I’m definitely attracted to her. Nate said that I was an asshole when it came to our relationship, which must mean on some level that I pushed her away. At this point it’s hard to imagine why I would have done that.
“Hi,” I say. My injuries have obviously made me quite the conversationalist.
“I didn’t realize you were waiting for me. Do you need something?” Then she sees the computer in my hand. “Need a little help with that?”
“More than a little.”
“Come on in.”
We go into her office; I see that she has a lot of pictures on the wall and on her desk, none of which include me. She starts setting up the computer at her workstation. The silence is getting on my nerves a bit, so I say, “Nate said you’re great at this stuff, but that you’d rather be out on the street, like before.”
“Did he now,” she says, more of a statement than a question.
“He said you miss the action, and that you’re a really good cop.”
“You and Nate seem to talk about me a lot.” She is not looking up from what she’s doing as she responds.
“He talks. I listen, because I have nothing to add.”
“Uh-huh,” she says.
Once again I can tell I’m making her uncomfortable, without really knowing why. I probably should just shut up, but I can’t seem to. “You mind my talking to you like this? I don’t mean any harm, and definitely don’t want to pry. I’m just trying to get to know you.”
This seems to touch a nerve, because for the first time she turns away from what she’s doing and looks me straight in the eyes. “Doug, you know me better than anyone in the world. You know me better than I know me. You just don’t remember any of it. And you know what? It’s probably better that way, so I’m not about to reeducate you. Let’s leave it where it is.”
“Nate said that when it came to you, I was an asshole.”
“You were not an asshole. Nate is an asshole.”
“Asshole Nate reporting for duty,” he says as he walks in, obviously having heard what Jessie said. “I love when people talk about me.”
“I don’t,” she says. “Can we wrap up the Days of Our Lives episode and get to the computer? Tell me what you need.”
“It belongs to a potential suspect who seems to have disappeared. We need to get into that computer, and see if it contains anything that would lead us to an understanding of his actions, and especially his whereabouts.”
“What kind of actions do you suspect him of?” she asks.
“Terrorism of some kind, target unknown,” I say. “We do know he has been trying to get explosives; we don’t know if he’s managed to do so.”
“So this is a priority.”
I nod. “This is very definitely a priority.”
She plugs the computer into a power source and turns it on. Then she starts to press some keys, stops, and presses some more. Then she goes through that process again. I have absolutely no idea what she’s doing, but I’m pretty sure she does.
After about five minutes of this, she says, “This is going to take a while.”
“Call one of us when it’s ready, okay?”
“I will.”
With nothing to do but wait, we go back to Nate’s office. Nate brings me up to date on his conversation with the captain. “Bradley’s pissed,” he says. “He gave us an order, and we ignored it.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“I mentioned that to him,” Nate says. “He didn’t take it that well. I think it has something to do with him being captain, and you not being captain.”
“He didn’t get shot,” I point out.
“I didn’t either.”
“Hey, Nate, I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I told you that from the beginning. If you want out, I understand.”
“I get that,” he says. “But we don’t want to get our asses suspended. We’ve got a much better chance to do what we need to do with the resources of the department behind us.”
I understand he’s right about that, so I say, “So keep him pacified.”
He laughs a short laugh. “Boy, you really don’t remember him.”
“I’m concerned we’re getting off the track,” I say. “This thing with Sadri doesn’t feel like it has a connection to Bennett. From what I’ve read, and what you’ve told me, it doesn’t feel like his style.”
“I agree,” Nate says. “But it does fit better with Gharsi, the guy whose picture you sent me. And he doesn’t seem to have a connection to Bennett either, at least not that we know of.”
“Is it possible it wasn’t Bennett I was after? I didn’t actually mention his name in the phone call.”
“I don’t think so,” Nate says. “You were on suspension, and nothing about either Sadri or Gharsi was on our radar before you left. How would you have come to be after them? It was Bennett you were after. When you said ‘I got him,’ that has to be who you were talking about.”
We talk about it some more, not getting anywhere. Congers calls back to tell Nate that in fact Sadri is in the task force database, but was not considered a significant risk. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t,” Congers says. “He’s certainly not a choirboy. Keep me posted on whatever you learn.” Congers has also electronically transmitted photographs of Sadri, and both Nate and I look at them carefully.
After that, I stand up and tell Nate, “I’m out of here.”
“You want to grab something to eat?”
“No. I want to get home, turn on my computer, and study more about the world. So far I’m not impressed by the progress in the last ten years. By the way, I got an e-mail yesterday telling me that some woman I don’t know wants to ‘friend’ me. What the hell does that mean?”
“It means she wants to sleep with you.”
“That’s what they call it now?”
“Yup.”
“So what do I do?” I ask.
“You don’t remember what you do when a woman wants to sleep with you? This is worse than I thought.”
“Never mind.”
“I’ll be at the Blazer if you’re looking for me,” he says.
“What is the Blazer?”
He shakes his head. “Man, you have a lot to catch up on. It’s the sports bar we go to maybe four times a week. You remember what beer is?”
“Vaguely.”
“By the way, I bought last time, so next time we go, you get the check.”
“Doug? It’s Jessie.”
I would be surprised and pleased that she has called me at home, but I can hear the stress in her voice. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t reach Nate, he’s not answering his phone, and—”
“He’s at a sports bar … it’s called the Blazer. Maybe he doesn’t hear the phone. Is it something you can tell me?”
“I went through this guy Sadri’s computer. He’s a fanatic; he’s been on every terrorist Web site you can imagine. And searching all kinds of things about explosives.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ll come in with Nate tomorrow and we can go over it.”
“No,” she says quickly. “There’s something else; something that I don’t think can wait.”
“What?”
“He bought and printed out an advance ticket for a movie. It’s an eight o’clock showing tonight of The End of Time.”
I’ve seen TV ads for it; it looks like one of those summer blockbusters. This is very worrisome: I just can’t buy that Sadri is taking time out of his terrorist day to take in a movie. “Where is it playing?”
“The Martin Ten-plex,” she says.
“Where is that?”
“What? We’ve been there a million—” She catches herself, having forgotten in the moment that I’m operating on a ten-year tape delay. “It’s in the Bergen Mall in Paramus. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes. Jessie, please call the Blazer, get Nate to the phone, tell him what’s going on, and have him meet me at the theater. Then ge
t a hold of Congers and tell him the same thing. Make sure they understand it’s urgent.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing my car keys as I hang up the phone. It’s seven twenty, and the drive to the theater will take about fifteen minutes. I have no idea where the Blazer is, so I don’t know when Nate will arrive. By the time Jessie is able to reach Congers and brief him, it will likely be too late for him to intervene.
So it’s on me.
I head for the car, trying to summon to mind the photos that Congers had sent of Sadri. That theater is likely to be packed, and it’s not going to be easy to pick him out. Fortunately my ability to create new memories hasn’t been affected, and I’ve always been pretty good with faces.
Like with everything else, my last recollection of night traffic on these roads is ten years old, so I don’t know what I am going to encounter. Unless I have a fairly quick trip, then I’ve got to just hope that in addition to being a fanatic terrorist, Sadri is also a movie buff.
I’m in luck; there isn’t much traffic at all. My luck further holds when I remember the complex turns that will get me to the mall; that doesn’t seem to have changed over the years. I check my watch when I get to the theater parking lot, and it’s twenty-five to eight.
I leave the car near the front of the theater, parking in a handicap spot. I do so carefully and without screeching my brakes; I don’t want Sadri to see me and get spooked by anything I might do.
I run toward the theater and am shocked to see Nate coming this way as well. Obviously the Blazer is near here. “You see him?” he asks, when he reaches me.
“No.”
He looks up at the marquee. “The eight o’clock show is in theater four. Let’s go.”
We show our badges to the elderly gentleman taking tickets, and move into the huge lobby. We both scan the area for Sadri. “I don’t see him,” Nate says. “I’m going to go into the theater.”
“Nate, hold it a second,” I say, and point ahead and to the right. “Could that be him?” I can only see the man from a side angle; it’s not a great one, but it could be Sadri. He’s wearing a fairly large backpack strapped over his shoulders. It hangs as if it is heavy.
“Only one way to find out,” Nate says, and he immediately starts moving toward the man.
“Wait,” I say, although I’m not sure why, since I don’t have a better plan. In any event, Nate is not listening to me, and he is already bearing down on the unsuspecting backpack carrier. All I can do is move toward them as well, while also trying to check out the room, in case it’s not Sadri that Nate is going after.
I see Nate reach the man and put his hand on his shoulder, turning him. The man reacts, but I can’t tell if it’s an aggressive move, or if he’s just surprised at being grabbed in this manner. I’m frozen in place, watching this play out.
There seems to be a small struggle, or at least increased movement, and suddenly I hear the unmistakable sound of a handgun round being fired. Nate’s legs look like they buckle slightly, and then he slumps slowly to the ground. Everybody in the lobby turns toward the noise, though they don’t know the origin yet.
The man I now know is definitely Sadri doesn’t even watch Nate fall; he looks around the room quickly and then starts to move toward the theater. There is no way I can let him do that; I’m positive his backpack is filled with explosives, and he’s got a gun.
I go to draw my own gun and see that it is already in my hand; my instincts must have taken over. “Sadri! Freeze!”
He turns quickly, without stopping, but I don’t think he sees me. Then he speeds his pace, but there are a few other patrons blocking his path. He pushes them out of the way. One thing he doesn’t do is freeze.
Firing in this crowded lobby is insane, especially as people are starting to run around in panic, not really knowing where the danger or shooting is coming from. But the disaster will become far greater if Sadri gets into that theater.
I wait a brief second, and then get as good a look as I’m going to get. I fire off one round, and Sadri’s head explodes as if it were a melon. By this point, frightened, screaming people are leaving the theater in droves, nearly running me over in the process. It’s all I can do to make it to Nate, who is on his back and bleeding heavily from his abdomen.
I rip off my shirt and press it on the wound as hard as I can. If Nate isn’t unconscious, he’s close to it; he certainly isn’t responding to me. I’m pretty sure he’s alive.
“CALL AN AMBULANCE!” I scream, hoping someone out of all these people will actually do it. “CALL A GODDAMN AMBULANCE!”
Calvin Winkler was annoyed.
He should have been able to leave work three hours earlier, but instead he was stuck in his office at the executive airport in Millerton, New Jersey. And it was all because of one plane that had arrived for the first time at the airport three days earlier, and was just scheduled to leave this night.
So Calvin had been forced to cancel a date, and it wasn’t like he had so many of them to cancel. The woman had been pissed off; that was clear from her voice. Calvin was not the type to get away with canceling dates two hours before he was supposed to pick the woman up. It had taken him three months to get her to say yes in the first place, and when he called it off, she certainly had not mentioned anything about a rain check.
So the six-seater jet was fueled and ready on the tarmac, and Calvin was impatiently waiting for the owner to show up and take off, so Calvin could get the hell out of there. It’s not like he was paid for overtime; he wasn’t even paid enough for regular time.
From his vantage point in the office, it was not possible for him to see the two cars stop just outside the airport grounds. Nor did he see one man, Aakif Malek, quickly get out of his car and get into the passenger seat of the car driven by Ahmat Gharsi.
Malek did not know why Gharsi was leaving Malek’s car outside the grounds, but he was not about to question him. Gharsi was a near-God in his eyes, and whatever his plan was, Malek would do whatever was necessary. He was thankful that he had gone for the pilot training as they had instructed, and knew that was the reason he had been chosen for this assignment.
Malek would, if truth be told, willingly give his life for Gharsi.
They pulled into the airport parking lot, and Gharsi shut off the car. “It is waiting out there,” Gharsi said. “I will see you shortly.”
They got out of the car, and Gharsi went into the very small terminal building. Malek, as he had been instructed, waited alongside the car until he heard what would be the signal.
Gharsi walked into the building, seeming to shield his face with his hands, though knowing full well he was doing so ineffectively, and that the surveillance cameras would enable him to be identified.
He saw Winkler sitting at the desk. “There you are,” Winkler said, leaving off the words he wanted to say, which were, “It’s about time.” If this guy had a plane, that meant he was rich, and if there was one thing Winkler knew for sure, it’s that it’s never a good idea to piss off rich people.
Had Winkler uttered those words, they would have been the last he ever spoke. Gharsi smiled but didn’t bother to answer; he simply took out his handgun and put a bullet in Winkler’s forehead.
He then went into the office, located the control panel for the surveillance cameras, and shut them off. Secure in the knowledge that he could no longer be watched, he walked out of the building and toward the waiting plane.
Malek heard the expected gunshot and, as previously instructed, walked around the building and met Gharsi at the plane. He carried with him the locked suitcase that had been in Gharsi’s car.
Gharsi took the suitcase from him and loaded it onto the plane, handling it carefully. Malek had no idea what was in it, but was sure it must be valuable. He would make certain it got to its destination safely.
“Do you have any questions?” Gharsi asked.
“No. I have committed the plan to memory,” he said. It wasn’t all tha
t complicated; he was to fly to a similar airport in New Brunswick, Canada, where people loyal to the cause would be waiting for him. They would then load the suitcase on a jet to fly back to the homeland, and provide Malek with transportation home. There he would await further instructions, and additional assignments.
Malek boarded the Cessna 5 and pulled the door shut. He waited until Gharsi had walked clear of the plane, and then taxied out onto the runway. Gharsi walked back around the side of the terminal and then toward the car that Malek had left off the airport grounds. He never bothered to turn and watch the plane’s departure.
Malek’s takeoff was smooth; he was more than capable of handling the aircraft, and within minutes he was out over the ocean and heading toward New Brunswick. He had brought the suitcase into the cockpit alongside him, so he could make sure it wasn’t jostled and damaged if they hit any turbulence.
The suitcase was still sitting there when it exploded, sending the dead Malek and the pieces of the shattered plane into the Atlantic.
By then Gharsi was driving toward the city, way too far away to hear or see the blast.
But he was smiling; the preliminary round had gone perfectly.
And the main event was still to come.
It seemed as if the entire world descended on the theater.
Three separate law enforcement agencies were on the scene: the local Paramus cops, New Jersey State Police, and members of the Joint Terrorism Task Force. Congers had called in the latter, they were there in force, and they were in control.
A fleet of ambulances arrived within minutes. It was unclear how many casualties there were; the call that came in simply talked about a shooting in a crowded theater. Just based on previous, similar incidents, it seemed prudent to assume a large number of wounded, and hospitals had been alerted to be ready. They would find that Nate was the only shooting victim requiring care; there were eleven other injuries, mostly minor, from people being injured in the mad race to flee the theater.
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