by Alex Kava
Inside the file folder were poor-quality copies of memorandums about several phone calls and e-mails. They seemed standard fare. The group called itself Citizens for American Pride, CAP for short. Maggie was familiar with the group and similar ones. Most of them had gained popularity through the Internet and on college campuses. Their missions weren’t all that different from the white supremacist groups of the ’80s and ’90s, which they disguised with a veil of normalcy and a level of legitimacy.
Instead of holing up in cabins or compounds, the groups—always professing America pride and ideals—held family picnics, sometimes church sponsored, though not affiliated with any one church or Christian denomination. They held rallies on college campuses. From what Maggie remembered, most of the groups preached family values and focused on putting an end to exporting jobs, stopping the floodgate of immigrants coming across the border and encouraging the purchase of American-made products. Maggie remembered recently seeing, as the holiday shopping season began, a full-page ad in USA Today, sponsored by Citizens for American Pride, calling for a boycott of electronic games. Their reasoning being that they wanted to prevent the addiction and destruction of American youths.
Picnics, boycotts, rallies, advertising campaigns—none of it sounded like a group capable of bombing a crowded shopping mall.
Maggie was about to ask what basis they had to take these particular threats seriously when a flight attendant interrupted.
“What can I get for the four of you?”
Kunze ordered coffee, black. The other two men nodded in unison for Maggie to go next. Kunze wasn’t rattled in the least, nor apologetic.
“A Diet Pepsi,” Maggie said.
Wurth asked for the same. Then Senator Foster gave instructions for a gin martini that required a three-step process.
“Do you have anything onboard to eat?” Maggie stopped the attendant before she turned to leave. “I haven’t eaten yet today.” She thought of the spread of food she had prepared and left for her friends and her stomach felt hollow.
“I’m certain I can find something.”
“Yeah, food would be a good idea,” Wurth agreed.
This time Maggie saw Kunze scowl at the deputy director. She kept a smile to herself as she went back to sifting through the file folder. Perhaps she had found an ally in Wurth.
CHAPTER
16
Mall of America
BECCA, DON’T TRUST ANYONE—DIXON
That was the text message that had flashed on the screen of Dixon’s iPhone. Rebecca noticed it when she started ripping out the lining of her coat and the phone fell out of her coat pocket. She had forgotten about having the phone. Hadn’t even remembered it when she heard the Batman theme ring tone earlier.
Without the warning from Dixon, Rebecca still would have run. There was something creepy, something totally wrong about this guy in the PARAMEDIC cap. From her pre-vet experience she knew drugging a wounded animal was best for the animal and the rescuer, but certainly that’s not how it worked with people. Was it? And what about the others lying just yards away in much worse shape?
Her instincts had been correct. The guy gave chase, almost grabbing her wounded arm. He was still following though now keeping his distance when she managed to insert herself into a group headed down the escalator. Rebecca pressed in between an elderly couple and a group of women with screaming children in their arms. Behind them were two old women with their arms around each other, bracing each other up and making it impossible for anyone to pass by them on the escalator.
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. He was there at the top of the escalator, only a dozen or so steps behind. She avoided eye contact but could feel his stare.
The escalator made it feel like they were moving in slow motion. There was no way for her to push forward and take advantage of the temporary barrier between them. No one dared to rush down the steps. By now all that were left on the third floor were the trailers, those slowed by shock or injuries, old age or physical handicaps. The first waves were already down on the main level of the mall, piling at the exits.
Rebecca gripped the cell phone in her hand and with her thumb punched in:
WHAT DID YOU GET ME INTO?
The response chimed back quickly:
THANK GOD U R OK. WHAT ABOUT CHAD & TYLER?
They were getting to the bottom of the escalator. Her thumb flew over the miniature keypad:
SOMEONE’S AFTER ME.
WHO IS HE, DIXON???????
They were on the second floor and Rebecca tried to stay with the safety net group but they were breaking apart, going separate ways. Another glance back. He was stuck on the escalator for a few more seconds, looking miserably impatient, his hand ready to shove the old women out of his way.
She dashed around the corner, stumbled through a kiosk of sunglasses that had been knocked over. She slipped but kept her balance. Her arm throbbed. Again, she felt light-headed and nauseated. In the reflection of a storefront window she could see him coming, already turning the corner. A brisk walk. Not running. Not yet.
His head swiveled from side to side, watching everyone and taking in everything around them. She kept track of him in the store window reflections as she passed by, avoiding looking back at him and wasting time. All the storefronts were already closed, metal grates across the entrances preventing her from ducking into one of them.
Rebecca kept a steady pace. There was another group approaching the next set of down escalators. She hurried to join them. She wedged herself into the middle just as they started getting on the escalator. A quick glance over her shoulder. He was there at the top, following, not even ten feet behind.
She gripped the moving railing with her left hand and snatched it back.
Blood. And lots of it.
Her hand was wet and sticky with it. The realization that it was her own sent her stomach reeling again. The wound in her arm was bleeding more than she thought.
In her right hand she held the cell phone and began texting again:
WHERE R U? WHICH HOSPITAL?
“Becca.”
She heard her name called and twisted around.
Was it possible the man knew who she was?
She saw him looking up and followed his eyes. Leaning over the second floor railing was Patrick waving at her.
Patrick. Steady, reliable Patrick.
Tall, lean, looking strong…and worried. Something black smeared the side of his face. His hand waved, trailing a bloodstained wrap.
She smiled up at him.
God, it was good to see him.
Something unclenched inside her. It would be okay. She’d be okay. She wasn’t alone. They were almost to the bottom of the escalator. She’d hang tight to the group, wait for Patrick to catch up. Another look over her shoulder and she saw him at the top of the escalator. The man in the PARAMEDIC cap saw him, too. He had something in his hand, something that flashed before he pocketed it.
A knife? A gun? The syringe?
The cell phone chimed Dixon’s reply:
ST MARY’S. COME HERE.
DON’T TRUST ANYONE.
NOT EVEN PATRICK.
CHAPTER
17
In flight
Maggie set the file folder aside. She was more interested in Homeland Security Deputy Director Wurth’s phone call. He took what looked like meticulous notes, while he nodded and inserted “Yes, I understand” several times. For the rest of them seated around him and listening, it was impossible to know what was going on.
FBI Assistant Director Kunze didn’t bother to hide his impatience. He waved a beefy hand at Wurth, palm up accompanied by a shoulder shrug. It was as plain as if he were saying, “What the hell’s going on?” Wurth ignored him. He continued to take notes in the small leather folio, underlining words and redotting i’s in between writing. Maggie saw it as a nervous habit of a man with too much energy. Also a way of controlling information and ignoring the rest of them. Perhaps the deputy director
had a few political tricks up his own sleeve.
“Three bombs,” Wurth told them even as he was tapping the button on the phone to end his call. “Mall security noticed at least three men with identical red backpacks earlier this morning. They started tracking them just minutes before the blasts.”
“Arabs?” Foster made no excuse for his first question.
“Mall security cameras are pretty crappy,” Wurth said.
“No one seems willing to make that assessment at this stage. They also aren’t willing to discount anything either. Right now their focus is making sure there aren’t any more bombs in the mall. Some of these sickos get their kicks from waiting for and taking out the first responders.”
Maggie remembered all too well. That was exactly the case two months ago when she and Assistant Director Cunningham responded to what they believed was a bomb threat. A quiet suburban neighborhood. An ordinary house. Only the woman and her daughter who lived there had not been the real targets. She didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t need to relive it again for the hundredth time.
She glanced at A.D. Kunze fingering his too-tight collar and loosening his tie as he shoved into his mouth the last bite of a bagel loaded with cream cheese. Between chews and as he wiped at the corner of his lip he asked, “So how many dead?”
At that very moment, Maggie realized how much she missed Cunningham, his brisk but polite manner, that crinkle of concern indented in his brow, his quiet authority that seemed to enter the room with him. She even missed his nagging. Kyle Cunningham had been Maggie’s mentor for over ten years. She’d learned so much from him, taking her cues not only on how to work a case but how to relate to colleagues, when to remain quiet, what to look for, even how to dress. In some ways Cunningham had replaced her father. And losing him felt like losing her father all over again. She didn’t need her degree in psychology to understand that was why she was having nightmares again. Nightmares of going through her father’s funeral over and over, still from the eyes of a twelve-year-old.
“It’s too early.” Wurth brought her back to the inside of their jet and not alongside her father’s coffin. He was sidestepping Kunze’s question. “You know how these things are in the preliminary stages. We can’t rely on mall security to give us an accurate read of what’s happening.”
“Why not?” Maggie asked and surprised Wurth with her challenge. “You believed their report about three bombs, three men with three red identical backpacks.”
Kunze stopped eating and actually sat forward, interested in Wurth’s answer.
The deputy director looked from Maggie to Kunze then to Senator Foster who continued to sip his martini but raised an eyebrow to show that he, too, was waiting for the response.
“Right now they think the explosions were confined to the third floor. But the day after Thanksgiving the place was packed. Estimates are anywhere from 150,000 to 200,000 people inside. Depending on the detonation power inside each backpack…” Wurth shrugged—his best guess was as good as theirs. “We don’t have a body count, if that’s what all of you are looking for. But I will tell you that early reports indicate it’s bad, very bad.”
CHAPTER
18
Mall of America
Asante had missed his opportunity. He hated loose ends.
He watched the young woman escape his reach and wedge herself even further inside a mob that pressed tight against each other as they swarmed to get out the mall exit closest to them. Asante didn’t recognize the young man who waved at her. It wasn’t Dixon Lee.
Here on the first floor, cops in uniform with rifles yelled at people to get their hands up. The cops wore Kevlar vests and blue jeans, their badges in plain view, strapped to their arms or thighs. They tried to cut a path through a swarm of shoppers at the side entrance for firefighters and paramedics to enter.
Real paramedics.
Asante resisted the urge to pluck off his own cap and stuff it into the duffel bag. Instead he left it on, parroting the cops, telling people to get out of his way. Only Asante headed the opposite direction. He hurried for the back service exit for a second time in the last hour, walking quickly, not rushing, shouldering past one throng of people and cutting through another. The service exit wasn’t marked so no one crowded toward it. He slipped out the heavy door. The alarm that he had dismantled earlier remained silent though it wouldn’t have mattered now with the chorus of alarms and whistles and screams.
He dodged behind the set of Dumpsters until he got a good look around. Then he allowed his cap to add confidence to his stride across the parking lot. There was too much chaos for anyone to pay attention to him. The snow came down heavier now. The wind had picked up. The weather became an unexpected bonus.
Before Asante reached the car, he flipped on his headset and punched several numbers into the computer strapped to the inside of his arm.
In seconds came a voice, this time a female voice, calm and ready. “Yes?”
Asante used the computer screen’s touchpad to continue his task.
“I’m downloading two photos,” Asante said as he ripped off a glove and glided a finger over the computer’s touch screen. He had taken quick pictures with his cell phone while on the escalator.
“The woman may have been with Carrier #3 earlier,” Asante continued. “That must be how she ended up with his signal.”
He tapped the keyboard and touched through the menu to send the photos, his fingers expertly knowing what to do without hesitation. “I want you to tell me who both of them are. Find out everything you can. Start with the woman. I want all the basics: credit cards, driver’s license, pass-port, home mortgage, prescriptions, parents, siblings…all of it.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll let you know when and what photos to release as planned.”
“Consider it done. Anything else?”
“I have a flight to catch. I need Danko to continue tracking Carrier #3’s GPS signal.” A quick stroke brought up that computer screen that showed the GPS signal. It appeared to be stuck back inside the mall. He climbed into his car and took in the scene across the street, wondering if perhaps he could still finish her out here.
“Sir, I may be able to do better than that.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have the most recent text messages from that signal right in front of me. I can tell Danko exactly where the subject is headed.”
Of course. How could he have forgotten. He smiled. This loose end wouldn’t be so difficult to tie up after all.
“Where?”
“Saint Mary’s Hospital. She’s googling the directions to get there right as we speak. In fact,” and she paused, “I can access all the text messages that were made and received from that signal.”
CHAPTER
19
Mall of America
Bloomington, Minnesota
Nick Morrelli followed his security escort as they made their way to the front entrance of the mall. He brushed the snow off his trench coat and raked a gloved hand over his hair.
Boots. He should have brought boots.
In his rush to pack he’d forgotten boots. It hadn’t been snowing in Omaha.
The escort, who had introduced himself to Nick at the airport as Jerry Yarden, insisted the snow was letting up. Made it sound like the five or six inches on the ground were no big deal to trudge through. This was Minnesota, after all.
“Should be stopping in about an hour,” he told Nick.
He followed alongside Yarden, straining to keep up. Nick was almost a head taller but the little man walked briskly through the mall parking lot. That’s because Jerry had boots.
Finally Nick slowed and let Yarden go ahead of him to the next police barricade. This was their third one. While Yarden flipped open his ID Nick approached with caution. By now his leather loafers were caked with snow. He was afraid he’d slip and make an ass of himself. Nick waited his turn then without a word he showed his badge and security credentials to yet another
police office at the door. This one had his own badge strapped to his thigh. A two-way radio was strapped to his shoulder. He wore a black stocking cap and Kevlar vest, both with POLICE in white letters across the fronts. He held a rifle in one hand and took Nick’s ID in the other, lifting it to eye level so that his head never bowed, never lost track of everything going on around him.
He looked at Nick hard, not just comparing the photo to Nick’s face but almost as if he wanted to see if he could make him crack, expose any weaknesses, any deceit before Nick made it past his station. Nick wanted to tell the officer he appreciated the tough scrutiny, but to say it would insinuate that he expected something less. Instead, Nick kept quiet, accepted his credentials back with only a nod. As soon as the police officer waved Nick and Yarden through, the man’s eyes were somewhere else, ready for the next threat.
Although it was believed that all the bombs had gone off on the third floor, even the first floor showed signs of the explosion. Streamers of debris hung from a huge holiday wreath. The Christmas tree in the center of the atrium was littered with bits and pieces that Nick could tell didn’t belong, some shiny, some ragged.
Down here the sprinklers had not been triggered but there was a damp chill. Enough that he caught himself reaching for the lapels of his trench coat and stopping himself before he turned them up.
Off to the side, strung out in front of Macy’s, two units of rescue workers barked requests and orders as they handed out blankets and tended to injured shoppers. But Nick’s eyes searched above, trying to look up at the four-story atrium. Snipers, dressed in black with Kevlar vests and helmets, were stationed at the tops of the stalled escalators, weapons shouldered and ready. The overpowering smell of smoke and sulfur permeated the air. Shouts echoed down.
