Messages

by John Michael Hileman

  “No. I was afraid. Not of my brother, but his friends. They are zealots.”

  “Well, at least he never used it.”

  Ali stood up and sat on the bed. His eyes appeared sunken in the shadows of the room. “I watched him. If he tried to use the bomb, I would have tried to stop him. But something else happened, something much larger than this. Around the same time he got the apartment, he would go for a long time, then come home with expensive things, like a new digital camera, a new computer. I asked him where he got them, but he said, ’Don’t ask.’ He could not lie to me, his brother, and I would be in danger. So I stayed quiet, and watched.”

  Ali went over to the dresser, crouched, and pulled out the bottom drawer. It was empty. He reached in and up to the bottom of the drawer above it and ripped off a piece of Velcro. A container dropped down. “If he knew I found this, he would be very angry with me.” He lifted the flimsy blue plastic container and placed it on the footlocker at the end of the bed. He popped it open and looked up at Karen and Larry. “These he has been collecting. I knew he was into something deadly, but this is far worse than I thought. I did not think he could do such things.” His eyes turned down. “My brother is not evil. Before you look in this box, I want you to know, he is a good man, but he is frustrated with the evil of this world. He believes he can help bring the age of peace, by doing the will of Allah. Evil men are warping his mind.”

  Karen gave him a gentle look, then reached for the container. “May we?”

  “Yes. But please, I beg you, do not use this to incriminate my family. Use it to tell the police of this terrible danger.”

  She pulled the container closer and slowly began removing items. Larry stepped in, and Ali got up and stood in the doorway.

  Based on the numerous pictures and printed biographies, it was clear Ali’s brother was in charge of gathering information and researching potential recruits. The photos had numbers in black ink corresponding to numbers on the printouts. Numerous web page resources outlined the construction of various types of bombs, including a dirty bomb. Finally, Karen pulled out two eight gig thumb drives. She could only imagine what was on them.

  She turned to Ali. “Do you have access to that computer?” She pointed.

  “No. It is password protected.”

  She rolled the tiny black thumb drives gently in her hand. If only she had brought her laptop. “Do you know what’s on these?” She displayed the drives in her palm.

  “One is nothing. The other has more research from the Internet.”

  She set them down on the foot locker, picked up the photos, and began laying them out.

  Her hand stopped.

  “What is it?” Larry leaned in.

  She slid a photo out from the rest and lifted it up. There were two men in the picture.

  Larry’s jaw dropped. “Is that David Chance?”

  “It certainly looks like him.” She flipped the photo over to reference the number on the back. There was no biography with a matching number. She flipped it back over. “Do you recognize this other guy?”

  “Nope.”

  Karen held the photo toward Ali. “Do you know who these men are?”

  He stepped closer. “Yes. That is the professor.”

  She looked at the photo again. “Which one?”

  “The man on the left.”

  “What about this one?” She pointed to David.

  “Him, I do not know.”

  “Who is this professor?” She studied the picture closely. “How does he fit into what’s going on?”

  “He is the one making the bomb.” He pointed. “The information is on one of the flash drives.”

  David Chance knows the bomb maker? She pulled her phone from her purse and took a snapshot of the picture. “I’m going to email this to Nerd to see if he can find anything on this professor.” She looked at Larry. He raised his eyebrows.

  She scanned through the rest of the materials, but there was nothing referring to Afif or the money laundering. It was all focused on creating a bomb and recruiting people who could make it happen. There were no clues to Brad’s location.

  She was about to pack the materials back into the box, when she noticed some numbers on the corner of a printout. 42.360262 / -71.054839 “What do you make of this?” she said, showing Larry the page.

  “No idea.”

  She held it out toward Ali. “Do you recognize these numbers?”

  Ali came over and looked. “I am sorry. I do not.”

  She took a snapshot of the numbers and the top of the page, and emailed them to Nerd. Carefully she started putting the items back the way she had found them. “You should bring this to the police.”

  “I cannot, it would put my family in great danger. Use what you can and have the story told, but please, it cannot be linked back to me. My brother is paying for what he has done, but my family and his son are innocent. Please. I am trusting you.”

  “Where am I going to tell everyone I got this information from?”

  “Can you not say it is anonymous?”

  “Not in something like this. It would be withholding evidence to an official investigation, that’s a serious charge.”

  “We could film it,” said Larry.

  She shot him a look. “What?”

  “I could put it all on tape, and we could say it was dropped off anonymously.”

  She gave him a startled look. “That is a brilliant idea. But what if they track it back to us?”

  “Back to me,” he corrected.

  “You’re willing to take the heat?”

  “To protect Ali and his family. Yes I am, darlin’.”

  “Would that be acceptable to you, Ali?”

  Ali gave a reluctant nod.

  “Fine. We’ll shoot it all, but we have to make it quick, we only have a little over an hour and a half before the deadline.” She started taking the items back out of the container.

  “Deadline?” asked Ali.

  “If we don’t find Brad by 11:00 a.m...” Karen bit her lip, “they say they’re going to kill him.”

  Ali looked alarmed. “Why?”

  “Because the FBI will not allow the second terrorist tape to be aired.” She continued laying out the items.

  A light of understanding came into his eyes. “Yes. I saw this on the news. The man said he would kill him if the tapes were not run. Why would the FBI do this?”

  “They’re worried about causing a panic. I don’t have time to explain it, but if you have any idea where Brad is being held, I would be very grateful.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the wall. “All I know is what is in this room, and the name of the businessman my brother is working with. He goes to our Mosque. His name is Afif Al-Qadir.”

  “That’s all you know?”

  “Yes. I am sorry. But I do not think my brother had anything to do with hostages. All he has is information on how to make bombs. I think that was his only job.”

  She stepped back so Larry could start filming. “Thank you, Ali.” She offered her hand. “I know the personal risk you’re taking to give us this information. We’ll keep your identity silent.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “The day is young.” She gave a weak smile. “You may get your chance.”

  Chapter 37

  David’s heavy eyelids opened to slits as a pair of brown loafers passed within inches of his face. The fake leather squeaked as the wearer crouched above him. Pain stabbed into David’s shoulder and cheekbone, where the majority of his weight was resting. His hands were twisted behind him, his legs pressed tightly together. He wanted to move to relieve the pain, but his captors didn’t know he was awake––and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “Are you hungry?” The man spoke with an Arab accent.

  A shock ran through David’s body. Was he wrong? Did they know?

  “Yes,” said a dry scratchy voice.

  The man in the loafers was talking to someone else
. “I know it is late, but I get you some breakfast or something?”

  “Thank you.” This time, when the man answered, David recognized the voice. Brad! A wave of fear produced a shiver in his chest, and he fought desperately to remain still.

  The loafers squeaked again as the man stood and walked to the door. “I get you a juice too. You like juice, yes?”

  “–Yes.” His speech was slow and slurred.

  The door closed, and David waited as the footsteps grew fainter and fainter.

  “Brad.” David spoke in a terrified whisper.

  “You’re awake.” He sounded a little more alive.

  “Do you know where we are?” David continued to whisper.

  Brad whispered back. “It won’t help to whisper. There’s a camera by the door. They can see and hear everything.”

  David’s breaths were short and labored as he shifted his head to see the camera. A little red light blinked above the lens, indicating it was on, or recording, or both.

  David rolled onto his belly then back up onto his shoulder. He straightened out his legs and with several rocks managed to get himself up into a sitting position. He scooted back against the wall. The drugs were still working, the walls wavered and swayed. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to take control of his equilibrium.

  “What did you do to get thrown in here?”

  David responded with his eyes still closed. “Tried to stop the bomb.”

  Brad let out a weak laugh. “Oh yeah, you’re dead for sure.”

  David snapped his eyes open and glared at him.

  “Kidding. Sheesh. Take it easy.”

  “How can you joke about this? We’re being held hostage by terrorists! You’ve seen the videos. They behead people in orange jumpsuits!”

  “Maybe it’s the jumpsuits.” Brad looked down at his clothes and smiled. “Maybe they hate orange jumpsuits. Maybe if we take ‘em off, they’ll let us go!” He started giggling uncontrollably.

  It was the drugs. It had to be. David had never known Brad to act like this. He was usually very reserved and dignified.

  “I wish they’d give me what they gave you. I could use a good laugh.” –He had never been more frightened in his entire life.

  Brad composed himself. “Sorry, Dave. I’m not myself.”

  “What did they give us? You have any idea?”

  “Whatever it is, it has more than one effect.”

  “Have you learned anything about where we are or how we can escape?”

  “If I had would I still be here?”

  David leaned his head back against the wall. “Good point.”

  The door to the room opened, and Hamid stepped in. “I see you are awake, Mr. Chance. Good. It is time to eat.”

  David squinted at him. You!

  He took out a switchblade and removed the tape bindings from their ankles. Behind him, another man entered the room carrying a small submachine gun, or an Uzi, David had no idea. But he knew the man, he was one of the Arabs from the U-Haul truck! Was the bomb at the hostage house?

  “Please do not try anything,” Hamid tone was tense. “I assure you, my brother will not hesitate to kill you.” He stood and stepped back. Brad rose out of his chair, and David shifted to his knees and stood. The room took a twist.

  “Please follow me.” Hamid led them out of the room and down a short hallway to a living room, which was empty save for a card table, two wooden chairs, and a small television set. They were directed to sit. The man with the gun took a position behind them.

  Hamid taped their ankles to the legs of the chairs and cut their bindings. David rubbed his sticky, wrinkled wrists. A third man, whom David recognized as the other man from the truck, came in and placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of each of them. “I will let you watch your TV station while you eat. Perhaps you will be fortunate to see your news break in for a special report––or, you will be very disappointed when the clock strikes eleven, and it has not.”

  The old clock above the television said 10:22.

  David looked confused. “What happens at eleven?”

  “If your news does not play our tape––” his voice held no emotion, “Mr. Knight will be executed.”

  Brad did not react, he picked up his fork and began eating with groggy automation. They must have given him an extra dose, David thought. He looked utterly numb.

  Hamid switched on the TV and left the room. An infomercial for a new and exciting fat-burning regimen came to life on the screen. David slid his plate away. The thought of eating made his stomach roll. Will they do it? Will they follow through with their threat? They had killed John in cold blood and shot at Karen. Clearly these were dangerous men, despite the unarmed bomb and the warnings they had given to him. Should I ask their intentions toward me and my family? Why play games? Why not just kill me? What good am I to them? Should I ask? Should I speak up? The man with the gun shifted his feet, and David realized his hands were shaking. He also realized, in all his chasing after the messages, that there was no apparent tie between the terrorists and the impending Presidential assassination. –The entire crisis centered around the bombing of Boston.

  It didn’t matter.

  Even if he had the courage to ask, they wouldn’t tell him; they had no reason to. David thought back to the times he had seen Hamid sitting on his steps, right down the street, right under his nose, plotting and planning unimaginable violence. David had been oblivious––perhaps purposefully so.

  The second hand ticked and started another round. Another minute gone. He looked at the TV. Still talking about fat burning. God. If you’re up there. Now would be a good time to speak. He recalled a message from the library in Stan and Claire’s house. His mind whispered––Fear not.

  Chapter 38

  Karen followed behind Larry as he pushed his way through the newsroom. She was surprised to see so many people still working.

  “Look out,” Larry shouted, “big scoop comin’ through.” He swung the news director’s door open.

  Jim looked up with a phone between his shoulder and ear. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and set the phone in its cradle. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

  “This was left on the wiper of the news car, so I put it in my camera and took a look at it. It’s video of terrorist recruitment records, lots of them, and bomb schematics.”

  “You better not be messing with me.”

  “See for yourself.”

  Jim picked up the tape and examined it. “Cheap tape stock but a broadcast format.” He pushed it into the tape deck next to his computer and turned on the monitor. The screen flickered and came to life. A biography slowly scrolled up the screen. Jim leaned in and squinted. “Well I’ll be a...” He forwarded the tape and watched as footage of photos and biographies and schematics streaked past. “Incredible. This was on your car?”

  “Yep.”

  Jim punched the stop button and stared out the window. Karen knew exactly what he was thinking, she had known him for many years. He had in his possession what every news agency in the country wanted, and what he knew the authorities would demand to acquire. He was, no doubt, working through all the angles, wondering how he could exploit the opportunity sitting in his lap. At last he spoke. “We need to bring the FBI in on this. If we weren’t so crunched for time, I’d say copy it and follow up on the leads, but this is sensitive material. Take this up to them immediately, but have Nerd stay with the tape; it’s station property, I want it back when the Feds are done with it.”

  “Will do,” said Larry.

  Jim took the tape out and handed it to Larry. “Is there anything on there about Brad?”

  Karen looked at the clock on the wall. Only thirty-five minutes left. She fought to keep her composure. “No. Has the FBI done anything?”

  “If by ‘done anything’ you mean sit on their hands, then yes, they have.”

  “I can’t believe they know where he is, and they’re not doing anything! Can’t we find out what th
ey know?”

  “I wish we could.”

  “I might be able to help,” said Nerd, who was standing just outside the door.

  Karen’s eyes fell on him, and she froze. She had sent him the picture of David and the numbers from one of the documents. He could link her to the contents on the tape. Did he realize? Would he give them away? She moved to prevent him from coming into the room.

  “I found these,” he said, holding up some papers over Karen’s shoulder.

  “Karen! Let him in.” Jim gestured for her to move aside.

  Her skin tingled with terror, her hand shot out and snatched the papers. “Thanks, Nerd. Good work. I’ll take a look at these and get back to you.”

  Nerd gave her a startled look. “Um, o-kay.”

  Jim’s eye narrowed. “Nerd, come in here and close that door.”

  Karen tried desperately to conceal her panic.

  The door clicked shut.

  Jim looked from Larry to Karen. “What do you two have going on?”

  Karen glared at Nerd, then looked at Jim. “Nerd looked up some numbers for us.”

  “Numbers?”

  “GPS numbers,” said Nerd.

  Jim held his hand out to Karen for the papers. “So why are you trying to hide them from me?”

  “I’m not hiding anything.” She was cornered. What was she going to tell him? If he looked at the pictures she sent to Nerd, he would make the connection between them and the tape, he would know they had recorded the footage. Her mind raced to find an excuse. “I...”

  “What Karen’s tryin’ to say is, we played the tape in the truck and she took a coupla pictures with her cellphone.”

  Karen stood with her mouth open, then she suddenly smiled. “I emailed them to Nerd.”

  “I thought you said you found it on the wiper of the news car.” He looked at Larry.

  “Car––truck. I meant truck.”

  “What are you two up to?”

  Karen furrowed her brow. “Alright! You want the truth? I think you’re working a little too closely with the FBI. That’s what I think. And I don’t want them to know I took these numbers and that I’m following up on them so I can find Brad. Unlike you, I don’t care what the FBI thinks, I’m going to find him!”