But clearly five shots would not signify a head-on assault; the only conclusion was hostage execution, and this drama held a particularly ugly fascination for the reporters. Americans put on their knees and shot in the head in a mall in middle America on the opening of the Christmas season, the day after Thanksgiving, the most family—some might say, too much family—of family days.
“I cannot confirm or deny reports that hostages have been shot,” was all that Obobo could say. But he was extremely annoyed at the abruptness and the hostility with which the question had been launched at him. It was not the sort of treatment he was used to.
“But there was shooting in the mall?”
It was a thin line, but he stuck to it.
“I cannot confirm or deny there has been shooting in the mall. Obviously, we prefer to keep tactical details to ourselves as we deal with this situation.”
“If they start executing hostages, don’t you have to attack?”
“We don’t have to do anything,” said the colonel. “It’s when we permit ourselves to be locked into ‘have to’ situations that tragedy ensues.”
Hmm. No, he didn’t like this tone of hostility. In fact, all of a sudden, he decided he was sick of them. He looked out on a hundred faces. Where was the love? Where had it gone? It began to needle him. He would have to discuss this with Renfro.
“I did not say they were killing hostages. I will not be announcing any tactical plans here. Presumably, these folks are monitoring our public announcements.”
“Who are they?”
“We do not know yet. As I said, they have yet to make contact or issue demands. I can say we have secured the mall and nobody is going anywhere. At this time we are studying various options. As you might suspect, this is a tremendously complex undertaking, and we don’t want to do anything hasty and stupid.”
“At Columbine, didn’t they decide they should have moved immediately on the shooters? All they did was set up guard posts outside while people bled to death. Is that what you’re doing?”
Another ridiculous question! Who did these assholes think they were? Where was Renfro?
“This is not Columbine. This is an entity that is far more than a high school, the number of gunmen is as yet unknown, thought to be ten or more, extremely well informed, working with a well-thought-out plan, heavily armed with professional-quality weapons. As Special Agent Kemp said, we do have Army and Navy commando types inbound, and they are far better suited to this kind of tactical work than we are. I have at least twenty teams ready to go in, but I have to get them coordinated, I have to get them inside, I have to get them moving in step with each other, and they have to have clear targets guided by intelligence. None of those conditions exist at this time, so we are in a wait-and-see mode.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” interrupted the governor, “although it’s true that shots were fired, we have no evidence that people were executed. It could have been just some kid shooting his gun.”
Great! The stupid bastard had just put the shots on the table.
“Colonel Obobo, Tom Kiefaver, NBC News.” Handsome national haircut, sometimes anchored the big show. “Are you comfortable in established positions while people may be a few dozen feet away dying?”
“I think we all need to get back to work, folks. You’ll forgive us,” and he turned manfully and walked back toward the trailer. As he went back to the van, Obobo saw the governor giving one-on-ones to the national news and the big Minneapolis channels, each team waiting patiently. The governor seemed to be enjoying himself.
It went all fuzzy on Lavelva. The Somali pressed his thumbs into her larynx, grinning wildly, his gashed face bleeding, the blood falling into her face. She bucked and fought and twice again swacked him hard with the steel spine of the notebook, but each time he saw it coming and turned, flinching down, and the blade bit into his hairline and across his ear, cutting shallowly but not hurting him bad enough. He had her now. It was over. She felt herself in the whirlpool as the oxygen debt turned her lungs into broken balloons.
Then he relented. His fingers came slightly out of her throat, and he let a desperately sought gush of air into her throat. But his fingers did not come off her neck. He spoke in Somali, not that she understood anything but the emotional gist.
“Hah, girl, see what Asad does to you! Hah, now I send you to the fiery noplace of infidel hell you who stand against Allah must go. I am your killer, your ruler. You defy me and die as do all peoples everywhere soon to know the power of Islam.”
What bullshit! He was all lit up, so proud of his mighty victory, unwilling to let the moment go, savoring the kill. She whacked him again, but he blinked only a bit, shook his head, and said, “Now, die, bitch.”
The thumbs went hard into her, and her air supply drained quickly and she sucked at dry nothingness, bucking against him but feeling her will vanish and wishing she’d been able to save the babies, she tried so hard to save the babies and—
And someone broke his neck.
Broke it clean and hard, and she heard the snap as the vertebrae cracked into two pieces, and his tongue came into his skinny-ass lips and his eyes went all cue ball on him and his head hung at a broken-spring angle and his thumbs lost their power and he was lifted from her like a sack of potatoes and laid on a floor from which he would never again rise.
Some Asian-like dude looked down at her.
“You okay?” he said.
“Man, he like to choke the fuck out of me.”
“Just relax, rest. He’s not going to choke anybody ever again, okay?”
The guy, she now saw, was some kind of thin, hardball type, had warrior written all over him in the leanness under his sweatshirt and the veins thick with blood on his wrists. He turned and quickly began to loot the fallen Somali, separating first the AK from the boy, then quickly unbuckling the bandolier of ammunition—the clips were all weird orange, you know, like popsicles—then slipped the kid’s belt with knife and pistol off. He checked the pistol expertly, pinching back the slide to see if it held a chambered round, and then he began to reassemble himself in the image of the man he’d just killed. Finally, finished, he turned back to her.
“Feeling better? You’ll be bruised for a month, but I think you’ll be all right. Sweetie, I can’t believe you cracked him with that shiv. You can play ball on my team anytime, the guts you must have.”
“Who you?” she asked.
“The name’s Ray. Spent some time in the Marines, that’s why I’m all going-to-war now. Nobody else is. Anyhow, I saw this joker slide in here as I was stalking him. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
She looked at the dead boy. She’d seen the gaze before, on the streets. That I’m-asleep look, the eyes blank, seeing nothing, the I-ain’t-nothing-no-more look of extinction. Someone run into a bullet or a blade with his name on it, down he go, his face come all moony nothingness, like this sucker. She could still gut him, cut his slimy insides out and hang ’em up to dry. But no. He dead.
She turned back to see the Chinese marine studying a mall pamphlet, which must have come from Mr. Dead Ass.
“You have kids here?”
“Seventeen of them. In back. That boy said he’d come to get the babies.”
“Yeah, the place is marked. So they want children, they need ’em as hostages, and they sent this joker. Okay, we’re going to move the kids a little ways down the hall into the ladies’ underwear place. There are some women in there and they can help you take care of them. Does that seem like a good idea?”
“It does.”
“You want them in a single file, hugging the walls, make it a game. See, that way those TV cameras can’t pick them out of the shadow. You get that?”
“I do.”
“Let’s get this done fast. I don’t know how long it’ll be before they notice war hero here didn’t come back with the babies.”
It made as much sense as anything. It was the first positive thing that had happened since the shooting starte
d.
“I also want to hide this guy,” he said. “If they find him, it may piss them off and they may take it out on the hostages. They have about a thousand people down in the amusement park.”
“Yes sir,” she said.
“Hey, what is your name?”
“I am Lavelva Oates.”
“Well, Miss Lavelva. I say again, you did real good. If I had it, I’d give you a medal. Stand up to the killer with the gun. Not many have the sand.”
“Yes sir,” she said, secretly so very pleased.
Next she went back, got the kids out of the bathroom on the pretext of a new game: Creep down the hall. Be a kitty cat or a doggy. All fours.
By the time she got them organized, the body was gone, and so was the Chinese marine. And so was the AK rifle.
Bet he know how to run that, she thought.
It took a while before anyone at the Red Cross tent paid attention to Mr. and Mrs. Girardi, and it was not their personality type, either as individuals or as a couple, to demand notice. They simply stood there and watched while nurses bandaged the odd escapees from the mall who’d fallen and cut themselves, bruised, torn, twisted something, and handed out glasses of juice and cookies. Meanwhile, uniformed policemen moved among those on the cots or waiting to see a physician or a nurse to interview the escapees, hoping to pick up that one new piece of information that might matter. But it was a sloppy process, the cops were under great pressure to produce, and when witnesses turned out to have nothing, they were quickly abandoned, raising hard feelings and complaints. All this frenzy took place under the open-walled canvas structure lit by fluorescents, and enough insects remained to buzz and hum around the lights, which themselves were so harsh they showed everything in vivid clarity, the red of the many Red Cross insignias, the blue and gray of the police uniforms, the white smocks of the doctors.
Finally, a woman came to them.
“Have you been helped?”
“No, ma’am,” said Mr. Girardi. He was fifty-two, stooped, balding. He was an unimpressive man by any standards and in no crowd would he stand out.
“What’s the problem?”
“The policeman over there suggested you might have some information. Our son Jimmy, he’s fourteen, he went to the mall today by himself for the first time. We haven’t heard from him.”
“Ah,” said the woman.
“We wondered if there was any information. We thought they might have released a list or something. They might know who had escaped and where they were.”
“He’s small for his age,” said Mrs. Girardi. “I never let him go alone, but he was so insistent that he wanted to get his shopping done early.”
“Gosh,” the woman, a volunteer from an upscale suburb, said, “that’s a tough one. But no, I’m sorry, they haven’t released any information or names. We just really got set up a little while ago, and we’re really here to deal with seriously hurt people if and when there’s a battle and people need fast medical help. I can’t help you. I can get you a cookie and a juice. Does that interest you?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you very much.”
“You might try the media tent. It’s where all the reporters and TV people are. That’s probably where they’d release information.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Girardi. “You’ve been very kind.”
5:26 P.M.–5:48 P.M.
The Geeks had spoken. That is, the first Behavioral Sciences report had come in, BeSci being the forensic psychology unit of the Bureau tasked with inferring personality of perpetrator from evidence, originally begun in response to various colorful serial killers of depraved sexual impulse, then glorified in novel, film, and TV. However, despite their glory, the boys seldom got out of the office, a bunker in a nondescript building on the FBI campus at Quantico. Since their duty was basically riding the net 24/7, putting together personalities from what they uncovered, and then offering their work product to whomever was interested, and not many were, they were known as the Geeks. They looked mostly like the excitable guys who try and sell you televisions at RealDeal.
“It’s a very interesting set of attributes,” said Kemp to his second in command as they both looked at the document just e-mailed to them. “The Geeks point out that he’s clearly got intimate familiarity with this mall, which, after all, isn’t just any mall. That means he’s worked here, he knows it forwards and backwards, and this thing began as a fantasy that became a temptation so overwhelming he couldn’t resist it. It’s probably been at the core of his secret life for three or four years now.”
“If that’s the core, I think we can assume further,” said number two Jake Webley, “he doesn’t have a real life. So I’m seeing some techno-nerd full of resentments and grudges, working alone in a little corner of the mall, probably convinced that no one gets how special he is.”
“Very good,” said Kemp. “So we have to find that guy. He’s probably been fired or he has a record of near firings, disciplinary problems, and everybody says, ‘Joey, you’re so smart, why on earth can’t you get along?’ and they don’t get that the reason he can’t get along is that Joey’s so smart.”
“Agh,” said Webley, who’d seen that dynamic in play more than a few times. “So our first move is to begin to search the records for that profile. I will get teams in contact with every corporate HQ of all shops who—”
“Wait,” said Kemp. “There’s more.”
“There’s always more,” said Webley.
“Ain’t it the truth? Okay, he’s got computer chops and has been able to take command of the mall security protocols. That means he’s penetrated several layers of obstacles, evaded several firewalls, avoided setting off countermeasures, all in all a world-class job of hacking, perhaps on a WikiLeaks level.”
“I hope our geniuses are smart enough to fight him. I hate the smart ones,” said Webley, “they make all the trouble in the world. They get so teched-up they think they’re supermen and we normal one-thirty-IQ drones have to clean up after them.”
Both men, all geared up in their combat style and decorated with automatic weapons and tear gas grenades, huddled a hundred or so feet from the big state police Incident Command trailer in their own recently arrived HQ, a smallish commo van, which put them in private contact with the Bureau and its assets.
“Okay,” Kemp said, “add to the profile a dense immersion in computer science. There must be twenty computer or computer game shops in the mall. They must employ a hundred bitter grinds. Maybe one of those guys got fired or disciplined or lost his girlfriend or something. And one of his buddies would know that. And that would lead us to him, and when we know who he is, we’ll have leverage of some sort on him.”
“I will inform our teams.”
“And yet, the Geeks also point out that despite his brilliance, he’s got some odd, perhaps revealing gaps in his knowledge. Even, possibly, subtler strategy. I’m talking about the phones.”
“It is strange. He could but he hasn’t cut off the cell phone usage in his little empire.”
“So . . . did he not do it because he’s stupid and didn’t think of it? Unlikely. Did he not do it because he doesn’t know how to do it? It’s pretty easy, actually. All you have to do is override the frequency with white noise and you could do that with a microwave oven. Or did he not do it because he knew that a major thing like this is going to produce megamultigazillion phone calls and he thought that would impact our communications big-time? And maybe he also wanted all the bad information, the chaff, that would produce?”
“Good question.”
“Then there’s the power,” said Webley, clearly on a riff, leaping through mental gymnastics with super agility, seeing things clearly for the first time. “He must have shut it down in the security office when he iced the place. But he left the main lines on. We haven’t shut ’em down because it’ll terrify the hostages. But we can shut ’em down easily, plus, maybe we’ll want to do that as a prelude to an assault.”
“Doesn’t
this mall have an emergency generator?”
“It does, on the roof,” said Webley. “Now the issue is, what does he know about power? Has he anticipated action in the dark? Do they have night vision? If so, and we think we’re all state-of-the-art with our night goggles, we could be walking into a killer ambush. Or has it just not crossed his mind? Or maybe he’s aware of that vulnerability and the vulnerability of the emergency generator. We can shut down the power and light in thirty seconds, or so we think. But this guy has tech chops, this guy has the profile of a bomber. He likes to express himself through his mastery of tech. I’m surprised he hasn’t planted explosives. The little fucks at Columbine did, maybe it’s the same mentality. When we go to blow the emergency gen, it may be booby-trapped. Maybe we ought to get a team on that now.”
“Good idea. Make it happen.”
“I will. But what I’m seeing doesn’t sound like a terrorist of the turban-wearing, Koran-spouting kind. You know, that guy. Nothing in this whatsoever suggests Islam or international terrorism. Despite the reports of the scarves. Fuck, anybody can buy those scarves mail order. You see ’em on chicks these days. No, I see another guy: some twisted computer freak with a hard-on against authority,” said Webley.
“I agree. And yet—”
“And yet?”
“And yet there’s still another component that doesn’t really fit with this first diagram,” said Kemp, as if it was his turn to be the brilliant one. “What is wrong with the picture? I’ll tell you: how does this guy, bitter techie, the IT man from hell, how does he of all people round up hard-core gunmen and send them down hallways machine-gunning little girls?”
“Good question.”
“He needs manpower, firepower, fire-and-move small-unit training, communications setup, all the sorts of things a Green Beret or some kind of SEAL pro could handle. Not the president of the chess club who’s angry because he got fired from Computers-R-Us.”
Soft Target Page 9
