"Monday Night Jihad" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elam Jason, Yohn Steve)Chapter 4Friday, December 19 CTD North Central Division Headquarters Minneapolis, Minnesota Jim Hicks sat straddling Mohsin Kurshumi. His forehead was pressed hard against the other man’s forehead, tilting the Yemeni’s head back at a seventy-five-degree angle and pushing it hard against the top corner of the chair. Hicks’s right hand held the tie of the interpreter, who had vainly tried to remove himself from the interrogation when he saw the violent turn it was taking. The agent’s left hand held the MKIII combat knife he had kept from his days as a Navy SEAL. The tip of the blade was about a half inch through the skin behind the prisoner’s chin and was gradually making progress as Hicks slowly twisted the blade left, then right, then left, then right. Blood trickled down the cold metal and between Hicks’s fingers. Kurshumi had stopped screaming when he realized that each time he did, it just drove the blade in a little deeper. When Hicks could finally see raw, animal fear in the man’s eyes, he knew he had him. He gave the interpreter’s tie a hard yank, adding a third sweaty head to the private confab. “Mr. Mazari, please be so kind as to tell Mr. Kurshumi that the cameras in this room have unfortunately malfunctioned. That means there’s nobody who’s going to know exactly what happens in here.” The interpreter gave a simultaneous translation to the prisoner, whose eyes grew bigger as he realized where this conversation was going. The blade kept twisting. “Tell him that he will not be my first ‘accidental’ kill, but I’ve a good mind to make him my slowest. And if you would, Mr. Mazari, tell him that if he thinks I’m worried about you saying anything… well, after what’s gone on in here already this afternoon, I think there’s a good chance that I’m the only one who’s going to walk out of this room in one piece.” Hicks turned his head slightly toward the interpreter and gave a subtle wink that seemed to say, “I want to know the who, the what, the where, and the when,” Hicks continued. “And I want to know NOW!” Kurshumi’s eyes squinted in pain as the knife finally pushed through the bottom of his mouth. The point prodded his tongue into action like a spur to the flank of a horse. Ten minutes later, Hicks left the interrogation room and hurried down the sterile white corridor. Driving open the door to the men’s room with his shoulder, he dropped to his knees in the first stall and vomited up lunch, breakfast, and last night’s dinner. This wasn’t the first act of “persuasion” he had been involved in. But he prayed it would be his last. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and steadied himself as he wiped his bloody handprint off the white plastic toilet seat. At the sink, he tried to wash all traces of Mohsin Kurshumi off his hands-soaping, then resoaping, digging under his fingernails, and scouring the quicks. Hicks lifted water to his mouth to rinse out the aftertaste and splashed the cool wetness on his face to calm himself. Adjusting the knobs to hot, he picked his knife off the counter and began scrubbing it, starting with the handle and working his way down the blade, working at it long after he knew it was clean. As he watched the water cascading off the metal and swirling down the drain, Hicks knew the hardest part still awaited him. Gathering up all his willpower, he slowly raised his head until he met his own eyes in the mirror. The empty gaze registered deep down in his gut. Long ago he had resigned himself to the belief that the ends justified the means when hundreds, if not thousands, of lives were at stake. Yet acting on that belief had cost him countless sleepless nights and countless nightmares when he did sleep. He had lost two marriages, and now he felt he was gradually losing his soul. Don’t let the monster eat you alive, he told his reflection. You did what had to be done. Never forget that! You did what had to be done. The longer he looked in his eyes, however, the less convinced he became of his words. The ring of his cell phone saved him from more soul searching and snapped him back to tough-guy mode. “Hicks,” he answered. “Hicks, this is Scott Ross down in Midwest Division. You talked to my colleague Tara Walsh a couple of times earlier today. We heard you had some success with Mr. Yemen-guy, and I was hoping to get a heads-up on any information he may have given.” “Yeah, Ross, Tara said you’d be calling. The boys who were listening in on the interrogation should be getting you a transcript soon, but let me give you the highlights. Kurshumi was on his way toward Minneapolis, where he was supposed to locate a green Toyota Highlander with Michigan plates in the parking lot of a Byerly’s in St. Louis Park. In the wheel well of this car would be an envelope with instructions and keys. All indications are that he was going to pick up items to make an explosive belt as part of a coordinated suicide attack.” “Of course! ‘Allah controls the weather!’ I thought they “Unfortunately, that’s exactly what we’re looking at. We’ve sent people out to gather the stuff that Kurshumi was meant to collect. I’m guessing their scavenger hunt will turn up between thirty and forty pounds of explosives, a vest or belt, and a projectile of some sort.” “I can’t believe it’s finally happening here,” Scott said. Hicks knew what he meant. Ever since 9/11, the evidence had pointed to the inevitability of just this sort of attack. However, there was a huge emotional leap separating theory from reality. “So,” Scott continued, “how many are there, and where and when are they planning to hit?” “I wish I had better news here, but this guy doesn’t seem to know any details. He’s just an expendable pawn on a need-to-know. All he could tell me was that the attack is scheduled for tomorrow. This evening, he was supposed to call a number that he carried with him, but when he got pulled over, he swallowed that number without looking at it. That’s all we’ve got right now.” “C’mon, man, you know we need more than that! We’ve got some psychos out there who want to blow a whole load of bolts or bearings or screws or something through a bunch of American bodies tomorrow, and all you can tell me is that someone’s going to do it somewhere sometime? Are you sure you got everything out of Kurshumi? Can anyone else up there take a shot at him?” Hicks gave his anger time to vent through his grip on his cell phone before he answered. “I’m going to chalk that question up to your youthfulness, Mr. Ross, and to your enthusiasm, which I highly suggest you get under control. Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing Kurshumi knows that he did not tell us. Do you understand?” “I understand… It’s just that this is a really nasty game, and I feel like we’re playing in the dark.” “Welcome to counterterrorism, Mr. Ross. Now, I’ve got work to do.” Hicks flipped the phone closed and cocked his arm back, then stopped himself just before pitching a strike against the aqua blue tile wall. Little punk sits behind a computer screen all day and then tells me how to do my job? The only blood he’s ever had on his hands was probably from his own nose. With effort, he got himself back under control. Glancing in the mirror one more time, he quickly turned his eyes away. You’ve got work to do, son, he thought as he burst out the door to head back to his team. Enjoy your self-loathing on your own time. Friday, December 19 North Central United States Abdel eased the blasting cap into the final cylinder of C-4. Although he had practiced this countless times while training in Pakistan, he still felt nervous sliding the triggering device into the plastic explosive. There was finality to the action, as if engaging a lock for which he had no key. Click! Your fate is sealed. Your destiny awaits. Aamir’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, startling him. “Can you feel it, Abdel? We truly are the most blessed among men. Think about what this means. Most people live and die in insignificance. But we have been given a chance to achieve immortality. The names of the great martyr brothers Aamir and Abdel al-Hasani will be venerated for generations in story and song. Think of the honor that will be bestowed upon our family. Think of the financial security Father and Mother will experience the rest of their lives. Think of the smile of Allah and the joy of the Prophet as they witness our victory, achieved in their names.” Abdel stared at his brother. He still hadn’t forgiven Aamir for striking him earlier. He had spoken only what words were necessary since the incident. As he listened to his brother’s voice drone on and on, he wondered whom his brother was really trying to convince. Does he truly believe the words he’s saying? I know that I once did. I wonder if I still do. When Aamir finally finished his soliloquy, Abdel shook himself loose from his brother’s grip and walked to his jacket, which was hanging over a chair. Ripping open the Velcro, he reached into the front pocket and pulled out a small, very sharp folding knife. As he walked back to his brother, the snap of the opening blade broke the silence of the room. He reached up and grabbed the top of Aamir’s T-shirt, then brought the knife up and with three quick cuts sliced off the front of the shirt’s thin collar. When Abdel opened the double layer of material, a small roll of paper fell out into his hand. The paper had been loosely sewn into the shirt in a way that combined security with easy access. The garment had then been given to Aamir with the instructions to wear it under his clothes at all times and to not remove the paper until 6 p.m. the night before the attack. The only deviation allowed was if he was in danger of being caught, at which time he was to rip off the collar and swallow the enclosed information. Abdel gently unrolled the paper, revealing ten neatly printed digits. He dropped the small strip into Aamir’s hand. “It’s time to make the call.” Aamir pulled a disposable cell phone out of his pocket. They had paid cash for the phone at a Wal-Mart last night and had not even had to show ID to acquire their minutes. Aamir dialed the number, then simply said, “The hand is poised to strike.” The older brother scribbled quickly in Arabic as he listened to the voice on the other end. When the line went dead, he placed the cell phone in the waste can next to the television and pounded it to pieces with the lug wrench from their car, wasting twenty-eight of their original thirty T-Mobile To Go minutes. Aamir popped the strip of paper into his mouth and spoke to his brother as he chewed. “The plan is beautiful. We will strike America a blow it will not soon forget. Tomorrow, we will leave-” Abdel put his hand up, interrupting his brother. “Please, not today. I can’t handle any more today. Tomorrow, Aamir… please… after sunrise prayer… you can tell me what to do then.” He grabbed a chair, placed it in a corner of the room, and sat with his head in his hands. He could feel the eyes of his brother on him, but he didn’t look up. Is this fear? Is it doubt? I was so sure at camp in Pakistan. I was so sure back home in Riyadh. Why am I struggling so much now? Is this really what you want, Allah? You know I will do anything for you. Abdel remained stationary as the room settled into darkness. At some point in the evening, his brother asked him if he wanted to join him for some dinner. He responded with a weak wave of his hand. The hotel door closed with a click as his brother left, then clicked again when he returned. Abdel heard the sounds of Aamir quietly getting undressed and slipping into bed. Soon his brother’s familiar soft snore drifted across the room, a sound that had been part of Abdel’s life for as long as he could remember. He wasn’t sure when he finally fell asleep, but when he woke up the next morning his back and neck were stiff and his forehead was red from the hard pillows of his hands. Friday, December 19 CTD Midwest Division Headquarters St. Louis, Missouri Scott Ross had assembled his primary team of five in a conference room when the call came from Jim Hicks. He tossed his phone to Tara, telling her that he and Hicks were “relationally challenged.” She listened for a minute, then tossed the closed phone back to Scott. “They’ve collected all the materials that Kurshumi was supposed to pick up-a vest, thirty-five pounds of C-4, and three boxes of 5 mm ball bearings. We’ve got tonight to figure this thing out, because tomorrow things are going to get really ugly really fast.” “So we know the what and the when. If we can figure out the where, then we’ll have a better chance of nailing the who,” Scott observed. “You sound like an Abbott and Costello routine,” said former teen hacker Evie Cline. “Oh, I don’t know,” added MIT grad Virgil Hernandez. “Third base!” the rest called out. The rest, that is, except for Tara, who often felt like the only one in this group who had actually broken out on the other side of puberty. “Okay, gang, let’s reel it in. Tara’s giving us the eye again,” Scott said. “So we’re missing something here. Let’s start from the top. I really think that the key to this whole thing has to be the ‘heart of capitalism.’ Evie, you checked out the financial areas of the Twin Cities. Anything stand out to you?” “They’ve got a federal reserve bank, but it’s just one of twelve around the country. It’s nothing that would make a huge statement.” “Joey, you checked out manufacturing. Can you give me anything?” “Nothing that would make me stand up and say, ‘Wow.’” Joey Williamson was the only member of the group besides Scott not to have a degree from a prestigious university. “Virgil, you checked to see if there were any big meetings or conventions in the Twin Cities.” “There’s not much of anything. Not many trades schedule their conventions the week before Christmas.” “Right. And, Tara, you were checking on… Wait a second-back up. It’s the week before Christmas?” Without a wife, kids, or parents, Scott tended not to notice holidays. “Sorry,” Hernandez said, “am I being politically incorrect? We’re also right in the middle of Hanukkah and a couple of weeks away from Kwanzaa, if you’d prefer.” Scott ignored Hernandez and put his hand up, signaling for everyone to be quiet. After two solid minutes of silence that seemed like an eternity to the highly caffeinated, attention-challenged team, he turned to Tara. “We’ve got them! The heart of capitalism. It’s Christmas! Greedy kids, plastic cards melting from the friction, useless junk flying off the shelves! That’s got to be it! What’s the biggest shopping area in the Twin Cities?” Tara didn’t answer; she was already dialing Jim Hicks’s number. When he answered the phone, she said, “Jim, Tara; we’ve got it. ‘The heart of capitalism’-it’s the mall. They’re going after the Mall of America!” |
||
|