by Bill Evans
“I will pray,” Rafan said, “and maybe I will hear God. But even if I am still deaf to Him, I need to talk to others. Maybe we can stop this madness, one mosque at a time.”
Nicci stood a few feet away with a porter and their bags.
“Do you have a car with you, or can we drive you back home?” Jenna asked. “We’ll be going close by, to the Golden Crescent.”
“Thank you. I can walk home from your hotel.”
All of them, including Alicia and Chris and the camera crew, piled into an airport van. They rode in silence.
* * *
Parvez felt numb, sitting in the Internet café watching more Westerners climb out of a big, white airport van. He was still reeling from the news that he, a humble cleric, a wise man, a great strategist for jihad, had been picked to be a … suicide bomber? He could scarcely use the world “martyr.” Not for himself. That was for others—pathetic men like Adnan.
The two Mohammeds had told him to continue his surveillance of the hotel and to report back to the squat little house by nightfall. Then he would get all dressed up for the big party in paradise.
Parvez scolded himself for his impiety as he watched the grand entrance to the Golden Crescent. He’d been doing this since noon, and only minutes ago had learned from a jihadist at the reception desk that every room had been booked by reporters and crews. By tonight, the place would be packed. The young man sounded so excited.
Great, Parvez said to himself bitterly.
How could he tell the Mohammeds that using him as a martyr would be a waste, a supreme waste. Weren’t thousands of poor Pakis lining up to be martyrs? Of course they were: young men, boys even, living miserable lives with so little to look forward to. One of them should have this chance—Parvez would step aside. He’d even be gracious about giving up his place in paradise.
Parvez moaned, almost silently. He knew the Mohammeds would not give him this choice. They wanted him to wear the vest.
He forced himself to return to his task. The Waziristanis’ contacts in America had e-mailed Parvez photographs of many network news people. Now the Islamist scrolled through the images and found a picture of the new arrival: Chris Randall, “special terrorism correspondent.” Yes, yes, him. The African-American.
But who is she? Parvez was staring at a beautiful woman whose hair looked almost white, though it could have been because of the sun’s glare. He scrolled through the file once more, but couldn’t find her. He could tell she was a star, though—no matter their skin color, their bright, shiny faces made them look like they’d landed from another planet. She’d never have to be a suicide bomber, he thought peevishly.
He knew Alicia Gant immediately, having seen her face next to Randall’s photo. “The terrorism team,” the file said. They think they know something about terrorism? Parvez shook his head. They know nothing. They come like lemmings. Isn’t that what they say in the West? Lemmings? There, he was feeling more like himself again, but then a little voice inside his head said, What about you, oh great cleric? Are you a lemming, too? His only answer was another moan.
He saw bellmen unpacking bags from the big passenger van, and he almost shut off the computer because he could not stop thinking of the windowless van that would soon arrive. It would pull right up to the front door, like an ordinary vehicle, and then it would blow up, Parvez would wait until the rescue workers arrived, counting down the last minutes of his life before he’d have to walk into their midst, yell “God is great,” or something like that—he was so disheartened he’d forgotten his exit line—and blow them all to hell.
Is God really great? he heard that little voice ask, and that’s when he knew Satan was warring for his soul. The Great Satan had made him a target, so he would have to fight back with a bomb.
He buckled down and returned to his task. In a few hours the van would turn the hotel into a huge cloud of dust and smoke, like the towers in New York. On 9/11, jihad had struck the heart of the Western financial world. Soon, Parvez would see the heart of media darkness die. And you, too, Parvez.
The holy war for his prized soul was cut short when the man named Rafan stepped from the airport van and hugged the beautiful woman with light hair. Consorting with Westerners. With media whores. Telling them about this country. As if he could know its true Islamic heart. Only a martyr like me—Parvez tried on the title for size, and it still didn’t fit—could know such a truth. Parvez refocused, immediately rebuking himself for his surprise at seeing Rafan betraying his people. Of course he would do all that and much, much worse—a man who would scrape dirt from a sinking island would turn on people of faith in every way possible.
Parvez opened another file and watched the second plane crash into the tower.
The work of martyrs is never done, he told himself. And now you can join them in paradise.
He saw the flames and this gave him strength—for about two seconds.
No, this can’t be. Me? A martyr? Oh, but it was. He could not avoid the irreducible truth. Do your job, he admonished himself. Wiser men have spoken.
Wiser than me?
He hardly found that credible.
* * *
Adnan watched the captain of the Dick Cheney struggle to breathe. The Waziristani had duct taped his mouth shut, and the man sounded like a big dog Adnan had once seen snorting horribly on the street. Adnan had watched helplessly as the animal’s chest heaved violently, and then the dog had collapsed in the dust and died.
The captain’s complexion looked drained of blood, and he drew his knees toward his chest, like a man huddling over his last breath, protecting it from the greed of his own flesh.
Adnan didn’t dare touch him. The Waziristani had killed so many men and chopped off the African’s hand. The jihadist was a scary man.
At the sound of footsteps, Adnan looked up and saw the old prisoner being pushed along by the Waziristani, moving past the windows of the wheelhouse. The prisoner leaned against the door, barely able to open it, then stumbled inside. He was filthy, clothes soiled by sweat and dirt from the deck and engine room.
Kneeling, the jihadist tugged gently on the tape across the captain’s mouth, tormenting the man with the tantalizing prospect of breath. The captain’s eyes grew huge, and his nostrils hollowed from his pained efforts to breathe, cutting off any air. Adnan couldn’t help himself; he started to reach down to rip off the tape. The Waziristani looked up at him and shook his head, and Adnan froze.
The captain also stared at Adnan, and his eyes pleaded for help. For life.
What am I afraid of? Adnan asked himself. I’m ready to die.
He ripped the tape from the captain’s mouth, tearing hair from his beard and mustache. The captain cried out his thanks between suffering gasps. The old man with the white hair watched, shaking so badly that Adnan thought he might collapse.
The Waziristani stood and stared at Adnan, who put his hand on the bomb in his vest. He’d kill all of them before he’d let the jihadist murder him or chop off his hand.
* * *
Birk watched Suicide Sam finger the bomb, not knowing if these would be his final seconds.
At least it’ll be fast. He hadn’t had a drink all goddamn day, and if this shit kept up much longer, he’d rather be dead anyway. He hoped a camera somewhere would catch the big bang.
But the standoff, if that’s what it was, ended when Raggedy Ass grabbed his arm and shoved him into what looked like the tanker’s large communications room. Screens, computers, radar, sonar, every electronic device Birk had ever heard of lit up the walls and workstations. Diodes blinked all around him.
“I’m going to presume that you know how to operate Skype.” Raggedy Ass’s Southern drawl turned Skype into a four-syllable word, kind of like what crackers do to “shit”: she-ee-ee-t.
Birk nodded. “It’s pretty easy.”
“I want you to set it up so we can talk directly to your network. You called them out on the dock, so you can call them now.”
“
I’ll be glad to.” They’re going to love this, Birk thought.
“This,” Raggedy Ass said, pointing to the tiny lens in the middle of the ship’s impressive computer center, “is going to be the pool camera.”
Pool camera? How the hell does some jihadist know about a goddamn pool camera? Birk wondered if his personal Omar Hammami had worked at a network. Al Jazeera, maybe. The fucker was definitely starting to sound like a few of the producers Birk had run through over the years.
“And if your government doesn’t agree to start shutting down coal-fired power plants,” Raggedy Ass pulled a list of the plants and a pair of blood-encrusted wire cutters from his pocket, “I’ll cut off your fingers one by one till they do. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” What the hell else could Birk say? But Christ, there was no way the United States was going to close down any power plants for Al Qaeda.
* * *
Jenna quickly hung up her clothes and put away her bags. Long stay or short, she hated living out of a suitcase.
Before showering, she tried reaching Senator Gayle Higgens through the hotel operator, having learned from Nicci that Higgens had taken one of the suites on the top floor of the Golden Crescent. Jenna’s room sat considerably lower than the senator’s, in both elevation and price.
Higgens shocked her by answering her own phone. No mistaking that Texas twang.
“It’s Jenna Withers from the task force. How are you, Senator?”
“Happy as an old armadillo chowing down on an anthill, but I’m guessing that you’re not exactly popping corks on my behalf,” Higgens said with what sounded like genuine humor. “I’ve been getting the nastiest e-mails from some of our fellow task forcers.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jenna said. The words immediately made Jenna feel like a fraud: in short, a reporter. Total chameleon.
“Sorry? Are you now?” the senator said. “You’re one of the greenies, as I recall from my supersecret USEI fact sheet.” She was laughing again. “Isn’t that right?”
“I would never put it that way, Senator.”
“’Course not, ’cause you’re trying to ingratiate yourself with me. Well, least you’re smart enough to try to lie. But you’re terrible at it, gal. You need some practice. Try saying, ‘I really admire what you’re doing here in the Maldives, Senator.’”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I knew it! You can’t say it ’cause you can’t lie. You sure you’re a reporter?”
“I’m a meteorologist, and I’m just trying to get a handle on what we’re looking at with the hijacked tanker.”
“I remember now. Well, that explains it. You actually studied something in school other than how to become a professional liar. I might like you ’cause I like people I can see right through. Saves time. You just hold on.”
Jenna heard clicks that sounded like they came from a keyboard. The senator still sounded amused when she spoke up again. “You’re not one of the scolds, from what I can see. Or at least you got enough brain power to know how to keep your powder dry. You want to hear the truth, gal?” Higgens didn’t wait for an answer. “You look totally inoffensive. You are white bread, gal. White bread. I’ve always admired that in a woman, seeing as I’ve never been able to manage it myself. So you want to know what we’re dealing with, do you? Try a sack of snakes at a Sunday school picnic, stuffed with the biggest goddamn diamondbacks you’ve ever seen. And it’s just busted wide open.”
“Senator Higgens, I’m just downstairs and—”
“You’re here? In the Maldives?”
“Yes. I’m in the same hotel you’re in.”
“Anyone else from your tribe arrived yet?”
“My producer and—”
“Let’s have us a drink. It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
“Do you want to meet in the lounge downstairs?”
“Hell, no. You get your cute little carcass up here, Miss Stormy Weather. I’ve got a bar stocked with the finest libations in the world. And this way I don’t have to worry about anyone listening in.”
“Do you mind if I bring along my producer?”
“No, you bring yourself. No cameras. No producers. No recorders. No nothing on the record. If you’re okay with that, I’m okay with you.”
“Shall I come up now?”
“Like Jackson and Jimmy said, ‘It’s five o’clock somewhere.’”
Actually, Jenna glanced at her watch, it’s almost five in New York. She wondered how Dafoe was doing. As she started to check e-mail, her cell went off: Nicci.
“I’m heading upstairs to see Senator Higgens,” Jenna told her.
“You got in? Already? That’s great. Alicia and Chris need a sound bite from you about the ‘grave threat to the planet.’ Their words.”
“I’m guessing you mean Alicia’s words.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re guessing right.”
“Don’t I get to suss it out with the senator first? See what she has to say about the Iron Oxide Express?”
“Nightly News goes on in eighty-eight minutes. It’s yesterday there today, if you follow me.”
“Is the crew ready to go?”
“They’re on their way down here.”
“How ‘on the way’ are they?”
“Ah, they’re walking in with the gear now.”
“We’ve got to do this fast. The senator sounded overdue for her first drink of the day.”
“I doubt that,” Nicci said. “She’s known for her mimosas.”
Jenna ducked into the bathroom and freshened her makeup in sixty seconds flat. She brushed out her hair and touched up her lips just as quickly. Grading herself on the travel curve, she just passed. On The Morning Show curve? Failed miserably. Marv would shout her off the set.
Alicia had commandeered a conference room and set up two chairs facing each other. The camera crew was breathless from racing to get ready.
Chris and Alicia herded Jenna to a corner of the room. “What we need,” Alicia said, “is a tough statement about the dangers inherent in this situation. Something like, ‘I’m a scientist, and what I’ve seen has me very worried about the future of the planet. That tanker is full of dangerous chemicals that could change all life as we know it.’”
“You’re kidding, right?”
The tall producer said, icily, “You’re not debating some think-tank expert on The Morning Show. All we need are sound bites.” Alicia eyed Nicci as if she expected Jenna’s producer to intervene on her behalf. When Nicci didn’t, Alicia added, “Just say what they sent you to say. Now let’s get moving. Back in New York, they’re throwing the piece together and you’re wasting time. We’ll beat the shit out of every other show, if you’ll just do your goddamn job.”
“Don’t try to script me,” Jenna said, temper rising. “I haven’t even assessed the situation yet.”
“Look,” Chris said to Alicia, “let’s find out what Jenna is comfortable saying.”
Good cop, bad cop, Jenna thought.
“Okay,” Alicia said, “what are you comfortable saying?”
Jenna ground her molars and took a deep breath, but before she could respond, Alicia’s and Chris’s phones went off almost simultaneously. They walked off in different directions with their cells to their ears.
“I don’t believe it,” Alicia bellowed moments later as she slapped her phone down on a long table. She ran to a large, wall-mounted flat screen, turned it on, and flipped rapidly through the channels, flying past Oprah and Ellen and music videos and more before stopping on an image of Rick Birk, who looked haggard and truly scared.
“We’re not in the show because of this fuckface.” Alicia looked like she might smash the screen.
Birk slowly lifted his hand, revealing a pair of wire cutters clamped around his right thumb, the grips held by a person who remained mostly off camera.
The very first word out of Birk’s mouth was “Please,” spoken with a tremor. Jenna was shocked—as far as she kne
w, the correspondent had never uttered the word before. Birk cleared his throat noisily and added, “I need you to listen carefully.” He winced, and his eyes darted to his shanghaied thumb. A squiggly line of blood ran from beneath the wire cutters.
CHAPTER 18
A dust storm darkened the horizon, and Dafoe darted from cow to cow, trying to shift them from the pasture into the barn. They didn’t want to go, and offered baleful moos. Cows loved routine, and a howling storm at midday was definitely not routine.
“Move,” he bellowed, smacking Milquetoast on the hindquarters. He could imagine Bayou’s frustration, listening to the herd’s ballyhoo while convalescing on his doggie bed. But Dafoe wasn’t about to risk his border collie’s long-term recovery by putting him to work before he healed fully.
It took another ten minutes of maddening effort for Dafoe to finally drive all but one frisky calf into the barn. The recalcitrant critter kept dashing around and kicking up his hind legs. Between desperate lunges to grab the animal, Dafoe made a fast mental note to sell him. He could tell that this little guy would turn into an ornery bull. The taste of grit suddenly clouded his tongue and he looked up to see the sky darkening directly above him.
The calf suddenly sprinted to the barn. Dafoe followed close behind, finding most of the herd milling outside their stalls and looking dazed. Hell, he snorted to himself, cows looked dazed all the time. They’re nature’s stoners.
He got them into their stalls—and just in time. The barn shuddered as the dust storm descended on the farm. The cows raised another chorus.
Dafoe pulled out his cell and saw a text message from Jenna saying she missed the cows, and him, too! Ha-ha. It milked a smile from his frowning face. He called Forensia, who’d headed into the farmhouse an hour ago to pay bills.
“You okay in there?” he asked her.
“We’re fine.” The “we” meant that Sang-mi was still by her side. “We got all the windows shut before the storm hit. I’m just glad we’ve still got power.”
