Blown Coverage (11 page)

Khadi snapped back at Hicks, “Listen, Jim, if you think that I am unprofessional enough to compromise information just because
Riley and I—”

“I wasn’t talking about you, Khadi; was I, Scott?”

Both Scott’s and Khadi’s faces reddened.

“Understood, boss,” Scott replied quietly.

Riley sunk back into his chair. Suddenly, the way the analysts outside had covered up their work during his office tour made
a lot more sense. Riley was angry, but not at Hicks. Rules and codes were covenants that he lived by. Even though he didn’t
like it, he understood where Hicks was coming from.

“Can you give me anything that could help me to make my decision?” he asked Hicks.

“Sure, let me give you all I can. Right now you’ve got three strikes against you. Strike one, early this morning our time,
the Cause—of which, by the way, we’re learning there’s more than just a little left—got some Muslim cleric to declare a
fatwa
against you for blasphemy against Islam.”

“Blasphemy against Islam? When have I ever—?”

Hicks held up his hand to stop Riley. “That’s not really the point, is it? The fact is that it has been declared, and they’ve
come up with their reasons. That means you’re going to have a bunch of radical Islamists from all camps promised a golden
ticket to heaven if they take you out.”

“By the way, Riley,” Tara interjected, “this is probably going to hit the major news outlets in the next few hours, so be
prepared to be barraged by the media. You’ll also want to think through what the ramifications might be with the Mustangs.”

“Good point,” Hicks continued. “Thanks, Tara. Now for strike two. For those for whom the golden ticket is not enough, the
Cause has also put out a $5 million bounty on you.”

“The most Rushdie ever had was $3 million,” Scott said. “But before you let that go to your head, remember that was back in
1989. If you adjust that three mil for inflation, he’s got about a hundred grand on you. Sorry.”

“Scott, just once in one of these meetings I’d like you to ask yourself, ‘Is what I have to say going to help the situation
or hinder it?’” Tara challenged.

Scott was about to reply, but Hicks took back control. “Listen, if I let you two start going at it, we’ll never get out of
here, so zip it—the both of you! Now, strike three is the Cause itself. We’ve intercepted enough COMINT to know that you are
number two on their to-do list.”

“Number two, huh? What’s number one?” Riley asked.

Hicks smiled. “Sorry, Riley. Can’t tell you that. But I hope you can see why we’re so concerned right now.”

Riley sat back in his chair.
How have things come to this? How,
in five
months’
time, have I moved from being first-string linebacker to
Islamic Enemy Number Two?
He sighed heavily. “You know, I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Actually, you did, sir,” Skeeter said, and all eyes turned toward him. “When you said you weren’t going to let those terrorists
win. When you put your life on the line instead of sitting back all comfortable and letting everyone else do the dirty work.
Yeah, you were asking for it all right . . . and that’s why I’m with you asking for it, too.”

Skeeter’s words hung in the air.

“Dude’s getting downright verbose,” Scott said when he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“So what do I do?” Riley asked, ignoring Scott’s comment.

“For now, just keep doing what you’re doing,” answered Hicks. “We’re going to be getting Skeet more help, so he doesn’t need
to worry as much about his perimeter—just about you. Also, we’re going to be setting your parents and your grandfather up
with some protection.”

Riley breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I was just going to ask you about that.” The thought of his family getting hurt
because of a vendetta against him gripped his stomach and brought a burning to his throat.

“If you’ve got no other questions . . .” Hicks stood before Riley had a chance to ask any, indicating the meeting was at an
end. He reached out and grabbed Riley’s hand. “Basically, you just need to be careful. Don’t do anything stupid that puts
you or your security detail at extra risk. Riley, I know you’re a praying man. The best thing you can do right now is just
start praying that we can finish off the Cause once and for all. If we don’t and they get their way, then all indications
are that your life will just be one of many that ends by their hands.”

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

FRIDAY, MAY 15, 5:45 P.M. EDT PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVA NIA

Isaac Khan boarded the subway from the Washington Square West neighborhood of Philadelphia. Pushing through the people standing
around the doors, he dropped himself onto a rare rush-hour seat. He hefted the backpack up onto his lap, causing the passenger
in the next seat to glare at him—a look Isaac returned until the man turned away.

The train rattled and bumped, but the people on board were eerily quiet. Typically, the noise in the car would increase greatly
over the next two hours as the commuters were replaced with those heading out for a night on the town.

Isaac knew that today, however, would be anything but typical.

One stop later, the train eased to a halt at 8th Street. Feigning a hip injury, Isaac limped out the door and made his way
to a bench. He dropped himself down with a grunt and set his large backpack on his right.

Leaning back, he pulled his bright orange Philadelphia Flyers cap over his eyes and listened to the bustle all around as people
transferred from the upper SEPTA subway line to this lower PATCO Speedline to make their way back home to the New Jersey
suburbs of Camden, Haddonfield, and Cherry Hill Township. Others moved the opposite direction, up the stairs to catch the
Broad Street Line to take them north to Olney and Fern Rock or south to catch the Philadelphia Phillies night game against
the New York Mets.

After a few minutes, Isaac, with his head still back, let his hand slip down the rear of the backpack. His blood began racing
as he reached the small hole in the rear padding. His fingers found a key, which he turned and then pulled out. Immediately
he began counting in his head. However, his heart was beating so fast and so much adrenaline was pulsing through his body
that he twice lost count somewhere after thirty. Finally, leaving the backpack on the bench, he stood up and began quickly
moving toward the stairway—his hip injury miraculously healed.

Isaac merged with the crowd on the stairs. Businessmen pushed up against him; women brazenly brushed against him; young punks
cut in front of him without so much as an “excuse me.” Frustration filled his mind with the realization that these were the
people who were going to get away. How he wished that all of these arrogant, obnoxious people would feel Allah’s wrath today.

Cresting the top of the stairs, he had just joined the mass moving toward the northbound tracks when the blast hit.

It was strong enough to cause movement under his feet, but where he really felt it was in his ears. The explosion itself was
deafening as it echoed through the station, but then came the most frightening sound of all—the metallic spray of thousands
of screws ricocheting off of cement and tile.

The panic was instantaneous. People began running and screaming. An enormous cloud of smoke and dust rushed up the stairs
and spread throughout the first floor. Isaac sucked in a lungful of the gritty vapor and immediately began coughing.

Bodies fell to the ground around him as the strong pushed the weak from their escape path. There was a mad scramble for the
narrow stairs that would take the crowd up to street level and freedom. Isaac quickly merged in with the mob, at one point
ducking his head down and throwing his dust-covered Flyers cap to the ground.

For a moment, Isaac thought he wasn’t going to make it up the stairs. The funnel of fleeing people crushed the air out of
him. It felt like trying to pass too thick a rag through too small a gun barrel. A woman next to him was screaming hysterically,
and Isaac marveled that she had the breath to do it.

When he finally broke free into the fading afternoon sun, the fresh breeze felt like Allah’s blessing upon him. Elation rushed
through his body. He wanted to scream! He wanted to dance! Finally, after all these years, he was the hammer in the hand of
God. Isaac could almost hear the words “Well done, my child!”

Leaving his handiwork behind, Isaac began walking back to Washington Square West, struggling to control his pace. A rush lightened
his head every time another siren raced past. Although part of him wanted to stay and watch the rescue attempts, he knew that
would be foolish—and foolishness was one thing that Allah would not abide, especially not from one of his chosen servants.

Besides, Isaac desperately wanted to get back to New York, where he knew that safely tucked away in his apartment, under his
bed, two more backpacks awaited him.

FRIDAY, MAY 15, 5:30 P.M. CDT
SOUTH BEND, INDIANA

Mohsin Ghani used the end of his $130 Burberry woven silk tie to wipe the sweat and tears from his eyes. Although the basilica
was temperature controlled, it felt to him like it was located two planets closer to the sun. Mohsin had been using a tie-matching
handkerchief as his face towel, but that was now sitting next to him on the pew, crumpled in a damp ball. A three-quarters-empty
water bottle sat beside it.

Mohsin could not believe the situation he was in. It was absolutely surreal. Just over a decade ago he had walked through
the Basilica of the Sacred Heart when he visited the University of Notre Dame. Back then, he was an excited college senior
searching for the right graduate school. Now, he had returned to blow the building up.

What are you doing here?
Mohsin’s head spun, and for a moment he felt like he was going to faint. He took a deep swallow from the water bottle.

Get it together,
he chastised himself.
It’s
not like you have a choice.
Just reach into the backpack, turn the key, and walk out.
You’ll
be well
gone before the . . . before the . . .

Another sob escaped him, causing a well-dressed woman in the next pew to turn slightly and offer him a tissue. Mohsin muttered
a thank-you and loudly blew his nose.

The twentysomething next to him gave him a good-natured elbow and said, “Lighten up, buddy; this is a wedding, not a funeral.”

When Mohsin didn’t acknowledge his remark, the young man turned to his friend on the other side and said something that soon
had both of them quietly snickering.

Anger flared in Mohsin’s heart.
You see? These are the kind of
arrogant people who deserve what they are going to get!
I’m
trying to find
a way to save their lives, and here they are mocking me. So do it! Just do
it! Turn the key, excuse yourself, and drive back to Chicago. You can leave
the TV off! You never even have to hear about it! Besides, these people are
nothing to
you—
less than nothing!

Mohsin’s attention was suddenly drawn to the front of the church by a young lady singing the title track to his favorite Norah
Jones CD. Many an evening Mohsin had spent stretched out on his couch with a glass of pinot grigio, dreaming about “coming
away” with Norah and kissing her on a mountaintop.
Merciful Allah, what
am I doing here? How can I do this?

Heaving a big sigh, Mohsin continued his prayer.
I am so weak.
Please give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change and to
carry out the task you have placed before me.

Carefully, his hand found the cutout in the rear of the backpack. The key was warm to the touch. He let his thumb and forefinger
rub its top and bottom.
Just one quick twist and
it’s
done! Just one quick
twist!
Mohsin’s fingers clamped down on the small copper key.
How
much can I push it before it accidentally turns?
He began softly applying clockwise pressure.
Maybe a little more and it will turn by mistake.
I
don’t
want it to, but
insha’Allah
,
maybe God has willed it.

The key budged. Mohsin gasped and pulled his hand away. “I can’t,” he said out loud.

“Then don’t,” said the guy next to him, causing his friend to laugh out loud and the well-dressed woman in front to shush
all three.

I
can’t!
I
won’t!
They’ll
just have to understand that
I’m
the wrong
person for this job.
I’m
not telling them
they’re
right;
I’m
not telling them
they’re
wrong.
I’m
just saying that they need to find someone else to do it.

With Mohsin’s decision came an overwhelming sense of peace to his heart. He suddenly felt light, like he was in a dream. For
the first time he really noticed his surroundings. The columns supporting the roof of the neo-Gothic church were topped with
incredibly ornate, gilded caps. Surrounding the basilica were windows of intricate, colorful stained glass.
Just think: you just saved all this. You, Mohsin Ghani,
made a decision, and as a result, all this beauty lives on.

Up front, below the enormous golden main altar, the bride stood radiant in her mermaid-cut gown—the white of her bare shoulders
showing clearly through her sheer mantilla veil. She was staring into the face of her soon-to-be-husband with so much love,
so much excitement, so much passion.

Today, you had the power of life and death. You could have chosen to
end the lives of this beautiful young woman and all who love her. Instead,
you, Mohsin Ghani, benevolently chose to bestow the gift of life.

Mohsin slid down in the pew and tilted his head back until he felt the coolness of the old wood. Above him he discovered the
murals that were spread across the arched ceiling sixty feet above where he sat. Most of the people depicted he didn’t recognize.
But then he found Moses—the great prophet of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—his namesake.

Am I not like Moses? Moses had the power of life and death over his
people. Several times God wanted to wipe out the entire nation, but Moses
intervened. In the same way,
haven’t
I intervened for these people, and
hasn’t
God granted them life?

Continuing to ride the endorphin rush, Mohsin was drawn deeply into the mural. He closed his eyes, envisioning himself leading
a mighty nation through the wilderness—Mohsin, the Great Prophet.

His imagination so carried him away that he didn’t notice the pronouncement of the new couple; nor did he see their recession
down the aisle. He didn’t hear the parting insult of the young man who sat next to him. Instead, he just sat there, the mighty
servant of God, until a priest touched him gently on the shoulder and said, “Son, it’s time for you to go now.”

Instinctively, Mohsin’s hand grabbed for the backpack. “What?”

“You need to go, my son. There’s another wedding starting soon.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

Sliding the backpack over his sweat-soaked suit coat, Mohsin began to walk out. It was then that the deep sense of peace was
forced out of him by an overwhelming feeling of dread. His knees buckled as he walked, and he caught himself on the font at
the entrance to the basilica. They—whoever “they” were—would not let this slide. The men behind all this would soon come looking
for answers. As he leaned on the marble, the tears began flowing again.

Get yourself together! Just make it home, and you can figure things out
there. There has to be a way to make them understand that
I’m
not the
right person for this job.
They’ll
have to see all the ways I can help them
other than doing this.
That’s
what
I’ll
do—
I’ll
just explain it to them.

The water in the font looked cool and clean, and Mohsin dipped his hands in and splashed water on his face. He reached for
his handkerchief, then realized he had left it on the pew. He used his sleeve to dab the water from his eyes, then walked
out the door, feeling the cool breeze on his wet face.

I’ll
just explain it to them.
They’ll
have to understand,
Mohsin kept telling himself. But way deep down, in that part of his mind that always told the truth no matter how much he
wished to ignore it, Mohsin knew as he crossed the grass to get back to his car that he was no better than a dead man walking.