Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  Two of the tables were not as full as the others. At one sat Skeeter Dawkins. People around the bureau had learned quickly that he was a man with a mission and that he was best left to himself. At the table next to Skeeter sat Riley and Khadi. Each had a mug of coffee, and they were sharing an oversize blueberry muffin—tearing off a bite at a time.

  “I spoke with Meg Ricci last night—gave her my contact info,” Riley said. “I know I probably shouldn’t have, but she’s having a really hard go of it. I have no idea how she’s going to handle it when word finally leaks out of Sal’s involvement in all this.”

  “Do you think he ever really loved her?” Khadi asked.

  “In Italy, he tried to convince me that she was nothing more than a pawn in his little game. But I remember the way they were when they were together. They just . . . I don’t know how to put it. . . . You know how there are couples that you see and you think, I’ll give them two years? And then there are others you can tell are going to be together their whole lives?”

  Khadi nodded, using her thumb and index finger to place a portion of the muffin top in her mouth.

  “These two seemed made for each other. What did I miss? How could I have been so incredibly stupid?”

  “You weren’t stupid, Riley. I think there are some men and women who so successfully partition their lives that they actually become two different people. At home a guy might be the loving family man—all-star husband, coach of his kids’ Little League teams . . . the works. Yet when he slips into his other environment—the drug house, the hourly rate motel room, the secret rendezvous, whatever—the alter ego takes over.”

  “Sort of like a Jekyll and Hyde thing,” Riley quipped.

  Khadi smiled. “Yeah, I guess. But I think whichever world they happen to be in at any given time, the people who are around them can’t imagine them in any other.”

  Riley took a sip of coffee, then stared at the rainbow of floating oils. Suddenly a big hand wrapped itself around his cup and pulled it away. Riley looked up and saw that the same thing had happened to Khadi’s mug. “Skeeter!” he called. But the man was already halfway to the counter to refresh their coffee.

  Riley gave an exasperated grunt, and Khadi touched his arm. “You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” she said. “He feels guilty for what happened in Barletta.”

  “What? Why should he feel guilty? I ordered him away.”

  “Nevertheless, he still feels that he should have been with you. He thinks if he had, none of that would have ever happened to you.”

  “Well, I need to go straighten that out with him,” Riley said as he started to rise. But Khadi’s grip tightened on his arm, keeping him in his seat.

  “Let him be, Riley. He’s got to work it out his way. Besides, having Skeeter as a shadow is not the worst thing in the world for you.”

  Skeeter reappeared with the two steaming mugs. Riley mumbled his thanks, but Khadi grabbed the man’s hairy wrist, looked him in the eye, and said, “Thank you, Skeeter.”

  Skeeter looked quickly at Riley, then back to Khadi. “Yes, ma’am,” he said and returned to his table.

  Riley sighed deeply—a little too deeply for his still-struggling lungs—and sent himself into a coughing fit. The coughing wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was strong enough to make the occupants of two or three tables turn around. He tried to stifle the fit with a long draw on his mug, with moderate success.

  “Khadi, can I ask you a personal question?”

  She responded with a noncommittal nod of her head and a shrug of her shoulders.

  “Okay, and please understand where I’m coming from on this. What . . . how do you feel when you hear Muslims defending what was done at Platte River?”

  Khadi remained silent.

  “I’m sorry,” Riley jumped in. “I should have learned my lesson last time.”

  “No, no, no,” Khadi reassured him. “I’m trying to think of a good answer. Truthfully, I’ve never really analyzed it before. I think my initial response is anger. But then that turns into a profound sadness. These people are taking my religion and giving it a black eye around the world. My people and my beliefs are despised and rejected based on the actions of a minority of fools and zealots. I mean, think about how you feel when you hear of some radical Christian guy blowing up an abortion clinic or a bunch of wackos picketing the funeral of a guy who died of AIDS with signs that say ‘God hates gays.’ No matter what your feelings are about abortion or homosexuality, you still find yourself thinking, I really wish they weren’t playing on my team. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, but . . . again, don’t take this the wrong way—I can point out specific places in the Bible that would blow those idiot radicals out of the water. Seriously, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. But doesn’t the Koran actually support what these terrorists are doing?”

  “According to the Islamists, it does. But I would also bet that your ‘idiot radicals’ would claim that they could back their positions with the Bible, too.”

  They both picked a piece off the muffin, Riley feeling the uncomfortable squish of soft blueberry compacting itself under his fingernail. Khadi looked like she was trying to formulate a thought, so he quietly chewed.

  “However,” she finally said, “if we’re totally being honest here . . . I will admit that there are some passages in the Koran that I don’t fully understand. Don’t get me wrong,” she quickly added, “it doesn’t make me cast doubts on my beliefs, only on my own comprehension. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m lying awake at night.”

  “Okay, that’s an interesting qualifier.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is. Riley, I love my faith. I love my traditions. My family has been Muslim for generations—I love having that history. I just wish . . . I don’t know. I guess I wish I knew where I stood with Allah. I often have this fear of standing at the great judgment and being one good deed out of balance. You know what I mean? One ‘walking the old lady across the street’ or one ‘giving a homeless person a dollar’ short of tipping the scales in my favor and making it to heaven.”

  Riley chuckled lightly. “Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I don’t count on anything I do. If it was up to the way I live my life to get me into heaven, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I know the junk that’s in me. I live with my stupidity every day. That’s why instead of depending on what I do, I depend on what Jesus Christ has done. Because He died for me, I know I don’t need to worry anymore about being good enough.”

  “It must be nice to really believe that. I wish I could . . . but once a Muslim, always a Muslim. Islam isn’t only what I believe; it’s who I am. . . . You know, if it’s all right with you, Riley, I’m done with this conversation for now.”

  “Fair enough. And thanks—for being honest and all.”

  Suddenly a hand reached in again to take Riley’s mug. Riley seized the arm and, without looking up, said, “Skeeter, if you touch my coffee again I will see to it that you are immediately transferred to Secretary Moss’s personal security detail!”

  The standoff lasted about ten seconds before Skeeter finally pulled his arm away and moved back to his seat. Riley called after him, “And while we’re on the subject, I’ve finally figured out how to go to the bathroom all by myself too—thank you very much!”

  Unfortunately, Riley’s outburst came during a lull in the break room’s conversation. On the positive side, the ensuing round of applause was the largest he had received since the PFL.

  * * *

  “Citizens of America, the last time I spoke to you was following the incident carried out by Allah’s righteous servants in Denver, Colorado. At that time, although I introduced myself to you, I kept my face hidden. That was because my work was not yet done. Today, however, I show you who I truly am, because by the time you are watching this, I will have already gone to join my fellow martyrs.

  “My name is Hakeem Qasim. Some of you may be saying, ‘But isn’t that Sal Ri
cci, the football player?’ I’m sorry to tell you that you are mistaken. There never was a Sal Ricci—only Hakeem. Sal Ricci was a part I played—a part that you, in your all-encompassing desire to be entertained, were all too eager to accept as truth.

  “Why did I do it, you ask through your shock and tears? Because your government is in the habit of stealing land. Your presidents steal waqf land—land that belongs to Allah. Don’t you know that once something belongs to Allah it always belongs to Allah? You fly in with your jets, and you roll in with your tanks, and you think that you possess the land. And once you have it, you hold on to it tightly—at least until the price becomes too high. Then you hike up your skirts and run home. You are pitiful!

  “Why did I do it? I did it because your presidents like to murder innocent people. They send in their missiles and leave parents without their children and children without their parents! So, you stole one family—my family—and I have stolen thousands of yours! Now, think of all the other children whose parents you have taken, and do the math! I am not alone!

  “Now the truth is known—the Cheetah is out of the bag, you might say. Today I stand before you as living proof of what I said in my previous message. Nowhere are you safe. Trust no one. Remember, I was in your homes every Sunday. Even now, my image is on the walls of your children’s bedrooms. My number is on the back of the jersey you are wearing. My signature is on your prize football, in your autograph book, on your favorite hat. You invited a predator into your homes—and now you’ve been bitten!

  “So as you lay your heads down on your soft pillows tonight, remember that I am only one man . . . and there are thousands more like me. My short chapter may be done, but the book is far from being written.”

  Hakeem continued staring at the camera until the red light blinked off. The others in the room came forward to congratulate him on his message, but he waved them off and retreated to his bedroom.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and held the brass coin that hung around his neck. Where he had expected to feel elation, he felt sorrow. Where he had expected to feel victory, he felt emptiness. And where he had expected to feel pride, he felt shame.

  What will she think? What will little Aly think when she’s old enough to see this? Is this truly the price of honor? Is this truly what a benevolent and merciful God would require of me in order to restore my family’s name?

  He continued rubbing the coin, but the smell of the metal soon became a stench in his nose. Yanking the chain from his neck, he threw the necklace against the wall.

  His head dropped into his hands and he wept. He wept out of anger. He wept out of fear. He wept out of sadness. Most of all, he wept out of helplessness. He knew that no matter how he felt, he would still go through with his grand martyrdom. He had to. From the moment he had been purified, his fate had been sealed. Now he had made the video, and he was dead to the world.

  Chapter 35

  Sunday, February 1

  Four Seasons Los Angeles at Beverly Hills

  Los Angeles, California

  7:15 a.m. PST

  Empty. Please let me be empty. But Jesse Emrick wasn’t empty, as evidenced by another internal surge that threw him over the edge of the toilet. He had awakened at 6:15 and had been either lying or kneeling on the beautifully laid tile floor for the past hour. He got himself into a crouch, leaned over the sink, and washed his mouth out, using his hand as a cup. Then he slid back down to the floor, feeling the coolness of the marble slab vanity against his cheek.

  Emrick’s room wasn’t the only one reverberating with this sound. All up and down the fourth and fifth floors of the hotel, one could hear players kneeling at their porcelain altars, hurling out their own personal cries of penance, and ending their prayers with a flush of the toilet.

  There had been no food poisoning, nor was there a stomach parasite running rampant through the ranks. One thing, and one thing only, was leading to this discordant chorus: nerves.

  The incident that had ultimately led to Emrick’s personal bowl-side meditation had occurred just prior to Friday’s practice. Matt Tayse—number-two rusher in the league last season with 1,758 yards, All-Pro for the past four years, bright shining hope for a Liberty victory in the PFL Cup, Mr. Twinkle-Toes himself—had broken his ankle stepping off the bus. It was a fluke accident, a once-in-a-million mistake. It was like a great soldier preparing for the biggest battle of his life accidentally putting a bullet in his calf while cleaning his gun.

  This incident didn’t promote Emrick to the number-one back—that role went to third-down back, Johnson Mige, who was adding his own chorus to the medley three doors down. However, this did move Emrick into the role of lead third-down back. He was going to be the clutch go-to guy.

  He dragged himself into the glass shower stall and turned the water on hot. As the dual showerheads cascaded the steaming water onto his body, he sat on the tile floor, absentmindedly picking at the grout with his fingernail.

  This was one of the wonderful things about staying in these fancy hotels. Back home, once his mom and two sisters finished up, he’d get maybe two minutes of lukewarm water, tops. Here, the cleansing, hot waterfall never ended.

  Emrick had forty-five minutes until the breakfast buffet downstairs, three hours until chapel, and three and a half hours until the pregame meal. Breakfast? I’ll think I’ll pass. Chapel? I’ll see what I can do. Pregame meal? Yes, but only because I’ll get fined if I don’t show. If he wanted, allowing a half hour to get dressed, he could spend the next three hours letting the water wash his cares away.

  Sunday, February 1

  Rose Bowl Stadium

  Pasadena, California

  11:30 a.m. PST

  Something’s not right, Riley thought. What are we missing? He was walking around the perimeter of the field, scanning the stands. Skeeter was next to him; Hicks was a few steps ahead.

  The three men had just made a full circuit of the Rose Bowl grounds. They’d visited the makeshift tower where Matt Logan was keeping his eye on the air traffic controllers. Also in the tower they checked in with Kim Li, who was keeping in communication with the folks from Edwards Air Force Base and NORAD. Both men had reported absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

  They had stopped by the four large trailers that were the Secret Service command and control centers. After a brief word with a very busy Director LeBlanc and his head of operations, they had spoken to Ted Hummel and Jay Kruse, who were monitoring all that was going on in the operation’s “brains.” The two veteran agents both felt that things were fairly well in hand.

  Before going under the stands, the three men walked across the western sidelines. Looking up at the scoreboards, Hicks and Riley got a status report from the three men who were embedded there with the Secret Service snipers. Carlos Guitiérrez, over the north scoreboard, gave an all clear. Steve Kasay, atop the press box on the west side of the stadium, called out the same. Kyle Arsdale, in the south, made the report unanimous—everything was looking good.

  As they walked off the field and through a tunnel, they made one last status check. “Bird One, how’re things looking from there?” Hicks called into his comm system.

  “Good to go,” came Chris Johnson’s reply from the LAPD helicopter that he had hitched a ride in.

  The three men entered a small room where Scott and Khadi already sat. The two had been brainstorming possible chinks in the security’s armor. Hicks took a chair next to Khadi, while Skeeter positioned himself by the door.

  “You guys come up with anything yet?” Hicks asked.

  Khadi shook her head. “These Secret Service guys are incredibly thorough. Everything we’ve come up with, they’ve already thought of and dealt with.”

  Riley walked around the table and pulled out a chair. When he sat, he put his elbows on his knees, leaned over, and locked his hands behind his neck.

  “Pach, what is it? You okay?” Scott’s inquiries as to his friend’s quietness and distance had been growing more and more freq
uent.

  Without raising his head, Riley answered, “There’s got to be something we’re missing! Sal’s a smart guy. He knows what security will be like, especially after Platte River. . . .” Riley’s voice caught on the last word. He took a deep breath, then looked up at the four others. “It’s not going to happen again. Not on my watch! It will not happen again!” Riley’s expression was almost pleading. The dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his complexion attested to the fact that he was still not well. Recognizing what a pitiful character he must look like, he lowered his head and locked his hands again behind his neck.

  “Don’t worry, man. We’re going to figure this thing out,” Scott encouraged him. Turning to the rest of the group, he said, “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. . . .”

  Sunday, February 1

  Los Angeles, California

  1:05 p.m. PST

  The stack of equipment bags rose outside the bus. Emrick added his to the pile and climbed aboard. When the bus was fully loaded, the bags were transferred two at a time to the lower cargo area.

  Soon the bus was humming along the freeway at seventy-five miles per hour. It was the second in a line of three motor coaches; a fourth bus, carrying the coaching staff and some overly anxious players, had left the hotel an hour before the others. Ahead of the caravan, four California Highway Patrol motorcycles and three cruisers led the way with lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  Emrick stretched out on the left side of the bus, halfway back. Although his nerves were getting progressively worse, at least his stomach had calmed down. He had slowly eaten a large plate of pasta with a light butter sauce and actually managed to hold it down thus far. Like everyone else on the bus, he prayed that no one would lose it, because the resulting chain reaction would make the rest of the trip extremely unpleasant.