by Jeff Siebold
“In the name of Allah, the gracious, the merciful,” quoted Jari.
“I am not afraid to meet Him today,” said Ismael. “Finally, we will be honored!”
The three were sitting in the rented blue Kia, Gabby and Ismael in the front, and Jari in the back seat. They had driven for about eight hours and then stopped and put on the incendiary vests. Now they were approaching their target.
Dual attacks were unexpected, even brilliant, thought Gabby. And to pull them off so close to the day of Lailat and Mi’raj was a sign that Allah was with them. They were protected.
Jari had made some more captagon tablets for them, and he and Ismael were presently feeling the effects. They hadn’t slept for two days, and yet they both felt alert, focused and invincible. They were ready for their part in this affair.
After she had escaped from the FBI in Washington, Gabby, still dressed as a nurse, had walked quickly to the Judiciary Square Metro Station a quarter mile east and boarded the Red Line. The train route ended in Derwood, Maryland, near Rockville. There, Gabby had left the station and in mid-morning had stolen a car from the commuter lot. She was certain the vehicle wouldn’t be missed until late that afternoon.
Interstate 270 took her south to 495, which skirted Washington and then led to I-95 and Charlottesville. Just before the I-270 entrance ramp, Gabby stopped at a Best Buy store and bought two disposable, prepaid cell phones. They were burner phones, untraceable. Once on the interstate, she dialed Jari’s cell number from memory.
“Allo,” she said when the phone was answered. “Be ready. I will meet you in about three hours at the mosque.”
* * *
In Charlottesville, Gabby parked the stolen car on a residential street a couple of blocks from the mosque and called Jari as she walked to meet him. He was ready and met her in the lot behind the mosque. He opened the trunk of his blue Kia to show Gabby a large brown duffle bag.
“And here are the clothes you requested,” said Jari as he handed Gabby a small suitcase containing a blue dress, nylons, black three-inch heels, a sundress, a large floppy, wide brimmed hat and a yellow scarf. There was a smaller bag inside, which contained a necklace, a bracelet and matching earrings. Then Jari closed the trunk again carefully, so as not to disturb the explosives.
“It is all there, as we were instructed,” he said. Ismael had joined them at the trunk, and the three got into the car and started their drive west.
“Finally, we have arrived at this point,” said Ismael. “The point of action!”
“Yes,” said Gabby. “It is as it was planned. Although Asad has gone to his ultimate victory, we are still here to do what he had planned.” She smiled at her companions.
“We have drilled and drilled for this day,” said Ismael. “We have practiced and practiced. We will certainly be victorious.” They talked of victory and success non-stop during the long ride west.
* * *
“We’re approaching the outskirts of the city,” said Gabby. “Let’s stop at the next rest area and change our clothing.”
“Yes, I saw the sign,” said Ismael. “It’s in Simpsonville.”
They stopped and Gabby used the bathroom to change into the clothing in the plastic bag. She threw the nurse’s scrubs in the plastic bag into a trash container along with the hair clip that had been in her hair. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was dressed in a yellow sundress, a wide brimmed hat with flowers and feathers, and the nylons and black heels. The transformation was remarkable.
When she returned to the car, she watched the men don their photographer’s vests. Each was carrying a professional grade Canon SLR camera, and each had what looked like a press pass in a clear plastic sleeve hanging from a cord around his neck.
They got back into the car and joined traffic on Interstate 64 West. A sign flashed by and Gabby noted that they were twenty-six miles from their destination.
* * *
Churchill Downs is alive with activity during Derby Week. As Ismael drove the sedan into the parking area, Gabby watched as dozens of fans, as well as some of the racing elite, made their way from the parking area toward the admission gates. It was Tuesday, May 3rd, Lailat al Mi’raj, and Gabby felt an excitement in the twilight of the day. The air smelled like a combination of fresh cut hay and wildflowers, and most all of the people at the entry gates were jocular as they waited in line for their security screening. Plastic cups printed with, “Churchill Downs” complimented the various costumes and bonnets common to the Kentucky Derby during race week.
Tonight’s event was a gathering of the wealthy to attend the “Fillies and Lilies” event, a charity for the aftercare of Thoroughbreds once they’ve retired. With tickets at $600 or more per person, the attendees were pretty much the elite of the derby goers.
“We will make an impact here,” said Ismael. He looked at Gabby, and then over his shoulder at Jari, and he smiled at each of them.
Gabby was watching the crowd as it migrated toward the security gates. Women, many dressed in pink or orange, were walking with men in white tuxedos and colorful cummerbunds. She knew there was a popular country band playing tonight, and plenty of food and drink available inside.
“Park there,” said Gabby. She pointed to an empty parking space in the General Admission parking area, several hundred feet away from the gate. The parking area was mostly full, especially the spots closest to the entry. Limousines and black Town Cars were lined up, dropping their passengers off in front of the entrance, then driving on to a holding area.
“This is opulence,” said Ismael. “This is American opulence.” Gabby smiled to herself. Ismael, whose father was a wealthy pediatrician in Baltimore, didn’t see the irony.
“Remember the plan,” said Jari. “We will enter through the security gates as photographers. We will mingle in the crowd and take photographs. We will penetrate the event, and then we will detonate. Stay together,” he added. The two men stepped out of the car and walked toward the entry gate.
Five minutes later, Gabby exited the blue car, took her small bag, and walked in the opposite direction, through the crowd of people arriving for the party and toward a small gray house across Bohannon Avenue. She blended with the crowd in her bright dress and flowered hat. Parked in the street in front of the house was the ride she had arranged on her cell phone as soon as the two young terrorists had left the car. Gabby paused a moment and looked back at Churchill Downs. Then she opened the car door, put her small suitcase on the back seat and slid in beside it.
“The airport, please,” she said. The Uber driver nodded, and they drove the two and a half miles to Louisville International Airport in silence.
Chapter 43
Inside the racetrack gate the crowd was milling, making their way toward the party in disorganized groups. Ismael and Jari, with their photographer badges showing and cameras in hand, were both nodded through security, and they followed the crowd into the event center. There were several chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, spread out across the large, open room. A small sign next to the door read, “Maximum Attendance 500 people.” In two corners portable bars had been set up and the bartenders were serving lines of guests. Toward the center of the ballroom, a large table stood covered with a variety of finger foods, sandwiches and, at one end, a cake shaped like a racehorse.
The crowd was growing, filling the ballroom space. Ismael and Jari made their way to the far corner of the large room. They began taking candid shots of the partygoers standing in small groups of two or three. Ismael was giddy with excitement.
Truly, they will be totally surprised, thought Ismael. We will destroy these infidels on the very anniversary of Mohammad’s ride to the furthest Mosque. On the very night that his winged steed took him to visit Allah in heaven, we will launch our attack on this country’s biggest horse event. It is Allah’s will. He snapped some more candid photos and waited for the room to fill up.
* * *
“Remember the brochure we found in Asad’
s loft when we took him down?” Zeke asked no one in particular.
Clive was reviewing gathered evidence in search of the remaining terrorists, now missing, which was worrisome.
“The Kentucky Derby First Timer’s Guide?”
Clive nodded, absently.
“So why would Asad be interested in the Derby?” Zeke asked.
Clive looked up. “Derby. Horses. Allah and Lailat al Mi’raj. Do you think?”
“Plus missing terrorists, missing explosives, and close to a hundred thousand people in Louisville right now,” said Zeke.
Clive looked at him.
“Multiple attacks by this group, all within a few hours of each other,” said Clive.
“And spread geographically, across the eastern part of the country,” said Zeke. “That this is Derby Week gave them an easy second target.”
“It’s a lot like the Boodles event up in Chester,” said Clive. “Out at the Roodee.”
“Britain’s oldest race course,” said Zeke.
“Yes, and they’re also running now, this week, you know. It’s a two and a quarter mile horserace, a mile longer than your Derby.”
“I’ve heard that. So we have Dulles and we have Churchill Downs, both connected to Islam as symbols of our country’s opulence and arrogance,” said Zeke.
“Don’t forget, old boy, they consider this a holy war, a jihad,” said Clive. “It’s all about the symbolism and the shock factor. And making a statement.”
“Yes. We’d better contact Louisville, then,” said Zeke. “And then head out there to see what we can do to help.”
* * *
“You’re kidding, right?” said Captain Adams from his office in the 4th Street location of the Louisville Metro Police, a few blocks north of Churchill Downs. “We’re already spread thin, with the Derby and all. We don’t have the manpower for something like this,” he continued.
“Right,” said Clive, “we know. With your permission, we’re sending in several teams from the FBI’s antiterrorist division. Specialists in this sort of matter.”
“You’re sure they’re planning an attack here?” asked Adams.
“Fairly positive, Chief,” said Clive. “We found Derby information in the terrorists’ apartment, and we’re looking for several terrorists that we think are heading your way.
“Well, hell yes, send the FBI guys on,” said Captain Adams. “I’ll talk with the Mayor and my Lieutenants and we’ll be ready when they arrive.”
“Thought you’d feel that way,” said Clive. “As I would, too. They were wheels-up in about twenty minutes ago. Should touch down at your airport in less than an hour.”
“Roger that,” said Adams.
* * *
“They must be inside,” said Zeke. He and Clive had just arrived at the main gate entrance to Churchill Downs by helicopter, and they were trying to spot the terrorists as the chopper approached the ground. From about sixty feet in the air, the pilot aimed the ship at the grassy area next to the parking lots below them. With the exception of a few stragglers making their way into the event center, the area was quiet.
“I think there are two more of them, three at the most,” said Zeke. “Judging by what I saw at the UVA ASG.” He was accounting for the known terrorists, allowing for those who were involved in the Charlottesville and Dulles actions.
“This is the only event for this evening,” Clive commented. “It’s still early in Race Week.”
“So they’re probably already in there,” said Zeke. “I feel like James Bond.”
Anticipating the event, Zeke had dressed in a black single-breasted tuxedo with bright white shirt, black cummerbund and black bow tie. Zeke had rented his at a DC formalwear shop, while Clive took his tuxedo from a closet in his office.
“It’s a worst case scenario,” said Clive, “if they’re in the event center.” They both knew that bombs contained inside a concrete structure had an enormous potential for destruction. The walls acted to bounce the shock waves and shrapnel around like pinballs.
Their Bell 429 GlobalRanger twin-engine helicopter touched down in the parking area, away from the gate and the cars parked closer to it.
“Good of the Fairfax Police to let us use their vehicle,” said Zeke, stepping down from the cabin and bending slightly to avoid the blades. The northern Virginia police force had purchased their first Bell 429 in 2011, and with a call from Clive, they’d made it available to him from its hanger at Dulles.
“Fairfax P.D. was none too happy about the planned attack on Dulles airport,” said Clive, stepping down behind Zeke. “It seems like they took it personally.”
The quick 460-mile trip to Louisville International had taken two hours and forty minutes, and they had arrived at Churchill Downs about seven o’clock. “It’d take them eight hours to drive here from Charlottesville or DC,” said Zeke. “They can’t fly or take public transportation with guns or explosives, because the risk of getting caught is too high. So we’re probably here within thirty minutes of their arrival.” Zeke and Clive had spent their flight time coordinating with the Louisville police.
“We’ll go directly to the event,” Clive had told Captain Adams, the Louisville police chief. “The two of us will head inside and see if the terrorists have shown up yet. If not, we’ll wait for them. Better not to have a police presence… If we lose them in Louisville, they’ll be in the wind. But, have your men stand by for our call.”
They turned and waved thanks to the pilot, a Fairfax Police Lieutenant, and the GlobalRanger lifted off the grass and moved toward the airport to wait for them.
“That was ace,” said Clive to himself. “Now, the hard part.”
* * *
Inside the ballroom, the crowd was growing louder, as small groups were talking over themselves, trying to be heard over the first act of the evening’s entertainment. The band, Trampled by Turtles, was a country and bluegrass ensemble that was playing a song called, “Where is My Mind.” After that selection, they shifted to something instrumental and snappy by Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs.
The music belies the potential menace of the evening, thought Zeke. He looked around the room. Where are they?
The ballroom was wide and deep and filled with large, life-size equine statues around the outside walls and sporadically between the small tables. Most of the statues of racehorses wore a garland of roses across their back, and a replica of their winning jockey in the saddle. The statues did an effective job of blocking Zeke’s view to much of the room.
“This is all sixes and sevens,” said Clive into the microphone in his cufflink. Zeke heard it in his earpiece and translated to himself, It’s all a mess.
Clive was wearing a tuxedo with shiny black shoes and a starched white shirt with small pointy collars beneath a gray five-buttoned vest. His tie was black and gray striped and wide, filling the entire gap left from his vest. He wore a black morning coat and matching wool gray herringbone slacks. Immaculate, as always, thought Zeke. He looks ready to meet the Queen.
From where he was standing near the entry, Zeke combed the room visually but saw no one who looked out of place. When he spotted a member of the waitstaff he systematically excluded them from his search. Too old, he thought, looking at one; too blond, he thought about another, an Irish looking man. They’ll be males and they’ll probably have beards and a dark skin tone, he thought. Middle Eastern looking.
There was a small group in the far corner of the room, posing for photographs and laughing each time the camera flashed. They were calling out to each other with voices made loud by wine and bourbon. Zeke stepped closer in that direction, but his view was blocked by a replica of Victor Espinoza riding California Chrome. That was 2014, Zeke thought. I should have bet on Chrome. He stepped around the statue.
He saw the two photographers facing a small group of people standing in front of one of the statues, smiling and toasting the camera. One of the photographers was leveling his camera at the group and causing an occasional flash,
while the other was looking around the room.
Zeke immediately saw the potential danger of the situation. He radioed back to Clive, “I’ve got two men with cameras and wearing photographer’s vests on the east side of the ballroom. Curly dark hair, beards, dark skin, snapping pictures of the guests.” Zeke quickly stepped around a column and toward the group.
“I’ve got a visual,” said Clive. “We’re expecting at least two, but be alert for another.” Clive had removed his Webley Revolver from beneath his jacket and was holding it alongside his thigh as he stepped toward the festive group. Zeke saw that Clive was about thirty feet away and moving in a circular route that would bring him at the correct angle and closer to the two photographers.
Zeke, in the meantime, had lifted a half-full wine glass from a table as he passed, then stepped quickly past the partying group, looking toward the restroom located in the back of the ballroom. Seemingly intent on finding the facilities, he rubbed his nose while walking, and said a few quick words into his shirt cuff. “Head shots, up from the floor, avoid the bombs and guests,” he said. He figured the angle of their gunfire, starting at floor level, would give them the best opportunity to avoid accidental harm to civilians and to preempt the detonation of the bombs. “Remember the captagon,” he added.
Zeke had walked past the photo op area and continued along the route toward the bathrooms for a step or two. I’m pretty sure it’s them, he thought. And I’ve never seen two photographers standing together with only one of them taking pictures. When he glanced back and saw each man’s profile, he recognized them from the Arabic Student Group meeting in Charlottesville. The man who was not taking pictures saw Zeke look back and pause for a moment, and he tried to recall the context of what he was seeing. He was less than fifteen feet from Zeke.
