Inside Threat

by Jason Elam; Steve Yohn

  Evie showed no pity while she watched Scott try to ease back to normalcy. Meanwhile, the other three guys were in a debate as to whether crap biscuit, though not an actual swear word, was still worth fifty cents in the jar per usage.

  “What was that for?” Scott finally croaked out.

  “For getting yourself shot, Señor Stupido,” Evie said, the rest of the gang drawn back in now. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got Tara to think of now. And even more than that, you’ve got James. I’m not going to let my godson go through life without his dad!”

  “You’re not his godmother,” Scott pointed out.

  “Yeah, whatever—maybe not in your eyes.”

  “Whose else’s eyes count?”

  “‘Whose else’s’?” Hernandez asked, looking at Williamson, who just shrugged in return.

  “Listen,” Evie said, refusing to let go of her point. “All we’re saying is that it’s not just all about you anymore. You’ve got to start thinking about your family.”

  Scott tested his chest with a light touch, then quickly pulled his hand away. “I appreciate what you all are saying. I got the same speech from Tara last night. Trust me, I don’t have a death wish. It’s just that sometimes out on the field, things happen.”

  Evie started to say something, but Scott cut her off. “However, that being said, I do promise to try my best to avoid all rapidly flying lead if I can help it. Deal?”

  They all nodded their heads skeptically.

  “Good. Now, barring any other unnecessary acts of violence, update me on Oklahoma City.”

  Hernandez answered. “Looks like sixteen casualties with nine dead, including four cops and the shooter.”

  “And a Good Sam,” Evie added. “Guy was lunging for the bad guy when he got in the way of a round from a plainclothes officer behind him. Let’s see how the media blows that out of proportion.”

  “So that’s four attacks in less than two weeks. What are we missing?”

  Williamson jumped in to answer. “Part of our problem is that they’re not using traditional lines of communication. Since all of our perps are American, none of the noise is coming from outside the country. Everything is in-house, so to speak.”

  “Plus, they’ve created their own language, almost,” Hernandez added. “There’s a terrorist-speak that is very Americanized. They understand it, but to us, it just blends in with everything else.”

  “You’re saying there’s nothing that our COMINT resources are programmed to intercept,” Scott asked.

  “Bingo. Now the one thing that we have going for us is Malik Abdul-Tawwab. Out of his interrogations, we’ve been getting some trigger words. Unfortunately, they’re fairly common phrases.”

  “Phrases that tie in perfectly with their new preferred methods of communications—texting and social networking sites,” Evie said, completing Hernandez’s thought. She slid a paper she had been writing on to Scott. “These guys are smart and they’re savvy. Take a look at that message.”

  Scott read it over: rofl! ur such a sweet<3! ilu bff! He slid the paper back. “Text speak! Can’t stand the stuff. What does it say?”

  Without looking at the message, Evie translated, “‘Rolling on floor laughing! You are such a sweetheart! I love you, best friends forever!’ This was the last message Abdur-Razzaq received on his cell phone prior to his attempt on the National Mall. Abdul-Tawwab has already confirmed that the ‘ilu bff’ was the final go-ahead for the mission. He thinks the middle part may have something to do with the problem with the vest, but he wasn’t in the communications side that deeply.”

  “All that to say, you can see our problem,” Williamson said. “This text could be sent from one twelve-year-old girl to another twelve-year-old girl a thousand times a day across the country. There’s no way for us to filter them out. And as far as social networking sites, they’re potentially on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Classmates, even MySpace—although they may be the last people in America actually using that particular forum.”

  “Okay, you’ve given me the problems,” Scott said, scribbling some more notes on his legal pad. “How about some solutions before we have another punk bin Laden wannabe blow up the St. Louis Arch?”

  “Abdul-live and Abdur-dead are the keys,” Gooey said. He scratched something off his front tooth, looked at it, then sucked it off his finger before continuing. “They’re linked. I’ve got the hard drive from the stoolie’s computer here in-house. I was able to hack and upload sniper-bait’s hard drive before those donks in the FBI snagged it out of his apartment.”

  “Sniper-bait?” Evie asked. Williamson pretended to take two shots at Hernandez, who in turn lifted his hand off the back of his head.

  “Ahhh,” Evie said with a nod.

  Gooey plowed on. “What we’re doing is tracking down every connection they’ve got on their networking sites, then, in turn, following those relationships out. Any ‘friend’ or ‘buddy’ or ‘classmate’ where the networking profiles don’t match the rest of the computer’s activity will be flagged for us to check out.”

  “Do you realize how deep that could get?” Scott asked, tossing his pen down. “Think how many computers are out there with teenage girls spending their afternoons on them messaging their friends, while the girls’ dads spend their nights surfing for pictures of naked cat jugglers. It’s just not practical.”

  A big grin spread across Gooey’s fleshy face. “Have faith, my friend. As my confirmation teacher used to say, ‘With Goo, all things are practical.’”

  “Confirmation? You?” Hernandez said, giving voice to the surprise that was on everyone’s faces.

  “You betcha! Signed, sealed, and just waiting to be delivered! Can I get a witness?”

  “Why do I have a feeling St. Peter isn’t going to be signing for that delivery at the pearly gates?” Williamson said.

  “Okay, guys, reel it back in,” Scott said, knowing he had about ninety more seconds of their attention span before all was lost. “If this is what we’ve got, then this is what we’ve got.”

  “Profound,” Evie said. The others nodded appreciatively.

  Scott stood. “What I mean is, keep running this lead. Right now, it’s the best we have. But don’t get locked in. This is a whole new paradigm we’re operating in. The rules are different, and the only thing we know is that we don’t know what we don’t know.”

  Two Evie Cline punches on the arm later, Scott pulled out his wallet, dropped two dollars into the “Oh No, You Di’int” jar, and grumbled his way back to his office.

  Monday, September 12, 2:15 p.m. EDT

  Leesburg, Virginia

  Riley dialed his phone, then slipped a hands-free device onto his ear. He always felt like a dork when he wore it, so he only put it on when he was driving. I never could understand the people who walk around all day with their little cyborg-looking command modules hanging off their ears, flashing a little blue electronic heartbeat every few seconds. They say cell phones will give you brain cancer; how about having some foreign, wireless object sticking in your head eight hours a day?

  “Hyello,” a voice answered on the other end.

  “Hey, Grandpa.”

  “Riley! How’s it going, son? Been watching the news; sounds like you had a full weekend.”

  Riley gunned around some slow traffic, then eased back into the right lane. “Yeah, it’s been a bit unusual.”

  “I’ve got to say, you have us all wondering just what it is you’re going to do next.” Riley could hear the laughter in Grandpa’s voice.

  Riley and his grandfather had always had a close relationship, made more so by his decision to join with Grandpa’s Air Force, rather than his dad’s Navy. Then, after Dad had been murdered two years ago by a terrorist group, Riley realized that his grandfather was the last man he had in his family. As a result, he had come to rely heavily on him for guidance and direction.

  Mom was wonderful—full of love and encouragement. She was the one who sent the care pa
ckages. She was the one who was always checking up on his friends. She was a nurturer through and through.

  But Riley didn’t feel comfortable burdening her with his problems. She had experienced more than her share of pain in her life. And now she had enough problems of her own living as a widow.

  Grandpa, on the other hand, was the source of wisdom. He was the straight shooter. He had shoulders a mile wide that were ready for whatever Riley needed to dump on them. And he knew how to get through to his grandson like no one else.

  When Riley was little, they had a yellow Lab named Princess. Once, Princess got tangled in a wire fence. Her leg got cut up pretty badly. The vet stitched her up, then gave Riley’s dad antibiotic pills to give to the dog to avoid infection. That night, try as they might, they couldn’t get Princess to keep the pill down. Finally, Dad had torn a piece of bread, wrapped it around the pill, and gave it to the dumb dog, who swallowed it right up.

  Thinking of that story always brought Grandpa to mind. It might be that you didn’t want to hear about something—you refused to accept the truth. But Grandpa had a way of wrapping it all up in a tasty morsel, and before you knew it, you had swallowed it whole.

  “If you really want to know what’s next, how does this sound to you? The Warriors suspended me today,” Riley said with a little more anger in his voice than he was expecting.

  “Suspended? Well, yeah, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised after yesterday.”

  Taking a deep breath, Riley said, “Well, it actually wasn’t over what happened yesterday. They were ready to let that go. All I needed to do was formally apologize.”

  Riley told Grandpa of the incident in the film room earlier in the day. He could have sworn he heard the old man stifle a laugh at the end of his recitation, but it was hard to tell long-distance.

  “So, you refused to apologize, even though you knew you were in the wrong?”

  “I guess you could put it that way,” Riley said, easing onto an off-ramp and up to the light.

  “Interesting,” Grandpa replied, still with a lilt to his voice.

  “Anyway, Coach Medley dismissed everyone from the room except me. I waited there in silence for about ten minutes until Mr. Bellefeuille came in. The two of them conferred quietly for about three minutes, then Medley asked me, ‘Do you want counseling to get to the root of your psychiatric issues?’”

  “And your response?”

  “Something along the lines of ‘Your mama.’”

  “Classy.”

  The light changed and Riley turned left, passing under the highway. “Yeah, maybe not the best choice of words. Well, Medley and Bellefeuille talked a little more, and then Bellefeuille handed Coach a piece of paper and walked out of the room—never once did he look at me.

  “Medley called me down and handed me the paper that Bellefeuille had given to him. ‘This is going to be released to the press this afternoon,’ he says. ‘Read it so that you’re not surprised.’”

  One more left turn and Riley was in his neighborhood. “I can’t tell you exactly what it said, but it was something like ‘Riley Covington has been an American hero both on and off the field, blah blah blah. However, the Warriors organization has seen some changes recently in his behavior. We’re concerned it could have something to do with the physical, mental, and emotional trauma he experienced, more blah blah blah. After consulting specialists in post-traumatic stress disorder, for his own sake and that of the rest of the team, we are placing Riley Covington on paid compassionate leave until he is professionally evaluated and pursues any recommended courses of treatment. Thus far he has rejected the options we have offered him, and we can only encourage him to reconsider. Our thoughts and prayers are with him, etc. The end.’”

  “Hmmm, so you’re not suspended? You’re just on leave?”

  Riley gave an obligatory wave to his neighbor two doors down, then pulled into his own driveway and put the car in park. After switching the air-conditioning to low, he put his head back and closed his eyes. “It’s semantics, Grandpa. Either way, I’m on the shelf.”

  “But not if you were to do the evaluation, right?”

  “I’m not suffering from PTSD! I’m just fed up with all the crap that comes with playing in the PFL. Football used to be fun. It used to be a game. Now it’s just a business, and I’m only a product. I don’t know. I think I’m just done with it.”

  “Perfect! Then you’ve got your wish. Sounds like Bellefeuille gave you exactly what you wanted.”

  “Grandpa, that’s not . . .” Riley stopped and thought a moment. You know, he’s actually right. If it weren’t for most of America thinking I’ve gone gonzo, the situation couldn’t be more perfect.

  “And I know what’s going through your mind, Riles. But who cares what other people think of you? You got to make sure you’re right with God and with the people who love you. Let Him take care of the rest. You start worrying about everyone else, you’ll end up driving yourself crazy.”

  Riley smiled to himself. He pulled out his pocketknife and began scraping off some dried smoothie drips from his center console.

  “You’re right; you’re right,” he said as he wiped the pale orange flakes from the blade onto his shorts and continued scraping. “I guess I just don’t like people thinking I’m nuts.”

  “Probably save you from having people cut in front of you in line at the grocery store.”

  “And no one will dare complain if I have more than ten items in the express lane,” Riley said, wiping off his knife one more time, then folding it and slipping it back into his pocket. He licked his thumb and rubbed off the final smoothie remnants. “Yeah, I can see really making this work for me.”

  “Riley, just trust God to lead you in the situation. And remember that no matter how bizarre your behavior gets—”

  “Hey, that was your fault, mister,” Riley interrupted. “You’re the one who taught me that coin-from-behind-the-ear trick twenty years ago.”

  “And your mom was sure to call me last night and remind me of that fact. Mea culpa, my boy. Anyway, just remember that no matter what, you are loved by your grandpa, your mom, and most of all, your God.”

  “Thanks, Gramps. I love you too.”

  Yeah, that’s what grandpas are for, Riley thought, as he parked the truck in the garage. Putting everything back into perspective. After slamming another dent into the drywall, he lifted his fishing pole and tackle box off a narrow workbench and headed down to the dock.

  Tuesday, September 13, 2:37 a.m. EDT

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Majid Alavi glanced impatiently at his watch—2:37 a.m. He turned to his partner, Ubaida Saliba, who circled his hand, indicating he also was anxious to get things moving.

  “Let’s go,” Alavi quietly demanded of the man who was busy working the lock on the window.

  “Shut up and let me work. You hired me to do a job; now let me do it,” he hissed back. “And back up. Give a man some room.”

  This third man—this specialist—went by the street name Touch and was supposed to be the best at what he did. And what he did was get people safely and quietly into places where they weren’t invited.

  I don’t care about his reputation or his skills, Alavi thought. He’s still the weakest link in this mission.

  The three men, dressed all in black, were huddled outside a rear window of an average-size, two-story, brown brick home in Bethesda, Maryland. Inside the home slept the chaplain of the United States Senate, Daniel Musman, and his wife of fifty-three years, Elsa.

  A barely perceptible click sounded from the window, and Touch gently slid it to the left.

  “You’re sure about the alarm,” Alavi asked.

  Touch looked offended by the question. “Do I tell you how to do your job? The alarm’s taken care of. You think I’d be opening the window if it weren’t?”

  “Okay, we shouldn’t be more than ten minutes,” Alavi said, ignoring the man’s attitude. There’ll be plenty of time to deal with that later. “
Stay low and don’t get seen.”

  “Pffssh, please.” Touch cradled his hands, and Alavi put his right foot in. He hoisted himself onto the window ledge and into the house. Saliba followed seconds later.

  Alavi took just a moment to catch his bearings. The air inside was warm and had an ethnic odor of cabbage and some sort of meat. A quick sweep with a red-light flashlight showed him that the way was clear to the stairs. He nodded to Saliba, and the two men crossed the room—Alavi taking the lead, Saliba behind carrying a silenced Glock 21.

  Just prior to mounting the staircase, Alavi had a moment of hesitation. He took a quick look back at the window. I just don’t know how much I can trust Touch. The last thing we need is for this petty thief to slip in and steal some bauble or trinket without me knowing. That could bring the whole plan crashing down. He considered keeping Saliba downstairs just in case Touch tried anything, but he couldn’t afford to be without him if things took a wrong turn upstairs.

  It’s in your hands, O Allah. I will trust you to keep the animal on his leash.

  Softly he ascended the steps, caressing them with his feet like he was shown during his training in Somalia. As he walked, his mind flashed to when he was a kid watching reruns of the television show Kung Fu. Countless afternoons, he and his friends would pretend to do the rice paper walk, gently gliding their way through the room of candles. “When you can walk the rice paper without tearing it, Grasshopper, then your steps will not be heard.”

  After reaching the top, he allowed himself one more sweep of the red light to ensure there was a clear path to the bedroom three doors down. Quietly, the two men moved past the second door where the wife was sleeping, a long-ago banished victim of her husband’s snoring and apnea. When they reached the third door, Alavi turned around.

  Looking Saliba in the eyes, he gave a slight nod. His partner nodded his readiness back.

  Alavi turned the handle and eased the door open. The bed was large, with its four posts sticking straight up in the middle of the room. To the left of the bed was a door that led to a master bathroom; to the right was a sitting area with a floral chair and ottoman. A suit was laid across the ottoman with a shirt and tie on top; shoes with socks stuffed in them sat on the floor.