by Rick Jones
“How much of the stuff are we talking about?”
“Bricks.”
“How many bricks?”
“Enough to fill an ice chest, the type for packing large amounts of meat.”
Kimball eased into a standing position. Semtex was one of the most powerful plastiques in the world. To fill a chest of such size and then detonate it would cause absolute devastation. “Are you telling me that they’re planting an ice chest, as a bomb package, inside the facility?”
Another nod from Juma.
And then from Shari: “The spelling bee is being held at the Jackson-Hall facility, if I’m not mistaken. And it’s a huge center with lots of places to hide things, especially an ice chest filled with explosives. Now you’re going to tell me where they plan to put this chest.”
“I can’t because I don’t know. What I can tell you is that it’s going to be placed in a strategic area that will compromise the supports and buttresses.”
“How many?” asked Kimball.
“How many what?”
“How many are involved?”
“Besides Allawi and Najm, eight. Four soldiers and four messengers.”
“Messengers?”
“Low-end operatives. The vest carriers.”
“And the soldiers?”
“They will safeguard the chest to make sure that it goes off accordingly.”
“Suicide mentality?”
“They’re willing to give their life over to Allah, if that’s what you mean.” Kimball bit on his lower lip. Seasoned soldiers willing to surrender their lives would not be a simple adversary to go up against, especially in numbers. They would have no fear of dying, which was often the deterrent for surrender. There would be no conceding or listening to reasonable compromises here, since these men had already given themselves over mentally and emotionally to a cause that could only have one outcome.
“We need to get to National Harbor,” Shari told Kimball.
“How long?”
“From here. About three hours.”
“What about backup?”
She pointed to the computer, which Juma took out with his strafing action. Also, her cellphone had fallen victim with a round knocking it out of commission and smashing it out of existence. “We’ll have to make contact along the way—a gas station, a restaurant.”
“Everything’s closed.”
“We’ll find a way,” she told him. “But what about him?”
Kimball looked at Juma, who was looking at him, with the men pinning each other. Then Kimball raised his hand and drove a punch into Juma’s face, knocking him cold. “Problem solved,” he answered. “He’ll be fine right where he is. When you contact your director, inform him that one of Allawi’s associate is here, inside the cabin, whereas three others have been neutralized within the proximity of attack. They’ll come for them.”
Shari looked at her watch. It was almost five in the morning. And another three
hours to National Harbor. “We need to go.”
Kimball agreed.
On the surface there appeared to be plenty of time. But if there was one thing Kimball realized, time was never a luxury, especially when Mohammad Allawi was the timekeeper. Should the events not be to Allawi’s liking, who’s to say that he might not set off the bomb prematurely? There were so many unknown variables, all of which Kimball had to be cautious of.
Getting into a sedan that was in the log garage, they drove away with Kimball thinking how this little slice of Heaven had somehow lost its shine, now that it had been compromised. No matter where he went, he considered, it seemed that Darkness would always follow and catch up.
Chapter Forty-Nine
It took almost forty minutes before Shari was able to find a convenience store where she flashed her badge, so that she could use the phone for a professional purpose. After her call to Larry Johnston, a domino effect fell into place with field bureaus contacting field bureaus, with Intel agencies contacting Intel agencies, with the coordination effort assembling assault teams.
The caveat, however, was that the explosive device had been planted in an unknown location inside the facility. Secondly, it was on a timer that could be discharged manually from an independent device that was distant from the venue. Going in with guns blazing was not even a consideration, since the action would tip off the terrorists. And since the venue was filling to near capacity, a premature detonation would kill many of the competitors. So, this had to be a delicate operation, not a cowboy incursion. Finally, there were Allawi foot-soldiers inside the arena to assure that the device stayed hidden. An indelicate raid could also set off the device, if not careful. And since the faces of Allawi’s cell were unknown, detection would not be easy.
Proposals were made by the FBI and Homeland Security by using specialized agents who were groomed for such activity, by having plain-clothed operators scour the facility to locate and defuse.
But again, questions were bandied about as to how much the independent timekeeper knew or could see from afar, raising the stakes of cautious approach. So additional conditions were considered: plans B, C and D.
As Shari continued to drive with the sun rising two hours ago, Kimball remained oddly quiet and solemn. For the duration of the ride he could not shake the image of the Filipino boy he had killed a few weeks before, something the Vatican had chalked up as a necessary action to save his own life, which, of course, even God had to acknowledge since he had a right to protect himself. But what about the girl he killed inside the diner in front of her mother to make a point? Did God also acknowledge his right to deliver a message on behalf of the United States government against a whistleblower, by killing her child for the good of the nation? And what about the shepherd boys he murdered when he was conducting his mission in Iraq after they had compromised his position? Two bullets, two kills, and neither boy a teenager.
So, what makes me any different from Mohammad Allawi? He asked himself.
When it came to killing children for a cause we believed in.
He closed his eyes and saw their faces.
He could clearly see the Filipino boy who was standing at a crossroads trying to decide whether to lower his weapon or raise it against Kimball. And then the teenage girl inside the diner, her eyes suddenly igniting with terror a moment before Kimball raised his pistol to end her life. And the shepherd boys, two children too young to understand the concept of war yet died as a result of it.
All by my hands.
When he opened his eyes, he realized that he was holding his hands in front him. They were shaking.
“Are you all right?” Shari asked him.
He set his hands on his lap. “I’m fine,” he told her.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m fine.”
When they drove up to the venue with Shari planning to join with the principals on how to approach the matter as gingerly as possible without setting off alarms, she noted that Kimball was not beside her, or locatable within the crowd.
The Vatican Knight was on the move.
Chapter Fifty
Norfolk, Virginia
Not too long after his Fajr prayer, Aimu Ababneh’s life was turned upside down.
A SWAT unit had invaded his house after knocking the door down with a battering ram and then announcing that they had a warrant for his arrest. Ababneh, appearing stunned and surprised, was immediately handcuffed.
Having been situated on the couch, the fully geared officers left Aimu alone in the room with two plain-clothed agents, who had complete dominion over the sympathizer. One agent remained standing while the other took a seat opposite Ababneh. In the hands of the sitting agent was an open file, and he was leafing through the pages with seemingly curious interest.
“Aimu Ababneh,” the agent finally said. “I see that you’re from Yemen.” He looked Ababneh straight in the eye with venom that couldn’t be masked. “And you come here to this country to seek a better life, only to spit in the face of
the government who has granted you the opportunity to do so.”
“Who are you?” Ababneh asked with a sharp edge of undisguised vehemence.
“Why are you doing this?”
The sitting agent ignored his questions. Instead, he said, “You are a sympathizer of the Islamic State, though you’re not aligned with them directly. You’re a baker in Norfolk, a small shop that pulls in close to six figures every year, which is not a bad take, considering that this government forwarded you funds to get you started.”
“Why are you doing this?” Aimu Ababneh repeated. “You must tell me!”
“I don’t have to tell you Jack,” the agent returned. “You see, my partner and I are agents who work for a very special government workforce that doesn’t have a name. We operate in a small arena that specializes in wetwork operations. The reason why the assault unit left the room, Mr. Ababneh, was to give us time and space.”
Aimu Ababneh’s mouth started to hang.
“Now,” stated the seated agent, “we know that you provided aid to this man.”
The agent produced a mug shot photo of Mohammad Allawi. “And to this man.” It was Najm when he served as a U.S. operative. Setting the photos aside, he added,
“We also noticed that a truck was missing from your fleet—well, not really a fleet since you only have two trucks—but it’s missing, nonetheless. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, do you? Like, maybe, it’s in the hands of Mohammad Allawi, who used it to transport a very special package to a very special venue in National Harbor.”
Aimu Ababneh raised his chin in defiance. “I want a lawyer.”
“You want a lawyer?” said the standing agent. “I got your lawyer right here.” The black-op operator threw a punch that connected with Ababneh’s cheek, the blow snapping the man’s head hard to one side.
As Ababneh shook off the cobwebs, the sitting agent, who remained stoic as if nothing had happened, said, “Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions, Mr. Ababneh, and you’re going to answer each and every one to the best of your ability. If not, my partner here will continue to make his point as to where you stand with your rights, considering your position in the scheme of what’s going on with this country. Nod your head if you understand?”
When Ababneh neglected to do so, he received another punch that created internal stars.
Once Aimu gathered his wits, the sitting agent said, “That was your last tickle,
Mr. Ababneh. Now we start breaking bones, if necessary . . . Understood?”
The sympathizer gave a slight nod, which was a simple tilt of his chin.
“Very good,” said the seated agent. Then: “Question number one: Mohammad Allawi and the man called Najm, they’re to pick up an onshore vessel that will take them to another boat that’s disguised as a fishing trawler, which will be far from the shoreline. Since you engineered the pickup, I need you to tell me when and where this is going to happen. You will tell me, won’t you, Mr. Ababneh?” When the small Arab man hesitated, the standing agent retrieved a meat tenderizer from the kitchen and held it up in display, which was motivation enough to get Ababneh’s tongue in motion. And he told them everything.
Chapter Fifty-One
Mohammad Allawi and Najm hid the truck beneath a copse of trees that was approximately five miles from Virginia Beach. The location was off the highway and secluded, the area less traveled. Najm, who set up his laptops to create a communication station, was in tune with the security cameras that operated within the Jackson-Hall Arena. The screens on the three laptops were divided into six blocks per monitor, for a total of eighteen different viewpoints between the three screens. They showed people milling about talking with one another, all laughing and smiling with the proud parents happy to reach this point. Allawi watched and thought how parents often took for granted the welfare of their children, or how they were their protective blanket. But Mohammad Allawi was about to strip aside that cover and expose them to Death, who was fast approaching with its cloak and scythe. They will feel the impact, Allawi thought, that my brothers felt when they lost their children in the Coalition raids.
On the third screen, time ticked off at the bottom right grid.
. . . 02:16:12 . . .
. . . 02:16:11 . . .
. . . 02:16:10 . . .
It was the cyber-fuse counting down to its final moments. When the spelling bee was under way and the arena filled to near capacity, the charges would go off. He and Najm, however, would be on their way to grab their transport.
Everything was moving as planned.
. . . 02:15:57 . . .
. . . 02:15:56 . . .
. . . 02:15:55 . . .
“Soon, Najm,” said Allawi, “we will be heroes and hailed as such when we reach the Middle East. We will sit beside the kings who govern our legions and be celebrated, perhaps becoming kings ourselves, yes?”
Najm nodded. “Yes, Mohammad. Kings.”
To the left of the screen that counted down was a BGAN system that was attached to the laptop’s port. A BGAN was a satellite terminal and a mobile workstation that if it had a line-of-sight to a geostationary satellite to receive a feed from, which it did, the system in turn provided him with global coverage on a secured line. From his location, though far from the venue, he could retune the timer to the explosives with a few taps of his fingers. If necessary, he could shave off enough time to reset the detonator to ten minutes, should the operation go sideways.
Mohammad Allawi, who could hardly contain the fervor of a child’s excitement, stood over Najm and watched time tick away.
. . . 02:15:09 . . .
. . . 02:15:08 . . .
. . . 02:15:07 . . .
Chapter Fifty-Two
Kimball Hayden tried to lose himself within the masses inside the venue because he wanted to take this one on alone. Dealing with skilled assassins was his forte, what he been groomed to do, not Shari’s. Somewhere inside this facility were four trained killers who were unknown and faceless. Now it was up to him to ferret them out and deal with them accordingly, before the explosives could be detonated. He scoped his surroundings of the structure to note the supports, and then the curvature of the dome and the high ceiling, thereby trying to determine the building’s weakest point and the spot that could bring the Jackson-Hall Arena down to its entirety. But since the building was oval-shaped, it had no vulnerable points that were visible. But for the building to implode, all the explosion had to do was to knock down a sustaining wall that could drag other walls down in a domino effect. But sustaining walls were everywhere.
He continued to walk the venue, searching, thinking.
And then it struck him like a bolt, that surprise of sudden enlightenment. The Semtex had been stacked inside of an ice chest which had to be placed in an area that would not draw suspicion.
The kitchen. Or, at least, nearby where it would make sense.
Kimball made his way to the unauthorized section of the facility and followed the signs: To the Conference Rooms. To the Electrical Room. To the Kitchen.
Bingo!
He followed the signs that steered him true, occasionally coming upon someone who asked him ‘if he was lost,’ which Kimball replied that ‘he wasn’t,’ and that ‘he knew exactly where he was going.’ Seeing the Roman Catholic collar, they allowed him to pass.
The area that led into the galley was massive. Cooks and chefs were gearing up to create items for the food kiosks, like burgers, hot dogs and fries—simple items. Kimball searched faces which seemed to belong, because everyone working the kitchen engaged themselves by operating stovetops or prepping food. No one appeared out of place.
Then he started to move through the kitchen, the priest drawing stares but no questions.
At the end of the galley was another hallway, a part of an arterial system that led to the pantry. It also happened to be based beneath a pair of master support beams.
Another galley, this one, however, vacated.
Kimbal
l stepped inside and listened. In the distance he could hear voices, shallow and faint.
Without his knives, which he had to leave behind before entering the venue, he continued his search. He carefully checked drawers; the overhead bins; the wooden blocks filled with knives, all too small; and then he discovered his weapons of choice: a pair of sharpened cleavers.
He grabbed the handles and hefted them. They felt solid and heavy, the metal a good make. Then he threw a few chops horizontally through the air before trying vertical and diagonal sweeps, the man moving the cleavers about like a trained practitioner who was skilled in the use of bladed weaponry.
He continued to hear voices in the distance, nothing but murmurs.
Then Kimball moved forward remembering the skills of a Vatican Knight, to be precise and quiet and never, under any circumstance, allow your enemy to see you until you are right on top of them.
Kimball Hayden, holding a cleaver in each hand with white-knuckled grips, closed in.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Where the Hell did you go? was all Shari Cohen could think about when she realized that Kimball had slipped away. Nevertheless, she had to meet up with the FBI director and his leading field agents by the main entrance, which she did. FBI Director Larry Johnston appeared a little worn from lack of sleep. With him were several field agents and their team leaders, who were dressed in plain clothes. Watching the entryway from nearly fifty yards away alongside a fleet of sedans, Johnston did not want to tip his hand should Allawi be watching. Also, he had asked city officials to disable the nearby CCTV cameras to hinder exposure, which they did. Now they had to deal with the security cameras inside the venue, which was separate from the city’s civil network.
“We have to assume that Allawi is watching,” Johnston said. “Meaning we have to be uber careful with our approach.”
“We go in as pairs,” she said. “And we look for people who appear too nervous or those wearing coats too large. In the meantime, we also have to devise a way to get these people to leave the hall without causing suspicion or panic.”