Monday Night Jihad (29 page)

“Always check your periphery, because things aren’t always what they seem. Don’t let yourself fall into a trap. Word will have gotten here about Jim and the operation in France. They may be waiting for us. Our intel has to be perfect, and we need to run out every possible contingency.”

Riley nodded, mentally filing that away for when they laid out their plan of attack. There was no doubt—Scott was good.

“It was Lucius,” came a deep voice from the front seat. Everyone’s eyes turned toward Skeeter.

“What’d you say, Skeet?” Scott asked.

“Lucius got hisself killed, not Gaius,” Skeeter said, never taking his eyes off the road. “That’s the public schools of Tunica County, Mississippi, K through 12.”

The other three burst out laughing. “You’re one strange bug, Skeeter,” Scott said, shaking his head.

Wednesday, January 14

CTD Midwest Division Headquarters

St. Louis, Missouri

Tara Walsh despised making the Starbucks run. First of all, she felt it was below her position, particularly since she was the ranking member of the group. But in the egalitarian world of her little think tank, everyone was assigned one day a week to make the run.

The biggest problem wasn’t the humiliation; it was all her team’s special orders. People in line were not afraid to voice their impatience with her as she verbally stumbled trying to order Virgil Hernandez’s venti low-fat caffè vanilla Frappucino, light on the whipped cream with a dash of nutmeg on top or Evie Cline’s grande iced Tazo green tea latte with soy milk and light on the ice. Tara never knew how to say the drinks right, and she secretly envied those who rattled off their pretentious-sounding, fifteen-plus-word personalized coffee and tea choices. Couldn’t anyone just order normal drinks anymore? Drinks like her standard Two Shots in the Dark, two shots of espresso topped off with dark roast coffee—easy to say, no mess, no fuss.

Balancing a tray of four drinks in one hand and carrying her own cup with the other, Tara planted a quick kick on the door to the “Room of Understanding.”

The ROU was designed as a miniature war room, but early on Evie had voiced her concern that “war room” didn’t communicate what it was they were really trying to do there. After all, weren’t they really trying to prevent wars and bring about world peace and harmony? She had suggested “Love Room,” but Tara had quickly vetoed that out of concern that this group of characters might take the name a little too literally while she was out getting coffee. “Room of Understanding” was finally chosen because, according to Evie’s reasoning, the purpose of the work done in the room was to gain understanding of various events, thereby bringing greater understanding among the nations of the world. Tara had fought it, but Scott had said, “It’s just a room. Who gives a rip what they call it?”

Joey Williamson opened the door and took the tray from Tara. She saw him look down at her noticeable lack of an accompanying bag that should have been carrying the almond scone he had asked for, but he decided against mentioning it when he saw the dark expression on her face.

The room was large enough to comfortably accommodate five workstations around the perimeter and one large conference table in the middle. All the chairs around the table were unmatched and falling apart, the original chairs having been destroyed during a series of late-night races through the St. Louis CTD building. Division Chief Porter had told the team that their choices were to either sit on the floor or replace the chairs themselves. So they had scrounged garage sales and the local thrift store to come up with what they now sat in.

As per routine, the team was gathered around the table. Tara sat at the head. The odor her chair gave off when she sat in it always brought the words sweaty dachshund to mind. To her left were Virgil Hernandez and Evie Cline. To her right was Joey Williamson. And at the other end was a new guy, a brilliant media and technology analyst who, for some unknown reason, liked to go by the name Gooey.

“Okay, what have you come up with so far this morning?” Tara asked.

Hernandez spoke up first. “Big news is, while you were playing around at Starbucks, we matched a third suspect—Tahir al-Midfai. Iraqi-born, midtwenties. He’s the guy who came through Platte River gate 7. We picked him up on a security camera, entering Rome’s Fiumicino Airport ten days before the attack. That tells us he didn’t fly into the airport, which means he probably originated in Italy. I’ll bet you the flowers in the bud vase of Evie’s VW that two weeks before the bombing, he was basking in the sun on the beaches of Barletta—or, since it was December, he was doing whatever terrorists do during the winter along the sea.”

“When I was a kid in California,” Williamson said, “we used to build bonfires on the beach during the winter. We’d roast hot dogs and s’mores and stuff like that.”

“Oh, I love s’mores,” Evie cried. “I used to make those at Girl Scouts camp—at least I did the year that I made it through the whole two weeks without getting sent home.”

Tara just shook her head. A recent commercial campaign flashed in her mind where some poor guy was trying to do his best while working in an office filled with monkeys. “Excuse me . . . excuse me!” she piped in. “I think we may be slightly off track. So, that makes three we’ve identified—Naji Mahmud, our failed bomber who is now in a coma thanks to the modern-day Einstein who attempted Jim Hicks’s shaking technique after Hicks had already gotten the information we needed; Djalal Kazemi, the interesting Iranian connection, now blown to bits; and now this al-Midfai guy. I’m assuming you’re running the Fiumicino Airport database against our Platte River database?”

“As we speak,” Hernandez assured her.

“So let’s recap our bombing order and where things stand for identification. Bomber one—no ID. Why?”

“We’ve got a good visual on him, but he’s not coming up in any databases,” Evie said. “He very well might be a one-hit wonder.”

“Bomber two—that’s Mahmud. Bomber three?”

“That’s al-Midfai,” Hernandez answered.

“Good. Bomber four?”

“Another mystery date like number one. We have a facial but no match,” Evie said.

“Okay, so one and four are unknown. What about five? No ID on him either, right? Come on, our databases can’t be that bad,” Tara complained.

“It isn’t a database issue, Terri,” Gooey said, mispronouncing Tara’s name for the thirty-second time since joining the team, thus causing Tara to have her thirty-second vision of planting the heel of her boot between his puffy blue eyes. Gooey continued, “It’s a camera-angle thing. He was chilling out front of the stadium, and all we got are some nice, framable pictures of the dude’s back.”

“Thanks . . . Goofy,” Tara said, immediately regretting her attempt at a zinger, which for some reason had seemed quite cutting when she’d rehearsed it in her head. Out loud, it just sounded stupid.

The rest of the team rolled their eyes, which was actually a relief to Tara. Enduring an eye-roll meant getting off easy with this bunch.

“So, no five,” Tara plowed on. “And what about six? Oh yeah, that’s Kazemi. Right?”

“Right-o, Tinkerbell,” Hernandez confirmed.

“What? What did you call me?”

“Tinkerbell. Sorry, I thought we were doing Disney names. Didn’t you, Mickey?”

“I thought so too, boys and girls,” Williamson answered in a falsetto voice. “What about you, Fairy Godmother?”

“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Evie sang.

“I can’t believe this,” Tara grumbled loudly as she stood up and grabbed her stuff from the table. “I get a bachelor’s degree in three years from Hillsdale and a master’s from Yale, and here I am stuck in this room with you social miscreants.”

As she turned to walk away, Hernandez called out, “Hey, Tink, you forgot number seven.”

Tara spun around. “What?” she demanded.

“Bomber number seven. Your list only got through six.”

Tara sighed and placed her stuff back on the table. “And what about bomber number seven? What might we have on him?” she asked in slow, measured words.

“Nothing,” Gooey answered.

Tara paused before continuing in the same steady pace. “Is there a possibility of your, maybe . . . I don’t know . . . elaborating on your answer a bit, Gooey?”

“Well, Terri, it’s like this: There are three cameras that show directly or peripherally that corridor down by the turf guy’s office, where the last bomb blew. Not one of them was working that night. Three cameras less than a year old all malfunctioning at once—coincidence?” Gooey leaned across the table and slapped his hand on it as he spoke each of his final three words. “I . . . think . . . not!” Then he triumphantly stood straight up with his hands balled on his hips, staring at the sky in superhero fashion.

The other three burst into applause at this mighty display of detective genius.

“I work with a bunch of idiots,” Tara mumbled. Then she said to the team, “I want all those videos reviewed again—every single Platte River tape starting with three hours prior to game time. Those two faceless suspects have to be on there somewhere. And I don’t care what database you have to tap into; I want names for both of these guys by the end of the day. Now get to work!”

Tara grabbed her papers from the table again. She walked straight to her desk, dropped the last four caplets from her Extra Strength Tylenol bottle into her hand, and swallowed them dry.

Wednesday, January 14

Barletta, Italy

The hot wind blew in the big cat’s face as he crept through the tall grass of the Namibian plain. A herd of impalas stood two hundred yards ahead. The stealthy feline carefully cut that distance by half. He scanned the herd and picked his victim. Not the smallest but also not the biggest. He wanted to make the effort worthwhile, but he did not want to bite off more trouble than he could chew.

He slowly raised himself into a crouch, his tail end lifting a little higher and wiggling back and forth. Steady . . . steady . . . steady . . . NOW! He bolted across the separation and was two-thirds of the way there before the impalas saw him coming.

Now it was their turn to run. They scattered, trying to confuse him, but he was intent on the single victim he had chosen. The young impala somehow sensed that it was the target. It broke right and made a mad dash for some acacia bushes. Too little, too late.

The cat was within five feet of the animal when something slammed into his side. He let out a yip as he flew sideways and rolled to a halt.

He felt the blood pouring down his fur and knew he’d been shot. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! Panic set in as he heard footsteps coming toward him. He tried to get up but found he couldn’t move—not even to turn his head to see who had shot him. He closed his eyes as pain racked his body. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Then he heard the footsteps stop. He slowly opened his eyes and saw a man in desert camouflage standing above him. On his right arm was a patch of the American flag.

As the wounded cat watched in horror, the soldier raised his rifle, pointed it down at his head, and pulled the trigger.

Hakeem awoke drenched in sweat and nearly hyperventilating. He sat up in his bed and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.

He had been having the cheetah dreams again ever since arriving in Barletta. The dreams had stopped when his house had been bombed and his family killed so many years ago. Now they were back almost every night, and he loved them. He loved the rush of the hunt and the power of the kill. But tonight, for the first time, his dream had taken an alarming turn.

Hakeem slipped on his pants and walked across the cold cement floor to the hall, taking a blanket from the bed with him. He had been confined to this house and its courtyard ever since arriving in Italy. He couldn’t argue with the wisdom of this decision, but it didn’t make it any easier. After two weeks here, he was going stir-crazy.

The one solace he had found was up on the tile roof of the three-story house that had become his home. The rooftop gave him a feeling of serenity as he looked down at the city around him. In this morning’s darkness the air was chilly and damp from the sea, and Hakeem wrapped the blanket tightly around his body. The Adriatic was much closer to the north, but he still had a more or less unobstructed view toward the eastern seaboard. He turned his face to where the sun would shortly rise as the sky began to lighten.

I’m a different man since coming here, Hakeem thought. Life among my people, and especially around al-’Aqran, has taken away the lingering effects of living so long in America. I am amazed at how soft I had become. I am ashamed at how I mourned for the people and things I left behind. But no more! My edge has been honed again. My barbs have been sharpened. I now live to die. And the days I have left will be days of honor.

The darkness continued to disappear, and the soft edges of the buildings around him became more defined. But what about this dream? I have always been the hunter. Never have I been the prey. What does it mean? Was it just the quzi I ate last night? Or, more likely, the four shots of arrack that I drank, chasing the three bottles of Peroni. What are dreams anyway? It’s silly to be concerned about them. Dreams are meant to be experienced, sometimes enjoyed, and then dismissed. It won’t be long before I am the one standing over the American with the rifle pointed at his head.

Just then, the first glimpse of orange broke the horizon to the east. Hakeem stood and removed the blanket surrounding him so that his body could absorb the warmth. It was a perfect moment—a connection between heaven and earth. The sun’s rays flooded over him, washing away the dream, washing away the past, washing away the doubts. As he stood there, he made a conscious decision to meet from this roof every sunrise that he had left here in Barletta—a number he knew was rapidly diminishing.

Monday, January 19

Barletta, Italy

For the last six days, Mustang team had made it their lives to know everything there was to know about Via Nazareth—the street that contained both al-Arqam mosque and the house of al-’Aqran. According to the intel from Tara Walsh’s group back home, al-’Aqran was the founder and leader of the Cause.