by Dale Wiley
Jones got a call on her secure cell, and she stepped toward the hall to take it. The others pored over the words that the press room devised. It was trite, and the uneasy looks on the faces of those in the room gave the sense that no one liked the speech’s direction.
The president was the last to finish. His face gave it away. He exploded, glaring at Sanders. “Fucking awful. Awful and hollow. There’s nothing here! I’ve got to speak in fourteen minutes, and I’d be better off reading the ingredients off a cereal box. Tell them they have ten minutes to get me something better.”
Jones was still on the phone as she came back in. She looked ashen. She finally cut the speaker off. “I’m with the president. I’ll talk with him and get back to you.” She shook her head and disconnected the call.
“We just got word,” she said almost breathlessly. “Once the president announced that he was speaking, our new enemy announced they will be making a presentation at the same time.”
“Who,” the president glared, “is ‘they’?”
“The terrorists, Mr. President.”
The president said nothing. He threw his briefing papers high in the air and let them settle down over the room like confetti. He stood up and walked away, kicking his chair out from under him so it would surely fall behind him and topple loudly.
He was bound to speak. They had set a time. To change that time would appear weak and disorganized. But not one soul would be watching him when the enemy would be saying something at the same time. That sounded more interesting, even to him.
America’s best option at this point appeared to be a man most famous for half-nude cell phone photos. God save us, he thought as he went to collect himself.
Twenty
They were closing in on the 405. Joey would need to know fairly soon which way he wanted them to go. He wanted to have the driver pull off the freeway and stop, but he didn’t want some jank-ass cop pulling up to see if he could help. Better to just keep heading even if they needed to turn around eventually.
Becky was sighing loudly, which only made Joey more determined to take his fucking time. This was some shit, and he was going to deal with it like a motherfucking monastery ninja from a Kung Fu movie. Let her sigh up all the oxygen on the planet. He focused.
“Look, I get you taken care of. But I’m protecting us both here.”
Becky knew this was probably true, but she just didn’t want to be happy about it. She looked like she was about ready to cry and talk a whole lot, so Joey held up a hand.
“I gots to call my boy. Give me a minute.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t use a phone.”
“Not our normal ones. That shit’s traceable. But I got it.”
Joey remembered there was a drug phone in the limo. His people kept one phone in each limo for ordering whatever they needed: weed, hash, molly, yayo. That phone was bought at Costco or sumshit, and it wouldn’t be traceable to him. He knew Raylon’s cell phone number. It could be plugged into a thousand speed dials, and he would remember it from the street. He forever down with that boy. He didn’t want to hear his boy’s reaction, but he dialed the number anyway.
Raylon answered it on the first ring. “The fuck you doin’ leavin’ me?” Every word a question unto itself.
“Shit, man, I didn’t make that call. Marlon my driver did.” His name was Marvin. Raylon knew this, and Joey should have, too, as Marvin had worked for them for two years. But details didn’t bother Joey.
Joey was careful not to say he was sorry even though he was sure Raylon knew that was half-bullshit. It’s what he would have told Marlon, or Marvin or whatever his name was, to do in theory as well. It was just that reality was a lot scarier.
Joey needed to know one thing. “You sure you ain’t told no one about me?”
“I’m straight. Aybody straight. Whole world thinks you dead.”
“Let em think.”
“What that chick think of dis?”
“She trippin, but she be aaaight.”
Both of them eased on the street patois. When they spoke in private, they tended to get to the point.
“Who died?” Joey didn’t want to ask this.
“Brooza, Manda, anybody near the stage. Probably twenty or more. Blood was everywhere.”
Joey just shook his head. He had lost friends, seen people killed, and killed one himself. That was part of the game, but this felt like it was on him. They were there because of his show. They were his fans and friends, his entire world, and they were dead because of knowing and loving him.
This shit was heavy.
“What the fuck is up?”
Raylon was just as blown away. “No idea.”
“You got info on who booked this show?”
“Yeah, in the main e-mail. There’s a computer in that car. Password is purple69. That promoter was blowin’ up my phone.”
“Yeah, I think he wanted me dead.”
“Just like half of San Diego County, baby.”
“This ain’t about San Diego. I know that.”
They sat there, two friends who knew enough to know that was true. They said nothing for a long time.
“You good?” Joey asked, knowing the answer.
“I’m straight. What you gonna do?”
“Gonna read me some e-mails. Then I’ll decide. Call me on this phone if you need anything.”
“Got it.”
Joey rated two TVs, two motherfucking satellites, in the back. He turned one to CNN and one to MTV. CNN was all crying and bloody people. MTV was rocking Pal Joey on the screen, mean-mugging with Timbaland. The legend along the bottom of the screen indicated they were having a Pal Joey marathon. Hell yeah, he thought. There were some perks of this being dead shit—royalties.
Twenty-One
N
aseem did as Miller told him. He told the woman who seemed to be in charge that Grant Miller sent him, and she nodded. He went to a back room, which was about as private as a train station bathroom. On the wall was a large poster of the foot with Chinese characters pointing to the smallest regions, detailing their relation to the body as a whole. The room smelled like Asian spices, and everyone smiled and gestured at him.
People walked in and out, each time nodding or smiling and trying to get some recognition from him. He kept his head down. He didn’t have a smartphone, which he had gotten used to in his time back in America, and he didn’t want to see his handiwork anyway. The people, nice as they were, didn’t know how dirty he felt. They asked him if he wanted “tay-bol massage.” He didn’t respond. He sat back and waited for Miller.
He wanted to drift off to sleep but instead spent his time remembering what he knew about Yankee. He thought of a dozen ways to protect his own skin, but, in the end, he reminded himself that six hours ago—had the plan gone the way he originally intended—he would already be dead. He needed to stay out long enough to take care of Yankee, and he needed help to do that. He had to trust someone, and, from what he knew, Miller was as good as anyone.
Muhammad, his leader, had been utterly convinced that Yankee was truly part of the cause. The man had been vetted and prepared, and the long process and numerous procedures made it unlikely that anyone could get through. But he clearly had. This seemed silly now. Naseem thought he saw it early on. Yankee didn’t have the burn. At the time, Naseem could rationalize Yankee’s icy resolve, a contrast to the ever-present, boiled-over passion he saw in most of his compatriots, as a positive trait. Now, it so clearly seemed hollow—because it was.
Naseem took the time and grabbed a notebook sitting on a shelf in the corner. He searched and found a pen behind a fake plant on a counter and started making notes: the places he knew hadn’t been hit yet and rough diagrams showing where the bombs had been planted. There was still a part of him that hated to give up the information to the Americans, but he wanted Yankee more. He wanted him for a million different reasons, needed him dead, and wanted to join him.
It took several minutes for Mill
er to arrive. When he got there, he gave the woman some money, which was instantly pocketed. He was too far away for Naseem to hear, but he saw her point down the hall. Grant reached him and nodded but didn’t shake his hand. He gestured for Naseem to follow him and then took him out through a back door to his car, which was parked in the fire lane just outside.
“Excuse me if I don’t know quite how to handle this meeting,” he said with little emotion in his voice.
“I understand.”
“Thank you for alerting me to the explosion in St. Louis, but it’s hard for me to say I owe my life to you,” Grant said. He handcuffed Naseem’s hands behind his back before starting the car. “I’ve got a place for us to meet. Let’s go there and establish what the hell is going on.”
Grant had gotten a room at the Hampton Inn under one of his personal credit cards that the FBI didn’t monitor, just in case. He drove fast and ignored Naseem. The man probably hated the handcuffs, but he didn’t know what other plans were in store. Grant had a look that no one would mistake for anything other than cop or serious thug. He wore sunglasses and looked used to wearing them.
Naseem was getting more nervous, which was not typical for him. He had to account for his actions. For ten years, he could have easily done so; now, it seemed like an insurmountable burden. He couldn’t make the words that would justify this senselessness, the sense of betrayal. Such is the curse of the human, he thought. Give a man a true reason to die, and he will. Lie to him about that reason, and nothing seems like a greater offense.
Naseem had seen Miller in plenty of pictures. In those pictures, even at the end when Grant’s life disintegrated, he looked poised and cocky, like he was in on a joke no one else got. Now, he looked older, much older. He was heavier and definitely very tired.
Miller’s eyes darted everywhere in the car all the way to the hotel as if he were expecting another explosion. Naseem finally realized he probably was, given his reputation.
“There are no additional plans for you,” Naseem said. “This is not a trap.”
“I don’t know what’s going on. That sounds great. I have no idea. It could be a trap. No matter what you say.”
The sun was tipping from day to evening, and the light took on an orange glow. Grant parked the car and walked around to the passenger side, making sure no one watched. He took the handcuffs off in one motion; most people wouldn’t have known what he was doing even if they had been paying attention.
“I’m going to give you a little bit of slack,” he said, looking into Naseem’s eyes for the first time. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Naseem nodded and clapped him on the shoulder just in case they had an audience.
They walked in. No one was in their way.
The front desk lady smiled and nodded and offered both men a bottle of water. She seemed to recognize Miller. Grant smiled and accepted the bottle as he asked her if anyone was using the conference room. She checked a piece of paper and told them they would be fine in there.
Naseem realized Miller had brought people here before. He wondered whether the receptionist made the connection to the day’s events and that he was responsible for the nightmares playing out before them.
They walked to the conference room, still sizing each other up. Miller surveyed the room. There were no hidden corners and no places to hide. He had been there before among the beige and navy colors and the utter sameness that set nothing apart from anything else. Here, Grant had sweated people they couldn’t yet bring in but no one serious or deadly. Now, he saw the room with a new set of eyes, but no danger was here.
They sat down across from each other in heavy, uncomfortable chairs.
Naseem took his notes and spread them out in front of Miller. “Here’s what you need to know.”
“Hold it. I’m in charge here.”
“You keep telling me that.” Naseem glared. He hated for infidels to scold him. Then he immediately softened. He had lost any authority for taking the high ground today.
“I’m going to ignore the tone of voice and remind you that you, in addition to your role in the largest terrorist plot in American history, also asked me for a rather large and unusual favor—one I’d say I don’t have to comply with even if I’d really be happy to do it right here.”
Grant drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “But I don’t have to. I’ll kneecap you, wait for backup, and then send you to St. Louis city jail and tell them not to kill ya. Tell ‘em what you’ve done. Those boys downtown are criminals but they’re sure as hell patriots. They’ll do that shit for free.”
Naseem knew Miller’s type, knew he had to say that, but he also knew that it was true.
“I’m here to help,” he offered. He knew how feeble it sounded. He gestured to his note pad.
This time, Grant let his attention follow.
“You’ve been a lot of help,” said Grant, his voice teeming with sarcasm. “But show me what you’ve got.”
Naseem rolled his eyes and continued with his train of thought. He had written the five places he knew for sure still had explosives: Omaha, Houston, San Antonio, Boston, Jacksonville. He had notes and diagrams and presented them to Grant.
“Why?”
“I thought I knew. I thought it was holy.”
Grant took a deep breath and regained his composure. “If you ever visit a terrorist attack after it has happened, you will know there is nothing holy that could possibly come from it.” He extended his help like a real olive branch. Grant needed his subject to cooperate, but they were wasting too much time. He needed to play nice, no matter how badly he wanted to do anything but.
“Why tell me now?”
Though he had anticipated it, the question caught Naseem off-guard. “I was duped. I was so sure I wanted to do this. Then I began to wonder. And then, just as I was ready to back out, he sent me a text saying the attacks would begin earlier than expected. It let me know he was not a true believer.” Naseem spit these words out.
Miller rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “So a Muslim killing Americans was okay, but someone else killing them wasn’t?”
Naseem glared at him. He held his gaze an uncomfortably long time. “I am willing to put up with a certain amount of ridicule,” he said, “but I have my limits.”
Despite all of Miller’s posturing, he had the weaker hand. Naseem had information. Miller could bluff all he wanted, but it was unlikely that anyone would allow him to truly harm Naseem. The terrorist was rallying and holding his own against this agent.
“Who is ‘he’?” Grant asked.
“I know him as Yankee. That is the only name I was ever given.”
“Did you meet him in person?”
“Twice.”
“Okay, why did you trust him?”
“The right people in the jihad told me to. I wanted to die. I was told to die with him and for him.”
Miller started to react and then thought better of it. This was the absolute best lead he and, as far as he knew, anyone had.
“Does he know you didn’t die?”
“I don’t think so. It was a lucky coincidence that I wasn’t right in the middle of the blast.”
“What do you want now?”
“I want Yankee dead. And then I want to die.”
Miller wasn’t going to belabor that point, but, despite his surface bluster, he wasn’t sure he could carry it out. He’d have to give this a lot of thought.
“I’ve got some latitude. The boys from DC are probably going to come at some point, and they may not be as easy to get along with. If you’ll come with me in my car, after a thorough search, we can eliminate the need for any formal arrest proceedings at this time. You can be lodged at our witness facility downtown and get debriefed.”
Naseem wanted more, but he didn’t press his luck.
“I want to be the one to bring him down,” he finally said. “Personally.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s going to happen, and, even if it does, it
’s not going to happen tonight. We need this other info as well. And that’s all I’m really authorized to do.”
Naseem thought about this. He had anticipated a more rogue operation, one where he had more control and could take a more direct route to his enemy, but he was realizing more each moment he was no longer in charge.
What Miller said made sense, and, frankly, it was just starting to hit him just how tired he was. It hadn’t been his plan, but, at this point, he was fine with someone else taking the lead—as long as it led him to his target.
He nodded, just as Miller’s cell phone rang.
Miller pulled it out of his pocket and looked very puzzled. He motioned to Naseem and indicated he needed to take the call.
It was a 702 number—Las Vegas. He had heard someone he knew was in Vegas, someone he hadn’t talked to in a long time. His stomach fell. Would she really call now?
He answered the call.
“Miller.”
“Grant, this is Caitlin. I really need your help.”
Twenty-Two
The message went up all over Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and, most importantly, YouTube. It was loaded from a hundred different channels. “From the creators of the chaos!” was written cheekily on the screen, a far different tone from terrorist attacks of the past; this was done with enjoyment.
The message would be unleashed in one-half hour. On the web pages, an image of a time bomb counted down the minutes. The clock didn’t move evenly. It stuttered, the seconds catching, stopping, and then flitting by like cards being shuffled. It gave the graphic a crazy feel as if not even the time could be trusted.
If everyone had not been in such a daze, it might almost have been funny: America waiting for a modern-day Dr. Evil. The public, awaiting his demands, seemed from a different era, a time when everyone watched the same networks and got the same information. But as it was, it felt like another allusion: Big Brother. Everyone was waiting to check in.
