Monday Night Jihad

by Elam, Jason; Yohn, Steve

  A few moments later, the phone began ringing again. Again the caller ID showed Meg Ricci. Again Riley silenced the ring.

  A minute passed, and then the phone began to ring once more.

  “Just answer it!” Scott and Khadi said simultaneously.

  Riley picked up the phone and flipped it open. “Meg, now is not—”

  “Riley, I have to talk to you.” Meg sounded frantic.

  “Can it wait for a few—?”

  “Riley, please!” There was fear in her voice, and she sounded like she was about to hyperventilate.

  Riley got up from the table and walked to a corner of the small room. “Sure, Meg, of course. Take a breath, and then tell me what’s going on.”

  Riley heard Meg take a couple of deep breaths, obviously trying to regain her composure. When she began to speak again, the frantic tone had come down a few notches, but the fear was still strong. “I . . . I was cleaning out some of Sal’s stuff. I know it’s probably too soon, but I just couldn’t handle looking at it day in and day out. Does that make me a bad person?”

  “No, of course not. Everyone handles grief differently. But what’s got you all worked up?”

  “Well, I was in our closet pulling out the shoes he never wore. He’d buy shoes, wear them once, and then just throw them back in the corner. Anyway, I pulled out a pair from the corner and noticed a bump in the carpet. I tried to smooth it out, because we’ve had trouble with this carpet ever since we put it in last year, remember?”

  “Right, right. So what was it?” Riley asked, trying to move her along. He remembered Sal telling him once that Meg tended to ramble when she was upset.

  “So, I try to smooth it out, but it won’t smooth. I feel the bump and realize there’s something under the carpet. It was a key, Riley. A key to a safe-deposit box. And along with the key were three small pieces of paper with what looks like Arabic writing on them.”

  Riley felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He rushed to the table. “Meg, I’m here with some friends. I think they need to hear what you might have to say. Do you mind if I put you on speakerphone?”

  Meg hesitated for a moment. “Do you have to? I mean, this is personal stuff and . . .”

  “Please, Meg. This could be very, very important.”

  “Okay, okay. But first I need to know. Was Sal caught up in anything bad . . . you know, before he was . . . before he passed away?”

  “I’ll tell you what. When I get back to Denver, I’ll come over and tell you everything I know. Right now, I need to hear what you’ve discovered. So, speakerphone?”

  “Okay.”

  Riley pressed the button that changed the mode of the cell phone. “Meg, I’m here with Jim Hicks, Scott Ross, and Khadi Faroughi.”

  Scott said, “Hey, Meg.”

  Khadi said, “Hi, Meg. I’m so sorry about your loss.”

  Hicks said nothing.

  “So, Meg, you were telling me about a key to a safe-deposit box that you found and some Arabic notes.”

  The others turned to Riley, shock on their faces. He nodded to them and gestured with his hand for them to keep it cool.

  “Hi, everyone. So . . . well, I took this key to our bank yesterday. I’ve been up all night with this, Riley. I was trying to decide whether I should call you or not.”

  “You did the right thing. So you went to the bank. . . .”

  “Right, I went to the bank—I figured Sal wouldn’t have minded and all—and they took me back to the safe-deposit boxes. The key fit one of them, and they pulled it out and put me in a private room. I’m so glad they did, because . . . I mean, I couldn’t believe what I found.”

  “What was it?” Riley asked.

  “Money. More than $250,000 in cash. There was also some Mexican money—you know, pesos and stuff—and euros. There was also a . . . a . . .”

  “Go on,” Khadi encouraged.

  “There was a gun—a loaded gun. Why would he have a loaded gun and thousands of dollars in a safe-deposit box, Riley?” The pace of her words was steadily increasing.

  “Keep calm, Meg. Was there anything else?” Riley asked.

  “A couple of papers. They look like sketches or something. One of them was of Platte River Stadium.”

  “Do you have the papers with you?” Scott called out. “Did they have any writing on them?”

  “Riley, what’s going on?” Meg asked, her fear growing even greater.

  “Please, Meg, I promise I’ll explain everything later. Do you have the papers with you?”

  “They’re right here.”

  “Are there any markings on the Platte River Stadium drawing?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah, there are some Xs. . . . Let me see . . . one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Seven Xs. Wait a second! There were seven bombers—that’s what they said on the news about Platte River Stadium the night Sal was killed. I know because he was killed by the seventh bomber!” Franticness had returned and replaced the fear in Meg’s voice. “Riley, was Sal somehow involved in the bombings?”

  “Calm down, Meg,” Riley said.

  “Calm down? Don’t you tell me to calm down! How can I calm down? Was Sal some sort of suicide bomber who killed himself at Platte River Stadium? Is that what you’re saying?” Meg was shouting now.

  “Meg! Stop!” Riley yelled. Meg stopped talking, but her shallow, rapid breathing could be heard clearly through the phone’s speaker. “First of all, promise me that when you hang up this phone you will gently pick up Alessandra and the two of you will go next door to Jill’s house. Do you promise me?”

  Hicks was motioning for Riley to get on with it.

  Riley waved him off. “Meg, promise me!”

  “Okay, Riley,” Meg said softly. She was crying now, and her words came between sobs.

  “Now, I’m sorry, but I need to know if there were any other papers in there.”

  “Yes, I’m looking at one now. It’s got a circle in the middle, then lines going off the circle. They look like . . . I don’t know . . . like spokes or something.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the Rose Bowl,” Scott said to Riley.

  “Rose Bowl? Are you at the PFL Cup, Riley? Is someone planning to—?”

  “Never mind that. Is there anything else on the paper?”

  Riley heard a new note of icy resolve in Meg’s voice. She spoke rapidly and matter-of-factly. “There are four small Xs on the paper. One near the end of each of the lines. Each X has two letters next to it—the first has CC, the second AL, the third MT, and the fourth TL. Then there’s a pointy arrow—like a pyramid with no bottom. And then right in the middle is a square with some pointy-ended rectangles jutting out the top. The only other thing is a big X down below the square, about halfway between the square and the bottom of the last line.”

  “Is there anything else? Anything at all?” Riley asked.

  “No, that’s it. Please, Riley, please tell me what’s going on.” Her resolve quickly disappeared again into fear and sorrow.

  “I have to go now. You’re going to have to trust me that I’ll give you all the answers soon. Now go get Aly, and go to your neighbors’.”

  “Please, Riley . . .”

  “Meg, I’m sorry. Now do what I asked you!” Riley hung up the phone feeling like a total jerk for speaking to her that way. He turned to Scott.

  But Scott was already zoned out.

  * * *

  Scott’s eyes were closed as he brought up a mental image of the paper Meg Ricci had just described.

  A square with pointy rectangles . . . missiles? . . . He could be planning to hit a missile silo, but what good would that do? . . . Overtaking a missile silo and launching—impossible; that stuff only happens in old Frank Zagarino movies.

  Xs with initials: CC, AL, MT, and TL. AL and MT could be state abbreviations, but what about the others? “Khadi, start googling combinations of those letter pairs,” Scott called out of his haze, and Khadi quickly went to work on the Toughbook.

 
So, scratch missiles. . . . Pointy rectangles . . . Washington Monument . . . skyscrapers . . . turrets . . . turrets coming out of a square . . . or towers. . . . Yeah, towers out of a square . . . a castle. . . . Yeah, okay, good call; he’s probably going to hit one of the many southern California castles.

  Scott took a deep pull on his Yoo-hoo without opening his eyes. Focus, focus! A church? Unlikely . . . and it doesn’t have the layout for a broadcasting zone. . . . What if it is a castle . . . maybe a replica of some kind? . . . A castle next to a pyramid . . . Las Vegas? No, that dead border coyote points to Hakeem being in L.A., not Nevada. . . . Is it a movie studio?

  “Somebody call Tara and tell her to have her minions check for a studio lot that might have a castle and a pyramid on it,” Scott said as he blindly tossed his phone toward anyone who would catch it. “Speed dial 6!”

  But a studio isn’t big enough. . . . Not a pyramid . . . maybe a tent. . . . A castle next to a tent? Sounds like a So-Cal used car lot. . . . Not a tent. . . . Maybe the pyramid’s a mountain. . . . A castle next to a mountain?

  Abruptly Scott’s eyes opened. “Oh no,” he said out loud. “Khadi, give me the computer!”

  Scott typed a couple of words, tap-tap-tapped the backspace, corrected his typing. Everyone gathered around the screen, then gasped as they saw what he had brought up.

  He pointed to an illustrated map as he read off the locations. “CC . . . to the left up here; AL . . . below it over here; MT . . . up top here; and TL . . . over on the far right. Folks, Hakeem’s not coming to the PFL Cup. We were set up. He’s gone to Disneyland.”

  Chapter 37

  Sunday, February 1

  Rose Bowl Stadium

  Pasadena, California

  4:15 p.m. PST

  “Li, tell the folks at Edwards that we’re taking two of their Black Hawks!” Hicks yelled into his comm system as he ran with Khadi, Scott, Skeeter, and Riley through the tunnel under the stands. “I want one with rotors spinning in three minutes on the north fairways! You and the rest of the team will take the other one! Logan, let the control tower know we’re heading out and have them plot us a course so we don’t run into some idiot news chopper! Hummel and Kruse, let Director LeBlanc know what’s going on! Tell him we need SWAT at Disneyland ASAP and have him contact security at the park to let them know what’s going down! The rest of you, get out of those scoreboards and to the helipad—I want you off the ground no more than four minutes after us!”

  Skeeter led the group as they came out into the sunlight. His shoulder was like the prow of an icebreaker as it cut through the solid mass of people. Scott was on the phone behind him, asking Tara Walsh to send full schematics of Disneyland to his Toughbook. Hicks and Khadi were immediately behind Scott, and Riley brought up the rear. The run had brought back Riley’s cough, and he seemed to be having a hard time keeping up.

  Hicks could hear the assault helicopter winding up as they approached. As they broke through the row of trees lining the fairway at the golf course, he spotted the Black Hawk with its rotors up to speed. Twenty yards east, another helicopter was just starting its spin. Hicks and the others finished their run in a crouch and jumped into the cargo area.

  Hicks gave the pilots a thumbs-up, and immediately the wheels left the ground. All five passengers slipped on helmets, adjusted their intercom mics, and gathered around Scott’s Toughbook screen.

  Scott shouted over the sound of the helicopter, “Tara just sent me this architectural map. You can see the way the park kind of spokes out from the central hub of Cinderella’s castle.”

  “Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Riley corrected, causing the three men to give him a questioning look. “What? It’s written on the map!”

  “Yeah, whatever, Pach,” Scott said with a grin.

  “Just shut up and show us again where Sal had his Xs.”

  “Each one was near the end of one of the spokes. You got Critter Country, Adventureland, Mickey’s Toontown, and Tomorrowland.”

  “What about the big X?” Khadi asked.

  “That one was halfway between the center hub and the end of the lower line. That would put it right about here,” Scott said, pointing right to the middle of Main Street, USA.

  “Okay, so why all the Xs? What’s he got planned?” Hicks asked.

  “Scott, pull up a Google Earth view of Disneyland,” Riley said. When the image was up, Riley leaned close to the screen. “Okay, I’m thinking back to when I was there as a kid. There were shops—tons of shops lining Main Street,” Riley remembered.

  “Isn’t it the first thing you come to after you enter?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah. I remember thinking it was pretty boring as a kid; I wanted to get to the real rides.”

  Khadi pushed her way in front of the computer screen. “So, why all the Xs? The most logical use for the markings are that they are bomb sites. But why bomb the extremities? There’s no real impact out there.”

  “I hear you, Khadi,” Riley said. “The only other reason I can think of for Xs is to indicate meet points. But it really seemed to me that Sal was planning on going this alone.”

  “Quit telling me everything the Xs aren’t and start telling me what they are!” Hicks commanded.

  “They’re whip cracks,” came a deep voice. Everyone turned to see Skeeter leaning over Khadi’s shoulder, looking at the screen. “You got yourself a mule don’t wanna move, you crack him a whip ’crost his back. He’ll start movin’. That’s what hajji’s doing with those other four Xs. He’s cracking his whip.”

  “Of course,” Riley said. “You set off those blasts, people start running away. The only route clear of destruction is the one to the main entrance. But to get to the main entrance, they’ve got to squeeze through the Main Street funnel. Sal waits for the big rush down Main Street, and then he detonates the big one.”

  “It fits,” Hicks said. “And it’s better than any other guess we’ve got.” He moved to the cockpit and asked the pilots to patch him through to Director LeBlanc.

  While he waited, Hicks closed his eyes and visualized the satellite image. He saw the way all the paths converged on that one street, and the mental picture made him shudder. He prayed they weren’t too late.

  Sunday, February 1

  Disneyland

  Anaheim, California

  4:20 p.m. PST

  Hakeem sat on a bench in the plaza at the end of Main Street, U.S.A. He wore earbuds connected to a radio that was tuned to the football game taking place less than an hour away. It was a fast game—a fact Hakeem appreciated. Timing was crucial, and the sooner he could get this over with, the better.

  Stage one was complete. As soon as Hakeem had arrived, he had hidden the four small bombs in strategic spots around the park. The devices were concealed in shrink-wrapped cases of Disney DVD collector sets and had been given to him in a souvenir bag back at the house. If all went as planned, the small bombs would explode right as the second quarter came to an end. The big blast would come during halftime.

  He turned the volume down a few notches so he could think. I wonder if Riley’s enjoying the PFL Cup, he mused. I wonder how he’s going to feel when he realizes he was within forty miles of stopping me. Sorry, buddy, but those forty miles might as well be around the world.

  A light breeze came from the direction of a popcorn vendor. Hakeem breathed in deeply. I wonder what heaven smells like, he thought. The smell of the buttery popcorn became so distracting that he got up and moved to another bench out of the scent’s flight path.

  The park was packed. Just like the day of the Daytona 500 brought thousands of people to Disney World, Hakeem knew that the PFL Cup was contributing to the crowd today. Everywhere he looked, there were smiling and laughing families. This truly was a dream come true for many of them. He had to admit that deep down he felt bad for these people, especially the children. But in any war, innocents must die. These children were not being murdered by him. Their fate had been determined a long time ago by the actions of t
heir own government. Blame your president; don’t blame me.

  Hakeem would have liked to have been around to watch the aftermath of this attack. But he knew that Allah had chosen and prepared him for this particular mission. The American people would be devastated by the knowledge that this icon of the nation’s family values had been attacked. Their horror would only be compounded at the realization that it was one of their “heroes” who had carried out the strike.

  When it came down to it, Hakeem knew he was just a pawn in this game. The Cause had existed before him, and his death would result in it becoming even stronger. This was not the Cause’s swan song; it was the beginning of its symphony.

  “Six minutes to go in the half with the score Liberty 14, Dragons 10,” came the announcer’s voice as the broadcast cut to commercial.

  Six minutes left. Hakeem stood and headed down Main Street. He didn’t want to be caught having to rush at the last minute.

  Just six minutes. Hakeem was ready. In six minutes, while millions of eyes were glued to the television hoping to witness another wardrobe malfunction, a newsbreak would cut in—rocking their world—telling them of the carnage and devastation at what had once been the “happiest place on earth.”

  * * *

  4:30 p.m. PST

  Hicks pointed to the computer screen. “See this central plaza area between Disneyland and California Adventure? The chopper’s going to come in low and drop us right in the middle of it. We need to try to get into the park without Hakeem realizing it, or he’ll set himself off wherever he is.”

  “I don’t think he will, Jim,” Riley said. “He’s probably been planning this thing for a long time. He’s got something he wants to say with it. I’m betting he’s going to do whatever he can to carry out his plan.”

  “Maybe you’re right; maybe you’re wrong. I’m not going to take a chance. So after we drop in and get into the park, we’re going to pair off and go looking for him—all except for you, Skeeter.”