be true about God?”

“I hear you. God and I had this conversation about seven hours ago.”

Again silence.

“What do you think I should do, Grandpa?”

“What do you think you should do?”

Riley heaved a big sigh. “I think I need to get my heart right. Then I think I need to find out what I can do to help bring these murderers down.”

“Spoken like a true Covington, son.”

Tuesday, December 30

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Denver Field Office

Denver, Colorado

“Does Porter know about this?” Scott Ross asked Jim Hicks. The simultaneous discovery of the Cause being at the root of the attacks had both men excited and anxious to tell somebody.

“No. Seems he left the viewing room about ten minutes ago when Secretary Moss arrived.”

“The Secretary of Homeland Security is here? Yeah, I guess this would be big enough to get the weasel out of his cushy office.” Scott grabbed a passing agent. “Any idea where the SHS and the DC are holed up?”

“Main conference room.” Scott’s expectant stare prompted the man to continue. “Okay, you know the main war room you passed as you came to the interrogation area? It’s right in the middle of that.”

“Gotcha. Thanks.” Turning to Hicks, Scott said, “Well, shall we?”

Hicks gave his affirmation with his feet.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Scott muttered, hurrying after him.

They entered the war room and found the conference room just where the agent had said. It was a large boxlike structure in the center of a busy, open space filled with ringing telephones and low-walled cubicles. There was only one door into the conference room, and two dark-suited Secret Service agents were positioned in front of it.

Hicks approached the door with Scott in tow. “Jim Hicks, CTD,” he said, showing his badge. “This is Scott Ross, also with CTD. We need to see Secretary Moss.”

“One moment, please,” said the agent on the left, who then proceeded to whisper something into his wrist comm.

Ten seconds later, the door buzzed open and a very impatient Hicks entered with Scott close behind.

The light in the room was slightly dimmed, and a large flat-screen television was visible—turned on but blank at the moment—in an open cabinet to their left. Standing perpendicular before them was a long conference table surrounded by large, soft swivel chairs. Eight of the chairs were filled. Scott recognized a few of their occupants from Internet pictures, including Secretary of Homeland Security Dwayne Moss, who sat at the head of the table, and Undersecretary Gregory Blackmon to his right. Stanley Porter was seated to Moss’s left. Also present were FBI Director Edward Castillo, Western District CTD Chief Patty Wallace, and three other people whom Scott didn’t know.

Without waiting to be introduced, Scott blurted out, “Mr. Secretary, we’ve figured out the organization behind this attack! It’s a terrorist group called the Cause!”

“They already know,” said Hicks, who had been staring at the blank television since they walked in.

Scott felt the heat of embarrassment flush through his body.

Hicks continued, “You guys got a tape, didn’t you?”

“Actually, it’s a mini-DVD,” Undersecretary Blackmon said. “It was sent to Jeff Eitzen at the local CBS affiliate.”

“Oh, great. Have they aired it yet, Mr. Secretary?” Hicks asked.

Secretary Moss paused for a moment as if taken aback at being addressed directly by an agent. Finally he replied, “No, not yet, Agent Hicks—or is it Ross?”

“Hicks,” the senior agent answered.

Scott already despised the man for his condescending manner.

“Hicks it is. I have managed to secure for us, Agent Hicks, a twelve-hour buffer by promising that this local anchor will get first shot at breaking the story,” the secretary said in a tone that made it seem like his accomplishment was approaching the magnitude of the Treaty of Versailles.

“Great work, Mr. Secretary; score one for us,” said Hicks, whose sarcastic tone drew a sharp look from Porter.

Secretary Moss, who after years of various elected and appointed offices had trained himself to hear only what he wanted to hear, replied, “Thank you. Now, would you like to view the video?”

Hicks and Scott answered by taking two chairs at the far end of the table from the rest of the group and facing the television. Undersecretary Blackmon pressed Play on the remote. A silhouetted figure appeared from the chest up on the screen. After a moment, he began:

“People of America, I am the voice of your pain today. I planned and I executed this attack. I am Hakeem Qasim. I am the Cheetah. I am the Hammer.”

Scott felt himself shudder when he heard the name Hakeem. The guy they had been hoping to find had instead found them. As the words went on, Scott listened with half his brain, while the other half went into process mode.

First, the setting—judging by the furniture, it was obviously a hotel room. The quality of the lamp in the background and of the desk next to the man showed that it was not just a Motel 6 this guy was staying in. He had been careful about not leaving anything on the desk, and he had covered the one visible print on the wall with a sheet. It looked like there might be a bit of a pattern on the walls that, with work, could be brought out.

Second, the man himself—his silhouette didn’t show anything outstanding. He seemed to be a well-built individual—someone who took care of himself. Close-cropped hair with no hat or headdress of any kind. The ridges at his sleeves and collar indicated that he was wearing a T-shirt. The man was very careful in his words and pronunciations. However, a slip here and there told Scott that English was not his first language. He affected a straight nonregional American accent.

But something’s not completely kosher with his accent, Scott thought. It’s extremely well practiced and extremely well executed . . . but . . . but a different feel’s coming through. What is it? It’s not Middle Eastern—not Arabic-based. It’s more . . . European. But not like the growing-up-in-England-or-part-of-the-U.K. kind of highbrow accent. It’s more of a center-continent, English-as-a-second-language feel. C’mon, what’s the country? Work your way top down: It’s not Scandinavian. It’s not Germanic. It’s not French . . . or is it? It’s got the romantic feel, but it’s not pure French. It’s not—

A hand on his shoulder shook Scott from his thoughts. He looked up and saw that the video was over and everyone’s eyes were on him. Porter was glaring at him, and Secretary Moss had a bemused look on his face. For the second time since walking in, Scott’s face reddened.

Hicks, who had shaken Scott out of his reverie, said, “The secretary asked what you make of the recording.”

“Right . . . sorry. Well, good luck getting anything from the room, except possibly doing major enhancement on the wallpaper. But even that would probably only give us the chain of hotels the guy recorded in—NIH.”

“NIH?” Undersecretary Blackmon asked.

“Sorry, needle-in-haystack. A lot of work for little payback—although we could get lucky. Occasionally, a hotel chain will go with something regional. But when they do, the pattern is rarely so subtle.”

“Go on,” the secretary said.

“Okay, the guy’s not American, though he’s trying hard to sound like he is. He’s also not Arabic—but then again, that name . . . Hakeem Qasim. Well, if he is Arabic, that part of his life is way in the past. I think he’s southern European—Iberian, southeastern French, non-Germanic Swiss, possibly even all the way across the mid-states to Turkey—although Turkic is probably too harsh.

“He inadvertently gave us the benefit of having the lamp offset to his right, which allows us a little more detail in appearance. Short, tight hair—probably razored. When he turned slightly right, you can see that he is clean-shaven. The roll of his shoulders shows that the guy works out. When you balance him in proportion to the furniture, he stands six-two to six-three. And judging by the timbre of his voice, I would put his age at twenty-five to thirty-five—max of forty.”

“Wonderful; that narrows our suspect list down to five digits,” the secretary complained, drawing glares from Hicks and Scott. Even Porter, who knew good analysis when he heard it and recognized a stuffed suit when he saw one, shot him an angry look.

Porter jumped in. “What can you tell us about the Cause? I know that’s the group that Abdel al-Hasani and the rest of his gang at the Mall of America were part of.”

“Well . . . ,” Scott began.

“If I may, Scott,” Khadi Faroughi said, lightly touching his arm—a touch that rocketed through his whole body. She must have slipped in unnoticed during the viewing of the video.

Scott nodded for her to take the floor, and she continued. “When I wrote my master’s thesis five years ago, I focused on up-and-coming expatriate terrorist organizations—in other words, groups that are actually leaving the Middle East and basing themselves in heavily Muslim populations in the West. At that time, the Cause only warranted about four paragraphs. But since then, their chatter has grown exponentially to the point that they have been considered one of the second-tier players. I think in these last two weeks, they’ve forced themselves into first tier.”