Soft Target

by Stephen Hunter

  He left out any information about the man’s threat to have a nice little gunfight after the civilians were out of there. He didn’t want some orgy of recriminations and doubts exploding before his assault teams had even fired a shot.

  The press reacted to this news with muted glee. Yes it was satisfactory, yes it was wonderful, yes this and yes that. But of course a narrative had been set up and a primal tradition evoked. Evil had attacked from nowhere and spilled blood; it must be punished in blood. Too many movies demanded a big climax. Without any man admitting it, the press as well as the millions worldwide who watched were subtly disappointed; they wanted a gun battle at America, the Mall.

  Not Obobo. He saw this as another triumph of his theories of progressive law enforcement, evidence that if you treated even the most jaded of perps with respect and a view toward their common humanity, then great things could be achieved.

  “What concessions were made?” shouted a dozen voices.

  “For the time being that information is classified. You will be informed when the time is right. Meanwhile, I want to say that the first responders of Minnesota handled this unprecedented crisis with—”

  “Suppose they’re lying. Suppose they just want to kill people but first extracted massive concessions out of—”

  “I, personally,” the colonel said, “handled these negotiations. I listened carefully to this man’s voice and I believe I made human contact with him, and despite the gulf in our cultural systems and political beliefs, we both understood that the killing had to stop. I am extremely proud of the progress that was made here today. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

  As he stepped away, Renfro collared individual reporters with unattributed stories.

  “Actually,” the line went, “you should report that the old-line cops wanted to go in guns blazing, but Colonel Obobo had the guts to stand up to them. He himself worked the phone with this guy and he himself got us out of this jam. That should be your angle.”

  Finally, a payoff. The Bureau tasked ATF to start checking wholesalers for unusually large shipments of surplus Russian or Eastbloc AK-74 rifles or 5.45×39 ammunition, preferably the 56-grain Russian 5S7 bullet, to the Minneapolis–Saint Paul area, and ATF operators got on the phone to wholesalers the nation over. In less than an hour Reilly’s Sporting Goods, Twin Falls, Minnesota, came up, which, according to West Texas Imports, had been steadily receiving a two-case crate—two thousand rounds—a month for six months. Moreover, WTI had shipped them sixteen of the rifles, rebuilt from kits by Century Arms, just a few months ago. ATF agents from Minneapolis got out to Reilly’s house fast, under siren, and rousted the old man from his afternoon nap. It was another ten minutes before the team brought him to the store and he opened the building, which was alarmed to UL-3 level protection.

  He checked his records. No, no, he had no AK-74 kit guns on hand, though he did remember an accidental shipment weeks earlier that was never opened and returned, which is why it had been logged out of the big book beneath the line in which it had been logged in. Possibly it contained AK-74s? You see, the 5.45mm bullet isn’t big enough for a deer, which is why he had no interest in it. Now, the SKS, an earlier-generation Eastbloc assault rifle with a ten-round magazine, it fired a .30-caliber bullet about the same power range as a .30-30 so that—

  Agents backchecked with WTI and discovered that they had never received the return and still held the wholesale money; they had assumed Mr. Reilly had taken the shipment. Moreover, the guns were AK-74s, they confirmed. UPS was alerted, and yes, they had a record of a pickup that particular day but none of a delivery. That meant it was probably in their undeliverable warehouse, which would mean some heavy record-searching—

  One agent got the idea to track the ammo. Mr. Reilly opened the storeroom and discovered that he only had one tin of the surplus stuff left. Going to his computerized records, he went through his wholesale expenses and saw that the store had a steady order for a double crate—21,016 rounds—of 5.45 Russian combat ammo for six months. Only one tin of it was in the storeroom, which meant that eleven tins were not there, and he couldn’t believe that he’d sold that much of it in six months. He himself had never sold a box of it, just as he’d never sold anyone an AK-74, because he specialized in hunting rifles, not guerrilla raid and assault weapons. He was baffled, a little hurt, and in the dumps to begin with because his superb clerk Andrew had left a week ago, sadly, and he knew he didn’t have the focus anymore to run a retail business, especially now that the ATF rules had gotten so complicated and—

  What was the name of the clerk? someone wanted to know.

  His name was Andrew Nicks. College boy, very decent, hard worker. He was a fine boy. Mr. Reilly went to look for Andrew’s address. Could Andrew be in trouble?

  Ray dragged the dead terrorist to the nearest store, the Mocha Spectrum chocolate shop, and stuffed him inside. A blood trail led to his body, but that couldn’t be helped now. He stripped him of combat gear and handed the rifle and the magazine bandolier to his new partner. Then he gestured and she followed, and they made their way down the corridor and dipped into a place called Pandora Jewelry, and both collapsed.

  “Thanks,” Ray finally said.

  “It’s okay,” said Lavelva, still wearing her name tag. “I couldn’t just sit up there during all this with all them ladies, yakyakyakyak. Lord, how they talk. I had to get out of there, like to give me a headache. Who are these guys? What do they want?”

  “It seems to be some Islamic paramilitary unit, possibly connected to Somalia by the looks of these guys. There’s a lot of Somalis in the Twin Cities, right?”

  “You got that right. Too many, you ask me.”

  “I don’t know who’s controlling them. Somebody smart, who’s taken over the mall security system from the inside. They’ve got a thousand hostages down in the amusement park area. They’ve already executed five and they’re threatening to kill more. They’ve made demands and, as I understand it, we’ve acceded to them. My last order was to stay still and wait for it to be over.”

  “Nobody told the boy fixing to choke you.”

  “No, he didn’t get the bulletin. Okay, let’s just cool it here and see what happens. I’ve got a phone link to an FBI sniper on the roof. If they need anything, they’ll call us.”

  “You know what?” she said. “This was my first day. I can’t lose this job. I ripped up a notebook, you know, to get a piece of metal that I used on that first guy. Am I going to get in trouble?”

  “So far,” Ray said, “I think you’re doing swell.”

  Fuck!

  That’s the way it goes. It’s there, then it’s not.

  Special Agent Neal had navigated the SCADA diagram and was dragging toward the security functions block, to call it up and open the doors and—

  Nothing. Zip, nothing, nada, zero. The dead blank of unviolated cyberspace.

  “What happened?” yelled Benson.

  The crammed-in audience ignited. Hoots, squeals of anguish, a chorus of profanity. Even luscious Holly Burbridge winced.

  “Goddamn, he knew,” said Neal.

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s a very frail way in. It’s not permanently hardwired. It’s not wireless. It’s old tech, like science fiction rocket ships with clusters of cords everywhere. It’s not in space, cyber or otherwise, it’s there in a gadget, a magic box, something that looks like a climate control gizmo on a wall; it’s not covert. So, whack. He sees it lit up, he smashes it to bits, and we’re totally fucked.”

  Nobody said a thing.

  Finally Neal said, “Dr. Benson, you’re the boss. Can’t you say anything inspiring?”

  “No,” said Dr. Benson.

  “So since this went nowhere,” said Neal, “do you kids want to put on a musical?”

  “Jeff, how can you be so good at pulling perverts out of the woodwork and so goddamned bad at this?”

  “Because perverts are idiots and this sonovabitch is super smart.”
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br />   “Or lucky.”

  “Smart makes luck. Dumb makes bad luck. Too bad he’s not taking pictures of four-year-olds in—Okay, okay, okay.”

  The okays tumbled out of his subconscious like a fluid from a broken bottle, but they did not signify breakage so much as connectivity. He thought he had, he maybe had, there was something, it was so vague, it was just beyond knowing, he had it, it skittered away, he—

  “What?”

  “Just a minute. Let me think something through.”

  ONE MONTH EARLIER

  The imam watched his two daughters play in the twilight of an early-fall Minnesota night. It was sixty degrees and clear, the air tranquil, the stars beginning to show in the glow under the elms, which had begun to go red/orange/brown as they dried. The girls, Sari and Ami, were bright, lively, beautiful children, full of gaiety and mischief. They were easy laughers, as if much in the world merited delight, and now they rode the swings in the Twenty-Third Street Park, first Sari pushing Ami, and then Ami pushing Sari.

  “Don’t push too hard,” the imam called to Sari. He was afraid that the older child’s energy and enthusiasm would catapult the younger from the seat and off she would sail, into space. It was an image that came to him in dreams sometimes: his children, falling. He would waken in the dark, drenched in sweat, then go check. No, the girls were all right.

  He saw a figure slide onto the bench beside him but didn’t turn to look. Through his peripheral vision, he saw this fellow—young man—take out a paperback of a huge novel called Crime and Punishment, open the dog-eared copy to a certain page, and pretend to read.

  “You are late,” the imam said.

  “Not really,” said the young man, not looking up. “The FBI was on you on the way here. It was only one agent and he didn’t have listening gear and he didn’t stay long. I think it was just a random checkup. Now he’s gone. I followed him to the expressway to make certain, then doubled back.”

  “Ah,” said the imam. “So we are secure?”

  “Unless you’re a double agent, then yes, we are secure. How was your trip?”

  “It went well. I connected with General Aweys. He selected twelve of his youngest fighters. As you requested, they are unsophisticated in Western ways, uncontaminated by the Internet. They barely know how to operate cell phones.”

  “Good.”

  “One of them, Maahir, is a bit older, more jaded. He is what you might call a sergeant. He is the commander, such as it is.”

  “Good. He can kill Santa Claus. He’ll obey me, right? I don’t want attitude. He’s not going to give me shit when I give the orders?”

  “I have spoken to him. He is the instrument of your will, as you are the instrument of Allah’s will.”

  “We will have to have a theological debate in hell as to whose will I’m obeying.”

  “It is a tragedy that you have no belief, not in the Faith or any faith, or any system that seeks to impose order. You love only death and you live only to destroy, a fine young man like you, and Allah has selected you for this task and brought you to me, and together, atheist and holy man, we will strike such a blow, avenge the great, tragically fallen Osama. Then I will go to paradise, brother, and I will be the first to greet you, as I’m certain Allah will grant you provisional entrance.”

  “It’s actually not true that I have no faith,” said the young man.

  “I worship at the church of Saint Joan Jett. I love rock and roll. It’s my deity. Now give me the details.”

  “Through a brother who runs a Somali Relief charity in Toronto, I have brought the men—the jihadis—in by groups of three and four. They have been granted temporary Canadian visas and are staying in the relief organization’s dormitory in the suburbs of Toronto. They have their instructions. Do not mingle with the others, do not talk to anybody, do not talk to infidels, obey all rules of the facility, be a humble leaf, floating with the current. But on the day of days they will be ready; all have seen battle. All have fought with Hizbul Islam, in battles and operations in Wabra and Mogadishu, in—”

  “Please. I tried to understand the Somali civil war from Wikipedia. It was like reading Herodotus in Chinese.”

  “Always the comedy, even if I don’t understand it. All have lost brothers, sisters, parents. All are hard and bitter and can do the necessary without flinching.”

  “My kind of folks,” said the young man.

  “When the week arrives, all will be driven to the busy border crossing at Niagara Falls and cross over secretly, hidden in a truck which makes regular passage over the border, owned by another believer who owns a carpet company. I myself will drive them from Albany across America to the safe house here, where they will rest for a few days. Are you sure you don’t want to bring them to the mall one or two at a time and let them get a feel for what they are doing?”

  “Sorry, no. One of them would fall in love with a Somali girl selling videos or waitressing in a coffee shop or collecting parking fees, and his mind wouldn’t be on his work and he’d fuck it up. Somehow, he’d find a way to fuck it up. They have been promised jihad, the slaughter of infidels, and a ride to paradise. I will make good on those promises but they must obey operation discipline until the fun begins. That’s the basic rule—no comedy here, or we will be penetrated and destroyed. I shouldn’t have to tell you again. Do you need more money?”

  The imam was a little guilty about the money. He had used some of it to purchase the services of a prostitute twice in Somalia and to buy some extremely profane pornographic DVDs and to take his girls to Chuck E. Cheese’s, which they loved. He still had over six hundred dollars left. But he couldn’t turn it down.

  “Well,” he said, “one can always use cash.”

  “No feasts, no Last Suppers with the little lambs. Anything, anything you do out of the ordinary might alert the feds. So far, they don’t seem to be onto anything, but we’re so close now, I’d hate to see this thing fall apart and spend the rest of my life getting reamed three times a day in prison for nothing.”

  “I understand, I obey, I am thankful.”

  “Good, then that’s it.”

  “There is one other thing.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Death.”

  “My favorite thing, in any color. Whose are we talking about?”

  “Yours and mine.”

  “It will come when it will come. It is nothing in exchange for larger goals. I’m not particularly afraid.”

  “Yes, but . . . have you no one you’d like to see again?”

  “Only to laugh in their faces.”

  “But consider the possibility of escape.”

  “There is no possibility.”

  “But . . . if there was.”

  “Hmm,” said the boy.

  “It so happens that I have a follower who has a brother. This brother was a helicopter pilot in the Moroccan Air Force. He got involved in radical politics, he was arrested, tortured, imprisoned. He escaped, he managed to end up in Canada.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He’s quite a good pilot. He now works for an agricultural dusting firm. He sprays poisons on weeds. He kills things.”

  “What a great job.”

  “Now, I am thinking, on that day, the air will be full of helicopters, police and military but mostly from the news organizations.”

  “It’ll be a chopper hullabaloo, no doubt about it.”

  “Suppose it were arranged . . . ,” and he continued with his plan.

  7:21 P.M.–7:35 P.M.

  It surprised no one that the house was so nice. It was set back from the road by a driveway, possibly one hundred feet in length, and stood shaded by trees, with all kinds of flourishes like porches and gables and a three-car garage. It was in one of those posh million-dollar developments to the north of Minneapolis, among houses of equal or more value, the whole gated neighborhood itself protected from the rigors of actuality by a 24/7 uniformed patrol.

  Three cars of agents pulled up, an
d Bill Simon, acting on behalf of SAIC Kemp, took the lead. He had the warrant number, though no actual paper representation, as the warrant had been arranged on the fly on the drive from downtown headquarters.

  He knocked, and a man in his late fifties, with an ample head of gray hair teased attractively about his head and a scotch glass in his hand, answered. Simon noted emblems of upper-boho gentility: running shoes, tight-fitting jeans, a lush Scottish heather turtleneck over a health-club disciplined body, wire-rim glasses. Over the man’s left shoulder lurked his wife, maybe the trophy edition, for she looked a decade younger, a handsome woman with an adorable mess of tawny blond hair, also in jeans—great, tight bod—and an oxford button-down shirt. She held a glass of wine.

  “Mr. Nicks? Jason Nicks?”

  “Yes sir,” said Nicks, who thought he knew exactly what was going on. “You’re FBI, right? Here about Andrew? You have some news. We haven’t heard from him and I’ve tried the store a hundred times. I’m so worried.”

  “Yes sir,” said Simon. “Actually, yes, we are FBI, and yes, this is about your son, and yes, we know he manages one of your stores in the mall, but we’re here to serve a search warrant.”

  “What?” said Jason Nicks.

  “Sir, there’s some suspicion that your son is involved with the gunmen who’ve taken over the mall. He was definitely involved in procuring the arms and ammunition they’re using. I have a number for a federal warrant that’s been issued by the Fourth Circuit US, Judge Raphael, to search his house. You can check if you want by looking up the warrant number on the Internet.”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Jason Nicks, stepping back to admit them.