by James Swain
Gerry felt himself shudder. “No.”
“They have to be detonated by another bomb. My brother had three hand grenades tied to his waist. He planned to drive down Pennsylvania Avenue, knock down the fence, and drive across the lawn to the White House. He had enough explosives to level the building and everything around it.”
Gerry thought back to that day. He remembered nothing about a truck in the capital, and said, “What stopped him?”
“A confluence of events,” Pash said. “The man in Los Angeles got stuck in traffic. He panicked and called Amin. My brother parked several blocks from the White House and tried to calm him down. Then he called the others in his group and heard panic in their voices. They were all young and very afraid.
“One by one, the men quit. On the radio, Amin heard that the towers had been hit. He got back onto Pennsylvania Avenue and saw that the police had cordoned off the street. He drove to Virginia and ditched the truck.”
Pash turned around in his seat. His eyes were wet and shiny. “Now I will tell you something else. I am not a terrorist. I’m an elementary school teacher. I came here two years ago, looking for my brother. I hadn’t heard from him, and was afraid he was sick. I didn’t know what he was doing.
“I tracked him down, and he told me the truth. Right then, I knew he was doomed. Either the police would kill him, or he would die in prison. His life was over. And so was mine.”
“You could have run to Canada, or Mexico,” Gerry said.
“Before 9/11, yes. Not now. The smugglers will turn us in. Even they hate us.”
“So you went on the lam with him.”
“Yes. We went on the lam.”
Pash stiffened. Gerry stared through the windshield. The midday sun had thrown a glare on the glass, and he saw Amin’s faint outline as he came out of Whiskey Pete’s.
“Now you know,” Pash whispered.
Gerry watched Amin approach the car. He had always seemed different, and now Gerry knew what it was. Amin was in league with the devil.
44
Amin got into the rental. Removing the .357 from beneath his sweatshirt, he placed it between the seats so the barrel was pointing at Gerry’s chest.
“Some friends of mine are going to come out,” he said. “When they come to the car, I want you to smile and act normal. Understand?”
Gerry stared down the barrel’s eye. If his hands had been free, he would have eaten a bullet just to get them around Amin’s neck.
“Whatever you say.”
A minute later, two Middle Eastern guys in monochromatic waiters’ uniforms walked out of Whiskey Pete’s back entrance. One was tall and skinny, the other short and extremely fat. Amin flashed his brights. Both men waved.
They disappeared in the parking lot, then drove up in a blue Chevy Intrigue and parked alongside Amin’s rental. The tall one was driving, and had a big smile on his face. Amin rolled down his window.
“Thank you, again,” the tall one said.
The shorter one leaned across the taller one’s lap. “Yes! Thank you for renting this car for us. We have always wanted to see Los Angeles.”
“Good,” Amin replied.
“When will you be leaving?” the taller one asked.
“Later today. I have some business to take care of.”
The tall one removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “This place we are to meet you at, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Is it easy to find?”
“Grauman’s is where famous movie stars put their hands in wet concrete,” Amin said. He jabbed a finger in Pash’s direction. “My brother will tell you the names of every movie they’ve ever been in.”
“Wonderful!” both men said.
“I almost forgot,” Amin said. “I need you to take something to Los Angeles for me.”
“Of course,” they said.
Amin pressed a button on the dashboard that opened the trunk. To Pash, he said, “The suitcase is in back. Go put it in their car.” He glanced in the back at Gerry. “I will watch him.”
Pash turned to stone. “Do they know?”
“Of course not,” Amin said through clenched teeth.
“But why—”
“It is safer this way.”
Pash went and got a battered suitcase from the trunk. He strained putting it into the backseat of the Intrigue. Gerry realized it was the same suitcase Amin had bought from the Mexicans the day before. Explosives. The Mexicans had sold him explosives.
Pash returned to the car, breathing heavily. The waiters departed, the tall one beeping the horn as he exited the lot.
“Why are we going to Los Angeles?” Pash asked.
“Las Vegas is no longer safe,” Amin said. “The FBI know we’re here. It is only a matter of time before they track us down.” He placed his hand on Pash’s knee. “We will go to Los Angeles and finish our mission. All right?”
Pash nodded stiffly.
“What’s that?” Gerry shouted, no longer able to control himself. “Blowing up a few thousand innocent people? Is that your mission, you crazy lunatic?”
Amin jerked the .357 from between the seats. Turning around, he leaned through the seats and flipped the gun so he was gripping the barrel. His eyes met Gerry’s.
“Yes,” he said, raising his arm.
Gerry started to curse him, then saw a thousand stars explode before his eyes.
45
Valentine returned to the Acropolis because he didn’t have anyplace else to go. The valet stand was deserted, and he parked at the front door. Inside, a receptionist informed him that he needed to be out of his room by three o’clock.
“We’re shutting the place down,” she said sadly.
He took the elevator to the penthouse. Lucy’s flowers were still in his suite. He filled two garbage pails with them, then grabbed a soda from the mini bar and went out onto the balcony. It was a picture-perfect day, and hordes of people mobbed the Strip. He watched them while drinking his soda.
He played the last two days over in his head. He’d bungled so many chances to help Gerry. Had he done it on purpose? Or had he been hoping that Gerry would work things out for himself?
He found himself remembering the day Gerry had been born. He’d been a little screamer, with lots of curly black hair. It had been the happiest day of his life.
When he’d found out Yolanda was pregnant, he’d thought that being a grandfather would bring him the same kind of joy. If Gerry died, he wondered if he’d be able to look at his grandchild, and not ask himself if he could have handled this differently.
Gerry opened his eyes and thought he was dead. It was pitch dark, and he couldn’t feel his arms or his legs, or for that matter any part of his body. You’ve gone straight to hell, he thought. But then he smelled gas fumes and tasted the gag in his mouth.
He tried to move his arms, and realized his wrists were still tied behind his back. A picture formed in his brain. He was in the trunk of the rental. What mobsters called a dead fish. Still alive, but just barely.
Don’t quit, a voice in his head said.
He took several deep breaths, then brought his arms down behind his back. If he could just bring his arms in front of him, he could untie his wrists with his teeth. He remembered a childhood magic book that had explained how escape artists did it. The description in the book had made it sound easy.
Lowering his arms, he tried to bring his wrists down below the soles of his feet. He stretched his arms until he thought he was going to scream.
No go.
He shut his eyes. The book had also said that escape artists could dislocate their shoulders. The book had warned him not to try it at home.
Gerry wedged his wrists beneath the soles of his shoes. Biting into the gag, he pushed down with his legs. The pain was excruciating. He thought about the suitcase Pash had put in the trunk of the waiters’ car. How many innocent people would end up dying because of that suitcase? Hundreds? Thousands?
He pushed some more. He heard his right sh
oulder pop, then his left. Again he tried to bring his arms around. There was enough room now, and he smiled through his tears as he brought his hands up to his face and pulled the gag away.
He breathed hard and felt his heart calm down. Bringing his hands to his face, he tried to undo his wrists with his teeth. The twine would not loosen.
He frantically felt around the trunk. He needed something sharp to cut the twine with. Only the trunk was empty.
He felt his panic return. What was he going to do? He could scream, but then Amin would pop the trunk and kill him.
Then he had an idea. Jamming his fingers into his pocket, he found his cell phone and pulled it out. Fumbling in the dark, he hit every single button until it powered up.
You’re not dead yet, he told himself.
“Do you have any idea where you are?” Valentine asked his son. He could hear the fear in Gerry’s voice, and felt himself start to tremble.
“I just heard some voices,” his son replied. “One guy giving another guy directions. They were pretty far away. I think I’m at a gas station out on I-Fifteen. I remember seeing one when we drove out here. It’s about twenty miles before Whiskey Pete’s casino.”
“Did you call 911?”
“Not yet. I wanted to call you first.”
That was dumb, Valentine thought. Sweet, but dumb, and he said, “I’m going to call the cops, then call you right back.”
“Wait,” his son said.
“Gerry, there’s no time.”
“I want you to do something. I want you to tell Yolanda how much I love her.”
Valentine swiped at his eyes with his hand. “You’re not going to die.”
“Promise me, Pop.”
Valentine felt his chest heave and his throat constrict. “I’ll tell her. Then I’ll call you right back.”
“Thanks, Pop. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Oh, shit,” his son said.
“What’s the matter? Gerry? Gerry?”
The line went dead. Valentine frantically dialed his son’s cell number, and got put into voice mail. He hung up, waited for a dial tone, and punched in 911. Gerry wasn’t going to die, he told himself. Gerry wasn’t going to die.
While he waited for an operator to come on, he found himself staring at the sky north of Las Vegas. Hordes of giant black locusts were gathering and descending upon the city. It was like watching something out of a science fiction movie. Down below, he saw everyone on the street staring at the sky as well.
As the hordes got close, he realized what he was looking at. It was a squadron of Apache military helicopters from nearby Nellis Air Force Base. He covered his ears as they passed over his balcony, then watched them make a sharp turn and head southwest.
Toward Whiskey Pete’s, he thought.
46
The gas station Amin was parked at had a convenience store.At 12:10, he went inside and killed a few minutes browsing through the crowded magazine rack. Normally, he hated these places. They were always run by smiling Arabs.
At 12:14, he took two bottled waters out of the cooler and went to the front of the store. A mountain of a man was at the register. His name tag said EARL. All the other customers in the store seemed to know him. Amin got on line to pay.
At 12:16, he put the waters on the counter, and Earl rang them up. From his wallet he removed a hundred-dollar bill and saw Earl frown.
“It’s the smallest I have,” Amin said.
Earl snapped the bill, then held it up to the fluorescent light. Amin tried not to act insulted. He stared down at the stack of Sunday newspapers next to his feet. A headline caught his eye. He put the newspaper on the counter.
“This, too,” he said.
At 12:17, he got back in the car. He’d parked near the car wash. There was a pay phone on the back of the building. Seven minutes was plenty of time, he thought. He handed Pash a water. His brother unscrewed the top and took a long swallow. Amin indicated the trunk with a tilt of his neck. “Did Gerry give you any trouble?”
“No,” Pash said. “He was quiet.”
“Good.” Amin started the engine. Then he stared at his younger brother. Pash looked very nervous. He did it, Amin thought. But he had to ask. Just to be sure.
“Did you call them?” Amin asked.
Pash’s head snapped. “Who?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“The police.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you call the police while I was in the store?”
“Come on, be serious,” Pash said.
Amin grabbed him by the arm and squeezed his younger brother’s biceps so hard that it made his eyes bulge. “The charade is over. I know what you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You called the police in New Orleans and Biloxi and Detroit and the other cities, and told them where the explosives were hidden. It wasn’t someone in the network, like I first suspected. It was you.”
“I didn’t—”
Amin grabbed the back of Pash’s head and banged it into the dashboard.
“Don’t lie to me, or I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Pash pushed away, his eyes wide with fear. “Is that what you think? That I betrayed you?”
“Yes! You called the FBI and used some kind of code to tip them off. Somehow you made them know each time that the threat was real. Didn’t you?”
Pash took several deep breaths. “I only told them about the explosives. Never you.”
Amin raised his hand to strike him. Pash grabbed his hand. For a moment, they wrestled in the front seat of the car.
“Why must you kill innocent people?” Pash said. “What will it prove?”
Amin stopped fighting and glared at him. With his head, he pointed at the newspaper lying on the seat between them. “Read it,” he said.
Still holding his brother’s wrists, Pash stared at the front page. The headline was about six baseball players who’d gotten caught cheating, but were still being allowed to play in a big game. “So?” he replied.
“Yesterday, a young Palestinian couple were killed by Israeli gunfire in the Gaza Strip. In Iraq, a family was shot in their car when the father didn’t stop at a checkpoint. Those stories aren’t in the newspaper. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
Pash let go of his wrists. “If they’re not in the newspaper, how do you know they actually happened?”
“I saw them on the Internet.”
Pash stared at the headline. He shook his head.
“It is wrong,” he said. “But killing innocent people solves nothing.”
“Did you, or did you not, call the police while I was in the store?”
Pash gave him an exasperated look.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you tell them about the explosives in the suitcase in the rental car?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them anything else?”
“I told them the waiters were going to Los Angeles.”
“Good,” Amin said.
Out on the highway, a police cruiser raced past, its siren blaring. Another followed, then another. The sirens pierced the Sunday-morning quiet, only to be drowned out by a squadron of air force helicopters passing overhead. Like the police cruisers, they were following I-15 toward Los Angeles.
“You . . . wanted me to call them?” Pash asked.
Amin looked sadly at him. He had tried to make Pash understand that by coming to the United States, he was part of the jihad. Only Pash had never accepted his reasoning.
“Yes,” Amin said.
“Why?”
Amin grabbed the paneling on his door and pulled it away, revealing the bags of TATP lining the interior. The deception hit Pash like a punch in the stomach, and he recoiled in horror.
Pulling out of the gas station’s lot, Amin drove the car back toward Las Vegas.
47
Valentine follo
wed the cruisers down I-15 doing a hundred miles an hour. Whiskey Pete’s was an old-fashioned casino about a mile from the state line. Gerry had said the gas station was twenty miles before Whiskey Pete’s. By his estimation, that put the gas station twenty miles from Las Vegas.
He watched the miles fly by on his odometer. The desert landscape was flat and unforgiving, and he looked for any break on the horizon. Then he saw a Shell station sitting off the road. It had a car wash and a convenience store, and he made his brakes screech pulling up to the front door. Through the front window he saw a big guy behind the register give him a mean look.
He ran inside. There was a line at the checkout, and everyone on it was staring at him. For the first time, he became conscious of how he looked. Unshaven, his shirt stained, his mouth hanging open.
“You can’t park there,” the guy at the register said.
He took the picture of Amin out of his pocket, unfolded it, and held it up between his hands. He showed it to the guy, and those on line.
“Any of you seen him?”
“Earl, ain’t that the guy gave you the hunnert?” a man on line asked.
Earl reached across the counter, took the photograph out of Valentine’s hands, looked it over, handed it back. “Yeah. He was just in here. You looking for him?”
Valentine felt his heart going faster than the engine of his car. Outside, another police cruiser passed, and he said, “Yes. So is everyone else. Including the helicopters.”
Earl gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Who is he?”
“He’s a terrorist,” Valentine said.
Earl came around the register. Normally, guys who stood behind registers stood on phone books to make themselves look taller. Earl didn’t need a phone book. He placed a giant paw on Valentine’s shoulder.
“You ain’t bullshitting me, are you? I got a brother over in Iraq.”
“I’m not bullshitting you,” Valentine said.
Earl led him outside, pointed at I-15. “Guy pulled out a few minutes before you pulled in. Green car, I think it was a Taurus. Went thataway.”
Earl was pointing east, back toward Las Vegas.
“Are you sure?” Valentine asked.
