Blown Coverage

by Jason Elam

  “Stop it! Just stop it!” she said as she flung the door open, making hard contact with a white LX 470 next to her. Naheed held her breath, waiting for the Lexus’s alarm to go off. When it remained silent, she stepped out of the Buick and opened the trunk. A large black backpack sat in the center of the compartment. Naheed rolled her eyes. Could they have made it more obvious?

  After adjusting her hat and sunglasses one last time, Naheed hefted the bag out of the trunk and slipped it over her right shoulder. She felt in the shoulder strap for the emergency detonation buttons—the top one activated the device, and the bottom would detonate.

  The top button pushed in easily with a small click. Naheed hefted the bulk of the bag one more time, centering it better on her back, then left the garage.

  7:20 P.M. EDT

  Isaac stepped from the center island of the Farragut North station onto a train bound for Metro Center. Since the ride would be only two minutes, he didn’t bother to sit down. He felt very conspicuous carrying the backpack and wearing a Washington Capitals cap—Why didn’t you devise a more creative disguise?—but the other passengers seemed too wrapped up in their own business to pay him any attention.

  He felt a distinct sense of déjà vu as he looked at the people around him. The noisy teenagers trying to be noticed, the young couples heading out for a night on the town, the businessmen trying to get home while dinner was still warm, the many workers heading for their night shifts. Most likely all these people would survive this night. But there were many more just like them who were traveling at this very moment to Metro Center who could not possibly expect what would be awaiting them when they arrived.

  They are like sheep belonging to an evil shepherd. They are too stupid to know what is really going on. They just live their lives day by day while their shepherd steals and kills the flocks of others. These sheep may hear rumors of what their shepherd does, but do they care? No, as long as they are being fed and watered, they are content to let the shepherd do whatever he wants. Sorry, sheep, Isaac thought with a smile, but tonight there is a wolf among your flock.

  The train slowed, then came to a stop. When the doors opened, Isaac disembarked to a long side platform. After taking a few steps, he stopped to look around for the escalator and his route of escape, but when he finally spotted it, he cursed himself. The escalator was going down.

  He had so carefully planned out his route—how could he have failed to check whether the red line ran on the upper or lower level? Stupid! Taking a deep breath to control himself, he thought, Okay, not a major problem. Just take the escalator down and find a place on the lower level. It will look like you are transferring to another line.

  But Isaac knew the danger of being out in the open much longer in the central hub of the Metrorail system. In just one quick pass he spotted eight uniformed members of the Metro Transit Police Department.

  Make me invisible, O God. With his right hand, he pressed the top button embedded in the backpack’s strap. One more quick prayer, and Isaac began the walk to the escalators.

  4:23 P.M. PDT

  It seemed everyone was staring at Naheed as she walked down the boardwalk. It started with the young guys near the entrance playing empty white plastic buckets like drums for change and soon spread to the popcorn vendor and the guy selling maps and the little sticky-faced kids holding on to their dripping ice-cream cones. But when she turned around, certain she would see a band of vigilantes ready to pounce on her, there was just an oblivious crowd of people enjoying their afternoon at the bay.

  Calm yourself. You’re almost there. She slowed her pace from the speed-walk her panic had induced. Looking ahead, she could see the carousel partially obscured by a second-floor bridge. Two more minutes and you’re there.

  She had walked down one more set of stairs when a sound reached her. There was so much noise around; it was hard to distinguish one sound from another. But she could have sworn she heard a scream. Trying not to show anything on her face, she slowly looked left, then right. And then she saw them. Thirty feet away, a woman holding a toddler was frantically talking to a security guard. As she spoke, she pointed right at Naheed.

  Naheed picked up her pace until she was almost running. She saw the security guard yelling into his walkie-talkie as he began to move toward her. People near the guard overheard his call for help, and panic began to spread. More people started screaming and moving in her direction, as they frantically tried to get off the pier.

  Acting purely on instinct, Naheed turned and joined the growing tidal wave. She threw off her sun hat. To her left and right she could see more security guards looking into the crowd from their places along the storefronts.

  As she neared the entrance to the boardwalk, three, then four, then five police cars pulled up. Their doors flew open, and the officers raced toward the crowd.

  Naheed locked eyes with a security guard ahead on her left. Immediately he broke from his position and raced toward the policemen. It’s over, a voice screamed in her head. Press the button! Press the button!

  As she ran, she placed her thumb on top of the bulge in the strap. Do it! You’re dead anyway! Just do it!

  But as much as she willed herself, she couldn’t overcome her instinct for self-preservation. Her thumb moved off the button.

  The security guard had found a policeman and was pointing at Naheed. She looked left, then right, for an avenue of escape. Can I go back? she asked. But as she whirled to look behind her, a man flew into her with such force that the wind was knocked from her.

  She fell backward, and her head slammed onto the wooden pier. The man dropped heavily on top of her. Stars floated in front of Naheed’s eyes, and the ringing in her head drowned out the words her assailant was yelling at her. His knee was pressed hard into her chest, making it difficult for her to draw a breath, and he was stretching her hands over her head. She blacked out.

  When she came to, Naheed was surrounded by police. She had been flipped over so that she was lying facedown. Handcuffs encased her wrists. Your life is over, she thought. You should have pressed the button, you fool.

  Hands forced their way under her arms, and she was hauled to her feet. Off to her right she could see the backpack with a group of officers surrounding it. Just beyond them stood a middle-aged man wearing shorts and a torn San Francisco wharf T-shirt. There was blood running down his leg, and a policeman was questioning him. He was staring right at her, and in that instant she knew that he was the one who had brought her down.

  The walk to the police car was complete mayhem. All around her, tourists had their digital cameras, video cameras, and cell phones out, taking pictures of her. People screamed and cursed at her. Someone threw a plastic cup of Coke, hitting her in the side of the face and drenching the officers on either side of her. Immediately, two of the surrounding policemen pushed into the crowd to find the culprit.

  When she finally arrived at the police cruiser, someone placed a hand on her head and pushed her into the backseat. A female officer followed her in. When a second officer started up the car, the one next to Naheed said, “Okay, Matt, I’m going to Mirandize her.” Then, turning to Naheed, she said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Naheed.

  “Do you want to speak with me?”

  “No.” But then a thought occurred to her. What was it she always told her friend June? Remember who has the power. A small glimmer of hope appeared in Naheed’s mind. You may seem helpless now, but remember—information is power. And information is the one thing you’ve got left. They’ve made people disappear before in Guantánamo and other places. Play your cards right, and you just might be able to disappear back to Grandfather’s household.

  Turning to the officer next to her, with an arrogant look in her eye, Naheed said, “Actually,
I may want to talk. But not to you. Bring me someone with authority. We’ll see what happens then.”

  7:25 P.M. EDT

  At the bottom of the escalator was an island platform with tracks running to the left and the right. Isaac walked to a subway map and saw the faded remains of a vulgarity outlined on the plastic covering. Just one more example of the disrespect these people have for others, he thought with disgust. As he pretended to be examining the map, he used his peripheral vision to scan his surroundings. There were a number of transit cops down here, too, but not like up above.

  Walking down a little ways, he found an empty bench and sat down. His hand found a sticky place on the seat, and Isaac quickly wiped it hard across his pants. The plan was to wait for the next train to arrive, activate the bomb, then join the people leaving the train—twenty steps to the escalator, maybe forty more steps to the next escalator, then freedom. As he waited, he closed his eyes and pictured again the statue that would one day be erected in his hometown of Bela.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  Startled, Isaac opened his eyes to find a transit policeman standing next to him. “Uh, yes, officer. I was just daydreaming,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face.

  The officer returned the smile. “Yes, I find myself doing that too, sometimes. May I ask where you’re heading tonight?”

  “Is there something I’ve done wrong?”

  The transit cop chuckled. “No. It’s just with what happened in Philadelphia, we’re trying to be extra careful. So, where are you heading tonight?”

  Isaac racked his brain trying to come up with a destination. “The monument,” he finally blurted out.

  “The Washington Monument? Well you’re in the right spot but on the wrong side. You’ll want to take a train from the other side of the island to Federal Center.”

  Isaac congratulated himself at having guessed right. “Thank you, officer,” he said as he stood to change sides of the platform.

  “Do you mind if I look in your backpack, sir? You know, just being careful,” the officer said as he slid himself between Isaac and his bag.

  A thin smile forced itself on Isaac’s face. “Is that really necessary, officer? I’m just an old man doing some sightseeing.”

  “I realize that, sir, and I apologize. It’ll only take a moment.” As he said this, a train ground to a halt next to the two men.

  “Really, officer, if you’ll please just let me take my bag and go,” Isaac said, hearing the growing fear in his own voice. He could see a tightening on the other man’s face.

  One of the officer’s hands slowly moved to his gun, while the other pressed a button on a microphone that was clipped to his shoulder. “This is Lytle. I’ve got a suspect with a suspicious bag. Request backup.” From behind Officer Lytle, Isaac could see two officers begin running their way. “Now, sir, if you’ll just give me permission to check your bag, this will all be over within a minute, and you’ll be on your way.”

  Sweat broke out on Isaac’s forehead. There was no way to get to the bag except by going through the policeman, and within seconds more cops would arrive. Isaac had to act quickly.

  Reaching his hand into his jacket, he said, “Officer, if I can just show you my—”

  “Take your hand out of your jacket,” Lytle commanded, drawing his gun at the same time Isaac drew his. Both men fired.

  Officer Lytle fell back into the screaming crowd unloading from the train. Isaac dropped to his knees, pain flaring through his chest. He tried to take a breath but received little for his efforts. Ahead he could see the other two cops closing in on him, both with guns drawn.

  With all the strength he had left, Isaac launched himself forward and fell across the black backpack. Isaac’s hand scrambled underneath the bag, searching for the detonation trigger. One of the officers was within ten feet. Give me success, Allah. Please grant your servant success.

  The transit cop dove through the air, but he never landed. Isaac’s hand had found the button, and with one push he sent himself and 113 other souls to their final judgment.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  FRIDAY, MAY 22, 7:00 P.M. PDT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  How did you let yourself get into this situation? Naheed asked herself. All your friends from back home are married and living in nice houses—children running around their feet. But would you settle for that? No! You had to have adventure. You had to seek glory. The little domestic lives of your friends were not enough. Remember how you used to shake your head so condescendingly every time you heard about one of them settling down to family life? “How nice,” you’d say with a smirk on your face. “How ordinary.” Well, tonight, they’re tucked away in their “nice” little homes sleeping next to their “ordinary” little husbands, and you’re here with your life ruined!

  Naheed cursed herself as she looked around the room she had been placed in over an hour ago. It was all white except for the stainless steel of the table in front of her and the three surrounding chairs—one of which she was handcuffed to. Above her, a fluorescent tube light in the ceiling kept changing the shadows of the room as it slowly flickered its way to its death—and with each flicker, Naheed felt the already firm band of her headache clench even tighter.

  As she waited—for what, she didn’t know—her mind drifted to a late-night spy movie she had watched a few weeks ago. In it the espionage suspect was being held in a room very similar to the one she was in now, except that the furniture was wooden. When the goons came in to torture him, he saw that his end was near, so he bit down on a cyanide capsule that he had hidden in his mouth and died a gruesome but quick death. What I wouldn’t give to have that option open to me, Naheed thought, unconsciously running her tongue between her cheek and gums.

  Another blast of pain grew like a mushroom cloud expanding in her head. The cloud solidified into sharp masses stabbing the inside of her skull, and she closed her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to counteract the pressure. The place on her chest where the Great American Hero had dropped his knee hurt with every breath she took. But that pain was tolerable. It was the headache that left her feeling weak and nauseous.

  Forcing her eyes back open, she stared defiantly at one of the three cameras that were keeping constant watch on her. Who’s back there? What are they waiting for?

  Trying to keep herself alert, Naheed began looking for patterns in the holes punched through the acoustic tiling that covered the walls of the room. The strain on her eyes, though, caused another wave of pain to rush like a tsunami through her head. Her teeth clenched as she rode the wave out.

  As she forced herself to hold back the tears and look strong, the door to the room opened and three people walked in. The first was an older man who looked like every movie stereotype of a marine drill sergeant. He was about five-seven and had his head shaved down to the scalp. When he sat across from her, Naheed noticed that he had the hairiest arms she had ever seen. He was wearing a red tropical print shirt that he left hanging outside his pants.

  The second person reminded her of the burnouts that used to hang out around San Francisco’s Tenderloin district down at the bottom of Nob Hill. Tall and chunky, he had a blond goatee that grew at least four inches below his chin. As opposed to the California dapper of the first man, this one was wearing a black Deep Purple Machine Head Tour 1972 T-shirt, tattered jeans, and sandals.

  The third person Naheed recognized. “Khadi Faroughi,” she said with a wicked smile. “I’ve read about you in the newspapers. I know people who would very much like to meet you to ask you about your betrayal of Islam.”

  Naheed was gratified to see the look of surprise on Khadi’s face at being recognized. Gain the upper hand! But then the woman quickly composed herself and said calmly as she walked to the third chair, “Miss Yamani, I already met your people six months ago. Actually, I only saw them through the lens of my sniper scope as their heads popped.”

  Naheed heard a stifled laugh from the larger of the two men. Come on, take contr
ol of the situation. Try to keep them off their guard. “You may have seen a few, but there are many more of us. I’m sure someday you’ll meet them face-to-face when you least expect it.”

  Khadi began thumbing through the files she had carried in without bothering to reply.

  Looking Naheed straight in the eyes, the older of the men asked, “Are you going to be good?”

  Naheed stared back at him.

  “Scott, uncuff her,” the older man said.

  The burnout walked behind her and released her hands. Naheed kept her poker face, but inside she was smiling. Obviously they want what I have to give. Now, carefully, play it out to your advantage. The older man was still watching her, not saying anything. Naheed decided to wait him out.

  Finally, he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Miss Yamani, my name is Mr. Hicks. This is Agent Ross and apparently you’ve already recognized Agent Faroughi. I’m sure you know that you are in a bad situation. Maybe I can make it better, maybe I can’t. Someone told me you wanted to talk, so here I am. Talk.”

  Naheed could hear in the gravelly monotone of Hicks’s voice that he wasn’t going to be a pushover. Careful. Play this right. Obviously if Faroughi is with them, these are experienced players. She tried to keep a calm exterior, but inside some serious doubts were raising their ugly heads. The only power you have is information, and when that’s gone, you’re helpless. So give just a little bit at a time, and you can keep control.

  “Shouldn’t we agree to some terms before I begin sharing with you what I know?” Naheed said, angry with herself for the slight waver in her voice.

  “Terms?” Hicks said with a smile. Then he turned to Khadi and said, “Agent Faroughi, Miss Yamani would like to hear my terms.”

  Still without looking up, Khadi responded, “She doesn’t want to hear your terms.”