by Brad Thor
“Anybody want to play some video games before the movie starts?” Mike asked.
Trevor looked at him. “Dad, first we’ve got to get our popcorn and then we have to get our seats.”
“Yeah,” said Tyler. “If you don’t get your seats early, you have to sit in the front row and you end up with a whole creek in your neck.”
“Who told you that?”
“Grandpa,” the boys said in unison.
Mike looked at his wife and shook his head. Shannon’s father lived with them and the boys never made a move without conferring with him. They’d wanted him to come along with them tonight, but his emphysema had been bugging him and he didn’t have the strength to drag his oxygen around with him. Mike loved the man like he was his own father, but he was enjoying its just being the four of them tonight.
“Well, I don’t want anybody getting a crick in their neck,” he said, winking at Shannon, “so I guess we’d better get our popcorn and hurry up to our seats.”
When asked by the concession stand attendant what size popcorn they wanted, the boys each requested an extra-large. Shannon tried to talk them out of it, but they had brought money along from their piggybanks, wanting to help pay for the evening, and they insisted.
“If they don’t finish them, they don’t finish them,” Mike whispered to his wife.
“And if they get sick in the car on the ride home,” she replied, “Daddy gets to clean it up.”
Mike smiled and gave Shannon a pinch right in the spot that always made her yelp. She laughed and slapped his hand away, then told the boys they could each have their own popcorn bag if they ordered the small. Negotiations began in earnest and Shannon caved, allowing each of the boys to have a medium.
Popcorn and drinks in hand, Mike Bentley led his family toward theater number six. As they walked in, the boys’ eyes widened at the enormous space. Despite what Grandpa had said, both of the boys said they wanted to sit in the front row. Though there was no such thing as a bad seat in a modern theater like the Century, Mike was happy when Tyler spotted a group of four seats about halfway up and close to the middle. When it came to seats, he’d always been a middle/middle kind of guy, and he was pleased to see that it was obviously a characteristic passed down on the Y chromosome.
A lot of families had turned out for the movie. The theater was quickly filling up and more families were still pouring in.
The Bentleys settled into their seats and Mike began fielding questions from the boys about all the pre-movie ads playing on the screen. During a lull while something onscreen had captured the boys’ attention, he leaned over to Shannon and kissed her. As far as he was concerned, this was just about the perfect evening.
When the lights began to dim, the boys nearly leaped out of their seats, they were so excited. Mike was so focused on his family that he never noticed a North African man carrying a backpack who walked into the darkened theater all by himself and sat four seats away.
CHAPTER 43
Qusay Ali Atwa had been waiting for this moment for years. There were times when he thought he had been forgotten about, but they had told him that that would never happen. He had been instructed to blend into American society as best he could and to wait. He was to pray and maintain his faith. Above all, he was never to reveal, and also never to forget, why he had been sent to America.
In exchange, Qusay’s family in Sudan had been well looked after. They received monthly payments that allowed them a much better standard of living than they ever could have realized had he stayed behind in their village. Qusay’s standard of living had been considerably improved as well. Even the poorest of the poor in the United States lived better than the majority of the Islamic world. They had cell phones, air conditioning, flat-screen TVs, satellite service, food, clothing, cars, and shoes. It was all the more reason to hate America. They hoarded the world’s wealth and placed man-made law above God’s divine law. Qusay had to work every day to conceal his hatred for them.
Des Moines had not been his choice. It had been chosen for him. The winters were unbearably cold. No matter how many layers he wore, he spent nearly half the year chilled to the bone. He was an extremely slim man in his thirties whose appearance reflected the effects of starvation and malnourishment in his youth. His eyes were sunk deep into their sockets and his cheekbones were severely pronounced. The brown skin across his face was drawn taut. His skull appeared misshapen and his twiglike limbs appeared impossibly thin, as if they were ready to snap at any moment.
But despite his outwardly frail appearance, inside Qusay Ali Atwa beat the heart of a warrior. He believed deeply in Allah and the messages he had conveyed through the prophet Mohammed.
As the holy Qur’an instructed, Qusay took neither Jews nor Christians as his friends. He had been taught since childhood that they were perverted transgressors. They were unbelievers, and unbelievers were like panting dogs. They were the vilest of creatures and it was his duty to fight them.
Sometimes, he had to work extra hard to remind himself of these facts. At the poultry-processing plant where he worked, he saw incredible acts of kindness and even love between his coworkers. Such acts had even been directed at him. In inclement weather, he had been offered rides. At holidays, though they knew he was a Muslim, they had invited him to their homes. On one occasion when he had been very sick, several of the women had cooked for him and had dropped the food off at his home. They had even included lists of ingredients for each dish in order to demonstrate that the meals had been prepared with his halal dietary restrictions. He threw all of the food into the garbage.
Qusay consoled himself with multiple verses from the Qur’an that clearly stated that good deeds by unbelievers made no difference in the eyes of Allah. If they refused to submit to Islam, they were destined for the fires of hell. There was no redemption for them.
The Qur’an was also clear that people of religions other than Islam were to be violently punished not only in the afterlife, but in the here and now. Non-Muslims were to be fought with every tool available until there was no other religion but Islam. It was Qusay’s duty to pursue the unbelievers, to seize them wherever they could be found and slay them. Allah was strict in his punishment and Qusay accepted willingly his fate in carrying it out.
When he received the phone call, he was very excited. He was told to put his affairs in order. He was told how soon before the attack to make his martyrdom video and what to do with it. His handler cautioned him not to speak about his assignment with anyone, lest the infidels discover their plan. Qusay took every word seriously and followed the instructions to the letter.
He selected the materials just as he had been taught, breaking up the purchases among several stores so as not to attract attention. They were readily available, everyday items, and no one gave any of them, or him, a second thought.
Back in his apartment, Qusay combined the ingredients and assembled his package just as he had been shown. He had been told to start detaching himself from this world and to begin thinking of what awaited him in Paradise. Two days before he was to carry out his assignment, he received a package in the mail. It was a small vial of pills sent from a supposed Internet pharmacy. He was instructed how and when to take the pills and was told they would help make his assignment easier, as he would be more relaxed.
Finally, it was explained to Qusay one last time what would happen to his family if he did not successfully carry out his operation. He understood, and he vowed that he would not fail. The only thing he wished was that he could have contacted them one last time. He would have liked to have spoken with his father and his two brothers. To his disappointment, it was strictly forbidden. Qusay could only hope that they would be proud of him.
He prayed and took strength reading from the holy Qur’an before leaving. In the theater parking lot, he removed the orange vial from his pocket and consumed the last of the pills. Twenty minutes later, he purchased his ticket and entered the multiplex.
The lights had al
ready been dimmed when he entered the extremely crowded theater number six and took one of the last remaining seats. To his relief, no one seemed to notice him, or the backpack he was carrying. Placing it at his feet, he sat back and silently prayed, trying to remember not to nod or move his lips, as he had been told law enforcement officers had been trained to look for such cues, as they indicated that a shahid was about to martyr himself.
As far as Qusay could tell, though, there were no police officers present in the theater. It was nothing but families; mostly mothers with young children, though there were a handful of fathers scattered about. One in particular, with two blond boys, had turned several minutes into the film and looked at him. He had then turned and looked at him twice more.
Despite the calming effect the drugs were supposed to have, Qusay grew more apprehensive each time the man turned and looked at him. He was worried that somehow, the man had divined his intent. But if that was so, why hadn’t the man done anything? Qusay decided it was foolish to wait any longer.
He readied his package just as the man looked at him a fourth time and stood up from his seat. “Mike, what are you doing?” a woman said, but the man ignored her.
Moving to the end of his row and stepping out into the aisle, the man pointed at Qusay and gestured for him to get up. Qusay stared at him, his heart racing.
The man removed a badge of some sort, held it up, and gestured once more for him to get up and step into the aisle. All around them, people were beginning to pay attention to the unfolding spectacle rather than the movie.
“You,” ordered the man, as he swept his sport coat back and placed his right hand on the butt of a pistol holstered at his hip. “Iowa state trooper. Put your hands where I can see them.”
At this point, Qusay could feel all eyes in the theater on him. He thought of his family and smiled.
As Mike Bentley drew his pistol, Qusay Ali Atwa detonated his backpack.
CHAPTER 44
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
When the light had completely gone and Harvath had finished his meal, he left the dock and headed back up to his house. Sooner or later, the Old Man was going to want his written report. Tonight seemed as good a time as any.
Grabbing his laptop from the safe in his office, Harvath powered it up and made himself comfortable at his desk. Normally, his dog would have been sitting right underneath his feet, but he’d been away so much he’d left him with friends.
Harvath spent the next several hours working on his report. Reed Carlton was a detail person and never complained that Harvath’s summaries were too long. That was fine by Harvath, he was a detail guy as well and he found that the deeper into detail he went, the better he was able to wrap his head around what had gone right, what had gone wrong, and what needed to happen going forward.
He had begun his narrative in the aftermath of the Yemen operation and moved forward. Halfway through, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep until he had written everything down, so he got up and went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Carrying an extra-large mug back to his desk, he sat down at his laptop and picked up right where he had left off.
As he wrote, he became increasingly confident that Karami, the Uppsala cell leader, was still in Sweden. Leaving the country after what had happened would have been too risky. His network might be able to get him out by boat, but they’d have to wait until the heat died down. Harvath made note of it in his report and also made a mental note to bring it up with the Old Man.
From there, Harvath moved on to a moment-by-moment breakdown of everything that had happened leading up to the explosion. Chase was undoubtedly working on a similar report for his superiors, and Harvath made an additional note to get a copy of it to see if it would help fill in any of his blanks.
Soon, he found himself speculating about what had gone wrong. It wasn’t easy reliving the blast and envisioning the deaths of Schiller and his team, but it was necessary. Harvath put his ego aside and was completely candid about where he felt he had failed and how he believed the terrorists had been able to gain the upper hand.
Harvath was focused on being brutally honest regarding his possible failings in the assignment. Men under his command had died and he owed it to them and their families to try to ferret out every single detail, no matter how damaging it might be to him, in order to make sure that such a thing never happened again.
He was so focused on this part of his report that he didn’t at first hear his cell phone vibrating on the credenza behind him. When he did finally notice it, he reached for it without looking and raised the device to his ear.
“Harvath,” he said absentmindedly, as he finished typing his sentence with his free hand.
“Do you have the TV on?” asked the Old Man.
Harvath was no longer focused on his report. “No. Why?” he asked, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV in his office. “What’s going on?”
“We just got hit. Simultaneous attacks in multiple cities across the country.”
“What were the targets?” he asked as he flipped to the channel he wanted.
“Movie theaters. Multiple bombings in at least twenty of them.”
Harvath had one of the cable news networks up on his TV and he could see live footage of fire trucks and ambulances outside a theater complex in Oregon.
“The death toll is predicted to be in the thousands.”
Harvath feared the Old Man was right. On a Saturday night, many theaters would be packed. “Do we know anything about the bombers?”
“The FBI has taken the lead and they’re already on the ground at several of the sites. I’ve got a call in to a contact there and he’s going to share whatever they find.”
Harvath watched as footage from other movie theater bombings was fed onto the screen. There was no one word to describe the feeling that was rushing through him. It was eerily reminiscent of how he had felt on 9/11. It was a mixture of pure rage and a haunting, guilt-ridden feeling of responsibility. It was his job and the job of others like him to stop things like this. It was their job as sheepdogs to keep the wolves away from the flock. They had failed. Though they needed to be right 24/7, 365 days a year, the terrorists had to be right only once. It was only a matter of time.
Nevertheless, that didn’t make Harvath feel any better about what was unfolding right now on TV screens across the country. Somehow the wolves had snuck one past-a big one. Thousands of people were dead. There was no telling at this point how many more were injured. The sheepdogs had just chalked up a major loss.
“Do we have any idea who was behind this?” he asked.
“Not at this point,” said Carlton, “but I think we should assume it’s our network.”
If that turned out to be true, then Chase was spot-on about their going operational. “What can I do?”
“Moonracer thinks he may have something. How soon can you get to the office?”
Harvath looked at his watch. “I can be there in an hour.”
“Hurry up,” replied the Old Man. “If this is our network, this is just a warm-up. They’re going to try to hit us again and I want to make sure they don’t succeed.”
CHAPTER 45
Even though he was contracted to the DoD, Harvath and his organization technically didn’t exist. That meant he couldn’t barrel up to Reston under lights and klaxon. He didn’t even have them.
Instead, he had to apply a lead foot and hope he didn’t get pulled over along the way.
The traffic wasn’t as heavy as it would have been only an hour before, but it was still rough. Harvath shot from lane to lane, ticking off a lot of other drivers, many of whom leaned on their horns and gave him the finger. The fact that he was driving a brand-new black Chevy Tahoe made no difference. If you didn’t have lights or a klaxon, you were the same as everybody else. He tried to not let his own stress and animosity get the better of him. Nobody knew who he was. To them he was an overly aggressive driver.
As he tore his way up to Rest
on, Harvath listened to the reports of death and destruction coming in on his satellite radio. It was horrific. One thing was for sure, Mansoor Aleem’s interrogation would be kicking off momentarily. There was no way the CIA was going to allow this attack to stand. The president and the director of national intelligence were probably already rattling the cage of the director of central intelligence. Every single law enforcement and intelligence agency was calling its personnel in right now. It was all hands on deck.
Just then, Harvath saw a set of red and blue flashing lights racing up behind him. He cursed out loud as he prepared to be pulled over. But as the lights grew closer, they suddenly swung over onto the shoulder.
Harvath had no idea to whom the blacked-out Suburban belonged. It was probably some Fed racing back to D.C. in response to the attack. Harvath decided to take advantage of his lead, and he swung onto the shoulder as well and slammed down his accelerator in order to catch up and ride his bumper.
At Springfield, the Suburban took the Capital Beltway toward D.C. and Harvath weaved back into traffic as he kept going toward Reston.
In the twenty minutes it took him to make it the rest of the way to the office, he counted no fewer than seventeen vehicles, complete with flashing lights, headed in the opposite direction toward D.C.
Pulling into the garage, he grabbed the first parking space he could find and made his way to the service door and the private freight elevator beyond.
The first thing he noticed when he stepped onto the twenty-fifth floor was that the guards at the entrance to the Carlton Group had been doubled and they were no longer in suits. They were outfitted in full tactical gear, with knee-to-cranium Crye Precision level IV ballistic protection, and toting MP7s. The company’s security protocols were very specific. A terrorist attack on U.S. soil automatically kicked their alert level up several notches.