Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  On a typical day during the PFL Cup week, once the interview hour was mercifully concluded, the teams broke into position meetings until lunch. There was rarely anything new taught in these meetings. All the Liberty’s plays and assignments had been thoroughly hashed over the previous week in their New Jersey training facility. The meetings were mainly to make sure everyone was still keeping their focus and that each player’s memory of his role in every play was perfect. Then, after lunch, it would be practice until dinner.

  Today was different. Rather than breaking into the meetings, the players all gathered together for a team photo. Emrick stood with the backs in the third row.

  Quite a few pictures had to be taken; it seemed that every shot caught either half the team with their eyes closed or someone doing something obnoxious to one of the rookies. On the third attempt, the veterans on either side of Emrick gave him simultaneous wet willies. It took him two more pictures to get over the sensation of having those guys’ damp fingers wiggling in his ears.

  When the exasperated photographer finally declared that he had gotten the best photo he was going to get, the players lined up to have their network headshots filmed. These were the short video clips that would be shown when each player was first introduced and again when he did something worthy of either commendation or derision.

  As Emrick stood in line, he could hear comments from the TV crews like “A little more smile . . . That’s it” and “Now we’re going to toss you a ball” mixing with less G-rated taunts from the waiting players. Each player’s shoot took about two minutes, after which they were free to stand to the side, where they could return some of the verbal abuse that had been hurled at them.

  Just before Emrick’s turn, a crash echoed through the room as one of the players knocked over a Lowel ViP Pro-light from one of the other video areas. While everyone’s mocking efforts were directed at that hapless player, Emrick quickly directed his video crew to get his shoot over with. They complied, and he slipped away verbally unscathed.

  When the headshots were completed, the players were shown to a room where long tables were set up. Emrick found his designated chair. Laid out in front of him were five black Sharpie Ultra Fine Point pens. When each player had taken a seat, souvenir PFL Cup footballs were passed down the tables. A conveyorlike efficiency was soon achieved as each player took the ball that was passed to him, signed it, and then passed it to the guy on his other side.

  At the end of the line, each ball was checked over. Oftentimes, instead of signing their names, some of the players would write other messages on the balls—messages that parents wouldn’t want in the hands of their seven-year-old Liberty fans. Once the balls were approved, they were boxed up for later distribution to owners, coaches, staff, players, friends, and family. Emrick had already put in a request for one that he could give to his mom. Many of the autographed footballs ultimately ended up in the hands of dealers and collectors.

  After a half hour of autographing balls—just as Emrick’s hand really began cramping—the team packed up and headed back to the hotel. The Liberty were staying at the Four Seasons Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, and the Dragons at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel Los Angeles. Emrick was pretty sure the Liberty had gotten the better end of that deal.

  At the hotel, it was time for another buffet feast. For the carb addicts, there were three different kinds of pasta, baskets of freshly baked bread, and a cornucopia of cooked vegetables—some plain, some loaded with butter, and some smothered with cheese. For the protein eaters, there were deli trays, chicken, sausages of various types, and a large warming tray filled with premium quality tenderloins. If anyone walked away from this lunch hungry, he just wasn’t trying.

  Emrick fixed himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a plate of fettuccine Alfredo—not a combination his mom would approve of but filling nonetheless. He sat with one of the veteran fullbacks, who had two overflowing plates—one a sampling of many of the food choices, the other piled high with spaghetti Bolognese and meatballs.

  The fullback looked at Emrick’s plate, and then his eyes flashed back to his own. “Rook, you gotta eat more than that if you’re gonna keep up your energy.” He used his fingers to pick out two large meatballs covered with red sauce and dropped them in the middle of the rookie’s plate of Alfredo. “I don’t want you leaving this table until you’ve snarfed every last bite of that, ya hear?”

  Emrick’s insides churned as he wondered where those fingers had been. But experience had taught him that it was useless to argue with this man, so he quietly cleaned his plate, internally chastising himself for picking this table to sit at.

  Emrick had been looking forward to Tuesday ever since the team’s arrival on Sunday because today the team had the afternoon and evening off. For some, that meant hanging out in the players’ massive game room, which had been fully stocked with Xboxes, GameCubes, and pinball machines in addition to the pool tables, foosball tables, poker tables, and dozens of other amusements. Any player who had relatives with him might grab a car and spend the afternoon with his wife and kids, who would be staying at a nearby hotel. Getting hooked up with a vehicle was as easy as calling the team’s concierge and asking for one. Some of the big-name quarterbacks, running backs, and wide receivers might find a Lamborghini Murciélago, a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano, or a Rolls-Royce Phantom awaiting them. Special teams players and others would be handed the keys to a Cadillac Escalade or maybe a Mustang convertible.

  Once free from the confines of the hotel, the players with kids would most likely head toward Disneyland or Universal Studios. Or maybe they’d just go to the beach for some romping in the sand. Many of the players who were accompanied only by their wives or girlfriends would cruise to Rodeo Drive for some serious shopping.

  Emrick had already determined that Rodeo Drive was one place he had to avoid. Having come through the play-offs all the way from the wild card round, he, along with every other member of the team, already had $73,000 worth of postseason bonus share coming his way. If they could win the big game, that figure would double—the losers receiving a measly $38,000. But Emrick had heard that on Rodeo Drive, it wouldn’t be hard for someone like him to blow his whole bonus share in one afternoon.

  Emrick’s real hesitation at leaving the hotel was the fans. They were everywhere. It was hard enough getting in and out of the hotel due to the throngs camped out in the parking lots and driveways. But once you were out, players who didn’t hire their own personal bodyguards were taking a risk.

  During the day it wasn’t so bad. People were still in good moods, and the exchanges were often friendly. However, when the evening rolled around and people got a little alcohol in them, the tone changed. Often harsh words were exchanged. Shoving matches ensued. Players were sometimes called out for fights by drunken fans trying to prove they were just as tough as some “overpaid, punk PFL player who’s never worked a day in his life.” These incidents steadily worsened as the week went on and the tension level of the team members continued to grow. Those who could, let the taunts roll off their backs; they had their eyes on a greater prize. Those who couldn’t, just didn’t leave the hotel.

  Emrick decided to stay at the hotel; after all, it was hard to beat luxury like this. He dreaded the possible confrontations if he went out, and he had no family with him. His mom hadn’t been able to get off work to come to the game, and his two younger sisters were both freshmen at Georgetown University, thanks to his signing bonus. So for him, a day off meant relaxing by the pool if the afternoon warmed up enough and taking advantage of the full-service spa. Hopefully an outdoor California cabana massage could ease his frazzled nerves.

  Dinner tonight would be no different for the players than any other night. Each team member was responsible for his own meal—although each was given $120 per diem to do it. Emrick had already arranged with a couple of other rookies to take a car (a Toyota Land Cruiser) and head to Houston’s in Century City. Great food, good friends, quiet atmosphere—a per
fect way to cap off the team’s one down day. Player curfew was 12:30 a.m. Each man was sure to be in bed on time, knowing that the next morning the circus would begin all over again.

  Tuesday, January 27

  Rose Bowl Stadium

  Pasadena, California

  “Secret Service is going to have two snipers on the press box, two more up in the south scoreboard, and two more behind us in the north scoreboard,” Jim Hicks was saying to Scott, Khadi, and Riley. Skeeter stood about twenty feet off to Riley’s left.

  “What about aircraft?” Riley asked.

  “I asked Craig LeBlanc that very question. He said they’re putting up their makeshift control tower just west of us on a little par-three hole at Brookside Golf Course. And they’re stealing the fairways to the north of us as our helipads. The city of Pasadena is throwing a fit. Typically those fairways are reserved for parking, so our security is creating a huge mess for them. Apparently the mayor started making all kinds of threats. So LeBlanc pulls out his cell phone, dials a number, says a few words, and then hands the phone to the mayor. Turns out it’s the president on the other end of the line. Shut him up pretty quick!”

  “What do you know about LeBlanc?” Riley was anxious to learn more about this man upon whom so much depended.

  “Well, he’s been director of the Secret Service for three years now,” Hicks replied. “He’s really a quality guy. I’ll tell you a story. Back in 1988, I was working out of Washington. Craig was there on presidential detail. Somehow I ended up in a poker game with him and a few other guys—playing Texas hold ’em before Texas hold ’em was cool. I get in a hand with Craig. I’m holding two aces, and I get a third ace in the flop. So I’m sitting pretty. I check out Craig for a tell—you know, anything that might let me know what he’s thinking. Nothing. So I bet high, and he calls. The turn card is a three of hearts. No worries—I bet high, and he calls again. We come to the river card—the three of clubs. I’m thinking, Bonus; my three aces are now a full house. I check him again—nothing. So I go all in. Without blinking, he calls. I turn over my aces-over-threes full house; turns out he’s holding a pair of threes for a four of a kind.

  “I learned two things about Craig that day. First, he’s got nerves of steel. I mean, come on, he didn’t even get his third three until the turn. Second, Craig is a rock. He’s the epitome of the stone-faced Secret Service agent. He’s one of two or three guys I’ve ever met who has absolutely no tells when they are playing poker. That is some serious control.”

  “So, he can play poker,” said Khadi, who apparently did not quite grasp the point of the story, “but can he run the Secret Service?”

  “Listen, sweetheart, there’s not that much difference between being a good director and a good poker player.”

  Khadi visibly bristled at Hicks’s choice of words but held her tongue. She reached into her purse and pulled out her gloves. Although the temperature was in the fifties, the wind where they were standing was dropping that number by at least ten degrees. After a final glare at Hicks, Khadi asked Scott, “What are the flight restrictions?”

  “Oeously, iss area—”

  Riley reached over and snatched the cherry Tootsie Pop out of Scott’s mouth with an audible click, causing his friend to grab his cheek and start rubbing.

  “Hey! You trying to crack my teeth?” He turned back to Khadi. “As I was saying, obviously this area is under TFR—temporary flight restriction. NORAD will be monitoring a thirty-mile radius. The tower will control the three-ring circus above us of all the planes and helicopters that will have permission to fly. Hopefully we can avoid having a news chopper crashing into a blimp or something. As for our own patrols, Edwards Air Base is sending us some F-22s to make sure nobody gets any silly ideas.” His answer complete, he stole the Tootsie Pop out of Riley’s hand and stuck it back into his mouth.

  “On the ground, there’re going to be more than ten thousand security agents. That’s almost one for every ten people in the area. When the president declared the NSSE, the budget flew wide open,” Hicks said.

  “NSSE?” Riley asked.

  “National Special Security Event. That’s why the Secret Service is running the security. When there’s a viable threat of imminent danger, the president has the prerogative to declare an NSSE. He did it for the PFL Cup after 9/11, and he does it whenever they have something like a State of the Union address or a G8 summit or the like. After what happened at Platte River, it was a no-brainer for him. So LeBlanc has gone all out. He even has fully camouflaged SEAL snipers in the hills surrounding the teams’ practice sites.”

  “So what’s our role?” Khadi asked.

  “The four of us—well, five with Riley’s big shadow over there—are going to watch and wait. I’m deploying the remainder of our team with the snipers and at the various command centers. They’re going to be our eyes and ears. I don’t want to miss anything that’s going on. I figure with my knowledge of operations, your knowledge of terrorist thinking, Scott’s computer brain, Riley’s insight into Sal Ricci aka Hakeem, and Skeeter’s . . . uh, Skeeter’s apparent grasp of ancient Roman/Carthaginian battles, we should be set.”

  As they walked back down the steps and to their car, Riley couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling that events might not turn out to be quite as cut-and-dried as Hicks was making them out to be.

  Chapter 34

  Friday, January 30

  El Espejo Road

  La Mirada, California

  Hakeem started from the top and worked his way down. He was glad to see the short blond hair falling to the ground. From the time he had dyed it, he’d felt that the olive skin of his face looked foolish with a blond frame. Soon the electric razor moved from his head to his face, then down his arms, his chest, and the rest of his body.

  The only hair that wasn’t shaved was that which grew from the back of his shoulders and funneled into a narrow strip down his spine. His host had graciously offered to assist him with that hard-to-reach area, but Hakeem had declined. This process was between himself and his maker. Allah will forgive this one patch of impurity when he sees the purity of my actions and my heart.

  Despite the sacredness of the process, Hakeem found his mind wandering to the time when Meg had removed that same stretch of body hair. They were on their honeymoon, and Meg had mentioned her aversion to back hair. He remembered her exact words: “Ewww, Sal, it’s like mating with a monkey.” He had jokingly challenged her. “Well, why don’t you do something about it?”

  Meg, never one to run away from a challenge, had disappeared into the bathroom. Hakeem expected her to come back with a razor and some sort of scented rubbing oil, but his romantic dreams were shattered when Meg returned carrying some heavy strips of paper, an applicator stick, and a big tub of goop.

  For the next hour, the air surrounding their rustic, thatch-roofed cottage on the Kona shores was filled with the sounds of hair being ripped from Hakeem’s body, his cries of pain, and their subsequent shrieks of laughter. In later months, they had both come to the firm conclusion that that balmy June night was when Alessandra had come into existence.

  Hakeem realized his mind was drifting again and quickly grabbed the straight blade he was going to use to remove the stubble the electric razor left behind. Allah, forgive me for my weakness, he prayed as he brought the razor across his forearm—partially for penance and partially to regain focus. As the blood dripped into the sink, he stared at himself in the mirror. Toughen up! Does a dead man reminisce about the past? No! He realizes that what’s past is past, and he anticipates the rewards of the future.

  After stemming the flow of blood with a towel, he lathered up his head and put the razor to its proper use. He removed any traces of hair from his head and face except for his eyebrows. The whiteness of his recently shaved head would be hidden under a hat, and the paleness of his face where his beard had been would be covered with makeup. But a man with penciled-on eyebrows was still enough of an oddity to receive second and third glances. A
gain, Allah, I trust you will forgive my small impurity for the sake of your greater plan.

  When he was finished shaving the rest of his body, Hakeem put on a button-down white shirt and loose white cotton pants. Then he laid out his prayer rug, knelt facing east, and pressed his forehead to the ground. He remained in that position for several minutes, trying to will himself to go through the formulaic prayer that would complete the purification process. Finally, giving up, he stretched himself out flat on the rug—his arms reaching over his head and his face pressed into the fabric.

  Allah the benevolent, the merciful, forgive my lack of words. I . . . I just don’t have the energy. You know the heart of your servant. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart and not my words. Please listen to my heart . . .

  Hakeem repeated that phrase over and over until finally sleep overtook him.

  Friday, January 30

  Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office

  Los Angeles, California

  The break room was popular again. Small clusters of agents talked and laughed around the twelve tables that until recently had been empty most of the time.

  The change had come two days after Mustang team had set up at the L.A. FBI office. Riley decided he had finally had enough of the nasty Costco bulk coffee. So, under the guise of showing deep appreciation for the hospitality of the bureau staff, Riley had purchased a Bunn Infusion Coffee Brewer Twin and seventy-five pounds of Costa Rican Tarrazu beans. After installation, the industrial coffeemaker had begun cranking out the delicious brew into 1.5-gallon ThermoFresh servers, two at a time, elevating Riley’s status around the office to just short of demigod.