Enemies Among Us

by Bob Hamer

  Omar was overwhelmed. He stood in awe, gaping at the fountain. Even Matt was impressed. This was the first time he had been inside the lobby. This sight alone almost made the evening worthwhile.

  “This is incredible!” remarked Omar.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Matt.

  “The money spent to make such a device could have gone to a better cause,” said Ibrahim.

  “I don’t believe money spent on beauty can ever be misspent. Too much of the world I have known has been destroyed. I am glad to see beauty being encouraged,” replied Omar.

  They followed the sounds of a jazz quartet emanating from the banquet hall; every third or fourth song was a popular Christmas number. Large tables were set up along the walls of the ballroom with more than three hundred items available for the auction, a Christmas boutique for the wealthy. Each table was divided into specific categories—family vacations, sporting events, art, personal gifts such as massages, beauty treatments, makeovers. There was even a liposuction gift certificate. Each registered guest had a number. In order to bid at the auction, you merely signed your name and number and wrote the amount of your bid. If someone came after you with a higher bid, that person took the prize. Ibrahim seemed distracted, but Matt and Omar looked over each table and studied the items available.

  Matt bid on four Dodger tickets, two Laker floor-level seats, and a weeklong vacation in Hawaii. He was into the rhythm of the auction and was disappointed when someone quickly outbid him for the vacation and the Dodger tickets. He smiled when he came upon some items he donated through Caitlin—an FBI baseball cap, sweatshirt, and barbecue apron. Omar was enthralled by the prize and bid on it. Confess to being a terrorist and you get an orange jumpsuit to go with that FBI logo ball cap.

  Matt looked for Ibrahim, who was at the dais talking with several of the guests.

  Along one wall were booths with representatives from various charities and medical facilities that treat the victims of land mines. World Angel set up an emotionally provocative display showing photos of the children being treated at the various clinics.

  Kim was behind the booth, answering questions and providing brochures on the ministry. David was standing in front, trying to enlist financial support for the children. What he lacked in height, he made up for in tenacity and dedication. His charismatic personality made it difficult for anyone to say no.

  Matt and Omar walked over. David introduced them to a potential supporter. As Omar was explaining the work he was doing at the clinic, Matt turned to Kim.

  “The display looks great, very professional.”

  “It’s supposed to be portable, but setting it up this afternoon was a bear. I could have used some help.”

  “I’m sorry. You should’ve called. I thought Ibrahim came over to help.”

  She hesitated briefly, “Yeah, he did, but he got tied up with other business. It’s okay. Now I know how to do it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Omar completed his discussion with the donor, and everyone decided to take a seat at the assigned table. If the consulate was the target and Omar was not the terrorist, tonight might be the last night for this assignment. So far Omar was doing absolutely nothing pointing to terrorism. The longer he spent with Omar, the more confused he became with Omar’s role in anything untoward.

  Ibrahim joined them at the table. Their nameplates written in calligraphy identified their individual seats.

  With a hint of sarcasm in his voice, Matt leaned into Ibrahim and whispered, “Hey, nice job on the display. You must have worked hard.”

  Ibrahim looked at him, smiled, but failed to respond.

  More than fifty tables, each catering to ten guests, were set up in the banquet hall. There was little doubt this evening would be a financial success. Although the audience did not contain the usual Hollywood celebrities, among the five hundred in attendance were some of L.A.’s top entrepreneurs and businessmen, including many representing the “industry,” mainly producers, network executives, and studio big shots. Many came in support of the guest of honor.

  A strong supporter of World Angel, James Goldstone was an Academy Award-winning producer, influential in raising not only awareness but also hundreds of thousands of dollars. Because World Angel was a Christian organization, it was not always welcomed or accepted by the world relief community. Even though Goldstone was a devout Jew, he was vocal in his support of David.

  Goldstone was a somewhat controversial choice for tonight’s guest of honor. People from all faiths would be attending, and Goldstone was criticized by segments of the Islamic community for a documentary he had done several years before on the Palestinian issue. In fact, some called for his assassination. The Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran sentenced author Salman Rushdie of India to death for his publication of The Satanic Verses. Rushdie went underground once the pronouncement went public and to this day is flanked by bodyguards who screen all visitors.

  Goldstone was bewildered and confused by the controversy. He denied any hidden agenda in his documentary, and most critics believed it to be as critical of Israel as it was of Palestine. Goldstone refused to run from any stated or implied terrorist threat and remained open and accessible. Few people even believed the issue was still viable; no action had been taken in the years since the airing of the documentary.

  All the guests were seated, and the servers were about to begin bringing out the salads. Unapologetically, David asked everyone at his table to bow their heads, and he blessed the meal and the evening.

  David introduced everyone at the table to ensure they knew one another. The guests included David, his wife and daughter, Ibrahim, Omar, Matt, and two businessmen and their wives.

  Matt put his cell phone on silent mode, and before the salad arrived the phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID and found it was Dwayne.

  He looked at the guests. “Please excuse me; this is important.”

  “This is Matt,” he answered.

  “Matt, thank God you got my call. Keep this conversation one way, you understand?”

  “Sure, I’m in the middle of dinner. How can I help you?”

  “Walk away from the table and call me back immediately. You understand, immediately.”

  Matt maintained his composure but could obviously sense the near panic in Dwayne’s call. He calmly replied to Dwayne. “Sure. Just let me excuse myself, and I’ll call you right back.”

  Matt looked at David across the table. “I’m terribly sorry; something has come up with one of my rentals, and I need to settle it immediately with the property manager. I have to take this call. I’ll be right back.”

  Matt rose from the table and walked with purpose toward the back of the room. Ibrahim looked at David. “Please excuse me also. I need to wash my hands before we eat.”

  When Matt got to the back of the room, he quickly turned and looked for Omar, who was still at the table. After dialing Dwayne, Matt focused on Omar. “Dwayne, what is it?”

  “It’s not here. It’s not the consulate. It’s the banquet!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Matt, NSA picked up an intercept and confirmed the conversation. It’s a dirty bomb. The attack was scheduled for the consulate but changed at the last minute to the banquet this evening. It is not the consulate. I repeat. It is the banquet, not the consulate. The attacker is named Ismad. We are deploying now. We’ve got hazmat teams en route.”

  “Ismad? Not Omar?”

  “No, I asked and confirmed, the name is Ismad. Does that mean anything?”

  “No, I don’t know of anyone at the clinic or with World Angel named Ismad.”

  “Who is there?”

  “Just a bunch of fat cats. No high profile politicians or celebrities. The guest speaker is James Goldstone, a controversial producer but not really a household n
ame. He’s been pretty public for a long time. Doesn’t make sense to hit him now. They could have done it at any time. What do you want me to do? If I clear this place now, we lose everything, and there will be chaos.”

  “We’re deploying now. We should be there shortly. Do not evacuate until we arrive. We will handle that when we get there. See if you can ID Ismad. I’ll call you when we arrive.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Matt rushed back to the table. He leaned over to David. In a voice louder than a whisper, he said to him, “I need to see you in the hallway now. It’s important. Please hurry.”

  As he was speaking to David, he saw that Ibrahim was gone. He looked at the nameplate. “Ibrahim Saleh Mohammad al-Dirani” was written in calligraphy. The letter of each name prominently displayed, I-S-M-A-D.

  “Ismad,” he said out loud.

  “What?” said Omar.

  Matt looked directly at Omar, “Where is he? Where did he go?”

  “Who?” asked Omar.

  “Ibrahim,” said Matt.

  David said, “He said he was going to wash his hands.”

  Matt ran toward the restrooms. Omar followed. They ran past the tables. Matt bumped a server who dropped a salad bowl just as he was putting it in front of a guest. Matt and Omar reached the hallway together.

  “What is it?” asked Omar.

  “I’m looking for Ismad.”

  “Who?”

  “Ibrahim. His code name is Ismad.”

  “His code name?”

  Matt spotted one of the hotel employees in the hallway. Matt yelled, “Where are the restrooms?” The employee smiled and pointed back down the hallway.

  Matt reached into the back of his waistband and pulled out a Glock 22. The .40 caliber automatic startled Omar.

  “Who are you? Why do you carry that weapon?” asked Omar.

  Matt pointed the weapon toward Omar. “I don’t have time to explain. Just back off. Return to the dining hall.”

  Omar hesitated.

  “Do it now!”

  Matt ran into the restroom. He kicked open each stall door. They were empty. Matt stopped to collect his thoughts.

  As Matt exited the restroom, Omar was still standing near the entrance.

  “I told you to back off.”

  Omar asked, “What is wrong?”

  “I need to find Ibrahim, and I need to find him now.”

  Matt thought the kitchen would be too crowded for any terrorist activity and began looking for the room housing the power plant. As he was running, he grabbed his cell phone and pushed redial. He was quickly connected to Dwayne.

  “Ibrahim’s initials spell Ismad. He has to be our man. He excused himself from the table right after your call, and now I can’t find him. I’m guessing he’s in the . . .”

  “We’re less than five away.”

  The cell phone beeped, signaling low battery. “Dwayne, Dwayne. Can you hear me?”

  No response. It was useless. The battery was dead. Matt continued running down the hallway.

  Omar followed but from a safe distance.

  Matt spotted a door. “Power Plant. Authorized Personnel Only.” It was slightly ajar. He opened it and did a quick sneak and peek around the door frame. He saw the stairwell, determined the entrance was clear, and ran in. He took the stairs three at a time and was confronted by a dungeon-like dark maze of pipes and ducts. Matt could hear faint whispers and a scraping type sound.

  Matt knew he was beneath the banquet room and guessed he was close to where the podium was located. As he made his way through the maze, he came upon Ibrahim.

  Ibrahim was dragging a large container, about half the size of a fifty-five-gallon metal drum, across the concrete floor. He settled the drum near the base of a support beam. A translucent plastic device the size of a cable modem was attached to the lid with multicolored wires peaking out one end leading inside the drum. Ibrahim knew the box consisted of enough brick-orange Semtex to level the banquet hall above. But more important was the soda can-sized container within the drum; its contents, the radioactive material, caesium-137. Ibrahim sensed a presence. With his back partially turned to Matt, Ibrahim discreetly drew his 9mm automatic from inside his waistband, concealing the Mini-Glock from Matt.

  Matt had his weapon trained on Ibrahim, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire but also wanting answers.

  Ibrahim turned slowly.

  “Step back, Matt, I must do this.”

  Watch his eyes!

  “Do what?”

  “You Americans are so stupid. I serve only Allah, not your God at some clinic.” His voice was cold with death.

  “How is this serving him?” asked Matt.

  “Tonight I will strike at the belly of your economic system. The costs of 9/11 will be multiplied greatly. Your vice president would have made a tasty target, but with this I will eliminate not only the business leaders of your city but also the man who made a movie critical of Islam.”

  “And is it worth destroying the young lives represented up in that room and the medical personnel treating those children regardless what god they worship?”

  “There are no innocents in a land that defiles Allah.”

  Ibrahim held the remote detonator in one hand. Watch the eyes! Ibrahim’s eyes betrayed nothing.

  Matt spotted the weapon at Ibrahim’s side.

  “Drop the gun, Ibrahim.”

  “Make war on the infidels who dwell around you!” shouted Ibrahim.

  “Drop the gun and step away . . .”

  Before Matt could complete his sentence, an iron pipe came from out of the shadows, crashing down on his right arm, crushing the bone and dislodging the Glock which skidded several feet on the concrete floor. With lightning speed, the pipe came back toward Matt a second time catching him just below the neck, striking him in the chest, causing him to loose his balance. He fell and grasped his arm; excruciating pain radiating toward his shoulder.

  Kim stepped out from the shadows. “Kill him!” She shouted to Ibrahim.

  “In due time. Let the infidel suffer.”

  Kim struck another brutal blow with the pipe, tears of anger flowing as she screamed incoherently, protecting the only man who had ever paid attention to her.

  Omar rushed in from behind and grabbed the pipe as Kim attempted yet another strike. Omar twisted the pipe from her hands and in a sweeping motion pulled her body against his. The pipe pressed up against her throat, choking her as he pulled the pipe tighter.

  Pointing the gun at Omar, who was using Kim as a shield, Ibrahim said, “Why do you side with the infidel? Don’t you understand this must be done for our cause? Only through blood and martyrdom can we succeed!”

  Omar showed no fear. “It may be your cause, but it is not mine. This country, these people, their God . . . they care about you, and me, and the children. You twist the word of Allah. The murder of innocents will not get you into Paradise.”

  Matt started to his feet, still dazed from the blow, pain pulsating through his body.

  “Don’t talk to me about the word! You have aligned yourself with the infidel. The Koran says, ‘Believers, take neither Jews nor Christians for your friends. Whoever of you seeks their friendship will become one of their number.’ Allah does not guide the wrong-doers!” shouted Ibrahim.

  Omar screamed his response pulling the pipe tighter. “I serve the children! I have seen enough killing in the name of God and Allah. I say no more death. It must be stopped! You must be stopped!”

  Kim lost consciousness. When Omar released the pipe, her limp body fell to the floor.

  Matt inched toward his weapon lying on the ground a few feet from Ibrahim. Ibrahim turned to his right. He pulled the hammer back on the automatic. “One more step and you will die.”

&
nbsp; Matt continued forward slowly, his arm swelling from the blow. “I’m a dead man. If I stay, the bomb will kill me. If I try to leave, you will kill me.”

  “One more step and I will kill you!” shouted Ibrahim.

  “Pull the trigger. Show me how right your cause is.”

  “Allahu Akbar!” screamed Ibrahim.

  Omar lunged toward the gun. Ibrahim turned and fired one shot hitting Omar in the left thigh severing the femoral artery. Omar collapsed, writhing in pain.

  Matt rushed toward Ibrahim and knocked the gun and remote from his hands. Matt threw a hard left jab to the face and followed with a quick left uppercut to the solar plexus.

  Ibrahim’s nose shattered. Blood gushed, splattering both men. Ibrahim folded, and Matt continued to pummel his body with a combination of blows, using only his left hand and his right knee. Ibrahim collapsed to the ground.

  Omar was conscious, but blood poured from the gunshot wound. Matt rushed over to apply pressure to the wound.

  “The bomb!” Omar cried out with anguish. “Stop the bomb now!”

  Matt ripped off his shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound hoping to suppress the bleeding.

  Matt shouted to Omar, who was lapsing in and out of consciousness, “Omar, stay with me! Place your hand on your thigh. Hold it as tight as you can.”

  Omar tried, but his hand slipped off the leg as he weakened.

  “Omar, stay with me!”

  Matt dragged Omar over to the support beam. To his left was Omar, to his right the bomb. He placed his hand on Omar’s thigh and applied pressure. Matt’s left hand was preventing life’s blood from freely flowing onto the concrete floor. The injured right arm was touching the device set for another act of senseless terrorism on the shores of America.

  From the banquet hall above, Matt could hear applause as producer James Goldstone was being introduced.