“Someone important will have to make that request,” Eddie said snidely.
“Maybe someone like me, Mr. Davis?” Deputy Andrew Bridges had been standing in the back, watching Rick’s strategy session. He liked the direction it was going. If he could see this through, then he’d be in line for the next promotion. He hoped it was like most others, where the threat wasn’t real. The bad guys had bad intent, but when it came to executing, they already had their 9/11. Those doors were closed. Andrew knew this was his ticket upstairs, and then he wouldn’t have to do any more watch standing. He would be like the DDI, picking and choosing when he came and went.
To get there, he needed to ride the stallions. Rick and that Army Lieutenant Colonel Travis were rallying the analysts behind them. To win, all he had to do was let them go, but he’d be there, watching, ready to put his name all over anything attached to success.
“Mr. Davis, I know the FBI produces a report daily on the activity of radicals in the U.S. Get the last ten days’ worth of reports, narrow the search to DC, Maryland, and Northern Virginia. And let us know what you come up with. I can expect your analysis and report in what, three hours?” Rick smiled as the Deputy talked down to the upstart FBI agent.
Getting called out in front of his peers had an unpleasant effect on the fat man. His face grew dark red while his neck rolls started sweating. He clenched his heavy hands tightly, turning his fingers white as they shook. People started to move away from the man, just in case he had a heart attack and fell over. No one seemed ready to take one for the team and catch him.
“What other direction do you need, Mr. Davis?” The Deputy stepped aside, showing Eddie the way past. Without a word, the large man huffed and stumbled past. Rick wondered if the man’s blood pressure was even measurable.
“Rick, let’s make this official. For Thorny Rose, you are second only to the Deputy Director of Intelligence and me. Do what you have to do to catch this guy.” He pointed to the caricature of the faceless man. “And everyone else here,” he raised his voice so everyone in the Fusion Center would hear, “do what Rick Banik asks you to do. For heaven’s sake, we all have family here. Who wants to catch this guy?”
Many nodded, some said yes. Andrew held his hand to his ear. “I do!” a number of people shouted.
“Who wants to catch this guy?” He yelled. His heart warmed as the chorus of ‘I dos’ washed over him. He pointed to Rick, nodded, and left.
And that’s how real leaders do it, he thought to himself.
What the hell was that all about, Rick wondered.
And that’s how Rick gets what he deserves, Travis thought, the leadership position he never wanted. He slapped Rick on the back. “Hey buddy, what do you think? No initiative goes unpunished, huh?” He walked away laughing, looking for a second cup of coffee.
D Minus 18 – The Mother of Satan
The other recruits were more receptive. Clay was disappointed he didn’t get to body slam another convert.
In all, they had six separate individuals who made the initial commitment. Mohammed said that at least one would back out, but Clay didn’t understand. In his mind, yes meant yes.
“Not all are pure of heart like you, my friend. They say yes with their mouths, but their hearts and souls do not agree. When it comes time, at least one of them will run away, a coward. It takes great strength to do what we do. The Christians and the Jews tell a story of Goliath, a Philistine. A great warrior, Goliath, and David was but a small young man, a servant to the Jewish General. When no warrior from the army would face the Philistine, David himself stepped forward with staff, sling, and five rocks. He knocked the great warrior down with a perfectly thrown stone, then he cut off the warrior’s head and the Philistines fled. We are David. We stand alone, wearing only the armor of Allah while the giant Philistine keeps us from realizing the Caliphate, a world united under one God. Allahu Akbar!” Mohammed emphasized his story by closing his eyes and appearing to say a small prayer.
“We must throw the stone perfectly to knock down the giant. Then we will cut off his head. But first things first, we need to pick up more sulfuric acid. Once we get this, then we’ll have everything we need to bake the cake, no?” Clay nodded, thinking about the story of David and Goliath.
One well-placed river stone won a battle. One well-placed bucket of TATP would do the same. He lived in the land of the enemy, and they embraced him. He didn’t hate them, but he was growing to hate what they stood for. Mohammed understood him, seemingly better than he understood himself. He’d seen death in Nairobi but wasn’t close to it. Here, death sat quietly in the back of their SUV, sloshing slightly as they bounced through a myriad of Northern Virginia potholes. Buckets of nails and metal cans clinked as they brushed against each other, separate parts of a soon to be whole.
Mohammed pulled into a 7-11 and parked. He handed Clay a paper with a title, an account number, a credit card number, and a phone number.
“This is a business account that I set up last time I was here. The company is Grainger Supply, and its warehouse is in Rockville, Maryland. You will call on behalf of the company which does biofuel conversion. You need to buy six gallons of Sulfuric Acid. It is used with cooking oil to purify it before it is converted to fuel. Here is everything you need. Tell them that you’ll pick it up later. Your name is Kwame Ndjamena. They already have that name on file for this company.”
“You have a biofuel conversion company?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but in the United States, they reward all things green. We make money, and our plan was always to use the company for things like this. The man who runs the company would probably have heart failure if he knew who really owned it. But knowing is not his role. Running a successful company is. He will never see this purchase. Oh and get some gloves that will protect us from the acid.” By getting out and going into the 7-11, Mohammed showed Clay his trust in him. He’d need Clay to work alone at certain points. He needed Clay to believe in himself.
Nothing builds confidence like accomplishing a mission by yourself, even if it is only driving to Rockville.
Mohammed milled about inside, getting a coke for himself and beef jerky for Clay. He waited until he saw his young friend finish the phone call before paying and going back outside.
“You will drop me off and go to Rockville yourself to pick up the acid and gloves. Then you will find a storage unit, maybe in Herndon where you will rent one with a door, well lit, where we can put a couple folding tables, maybe have access to water.” Mohammed handed Clay another stack of cash.
“I have plenty remaining from yesterday,” Clay said, shaking his head and holding his hands up refusing to take the money.
“That was for you, this is for the supplies and two months rent on the storage unit. There won’t be much left of this when the day is done, I suspect.” He forced the money into Clay’s hand, started the engine, and drove away.
He stopped quite a ways from his hotel at a nondescript parking lot with expensive vehicles. The Cadillac did not stand out.
With the SUV running, Mohammed got out and left the door open. “I have other errands to run. Meet me at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse at 7 pm. It’s not far from here. Good luck my large friend.” They shook, and Mohammed strolled away as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Clay watched him go. He wanted to be that cool, fully accepting his place in life and letting Allah worry about the rest.
Clay got into the driver’s seat, adjusted everything for his large frame and despite Mohammed’s concerns, he put the address for Grainger into the vehicle’s GPS. He’d arrive in twenty-seven minutes, according to the pleasant voice.
Before he left, he used his phone to find a storage place in Herndon. He looked through various sites before picking Empty Space Storage because the pictures showed trees blocking much of the entrance and view inside and they could park outside a roll-up door, away from the office. He called the number linked from their website and asked politely
if they had any units. They did, in the roll up door area. He thanked them and told the older voice that he’d be there within a couple hours and looked forward to working with the good people at Extra Space.
“How easy to show them one thing and do another,” he said to himself. “If they only knew what was coming.”
D Minus 18 – A Steak and a Stake
“Good afternoon. My name is Mwanajuma Kalu, and I called you earlier about renting a storage unit for at least a couple months. I’ll be in between places soon and wanted to manage that in the best way possible. You know how people say they’ll help you move, but on the big day, it rains, and no one shows? I plan to avoid all that by bringing things here myself, sorting them, and doing what I need to do to stay out of people’s hair.” Clay gave his toothiest smile to the old man behind the counter.
“Thank you young man, but I don’t need to know why you want to rent it. I need ID, this form filled out, and $240, that’s first month, last month, and a deposit.” The old man behind the counter pushed a clipboard with a pen toward Clay and waited, as Clay offered his Virginia driver’s license.
He filled out the form quickly and counted out twelve twenty-dollar bills below the counter. Despite what Mohammed suggested, even after he completed all today’s purchases, a significant wad of cash-filled Clay’s pocket.
He was given four options and took the one on the end of a row, farthest from the gate. He asked about a key, but the Empty Space clerk said they only took padlocks, and Clay needed to supply his own. If he didn’t have one, coincidentally, Empty Space had locks for sale. Of course, welcome to America and its brand of capitalism. Clay smiled and paid the man for a MasterLock with two keys, thanking him profusely.
Clay noted the man was drinking coffee from a Dunkin’ Donuts cup, and there was a donut bag in the garbage. He would maintain good relations with this man. No one could suspect a friendly young man who brought you donuts and coffee.
As Clay watched the man process the paperwork, he noted the television above the counter showed four views from the security cameras. He noted their locations and what they showed.
Clay entered the facility using his new passcode, drove slowly around it, looking at the cameras mounted on poles above the corners of the storage units closest to the entrance, the end away from Clay’s new unit. He’d always park facing the camera so there would be no recording of anything he carried in the vehicle.
As Clay let the big SUV travel at idle speed, he thought how far he’d come in a very short time. Five days ago, he had no purpose; he felt stupid despite having a college degree and being fluent in three languages. By having meaning in his life, his brain worked in high gear. He saw things he hadn’t looked at before.
He’d make Mohammed proud, inshallah.
Clay blocked the view from the camera, looked to make sure no one else could see, and unloaded everything quickly. He covered the various cans and jugs with a blanket, then took stock of what they’d need to transform the storage unit into a TATP factory.
Clay’s stomach tightened. He was going to make bombs for delivery by men he’d intimidated by his size and strength. He’d become a terrorist.
Mohammed was a terrorist.
Mohammed was also His prophet. In both cases, through Islam and through the man he’d just met, both Mohammeds gave him life.
He stood tall, reconciling himself with his newfound purpose, ability to think clearly and intelligently, with the added benefit of financial freedom. None of that would have happened if it wasn’t right. He needed to take a name, a new name with meaning. He’d ask Mohammed for guidance.
Both of them.
He rolled the door down, put his lock on, and snapped it closed.
He had more things to buy for the unit, which he’d do on his way to get cleaned up and put on his nicest clothes. One did not enter Ruth’s Chris looking like a construction worker, his current chemical purchasing persona.
When Clay arrived at Ruth’s Chris, Mohammed wasn’t there yet. Since he didn’t know if the older man had gotten a reservation, he went inside to get on the waiting list. They estimated it would only take twenty minutes before their table was ready. Clay sat by the entry way and relaxed. It had been a full day.
A tap on his shoulder brought him into the moment. Mohammed’s broad smile greeted him. He stood, and they shook hands warmly. They were soon ushered to their table after discussing nothing important while in the midst of tightly packed strangers. Their table was more private. Ruth’s Chris menu of incredible steaks was supplemented by discretion. The tables were not too close together and this added value, more than the price increase for each meal.
“We have a nice unit and tomorrow, I will finish setting it up. Then you can show me what we need to do. I return to work tomorrow evening, but I’ll have everything ready before then.” Clay looked down at his napkin.
“Soon, you’ll be able to leave that job, but for now, maintain appearances. Many people here work two jobs, no? The extra income can always come in handy.” Mohammed chuckled at his own joke. He was in good spirits. The plan progressed more quickly than he imagined. With Clay as his deputy, he was confident that their statement would be spectacular, as impactful as 9/11 without the resultant backlash.
“What do you think of this President, Clay?”
Clay didn’t think about politics even though he lived at the heart of it, where its adherents stridently argued all things political. He shrugged, not sure what kind of answer he could give.
Mohammed also shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I think. If this man were president on 9/11, there would have been no wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Sure, they would have fired a few cruise missiles at empty camps to make a statement, but that would have been it. This Administration believes we can hug our way to peace. I don’t know what would make them fight, but 9/11 wouldn’t be significant enough.”
Clay squinted and pursed his lips as he contemplated Mohammed’s deeper meaning. “As big as 9/11, no bigger, for the safety of our homes,” he said in a low voice.
“Expand the bubble, but don’t pop it,” Mohammed replied. They toasted with their water glasses. The smell of a steak going past drew their attention away.
“Where did you learn your English? You speak very well, and often sound like an American.” Clay asked
“I attended school here. My family spent a great deal of time in the States when I was growing up.” Mohammed spoke slowly, in low tones. He was uncomfortable talking about himself in this way. He closed his mouth abruptly when he finished, leaned back in his chair, and looked away.
“Did you smell that steak?” He smiled and nodded toward a table where an older couple was enjoying their meal, having paired it with glasses of a dark red wine. Mohammed would have liked to add a nice cabernet sauvignon, but he had to maintain appearances for his apprentice. He sighed and sipped his ice water with a lemon twist.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” Clay offered as an apology.
“Then don’t,” Mohammed shot back, but softened and held up a hand when he saw the alarm on Clay’s face. He leaned forward as far as the table allowed. “Do not be upset, my friend. When in the land of the infidel, the less we know about each other, the better. Someday, you will meet my family, enjoy hot tea and sunshine. There, we will laugh and enjoy life as close friends. Until then, let us not delve too deeply, but walk forward, shoulder to shoulder, unerringly toward our goal. And we shall get there, in the right time, in the right way.” He held up his glass in a toast.
“To getting there,” Clay said, echoing the sentiment. As they sipped their water, steaks, baked potatoes, and two healthy side dishes of vegetables arrived. Looking it over, Clay took it as a personal challenge to leave nothing behind.
Thirty minutes later, he worked to clean up the last green bean. He didn’t understand how food could get heavier during a meal, but he was convinced this last bean was magic, weighing ten times what it should.
“Now that was a meal tr
uly honoring an accomplishment,” Mohammed said as he leaned back in his chair, letting his stomach rest. The waiter had arrived without him noticing.
“What are you celebrating, if I may ask? Then maybe I can recommend the right dessert, made special just for you.” Mohammed glanced at Clay, who lost all semblance of self-control.
“I think we won’t be able to do dessert,” Mohammed started, in a loud voice to draw attention away from Clay. “That meal was magnificent. My compliments to the chef. We celebrate a small business partnership, in green energy. It is the future, is it not?” Mohammed asked smoothly as Clay regained his composure.
“Yes, sir and that sounds like something worthy of celebration. Dessert menu?”
“No dessert menu, thank you. And yes, Ruth’s Chris has made this a perfect celebration.” He nodded to the server who placed a leather case with the check on the table.
Mohammed looked at Clay closely. “You must always think one step ahead. Learn from my example on how you conduct yourself.”
“That was smooth. You are playing chess and I, checkers.”
“Soon, my friend, you will be playing chess, too.” Mohammed looked at the check, dropped two $100 bills into it and got up. “Let us go to that Turkish Coffee shop, what was it again? Yoyla’s? And there you will tell me about your day while we enjoy something to keep our blood flowing. I fear that steak will put me in a coma otherwise.”
Mondays Are Always Mondays
The team had worked through the weekend. Rick’s better half never questioned his long days, although the weekend work from now until an undetermined end date caused her some consternation. He tried to alleviate her concerns by suggesting that this position was here and not deployed to an unnamed foreign country. They’d had enough of long weeks and months apart.
People Raged: and the Sky Was on Fire-Compendium (Rick Banik Thrillers Book 1) Page 8