by Rick Jones
“You have.”
Seeing the director getting back to his paperwork was message enough that the discussion was over, so she got up and left.
Returning to her office and taking a seat, she looked out the window and at the traffic, which was thin on a normally heavy day. Mohammad Allawi was winning the battle. People were terrified, their taken-for-granted bubble of safety finally bursting. America, even after 9/11, was not impregnable or unbreakable, as societal fractures were beginning to develop and grow. People were disavowing peaceful Muslim groups within the nation and labeling them unjustly as terrorists. Mosques were closing in fear of uprisings. And social platforms were putting out calls for retaliation.
Shari sighed. It didn’t take much for the bad in some to surface and voice their opinions, she thought. In the past when things were at their worst, she always believed that was when we were at our best. But now questions lingered on whether that remained true any longer.
She looked at the clock. It was 9:54 a.m. She had been at the building less than two hours and the day was already proving to be eternal.
She sighed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Winchester, Virginia
0955 Hours
Mohammad Allawi, Najm, and the rest of the cell that was diminishing by the day, sat throughout the small home before television sets that operated with rabbit ears, and waited for the day’s events to play out.
The government had not lifted a finger to comply with Allawi’s demands, readily ignoring the mandates with a show of military might that walked the streets nationwide with a heavy presence. Military and National Guardsmen fortified the concept of safety while wearing their Robocop shin, knee, forearm and elbow guards that were constructed from a special composite, and Kevlar helmets that held the boon of gadgetry that ran along the top of their heads like a Mohawk cut. The assault weapons also added a nice touch to their powerful image. But Mohammad Allawi scoffed at this since officer presence would not be enough.
The wall clock in the kitchen above the stove read 9:55 a.m.
In a few minutes, Allah would reveal to the world His mighty hand.
It was now 9:56 a.m.
* * *
Washington, D.C.
Omar Alfarsi’s real name was James Lanigan. He had grown up in the Deep South having been abused by family, society, and the police, though he had never committed crimes beyond petty theft. He was by birth a person who was born to be a pariah, despite his attempts to engage himself in sports or cerebral clubs to better his standing. But as a member of the football and baseball teams he rode the bench, his skills not good enough to take the field. When he joined the chess club, he discovered that he wasn’t analytical enough, either. But after high school he found a family who accepted him as one of their own. They embraced him by becoming a father and a brother and a sibling to him, when his real family had shunned him. It was only until he found his Muslim faith that he also discovered a belonging like no other.
Here, with us, Allawi once told him, you will always belong. And here, with us, you’ll always have purpose.
James Lanigan had never been so happy.
By becoming a brother to us, you must turn yourself over to Allah. Can you do that?
Oh, yes! Yes, I can!
Then from this day forward, you will shed your Christian name for the name of Omar Alfarsi.
Then he remembered: Omar Alfarsi. It’s a good name.
Standing outside the District Bank along with dozens of others waiting for the bank to open, he was wearing a suit and tie; an expensive trench coat; nice shoes that were highly polished, conservative-style glasses, thick framed; the proper image of a businessman. Being nondescript in life growing up, he remained nondescript while standing in line as he drew no attention, even from the armed militants who stood close by.
Omar Alfarsi. It’s a good name.
A Muslim name.
A martyr’s name.
Looking at his watch, it read 9:58 a.m.
He was becoming anxious as he began to shift his weight from leg to leg. And sweat started to bead on his upper lip. People around him spoke of the bombings and blamed the Middle East, the tensions obviously running high.
Gotta pull my money before the government disallows it and we all starve, one said.
You’re not kidding, said the other.
His heart began to race, and second thoughts began to cloud his judgment.
. . . Here, with us, you will always belong. And here, with us, you’ll always have purpose . . .
. . . Omar Alfarsi . . . It’s a good name . . .
Lanigan was beginning to feel distressed and on the verge of hyperventilating.
The time was 9:59 a.m.
. . . You’ll always have purpose . . . Omar Alfarsi . . .
A pair of armed guards noticed Lanigan’s actions. Suddenly, as he reached into his coat and beneath his shirt, the smartly dressed man appeared in a state of anguish as his bladder released, staining his pants.
10:00 a.m.
As soon as the timer of his wristwatch chimed, James Lanigan, who finally found happiness in life as Omar Alfarsi, shouted ‘Allahu Akbar,’ and pulled the cord.
. . . You’ll always have purpose . . .
* * *
Two armed members of the military were maintaining watch over the crowds when they noticed the well-dressed man beginning to act agitated. He was shifting from leg to leg and his breathing became labored. At first, they believed him to be having a medical episode, the man perhaps in the beginning moments of a seizure. But as he reached beneath his coat to expose a Semtex vest, the soldiers raised their weapons. But their movements were awkward, the action catching them in a moment of complacency. As the man raised his head skyward, he yelled Allahu Akbar and pulled the cord. But before they could bring into line the points of their rifles with the well-dressed man, their lives had been swept away into darkness.
* * *
David Henry Morgan, who had been sanctified with the name of Masood Zaman, was standing with the crowd of the Washington Central Bank in downtown Washington, D.C. Those around him were conversing about who was responsible for the attacks and then added that ‘if they were in office, they would order enough sorties to level the Middle East.’ Normally, Zaman would find amusement in the rants of these ‘armchair politicians.’ But today he found little humor in anything, since he was about to forfeit his life in the name of Allah. After the streets of Harlem had toughened his exterior, and then turning his teenage angst into young adult angst, Morgan found the valve release of his anger by raging his way through society in the name of his Islamic faith. He had pledged and aspired to perpetrate bombings in the name of Allah, while waging war against heathens at the same time. Life was good because his newfound faith had given him not only a direction that supported his anger issues, but purpose. He had killed for Mohammad Allawi during the breach of the Blacksite facility and discovered that the action had dulled his rage. So here he was once again for Allawi’s sake, the man ready for that orgasmic closure of taking multiple lives with a single pull of the cord.
9:58 a.m.
The moment his heart started to race; his blood began to rush past his ears with the sound of waves crashing along the shoreline. When he tried to swallow the sour lump that was cropping up in his throat, he could not find the saliva to do so.
9:59 a.m.
Reaching beneath his jacket, David Henry Morgan, who was in league with Mohammad Allawi and wore the name of Masood Zaman like a second skin, looped the crook of his finger into the ring of the pull cord. And then with mandated reverence, he cried: “Allahu Akbar!”
His eyes started to drift until they became detached of his surroundings. His brow began to bead with sweat. People around began to scream, to run, the area surrounding him becoming vacant.
. . . Everybody wants to go to Heaven . . . But nobody wants to pay the price of admission . . .
He had yet to pull the cord; a simple tug was
all that was needed. A moment of pain for an eternity of pleasure.
. . . Everybody wants to go to Heaven . . . But nobody wants to pay the price of admission . . .
This mantra echoed throughout his mind as he continued to hold the loop of the pull cord.
. . . Everybody wants to go to Heaven . . . But nobody wants to pay the price of admission . . .
10:00 a.m.
. . . Everybody wants to go to Heaven . . . But nobody wants to pay the price of admission . . .
. . . Everybody wants to go to Heaven . . . But nobody—
When a bullet hole appeared magically in the middle of Masood Zaman’s forehead, only then did the chanting stop.
* * *
Jerhon Bellamy wore his Islamic courage that could be cast aside as easily as a snake molts its skin. His talk was always in a heightened state of bravado, always dictating what should be done to those who did not believe or follow Allah. But when Allawi called upon him because he was so vociferous, it was now time for him to follow through with actions. Having been anointed with the first name of Mukhtar, meaning ‘chosen,’ and the surname of Ajam, meaning ‘foreigner,’ this ‘chosen foreigner’ discovered that he did not have the ultimate devotion to give up his life for a cause that was not of his choosing. To hand out justice in the name of Allah was one thing, but to sacrifice oneself in the name of his God was another. Standing in line of the Columbia Bank, he checked his watch: 09:59 a.m. He looked at the surrounding people who had come from all walks of life. There were Jews, Catholics, and Protestants. There were Caucasians, Asians and Hispanics, people of every color and hue. There were women and men, the old and the young. And he had looked upon the strong and the disabled.
10:00 a.m.
The buzzer on his wristwatch went off.
Casting aside his sense of boldness that had been manufactured by daring words, Jerhon Bellamy, who no longer wanted to be known as Mukhtar Ajam, simply walked away with his life intact.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Port of Miami
Miami, Florida
1015 Hours
The morning’s electrum sun rose above Miami that would normally be the promise of a nice day. But when Kimball disembarked, TV monitors were playing the recent news regarding a suicide bomber in Washington, D.C. Scores of people were killed while in line waiting for the bank to open. A second bomber was killed on sight at a second venue, which also happened to be a bank, by the military who received praise for disallowing a second tragedy.
Though the reports were early, Kimball knew that Mohammad Allawi was at fault here. The terrorist had used the media to set the stage.
Grabbing a cab, and when the cabbie referred to him as 'Father,' Kimball retorted sharply by stating that 'he wasn't a priest,' the rest of the drive passed silently until they reached a rental-car agency. Peeling off a twenty, tip included, Kimball tossed the bill on the front seat and headed inside the rental lobby. The Vatican had arranged for a mid-size sedan, which was fine with Kimball. Tossing his rucksack into the trunk, he then drove from the lot and headed for I-95.
The drive time would be close to fifteen hours, putting him in D.C. just before midnight. With a little bit of a heavy foot and minimal stops, he believed he could make it closer to the eleven-p.m. hour.
Taking the onramp to the highway, Kimball, having had little sleep, still felt rejuvenated with Shari Cohen heavy on his mind. Though she was a capable agent, few would have a chance against a group that had commandeered a Blacksite facility. Allawi’s people, he knew, had trained hard during his two-year incarceration, meaning that they had developed their combat skill sets to a high level of sophistication. How this would translate into a competitive battle, should they decide to go to war with Kimball, remained a question yet unanswered.
The vehicle was now pushing 80 miles-per-hour on the highway.
Mohammad Allawi had also made it abundantly clear that she was his passion when it came to the hunt. He had damaged her physically and emotionally, but he could not put a dent in her mental state. In fact, she rebounded to become a greater force, a greater power, all due to Allawi who attempted to redirect her fate by sending her to an afterlife, only to fail in his endeavor.
“And you didn’t like that, did you?” Kimball whispered softly to himself.
Later that evening as he continued to drive northbound, he was eventually pulled over by the Georgia police after being clocked at 86 miles-per-hour. When the officer saw the cleric’s collar and looked over Kimball’s credentials, he let the Vatican Knight off with a warning. Once Kimball was back on the highway, however, it didn’t take him long to hit the 80-mile-per-hour mark.
Kimball Hayden was back on track.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The White House, The Oval Office
Washington, D.C.
1247 Hours
Chaos continued after the bombing. The stock market continued to tumble and the banks, having no choice, closed the doors after citing safety issues. The tally of the dead thus far from the bombing had totaled forty-six people, with dozens more either injured or in critical condition. The shining moment of American protection came when it was reported that a second bomber had been neutralized, which became a small feather in the president’s cap.
Sitting inside the Oval Office, President Burroughs, along with his security administration team which included Johnston, Moncrief and Craner, were now attending their second round after their morning session.
“Mohammad Allawi, Mr. President,” this coming from FBI Director Johnston, “we believe was the one who played the media to his advantage.”
“Of course, he did. He set the stage for what happened today, no doubt,” the president added. “He knew the bank lines would be long after depositing the rumor of a ‘bank holiday’ with the network, who just had to run with it regardless of my attempts to quash the media reports as false.” After a pause, he asked, “So what’s the effect from all this?”
Johnston told him about the number of dead and wounded. Moncrief gave him the numbers regarding the percentage of falling stock. And Craner gave him the numbers regarding the number of people recruiting overseas.
“It’s a sick world out there,” the president commented. “And it’s getting sicker all the time. So what do we know about the bomber who was killed at the site?”
“His name is—was—James Lanigan,” answered Moncrief. Then the Homeland Security Advisor went on about the man’s biographical history, which was abundant.
“Can we link him to others?” asked the president.
“We’re already looking into his social circle.”
“And?”
Moncrief came up with more names, all suspects with questionable histories and criminal backgrounds. Obviously, they were beginning to connect the dots by going from suspect-to suspect, and then checking their ties with exponential speed. The names of suspects were being gathered. But Burroughs wanted more; he was like a shark that trolled the waters. “Any information as to the cell’s whereabouts? That’s what I want to know.”
“Mr. President,” it was Johnston, “the clothes that Lanigan was wearing were new. It was a brand sold in few stores, more like a novelty brand that was trying to make a name for itself on the market. We discovered three stores in Virginia that sells this line of clothing. Right now, we have agents pouring through video feeds of buyers, as well as following up on potential paper trails that might reveal credit card information, which I doubt they used since it would leave behind a paper trail. And Allawi is too smart to let that happen.”
“I agree,” said Burroughs. “And good work, Larry. Make sure your department keeps my people informed twenty-four/seven.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’ll send out a White House Press Release regarding the prevention of attacks on two fronts, and that the military is seeing to the safety of all Americans as we begin to zero in on the cell. I want photos of the man who was killed at the site and his associates poste
d as ‘persons of interest.’ This will let the people know that we know who to target as the growing list of suspects emerges. Hopefully, this will provide some stability.” Then President Burroughs turned to Moncrief and asked,
“Were you able to pull up anything on this Miner guy?”
“Nothing, Mr. President. So far, the guy’s proving to be a ghost.”
“And that’s why he scares me more than Mohammad Allawi. Even though Allawi holds the captaincy of the cell, I’m more worried about a man who has the capability to bring this country down through cyber attacks.” And then: “What about the ‘Herod’ reference? Anything?”
“Nothing,” said Moncrief. “It may have been a red-herring to throw us off the trail of the bank bombings.”
“Possible.”
“And now that we have a lead to follow,” Moncrief continued, “the Feds and Homeland agents are making contacts with known family members and associates. And there’s one more thing.”
The president raised his chin, the gesture telling his Homeland Security Advisor to ‘go ahead.’
“After the initial attack, Homeland Security has been scouring video at all bank sites in the D.C. area,” said Moncrief.
“And?”
Opening a manila folder, the security advisor removed a grainy black-and-white photo and handed it to the president. It was the image of a man running with the tail of his trench coat waving behind him. “That was taken from the Columbia Bank at ten-hundred hours,” he said. “Same dress. Same everything.”
“And you believe him to be a terrorist who what? Lost his bold intention?”
“It’s a possibility. Though the photo is poor and rather grainy, lab techs are cleaning up the image so that we can run it through our facial-recognition database. If this man has a record of any kind—DMV, college, criminal, anything— we’ll find him.”