The Point Of A Gun: Thriller

by Steven W. Kohlhagen

  “You had another point?” the President said.

  “Right. I’m curious what you plan to do about all this once I identify the Paladins?” Licht asked.

  “My thinking on that has evolved. What do you think about capturing them and prosecuting them?”

  “I think there’d be public outrage. The press have started to pick up on this, it’s only a matter of time until some enterprising journalist starts calling them Samm’s Merry Band, or the Hole in the Feds Gang, or Samms and Clyde. Something.”

  “Or until they leak it themselves,” Moose said.

  The President looked at Moose. Thought about it. He turned to Licht and said, “What would you recommend we do with them, then?”

  He told them.

  Chapter 34

  Cheese and May sat in their Columbus, Ohio hotel room on the phone with Samms and Tom back in Washington.

  “You’re now recommending we go forward, Cheese?” Samms asked.

  “Yes, we’re completely ready to move forward. We have a solution for the complication we discussed.”

  “How’d you solve it?”

  They both looked out at the apartment building across and down the street. Cheese nodded for May to outline it.

  “There are seven of these guys,” she said. “We knew about the six. All Somali’s. All plotting simultaneous jihadist attacks around the Ohio State campus, two and a half miles from the apartment building.”

  “All Al-Shabaab?” Samms asked.

  “We think so. Certainly four are.”

  “Any connection to the Hezbollah cells in Michigan and Columbus?”

  “There’s no evidence of that.”

  “How far is their apartment building from the Islamic Center on Cleveland Avenue?” Tom asked.

  Cheese made a face. “That’s all old ground, Tom. It’s a block, a block and a half away.”

  May motioned for him to be patient, hit the mute button. “They’re nervous, Cheese. This is the toughest call so far. Let them get a hundred percent comfortable.”

  “You guys there?” Samms said.

  May turned mute off, “Yes. Everything is precisely as we last reported. The only wrinkle is the seventh guy, Ibraahin Ali Amir. The one they all call Gaal. We have absolutely no evidence that this guy is involved in the bomb plot. He’s never showed up on the FBI, DHS, DIA, or NSA Intel. He’s never received or used encrypted messages with anyone, let alone these six guys. All we know is that he lives in the same building as the other six guys.”

  “You’re sure the building has only the seven occupants?”

  “Yup. One per apartment. Only seven apartments, two per floor and a bigger one with patios on top, the fourth floor. These Somalis do love their privacy. One per apartment.”

  “Any information on whether or not they are any closer to agreeing on a date for the attacks?”

  “They’ve gone radio silent on that. Since those two returned from Minneapolis, they’re together enough they probably figured out it was safer to stop texting each other about the bombings.”

  “Which is why NSA and the FBI decided this isn’t actionable,” Tom said.

  “All they have to do is wake up one day,” Cheese said, “stick their jihadist fingers in the sky after morning prayers, and say, ‘hey let’s go do it’.”

  “The FBI can then conclude it’s actionable by watching the results on CNN,” May said.

  “How do you plan to protect Gaal?” Samms asked.

  May walked them all through it.

  *

  The next night, Cheese and May had attempted to implement their plan a second time.

  Sometimes Ibraahin Ali Amir came home later than the others. They needed that to happen before they could proceed. Sometimes he didn’t.

  Like tonight.

  They called Samms.

  “We on?” she asked.

  “Apparently not,” May replied. “He entered the building with one of the others. They were coming from the Center together again.”

  “What are our risks that these guys attack the campus before you can get Gaal alone?”

  “Non-zero,” Cheese said.

  “Any other ideas? Tom wants to know what about kidnapping him from his job?”

  “He works at a bank downtown,” May said. “We just don’t see how to do that and still be able to stick around town to blow up the apartment building.”

  “Plus,” Cheese said, “no way to get that done while making sure the other six are sitting around at home waiting to be blown to bits.”

  “That little bit of hyperbole reminds, me, Cheese. Are you sure there will be no collateral damage here?”

  “Yeah, Samms, we all agree. No collateral damage. We make sure only the six of them are in there, we blow the building from underneath so that it falls in on itself. Just like you see on the news when they destroy a building for urban renewal.”

  “Yeah,” May said. “Ridding downtown Columbus of six pieces of urban decay. Project urban renewal.”

  They could hear the creaking of Samms chair as she leaned back. Then watched out the window as two of the jihadists emerged from the apartment building below.

  “Wait,” May said. “We just may have gotten lucky. Two of them are walking down the street back toward the Islamic Center. Cheese is checking them out.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not lucky. It’s two of the six we want in the building. Not our guy.”

  “Damn,” May said. “This is getting more frustrating.”

  “Do we know who owns that apartment building?” Tom asked.

  “As we’ve discussed, a series of interlocking paper corporations,” May said. “There’s a majority owner, but the name is fake, the name of a dead Iraqi. The FBI reports on cash flows suggest, but don’t prove, Muslim Brotherhood connections.”

  “As usual,” Tom said.

  “Why do you ask?” Cheese asked.

  “Samms asked about collateral damage. You’ve assured us it will collapse on itself with little or no damage to surrounding buildings or Columbus citizens or infrastructure. But the building itself will be collateral damage. We’ve never done this before. Destroyed private property.”

  “The FBI and NSA Intel is all adamant it’s a jihadist-owned building,” Samms said. “Or at least a jihadist-associated building.”

  “Nevertheless an outraged owner is going to come forward. And it’s not going to be the ghost of Osama bin Laden. And either he or some insurance company are going to be collateral damage. Our first.”

  “There’s no other way to get all six of these guys before they start bombing, Tom,” Cheese said. “May and I can’t just storm the building and start killing every raghead who sticks his head out of his door. We’re simply not that good.”

  “Or that lucky,” May said.

  They all thought about that in the ensuing silence.

  Finally Samms said, “We can deal with that if it happens. Okay guys, get ‘er done and come home. No need to check back in. Just be good shepherd dogs and peel this Gaal guy from his jihadist pals and make Buckeye Nation free from these dirtbags.”

  “Got it,” Cheese said.

  “By the way,” Samms said. “Do you guys know why his buddies call him Gaal? It’s a nickname Somalis give to those who have lived abroad.”

  “No,” Cheese said. “We didn’t know that. Is it important somehow?”

  “Probably not. Since they all live abroad now, I take it to mean, they think of him as a foreigner. Not as one of them.”

  “Or,” May said, “the others all plan on going on to Allah without him, leaving him behind here with Satan.”

  “We aim to please,” Cheese said.

  *

  Two nights later, they watched as the fifth and sixth of the jihadists walked toward the building.

  “You sure our guy isn’t in the building?” Cheese asked.

  “Absolutely. He’s never been without his cell phone, and it’s not in the building. My cell site simulator has, so far at
least, been fool proof. He’s not in there.”

  “You equally sure none of these dirtbags has squirreled a girlfriend or a sister or a slave in his apartment?”

  “Neither of us has seen any but these seven and that one plumbing guy enter or leave the building for ten days. No lights ever on until they return. We did the room to room the first day. I suppose they could have brought someone in piece by piece and assembled them in the room. Other than that, I’m sure.”

  “Then it’s show time, May. Do your thing. He always comes home at night from the same direction. I’ll keep watch and come down when you signal me. G’luck, kid.”

  May put on her leather jacket. Checked the safety on the gun. Hugged Cheese and kissed him on the cheek when he hugged her back hard, then walked out into the hallway.

  She smiled to herself as she felt the adrenaline kick in. Show time, indeed.

  She opened the door to the stairway. Looked at her watch. No real reason to hurry. But she took the stairs two at a time anyway. No reason to be later to the corner than Gaal, either. She came out of the building diagonally across from where she knew he would appear. No sign of him yet.

  She checked her phone. Nothing from Cheese.

  She planted herself against the wall, in the shadow of the hotel.

  Then waited.

  Then waited some more.

  It would be a hell of a note if ol’ Ibraahin Ali had chosen this night to meet a girlfriend. Or to go visit one somewhere. They could just blow it up now if they hadn’t decided the potential for collateral damage to a passing car or lone pedestrian was too great in the early evening. In fact, at precisely this moment, one car was coming from each direction, and she could see two or three people walking this way three blocks away.

  No Ibraahin Ali, though.

  And waited some more.

  Potential collateral damage had dwindled to practically nothing, and still no Ibraahin.

  Another half hour.

  And waited some more.

  And then here he came. She recognized his gait.

  She walked out on to the sidewalk across the street from where he was walking. Just another Asian coed lost or jilted, walking home. No way was he going to feel threatened by this little girl walking alone at night.

  He got to the southwest corner of the intersection just as she got to the northeast corner. He was completely in the dark shadows. Right where she wanted him. She took the safety off. Raised the gun. Fired into his chest mass. Only the sound of pffft from the silencer. The Somali went down like a sack of potatoes onto the dark sidewalk.

  She started to cross the street straight at him. And then, here came a car. On her side of the street. Driving slowly toward her.

  She stepped back up on to the sidewalk and walked away from the car, drawing it away from the body.

  It was a cruiser. The patrolman stopped next to her. Lowered his window. Leaned toward her across the seat.

  “Can I help you, Miss?”

  Hell no, she said to herself.

  “No, sir.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my car down the street. Over there.” Purposely pointing the wrong way down a one way street. “Then back to campus.”

  “You want a ride?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine.” Then added, “I just had to drop a note off to a friend. A thank you note, actually.”

  “You sure? I can take you to your car.”

  “No. Thanks. I’m fine, officer. But thank you.”

  “Suit yourself, Miss.”

  He rolled up the window, drove slowly away. Watching in the rearview mirror as he drove down the street.

  May waited until he was far enough away. Made sure he wasn’t turning to come back somehow.

  She crossed the street to the unconscious body of one Ibraahin Ali Amir.

  The tranquilizer gun had done its work. Steady breathing. Guaranteed to hold him for ten hours. Not supposed to kill him.

  “You forgot to signal me,” Cheese said as May jumped and whirled around.

  “You scared me to death. I thought you were the cop.”

  “He never turned around. You can actually still see his tail lights out in front of the Center down there. Give me a hand. Let’s get this guy into the back seat of the car. It’s only fifty yards.”

  They carried him to the car they’d stolen and put him in the back seat. Then covered him with a blanket, making sure he could breath.

  Cheese dropped May back at the hotel and drove the car into a public parking lot, making sure to pay for ten hours parking at the kiosk.

  He blew a kiss to the sleeping Somali in the back seat.

  And then walked back to the hotel.

  *

  Four hours later, May and Cheese set the timers on the bombs below the apartment building.

  Two hours after that, May dropped Cheese off at the Dayton airport.

  “You think that cop’ll connect you to the destruction of the apartment building?” Cheese asked her as he got out of the car.

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Probably not. He reads about the explosion. Is briefed at work. Maybe he remembers, maybe not, that he saw what he presumed was an Asian escort leaving a hotel eight or nine hours earlier a block away. Even if he’s suspicious, one Asian girl in the dark is pretty much likely to look like any other to him.”

  Cheese tapped her shoulder and stepped out of the car. “Good job,” he said as he closed the door. She nodded as she drove away.

  Two hours later they were each watching CNN, Cheese in the Dayton airport, May in the Cincinnati airport, well before dawn, when a sequence of light flashes followed by a series of concussions struck the Columbus apartment building. There was a deafening roar. Then a brownish smoke rose into the air, oddly lit from below. People said they woke up and thought there’d been an earthquake as far away as fifty miles.

  No mention of it on CNN by the time May and Cheese boarded their separate planes.

  Four hours later, they were in separate airports a thousand miles apart watching CNN reporting that a building had mysteriously collapsed two miles from the Ohio State campus. There had been an explosion.

  Terrorism was not suspected. Injuries, fatalities unknown.

  There was, of course, no mention of the sleeping Gaal a half mile away, who would never be able to explain to anyone, even to himself, how or why he might have been moved to safety by a mysterious escort.

  Chapter 35

  Two days later, Licht stood at the Columbus bomb site. He was talking to the overabundance of ATF, FBI, HSI, Columbus police, and Ohio Fire Marshal deputies who also were at the scene.

  He had introduced himself as a White House counter-terrorism adviser, and, for good measure, with the ODNI, which he hated himself for. One of the FBI agents had vouched for him to the police officers keeping out gawkers.

  “I know it’s a cliché,” Licht said, “but who’s in charge here?”

  “I am, sir.” It was the Columbus JTTF SAC.

  “Columbus police okay with that?”

  “Their job is to work with me, sir. Until we determine whether this was an accident, a terrorist attack, or something else, they have to be.”

  “HSI okay with it, too?”

  “Same answer.”

  “What do the fire marshal guys say?”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “What are we telling the press?”

  “That it was an accident.”

  “What does the owner of the building say?”

  “It took HSI and us twenty-four hours to go through the several aliases and the various paper corporate veils before we could find him. That’s him arriving over there. In the back seat of that squad car pulling up.”

  Everybody looked over as a jet black, very tall, very thin man bent out of the back seat of the car and unwound himself up to his full six and a half foot height. He squinted at the pile of rubble in front of him. Looked around to get his bearings. Then back at the bricks and charred ru
bble, some wisps of smoke still occasionally escaping up into the air.

  The two of them introduced themselves to the disoriented man.

  He looked down at them. Then over their shoulders at the former four story building.

  “My name is Ibraahin Ali Amir,” he said in a thick African accent. “My friends call me Gaal.”

  “Are you the owner of this building?” the JTTF agent asked.

  “I was,” he replied. “Yes, this was my apartment building. I lived here.”

  “And you also are the owner?”

  “Yes. It is mine. Was mine.”

  “What happened to it?”

  Gaal looked puzzled down at the agent. “I thought you brought me here to tell me that.”

  “Mr. Gaal,” Licht said. “Where have you been since the night before last?”

  “In the hospital. The policemen came to the hospital this morning and asked me to come with them.”

  *

  The police took the three of them back to the station.

  Once they were settled into the interrogation room, Licht deferred to the JTTF special agent.

  “Mr. Gaal…”

  “It’s just Gaal, a nickname. You can just call me Gaal.”

  “Okay, Gaal, do you have any idea what happened to your apartment building?”

  “It looks like it burned down.”

  “No, there was an explosion. Your building was blown up.”

  “A gas explosion?”

  “The insurance investigators say no, and the Ohio State fire inspectors seem to agree. No evidence of a gas explosion anywhere around or under the building.”

  “An accident, then?”

  “It would be an amazing accident that destroyed your building as completely as an urban demolition project, without any collateral damage to any of the surrounding buildings. No, it appears that your apartment was deliberately blown up by someone who planned it and knows their way around explosives.”

  “But who would want to do such a thing? I’m just a poor immigrant from Somalia, new to America.”

  The agent looked over at Licht.

  “Tell me, Mr., er Gaal,” Licht said, leaning toward him. “Are there any enemies of yours back in Somalia who would want to kill you?”