Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  “You mean are we good Muslims?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, sir. We are not religious at all. In fact, being a Muslim is an easy way to have the FBI all over you. We are just businessmen, interested only in profits.”

  The Cobra stiffened, then relaxed. He wasn’t here to proselytize. Still, if the faithful were losing the religious grip on the young people, they eventually would drift away. “I know. Well, you shall discover your own path, but please consider resuming your study of the Book. It is part of the culture of our people.”

  “Okay. Can I ask, not being too personal if you don’t want to say, but…”

  “My face? The scars?” Cobra smiled, glad to move the subject away from religion.

  “Yes, sir. I have seen beat-up dudes before, but, damn, it looks like you got run over by a train or something.”

  Omar Jama trailed his fingers along the misshapen flesh and the patch. “I sustained these a long time ago, in the early days of the war in Mogadishu. War is very dangerous.”

  “Could plastic surgery fix your face up better?”

  “Doubtful. There were no plastic surgeons in the African prisons in which I spent ten long years. I was fortunate to survive at all. Now, I keep my scars as personal reminders of how much I hate this country. America did much worse to thousands of other Somalis. Babies were killed, women were raped, men had their genitals cut off, and whole villages were starved and crushed by the American marines.”

  Pierre joined the conversation. “I saw that war movie about Mogadishu, but it didn’t have anything about the marines. So you come over here for some payback, sir … after twenty years?”

  “My war will never stop, young man. It knows no boundaries.”

  In the backseat, Clinton sat in total admiration.

  The Cobra’s telephone buzzed, and he answered. The driver of the faded red Volvo reported he had followed the man and the woman from the hotel, and they were now eastbound on I-494. He closed the call. Maybe this would be a chance to pull alongside them for the unveiling of his presence. “Get on Interstate 494 and head east, please. Hurry.”

  “Yes, sir. Going to the mall?” Pierre knew an interstate entrance was two blocks over and hurried onto the ramp, then gunned the engine and sped into traffic.

  “I just want to find a certain car.”

  “If they are on I-494, the chances are that they are going to Mall USA over in Bloomington.” Clinton crossed his arms. “It’s the only thing out there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This tilted his plan, and he said a quiet prayer of thankfulness for Allah’s presenting still another wonderful opportunity. He had known that fact, but had not made the correlation between what was happening at present and what he planned for tomorrow.

  The Mall USA was the second-largest shopping mall in North America, and was his target for the final attack. On Sunday, he would dial a single number that would simultaneously burst the attack code word—“sword”—to eighteen separate telephones, and history would be made. But although he planned to destroy the mall, he had never actually set foot in the huge complex. Today he could track Sharif and Swanson out there and simultaneously do some quiet final surveillance. Perhaps there would be a chance to do even more.

  The sleek SUV rode quietly along Interstate 494, and the Cobra noticed the flow of traffic appeared normal. The drivers and passengers apparently believed that bad things only happened to other people. They had not been at the coffee shop in Wisconsin or on the roads around Albert Lea and had not gone to the basketball game, so they were sleepwalking through what could be the most dangerous time of their lives, depending on overwhelmed and ineffective police to protect them from him, an impossibility.

  “Do you have weapons?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Too dangerous to carry with all those cops running around today.”

  “No matter. I know where we might find some.”

  The begrimed red Volvo followed Swanson and Deqo all the way to the mall and parked one row back and five slots down, and its occupants watched the man and woman walk from the parking lot to the east entrance of the mall before checking in with the Cobra. “We’re almost there,” said Omar Jama. “You go inside but stay near the entrance. The man with her would spot a tail. He is dangerous.”

  * * *

  HUGH BROOKS, THE FBI SAC, looked up as Lucky and Janna entered his office at Brooklyn Center. He brought them up to date. “The forensics and search teams have proven that little apartment behind Hassan Investments was occupied, but by someone other than Mr. Hassan Abdi. It looks like they all disappeared. There’s a BOLO out now, but Hassan smells real gone.”

  Lucky plopped into a chair. “They had an escape plan because they knew they were going to have to run eventually. Both Hassan and whoever lived behind the shop.”

  “Just so,” Brooks said, wishing he still smoked cigarettes. He could use one right now. “Maybe something will turn up from Interpol. How’re things over in Cedar-Riverside, and with your grandmother?”

  Lucky adjusted his lanky body in the seat. He was still agitated by the screwup the night before. “Deqo is okay, and the scene is settling down. A tactical team went into her house without a warrant, scared her half to death, broke almost everything, and in the process almost started a riot.”

  “God almighty. I hear that the mayor got a quasi-impolite call from the governor, wondering if Minneapolis was in need of the National Guard. Apparently the governor had received a similar call from the White House.” The strain was telling on the veteran agent. “By raiding Deqo’s home, those cops inadvertently got you involved on a personal level.”

  “They stepped way over the line, Boss, and they knew it while they were doing it. Somebody should lose their badge.” Sharif was outwardly at ease, but Brooks saw through the act.

  The SAC poured a cup of stamina, returned to his chair, and sipped at the strong, hot, fresh brew. “Nevertheless, your effectiveness with the locals has been impaired until this is all cleared up.”

  Janna had both hands wrapped around her own mug of coffee. “Pull Lucky off, and we lose our best contact within the Somali community,” she said.

  “I’m not taking either of you off of the case, Janna, but we do not want Lucky to end up in a confrontation that could get public and nasty and damage the progress he has made over the past few years. The chief promised me a thorough internal investigation.”

  Sharif kept his face blank. “I won’t let it blow up. I came up through the MPD, and I know a lot of them. They’re good people. They know a fuckup when they see one and want to clear it as fast as possible.” Sharif stopped talking, stretched out his long legs, and crossed his ankles. “On the case, I keep coming back to something Kyle said, that this all has been too much to be accidental. Someone mapped out these moves carefully to sow distrust and get us going after each other. That sidetracks the overall investigation and keeps us from concentrating on who is behind the attacks.”

  “The guy in the back room.”

  “Yes. Him.”

  “Any idea who that might be?”

  “No. We went through it all over and over during the interviews. It had to be personal, against Deqo, but she doesn’t have enemies like that. Even the gangsters respect her because she knew them as kids.”

  “Keep thinking about it. Speaking of Swanson, where is he?”

  “Taking Deqo over to the Mall USA,” said Janna. “Good place for him to cool down, too. He really was ready to shoot a cop at that roadblock. I saw it in his eyes. He didn’t give a damn. That is one dangerous guy.”

  “Well. Whatever. I’m glad you rolled up when you did, Ecklund. You kept a bad situation from getting a lot worse, and this can go back to being handled as a problem for the local police. They get our total support, but it is their ground. You done good.”

  BLOOMINGTON, MINNESOTA

  The gigantic mall reminded Kyle Swanson of Arlo Guthrie’s old folk song abou
t a down-home restaurant run by a woman named Alice. You really could get anything that you want here. It measured almost three million square feet and was a commercial city enclosed within the surrounding city of Bloomington.

  Kyle smiled as the irrepressible Deqo shed her worries as they mingled through the centerpiece-attraction theme park made for children, who, hollering, loaded onto roller-coasters and thrill rides that dashed amid an actual forest that was rich with trees and bushes. Multiplex movie theaters were open for afternoon shows, and upscale shops were having sales. Sharks and stingrays shared a deep-water aquarium with thousands of other salty sea creatures. Restaurants and food carts were thronged, and the smaller shops on the multiple floors all had plenty of customers. All television sets had been turned off, keeping the news coverage about the terrorist mayhem at bay.

  It was life in slow motion, a place where visitors checked their worries at the door, content that they were safe inside, for the mall’s twelve thousand workers and a sizable private security force was supported by the Bloomington Police Department. It made Swanson nervous, for that was not the truth in his world. Most of the security personnel were easily identifiable in sharply creased white shirts, dark trousers, and dark hats, with radio mikes on their chests and pepper spray on their belts. They were meant to be obvious. Traditional Minnesota politeness was the rule. He had a tingling feeling that someone other than a security camera was watching him.

  He and Deqo followed a map’s directions up to the middle level of the three-story mall, where they found a beauty salon that was shoehorned between a jewelry store and a travel agency. Kyle had reserved an appointment for Deqo, and she was immediately taken beneath the wings of a pair of pretty young Korean women. “You are the birthday girl!” one squealed. “We will have some fun today, and make you even prettier than you already are!”

  The other girl put her in the chair and wrapped a slick apron around her neck and got ready to wash her hair while the partner wheeled up a tray of instruments to work on the manicure. Within thirty seconds, they were all chattering away like old pals. It was the same at the other three chairs in the shop. Swanson felt totally out of place.

  “I’m going to walk around the mall, Deqo. Call my cell if you need me, but I’ll be close and back here in thirty minutes. Then we can have lunch.” He wanted her to feel comfortable and safe.

  “Go ride the roller-coaster, Kyle,” she urged with a big grin. “Play some golf on the computer course.”

  “When is your birthday, Mother?” asked the beautician working at the sink.

  “Tomorrow. I will be seventy-five years old on Sunday.” Her response was proud.

  “You lie!” the girl laughed. “I would have guessed early sixties.”

  Swanson had been totally dismissed from their girl world. He would go for a walk, but was too keyed up to be out of sight of the beauty salon, and would not venture to any other level. He was just another weary man waiting for a woman. There were a lot of those in the mall.

  * * *

  CLINTON STROLLED INTO THE mall with a confident stride. His tweed jacket and wool trousers blended with the crowd. When he saw no threat, he called back to the car, and a few minutes later the Cobra entered, with Pierre fifteen seconds behind him.

  Omar was pleased to see that hundreds of black, white, brown, and yellow people were in the crowd so the three of them were not the only Somalis around. He breathed in the atmosphere of the big place. He had never seen anything like this. Allah had indeed blessed him with a perfect target.

  At the rich Westgate Shopping Mall in Nairobi, Kenya, al Shabaab had killed 67 people and injured another 175 over three days in September in 2013, and television carried the shocking images worldwide. Westgate would soon be considered child’s play compared with the Cobra’s “sword” plan. After tomorrow, Mall USA would be remembered in the history books.

  He saw Clinton about twenty-five meters ahead, keeping watch all around, and Pierre meandered about the same distance behind him, leaving the Cobra to move on his own. The Volvo driver stayed near the door. They did not stare at the security cameras or at the roving security officers, and were careful to do nothing to attract any attention, although there was nothing he could do about his scars. If people wanted to stare, so be it, but he would not be here very long.

  He had operatives among the mall’s employees, and they had furnished precise floor plans and other vital data for the Cobra when he was planning the attack. As he walked along, he knew the layout so well that the mall felt like familiar territory. Weapons and ammo were secreted in the storerooms of busy shops and in nooks in the construction and safely stashed in the back corridors used by workers and service personnel. At least a dozen packets of explosives had been prepositioned.

  That was for tomorrow. Now, where were the Sharif woman and the Swanson Marine? They had to be here somewhere. He would find them.

  He folded his topcoat over an arm, strolled past the aquarium, and paused to watch fish from tropical waters swimming comfortably in a tank that had been built in the middle of a frozen land. His targets were not children, so he could bypass the attractions. They were here for a purpose, which meant the shops because it was a bit too early for the sit-down restaurants. Turning away, he passed in and around some ground-floor stores, then stepped onto an escalator and ascended to the second floor. His protecting angels arranged themselves to accompany him at a distance. The view from higher above the main floor was magnificent, for the mall was a kingdom for the imagination, and he could see more from up there.

  The shoppers and tourists seemed untouched by the recent wave of pain. They were not scared. Omar Jama bought a sugary cinnamon bun and nibbled it as he casually walked along a wide aisle that was lined on one side by stores and on the other by a clear protective railing. The place was laid out like a race-course oval, with a middle space that let shoppers on the upper floors see all the way down to the centerpiece attractions on the ground. He moved to the rail to get out of the pedestrian flow and leaned on it with his elbows. It was all quite a sight. Straight across the open space was a parallel corridor where even more stores were open and serving customers. He chewed the sweet bun and looked down on the heads of the crowd below. A weekend crowd of Americans, old and new, were going about their lives. He would change that tomorrow.

  He raised his eyes. On the far side was a jewelry store that had gems and polished metal glittering brightly in the artificial bright light and a sign that said the store would buy gold for the highest prices in the mall. A travel agency showed bright posters featuring beaches and bikinis and palm trees: warm locales. Getting on a plane at the nearby Minneapolis–St. Paul International Airport and being in Bermuda or Cancun within a few hours had undeniable allure.

  In between those shops was a beauty salon in which women were being pampered. The Cobra froze. In the middle chair was an elderly black lady who was being propped into an upright position after having her hair washed. One attendant was vigorously toweling the wet hair while another picked at the fingernails. It was her. He tossed the rest of the cinnamon bun into a nearby trash receptacle and looked around. The Swanson Marine was not in sight, so he locked his eyes on the woman.

  Deqo Sharif had almost fallen asleep in the chair while her hair was shampooed, and she was jarred awake when the chair moved to sit her up straight and a fluffy towel was wrapped around her head. The girls were still chattering around her. Deqo looked straight over the shining black hair of the manicurist and out through the window facing the outer corridor. Across the empty space, staring directly back at her, was the ugly, scarred face of a big man she instantly recognized. The man was smiling, and he slowly raised a hand and pointed his finger at her. Deqo slapped both hands to her chest and screamed, a terrible sound that froze everyone in place for a long moment, then called out in panic: “KYLE! KYLE! IT’S HIM! IT’S THE COBRA!”

  23

  THE WARNING

  A COVEY OF PRETTY young girls engrossed in texting
was strutting past the bench on which Kyle Swanson was resting comfortably with legs crossed and his right arm along the backrest. When he heard the shattering scream from Deqo, he was immediately on his feet, the girls forgotten as he broke into a run. He was about a hundred meters away from the beauty shop and on the same side of the second-floor hallway, and his rubber-soled boots had a tight grip on the nonslip surface floor. Did she say the Cobra? His right hand went to the butt of the pistol in the belt holster as he dodged through clusters of startled shoppers and slammed toward the little shop. She stood in the open doorway, a green towel draped over her head and wearing a cream-colored waterproof apron, still calling for him and pointing across the walkway.

  “He’s over there!” She shook her finger, jabbing across the empty space. “It is Omar Jama! Look right over there! See him? Over there, in the dark suit!”

  He followed her gesture while simultaneously grabbing her and pushing her to the floor of the shop, sprawling over her on his hands and knees and pulling the weapon free. The other customers and employees were breaking from their startled silence and were about to erupt.

  He saw a husky black man pushing into an overcoat and staring at him. Two young black men closed up on the man’s flanks and they all moved away, gaining speed as they disappeared behind a fence of shoppers.

  The crowd around the beauty salon came out of its dazed state and milled about like cows in a feed lot, anxious, unsure where to go or what to do. A man with a gun was crouching over a woman on the floor, and she had been screaming and now was crying softly. A woman security officer was fast approaching, radioing the disturbance report to the central security office downstairs, asking for backup and warily watching the position of the pistol. It was pointed up with no finger on the trigger, so she did not break stride. Swanson found his badge and held it toward her.

  The Cobra looked back over his shoulder one final time. Allah be blessed for delivering my enemies unto my hand! Clinton and Pierre were near, getting him toward the doorway while Omar Jama ran the possibilities in his mind. He had found them, and they knew he was back, something they never dreamed would happen. Why wait until tomorrow? Why not do it now and roll them both into the inevitable catastrophe?