Monday Night Jihad (39 page)

“What do you know about LeBlanc?” Riley was anxious to learn more about this man upon whom so much depended.

“Well, he’s been director of the Secret Service for three years now,” Hicks replied. “He’s really a quality guy. I’ll tell you a story. Back in 1988, I was working out of Washington. Craig was there on presidential detail. Somehow I ended up in a poker game with him and a few other guys—playing Texas hold ’em before Texas hold ’em was cool. I get in a hand with Craig. I’m holding two aces, and I get a third ace in the flop. So I’m sitting pretty. I check out Craig for a tell—you know, anything that might let me know what he’s thinking. Nothing. So I bet high, and he calls. The turn card is a three of hearts. No worries—I bet high, and he calls again. We come to the river card—the three of clubs. I’m thinking, Bonus; my three aces are now a full house. I check him again—nothing. So I go all in. Without blinking, he calls. I turn over my aces-over-threes full house; turns out he’s holding a pair of threes for a four of a kind.

“I learned two things about Craig that day. First, he’s got nerves of steel. I mean, come on, he didn’t even get his third three until the turn. Second, Craig is a rock. He’s the epitome of the stone-faced Secret Service agent. He’s one of two or three guys I’ve ever met who has absolutely no tells when they are playing poker. That is some serious control.”

“So, he can play poker,” said Khadi, who apparently did not quite grasp the point of the story, “but can he run the Secret Service?”

“Listen, sweetheart, there’s not that much difference between being a good director and a good poker player.”

Khadi visibly bristled at Hicks’s choice of words but held her tongue. She reached into her purse and pulled out her gloves. Although the temperature was in the fifties, the wind where they were standing was dropping that number by at least ten degrees. After a final glare at Hicks, Khadi asked Scott, “What are the flight restrictions?”

“Oeously, iss area—”

Riley reached over and snatched the cherry Tootsie Pop out of Scott’s mouth with an audible click, causing his friend to grab his cheek and start rubbing.

“Hey! You trying to crack my teeth?” He turned back to Khadi. “As I was saying, obviously this area is under TFR—temporary flight restriction. NORAD will be monitoring a thirty-mile radius. The tower will control the three-ring circus above us of all the planes and helicopters that will have permission to fly. Hopefully we can avoid having a news chopper crashing into a blimp or something. As for our own patrols, Edwards Air Base is sending us some F-22s to make sure nobody gets any silly ideas.” His answer complete, he stole the Tootsie Pop out of Riley’s hand and stuck it back into his mouth.

“On the ground, there’re going to be more than ten thousand security agents. That’s almost one for every ten people in the area. When the president declared the NSSE, the budget flew wide open,” Hicks said.

“NSSE?” Riley asked.

“National Special Security Event. That’s why the Secret Service is running the security. When there’s a viable threat of imminent danger, the president has the prerogative to declare an NSSE. He did it for the PFL Cup after 9/11, and he does it whenever they have something like a State of the Union address or a G8 summit or the like. After what happened at Platte River, it was a no-brainer for him. So LeBlanc has gone all out. He even has fully camouflaged SEAL snipers in the hills surrounding the teams’ practice sites.”

“So what’s our role?” Khadi asked.

“The four of us—well, five with Riley’s big shadow over there—are going to watch and wait. I’m deploying the remainder of our team with the snipers and at the various command centers. They’re going to be our eyes and ears. I don’t want to miss anything that’s going on. I figure with my knowledge of operations, your knowledge of terrorist thinking, Scott’s computer brain, Riley’s insight into Sal Ricci aka Hakeem, and Skeeter’s . . . uh, Skeeter’s apparent grasp of ancient Roman/Carthaginian battles, we should be set.”

As they walked back down the steps and to their car, Riley couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling that events might not turn out to be quite as cut-and-dried as Hicks was making them out to be.

Friday, January 30

El Espejo Road

La Mirada, California

Hakeem started from the top and worked his way down. He was glad to see the short blond hair falling to the ground. From the time he had dyed it, he’d felt that the olive skin of his face looked foolish with a blond frame. Soon the electric razor moved from his head to his face, then down his arms, his chest, and the rest of his body.

The only hair that wasn’t shaved was that which grew from the back of his shoulders and funneled into a narrow strip down his spine. His host had graciously offered to assist him with that hard-to-reach area, but Hakeem had declined. This process was between himself and his maker. Allah will forgive this one patch of impurity when he sees the purity of my actions and my heart.

Despite the sacredness of the process, Hakeem found his mind wandering to the time when Meg had removed that same stretch of body hair. They were on their honeymoon, and Meg had mentioned her aversion to back hair. He remembered her exact words: “Ewww, Sal, it’s like mating with a monkey.” He had jokingly challenged her. “Well, why don’t you do something about it?”

Meg, never one to run away from a challenge, had disappeared into the bathroom. Hakeem expected her to come back with a razor and some sort of scented rubbing oil, but his romantic dreams were shattered when Meg returned carrying some heavy strips of paper, an applicator stick, and a big tub of goop.

For the next hour, the air surrounding their rustic, thatch-roofed cottage on the Kona shores was filled with the sounds of hair being ripped from Hakeem’s body, his cries of pain, and their subsequent shrieks of laughter. In later months, they had both come to the firm conclusion that that balmy June night was when Alessandra had come into existence.

Hakeem realized his mind was drifting again and quickly grabbed the straight blade he was going to use to remove the stubble the electric razor left behind. Allah, forgive me for my weakness, he prayed as he brought the razor across his forearm—partially for penance and partially to regain focus. As the blood dripped into the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror. Toughen up! Does a dead man reminisce about the past? No! He realizes that what’s past is past, and he anticipates the rewards of the future.

After stemming the flow of blood with a towel, he lathered up his head and put the razor to its proper use. He removed any traces of hair from his head and face except for his eyebrows. The whiteness of his recently shaved head would be hidden under a hat, and the paleness of his face where his beard had been would be covered with makeup. But a man with penciled-on eyebrows was still enough of an oddity to receive second and third glances. Again, Allah, I trust you will forgive my small impurity for the sake of your greater plan.

When he was finished shaving the rest of his body, Hakeem put on a button-down white shirt and loose white cotton pants. Then he laid out his prayer rug, knelt facing east, and pressed his forehead to the ground. He remained in that position for several minutes, trying to will himself to go through the formulaic prayer that would complete the purification process. Finally, giving up, he stretched himself out flat on the rug—his arms reaching over his head and his face pressed into the fabric.

Allah the benevolent, the merciful, forgive my lack of words. I . . . I just don’t have the energy. You know the heart of your servant. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart . . .

Hakeem repeated that phrase over and over until finally sleep overtook him.

Friday, January 30

Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office

Los Angeles, California

The break room was popular again. Small clusters of agents talked and laughed around the twelve tables that until recently had been empty most of the time.

The change had come two days after Mustang team had set up at the L.A. FBI office. Riley decided he had finally had enough of the nasty Costco bulk coffee. So, under the guise of showing deep appreciation for the hospitality of the bureau staff, Riley had purchased a Bunn Infusion Coffee Brewer Twin and seventy-five pounds of Costa Rican Tarrazu beans. After installation, the industrial coffeemaker had begun cranking out the delicious brew into 1.5-gallon ThermoFresh servers, two at a time, elevating Riley’s status around the office to just short of demigod.

Two of the tables were not as full as the others. At one sat Skeeter Dawkins. People around the bureau had learned quickly that he was a man with a mission and that he was best left to himself. At the table next to Skeeter sat Riley and Khadi. Each had a mug of coffee, and they were sharing an oversize blueberry muffin—tearing off a bite at a time.

“I spoke with Meg Ricci last night—gave her my contact info,” Riley said. “I know I probably shouldn’t have, but she’s having a really hard go of it. I have no idea how she’s going to handle it when word finally leaks out of Sal’s involvement in all this.”

“Do you think he ever really loved her?” Khadi asked.

“In Italy, he tried to convince me that she was nothing more than a pawn in his little game. But I remember the way they were when they were together. They just . . . I don’t know how to put it. . . . You know how there are couples that you see and you think, I’ll give them two years? And then there are others you can tell are going to be together their whole lives?”

Khadi nodded, using her thumb and index finger to place a portion of the muffin top in her mouth.

“These two seemed made for each other. What did I miss? How could I have been so incredibly stupid?”

“You weren’t stupid, Riley. I think there are some men and women who so successfully partition their lives that they actually become two different people. At home a guy might be the loving family man—all-star husband, coach of his kids’ Little League teams . . . the works. Yet when he slips into his other environment—the drug house, the hourly rate motel room, the secret rendezvous, whatever—the alter ego takes over.”

“Sort of like a Jekyll and Hyde thing,” Riley quipped.

Khadi smiled. “Yeah, I guess. But I think whichever world they happen to be in at any given time, the people who are around them can’t imagine them in any other.”

Riley took a sip of coffee, then stared at the rainbow of floating oils. Suddenly a big hand wrapped itself around his cup and pulled it away. Riley looked up and saw that the same thing had happened to Khadi’s mug. “Skeeter!” he called. But the man was already halfway to the counter to refresh their coffee.

Riley gave an exasperated grunt, and Khadi touched his arm. “You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” she said. “He feels guilty for what happened in Barletta.”

“What? Why should he feel guilty? I ordered him away.”

“Nevertheless, he still feels that he should have been with you. He thinks if he had, none of that would have ever happened to you.”

“Well, I need to go straighten that out with him,” Riley said as he started to rise. But Khadi’s grip tightened on his arm, keeping him in his seat.

“Let him be, Riley. He’s got to work it out his way. Besides, having Skeeter as a shadow is not the worst thing in the world for you.”

Skeeter reappeared with the two steaming mugs. Riley mumbled his thanks, but Khadi grabbed the man’s hairy wrist, looked him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Skeeter.”

Skeeter looked quickly at Riley, then back to Khadi. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and returned to his table.

Riley sighed deeply—a little too deeply for his still-struggling lungs—and sent himself into a coughing fit. The coughing wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was strong enough to make the occupants of two or three tables turn around. He tried to stifle the fit with a long draw on his mug, with moderate success.

“Khadi, can I ask you a personal question?”

She responded with a noncommittal nod of her head and a shrug of her shoulders.

“Okay, and please understand where I’m coming from on this. What . . . how do you feel when you hear Muslims defending what was done at Platte River?”

Khadi remained silent.

“I’m sorry,” Riley jumped in. “I should have learned my lesson last time.”

“No, no, no,” Khadi reassured him. “I’m trying to think of a good answer. Truthfully, I’ve never really analyzed it before. I think my initial response is anger. But then that turns into a profound sadness. These people are taking my religion and giving it a black eye around the world. My people and my beliefs are despised and rejected based on the actions of a minority of fools and zealots. I mean, think about how you feel when you hear of some radical Christian guy blowing up an abortion clinic or a bunch of wackos picketing the funeral of a guy who died of AIDS with signs that say ‘God hates gays.’ No matter what your feelings are about abortion or homosexuality, you still find yourself thinking, I really wish they weren’t playing on my team. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, but . . . again, don’t take this the wrong way—I can point out specific places in the Bible that would blow those idiot radicals out of the water. Seriously, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. But doesn’t the Koran actually support what these terrorists are doing?”

“According to the Islamists, it does. But I would also bet that your ‘idiot radicals’ would claim that they could back their positions with the Bible, too.”

They both picked a piece off the muffin, Riley feeling the uncomfortable squish of soft blueberry compacting itself under his fingernail. Khadi looked like she was trying to formulate a thought, so he quietly chewed.

“However,” she finally said, “if we’re totally being honest here . . . I will admit that there are some passages in the Koran that I don’t fully understand. Don’t get me wrong,” she quickly added, “it doesn’t make me cast doubts on my beliefs, only on my own comprehension. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m lying awake at night.”