Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  Ziafat’s voice went on, but Riley was no longer paying attention to it. Creeping up behind Ziafat were six players—two defensive linemen, three offensive linemen, and a fullback. All eyes in the locker room were on these men.

  When they were a few feet behind Ziafat, they pounced. All six players drove the rookie to the ground and held him there while he struggled and squirmed. Chris Gorkowski ran up with a full box of athletic tape in one hand and a jar of Vaseline in the other.

  The players began grabbing tape out of the box and wrapping it around Ziafat. Cheers and taunts sounded through the locker room. Soon Ziafat looked like a giant white cigar with a head sticking out the top and a couple of shoes at the bottom. Riley noticed that even though he was yelling threats at the players, Ziafat was laughing the whole time. They stood him up, and Gorkowski stepped in and coated the tape with a thick layer of Vaseline.

  Riley just shook his head. Trying to get athletic tape off is a pain; trying to pull up a corner when it’s covered with Vaseline is nearly impossible. As Gorkowski was finishing, Ziafat turned to Riley and said with a smile, “Sucks to be a rookie.”

  “No doubt.”

  No sooner were the words out of Riley’s mouth then Ziafat was hoisted up on the shoulders of the offensive linemen and taken into the training room. Riley listened until he heard the splash of something very large being dumped into the ice tub and the accompanying cheer. Hopefully they dropped him in feetfirst, Riley thought, knowing Ziafat would be stuck in the tub until some trainer had pity on him and helped pull him out. Then he would spend the next hour or two trying to get the tape off.

  Keith Simmons came to his locker, three down from Riley’s. He was laughing as he sat down.

  “Mr. Simmons, did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Me? Why, Mr. Covington, you know it is my express goal to make every rookie feel right at home here with the Colorado Mustangs.”

  Riley stood up and started getting undressed for the showers. “Yeah, you’re a regular welcome wagon.”

  “Just doing my part. Besides, with how low everyone was feeling today, I figured we needed something to lighten the mood.”

  Riley chuckled and turned to Simmons. “You’re probably right. Did you notice his reaction, though? He wasn’t screaming and cussing like most guys do. He was just laughing and taking it.”

  “Yeah, it kind of takes the fun out of it. You know who he reminded me of?”

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” Riley asked, surprised.

  “Definitely you. When you got taped, you were laughing and making fun of the offensive linemen. You kept daring Gorkowski to use more and more Vaseline. Finally I got so frustrated at your attitude that I strapped a piece of tape across your mouth.”

  Riley laughed. “I had forgotten about that. My lips were chapped for a week. Some things you just try to block out.”

  “Yeah, well, I think you and the rook might have more in common than you think.”

  We might have, Riley thought as he moved toward the showers. Riley felt a moment of guilt when the hot water shot out of the nozzle and hit his body, knowing what the ice bath must be doing to Ziafat . . . but it was just a moment. Sucks to be a rookie. No doubt.

  CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

  SATURDAY, MAY 16, 11:00 A.M. MDT FRONT RANGE RESPONSE TEAM HEADQUARTERS DENVER, COLORADO

  There was excitement as the team gathered back together around the table. At one end, Gooey was in conference with Joey Williamson. A large flat-screen monitor had already been raised out of its cabinet, and a small portable control board sat in front of Gooey.

  Scott could sense the feeling in the room—like racehorses ready to break out of the gate. Good; that means they’re not coming back empty-handed. After taking a long pull on his mug, he called to Khadi, who was still at her workstation with her phone headset on. “Give me one more minute,” she replied, then went back to her conversation.

  Khadi’ll have to play catch-up. It’s time to get this ball rolling. Turning to Virgil Hernandez, Scott asked, “So, how’d you do hacking into the intel?”

  “The world was our oyster,” Hernandez said with a twinkle in his eye. “Expect irate calls from the FBI, CIA, headquarters of Homeland, and various and sundry other law enforcement agencies.”

  “They’ll get over it. So what’d you come up with?”

  “Hold on,” Khadi interrupted. She was just taking her seat and seemed very excited. “I just got off the phone with Jennifer Buehler over at the New England Response Team.”

  She paused, apparently waiting for the typical response from the analysts when their New England counterparts were mentioned. Sure enough, a chorus of robotic-sounding voices sang out, “NERT! NERT! NERT!”

  Khadi continued, “Jen’s just sent me their footage from the subway attack. Gooey, pull the file up off my e-mail. I already know you’ve hacked my password.”

  “Sure thing,” Gooey sheepishly replied.

  “Busted,” Williamson said under his breath.

  The flat screen flashed to life showing Khadi’s computer desktop. Gooey went to her e-mail and quickly typed in her password, causing snickers from the other analysts. Pulling up the file, Gooey made the video go full screen. It was a wide shot of the lower level of the 8th Street subway station in Philadelphia. A train was just pulling up.

  Khadi picked up the narrative. “This train stops, and the crowd disembarks. Gooey, put a highlight on the orange hat—no, the limping guy—yeah, that’s him. He shuffles over to the bench and sets his backpack next to himself. Okay, you can double-time the video . . until . . . now! Watch his hand. It slips down his backpack, and then he pockets something that he pulled from the back of it. Go ahead and double-time it again. . . . There! He gets up and heads for the stairs—notice no more limp and no backpack. Go forward again. Minute and a half later . . . boom!”

  “What happens to our suspect?” Tara Walsh asked.

  “I think Jen’s team spliced the video together. Go forward, Gooey. . . . Yeah, here we go. He comes up the stairs and starts heading toward the train. Boom! He joins the panicking people heading for the exit. Tag him again with a highlight, because he’s going to try to lose us. He’s in the crowd, when—there!—he dumps the hat. He moves up the stairs, but unfortunately, he vanishes after that. NERT’s still processing through other bank and surveillance cameras trying to pick him up again after he gets out of the station.”

  “Khadi, call NERT back, thank them profusely for the video, then ask them to send the raw footage from every camera in the area,” said Scott. “I don’t want to rely on their analysts. Gooey, go back to the best frame we have of his face.”

  “We don’t have much,” Gooey answered, quickly backing through the video. He found a frame, and then began pounding some keys trying to clean up the picture.

  “Lighten up on the board,” Hernandez chastised him. “That’s government property.”

  Ignoring him, Gooey said, “Here we go. That’s about as pretty as I can get it.”

  “Tara, tell me what you see,” Scott said.

  “Extremely hard to tell. His features possibly put him as Middle Eastern—”

  “No surprise there,” Scott interrupted.

  “No, but what’s got me a little confused is what seems to be his age. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be in his fifties to sixties.”

  “Interesting. Not your typical young punk with a bomb belt. Gooey, when we finish here, I want cleaning up this picture to be your highest priority. Then shoot it off to every police and intelligence agency on God’s green earth.”

  “Scott, I think NERT’s doing that already,” Khadi pointed out.

  “Let them do it. Gooey’ll triple the resolution, then give them something they can actually work with.”

  “Point well taken,” Khadi acquiesced.

  Scott turned to Hernandez. “Okay, your turn. What’d you find?”

  “Well, the FBI was working w
ith LAPD, piecing together footage of the Hollywood attack. Gooey and Williamson found it on the LAPD server and kinda borrowed it. Goo-man?”

  Gooey punched a few more keys, and the scene on the monitor changed to an overhead view of the red carpet walk in Hollywood.

  Hernandez continued, “Now, the blast originated in the media pool. They’re so packed together, it’s almost impossible to see any bags or equipment. So instead, we focused on who was coming and who was going.”

  Williamson jumped in. “Goo and I were specifically watching the camera pit. You’ll notice, not many people leaving. The few who do are all carrying equipment, or at least a camera bag. That is, until Legs Houlihan.”

  “Who?” Khadi asked.

  “Just a nickname,” Williamson apologized. Gooey stopped the video and zoomed in on the back of a young woman. Scott whistled until a glare from Tara stopped him mid-blow.

  Williamson continued, “Now, check her out. All she’s taking out of the camera pit is her little purse thingy. Six minutes later, the bomb blows.”

  “A girl with a ‘purse thingy’ is not much to go on,” Tara pointed out.

  “True,” Scott said, “but it’s better than anything else we’ve got. Awesome work, you guys! Evie, you start working on this girl’s pic, then run it past Goo before you send it out.”

  “Got it!”

  Suddenly, Hicks burst out of his office and began running down the steps to the table. “We’ve got a note! Gooey, move over; I’ve got to bring up my e-mail.”

  “It’s okay, boss; I’ll get it.”

  “How . . . ? Never mind; we’ll talk later.”

  “Where’d they find it?” Scott asked as he stood up to give Hicks his seat.

  “A sheriff in Wallace County, Kansas, picked it up at a triple murder.”

  “Say what? A murder?”

  “Yeah. They say it was a nasty one. Mom, Dad, and a twelve-year-old son. Hacked up pretty badly.” A collective groan sounded around the table.

  “Are they sure this is connected?” Tara asked. “If it is, this is a different M.O. than any terrorist attack we’ve seen before.”

  “Apparently the note spells it out. How you coming on my e-mail, Gooey?”

  “Got it.”

  The flat screen now flashed from a still of Hollywood to a handwritten sheet of paper. Each person read the note quietly to themselves.

  In the name of Allah the Judge,

  Let it be known that the punishment of Allah has visited America.

  The Great Satan has felt the mighty hand of a greater God. For America’s self-indulgence, for her imperialism, for her support of the Zionist occupation, for her occupation of Iraq, for her exportation of cultural filth, for all these things, Allah has meted out justice upon the once-mighty Western whore.

  Let it be known that no child of Satan is safe from the hand of Allah. We have demonstrated our ability to strike you in your subways, in your universities, at the celebrations of your decadent media that spreads through the world like an immoral plague, and in your very homes. No place is safe—not your big cities, not your small villages. Wherever you are, the Cause will be there too.

  Let it be known that this is a first strike. Allah’s wrath will not end until America has been brought back down to the mud out of which she rose.

  Allahu Akbar! In the name of Allah and his prophet Muhammad! The Cause will strike again! Allahu Akbar!

  “At least we definitely know who we’re dealing with,” Scott said. “What I’m trying to figure out is the ‘universities’ comment.”

  “That threw me, too,” Hicks said.

  “I think we’ve got to get the FBI checking any suspicious activity on any campus. That’s too big for us,” Tara said.

  Hicks nodded. “Good call. That’s an intel nightmare. You make the contact.”

  “Will do.”

  “Scott, I need to talk with you in my office, and then you and I are going to check out the Kansas scene where the note was found. Everyone else, from now on you live here. By policy, I can’t ask you for more than twelve hours a day. You know what I think of policy. Your whole purpose in life right now is to figure out where the leaders of the Cause are and what they’re doing still alive. Remember, any time off you take could translate into bodies.”

  “No pressure,” Gooey said as he moved toward his workstation.

  As they all stood up, Evie said, “Guess that kills my weekend plans.”

  “What were your weekend plans?” asked Khadi.

  “To get a life outside of my job.”

  Khadi smiled. “It’s time you learn now, sweetheart. If you want a life, you’re in the wrong business.”

  Scott laughed at Khadi’s comment. This is definitely not the job path for someone who wants to settle down with a wife, 2.5 kids, and a golden retriever—not necessarily in that order. He grabbed his mug and followed Hicks up to his office, then dropped into his usual chair, kicking his Birkenstocks up onto the wide desk.

  “What’s up, mein commandant?”

  “First of all, I want you to get those guys down there to quit hacking everyone’s passwords.”

  Scott leaned back in his chair and put a reflective tone to his voice, “Ahh, Jim, Jim, Jim. You may as well ask me to make the fish to stop swimming, the birds to stop flying, the dogs to stop sniffing each other’s—”

  “Listen, just make them stop. It creeps me out thinking that everything I write is open to their prying little eyes. Second, with al-’Aqran securely tucked away in a CIA black prison, I want to know who’s running the Cause.”

  “That’s a good question,” Scott answered, sitting up straight. “We know they have leadership in the Middle East, but we don’t know much about who or where. Al-’Aqran’s number two man, Mohammad Zahir, was taken out when we rescued Riley in Italy. His son, Babrak, is a seriously bad character, but he’s almost certainly too young to have a real leadership position. The only other guy we really know of is Hamad bin Salih Asaf. He’s a networking guy. It’s very possible that he might have stepped up.”

  Hicks sat for a moment, thinking. Then he picked up the phone. “I’m going to give Charlie Anderson a call at CIA and ask him to run it up the line to squeeze al-’Aqran a little more for some answers.”

  “I think I’ll probably have better results asking the kids to stop stealing your password,” Scott said, raising an eyebrow.

  His prediction turned out to be accurate. He shook his head as he listened.

  “Hey, Charlie, this is Jim Hicks. . . . Yeah, thanks, it’s a pretty good gig. Listen, I know you’re busy, but I wanted to ask you a favor. I’m sure you’re up on the note found with the family in Kansas. . . . Yeah, it’s bad stuff—totally new paradigm. What I wanted you to do is have your boys put some pressure on al-’Aqran—remember, the leader of the Cause that we handed over to you guys. . . . I know you can’t say anything about him. I’m just saying if you did happen to have him in one of your little secret hideaways, it would be a huge help to try to draw the Cause’s leadership structure out of the man . . . I’m not asking you to promise me anything, Charlie! I’m just saying . . . Listen, just call me if they find out anything. Can you at least promise me that? . . . Didn’t think so. Thanks, Charlie. As always, it’s been a joy talking to you.”

  Scott shook his head as Jim slammed down the phone. “Let me guess,” Scott said. “‘We can neither confirm nor deny our custody of said bad guy.’”

  “Exactly. I’m thinking, ‘I put the guy into CIA’s custody myself, and now you can’t even tell me you have him?’ This interagency, my-turf-your-turf secrecy crap is going to be the end of our intelligence as we know it. Even the bad guys know enough to run their information through the Hezbollah clearinghouse. If our agencies won’t talk to each other, how in the world can we expect . . . ?”

  Here it comes—the interagency turf tirade. Set the mental alarm clock for fifteen minutes. Settling back comfortably in his chair while Hicks continued to yell, Scott took a lo
ng pull on his Yoo-hoo and Code Red mix, hoping the caffeine would put at least some sparkle of interest in his eyes. Don’t let him ask a question. Please don’t let him ask a question, Scott thought as he gently drifted off to his quiet, soothing little happy place—a deserted little island populated by himself, Tara Walsh, an endless supply of piña colada mix, and nothing else.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MONDAY, MAY 18, 2:30 A.M. CDT CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  The Superior 110 building rose a gallant twenty-seven stories above West Superior Street in downtown Chicago. The luxury-living high-rise boasted a panoramic view of Old Town, Michigan Avenue, the Gold Coast, the Loop, and River North. A twenty-four-hour doorman greeted and checked everyone who entered, and each lavish living space was decked out with a high-tech alarm system and a closed-circuit camera. Everything in the building was designed for safety and security.

  But all that was of little comfort to Mohsin Ghani when he woke up with a gun pressed firmly against his forehead.

  Mohsin blinked twice, hoping he was dreaming, but the cold steel on his warm flesh made it very clear that this was all too real. “W-who are you?”

  The large shadow that hovered over him brought a finger to his mouth. “Shhh, don’t speak.”

  Considering Mohsin was just this side of speechless anyway, it was an easy request for him to fulfill. But although his mouth was still, his mind started racing. You knew they were going to come for you! You just didn’t know it would be like this!

  Mohsin’s breathing rate started increasing, and claustrophobia set in. The sheets and comforter that he had pulled tight around himself only a few hours ago now felt like a straitjacket. It’s okay, it’s okay. Calm down! Just do what he says. He could have killed you already, and he hasn’t. You’ve thought this all through. Let them see what you can do in your position. If that fails, offer this man money!