by Jason Elam
Seeing Hernandez’s hand go up, Jim sighed and said, “Yes, Virgil?”
“Sir, I don’t think Tinky Winky had a playground. Unless maybe the rest of the Teletubbies had a playground that they shared.”
“Barney had a playground,” Evie pointed out.
“I think Mickey Mouse might have had one, too. Or maybe that belonged to the Mouseketeers,” said Williamson.
Scott jumped into the action. “You know, that Teletubbies baby sun always creeped me out. Why was it always laughing? Was that supposed to mean something?”
Hicks shot Scott a “you’re not really helping” look, which Scott caught out of the corner of his eye.
“I mean, let’s rein this in, people! Jim?”
“Thank you, Scott. Now, enough of that intro stuff. Tara, tell me what you’ve got on Costa Rica.”
“Thank you, sir. And let me just tell you what an honor it is to be working with you.”
A chorus of wet-sounding kisses came from the analyst end of the table.
Doing her best to ignore them, Tara continued, “Truthfully, we don’t have much that’s new. The bad guys were all Middle Eastern of one stripe or another. They flew to Havana; boated to Nicaragua, where they got their weapons; then went down across the border.”
“Any sign of the last gunman?”
“No, sir. He’s just vanished. And the Costa Rican authorities are not being overly cooperative.”
Hicks’s frustration was beginning to show. “Are we getting any pressure from our higher-ups on their government?”
“No, sir. They seem to want to treat this as a random incident.”
“They what?”
“Tara, if I may,” Scott broke in. “Jim, the higher-ups are idiots. You know that, and I know that. The only good information we’re going to get is what we dig up ourselves. Right now Khadi and I are working on finding out who fed the bad guys Riley’s location.”
“And is Riley safe right now?”
“Skeet’s his shadow, so he’s probably safe as he can be.”
“Fair enough. You know to keep me up-to-date with everything on this.”
“Will do,” said Scott.
Hicks turned back to Tara. “Tell me what else you’re working on.”
“Over the last week, there has been a remarkable spike in the amount of intercepted chatter. As you know, all of our intelligence branches are woefully lacking in Arabic, Farsi, Urdu, and Pashtun speakers, so much of our COMINT—that’s communications intelligence—”
“I’m familiar with the term.”
“Of course; sorry. Much of our COMINT remains untranslated and is therefore useless to us. So what we’ve done is set up filters to catch often-repeated phrases in those other languages. The computer doesn’t necessarily recognize the words, just the sounds. When we get something, we send it to Khadi, who gives us the translation.”
“Okay, probably more information than I needed, but that’s fine.
What about it?”
“There has been one new phrase that has hit at least twenty-five times in the last seven days. Its translation is ‘Awake, O Sleeper.’ We think it might have something to do with awakening sleeper cells.”
Scott jumped in. “I, on the other hand, have a hard time believing this. Waking up sleeper cells with the phrase ‘Awake, O Sleeper?’ Could they be a little more obvious? The only thing more blatant would be a knock on the door by someone with a suicide vest on a hanger, calling out, ‘Terrorgram for Mr. Ahmed!’ I mean, let’s give these guys a little credit.”
Tara immediately countered. “Listen, Scott, it’s not out of the realm—”
“You mean ‘boss’.”
“What?”
“Chain of command. You need to call me ‘boss’ from now on,”
Scott said with a grin on his face.
In response, Tara picked up her cell phone and began dialing.
Jim asked, “Tara, what are you doing?”
“I’m calling the devil to see if I can get a weather report.”
The analysts showed their appreciation for the slam with an “Oooooo” and some light applause. Tara was typically known for her well-rehearsed and poorly executed attempts at zingers. She sat back in her chair with a smug smile on her face. Her celebration was short-lived.
“I’m surprised you had to dial so many numbers,” Scott responded immediately. “I always figured you’d have him on speed dial.”
The analysts all jumped to their feet and began a chorus of “Scott, Scott, Scott!”
Once the cheer died down, it was Khadi’s turn to finally weigh in. “Scott, I agree that it would be unusual to use that blatant a phrase. But you’ll agree it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”
“Of course. Nothing’s out of the realm of possibility.”
“Cubs winning a World Series,” Williamson reminded Scott.
“Ashlee Simpson winning a Grammy,” added Hernandez.
“True, but I took those as givens.”
“Stay with me, boys,” Khadi said. “Let’s just play this out a bit. What possible reasons could the bad guys have for using an obvious code sign?”
“They’re stupid?” offered Scott.
“Try a little harder, Mr. Wizard,” countered Khadi.
“To show power?” said Evie. “You know, ‘Look how strong we are, we’ve got all these sleeper cells activating.’”
“Maybe it’s a distraction,” suggested Gooey. “We’re all looking for these cells—maybe real, maybe not—while they’ve got some big thing planned.”
“Could be fear,” said Scott. “Imagine what would happen if the media got hold of this. Twenty-five sleeper cells ready to wreak havoc on America. Think of what would happen to the stock market.”
Khadi was nodding. “Fear fits. Remember Hakeem Qasim’s big thing was to create fear. Fear in your city. Fear in your neighborhood.”
“And not just in your neighborhood, but of your neighbor,” said Tara.
Hicks jumped in. “Okay, sounds like we’ve got reason enough not to rule out a mass sleeper awakening. Tara, I’m guessing they’ve disguised their tracks fairly well on those calls, but I’d still like you and the kids to try to get me sources and receivers on each one of them.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Scott and Khadi, I want you to run out the scenarios for each of these options—power play, distraction, and fear.”
“And stupid?” asked Scott.
“And stupid. We all know that isn’t out of the realm of possibilities either with these guys. I want to take reports home with me tonight, so that means you have exactly six hours and twenty-nine minutes to get them to me.” Hicks got up and walked to his office. Just before going in, he turned and said, “Good work, gang.”
But everyone was already too involved in their discussions to hear him. Hicks went into his office, sat down, and kicked his feet up on the desk. A satisfied smile spread across his face. This was exactly what he had hoped for when he brought this team together. Maybe being a suit isn’t that bad after all.
CHAPTER NINE
TUESDAY, MAY 12, 9:15 P.M. EDT NEW YORK CITY
The fan slowly cycled back and forth, causing the collar on Isaac Khan’s work shirt to flap up and tap him on the jaw every ten seconds or so. But rather than shift positions or adjust the fan, he sat perfectly still on an old chair in his tiny studio apartment, staring.
A cockroach skittered across the small kitchen table and stopped when it detected Isaac’s thick right forearm. A standoff ensued, the cockroach staring at the hairy arm, Isaac staring at his bed. Finally, after sensing no movement, the insect pushed ahead, lightly brushing against the man’s elbow, causing Isaac to absentmindedly sweep the fingers of his left hand across his arm.
At last Isaac emitted an incredulous sigh, stood up, and walked to his front door. Opening it, he examined the locks and the doorjamb. No sign of forced entry. Then how? He closed the door, relocked the three dead bolts, and returned t
o his chair.
A smile came to his face. I guess this means that I truly have not been forgotten.
The past week had been torture for Isaac. The elation he had experienced following the initial phone call had gradually turned to frustration as he waited day after day for instructions.
Soon the frustrations had turned to doubt. Had he really heard those words: Awake, O Sleeper? Had something happened to the person who was supposed to tell him his next steps? Had he forgotten some special orders from long ago? Had he been contacted only to be forgotten again?
All these questions and doubts had been answered today by the three mysterious backpacks that sat across the small room on his bed. They hadn’t been there when he left for work this morning, yet there they were now. What do they contain? What are they for? He knew the answers to these questions would be in the envelope propped against the center backpack. There was one word written on the bright white paper—Warrior.
Isaac started to get up to retrieve the envelope but then sat back down. Fear and excitement battled each other in his mind. Warrior. Can that really be me? It’s been so long since I’ve fought—so long since I’ve killed. Warrior? Oh, Allah, please forgive my unbelief.
Finally, Isaac took the two steps from the table to the bed. He reached for the left backpack, wanting to feel its bulk, but then quickly drew back his hand. Patience! What if there is something in the envelope telling you not to pick up the backpacks?
Feeling like he just dodged a bullet, Isaac lifted the envelope. It was thick and heavy. He stepped back to the table and laid it down on the chipped Formica top. Tea, he thought, leaving the envelope and walking around to his kitchenette. Something like this cannot be started without tea.
Isaac filled the teakettle and put it on a hot plate. After getting down a glass mug, his can of tea leaves, and two sugar cubes, he began chastising himself. What are you afraid of? You are a grown man, but you are acting like a child! Shaking his head, he sat in his other chair, reached across the small table, and picked up the envelope. He slid the handle of his teaspoon into the corner of the seal and roughly pulled it across.
A gasp escaped his mouth when he pulled out the contents. There were five thin packets of one hundred dollar bills, each with a band stamped with $1,000 wrapped around it. Isaac had never seen that much money in one place at one time. He resisted the urge to count through the money and instead lifted the rest of the contents.
In his hand he held three documents. Unfolding the first, he found a computer-printed map with a large X on it. The second and third documents were similar to the first but displayed different locations. A shudder went through his body as he realized what he was being asked to do. He fell to his knees and raised his hands to heaven.
“Oh, Allah, I declare that you are one! Thank you for calling me to your service. Give me the strength and the determination to carry out whatever tasks you lay before me. There is no God but you. There is no God but you. There is no God but you. . . .” Isaac repeated these words over and over. His prayer blended with the steam from his whistling kettle, and they both slowly ascended to heaven.
TUESDAY, MAY 12, 8:30 P.M. CDT
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Mohsin Ghani breathed into a paper bag that still smelled of his breakfast egg and cheese biscuit. It had been four minutes since this bag had become his primary air source, and he was only now beginning to get himself under control.
Somehow in the past week, Mohsin had convinced himself that they had decided not to use him. Maybe they had gone a different direction. Maybe they had realized how much more he could benefit their cause by remaining in the position he was in. Maybe they discovered what a coward he really was. However, all those hopes had crashed to the ground the moment he sat down in his Mercedes Roadster. There, on the steering wheel, resting against the protruding speedometer and tachometer, was an envelope.
Mohsin slowly opened his eyes, praying that maybe he had been mistaken. Maybe he was sick and didn’t know it and was simply having a hallucination. Maybe he had forgotten that he had placed a bill there that needed to be taken care of after work. Maybe . . . maybe . . . But there it sat. “‘Warrior!’” he screamed. “Who are they kidding?”
Angrily, he snatched the envelope off the steering column and ripped it open. Inside were four sheets of paper. The first was a Google map with an X.
“What is this? Am I supposed to meet somebody here? Do they think I’m a pirate looking for buried treasure? Idiots!” He angrily tossed the first sheet onto the passenger seat and saw that the second was a map like the first. “Could you people have at least left some instructions? I’m not a mind reader! This is ridiculous!” The second map joined the first, and a third map was about to meet the same fate when he stopped cold.
His hand began to tremble as he looked at the fourth sheet. There was no map on that page. There was only the hand-printed word Trunk.
Sweat broke out all over Mohsin’s body, and he could feel his breathing rate beginning to increase. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “No . . . No . . . No, no, no!” Mohsin slammed his fist into the passenger seat with each word. He grabbed the wheel with both hands and cried out, “Oh, God! What should I do? Help me, help me, help me!”
Leaning forward, he rested his head against the warm leather of the steering wheel. After a couple of minutes, Mohsin said, “Come on, you can do this. You can do this!” Mustering all his courage, he reached out and pressed the trunk release.
His legs felt rubbery as he stepped out of the car, and he steadied himself on the roof, leaving streaky fingerprints on the glossy black finish. Before going to the rear of the sports car, he reached back in and grabbed his paper bag.
“Come on, Mohsin, you know you can do this,” he muttered to himself. “What could be back there—a body?” He tried to chuckle, but the resulting wet spurt betrayed his anxiety. “Quit being ridiculous. It’s probably just more instructions. Be a man!”
With the bag in one hand and the lid in the other, Mohsin thrust open the trunk. Inside were three large backpacks laid side by side. A dull matte black handgun lay on the middle pack.
Mohsin’s knees buckled, and his weight drove the lid down, sealing away the trunk’s contents. Spinning himself around, he leaned against the back of the car and began again to breathe in the stale smell of breakfast.
TUESDAY, MAY 12, 7:45 P.M. MDT
LONE TREE, COLORADO
Abdullah Muhammad’s contact had come earlier in the day via a series of coded text messages. When the first one had beeped through and he had seen the gibberish written there, a surge of adrenaline had rushed through his body. After all the waiting, waiting, waiting, with a flick of Allah’s hand and a message across his cell phone screen, his time had finally come!
Abdullah had immediately pulled his patrol car into a Burger King parking lot. After copying the messages down in his notebook, he had quickly deleted the texts from his cell phone. The page was then torn out of the notebook and tucked down deep in his wallet.
Finishing out his shift that day had taken what seemed an eternity—making the stops, writing the tickets, taking the reports. When he finally walked out of the precinct, he did it knowing that he would never step foot back in.
At first, rather than just not showing up anymore, Abdullah had thought of quitting the police force or taking a leave of absence. However, both of those options would require him to give up his badge, and he really wanted to keep that useful piece of hardware for the activities to come. So Abdullah simply became a ghost instead.
He drove his car from the precinct out to Denver International Airport, where he parked it in a long-term lot. After changing clothes in his car and stuffing his old clothes under the seat, he pulled a baseball cap low onto his head and walked to the terminal. There he caught a cab. He directed the taxi to drop him off downtown, where he picked up the light rail F line and rode it south to its termination in Lone Tree. From there it was a quick walk to
an apartment he had kept rented for the past two years but had as yet never slept in.
This trendy singles location served Abdullah’s needs perfectly. The area was filled with high turnover apartments and condos that were populated by young professionals who cherished their anonymity. And because of the nearby light rail, Abdullah could keep the car he had purchased for this second life parked in the same place for a week at a time without raising any suspicions.
As the key turned the lock and the latch clicked, Abdullah felt that he was opening the door to a new beginning—his true person. Without bothering to lock the door behind him, he strode through the entryway, past the bare living room walls, and right to the bookshelf by the sliding glass door. He pulled out his Everyman’s Library edition of Naguib Mahfouz’s The Cairo Trilogy and picked up a yellow pad of paper that he kept on the bookshelf. Both items he took to the glass dining table. Abdullah then pulled out his wallet and retrieved the coded message. Impulsively, he pressed the piece of paper to his lips. All the years of waiting have finally come to an end.
The first two numbers told him to open to chapter 57. Then, using the text of the book as his key, he proceeded to decipher the code. His heel tapped rapidly in anticipation as he worked. Slow down; slow down, he chastised himself. Now is not the time to be making mistakes.
With each new phrase his excitement grew as his destiny was revealed to him. It wasn’t until he got to the end of the fifty-plus-word message that the full brutal force of what he was being asked to do hit him.
Abdullah was ashamed to admit it, but he was rocked. He had known he would be asked to do something terrible, but this was violent beyond anything he had imagined. Stop it! Can you really be surprised? You are a warrior, and you are being asked to act like a warrior. This is not a time to question.
But, oh, my Lord, this is so . . . so . . . hands-on! This is so bloody! Oh, Allah, can this really be in your will? Abdullah began pacing around the apartment. Remember who you are, he chastised himself again. You are simply a tool in Allah’s hands. People greater than you have been given the words of truth. They are the ones who can discern his will. Who are you to question them? You can do this! You will do this! Allah will give you the strength.
