by John Whitman
He smiled happily.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11 P.M. AND 12 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
11:00 P.M. PST Van Nuys, California
The building was large, constructed right on the main thoroughfare of Van Nuys Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley just north of Los Angeles, and because it was so obvious it was completely and utterly anonymous. A person might drive by that building five days a week for ten years and never notice it. Most of the building was owned by Barrington Suites, an executive rental company that specialized in leasing office space to small businesses, who could use a common receptionist, common conference rooms, copy rooms, and the like. According to the data Jamey Farrell and her people had gathered, there were more than thirty small businesses renting executive suites from Barrington in that building.
One of those small businesses was called Mataram Imports, owned by a Riduan Bashir, a naturalized citizen of Indonesian origin.
Tony Almeida reached Bashir’s office door a minute after eleven. He didn’t see the urgency in this investigation, but Chapelle had insisted. He had the license plates for two cars registered in Bashir’s name and one was in the parking lot, so he expected to find the man at work. The door itself was not welcoming—a solid wood door, locked, with a small sign reading MATARAM IMPORTS on the wall beside it, hung over a doorbell. Tony pushed the bell. He heard nothing, but a moment later the door clicked and buzzed.
Almeida pushed the door open. The office inside was humble—a small reception area that opened onto an equally small office strewn with papers. Through the opening, Tony saw a wall map and a large dry erase board with a hand-drawn calendar grid, covered in notations.
Riduan Bashir was getting up from his desk and walking toward Tony, his face open and unsuspecting, his manner unguarded.
“Yes, may I help you?” the man asked. His English was musical, though as he spoke further Tony found his speech gently clipped with the uninspirated “K,” “T,” and “P” of the Malay accent.
“Tony Almeida,” he said, handing over a card similar to the one Chris Henderson had used at UCLA. “I just have a few questions for you.”
The official seal on the business card put Bashir immediately on edge. Tony noted this, but reached no conclusions. He was the government, and the government always put people on edge.
“You work late, Mr. Bashir. I tried your home and they said you were here.”
“I am at the mercy of Indonesian time, sometimes. Am I in some sort of trouble?” Bashir asked. Like most Indonesians, he was dark-skinned, and Tony could not tell if he had blushed or lost color. But he was definitely nervous.
“No, sir,” Tony said, falling easily into a spiel meant to put the subject at ease. “This is fairly routine. I’m sure you know that we’re always following up on information we get from all kinds of sources. Most of the leads go nowhere, and most of the people we question are just innocent bystanders like you. But we have to be thorough because that’s what we’re paid for.”
The phrase “innocent bystanders like you” acted like a tonic, washing tension from Bashir’s body. “Well, of course. Would you like to sit down?” He indicated his office.
“Why not here?” Tony pointed to the small couch and visitor’s chair in the reception area. Bashir would feel less secure if he wasn’t sitting behind his desk.
They sat, and as soon as Bashir was settled, Tony said easily, “Are you familiar with Jemaah Islamiya?”
Bang. The question was like a cannon shot. It was a hurry-up version of a classic interrogation technique: make the suspect feel like he is not the suspect, then surprise him with a hard question.
This one certainly threw Bashir off-balance. “Jemaah . . . ? Yes, well, of course. From the news.”
“Then you know Jemaah Islamiyah is a terrorist group operating in Indonesia, and that they were responsible for that bombing in Bali that killed 202 people and injured hundreds more? They also claimed responsibility for the truck bomb that blew up a Marriott.”
Bashir shook his head sadly. “I remember the newspaper. Not just the Times here. I get several papers shipped over from Indonesia. It was terrible.”
Tony sifted through the papers he had brought with him. He only had one pertinent question, but he wanted Bashir to think he had reams of information. “Do you recall making a trip to Jakarta in May of 2002?”
Bashir leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, clearly anxious, but clearly trying to look helpful. “I travel home once a year, and sometimes twice. I don’t remember the dates exactly, but May sounds correct.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Both, of course.”
“Sure. While you were there, you met with Khalid Ismahuddin, a member of Jemaah Islamiyah.”
Bashir uncrossed and recrossed his legs. “Is that a
question?”
“No.”
“Well, yes, I met with Ismahuddin. But not because
of Jemaah Islamiyah. He runs a shipping business out of Jakarta and I was looking for lower prices for my own merchandise.”
“Hmm,” Tony said as though dissatisfied, but he was only fishing. Bashir’s statement jibed with the information he already had. Ismahuddin was on watch lists at CTU and the CIA, but he wasn’t considered a major player. He really did run a legitimate shipping business, and was only on CTU’s radar because he donated some of his profit to radical Islamists in the Indonesian archipelago.
Bashir shifted again, literally and figuratively. “Look, Mr. Almeida, I don’t know if I’m a suspect in any of this, but I assure you I have nothing to do with those people. I think everyone should consider Islam, even you, but I have no interest in blowing people up. I do not know how to make a bomb and I certainly would not drive an exploding van into a hotel. Ismahuddin offered me competitive prices for my business so I met with him. I would do business with him tomorrow if it gave me a chance to expand.” He waved his arm around the tiny office. “As you can see, I can use all the help I can get.”
Tony nodded, closed his folder, and stood up. “I understand, Mr. Bashir. We’re aware that Ismahuddin’s business is legitimate, even if his intentions aren’t always good. Like I said, we just have to be thorough.”
He offered his hand, which Bashir accepted with relief and genuine warmth.
“I appreciate your efforts to keep people safe,” Bashir said, opening the door and ushering him out.
As the door shut behind him, Tony’s smile fell away.
11:19 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“Jamey Farrell.”
“Jamey, it’s Tony. Can you do a quick search for me?”
“What I’m here for. What do you need?”
“Look at that Marriott bombing in Jakarta from a
while back. The local police report and the Indonesian government’s published investigation. Also whatever briefs the CIA put out to us and anyone at other intelligence agencies.”
Jamey was already at her computer, her fingers bouncing over the keyboard. “Okay, but what am I looking for?”
“If I remember it right, the Indonesians put a plant
in that story?”
“Hold on.”
Jamey buzzed through several reports in her data
base before coming back on the line. “Yes,” she said finally. “It wasn’t much, though, because so much of it was public. But the official report said that the bomb was delivered by a truck that exploded in the parking lot.”
“Did the news media pick that up?”
“Hold on.” Again, there was a pause. “I’d have to take more time to give you a comprehensive answer, but most of the outlets reported the story as is.”
“Truck bomb.”
“Right.”
“When the vehicle was really a—” “A van,” she finished for him.
“Thank you.”
11:26 P.M. PST Staples Center,
Los Angeles
His real name, if he had been willing to admit it to anyone, was Jorge Rafael Marquez, and he was a genius. This wasn’t a boast. He had known it from an early age as surely as one knew one’s gender. The same way a little boy knows he is different from a little girl, Jorge knew he was different from all the children around him, different even from the adults. In the little school in the Chiapas province of Mexico where he grew up, when the teacher was trying to teach addition to the others, he was already mapping out multiplication tables, and without knowing its name, he used algebra and calculus to help his father map out his soybean farm to produce its maximum yield.
He read, and anything he wished to commit to memory, he remembered forever. When his uncle showed him a guitar, he had memorized the chords in a single day, and though he himself denied that he had mastered the art of music, the science and organization of music he understood with ease.
Because the real gift of Jorge Rafael Marquez was in patterns. He recognized them easily, and could project them forward to their logical ends based on any changes he was presented. He still remembered the day he was handed a Rubik’s Cube, battered, some of the cubes chipped. It was a gift from an older cousin who had made the long migration to El Norte and come back after several years. In America, he had said, there were lots of geniuses, and all of them could solve this puzzle.
Rafael, twelve years old, had stared at the cube for a moment without touching it. His cousin laughed, thinking he was intimidated. His father patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, Rafael,” he had said with a laugh. “If your gift helps me farm, it’s enough for me!”
But Rafael hadn’t been intimidated. He had been spinning the cube in his mind. In the few seconds of his cousin’s laugher he had identified three different methods of solving the puzzle. Finally he picked it up, his hands spinning the cube faster than his cousin’s eyes could follow. He put it down, each side a solid color, thirty-seven seconds later.
The next day he had started out for America.
These days he left the name of Marquez far behind, and his associates knew him as Zapata. He had come to the United States on this trip under the name of Ossipon, guessing correctly that no one who heard the name would know or recall the name of the anarchist in one of Joseph Conrad’s books.
Zapata and Aguillar walked freely into the Staples Center—the concert, whatever it was, was nearly over. No one would bother entering the event now. Zapata had only a small bag with him. He took a camera out of the bag and handed it to Aguillar. “Put this around your neck.”
They walked around the wide promenade that ringed the actual center, passing rows of concession stands, upscale bars, and kiosks that sold food and souvenirs to a few people, all of whom seemed eager to get back into the concert. Zapata ignored them all. At one of the kiosks, Zapata stopped near a large pot that held a small tree. He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then dug into the plant, placed a small package there, and covered it with soil.
They continued until they came to a set of double doors that read, “No Admittance.”
11:33 P.M. PST Federal Holding Facility, Los Angeles
Ramirez was reading a book picked up from the library. Jack went to his bunk and dug his fingernails into the seam of his mattress. With a tug, the seam parted. He stuffed his hand inside and came out with a shank. Unlike a shiv, which was any weapon made of nonmetal, a shank was a makeshift knife. This one was a razor blade embedded into three plastic knives that had been melted together for added strength and to hold the razor in place. The Federal Holding Facility was a maze of metal detectors, so shanks were impossible to move around. Impossible for other people, but not for Jack.
“What’s up?” Ramirez asked, looking up over the edge of his book. “Jesus!” he yelled, as Jack slashed his left palm with the blade. “Stop it!” Ramirez shrieked as Jack made a second cut along the side of
his own neck.
“Help!” he shouted. “Goddamn Christ! Help!”
A guard came running. “What the hell’s wrong . . .
Holy shit!” He saw blood all over Jack’s hands and face, his appearance made worse by rubbing his hands over his shirt and face to spread the blood.
“Open her up!” the guard shouted. “Call the infirmary!”
“He cut me!” Jack yelled, making his voice high-pitched and panicked. “He’s loose on the block and he ran by and cut me!”
“Who’s loose?” the guard said. “Somebody’s loose.”
“Yes,” Jack said. He punched the guard in the face, putting him back on his heels, and before he could react, Jack was behind him, holding the razor to his throat. “Don’t struggle or you’ll end up looking a lot worse than I do.”
Jack turned to Ramirez. “Come on, you’re going with me.”
Ramirez was stunned. Thirty seconds ago he’d been sitting quietly reading his book. “Me? What?”
“I’m not going to let those gang-bangers kill me,
and you said yourself they’d come after you, too.”
“But—”
“Come on!” Jack dragged the guard out of the cell
and down the hall. By the time he got to the choke point at the edge of the block, the guard behind the Plexiglas could see him.
“Open it!” he said, brandishing the razor blade.
The guard hit an alarm and sirens sounded. But the door remained closed.
Everything depended on fast reactions, sudden movements, drama. It was like using the element of surprise to attack a larger force. Move fast, strike hard, don’t let the enemy’s training kick in. Jack cut his hostage across the scalp. The wound was all but harmless, but the scalp gushes blood, and it had the desired effect. Gouts of blood dripped over the guard’s face, and he screamed. “Do it!”
The guard panicked and slapped another button. The security door buzzed and Jack pulled it open. Now he was inside. Before the second guard could say or do anything, Jack kicked him in the stomach. He doubled over, and Jack kicked him in the head. He went down and didn’t get up. Jack scanned the room; there were riot batons but no firearms, not this deep inside the facility. He did, however, have another weapon.
He threw the switches that opened all the cells, and spoke over a loudspeaker. “Free time, everyone. Come out and play.”
He heard the first whoops before he saw anyone move. Jail was, he had noticed, an oxymoron. If society was the establishment of procedures and organization, then prison was a much more efficient society than any neighborhood or town. It was, in that sense, the epitome of society. At the same time, it was far closer to the edge of disaster than any other social group. Prison was routine, routine, routine, all just one step away from riot.
Jack was satisfied to note that Ramirez had followed him. Tentative, shocked by what Jack had done, but compliant nonetheless.
“You’re fucking crazy!” the cut guard gurgled, his throat compressed by Jack’s forearm.
“Yeah, so don’t try to reason with me,” Jack said. “Look.” He turned the guard toward the Plexiglas. They could see down the cell block, where prisoners were now appearing in ones and twos. Some were already jumping up on the railings, or running into the cells of other inmates. One deck below, where the bunkhouse slept twenty to a room, a fight had already broken out.
“They’ll be coming this way in a minute. Most won’t touch you, but I bet there’s one or two that’ll take a piece of you before this gets shut down.” Jack saw a glint of fear in the guard’s eye. “So let’s all of us get out of this block before it goes insane.”
Jack passed through the guard station into the next corridor. One more station and he would be in the open. There was another door here, but this one required a code. Jack pointed at it.
“I can’t do it,” the guard insisted.
“You’re going to lose your fingers for sixty thousand a year,” Jack threatened. “It can’t be worth it.”
Alarms sounded farther off. The whole jail was awake now.
Jack held up the razor blade. “Open that door and I’m someone else’s problem.”
That was enough to convince the guard. He punched in the entry code, and the door opened. Jack sealed his arm around the guard’s throat, putting him in a carotid choke. The man gasped and flailed, but Jack held on until he went limp. He laid the unconscious guard gently on the ground.
“Come on!” he ordered. Ramirez followed obediently.
Jack knew he’d never get out of the final layers of security without help. He needed to create more diversions. The more chaotic he could make the jail, the harder it would be for the jailers to stop him.
11:41 P.M. PST Staples Center, Los Angeles
They passed through the doors and descended two flights of stairs. Below the Staples Center was a miniature city, a maze of storerooms, maintenance rooms, and other rooms. Zapata seemed to know exactly where he was going. They arrived a few minutes later at a door with no markings, but with a small black man wearing a windbreaker that said “Security.”
“I help you gents?” the man said amiably.
“We’re here to talk to see one of the fighters,” Zapata said. He held up a notepad and pointed at the camera hanging from Aguillar’s neck.
The man nodded and let them through.
“How do you do that?” Aguillar whispered. “How did you know that man would just let you in?”
“People like it when their expectations are met,” Zapata replied casually. “This place is out of the way.
That man is bored. He would like to do his job, but he doesn’t want to do real work. He wants to check people who come his way, but he does not want trouble. We met his expectations.”
The room beyond was a storeroom that had been converted into some kind of athletic training area, with mats on the floor and a boxer’s heavy bag hanging from an iron post with a heavy base. On the far side of the room, two fighters were rolling on the ground, but only practicing, while two or three men stood around them giving comments.
Much closer, a man stood by himself, slowly removing cloth wraps from around his hands. He was huge, at least six feet, five inches tall, with shoulders as wide as Zapata and Aguillar standing together. His hair was shaved very close to his head. His ears were swollen and misshapen, and his nose was bent to the left.