by Jason Elam
Simmons stifled a disbelieving laugh.
“All I’m saying, my friend, is that it’s not a question of if, but when. I mean, get real! You’re Keith Simmons! The Mustangs would be fools not to sign you. But if for some reason they get a serious case of the stupids, you know there’ll be a long line of teams waiting to pay the big money for one of the best linebackers in the league.”
Simmons cracked a smile. Dude’s slick, he thought. “Go on.”
“You just set your jaw on doing what you always do. You don’t have to do anything more than that. I promise you that if they see the Keith Simmons who’s been tearing up opposing offenses for all these years, your big day will come very soon. After that, Keith Simmons won’t ever have to wonder about finances again. Keith Simmons’s kids will grow up in the best neighborhoods and end up in the best colleges. And not only them, but you’ll end up leaving a financial legacy for your grandkids and your great-grandkids and your great-great-grandkids.” A big smile spread across Cox’s face. “You just do your part, mi compadre, and I guarantee you I’ll do my end of the deal.”
Silence hung in the air for a moment. Finally, Simmons’s mouth opened into a smile wide enough to match his agent’s. He grabbed the Cinnabon that had been cooling on the table in front of him and took a huge bite. Through a mouthful of sugar and dough, Simmons said, “Don’t stop now, man. This is just getting good!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 9:00 A.M. PDT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
The cell phone rocked Naheed out of a deep slumber. She had been dreaming, but she lost the dream as soon as she awoke. All that lingered in her mind were scattered images of darkness, violence, and Jibril.
Still groggy, she reached for her phone and read the caller ID. Sarah Michaels—the name she had assigned her contact number for the Cause.
“Hello?” she said, the taste of last night’s bottle of wine thick in her mouth.
“Azra’il, still sleeping so late on the day you go to collect more souls? If I didn’t know better, I’d think your heart was not in your work.”
An unpleasant feeling swirled inside her—excitement mixed with loathing. “What do you want, Jibril?” This was not the way she wanted to begin any day, let alone a day like this.
“Taking that tone with me is not a good way to start our conversation, little girl. Would you like to try that again?”
Naheed took a deep breath. You’ve just got to get through this day. That’s it, just one more day. “Good morning, Jibril.”
“That’s much better. Now, I’m going to ask you to do something, but first I want to remind you that you are committed to following through with today’s activities. If you do not, I don’t care where you are or whom you’re hiding behind, I will hunt you down and kill you slowly. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, it’s understood. Now say what you have to say, then leave me alone.”
“Turn the television on to CNN.”
A sick feeling spread in Naheed’s stomach. “Why?”
When Jibril didn’t answer, Naheed turned on the television. She used the channel guide on the back of the remote to find CNN. Full screen on the television, Naheed saw her driver’s license photo. The words below read, “Naheed Yamani—Alleged Hollywood Bomber.”
Panic was not an experience that Naheed was used to. She prided herself in being able to keep calm in most situations. But seeing her picture on the television made her completely lose control. I’ve got to get out, she told herself. But how? I can’t fly, because they’ll have my picture. I can’t drive, because no matter where I stop everyone will recognize me. Can I call Grandfather? Is it too late for that? While her mind was racing, a voice kept sounding in her ear—“Naheed, Naheed.” Then she realized that she was still holding the phone.
“What?” she yelled.
“Naheed, calm down! Get control of yourself,” Jibril commanded.
Naheed took two deep breaths, then repeated, “What?”
“I know you are frightened. But realize that nothing has really changed.”
“What? Are you serious? Everyone in America has seen my face!”
“What I mean, young sister, is that you still have a job to do. You will do that job. If someone sees you, you will ensure in the manner we discussed yesterday that you are not caught. If you are able to complete the mission, I will call you with a rendezvous point, and we will get you out of the country.”
Out of the country? This is something new. “But why can’t you get me out of the country now?”
“Because you have not completed your mission yet.”
“But it’s very probable that I will die completing the mission.”
“Insha’Allah, it is in the hands of Allah. Now, I suggest you leave your hotel immediately. We have delivered to you another car—a gold Buick Century with dealer plates. You will find the keys under the front seat and the package in the trunk. Find yourself a parking garage, and wait out the time there.”
Naheed was pleading now. “Please, Jibril, is there no other way?”
“There is no other way, child. Courage, Naheed! Remember why you signed up to fight all those years ago. Don’t let the ease of their lives or the decadence of their culture rob you of who you truly are. Remember your roots, young warrior; remember your honor and the honor of your family—the family of al-Saud. Now go, and may Allah go with you.”
The line went dead. Naheed cursed and threw the bedside lamp across the room. “You want to know why I joined up all those years ago?” she cried out to the ceiling. “For the adventure! For the glory! Not so I could die blowing up a bunch of kids at a merry-go-round! Is this really what you want, God?”
Vaulting off the bed, she dumped her suitcase and threw it against the wall. The alarm clock, television remote, and hotel phone soon followed. Naheed began pulling the drawers out of the desk and side tables and dropping them to the floor. Phone books ripped and flew.
When she came across the Gideon Bible, she stopped. “Is this what we’re fighting against?” she called to the ceiling. “Is this it? If so, then I’ll fight for you! Here, watch me fight for you!” She began tearing handfuls of pages from the Bible and throwing them on the floor. Stomping on the fallen pages, she cried out, “Do you see? Do you see me fighting? Is this what you want?”
Finally, she dropped herself on the bed. Rolling over and burying her face in the pillows, she cried out, “I’ll do it! I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” Naheed lay there breathing hard into the pillow until Jibril’s warning about getting out came to her mind. Instantly, she realized all the noise she had made with her tantrum.
She jumped out of bed and quickly got herself dressed, then put on her blonde wig, sunglasses, and wide sun hat and ran out the door, leaving all her other belongings behind.
She took the stairway down to avoid an elevator confrontation, then hurried with her head down through the lobby. When she was just about to the front doors, she heard, “Miss! Miss!”
Naheed’s heart dropped, and she felt vertigo setting in. She leaned her hand against the concierge’s desk as she slowly turned around. “Yes?”
It was a woman behind the front desk. “Will you be checking out?”
“Uh, not yet. Late checkout, please, for room 324.” She turned and pushed through the revolving door that seemed to slowly, slowly release her to the outside and freedom.
A quick glance and she spotted the car just five spaces from the front entrance. Naheed drove the few short miles to the long-term parking at San Francisco International Airport and began the period of waiting for her destiny to arrive.
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 11:00 A.M. MDT
INVERNESS TRAINING CENTER
ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO
What had started out as a great morning with his agent promising him money, fame, and happiness had turned into one of the worst practices of Keith Simmons’s career. He blew coverages. He dropped easy pickoffs. He got his clock cleaned by a straight-arm block courtesy of c
enter Chris Gorkowski. Now he was tired and sore.
Despite all that, he still had a big grin on his face as he tore the tape off his ankles and wrists. Riley was counting on him to get the word out about his “running away”—yeah, like Pach would run away from a bunch of . . . What’d he call them? Hobbies, hoshies, hotties? “No, definitely not hotties,” he said with a laugh.
Unfortunately for Simmons, he had an extremely one-track mind, and football was not where that track was running today. His bad practice could be attributed to one thing—he had been trying to come up with a plan. Finally, at the end of the day’s sessions, the pieces seemed to fall together, and the plan emerged. He held Afshin Ziafat back to bring him in on it.
Now, in the locker room, he looked over at Ziafat, who just happened to be looking back at him. Ziafat gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. Z might turn out to be not a half-bad kid after all. Simmons nodded toward his left, then stripped down and headed to the showers. Ziafat followed him in.
Just be yourself, Simmons kept telling himself. Don’t let ’em see anything different. “Hey, Gorkowski!” he shouted to the big center, who was bent over in front of his locker, picking up his towel for the showers. “This is one sight I did not need to see! Pass the crackers, boys. I think we found us some cheese!”
Gorkowski aimed a wicked snap of the towel at Simmons, who dodged it with a remarkably graceful pirouette. Simmons laughed. “Now, now, don’t go getting all out of sorts. I just calls ’em how I sees ’em.”
He twisted the shower knob just as Ziafat came up to the nozzle next to him. “Look at these low-flow showerheads,” Simmons said loudly to the rookie linebacker, hoping to attract the attention of the others around them. “Another one of those brilliant cost-cutting measures by the pinhead bean counters in the front office.
“Now, you see, Z, there was a time—last year to be precise—when, if you turned this here knob, the water would come out all shoosh, and you could get yourself clean! Now when you turn it on, it comes out fffft. I mean what’s up with that? I can just picture it, some middle management brainiac says, ‘Hey, we can save five dollars a day if we make the showers go fffft instead of shoosh!’ And his little cubby mate says, ‘You rock, Dexter! Besides, they’re stupid football players. They won’t know the difference between fffft and shoosh. Let’s go tell Mr. Salley!’ And they skip off hand-in-hand to Mr. Salley’s office. That, my dear friends, is how we got low-flow showerheads,” Simmons concluded, noticing that his story had drawn the desired crowd of eavesdroppers.
“Probably the same Einsteins who decided it was costing too much to give us potato chips with our lunch,” Ziafat said, once he finally stopped laughing, following along with Simmons’s plan.
“Yeah, that’ll save them another ten bucks a day—almost enough to bring on another punter. It’s all making sense now,” Simmons said to laughter. “Hey, Snap, what’d Pach used to call the front-office bean counters?”
“Idiot savants without a talent,” Gorkowski responded, laughing along with everyone else.
Taking his cue, Ziafat asked, “Hey, Simm, speaking of Pach, how’s he doing? Didn’t you go see him or something?”
Yeah, I’ll take this rookie any day, Simmons thought. Everyone was suddenly quiet, anxious to hear how their teammate was doing. Lowering his voice, which meant turning his vocal megaphone down from an eight to a five, Simmons said, “Yeah, but I’m not supposed to let anyone know. Dude’s really struggling about his dad.”
Gorkowski spoke up, pounding his hand with his fist, “If I ever find the sons—”
“Yeah, you and me both, Snap,” Simmons said quickly, wanting to keep control of the conversation. “So, it was kind of weird when I was there. I’m standing around and I notice Pach had a bunch of stuff packed, and then I hear his buddy, Skeeter—you’ve all seen Skeeter: the Incredible Bulk? So Skeeter’s on his phone saying something about the mountains. I’m guessing Pach’s probably bolting out of here and hiding out up in the high country.”
“Couldn’t blame him if he did,” said Ziafat. “Can you imagine having somebody wanting to kill you so badly?”
“Isn’t that how it is when we play the Bay Area Bandits?” one of the rookie offensive linemen joked.
Gorkowski threw his wet towel at the man, hitting him in the face. “This ain’t funny, you little mama’s boy football player wannabe! This is Riley Covington’s life we’re talking about! You say one more thing without asking permission, and I’ll take you to the ice bath and hold you under for an hour! Now go get me another towel!” The rookie faded to the back of the crowd and then ran to the stack of fresh towels. “Sorry about that, Simm. You were saying?”
“Well, actually Z was talking about people wanting to kill Pach. Which reminds me, I don’t think Riley would want his business getting around. You know the media would make a huge darling out of anyone who let this slip,” Simmons said, laying out the bait and hopefully setting the hook in some rookie’s cheek.
“Let it be known,” Gorkowski began, causing Simmons’s heart to sink, “that anyone who leaks any of this to the media will have to answer to me! And I can promise you that before I have you booted from this team, I will personally introduce you to your own private hell! Understood?” Gorkowski pointed to Simmons and gave him a wink.
Simmons turned his head and rolled his eyes. Okay, Lord, I did my part best I could. Please don’t let a well-meaning oaf like Snap mess it all up. He took a quick look at Ziafat, who had a big smile on his face.
“You done good,” Ziafat mouthed.
Simmons nodded. I hope he’s right, Lord. I do hope he’s right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 7:00 P.M. EDT WASHINGTON, D.C.
Farragut, Isaac Khan read to himself. Looking up at the statue that stood in the middle of the park, he couldn’t help but admire the man. Farragut stood strong and rigid, holding what appeared to be a telescope. Isaac slowly walked around the monument, looking for any other inscribed words or plaques that might tell more about this man, but there were none.
What a waste, to have done enough to have a statue erected and a park named in your honor, but there is nothing here to tell about your exploits or heroic deeds. Back home in Pakistan, when they erect the statue in my honor, they will make sure that children for generations to come know the name of Ishaq Mustaf Khan and what he did for the great name of Allah!
Briefly he closed his eyes and pictured a child with his father standing at the foot of a bronze statue such as this. The little boy stared up while the father pointed and spoke in his son’s ear, “This is Sayyid Khan—a true warrior for the faith.” Oh, Allah, thank you for bringing honor back to my humble household.
Leaving the monument, Isaac found a metal bench where he could wait out his time. He still had fifteen minutes to get to the Metrorail stop, and he could easily see the sign from here.
He was surprised at how few people were around. When he’d come to scout the location earlier this afternoon, the place had been packed—people eating and relaxing under the trees, throwing baseballs and Frisbees. He’d even seen a television news crew conducting interviews with passersby. Now the place seemed like a ghost town, and he felt a little exposed sitting by himself in the middle of this park.
As he sat and waited, the question of timing again came to his mind. There were so many more people traveling earlier in the day! Why do they have me wait until the evening? The devastation could have been so much greater! Do they not understand?
Then a smile spread across Isaac’s face, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. Old man, you are thinking far above yourself. They have thought this through. Maybe they know when someone specific will be traveling, or maybe they are coordinating with another attack. Is it your place to question? He drew the backpack tighter to his side. It will all be over soon. The arrogant people of America will again have to deal with the hand of Allah. That is what ultimately matters. He looked at his watch again and waited.
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 4:10 P.M. PDT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
The bar rose at the Pier 39 parking garage, and Naheed drove in. She crumpled the parking ticket she had just pulled and threw it on the floor of the car, knowing that the chances of her making it back here without being spotted were slim to none. But still . . . After she finally found a space and pulled in, Naheed reached over and picked the ticket back up. Smoothing it against the center of the steering wheel, she said, “You will be my symbol of hope. Maybe you will help me find my way back.” Gently, she slipped the ticket into the front pocket of her jeans.
In six minutes she would begin her walk down the pier. That would give her seven minutes to reach the carousel and activate the device, then six minutes to make her way back to the car. The thought of making that trip churned her insides. “It’s impossible—absolutely and completely impossible!”
She tilted the rearview mirror and examined herself. Tell me how you are going to get all the way there without being recognized, let alone make it back. Why didn’t you grab your bag with your disguises when you ran out this morning? Except for the wig, you are the exact picture they showed on the television, and you can bet they’ve already put out pictures of you with blonde hair.
She took off her wig and twisted her hair into a thick bun. Then, picking the wide sun hat up from the passenger seat, she placed it on her head, making sure that all her hair was tucked under, and she looked at herself from various angles. “At least that’s something.”
The dashboard clock told her she had only three minutes left. The last one was so much easier. I was completely anonymous, and the people who died were not truly worth mourning. But this . . .
Oh, Allah, I declare that you are one, and that Muhammad is your Prophet. Grant me success on your mission. Smile upon me as I do your will. Let me live to see my family again. However, if I am discovered, give me the strength to meet you this day. I do this for you, and for you alone.
But even as Naheed said those final words, Jibril’s face appeared behind her closed eyes, and doubts crept in. Who are you really doing this for? Would you be here if Jibril hadn’t threatened you? Don’t you think Allah knows the duplicity of your motives?
