Monday Night Jihad (24 page)

“What’s their issue?” Porter asked.

“The organization grew up in the late eighties, then really expanded during the first Iraqi conflict. It’s a revenge/honor–based philosophy: the West hit us, so we’re going to hit back harder. Because of the Iraqi–Ba’ath tie-in, they’re not all radical Islamists. You do have plenty of religious fanatics, but you also have a lot of angry people who just want to hit back to restore family honor. It’s basically a hodgepodge of ticked-off Arabs—‘You want to kill Americans? Have we got a bomb for you!’ That kind of thing.”

“Okay, okay, enough,” Secretary Moss said, waving his arms in an attempt to bring a halt to the discussion. “What I want to know is what you’re going to do about it.”

“Well, Mr. Secretary,” Hicks answered, “so we don’t bore you with any more details, let me tell you what I want to do. I want to put together two teams—teams that will be able to operate freely without having to ask permission.”

“Black ops,” Porter said.

“Black ops. We’ll probably be doing some things that no one will want to know about, let alone take credit for. I’ll send one team to Italy, because—correct me if I’m wrong, Khadi—that’s where the Cause has one of their main operation bases.”

Khadi nodded.

Hicks continued, “I’ll be taking the second team to Paris.”

“Paris? What, do you think the French are behind this?” Secretary Moss asked.

“No, sir,” Hicks replied.

Scott marveled at the older agent’s ability to keep to himself the snide comment he undoubtedly wanted to make about how this idiot could have been put in charge of anything, let alone something as important as national security.

Hicks continued, “Both Abdel al-Hasani and our new guy traveled through the suburbs of Paris on their way stateside. In 1998, the International Civil Aviation Organization mandated that all plastic explosives have a taggant, or identifier—usually some chemical that gradually evaporates out of the explosive material that allows dogs to smell it or machines to pick it up. When the lab boys examine that undetonated football, I think they’ll find the explosives are loaded with French detection taggants.”

“You’re saying that these bombers carted their explosives all the way here from France?” the undersecretary asked. “Why not just make them here?”

Khadi responded, “We don’t think their infrastructure is that strong here in the States yet. Abdel al-Hasani told us that although he was supplied with all the materials, he and his brother had to make up their own vests. The sophistication of the football bomb was something that probably had to be put together elsewhere. Agent Hicks is guessing the Paris suburbs because of our guys’ travel itineraries.”

“And you agree?” Moss asked, looking first at Khadi and then at Scott, who both nodded.

“So they’ve got a bunch of explosive footballs. How’d they get them from France to here?”

“Probably chartered a plane, landed in Mexico, and paid a coyote to bring them across the border,” FBI Director Castillo answered.

“Precisely,” Hicks said.

Porter spoke up. “Okay, Hicks, it sounds like you’re leading team two. Whom do you recommend to lead team one?”

“I’m trusting that team to Ross.” Hicks turned to Scott. “What do you think? Can you handle it?”

“Jim, I’m totally in on the team, but I’m more of an intel guy who knows how to handle a gun—”

“And a knife,” Hicks added.

“Yeah, and a knife. I’ll take lead on the team, but I need someone else for the operations side.”

“I’ve got some great ops men, but they’re pretty hard-core. I’m not sure how they’ll do with your . . . idiosyncrasies. You got anyone specific in mind?”

“Actually, I do. But it’s way out of the box.” Then turning to Secretary Moss, Scott said, “I guess that’s why they call it ‘black ops.’”

“Well . . . as long as it doesn’t take too much time to set up. I’ve got to be on a plane in—”

“We’ll take care of whatever needs to be done,” Porter interrupted. To Hicks and Scott, he said, “You boys have got carte blanche on this, so make it work. If you mess it up, we never had this conversation.”

Tuesday, December 30

Chihuahua, Mexico

Hakeem awoke with a jolt as the pickup truck in which he was riding left the main road and the ancient suspension emitted a noisy protest. At first he was totally disoriented, and he fought the urge to panic. Slowly, his environment started to make sense to him—all except for the bumpy road.

He was stretched out in a tight area behind the bench seat of the pickup and beneath a canvas tarp, the goatish smell of which reminded him of his childhood. He was cramped, bruised, and claustrophobic, but he did not yet move, straining instead to hear the hushed conversation between the driver and his companion. The two were whispering conspiratorially, and one of them let out a low, gravelly chuckle.

He had met the two men—who identified themselves as Miguel and Miguel—in Las Cruces, New Mexico. An hour after setting out, they had pulled the old pickup truck to the side of the road and used hand motions to indicate that they wanted Hakeem to hide himself behind the seat.

At first the two men in front of him had been loud enough in their conversation to keep Hakeem from falling asleep, and he had remained alert as they approached the Mexican border crossing. Judging by the distance from Las Cruces, Hakeem guessed that they had bypassed the direct route south to El Paso and Juarez, instead taking a southwesterly course through Columbus, New Mexico. As they approached the checkpoint, one of the Miguels had said in broken English, “Now border. Shhhh.”

Crossing the border had proved to be easier than Hakeem had expected. Every muscle of his body was tense as he tightly gripped the small Smith & Wesson 4013 pistol that the hairier of the two Miguels had missed in his cursory frisking, hidden as it was in a very uncomfortable region in which to tuck a gun. He had heard a heavy rapping on the glass and a squeak as the window was cranked down. Voices, a little laughter—Is that a good sign?—then silence for two minutes and forty-three seconds by Hakeem’s count. Finally, voices again, the squeak of the window going back up, and a metallic grind as the driving Miguel searched to find a gear—any gear—in which to begin some forward momentum in the pickup.

Now, as the two in front whispered, Hakeem remained quiet under the tarp and decided to wait and see how things would play out. He still held the pistol, which he now slid under his belt in the small of his back, making sure that the tail of his heavy flannel shirt covered the weapon.

A few minutes later, the truck slowed to a stop. The doors opened, and there was some rattling around. Then the tarp was yanked off Hakeem, and hairy Miguel said, “Amigo” and reached his hand out. Hakeem took the man’s hand—noticing the clamminess of his palm—and allowed himself to be pulled from his hiding place and onto the dirt. His legs buckled under him as the circulation began to flow to his lower extremities. Miguel let go of his hand and stepped back.

The crisp morning desert air felt invigorating after hours under the tarp, and the first light of dawn softly illuminating the desolate landscape almost made Hakeem’s surroundings seem picturesque. The only thing that broke the beauty of the moment was the AK-47 that Miguel 2 was pointing at Hakeem.

Hairy Miguel laughed as he shook a Marlboro out of a crumpled pack and lit it with a small novelty lighter shaped like a grenade. He slipped the pack and the lighter back into his shirt pocket, then reached into the front of his pants and pulled out an old Colt .38 snubby.

“Don’t worry, amigo, our intent is not to hurt you. . . . Ah, I see by your face that you are surprised I speak English. It seems there is more to me than meets the eye, eh? Maybe I am not so stupid as you think. Maybe I am more than a simple chauffeur. Is that what you thought I was? Just a chauffeur?”

Hakeem didn’t answer. He stood with his hands locked behind his head, staring at the man as he waved his gun around.

“So, you do not feel like talking? It’s okay. You don’t need to talk; you just need to listen. Me and Miguel—we had a little discussion while you were sleeping. We think that it might be time for a little renegotiation of our deal.”

“To force renegotiation in the middle of a job is not an honorable thing,” Hakeem said.

“Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s true. However, honor is a luxury that comes at too high a price for a coyote. A coyote must eat whenever he can and as much as he can, because he never knows how long it will be until his next meal.”

“Great, a philosopher. Fine. Tell me how much it’s going to cost me,” Hakeem said as he slowly lowered his right hand to get the wallet from his back pocket.

“Cut to the chase,” hairy Miguel laughed. “That’s what we like, eh, Miguel?”

When Miguel 2 smiled and turned to nod at his partner, Hakeem saw his moment. In a smooth, swift motion that he had practiced countless times over the past years in front of a mirror, he grabbed the .40 cal from his back, swung the weapon up, and pulled the trigger twice. The first round went into Miguel 2’s chest, and the second entered his skull just under his left eye. While Miguel 2 was still crumpling to the ground, Hakeem leveled the pistol at hairy Miguel’s face.

Seeing the gun, the man immediately dropped to the ground and began pleading for his life.

“Don’t worry, friend, my intent is not to hurt you,” Hakeem said in perfect Castilian Spanish. “Ah, I see by your face that you are surprised I speak Spanish. It seems there is more to me than meets the eye.”

“Please, sir! Don’t kill me! I will give you all of your money back and take you the rest of the way. Please don’t kill me!”

“I said I don’t plan to harm you . . . yet. And you will keep the money I have given you. I belong to an honorable people, and we pay what is due.”

“I am so sorry, sir. You truly are honorable. I never would have done this had I known the kind of man you are. In fact, Fabián forced me to renegotiate. I didn’t want to, but he—”

“Fabián? Is that his real name?”

“Yes, sir. Fabián Ramón Guerrero.”

“And what is yours?”

“I am Valentín Joaquín de Herrera. And you are . . . ?”

“Tired of listening to you. Toss your gun toward me.”

The coyote obeyed.

“Now, take out your other gun and throw it toward me.”

“But, sir, I have no other gun!” the man protested.

“Adios,” Hakeem said. He increased pressure on the trigger.

“Wait, wait!” Valentín reached deep into the front pocket of his cargo pants and brought out an ancient Colt Pocket Hammerless. The grip was wrapped with duct tape, and it looked like firing it would be more dangerous to the one holding the weapon than the one at whom it was pointed.

“That’s better. Now, do you have anything else that might be harmful to me—knives, box cutters, really sharp sticks? Before you answer, I want you to know that in a few moments I am going to have you strip down to nothing, and if I find that you were holding out on me at all, I will put two bullets into your stomach and watch you slowly bleed to death.”

Valentín’s hands dove into his pockets and brought out a utility blade, two ice picks, and one set of brass knuckles with the tops of the third and fourth rings broken out. He then began unbuttoning his shirt.

“No, wait,” Hakeem called out. “Seeing you undressed is an image that might possibly plague me for the rest of my life. Leave everything on the ground and get back in the truck. And don’t try to run. I am the Cheetah, and I will surely catch you.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Valentín ran to the truck and jumped in through the driver’s door.

Hakeem slowly walked around the back of the truck. As soon as he was sure the coyote couldn’t see him, he began shaking all over. He had killed a man—pointed a gun, pulled the trigger, and lodged a bullet in a person’s brain. His knees felt weak.

But this was ridiculous! Hadn’t he just been responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of people? Yes, but this was the first time he had pulled the trigger himself. This was the first time he had directly caused a body to topple to the ground.

Do I feel remorse? No. Would I do anything differently? No. Then why am I shaking? If it’s not fear and it’s not remorse, then what is it? Maybe it’s adrenaline. That’s got to be it. It’s excitement. Another step in making me the avenger my destiny says that I am. I have been blooded! Oh, Uncle, if you could see me now!

The shaking subsided, but the energy did not. It continued to well up inside him. Hakeem laughed, and then he slammed his fist into the side of the truck. Finally he drew in as much of the early morning air as he could and let out an ear-shattering howl at the sunrise.

Thursday, January 1

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Denver Field Office

Denver, Colorado

It had been twenty minutes since Riley had passed through the second set of security clearances, and he was starting to get a bit antsy. Although the lounge area had soft chairs, it did not seem a place in which one was meant to get comfortable. There was no reading material on the end tables, and there were no prints on the walls. The only decorative items of any kind were a large aquarium at the front of the room and an old television that still had knobs on the front.

Riley began pacing across the room, rehearsing for the fiftieth time the words he was going to say when the door to the inner sanctum opened. He kept finding his concentration broken by the smack of the air bubbles trapped under the poorly laid vinyl flooring with every other step he took. In an effort to drown out that incredibly irritating sound, on his next pass to the front of the room Riley twisted the On/Volume knob of the television.

The tinny voice of a female reporter sounded through the twenty-year-old speakers: “. . . and Baltimore, around the country, and around the world are still reeling as they try to cope with Monday night’s attack at Platte River Stadium.”

Riley turned toward the TV as the picture cut to a man with an American flag bandanna wrapped around his head and riding leathers covering the rest of his body. “This is what we get for letting them A-rabs in the country to begin with! They want a fight? I say we press the button and give the whole Middle East a nuclear shower!”