METROCAFE

by Peter Parkin

  He had finally reached the fresh air of the street, and Omar drank it in as he ran. He crossed on a red light, deftly dodging traffic, and sprinted down Wilson Avenue. After about fifty yards he stopped and turned around to face back towards Yonge Street. No one was following him. He could see people still streaming out of the York Mills station, but there was no attention being paid to him anymore. Instead, people were running from a danger they didn't yet understand.

  He looked at his watch. They would understand it in about ten seconds. Omar counted down. Precisely at three seconds to go, he heard a loud rumble and felt a vibration under his feet as the shockwave traveled through the ground. At first there were no visible signs of the calamity that had just occurred underground. Then, slowly but surely, the signs appeared.

  First there was a loud whoosh of the air and dust that pushed out of the open doors of the York Mills subway station. Some people that had still been inside came tumbling out with the pressure. Then the sound of glass breaking as the doors and windows of the station shattered. Omar moved his eyes now to Yonge Street, looking northbound—the exact path that the subway underneath took. He could see a trembling of the ground, then the road and sidewalk pavement heaving briefly before collapsing to the tunnel underneath, taking cars and people with it. Like a domino, the same effect was seen all the way up the street as far as Omar's eyes could see. He knew this destructive pattern would continue all the way to the Sheppard station, and in about eight minutes their final bomb hidden in the stolen car would detonate, causing death and chaos in the Sheppard Centre.

  Omar smiled. It was a good night—a night to remember. He had lived to see it all, and had never expected to. Allah had allowed him to survive for what must be an even higher purpose. He would discover in good time what the plan was. Omar was ready to serve as long as he was needed.

  He looked up to the stars and marveled at their beauty. Then, for the second time that night he screamed at the top of his lungs, "Allah Akhbar!"

  Chapter 34

  Halloween weekend was erased from the calendar. No one in Toronto could remember Halloween ever being ostensibly cancelled before. There was a slight drop-off in traffic the Halloween after 9/11, but aside from that, it always took place; rain or shine, recession or prosperity. Fear, in its most irrational form, had paralyzed the city this time.

  In the days after the event, it was hard to find an article in the local and national newspapers about anything else. Television and radio broadcasts predictably discussed the terrorist attack ad nauseam, which simply exacerbated the fear level. People were afraid to leave their homes, take a bus, go to work, or go to school. And the subways, understandably, were empty for at least a week.

  When the stock markets opened on the Monday after the attack, the TSX had lost 500 points by the close of the bell and when the downward trend continued on into Tuesday, the exchange was closed to all trading activities for the rest of the week. The NYSE also lost ground that first week due to the proximity and cultural similarities between Toronto and New York.

  Toronto was flooded with counterterrorism experts from the FBI, CIA, CSIS, and the RCMP. The Mounties took the lead in the investigation, but a true team effort between all parties was developing that was even stronger than what the world had seen after 9/11. By the second week, officers from Britain's MI5 and MI6 had arrived, quickly followed by Germany's BND.

  Initial death estimates quickly became redundant as more and more people were reported missing. After two weeks of rescue and recovery the death toll exceeded 1,500, making the Toronto subway bombing the world's second deadliest civilian terrorist attack ever. The dubious honor of being champion remained with 9/11 at 3,000 deaths.

  The fact that now a second horrific attack had taken place on North American soil disturbed the feeling of relative security that Americans and Canadians had settled into in the years following 9/11. The huge amounts of money spent on security and the seemingly endless aggravating precautions at airports had not prevented this one. The attack was brazen and had flown right under the radar. It was a subway, and while being an obvious target to even the uninformed, for some reason subways had not yet been forced to endure the intense scrutiny airports had been put under. This, despite the 2004/2005 train bombings in Madrid and London.

  The damage was extensive and mind-numbing. The southbound tunnel between York Mills and Sheppard was completely destroyed; the thin sections of concrete and the earth above had collapsed all along the one kilometer stretch of track. No one was found alive in the train cars underneath. If the riders hadn't been killed immediately by the multiple blasts, they smothered to death in the earthen tomb. Lying in the cavernous stretch of carnage were also about a hundred vehicles that had been innocently driving along Yonge Street when they tumbled down into the chasm that suddenly opened beneath them. The bodies of pedestrians who had been unlucky enough to be simply strolling along the sidewalk above, were also found strewn amidst the rubble below.

  Both subway stations were severely damaged from the chain reaction of the tunnel concrete pulling down other structural members, not to mention the shock wave that had reverberated down the tunnel resulting in more collapses far from the stricken train. Only a handful of survivors were pulled out of the station platforms.

  The cruelest cuts of all were the deaths of dozens of emergency responders who came racing into the tunnel after the first bombs exploded. As they went about the dangerous task of pulling survivors from the train, the massive bombs underneath the subway cars exploded, obliterating any living thing in and above the tunnel.

  Then in similar flytrap fashion, shoppers and subway patrons who had raced in panic out of the Sheppard station into the Sheppard Centre mall and down to the safety of their vehicles in the garage, were all crushed to death as a massive car bomb exploded—pancaking the three parking levels.

  No group had officially claimed credit for the attack, but the CIA announced that it bore the signature of an Al Qaeda operation, and that suspicious chatter had been picked up—which indicated it was indeed that mysterious and elusive group. The public was not surprised as Al Qaeda seemed to be responsible for everything bad that happened in the world. Most water cooler conversations after the event had eyes rolling and the sounds of sardonic chuckling whenever the words Al Qaeda were mentioned.

  The investigation had quickly and painstakingly retraced the crucial aspects of the operation, and the news media reported on the chronology as it became known to them. The operation was reluctantly hailed as having been extremely well planned and executed, starting with a hostage-taking of attendees at a high school reunion near the Sheppard subway station. The RCMP deemed this to be a diversionary attack, to draw police and emergency personnel away from the main event. Three people had been summarily executed at the school, with one being decapitated. Some of the people at the reunion had been ordered to disrobe and form a naked pyramid in front of the others. A video of the school attack went viral over the internet that same night.

  The terrorists then drove from the school to the Sheppard subway station, parked in the lowest level of the parking garage and armed their car bomb, pausing only long enough to stab to death a security guard who must have tried to intervene. They then boarded the 9:15 southbound train; timing was important—they had to be on that particular train. While in the tunnel, the attackers detonated their belt bombs, causing the train to derail and most of the passengers to perish. Investigators deduced that the same remote transmitters caused a delay detonation of the huge bombs mounted underneath the subway cars, as they didn't explode until fifteen minutes later. Authorities believed that those bombs had been installed by an Iranian national named Yousef Nasser, who was a chief mechanic with the TTC. It was discovered that he had fled Canada on a flight the very night of the attack; the flight's ultimate destination being Tripoli, Libya.

  The signature of the explosive residue indicated that Semtex had been used. There were five bombs and five terrorists, but it was ap
parent that the terrorist in the front car had failed to detonate his belt bomb. His unexploded belt was found on the tracks under the rubble. Video footage that streamed into TTC headquarters caught this man diving up onto the York Mills station platform from the tunnel. This footage was shown extensively on the television news in hopes that members of the public might come forward with any tips as to his identity. He was now the most wanted man on the planet.

  This one terrorist was also filmed shooting to death three men on the platform who had attempted to stop him. And on his escape from the station, the video feed showed him executing two police officers on the stairway.

  Immediately after viewing the video the city police launched an aggressive street by street, door to door search for this man within the twenty mile radius around the York Mills station. This search would continue indefinitely.

  To assist in their quest to capture the terrorist, the RCMP began conducting interviews with all of the people who had attended the Northern Reaches High School reunion. Despite their harrowing experience, the police felt that someone might remember something that could help. The terrorist attack had shaken Toronto to its core. In fact, it had shaken the entire country. Canada was not accustomed to being a terrorist target. Citizens were comfortable that their country's foreign policy had historically been benign at best. Not controversial, never a bully, proud of being peacemakers. Sure there had been terrorist threats before, most recently the amateurish 'Toronto 18' plot but that one was more like an episode of the 'Keystone Cops.' This subway attack however was in a different league—professional, creative, brutal, and militaristic in its execution.

  But in the last few years something had changed with Canada's role on the world stage. More and more, Canada was being drawn into America's foreign adventures, and was being seen now by many nations in the Middle East as being an obedient little shadow of their mighty neighbor. No longer could Canada brag about being the North American equivalent of neutral Switzerland.

  Afghanistan and Libya were questionable wars and Canada had been in the thick of both of them. Of course, NATO obligations were cited as the reason, but most people could see through that—Canada was too eager. There was a risk involved in interfering in other countries civil affairs, a risk that Canada perhaps was finally feeling first-hand. The risk was amplified by the universal recognition that friendly, peaceful, naïve Canada was a far easier target than its friend south of the 49th.

  Chapter 35

  "Quit babying me. I'm okay now. Go! Do something, anything!"

  Mike let go of Cindy's arm and backed off, raising his palms up in surrender.

  "Okay, okay. I'm just trying to help."

  "I know, Mike. But I don't want you hovering over me."

  Mike carried her duffle bag upstairs to the bedroom and Cindy followed.

  He went into the en suite and started running a bath.

  "What are you doing that for?"

  Mike looked back at her from his kneeling position in front of the bathtub. "Well, I thought that with just getting out of the hospital, you might like to take a warm bath."

  Cindy knelt down beside him, cupping her hands around his neck. "You're so sweet, but this is what I meant when I said 'hovering.' I need you to give me some space for a while. Okay?"

  Mike kissed her and surrendered again. "Alright. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

  "I won't. I'm going to take a nice long nap in my own bed."

  Mike went downstairs, poured himself an extra-long shot of scotch and stretched out on the sofa in the family room. He put on some soft classical music and laid his head back on the cushion. He thought about how good it felt to have Cindy home from the hospital. She seemed to have recovered her feisty spirit, which was encouraging. However, he was worried that she might be trying too hard to be her old independent self again. After the attack at the school Cindy had become completely unglued, swallowed up by a full-blown nervous breakdown. It had been two weeks now since she had been transported from the high school to St. Mike's Hospital by ambulance. On and off heavy sedation and daily sessions with Bob Teskey had brought her back fairly quickly from a near catatonic state.

  Mike had moved back into the family home to look after the girls while Cindy was gone, and he intended to stay there now until Cindy gave him his marching orders. He prayed that after what happened, she would let him stay for good. He was afraid for her mental state even though she protested that she was all cured. Things like that didn't cure fast—they just got buried deep until something triggered them to come back to the surface again.

  She hadn't talked at all about the horror they had endured at the school. Mike knew that seeing one man shot in the head and the other one beheaded—both right in front of her—must have been more than her sweet, kindly psyche could take. While she hadn't talked about the incident, Mike wondered if she thought about it—Steve Purcell's head, spraying her with blood as it rolled around like a macabre toy, coming to rest right beside her. A part of Mike hoped she was managing to block the image from her mind, but the other part of him wondered if that was a healthy thing for her to do.

  He thought back to that night, how terrifying the whole ordeal had been for everyone. He even selfishly remembered the humiliation he had felt, being naked in front of all those people in the gym. He had been overwhelmed and self-obsessed with the memories of the ordeal right up until he and Cindy had arrived at the hospital from the high school. It wasn't until then that he heard of the horrific terrorist attack on the subway system that had happened just mere minutes after the terrorists fled the high school. He had listened to the news reports stating the obvious connection between the school incident and the terrorist attack. Once that reality had set in and he had digested the facts about the massive death and destruction in the subway, Mike had begun to feel guilty about the feelings he had been having about their own ordeal. Of course it was horrible in itself but it certainly paled in comparison. He knew he should have just been relieved that he, Cindy, and the others had been allowed to live. The school attack, luckily, had only been intended as a diversion for the 'center court' event.

  The RCMP had been conducting interviews with most of the high school reunion attendees over the past two weeks. At Mike's request, they left him alone until Cindy was back from the hospital. They had agreed, since they had a ton of interviews to conduct anyway.

  But they indeed wanted to talk to both of them eventually. Mike, however, was able to recruit Bob Teskey to intervene and help get a restraining order. So unless he, Mike, agreed to waive the restraining order and then only on Bob's advice, the RCMP would not be allowed to talk to Cindy. Revisiting the event could regress Cindy back into the throes of another complete breakdown. He couldn't afford to take that chance.

  Mike had been watching news reports of the terrorist attack almost nonstop. He couldn't believe this had happened here—peaceful Toronto, non-confrontational Canada. But he had to admit things had changed a bit in the last few years. Canadian politicians had allowed the country to be dragged into adventures in Afghanistan and Libya, and was perhaps now being punished for those decisions.

  Mike had scrutinized the videos of the lone surviving terrorist, running through the York Mills subway station killing several people along the way. While the videos did not give a completely clear view of the man's face, Mike knew without a doubt that it was the same guy who had posed as the Clint Eastwood character in the school gym. The same man who had shot the partier through the head, the same man who had sanctioned the beheading of Steve Purcell, and the same man who had either shot or ordered the shooting of the helpless janitor out in the school hallway. He was the same man. Tall, athletic, handsome...and Arab.

  Mike got up from the sofa and poured himself another long scotch. He took a sip and savored the feel of the strong liquid as it burned its way down to his stomach. As he stood beside the window looking out at the backyard, he started thinking about his old friend, Steve Purcell. Their high school years were w
onderful together—all the fights and scuffles they had gotten into, the illicit drinking of cheap wine in Mike's parents' garage, the parties, girls, exploits on the football field. They had been inseparable in those years, and Mike reflected on how sad it was that they had lost touch. The bittersweet memory of their promise to get together for lunch just before Steve had lost his life in such gory fashion, brought tears to Mike's eyes and tightened his throat in a vice grip.

  He wandered over to the bookcase, selecting the high school yearbook for his graduating year. He realized that he hadn't even opened this book in at least ten years. Mike eased back onto the sofa, with his scotch and his yearbook. He began leafing through the pages until he got to the individual photos for the graduating class. There was Steve, looking ever so confident and ready to take on the world. And there was Mike in a photo right beneath him, looking even more confident.

  He flipped to the next page. Suddenly his gaze was drawn to one photo. One that had a vaguely familiar quality to it—the eyes. He read the name underneath the photo, and for a second or two Mike stopped breathing, while being only slightly aware of the glass of scotch slipping from his hand and smashing to pieces on the floor.

  Chapter 36

  While Mike crawled around on the carpet picking up broken glass particles, he had Jim Belton on the speakerphone.

  "Jim, I need you to check something for me. Do you remember back several months ago when I got that condolence card from David Samson? You checked his file and told me that he had changed his name before being employed with us."

  "Yeah, I remember that—but I don't remember the name.

  "Can you check the file for me? I'll hold."

  "Sure, give me a few minutes, okay?"

  "Aw, Shit! Shit! Shit!"

  "What? I told you it would only take a few minutes—hold your horses!" "Naw, it's not that. I knelt on some broken glass—hurts like hell." "Broken glass? I think you need to get back here to the office, Mike. You're not meant for this domestic stuff."