by Jason Elam
“But—,” Gooey pleaded.
“Now!” Scott demanded.
Gooey turned and glared at him, then spurted out, “Illegalgamblinghousesecuritycamera!”
Scott, half frustrated and half intrigued, sighed and said, “Okay, out with it.”
Gooey’s big smile showed his variously gapped teeth. “You guys know my sister is with LAPD, right?”
“You have a sister?” asked Joey Williamson.
“A female Gooey. Ewww,” said Evie.
“So, anyway, I give her a call,” Gooey proceeded, ignoring their comments with aplomb. “I have her racking her brains trying to think of another camera we’ve missed. Then she remembered this punk clothing store that has illegal gambling in the back. PD knows about it, but they let them keep it open because they run undercover ops out of it. This place is apparently big on security, so they have these mega-expensive cameras hidden outside the door and on the street.
“When Homeland put out the call for all video in the area, these guys are obviously not going to go announcing they’ve got tapes. So, I ask Bunny—”
“Bunny?” coughed Virgil Hernandez after losing his mouthful of bottled water.
“—to pay them a visit. She gets the video, no questions asked, which is actually on disc. Uploads it to me. And this is what I found.”
Gooey pressed enter on his keyboard and his thirty-inch flat panel display filled with the image of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman in the process of walking down the sidewalk.
A low whistle emanated from Williamson, who then said, “I told you she’d be a looker.”
“Careful what you say, Joey,” said Hernandez. “I think the current politically correct term is ‘hottie’.”
“Both of you, shut it,” said Scott. Although he, too, was struck by her beauty, he didn’t want to let that cloud his judgment. “Don’t forget what she’s accused of doing. Goo, you’re sure this is the same woman who ducked out the back of the media crowd?”
“No doubt,” Gooey answered, and with a few more keystrokes, he split the screen with the current picture on the right and a still of the woman leaving the site of the movie premier on the left. “These two pictures were taken two blocks and three and a half minutes apart.”
“Tighten up on her face,” Khadi commanded. Gooey complied.
“Look at her features,” Khadi continued, using her finger to trace the woman’s cheekbones and lips. “She’s definitely Arab. I’d say Saudi or one of the Gulf states. Gooey, can you run the video of her walking?”
“Coming right up.” The screen changed and the cars in the background began moving. The woman appeared in the screen, walked five steps, and then disappeared under the camera’s view.
“That’s what I thought. Run it back one more time. Now watch her posture—straight up and down. This girl was not raised in a slum.”
“Good call, Khadi,” Scott said. He paused for a moment to quickly think through a plan of attack. “Okay, here’s what we do. Goo, clean up that picture best you can. Also, if Khadi’s right about her being Arab, then this girl potentially has dark hair, and I’m guessing that the blonde muskrat she has on her head probably ended up as roadkill on the side of the highway somewhere. So, put together a spread with her having blonde hair and black hair. Then send it and the video around to all of us.
“We’ll want to get this to all other agencies and the media, but not quite yet. If she sees herself, we’ll lose her. Before we do that, Virgil and Evie, I want you to do a facial analysis and run her through every database we can get our hands on.”
“Start with Middle Eastern work and visitor visas,” Tara added.
“Excellent,” said Scott. “This girl doesn’t look like she came in trekking across the Coahuila countryside. I’m going to give you twenty-four hours to ID this chick. After that, we’re going to have to let it out. Goo, send the pics to me first. I’m going to go brief Jim.”
Everyone quickly moved back to their workstations. Scott knew this group prided itself on being better than anyone else—on being able to find what no one else could find. The threat of bringing other agencies in was the best motivator he could have given. As he ascended the steps to Jim’s office, watching the flurry of activity below, he prayed they had enough time to find this woman before she struck again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WEDNESDAY, MAY 20, 7:00 P.M. PDT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Naheed Yamani was in an extremely bad mood, and the wind that was noisily whipping the flags above her head wasn’t helping.
She was angry with herself for not realizing that her new LaROK French army jacket would do nothing to keep out the cool, damp San Francisco air. She was angry with her friend June Waller for leaving fifteen “Are you all right? Is everything okay with us?” messages on her cell phone, when all Naheed wanted was for her to go away.
But most of all she was angry with her contact for insisting on a face-to-face meeting, then making her wait for a half hour in Union Square with only the Macy’s storefront to look at. I should have said no, Naheed chastised herself. This is way out of standard operating procedure. I should have insisted we keep to our regular system. But she hadn’t, and now she was here . . . waiting.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she hunched over to protect her body from the wind and stared at the ground. This is ridiculous! I’ll give him five more minutes; then I’m out of here.
She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her—to her right, the metallic roll and clanging bell of a cable car passing; behind her, a homeless man cursing a tourist who had refused him money; next to her, a pigeon cooing down by her foot. She opened her eyes and saw that the bird was closer than she was comfortable with, so she gave the colorful male a quick kick.
Suddenly, another foot appeared next to her on the bench, and a voice said, “You’re just way too pretty to be sitting here all alone.”
Naheed looked up. This is definitely not my contact. A handsome, dark-haired young man wearing a UC Berkeley T-shirt was grinning at her and leaning a little too far into her personal space. About twenty-five feet back, she could see two of his buddies watching and laughing.
Naheed just stared at him.
Apparently he was a guy whose good looks usually paid better dividends around the sorority houses, because he seemed genuinely surprised that she wasn’t falling all over herself in his presence. Slightly flustered, he said, “Don’t worry, gorgeous, I leave a lot of girls speechless. How about I buy you a drink and we’ll see if we can loosen you up a bit?” His grin turned into a wide, toothy smile.
Still without saying anything, Naheed adjusted her gaze from “go away I’m not interested” to “I’ve killed once and I’m not averse to doing it again.”
The artificially whitened smile quickly evaporated. Slowly backing away, the guy said, “Hey, miss, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just joking with you.”
Naheed watched as he quickly turned and rejoined his friends. One of them must have made a smart remark, because the guy pushed him hard, then stomped off. The other two followed.
“Who is your friend?” said a heavily accented voice to Naheed’s right. Turning, she saw a Middle Eastern man whose age could have been anywhere from forty to sixty—the baseball cap, sunglasses, and scars made it difficult to tell.
“Where have you been?” Naheed countered.
“That is none of your business, girl,” the man said with his eyebrows raised.
“And my friend is none of yours,” Naheed snapped back. “Now tell me why you broke protocol and insisted on this meeting.”
The man nodded. “They told me about you. Let us see if we can start again. My deepest apologies for being late.”
Naheed, feeling good that she had so quickly gained the upper hand, said, “You are forgiven.”
“Thank you,” the man said with a small bow. He stepped in front of Naheed, then took the place next to her on the bench. “Please allow me to in
troduce myself. My name is Jibril.”
“Right—you’re Jibril . . . the messenger angel. If your name’s Jibril, then I’m Azra’il,” Naheed replied, tired already of this man’s games and his forward demeanor.
Jibril laughed—a confident laugh that bespoke experience and control. Naheed began wondering if she really did have the upper hand. “Na’am, I may not really be named after the great revealer of the Koran, peace be upon him, but you—you truly are the beautiful angel of death.
“You asked why I broke ‘protocol,’ as you call it. I wanted to meet you to thank you in person for the work you have done on behalf of the Cause.”
“So, you’ve thanked me. I’m cold and hungry. May I go?”
Again Jibril laughed. “Why are you in such a rush? We have things to speak of. Then maybe I can take you to a place where we can both warm up and have a good meal.” He stretched his arm along the back of the bench, lightly touching Naheed’s back. She bristled at the contact and leaned forward, causing Jibril to chuckle, but without the same good humor as before. “Sit back and pretend that we like each other. We do not want to attract attention. We are just a man and woman enjoying each other’s company.”
Who does this guy think he is? “We look more like a father and the daughter of his waning years,” Naheed responded, reluctantly returning her back to the bench.
A hard thumb suddenly dug under Naheed’s shoulder blade, causing her to flinch, but she bit her lip before she could cry out. Water formed in her eyes.
Jibril leaned close to her ear. She could smell curry and stale coffee on his breath. “I have lived too long and seen too much to be disrespected by a little girl like you. You are just a cog in a wheel; a first step of many steps to come. This is not all about you, so stop acting like I should care about your feelings. Do you understand me, child?”
Naheed rapidly nodded her head. The thumb pushed deeper, then pulled back, resting on a place alongside her spine. Naheed’s shoulder spasmed twice, then settled.
Okay, just get through this, Naheed thought. Try to show respect, and then get out as soon as you can. “What do you want from me, sayyid?”
“Oh, the formality. Please, call me Jibril. And it is not I who want anything from you. Remember,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “Jibril is just a messenger. What is important is what our leader wants from you.”
“You mean the one-eyed man?” burst out from Naheed’s lips before she could stop it. She had often had nightmares about the old man who had visited her at her training camp graduation.
A dark look flashed across Jibril’s face—fear mixed with anger. But just as quickly, his smooth, in-control demeanor returned.
Very interesting, thought Naheed. I think I may have hit closer to the truth than I expected. She mentally filed it away for future exploration.
“You are not here to ask questions, young Azra’il. You are here to listen. At four o’clock Friday afternoon, you are to drive to Pier 39. In your trunk you will find a backpack, same as the one before. You are to carry it to the kurradj—”
“The kurradj? You mean the carousel.”
“Na’am, the carousel. There you are to arm the device, and then walk away. Simple as that.” Now an intensity entered Jibril’s voice that Naheed hadn’t heard before. “However, if you sense any trouble along the way, you will use the emergency detonator. Do not let yourself or the device fall into the hands of the evil ones. Do you understand?”
Naheed gave a bitter laugh. “Why do I sense that you are more concerned about the device than about me?”
Jibril spread his hand across her back, leaving his palm resting on the clasp of her bra. The physical contact made Naheed cringe inside.
“We are all expendable—even the angel of death,” he said with a laugh. “Now, our interview is concluded. Would you care to join me for a meal?”
The only thing Naheed wanted was for this man to leave and for herself to take a long, hot, cleansing shower. “Thank you, sayyid, but I must decline. I haven’t felt well since this morning.”
“Of course, womanly things. We will plan to dine next time. In the meantime, may the peace of Allah be upon you,” Jibril said as he rose to go.
“And upon you,” Naheed mumbled, thankful to see this man leave.
However, just as he was nearly standing, he dropped back down. Putting one hand on Naheed’s cold-numbed knee and cradling her chin with the other, Jibril said, “Maybe next time we meet, things will not be so tense. We can gather as two friends—fellow warriors in the same struggle. I would like to get to know you better, Naheed Azra’il.”
When Naheed didn’t respond, Jibril smiled, gave her knee a painful squeeze, and left.
Thankful to be free of him, Naheed stood and hurriedly made her way back to her car parked around the corner at the Ellis-O’Farrell Garage. As she went, she couldn’t shake the feeling of Jibril’s calloused fingers on her face nor the look of death in his eyes. He is the one who should be named Azra’il! What has he seen—what has he done in his life? She shuddered.
Arriving at her MINI Cooper, she dropped into the seat and started the car but couldn’t bring herself to put the car in gear. The trembling was making her too unsteady to drive. She reached over and turned the heat on full blast, knowing full well that the temperature was only a small part of the reason she couldn’t stop shaking.
Another bomb, and this one at a carousel on a Friday afternoon when it’s sure to be packed with kids! Is this really what I signed up for? I thought I’d be assassinating leaders or sabotaging military installations. But blowing up kids on a Friday afternoon?
The hot air soaking into her body helped soften her nerves. You always said you’d do this only as long as you wanted. When it didn’t feel right anymore, you’d have Grandpa help make you disappear back home. So think—do you still really want to do this?
Naheed was starting to get hot now, so she turned down the heater. The car slipped easily into gear. Just one more, she told herself as she drove. Just one more to prove myself, then I’ll insist on something different. If they say no, then I’ll be done. But if they say yes, then the real adventure will finally begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THURSDAY, MAY 21, 8:15 A.M. MDT PARKER, COLORADO
“Covington Dad Killed in Bomb Blast” was printed across the top of the still-folded Denver Post. Below the headline was the top half of a picture that allowed Riley to see the devastation to his parents’ barn. He had been leaning against the island in his kitchen staring at that photo for ten minutes now, but he couldn’t bring himself to unfold the paper. How could somebody do this? What must have happened to Dad when that went off?
Finally, when he could take it no more, Riley stepped around the side of the island and pressed his foot down on the lever that opened the trash can. The lid went up, the paper swept in, the lid went down. One problem solved. But Riley knew that was the smallest of the problems he would be facing today.
When Riley had asked Skeeter yesterday evening to join Grandpa and himself for a planning session, Skeeter had wanted to take the night to process through Riley’s request. Riley had put up a brief argument, but, because he was so emotionally drained, he’d given up much sooner than normally he would.
Grandpa and Riley had eaten a quiet homemade dinner delivered by Pastor Tim Clayton’s wife, Ashlee, then retired to the great room. There they told funny stories about Jerry Covington for a few hours until they were too sad to talk anymore. Giving each other a final long hug, the two grieving men retired to their bedrooms, where both had lain awake for most of the night wrestling with their own despondencies.
Now, despite being as physically and emotionally wiped out as he’d ever been, Riley was still feeling the itch—the itch to do something. He had never been one to whom waiting came naturally. There were people out there who had hurt not just his family but also hundreds more families in recent attacks. Now they were coming after him. Inactivity was simply not an option.
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Riley pulled three small pans off a hanging rack and dropped them onto his range. Turning three of the six dials to medium, he called out, “Ten minutes until breakfast!”
Grandpa’s voice echoed from upstairs. “I’ll be there!”
Skeeter didn’t respond from his place by the front door. Riley wondered if he had moved at all last night.
Extra-virgin olive oil circled each pan exactly one and a half times; then, while that heated up, Riley began cracking eggs into a large bowl. Last night, after heading upstairs, he’d had a chance to talk with his mom for a short time. That had been a very difficult conversation, full of sorrow and apologies on his side, and grace and mercy on hers. One thing she had said still stuck with him: “With all you military men in my family, I’ve always had to hold on to you with a loose grip. I put my faith in God, and He always protected you. Now, if I’ve always trusted God in the good times, how could I not trust Him in the bad times, too?”
Lord, give me that kind of faith, Riley prayed as he twisted the top off a can of spinach. You’ve given me so many good times; don’t let me bail on You just because things get tough.
He opened the refrigerator to pull out the cheese for the omelets. As he reached for a nice Swiss that he had picked up the other day, his eye caught a block of Covington Farms goat cheese. With a sigh, he made his choice and finished off the omelets.
Grandpa came down in time to butter up some toast and press the coffee. When the plates were all down, Skeeter joined the men at the table.
“Would you mind blessing the food, Gramps?”
“Of course. Precious Lord, thank You for your constant provision and Your unending grace. Guide us now as we seek Your next steps. Amen.”
Skeeter raised an eyebrow to Riley when he took the first bite of the omelet. Grandpa tasted it and grimaced. “Goat cheese, huh?”
“I thought it might be a good tribute,” Riley said quietly.
“No, it was a good thought, Riley. It’s just . . . honestly, I could never stand the stuff. I pleaded with Jerry and Winnie to open a real dairy,” Grandpa said with a laugh.
