Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  Swanson hung up, wondering how it would be to work in an office the color of an eggplant.

  14

  THE COFFEE SHOP

  MONDAY MORNING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  KYLE SWANSON HAD DECIDED to drive to Minnesota, welcoming some time alone on the road behind the wheel of a new car. He let Marty Atkins at the agency know his travel plan, confirmed his encrypted cell-phone number, and then, from his apartment in Georgetown, checked by phone with the couple that rented his custom-built beach house in Malibu, California. She was an artist and he was a retired diplomat, and they reported that things were fine out there. The two real estate investments that Swanson had made when the market was in the crapper had reversed when the economy turned around, and both were now in stratospheric price levels. Sunday night, he packed two travel bags, one black and one olive-green, and was asleep before midnight. He was up at dawn the next day.

  Waiting for him in the garage was a light tan 2014 Audi A6 luxury sedan that he had purchased as a birthday present for Deqo Sharif. Understated on the exterior, the sleek car was bathed inside with luxury features that Kyle planned to enjoy during the trip that would take him through Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin before he reached Minnesota. Staying within the speed limit was not in his plans, and a radar-warning device was mounted out of sight, ready to squeak a warning if it detected police radar. He allowed the car’s computer to plan the route, and its throaty feminine voice would be his guide.

  Swanson had almost convinced himself that making the long drive was the responsible way to break in such a high-performance machine. The car needed an experienced hand at the wheel before it could be handed over to a nice elderly lady. Meanwhile, it was a nice toy for the drive of eleven hundred miles. The engine pounced to life, eager to run. He adjusted seats, mirrors, and temperature controls.

  The bland voice said, “Turn left onto L Street Northwest.” He would learn that she never said, “Please.” He rolled away in the early light and was soon leaving behind the city of monuments.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  MINNEAPOLIS

  “I intend to put ‘terror’ back into the word ‘terrorism,’” the Cobra proclaimed to Mohammed Ahmed during their second meeting, which took place in the last row of a darkened motion picture theater. It was a midafternoon show that catered to an older crowd, and they had the place almost to themselves. Five other patrons were scattered about, all with gray hair and glasses. Mohammed had been the last customer to enter, and he took a seat halfway down. After ten minutes, when no one else came inside, he retreated to the back row and sat one seat over from the Cobra.

  “No American is frightened because some dark-skinned child from the Twin Cities went off to Africa to voluntarily die, for any cause.” Omar Jama had a hypnotic manner of speech that rode just above the dialogue on the screen. Every word seemed to have been considered in advance and dripped with the honey of promise.

  “I watched the world from inside my prison for ten years, and then for another ten during my rehabilitation elsewhere in Africa and the Middle East. It gave me a unique perspective,” he told the al Qaeda man.

  Ahmed remained silent, believing the Cobra enjoyed hearing his own wisdom. He wondered why a Smith & Wesson pistol was hidden in the large box of popcorn between them, alongside two magazines of shiny bullets. All of the corn kernels had been poured into a little mound beneath another seat. He felt that he outranked the Cobra in the local community, for he was the one who had been recruiting fighters in America.

  “It is unfortunate that you are so useless,” the Cobra said, this time with a hiss of menace. “You produced only a handful of men over such a long period.”

  “What!” Ahmed cringed at the insult. On the screen, a romantic scene was in progress.

  The Cobra turned the one good eye on him “Al Qaeda is yesterday, my friend. I am with al Shabaab, and I want more aggressive soldiers. I hope that you can prove yourself to be more useful.” Omar Jama pushed back in the cramped theater seat, one knee braced on the seat before him.

  Ahmed was glad they had a movie on the big screen to distract him from that scarred face. “That is not true. Al Qaeda is stronger than ever! We have evolved to become a political force that will make lasting changes.”

  The Cobra chuckled. “You are old men whose time has passed and are living on your reputation. Ahmed, you are more than useless. Where is your financial support? Who are your followers? Who is your new bin Laden? Where are your headlines? In short, where is the terror?”

  Ahmed sucked a short breath. “Boston. Our men did the marathon bombing.”

  “No. That was not al Qaeda. Those two morons were unconnected to any group and just plucked their bomb-making ideas from the Internet. But there was a great lesson there, for their audacity totally shut down a major American city and shook this huge, rich nation. The television audiences were horrified when the police responded with a military-style manhunt that looked like an invasion.”

  “I work for Allah, praise be unto him, Omar Jama. We must cooperate.”

  The Cobra shoved the popcorn box and its contents at Ahmed. “Here is the only cooperation I want from you. Prove yourself worthy of my trust. Take this weapon, drive into some small town out in the farmlands tomorrow morning, and find a gathering place. You will shoot everyone in it and create chaos, while praising Islam in the loudest voice. You can martyr yourself with the last bullet, if you choose.”

  “Kill myself! Why?” The thought of actually being a soldier of the movement had never really occurred to Mohammed Ahmed. Sending others to fight had suited him well.

  “It is your duty, old one. For being the one who struck what will be only the first blow of this new revolution, you will be honored by the followers around the world and rewarded in paradise,” the Cobra said. “Think of this as a rare opportunity to become someone other than the little man who cleans up the shit of others.” The Cobra’s voice had grown intense. “By striking the American middle class in a place they consider safe, you will shatter their confidence. Remember what happened after the 9/11 strikes. You will make America weep.”

  “And if I refuse? Do not forget that I lead al Qaeda here, not you. I can get someone else for this task.”

  “You accepted money from me to be a fighter. I will take that gun and shoot you in the head if I think that you will not follow your orders. It is important for you to shoulder this load, my brother. You will give them another day to remember as strongly as they remember 9/11. Stay brave in the battle, and your name will be mentioned alongside that of Osama bin Laden. Our prayers will accompany you.”

  Ahmed lapsed into silence. Surrendering his leadership to the Cobra was unpleasant, but what difference did the label really make? The new arrival had brutally summed up the failures on the recruiting front and the downward spiral of al Qaeda. Nine-eleven was thirteen years and two wars ago, a very long time. Following the shopping center bloodletting in Nairobi, Mohammed Ahmed was shunned by the younger crowd around the mosque. And the Cobra was right! This grim new offer from al Shabaab would vault him into glorious eternity. He decided. “I will do this thing. Allah be praised!”

  “Let blessings flow forever unto you, my brother. Stay here until the end of the film,” said Omar Jama, who unfolded from his seat like a giant shadow, gathered his coat, put on a hat, adjusted his scarf, and left. He had purchased tickets for three movies at the multiplex and went out of the one theater and directly into the covering darkness of his second choice. It was a war movie, and he would stay there for several hours before actually leaving.

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Mohammed Ahmed moved early. He maneuvered on the slick highways and headed east out of the Twin Cities and caught I-94 at the ring road outside of St. Paul. He drove carefully, for the ultimate failure would be for a cop to grab him for some minor traffic violation. It was very cold outside, and the little Chevy’s heater was running hard. A bulky blue down jacket
kept his torso warm, but his feet were blocks of ice.

  Keeping pace, in a loose tail, were the FBI followers, who had no idea where he was going. Ahmed himself didn’t really know. Special Agent Janna Ecklund drove a Ford Suburban, while Lucky Sharif worked the radio to coordinate the other three cars, rotating them. One was always ahead of the suspect’s grime-encrusted Malibu, which was doggedly pegged at the speed limit. The SUV’s big wipers flicked away falling snow.

  In less than an hour, the Malibu’s rear blinker flashed for a right turn off of exit 41, where the interstate met U.S. 25 at the town of Menomonie, a major intersection for travelers. Motels and services and restaurants dominated the otherwise flat surroundings.

  “He’s getting off. We will bypass to the next exit and come back. Two takes lead watch,” Sharif instructed. “He’s been driving almost an hour, so he probably just wants a pee break or some breakfast. Stay sharp anyway, you guys.” The black Suburban containing Ecklund and Sharif continued on the interstate, and the surveillance was picked up by the trail car, a battered tan Subaru containing two more agents.

  The Chevy curved neatly onto North Broadway. Ahmed was looking for a restaurant. He had not picked out Menomonie in advance, but had no desire to spend extra hours venturing much deeper into the sprawling freezer that was the American Midwest in January. All of the little towns out here were the same to him, and he was to make a random choice anyway. The targets were people. Any people would do.

  The .45 pistol was a noticeable weight in his right pocket. Mohammed Ahmed did not have a gun fetish, and he knew only how to load the weapon, turn off the safety, and pull the trigger. Anything else was useless. The wipers slapped the snow away.

  GRANDMA’S KITCHEN, read the blue lettering on a white awning. As if by the hand of Allah, there were plenty of parking spaces out front, and Mohammed steered into one of the lanes. He shut down the car and unbuckled. He was not at all nervous, for the prospect of becoming a martyr should not make a fighter sweat. After meeting the Cobra, he had accepted this moment as God’s will. He stepped over a thick ribbon of snow piled by the curb and paused beneath the canopy to brush off his coat before pushing open the door.

  The FBI watchers coasted to a halt in another space nearby and radioed the location to the other three cars, which closed in to wrap the site in a rectangle of vehicles. The suspect could not possibly leave without being spotted.

  A bell tinkled, and the aroma of coffee and pastries assaulted the senses of Mohammed Ahmed. The warmth of the room felt wonderful. He stomped his feet on the mat to kick some feeling back into them. He smiled at the townspeople as his right palm gripped the handle of the .45 while his left hand unsnapped the top of his jacket.

  A counter was straight ahead, where two women in gray T-shirts bearing the store logo were busy with orders. A blackboard behind them listed the specials of the morning, and a small swinging gate led into the kitchen. The croissant, egg, and cheese item caught his eye. To his right were a few small tables and a vacant space in which kids could play. A young mother was having coffee while her two-year-old pushed plastic blocks on the rubberized floor.

  The entry was the dividing line, and on the left were larger tables, with several people around them. A few glanced his way but immediately discarded his presence. He looked like a guy who needed coffee. The walls were a lemony yellow, decorated with framed art that was for sale, and a rack of coffee urns was at the rear for refills. Next to it was a hallway that led to the bathrooms. Herd them that way, he thought.

  The teenage girl at the cash register looked up as he reached the counter while unbuttoning his jacket. “Good morning!” she chirped, riding a caffeine high of her own. “Sit anywhere you want. I’ll be right with you. Start you with some coffee?”

  “I don’t drink caffeine. I am Muslim.” He withdrew the pistol and lifted it over a tray of muffins and donuts covered with plastic, and he fired the first shot into her chest. The force of the blast threw her backward, her arms spread wide, through the swinging entrance to the kitchen. Mohammed Ahmed shouted: “Allahu Akbar!!”

  Everyone in the boxy restaurant froze at the dreaded war call used by Islamic maniacs. He shifted his aim and expended four bullets on the mother and her playing child. That cleared his right, and he was turning back when he saw the second gray-shirted server woman try to duck beneath the counter. She was covering her head with both hands. He leaned over and shot her twice in the back.

  The customers in the seating room were in motion, and a man in bulky overalls dropped his newspaper and got to his feet. The terrorist hit him twice, and the farmer went down hard. Then he pulled the trigger again and again among the screams, quickly reloaded, and resumed firing at the pond of people that had nowhere to go. A young man in a deep green fleece shirt and jeans picked up a chair to throw, and bullets cut through the light wood to kill the man behind it. An older couple at a laminate-topped table seemed resigned to their fate and were wrapped in a hug with their eyes crushed shut when he got around to shooting them. Gun smoke was filling the area, and his shots were deafening. A young woman in jeans and a flannel shirt, with dark hair that flowed to her shoulders, screamed curses at him and hurled a small rack of grape jelly containers. Two torso shots dropped her.

  Was that all of them? He had not counted. He moved around the counter and stepped over the body into the kitchen. A back door was open, indicating that someone had fled, which meant the cops would be on the way. He pulled the door closed and locked it, then stalked to the bathrooms, found a middle-aged woman cowering in the single stall, and killed her, too. Head shot. There was no one else for the executioner to kill. He dropped the magazine and counted his remaining bullets. Only four left. He would spend them wisely.

  The FBI agents had not heard the first gunshots because their windows were up, the heater was on, and the traffic noise from the interstate droned in the background. Then the cook came screaming around the corner in a grease-stained apron. The agent driving the Subaru jumped out while his partner yelled for help into his microphone, dropped it, and also broke into a run, two steps behind his partner.

  “He’s killing everybody inside!” the woman screamed.

  “Gun! Gun!” one of the agents called over the radio, even as his partner made a dash for the front door.

  Mohammed had anticipated an immediate response and was behind the counter with his pistol steady and pointing outside. When the shape of a man approached, he pulled the trigger, and the entire plate-glass window shattered in a loud crash of glass as the bullet went through and hit the target. A second bullet knocked the man over. Another figure skidded to a stop and dove for cover.

  Ahmed could take a deep breath now, for he knew the police would now become careful, since he had put one down. He wiped the menu blackboard on the wall clean with a swipe of his sleeve, and wrote in pink chalk, “God is great.” He used Arabic lettering. Then he roughly hauled the wounded woman server from behind the counter and wrestled her flat onto the top. She was bleeding profusely from her back wounds, and probably didn’t have long to live. That made her a compliant and excellent shield.

  Finally, he poured himself a cup of hot water and a took bag of tea from a box, picked up a blueberry muffin, and sat behind the counter to await the end. There were a few cries and moans in the big room, so apparently he had not killed them all. He ignored them. When he heard the first sirens, he was not frightened.

  15

  THE SHOT

  TUESDAY MORNING

  SWANSON WAS RIDING ON fumes. He had driven all night but wanted to get all the way into Minneapolis without stopping at a motel. East of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, the Audi had other ideas. The calm, slightly agitated voice of the automatic navigator said, “We need fuel,” and a warning light snapped to life on the dash panel. “We”—as if there was some relationship between man and machine. It was like a verbal spanking from mission control and actually meant, “You should have filled up one hundred and fifty miles back, you dumbass.
”

  He refused to ask the GPS lady to name the closest gas station. A green mile marker was coming up, and exit 41 was just ahead, a junction with U.S. 25, which meant there would be plenty of service areas in a little town with the peculiar name of Menomonie. He tried to pronounce it several ways, but nothing sounded right.

  Kyle put on his blinker and checked the rearview mirror just as a big Ford Taurus from the Wisconsin Highway Patrol came tearing through the traffic behind him with its flashers blazing and the siren on full blast. Kyle punched the accelerator and twisted the wheel to the left to get out of the way of the oncoming cop car that had cut into the breakdown lane. He tapped the brakes slightly, and the patrol car skidded to a stop across the exit ramp, spraying rocks and gravel and rocking on its heavy-duty springs. The ramp was closed.

  Swanson had a high enough angle to see why the trooper was in such a rush. Stretched out below was a carpet of blinking blue and red art, a convergence of police, ambulance, and fire department vehicles with their lights slashing crazily across the buildings in the area. There was obviously big trouble down there, and he had a badge in the pocket of his leather jacket and a pistol on his hip, and felt the familiar obligation to pitch in and help. Then he remembered his badge was that of a CIA operative, and that Marty Atkins had warned him to stay out of civilian law enforcement problems. He was not a cop.

  He gave the scene a final glance and drove on. The fuel light was still on, and he punched a button that would let him actually talk to the onboard computer person. She would direct him to a gas station where all hell wasn’t breaking loose. Then take him to the hotel.

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Special Agent Lucky Sharif of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had a situation. The terrorism suspect his team had been following had blown through the surveillance net and wreaked havoc inside a roadside café in Wisconsin, and an FBI agent was down from a gunshot wound in front of the place. He did not know if it was a hostage situation because he did not know if anyone other than the shooter was still alive in there. The icy cold stabbed at his exposed skin like needles as he stood in a doorway a block from the scene, working a radio in his gloved hand, deep in thought. His maroon SUV provided cover from the gunman. For the moment, he was a one-man command center.