Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  “No. I will not. I don’t take orders from the FBI or the CIA!” replied the cop, but he knew that the situation had been flipped like a flapjack on a griddle. Instead of being the top dog, he had become almost the low man on the totem pole. He holstered his pistol and motioned for the others to do the same. Someone with a higher rank on the other side of the barricade could deal with these two. “Let ’em through,” he called, adding beneath his breath, “Fuckin’ Feebs.”

  Ecklund got on the radio to Lucky, and a grim Kyle Swanson climbed over the concrete barriers, skirted the MRAP, and broke into a jog.

  * * *

  THE LITTLE HOUSE WAS in a line of similar small homes, sturdy little shelters that had withstood time and temperature. A snowman built by children silently watched the drama. Police squads were working through the neighborhood in careful, tactical formations. An armored-up cop in camo was arguing loudly on a front porch that the resident had to open up and allow him and his men to come in and search. A terrorist was on the loose! Three other policemen in protective riot gear were stacked behind him, ready to make a forced entry if the guy continued to refuse permission. At the far end of the street, a small group of residents was yelling at the cops and a line of officers with riot shields and batons blocked that route.

  Kyle ran hard, hauling in deep breaths of chill air as snow dripped from the colorless sky. Deqo’s house loomed into view, the front door yawning open and the entrance empty. The big central window was shattered, and the white curtains inside fluttered like flags of surrender. He leaped up the steps, crossed the porch, and plunged inside, calling her name into the residence that had turned ice-cold. It had been trashed.

  “DEQO! DEQO! It’s Kyle! Where are you?” He checked the small kitchen and the dining room, where doors had been kicked open and kitchen shelves emptied into piles of broken crockery. The door to the small storage basement had been ripped from its hinges, and her favorite china cabinet was toppled, the contents in pieces. The hunters had not been gentle.

  She was in the back bedroom, seated at her dressing table and staring into the mirror, with the remains of a prized ceramic figurine cupped in her hands. Kyle knelt beside her and pulled her close when she turned to him. Tears coursed down the old woman’s face, following the deep wrinkles. “Policemen with guns came. Men I have never seen before,” she said with a hiccup. “I told them to stay out, but they broke in anyway, screaming awful things and waving their guns. They said I was hiding a terrorist.”

  He was on fire, but forced himself to stay in control. “Did anyone hurt you?”

  “No. They did not hurt my body, no. There are no broken bones. I am okay. What was really hurt was my pride, Kyle. I didn’t think such a thing could ever happen here. They said they were going to arrest me.”

  Kyle said, “Come on. Let’s get you over to the bed so you can lie down for a few minutes. I’ll bring a washcloth and make some tea. Then I will get Lucky over here.” He helped her stretch out and pulled a heavy blanket up to her waist. She looked frail. “I’m here now, Deqo. It’s going to be all right. Somebody’s not thinking straight, that’s all.”

  “I told them I wanted to see the warrant and just got pushed aside. I fell down.”

  Swanson knew that well-intentioned operations can spin out of control with only a taste of panic, but this one could have killed Deqo; her heart wasn’t strong enough to endure another Somalia, particularly in her own home, which she believed was safe. For now, he bit back his frustration. He closed the front door against the weather and any new intruders, half expecting to hear gunfire somewhere out in the street. The lock was broken. Shouting was growing in volume as more people spilled out to protest the raids. A helicopter came chopping low overhead. Kyle put a kettle of water on the stove for the tea.

  He retrieved his cell phone and thumbed a call that bypassed regular command loops and was answered by Lieutenant General Bradley Middleton, the deputy national security adviser at the White House. Times like this, back channels worked best.

  “No shit?” Middleton had risen to his feet behind the desk, having trouble believing what Swanson was telling him.

  “It’s borderline chaos up here,” Kyle said. “Cops are forcing their way into private homes, and some very unhappy residents are clustering in the streets. It is only a matter of time before somebody pulls a trigger. The police are quarantining the biggest Somali neighborhood in Minneapolis, and they even brought in some MRAPs, and the television cameras are broadcasting. Nobody is fighting back, but crowds are forming up. It’s probably already on your television set in the White House.”

  Middleton switched on his office TV while he listened. “Got it. Thanks for the heads-up. I need to get this on up the line. Maybe the president will want to chat with the governor, and the governor with the mayor, and the mayor with the police chief. Cops acting like an occupying military force? Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “It already has. The FBI didn’t know about it in advance, so maybe just some low-level precinct guy just made a bad choice that has grown out of control.”

  “I’m on it, Kyle. Call me later.”

  The front door flew open and an out-of-breath Janna Ecklund rushed inside. “Is she all right?” Ecklund winced as if in pain when saw the damage and called out, “Deqo?”

  “She’s scared, but okay. In the bedroom.” He stuck his head outside and heard a tide of shouting rising down the street.

  “I’m back here, Janna.” Deqo was on her feet when Ecklund reached the bedroom, and the two women almost collided in a hug, Janna being large enough to make two of Deqo. “Don’t you worry,” the older woman said, as if gentling a thoroughbred horse and stroking Janna’s snow-white hair. “I’m good now, with you and Kyle here.”

  “Lucky will be here in a minute,” Janna said, and guided Deqo back to the bed and made her get back under the covers. “This is so terrible.”

  “What happened?” Kyle asked, bringing in a cup of steaming tea.

  “We stopped it, whatever it was,” replied the FBI agent. “The search teams are pulling back and that checkpoint is already being dismantled. Everybody is saying they were just following orders, but that won’t stand very long. Some honcho’s balls are going to be cut off.”

  The front door banged open again, and Lucky Sharif stormed in. “Where is everybody?” He was at the bedroom before anyone could respond.

  He reached for his grandmother, but Deqo pushed him aside. “I’m getting hugged by too many giants. You’re all going to break me. Now calm yourself down, Cawelle Sharif. I just had a bit of a fright, that’s all.”

  Lucky sat beside her. “Did they come in here, too?” His eyes were dark stones.

  “Yes,” she admitted, looking around her bedroom. “It looks like an army marched through, doesn’t it?”

  Lucky dug out his radio. Every policeman who had entered a private home was to be segregated and taken to separate holding facilities until they could be questioned individually by federal agents. They were to be kept apart to prevent them from getting their stories straight. The FBI wanted answers. Somebody was going to pay.

  * * *

  THE FOUR OF THEM spent a few hours picking up, cleaning the mess, and arranging for a string of repairmen and carpenters. A neighbor donated a sheet of plywood to temporarily seal the broken window. Deqo’s mood improved with the work and the feeling that something was being accomplished. The others were still growling, but tried not to show it.

  The police net around the Somali neighborhood evaporated, and regular uniforms replaced the camo outfits. The big guns and riot gear were put away, and normal patrol cars took over from the MRAPs. At three o’clock the assistant chief of police, Paul Gottfried, arrived at the house and was overflowing with apologies. Deqo, the person with the most reason to be outraged, was the only one to be polite to him. She even gave him coffee.

  Gottfried was the department’s salesman when things got tough. The thick blond hair accented his Nordic features, and his
limitless reservoir of energy propelled a gym-fit body and sharp mind. “It was a dreadful mistake,” Gottfried said, knowing the admission of guilt could come back to haunt the city if Deqo Sharif filed a lawsuit. Nevertheless, a truthful explanation was the only way to go. Lucky Sharif, Janna Ecklund, and Swanson would nail him on any lies.

  Deqo sat with her hands folded in her lap, a kind smile on her face. She asked, “Why me? Why here?”

  Gottfried shrugged and let out a long breath, his look solemn. “That’s the real question, Mrs. Sharif. We already know how it happened. Shorthand version is that a TV news department received an anonymous tip, and the caller was very specific. He claimed the madman behind all of the terrorist killings was hiding at this address. The source claimed that you were a sympathizer with the group called al Shabaab.”

  Janna Ecklund rolled her eyes and rested a hand on Deqo’s shoulder. “What a crock. Nobody checked this out?”

  “Then what?” asked Kyle. “Why the over-the-top reaction by your cops?”

  “Without a shred of proof?” added Lucky.

  Gottfried paused to get his thoughts straight, then said, “The TV guy called a friend in our department, the deputy chief in charge of the Special Operations Department. That officer, unfortunately, had lost a six-year-old cousin in the Target Center bomb blast, and he went off the deep end without authorization. By the time the chief and I found out, he had already rolled out heavy, wanting to personally take down the terrorist, if not kill him outright. This man, who had an outstanding record, has been relieved of duty, of course. The officers who invaded your home will be reprimanded.”

  “I see,” said Deqo. “That poor man.”

  Lucky said, “It’s too bad about his loss, but he did a lot of damage, Chief Gottfried. This entire neighborhood is angry.”

  “We’re doing what we can to settle things and rectify an error, Agent Sharif, and we could use your help out there.”

  “Forget it,” Lucky shot back.

  “Well, I can understand your feelings, but none of us want this community to blow up with a riot when the sun goes down. Think it over, please. Now, back to your original question: why did the caller pinpoint you personally, a woman known to be pillar of the community? We don’t know. Do you have any idea who would dislike you this much?”

  Deqo’s back was ramrod straight. “No! I don’t have any enemies at all, as far as I know.” Lucky, Kyle, and Janna all agreed. The woman had spent the last twenty years helping people.

  “We have to probe this deeply, ma’am. I consider that anonymous call to be another terrorist attack, and this one specifically targeted you. A team of our detectives and FBI special agents is ready to come over now and interview all of you, maybe get a line on this guy. Are you willing to do that?” His eyes locked on hers, then swept around to the others. “Special Agent Sharif cannot be doing the interview because he is personally involved. I think we all just learned a lesson about how personal involvement clouds good judgment.”

  Lucky agreed, and Deqo said, “Yes. Of course. I just can’t think of who might be so angry at me.”

  Kyle said, “But not here. This place won’t be ready again for at least a week. Until then, Mrs. Sharif will be staying in my suite at the Graves 601 downtown, and under our constant protection. Have them meet us there in an hour.”

  Relief pumped through Gottfried, and he slapped his knees and got up. “Excellent. Again, Mrs. Sharif, I apologize for the shock and the mess our people made. The city will pay for everything, of course, and a general contractor is on his way right now. So, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work. People are frightened throughout the state, not just here. This whole thing is a nightmare.”

  They watched him leave, and Deqo allowed that the assistant chief was a true gentleman.

  “I wanted to kick his ass.” Janna was still furious.

  “Take a deep breath instead,” Kyle advised. “All of us have to regroup: the cops, you Feebs, and everybody else. We have to stay united and not divide our forces. And Lucky, you really do need to get some Somali leaders into the loop.”

  He turned to Deqo. “Now, old woman, get some clothes together so I can get you out of here. I’ve got a suite for you at my hotel, so get some clothes.”

  Deqo didn’t want to leave. “I will be fine right here. I have to straighten things.”

  “This isn’t a debate. Until things shake out, you stay with me so these children can get back to work. Tomorrow, you and I take a break and go over to the Mall USA, do some shopping, get you a manicure, and have us a nice lunch. You still have a birthday coming up. By the time we get back, your house should be looking a lot better. My guess is that this place is high on the priority list.”

  Thirty minutes later, when Janna drove them all away, the FBI sedan was followed by a dirty red Volvo S40. The driver thumbed his mobile phone as he steered and reported to the Cobra.

  BOOK THREE

  22

  THE MALL

  SATURDAY

  MINNEAPOLIS

  BY LUNCHTIME, THE CITY was smothered with cops. It had been staggered by the terrorist attacks and the invasion of the Cedar-Riverside area by the armored vehicles and soldierlike cops, but, although the streets had simmered, there had been no riot. Television reports still carried the taste of a battlefield documentary, and some Somali residents said they actually had feared for their lives, and they hurled accusations that the authorities had overreacted just because they were blacks and Muslim.

  How could the Cobra not be happy on such a fine morning? Those shocking reports were the propaganda equivalent of still another attack, for those frightened citizens and the militarized law enforcement reactions would be seen by millions of people all over the world. And all it had cost him was a single telephone call of warning to a television station news department.

  Considering the chaos and distrust that he sowed, Omar Jama felt as if he were the captain of a large ship, looking back over its turbulent wake. His daily drumbeat of attacks was wearing down the resolve of the Americans by showing their weaknesses. Everyone out there had but two thoughts: Is it over? What next?

  It was the weekend. He was not yet done with his attacks on America. Tomorrow, on Sunday, he would show them what was next and unsheathe the sword! Meanwhile, he had enough spare time to continue his parallel campaign against his other three targets, the first being Deqo Sharif. Omar had laughed aloud when he saw the TV pictures of her wrecked home. That was just the first footfall of an approaching hungry bear, but she did not know that. By tonight, she would be trembling.

  He waited in the huge mansion; there were three men watching the luxury hotel where she had taken refuge, but she had to surface sometime. As a bonus, they had identified the suite as being in the name of Kyle Swanson—the Swanson Marine! A pleasant and unexpected bonus.

  He intended to make himself personally known to them today and let them recognize him for a brief moment, so they could then live in fear, knowing he was coming to collect them. That meant he would have to go out in the daylight today, so the Cobra assumed the image of a businessman in a dark suit with a blue shirt and subtle tie. The collar of his overcoat would be worn up. A snap-brim hat tilted over his forehead and the eye patch would shield the scars.

  The call came in at eleven o’clock. “They’re moving.”

  “Follow them. Stay in contact.” He thought perhaps he could just shadow their car for a while, race up alongside and roll down the tinted window and show his face long enough to be recognized, and then escape. Maybe taunt them. Or perhaps have another car hit them. He would just have to wait and see and strike when the opportunity was right, but at least things were moving.

  * * *

  THE COBRA WATCHED TROUBLED Minneapolis from the passenger’s seat of the stylish BMW X5, escorted by the same quiet and neat youths who had rescued him from the storefront apartment and ferried him to the place on Lowry Hill. Pierre drove, and Clinton was in the rear. Both were polite and n
eatly dressed and were members of a gang called the Somali Outlaws. He enjoyed their company.

  “Do you boys know my name?” he finally asked when they were under way.

  “No, sir,” answered the driver. “Only that you are important and we are to protect you.”

  “That is probably best,” the Cobra said.

  Pierre briefly blinked his eyes from the road and looked over. “Where are we going?”

  “Just drive around. I would like to see the area where the trouble took place yesterday.”

  “Cedar-Riverside?”

  “Yes. We can start there.”

  The new SUV containing the three black males was not pulled over. The plates were traced by several officers, and the police computer spat back that the owners were the famous music star and businessman E-X and his wife, Fatima, two of the wealthiest celebrities in the Twin Cities. That was enough to maintain a bubble of protection and respect around the opulent vehicle.

  A video screen on the center console live-streamed the broadcast of a news channel. The Cobra watched, as did Clinton.

  “Do you have something to do with that, sir?”

  Omar Jama gave an oblique answer. “I work for the glory of the Islam.”

  “Cool,” said Clinton. They rode in silence for a while through the streets of the nervous city, then Clinton asked, “Sir, do you need more people to help? We’ve got plenty of street boys.”

  Cobra turned, nodded. “I will keep that in mind, Clinton, and I thank you for the offer. My business is on schedule, and I have manpower equal to the task. Do you follow our Prophet, whose name be praised?”