Monday Night Jihad (34 page)

“Hold that happy thought,” Scott said as he reached to answer his satellite phone. “Ross here. . . . Yes, Mr. Porter. . . . No, sir, we haven’t found him yet. . . . Yes, sir, I overheard Jim’s side of the conversation. . . . I couldn’t agree with you more, sir. . . . Yes, sir, I’ll tell him. Thank you, sir.”

As Scott hung up the phone, Hicks reached into his pocket and tossed him a handkerchief.

“What’s this for?” Scott asked.

“It’s to wipe the brown off your nose. I haven’t heard that many ‘sirs’ in one conversation since boot camp.”

Scott laughed. “Yeah, well, Porter kind of brings it out of you.” As he talked, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. Then he reached in and grabbed a bottle of Fabbri 1905 Fantasy in Caffe chocolate syrup. “Anyway, he heard Moss’s side of the conversation, so he slipped out to give us a call. He said he knows that Moss is an equine’s posterior but wanted me to ask you to try to at least be civil to him while you’re ignoring his orders. Then he said to do whatever it took to get Riley back safe.”

“Sounds like Porter’s a pretty decent guy.”

“Yeah, as long as you’re doing your job. If I ran the zoo, he’d be the one filling Moss’s suit.”

Scott sat down at the table and unscrewed the cap from the water bottle. Hicks watched in disgust as Scott chugged about a quarter of it and then filled the empty space with chocolate sauce. He put the cap back on and rapidly shook the bottle. When the contents were as well mixed as thick syrup and sparkling water could get, Scott began the slow process of letting the built-up gas out of the bottle little by little. The first time he had experimented with this concoction, he had forgotten about the whole don’t-open-a-shaken-carbonated-beverage thing—not a mistake he was willing to repeat. Scott saw Hicks’s appalled look and said, “I agree. It ain’t the smooth goodness of Yoo-hoo, but it’s the closest I can get over here.”

The friends sat silently for a few minutes, each thinking about Riley. Then Scott said, “I’m still trying to get over Tara’s phone call about Sal Ricci. It doesn’t seem possible that a PFL player is behind the Platte River bombing.”

“Yeah, but they have him on video bringing in a full ball bag—right down the tunnel and past the security guard. He even waved to them. They have him swapping out the balls. They have him making his escape.”

“I just hope Riley doesn’t find out about Sal until he’s back with us.”

“If he’s still alive.”

“Shut up, Jim! He’s alive! Trust me, he’s alive.”

Khadi approached the two men and eyed Scott’s drink. “Not again, Scott. That stuff is appalling.”

“Come on, doesn’t the Koran say something about the benefits of a rich, chocolaty soda?”

“No,” Khadi replied. “Does the Bible?”

“’Fraid I wouldn’t know. But if it doesn’t, I think it should. First Chocolonians or something.”

Khadi shook her head. “Why can’t brilliant people be normal?”

“Thank you, and I don’t know. So what brings you to this part of our lovely abode?”

“We just had the changing of the guard on our stakeouts. Still nothing but regular activity in and around Port Building 2 and Train Building. We’ve seen nothing in or out of Port 1 for nearly twenty hours.”

Again silence filled the room. Finally Khadi said softly, “You know, having him out there and not knowing how he is—it’s almost more than I can handle.”

Hicks slammed his hand down on the table. “We need something! Al-’Aqran hasn’t given us a thing, no matter how hard I’ve leaned on him. Our surveillance hasn’t given us a thing. Tara’s nutcases back at the ROU haven’t given us a thing. We’ve got to get something soon! Otherwise, I swear we’re just going to split our team in three and try all of the buildings at once. But without better information, that could be suicide.”

Scott’s phone rang again. Khadi and Hicks began talking over new options while Scott answered the phone. “Ross here. . . . You’re serious? Right up to you? But how . . . ? Not good. . . . Well, it makes sense, unfortunately. Okay, call the rover car to take over surveillance of Train Building, but obviously from a different vantage. You get yourself and your little surprise back here ASAP. And make sure no one follows you. Capisce?” He ended the call and put the phone on the table. “Well, I think we may have just gotten our break.”

Hicks and Khadi immediately ended their conversation and gave their full attention to Scott.

“It seems that a young man walked up to our surveillance van near Train Building. He said something like, ‘You touch me, we kill him. This is your football man.’ Then he handed Kim Li and Steve Kasay a vinyl gym bag. Inside the bag is a videotape. I’m betting we’ve got the makings of some sort of trade for Mr. Scorpion.”

“But how did they know our guys were there?” Jim asked.

“I think our contact probably told them,” Scott replied.

“Our contact?” Khadi said. “But he’s been nothing but loyal. What makes you think that he’s the one who gave our position away?”

“Because his head was in the bag with the tape.”

Steve Kasay came into the house through the back door, carrying the videotape. Kim Li followed close behind. Thankfully, they had left the gym bag, along with the rest of its contents, out back. The senders of the video had extended them the courtesy of placing the tape in a plastic bag, which Kasay now deposited into an evidence bag for safekeeping. He handed the tape to a waiting Scott, then went to the sink and began thoroughly scrubbing every wrinkle and crease of his hands.

Khadi, Hicks, Skeeter, and Li gathered around the monitor, while Scott slipped the tape into a high-tech VCR. This machine would convert the analog signal to a digital stream while the tape was playing. When the first pass of the tape was completed, the digital copy would be uploaded and sent to Tara’s team in St. Louis for analysis.

Scott pressed Play.

Immediately everyone gasped except Skeeter, who unconsciously broke the glass he was holding in his hand.

The video showed Riley sitting in a dimly lit room, naked except for his boxers. He was tied to his chair, and blood could be seen staining the area where the cords were wrapped around his ankles. He had some obvious bruises to his upper body, and the left side of his face was badly swollen. A thin red line had been sliced across his chest and another down his right side. Two men stood with him, one on each side, their faces covered by black nylon masks. Both wore military fatigues. The man to Riley’s left carried a long knife. The man on his right held a piece of paper—a script, Scott thought—in Riley’s line of sight.

Riley took a deep breath before he began speaking and winced visibly with the effort.

“My name is Riley Covington. I am an American. I am being held captive by the righteous servants of Allah known as the Cause. In an act of international terrorism, I and my team of American military commandos illegally kidnapped the leader of this peaceful organization. I was captured while performing this hostile act in which many members of the Cause, as well as innocent bystanders, were killed. I deserve to die for this act, but because Allah is merciful, the Cause too will be merciful. They are proposing a prisoner exchange—me for their leader, the guilty for the innocent. Sometime between now and tomorrow night, the righteous leader of the Cause is to be delivered to his home. When that is done, word will be given as to my whereabouts. If he is not delivered before eight o’clock tomorrow night, I will receive the just punishment for my crimes.”

At this, the man on Riley’s left pulled Riley’s head back and held the knife to his throat. Then the screen cut to snow.

In the abrupt silence from the monitor, a new sound was distinguishable—laughter. It was coming from al-’Aqran’s dark corner. It had started out small but had grown louder as the video had continued. Now the prisoner was almost in hysterics.

Hicks looked back at him and said, “Skeeter.”

Skeeter walked to al-’Aqran, brought his fist hard against the man’s temple, and then covered the newly unconscious man with the tarp.

Scott looked at Khadi and saw she had turned pale. “Khadi, you okay?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. Just go on,” she replied, staring down at the floor.

“Those were some pretty harsh words Riley read,” Hicks said. “They must be working him over pretty good.”

“No doubt, because Riley has to know the way those words could come back in the future to bite him and the government. I’m betting this isn’t the only copy of that tape,” Kasay said.

Scott was shaking his head. “No, that doesn’t sound like Riley. It would take more than some cutting and beating to get him to say those things.”

“They aren’t just cutting and beating. Did you see the swelling around his nipples? They’re using a generator on him too,” Hicks pointed out.

“Still—and back me up on this, Skeet and Kim—we’ve seen Riley in some pretty messed-up situations in Afghanistan. He’s used to getting hurt and playing hurt.”

“There’s hurt, and then there’s tortured. It’s a big difference, Weatherman. Trust me, I know.”

“I hear you; I hear you. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Riley always seems so in control. He always seems to have a plan. He always moves with a purpose—”

“A purpose!” Kim Li called out. “That’s it! Put the tape back on.”

Scott rewound the tape partway and then hit Play. “Watch Riley’s right thumb,” Li said. “See that twitching?”

“Yeah, random twitching is typical during physical duress,” Hicks replied.

“Wait a second,” Scott jumped in, “that’s no random twitching. Short, short, short; short, long—didn’t you SEALs ever have to learn Morse code?”

“Actually, we sort of prided ourselves on our post-1940s technology.”

Scott ignored Hicks and moved closer to the monitor. “It’s hard to see because it’s so slight. Kim, Skeet, check me on this. Long, short—that’s N. Short, long—that’s A. Short, long, long, short—a P—‘Nap.’ Then an A . . . and an S. Then an A . . . D . . . E.”

The tape went to snow.

“‘Nap as a de . . .’—a de-what?” Scott said. Nap—to sleep—sleeping like a de-mon, a De-nverite, a de-ranged man . . . No, none of that makes sense. C’mon, think! What if it’s not “nap”? Or maybe it’s not even English!

“Hey, guys, work with me on this,” Scott poured out in a rush. “Maybe Riley knew they’d be watching him, so he signaled in a language other than English.”

Khadi tried to get his attention, but he waved her off.

“‘Apas’ . . . ‘aden’ . . . ‘enapa’ . . . ‘pasa’ . . . That’s it! ‘Pasa!’ He used Spanish! And he must be repeating the message; the video starts and ends in the middle of the cycle. Okay, pasa means ‘it happens’; de is ‘of’; but what is na? ‘It happens of—?’”

“Hey, John Nash.” Hicks’s voice interrupted his concentration. “I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not ‘Pasa de na.’ He was signaling ‘Pasadena.’ So much for your beautiful mind.”

The rest of the team all burst out laughing while Scott, red-faced, looked around for a table to crawl under.

“So, Pasadena,” Hicks said, reining the group in. “Is there a Pasadena anywhere around here?”

“Maybe . . . but I don’t think so,” Scott answered, visualizing the area map in his head. “Pasadena has to be some sort of code.”

“What if Riley wasn’t signaling us where he is?” Khadi offered. “What if he picked up some information?”

“Maybe Pasadena is where the Cause has its U.S. base,” Li said.

“Or it could be the site of their next hit,” Scott said. “What’s in—? The PFL Cup! They’re playing the championship game this year in the Rose Bowl!”

“Khadi, get on the horn to Porter and tell him that the Cause is gunning for the PFL Cup,” Hicks ordered. “Kasay, Skeeter, Li, I want you guys back out on surveillance. Our time is short, so we have to come up with something now! Scott, you and I are going to get back on that video and—I don’t know—discover something!”

Everyone sprung into action. Kasay, Skeeter, and Li bolted out the door. The squeal of their tires could be heard in the house. Khadi was immediately on the phone talking to the St. Louis office. Scott rewound the tape, and he and Hicks began watching it again.

By the third time through, Khadi was off the phone. “Porter’s off and running with the info,” she said.

Hicks grunted acknowledgment.

“Any luck?” Khadi asked hopefully.

“If we’d had any luck, do you think we’d be watching this again?” Hicks snapped.

“Jim, back off; she’s only asking,” Scott said. He turned his head toward Khadi. “If you think you can handle seeing Riley like this again, you’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks.”

Hicks got up and gave her his seat, then made peace by fetching her a bottle of water while he was grabbing another chair.

They watched the tape twice more, evaluating everything from the inflection of words to the placement of several coughs. They looked for anything in the room—the light, the type of chair—that might give evidence to whether it was a port building or a building in the train yard. But everything just seemed so common.

The sixth time through, Scott suddenly reversed the tape and let it run again. Then he reversed it again and let it run.

“What do you see, Weatherman?” Hicks asked.

“I don’t know . . . something . . . nothing . . . light maybe. Give me my phone.”

Hicks reached over and grabbed Scott’s phone from the table.

Scott dialed the ROU number. “Tara, get Gooey on the phone. . . . Hey, Goo, have you run that video through a waveform yet? . . . Do me a favor, and do it right away. I’ll hold.”

Scott saw Hicks and Khadi staring at him with blank looks on their faces. “A waveform monitor is a type of oscilloscope that measures the level of a video signal.” He saw that the blank looks had not changed. “It measures light fluctuations. I think I’m seeing a regular pattern of slight change in the room’s light. I think it might be—Yeah, I’m here, Gooey. . . . Right . . . yeah . . . let me guess—two flashes every twelve seconds. . . . Bingo! Thanks, Gooster; you’re the man!”

Scott hung up the phone with a huge grin on his face. “I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw a pattern of barely discernible variations in the lighting on the tape. My guess is that there is a window to the outside somewhere in that room. I wanted Gooey to confirm the timing and the pattern—two flashes every twelve seconds. Out at the end of the port facility stands Molo di Tramontana—a lighthouse, still operational. I want our surveillance teams to confirm this, but I’m pretty sure there is only one building—Port 2—that has a direct line of sight to the lighthouse.”