“Ah, one Areej for each day of the week,” Aamir laughed. “You are a discriminating man, Abdel.”
Ten days ago, the brothers had flown from Riyadh to Paris, where a car and fake passports had been awaiting them in the northeastern suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois. They had then driven to Zurich, where they had boarded a Swiss International flight to Winnipeg with a stop in Toronto. Renting a car with their new Canadian passports was not a problem, nor was crossing the border from Fort Frances, Ontario, to International Falls, Minnesota. They had continued to their destination city, where they found an envelope taped under a car parked in space D-136 of the international airport’s west parking garage. The envelope contained a list of instructions and five keys. This began a scavenger hunt of sorts for Aamir and Abdel. They visited the bus terminal, the train station, two Mail Boxes Etc. stores, and the trunk of a 1988 Buick LeSabre. At each location, the locker or mailbox or trunk contained an identical gym bag, which they transferred to their car.
Now they were in their room at the Days Inn, carefully working with the contents of these bags. The men sat beside their beds, each of which had been covered with a tarp. On each tarp were thirty-five pounds of C- 4, a vest with multiple pouches, and several boxes of large ball bearings. The brothers were forming solid cylinders of the plastic explosive. When they completed four of these cylinders, they would tape them together and place them in a pouch. In a mesh outer pocket that spanned the length of each pouch, each brother had already deposited dozens of ball bearings that would become deadly projectiles when the bombs exploded.
As Abdel molded the cold, gray material, he began thinking again of the moment these explosives would shred his body. Most of the time he was able to shut out that part of his task, but every now and then reality slipped in. He closed his eyes and felt the impact of the explosion. He heard the ricochets of the ball bearings. He smelled the smoke and the blood. His hands began to shake.
Abdel’s mind drifted back two weeks to the humiliating day when he made his martyr’s video. With his shemagh wrapped around his head and cascading over his shoulders, he had stood there awkwardly holding an AK-47 and mumbling his way through a script that had been handed to him ten seconds before the tape started rolling. Never a good reader, it had taken him three attempts to finally get all the words right.
Aamir’s performance had been quite different. Abdel’s older brother was so confident, so defiant of the Western world, so determined to take this course of action. Aamir had spat out his words with hatred, even embellishing the script. He was a true believer.
What I simply think, Aamir knows. But… but what if he’s wrong?
“Brother, are you sure we’re doing the right thing? I mean, is there no other way to accomplish our goals than by this act?”
Instantly, Aamir’s hand connected hard with Abdel’s cheek, knocking the younger brother to the ground.
“Never say that again! Do you hear me? Never! We have been chosen for a great honor, a monumental task. There are others around this very city right now who will join us in this strike. They will not back down like cowards. You have a responsibility to carry out your mission. For this you have been created. You have a responsibility to Allah, to your family, to the Cause, to your fellow martyrs, and to me!” He glared down at his brother, then picked him up by the front of his shirt and deposited him back on his chair. He gently placed his hand on Abdel’s face. “Soon all this will be over. We will have struck the Great Satan a tremendous blow. And while they try to put the pieces of their decadent country back together, we will be shahids-martyrs, guaranteed a place in paradise.”
Abdel just stared at Aamir until his brother finally took his hand away. Then he turned away without a word, picked up some more C-4, and began his work again. Aamir was right. If he didn’t go through with this, he was a dead man anyway, and that same fate would probably extend to his family as well. Allah, I do this for you. Make me like Aamir. Give me the confidence I lack. Allahu akbar!
Scott knocked on the division chief’s door.
“Make it quick!” came the reply.
Scott gave Tara a momentary grin, and they walked into the lion’s den together.
The two analysts couldn’t have made a more opposite pair. Tara looked like she had just stepped off the cover of Vogue. Her perfectly blushed cheekbones matched her perfectly shadowed eyes, which offset her perfectly painted lips-all of which were framed by perfectly coiffed, shoulder-length blonde hair. She wore a dark blue Dana Buchman pantsuit and a pair of Kate Spade pumps, both of which she had saved up for and still could only afford once they had made their migration to Nordstrom Rack.
Scott, on the other hand, had a goatee that was double the length of his No. 2-razored hair, and the Yoo-hoo combos were just starting to show on his waist-hence his switch to Diet Code Red. He was making his own particular fashion statement today with jeans that were tattered at the cuffs, flip-flops, and a T-shirt from Blue Öyster Cult’s ’78 North American tour.
Stanley Porter glanced up from his desk, saw Scott’s T-shirt, and shook his head. “Ross, you idiot, you weren’t even alive in 1978.”
“I know, Chief, but my dad left me this shirt in his will. I take it out each year on this day to commemorate the anniversary of his death.”
Scott heard Tara stifle a laugh; she knew he had worn the same shirt three days ago. Porter eyed him carefully, clearly trying to decide whether Scott was being serious or insubordinate. Finally the chief waved his hand. “So, tell me what you’ve got.”
Scott untangled the web of information he and Tara had accumulated. “This whole ‘Allah controls the weather’ thing threw me for a while. Then I heard about that Yemeni guy that North Central Division picked up last night cruising south through the Iron Range in northern Minnesota. That’s when things began to click. I’ll bet you pesos to pieholes that dude has something to do with this.”
“Have you talked to NCD yet to figure out if this ‘dude’ has talked?” Porter asked.
Tara jumped in. “The guy’s name is Mohsin Kurshumi. I just spoke with Jim Hicks, head of ops for the NCD. He was standing right outside of Kurshumi’s interrogation room while he was talking to me. He said they are still in the process of actively persuading Kurshumi to talk.”
“Okay. Walsh, get back on the phone with Hicks. Tell him we don’t have the luxury of asking nicely with this dirtbag. Ross, I want a full written report on my desk in fifteen minutes. Go!” Porter turned away from them and grabbed his phone.
As Tara and Scott headed for the door, they were stopped short by the DC’s voice. “Hey! Nice work, you two.”
They couldn’t help but smile. Hearing a compliment from Stanley Porter’s lips was about as rare as seeing a tie around Scott Ross’s neck-both usually came out only at weddings and funerals.
Chapter 3
Friday, December 19
Inverness Training Center
Englewood, Colorado
Robert Taylor had just enough time to swivel his chair toward his computer screen before the phone pulled him back again. It had been this way ever since he had arrived at the Colorado Mustangs’ training facility in Inverness at 6 a.m. Judging by his full voice mail in-box, the phone had been ringing through the entire night.
Taylor was in his eighth year with the Mustangs, and he still hadn’t completely adjusted to the frenzy. This wasn’t quite how his profs had portrayed it when he was taking his public-relations courses at the University of Colorado. Set a goal, make a plan, PERT-chart it out. Yeah, right! This was complete insanity. The national media attention generated by the Mustangs’ recent success was overwhelming, and Taylor knew it was only going to get worse during the next couple of weeks.