Posada pulled out his GPS tracker and determined exactly where they were. Two more hours, he thought. A few weeks ago, while he was stationed at Hurlbert Field in Florida, Italy had been the furthest place from his mind. But then came the attacks, and everything changed.
He thought back to the night he was sitting on his couch with his six-year-old son, Danny, watching Monday Night Football. Although it was way past Danny’s bedtime, Posada had let him stay up. Next to the Tampa Bay Tarpons, the Mustangs were the boy’s favorite team, mostly because Daddy’s buddy, Mr. Covington, played for them.
The two were sitting on the couch. Danny wore his knock-around Covington jersey—the signed one was framed and hanging on the wall of his room—and both were trying to clean up the remnants of a recent popcorn fight before Mom came in and discovered the mess.
When the screen had gone to an ESPN logo, Posada had immediately known something was wrong. Then the ESPN studios came on, and the tragic news was announced. As the minutes passed, more and more details poured out. Posada sat mesmerized, his emotions wavering between shock and anger. He changed from one channel to another, trying to get more information.
Then he became aware of a small movement next to him. He looked down and saw Danny. The boy was quietly trembling. Posada’s heart sank as he realized his little son had been hearing about all the tragedy and death along with him. He shut off the TV, scooped Danny into his arms, and held him for a long time.
Even now, as he thought of that night and the wet spot that lingered on his shoulder well after he finally put Danny to bed, anger welled up in him. Try explaining to a six-year-old why someone would want to do something like that. That night, those terrorists had stolen Danny’s innocence. When Posada had left for Denver a week later, the boy was still spending nights in Mom and Dad’s bed.
A beep from his laptop drew his attention back to the screen. Looks like we’ve got mail, he thought.
He opened the laptop’s Gmail account and saw the new message. It was from [email protected]—Hicks’s account. The message was addressed to [email protected] with a CC to [email protected], Mustang team Toughbooks 1 and 2. Toughbook 2 was Posada’s; Scott had Toughbook 1 in the other vehicle.
Hicks had decided early on to keep off the usual communication networks to eliminate any risk of being monitored by friend or foe. He was determined to keep these black ops very black. Sometimes it was easiest to hide out in the open, so most of their communicating was done by innocuous messages sent over free e-mail accounts.
Posada opened the e-mail:
Hey guys,
Fishing’s been great here! Caught two big old bass (one smallmouth and one bigmouth) without losing a single fly. :-) Been talking to some of the locals, and they said that fishing hole you were going to try is a great one. You might even find the “mother of all fish” there! LOL!! Well, gonna go drop my line a little more and see what bites. Good luck to you, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. ;-)
Clem
* * *
Scott read the e-mail to everyone in the car. “‘Clem’—nice touch,” he laughed.
“Yeah,” Khadi added, “but I have a hard time picturing Jim typing little smiley faces into his e-mails. He must have gotten another team member to do that.”
Scott laughed. “Sounds like Jim thinks we’re headed in the right direction. What do you think, Riley?”
Riley only grunted and nodded from the front seat. He could feel Khadi looking at the back of his head, waiting for more of a response. Finally she went back to discussing the e-mail with Scott.
Riley had spent the better part of the last couple of hours beating himself up for even looking at Khadi as a female. She was a team member. She should be treated no differently than any other. Yeah, but those eyes . . . It was insanity to let any personal feelings surface on a team like this. Feelings like that got people killed. Yeah, but that laugh—small when appropriate but not afraid to let it go when the situation is right.
Besides, she was a Muslim. That was a deal breaker right there. Riley was well aware of what the Bible had to say about marrying someone outside your faith—doing so was asking for tons of trouble. Yeah, but she loves guns! A girl who loves guns! This was stupid. What next? Send a little note that read I like you. Do you like me? Check Yes or No?
He had to stop this. He was being an idiot. Yeah, but those eyes. Those deep, brown, lose-yourself-for-a-week-in, rich . . .
Okay, bonehead, either get into the game or get out of the game. It’s a nonstarter, and that’s all there is to it.
Riley forced his thoughts to the e-mail. Mother of all fish—that meant Hicks had gotten a lead on Hakeem, and Mustang team was heading in the right direction. Riley wondered what he would do when he found the man who was responsible for so much pain in his life and in the lives of so many others. What would happen if it were just one-on-one—no one else watching? Would he bring Hakeem in to face justice, or would he carry out justice on the spot?
A sentence from one of Pastor Tim’s sermons popped into his mind: “Justice comes from God and from those government structures that He puts in authority.” Well, he was working for the government now, wasn’t he? Yeah, but it’s been a while since I’ve been working for God.
Riley thought back through the events of the past couple of weeks. He knew the circumstances that had put him there were too unusual to write off to chance. God’s got me here for a reason. I’m just not sure I like being confined to His rules.
They were passing through Campomarino, which put them only two hours away from their destination. From here the team would cut inland a bit before heading back to the coast to Barletta.
The plan was simple. First they would drive through the town, surveilling all their key locations—particularly the al-Arqam mosque. Then they would travel another hour south to the much larger city of Bari, where they would set themselves up in a safe house and plan their next steps.
Things were going to get very busy once they got to Barletta, so Riley decided to try to get a little rest. As he closed his eyes, his mind again drifted over the past few weeks. It was almost surreal, the direction his life had gone. One day his whole focus had been on playing a game, trying to get one team into the play-offs, and a couple of weeks later his whole focus was on trying not to get another team killed.
Part of him missed the old life—carefree, living the PFL dream. But another part of him felt that his existence had taken on a much greater significance.
He thought back to the reaction of the fans and local news media when the PFL team owners had decided to declare the Mustangs-Predators game a tie, thereby eliminating both teams from the play-offs. “Unfair,” people had screamed. “A travesty! We were in the lead! It’s a slap in the face to those who died!”
Who did the fans think was going to play the game? Two Mustangs were dead, ten were injured, and at least half were emotionally incapable of setting foot on the field again without hours of counseling. The Predators had lost just as many, including their offensive coordinator. Sports fans tended to forget that players were people, not circus animals trained to give them entertainment no matter the circumstances.
No, it wouldn’t be hard to leave that world.
As he continued to drift, the face of Alessandra Ricci appeared in the darkness of his mind. Poor, sweet girl. She’ll know only from stories what a stand-up guy her father was. I know she’ll always hear that from her mom, but I need to make sure she hears it from me, too. Megan’s dad is a good man; they’ll be taken care of. But that sweet little girl, growing up without her dad . . .
Alessandra’s face lingering behind his eyes became too much for him, so he sat up and called to the backseat, “Hey, Scott, what else do I need to know about this little hamlet we’re going to?”
“Ninety thousand people, very busy port, patron saint is Ruggero of Canne, got a real pretty castle.”
“Fascinating,” said an underwhelmed Riley.
“Okay, h
ere’s something, Mr. Fact-Critic. Think back to military history at your illustrious academy. Do you remember the Battle of Cannae?”
“Yeah . . . it was Hannibal and Carthage against Rome; First Punic War.”
“Second Punic War, O great poster child for public education; the first was Hannibal’s dad, Hamilcar.”
“Continue,” Riley said undaunted. He was used to these history lessons from Scott and actually enjoyed them with their lighthearted mocking tone.
Scott closed the lid of his Toughbook, stretched out in the roomy backseat, and locked his hands behind his head. “The Battle of Cannae took place in August of 216 BC, right around where our little town of Barletta would later be founded. Rome marches in with around ninety thousand troops to try to take care of Hannibal once and for all. Lucius and Gaius set up with standard straight line formations, but Hannibal sets up his fifty thousand in a crescent. When the Romans come, the Carthaginians let their center fall back. Rome pursues, Carthage brings the sides around, and—bam!—the mighty Roman army is surrounded. Rome has sixty thousand killed—including Gaius—and ten thousand captured. Carthage only loses about seventeen thousand. One of the worst routs and costliest battles in military history.”
“Lessons?”
“Always check your periphery, because things aren’t always what they seem. Don’t let yourself fall into a trap. Word will have gotten here about Jim and the operation in France. They may be waiting for us. Our intel has to be perfect, and we need to run out every possible contingency.”
Riley nodded, mentally filing that away for when they laid out their plan of attack. There was no doubt—Scott was good.
“It was Lucius,” came a deep voice from the front seat. Everyone’s eyes turned toward Skeeter.
“What’d you say, Skeet?” Scott asked.
“Lucius got hisself killed, not Gaius,” Skeeter said, never taking his eyes off the road. “That’s the public schools of Tunica County, Mississippi, K through 12.”
The other three burst out laughing. “You’re one strange bug, Skeeter,” Scott said, shaking his head.
Chapter 25
Wednesday, January 14
CTD Midwest Division Headquarters
St. Louis, Missouri
Tara Walsh despised making the Starbucks run. First of all, she felt it was below her position, particularly since she was the ranking member of the group. But in the egalitarian world of her little think tank, everyone was assigned one day a week to make the run.
The biggest problem wasn’t the humiliation; it was all her team’s special orders. People in line were not afraid to voice their impatience with her as she verbally stumbled trying to order Virgil Hernandez’s venti low-fat caffè vanilla Frappucino, light on the whipped cream with a dash of nutmeg on top or Evie Cline’s grande iced Tazo green tea latte with soy milk and light on the ice. Tara never knew how to say the drinks right, and she secretly envied those who rattled off their pretentious-sounding, fifteen-plus-word personalized coffee and tea choices. Couldn’t anyone just order normal drinks anymore? Drinks like her standard Two Shots in the Dark, two shots of espresso topped off with dark roast coffee—easy to say, no mess, no fuss.
Balancing a tray of four drinks in one hand and carrying her own cup with the other, Tara planted a quick kick on the door to the “Room of Understanding.”
The ROU was designed as a miniature war room, but early on Evie had voiced her concern that “war room” didn’t communicate what it was they were really trying to do there. After all, weren’t they really trying to prevent wars and bring about world peace and harmony? She had suggested “Love Room,” but Tara had quickly vetoed that out of concern that this group of characters might take the name a little too literally while she was out getting coffee. “Room of Understanding” was finally chosen because, according to Evie’s reasoning, the purpose of the work done in the room was to gain understanding of various events, thereby bringing greater understanding among the nations of the world. Tara had fought it, but Scott had said, “It’s just a room. Who gives a rip what they call it?”
Joey Williamson opened the door and took the tray from Tara. She saw him look down at her noticeable lack of an accompanying bag that should have been carrying the almond scone he had asked for, but he decided against mentioning it when he saw the dark expression on her face.
The room was large enough to comfortably accommodate five workstations around the perimeter and one large conference table in the middle. All the chairs around the table were unmatched and falling apart, the original chairs having been destroyed during a series of late-night races through the St. Louis CTD building. Division Chief Porter had told the team that their choices were to either sit on the floor or replace the chairs themselves. So they had scrounged garage sales and the local thrift store to come up with what they now sat in.
As per routine, the team was gathered around the table. Tara sat at the head. The odor her chair gave off when she sat in it always brought the words sweaty dachshund to mind. To her left were Virgil Hernandez and Evie Cline. To her right was Joey Williamson. And at the other end was a new guy, a brilliant media and technology analyst who, for some unknown reason, liked to go by the name Gooey.
“Okay, what have you come up with so far this morning?” Tara asked.
Hernandez spoke up first. “Big news is, while you were playing around at Starbucks, we matched a third suspect—Tahir al-Midfai. Iraqi-born, midtwenties. He’s the guy who came through Platte River gate 7. We picked him up on a security camera, entering Rome’s Fiumicino Airport ten days before the attack. That tells us he didn’t fly into the airport, which means he probably originated in Italy. I’ll bet you the flowers in the bud vase of Evie’s VW that two weeks before the bombing, he was basking in the sun on the beaches of Barletta—or, since it was December, he was doing whatever terrorists do during the winter along the sea.”
“When I was a kid in California,” Williamson said, “we used to build bonfires on the beach during the winter. We’d roast hot dogs and s’mores and stuff like that.”
“Oh, I love s’mores,” Evie cried. “I used to make those at Girl Scouts camp—at least I did the year that I made it through the whole two weeks without getting sent home.”
Tara just shook her head. A recent commercial campaign flashed in her mind where some poor guy was trying to do his best while working in an office filled with monkeys. “Excuse me . . . excuse me!” she piped in. “I think we may be slightly off track. So, that makes three we’ve identified—Naji Mahmud, our failed bomber who is now in a coma thanks to the modern-day Einstein who attempted Jim Hicks’s shaking technique after Hicks had already gotten the information we needed; Djalal Kazemi, the interesting Iranian connection, now blown to bits; and now this al-Midfai guy. I’m assuming you’re running the Fiumicino Airport database against our Platte River database?”
“As we speak,” Hernandez assured her.
“So let’s recap our bombing order and where things stand for identification. Bomber one—no ID. Why?”
“We’ve got a good visual on him, but he’s not coming up in any databases,” Evie said. “He very well might be a one-hit wonder.”
“Bomber two—that’s Mahmud. Bomber three?”
“That’s al-Midfai,” Hernandez answered.
“Good. Bomber four?”
“Another mystery date like number one. We have a facial but no match,” Evie said.
“Okay, so one and four are unknown. What about five? No ID on him either, right? Come on, our databases can’t be that bad,” Tara complained.
“It isn’t a database issue, Terri,” Gooey said, mispronouncing Tara’s name for the thirty-second time since joining the team, thus causing Tara to have her thirty-second vision of planting the heel of her boot between his puffy blue eyes. Gooey continued, “It’s a camera-angle thing. He was chilling out front of the stadium, and all we got are some nice, framable pictures of the dude’s back.”
“Thanks . . . Go
ofy,” Tara said, immediately regretting her attempt at a zinger, which for some reason had seemed quite cutting when she’d rehearsed it in her head. Out loud, it just sounded stupid.
The rest of the team rolled their eyes, which was actually a relief to Tara. Enduring an eye-roll meant getting off easy with this bunch.
“So, no five,” Tara plowed on. “And what about six? Oh yeah, that’s Kazemi. Right?”
“Right-o, Tinkerbell,” Hernandez confirmed.
“What? What did you call me?”
“Tinkerbell. Sorry, I thought we were doing Disney names. Didn’t you, Mickey?”
“I thought so too, boys and girls,” Williamson answered in a falsetto voice. “What about you, Fairy Godmother?”
“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Evie sang.
“I can’t believe this,” Tara grumbled loudly as she stood up and grabbed her stuff from the table. “I get a bachelor’s degree in three years from Hillsdale and a master’s from Yale, and here I am stuck in this room with you social miscreants.”
As she turned to walk away, Hernandez called out, “Hey, Tink, you forgot number seven.”
Tara spun around. “What?” she demanded.
“Bomber number seven. Your list only got through six.”
Tara sighed and placed her stuff back on the table. “And what about bomber number seven? What might we have on him?” she asked in slow, measured words.
“Nothing,” Gooey answered.
Tara paused before continuing in the same steady pace. “Is there a possibility of your, maybe . . . I don’t know . . . elaborating on your answer a bit, Gooey?”
“Well, Terri, it’s like this: There are three cameras that show directly or peripherally that corridor down by the turf guy’s office, where the last bomb blew. Not one of them was working that night. Three cameras less than a year old all malfunctioning at once—coincidence?” Gooey leaned across the table and slapped his hand on it as he spoke each of his final three words. “I . . . think . . . not!” Then he triumphantly stood straight up with his hands balled on his hips, staring at the sky in superhero fashion.
Monday Night Jihad Page 23