Blown Coverage (23 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

FRIDAY, MAY 22, 7:00 P.M. EDT WASHINGTON, D.C.

Farragut,
Isaac Khan read to himself. Looking up at the statue that stood in the middle of the park, he couldn’t help but admire the
man. Farragut stood strong and rigid, holding what appeared to be a telescope. Isaac slowly walked around the monument, looking
for any other inscribed words or plaques that might tell more about this man, but there were none.

What a waste, to have done enough to have a statue
erected and a park named in your honor, but there is
nothing here to tell about your exploits or heroic deeds.
Back home in Pakistan, when they erect the statue in
my honor, they will make sure that children for generations
to come know the name of Ishaq Mustaf Khan
and what he did for the great name of Allah!

Briefly he closed his eyes and pictured a child with his father standing at the foot of a bronze statue such as this. The
little boy stared up while the father pointed and spoke in his son’s ear, “This is
Sayyid
Khan—a true warrior for the faith.”
Oh,
Allah, thank you for bringing honor back to my humble
household.

Leaving the monument, Isaac found a metal bench where he could wait out his time. He still had fifteen minutes to get to the
Metrorail stop, and he could easily see the sign from here.

He was surprised at how few people were around. When he’d come to scout the location earlier this afternoon, the place had
been packed—people eating and relaxing under the trees, throwing baseballs and Frisbees. He’d even seen a television news
crew conducting interviews with passersby. Now the place seemed like a ghost town, and he felt a little exposed sitting by
himself in the middle of this park.

As he sat and waited, the question of timing again came to his mind.
There were so many more people traveling earlier in the day! Why
do they have me wait until the evening? The devastation could have been
so much greater! Do they not understand?

Then a smile spread across Isaac’s face, and he shook his head slowly from side to side.
Old man, you are thinking far above yourself.
They have thought this through. Maybe they know when someone specific
will be traveling, or maybe they are coordinating with another attack. Is
it your place to question?
He drew the backpack tighter to his side.
It
will all be over soon. The arrogant people of America will again have to
deal with the hand of Allah. That is what ultimately matters.
He looked at his watch again and waited.

FRIDAY, MAY 22, 4:10 P.M. PDT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

The bar rose at the Pier 39 parking garage, and Naheed drove in. She crumpled the parking ticket she had just pulled and threw
it on the floor of the car, knowing that the chances of her making it back here without being spotted were slim to none.
But still . . .
After she finally found a space and pulled in, Naheed reached over and picked the ticket back up. Smoothing it against the
center of the steering wheel, she said, “You will be my symbol of hope. Maybe you will help me find my way back.” Gently,
she slipped the ticket into the front pocket of her jeans.

In six minutes she would begin her walk down the pier. That would give her seven minutes to reach the carousel and activate
the device, then six minutes to make her way back to the car. The thought of making that trip churned her insides. “It’s impossible—absolutely
and completely impossible!”

She tilted the rearview mirror and examined herself.
Tell me how
you are going to get all the way there without being recognized, let alone
make it back. Why
didn’t
you grab your bag with your disguises when you
ran out this morning? Except for the wig, you are the exact picture they
showed on the television, and you can bet
they’ve
already put out pictures
of you with blonde hair.

She took off her wig and twisted her hair into a thick bun. Then, picking the wide sun hat up from the passenger seat, she
placed it on her head, making sure that all her hair was tucked under, and she looked at herself from various angles. “At
least that’s something.”

The dashboard clock told her she had only three minutes left.
The last one was so much easier. I was completely anonymous, and the
people who died were not truly worth mourning. But this . . .

Oh, Allah, I declare that you are one, and that Muhammad is your
Prophet. Grant me success on your mission. Smile upon me as I do your
will. Let me live to see my family again. However, if I am discovered, give
me the strength to meet you this day. I do this for you, and for you alone.

But even as Naheed said those final words, Jibril’s face appeared behind her closed eyes, and doubts crept in.
Who are you really doing
this for? Would you be here if Jibril
hadn’t
threatened you?
Don’t
you think
Allah knows the duplicity of your motives?

“Stop it! Just stop it!” she said as she flung the door open, making hard contact with a white LX 470 next to her. Naheed
held her breath, waiting for the Lexus’s alarm to go off. When it remained silent, she stepped out of the Buick and opened
the trunk. A large black backpack sat in the center of the compartment. Naheed rolled her eyes.
Could they have made it more obvious?

After adjusting her hat and sunglasses one last time, Naheed hefted the bag out of the trunk and slipped it over her right
shoulder. She felt in the shoulder strap for the emergency detonation buttons—the top one activated the device, and the bottom
would detonate.

The top button pushed in easily with a small click. Naheed hefted the bulk of the bag one more time, centering it better on
her back, then left the garage.

7:20 P.M. EDT

Isaac stepped from the center island of the Farragut North station onto a train bound for Metro Center. Since the ride would
be only two minutes, he didn’t bother to sit down. He felt very conspicuous carrying the backpack and wearing a Washington
Capitals cap—
Why
didn’t
you
devise a more creative
disguise?
—but the other passengers seemed too wrapped up in their own business to pay him any attention.

He felt a distinct sense of déjà vu as he looked at the people around him. The noisy teenagers trying to be noticed, the young
couples heading out for a night on the town, the businessmen trying to get home while dinner was still warm, the many workers
heading for their night shifts. Most likely all these people would survive this night. But there were many more just like
them who were traveling at this very moment to Metro Center who could not possibly expect what would be awaiting them when
they arrived.

They are like sheep belonging to an evil shepherd. They are too stupid
to know what is really going on. They just live their lives day by day while
their shepherd steals and kills the flocks of others. These sheep may hear
rumors of what their shepherd does, but do they care? No, as long as they
are being fed and watered, they are content to let the shepherd do whatever
he wants. Sorry, sheep,
Isaac thought with a smile,
but tonight there is
a wolf among your flock.

The train slowed, then came to a stop. When the doors opened, Isaac disembarked to a long side platform. After taking a few
steps, he stopped to look around for the escalator and his route of escape, but when he finally spotted it, he cursed himself.
The escalator was going down.

He had so carefully planned out his route—how could he have failed to check whether the red line ran on the upper or lower
level?
Stupid!
Taking a deep breath to control himself, he thought,
Okay,
not a major problem. Just take the escalator down and find a place on the
lower level. It will look like you are transferring to another line.

But Isaac knew the danger of being out in the open much longer in the central hub of the Metrorail system. In just one quick
pass he spotted eight uniformed members of the Metro Transit Police Department.

Make me invisible, O God.
With his right hand, he pressed the top button embedded in the backpack’s strap. One more quick prayer, and Isaac began the
walk to the escalators.

4:23 P.M. PDT

It seemed everyone was staring at Naheed as she walked down the boardwalk. It started with the young guys near the entrance
playing empty white plastic buckets like drums for change and soon spread to the popcorn vendor and the guy selling maps and
the little sticky-faced kids holding on to their dripping ice-cream cones. But when she turned around, certain she would see
a band of vigilantes ready to pounce on her, there was just an oblivious crowd of people enjoying their afternoon at the bay.

Calm yourself.
You’re
almost there.
She slowed her pace from the speed-walk her panic had induced. Looking ahead, she could see the carousel partially obscured
by a second-floor bridge.
Two more
minutes and
you’re
there.

She had walked down one more set of stairs when a sound reached her. There was so much noise around; it was hard to distinguish
one sound from another. But she could have sworn she heard a scream. Trying not to show anything on her face, she slowly looked
left, then right. And then she saw them. Thirty feet away, a woman holding a toddler was frantically talking to a security
guard. As she spoke, she pointed right at Naheed.

Naheed picked up her pace until she was almost running. She saw the security guard yelling into his walkie-talkie as he began
to move toward her. People near the guard overheard his call for help, and panic began to spread. More people started screaming
and moving in her direction, as they frantically tried to get off the pier.

Acting purely on instinct, Naheed turned and joined the growing tidal wave. She threw off her sun hat. To her left and right
she could see more security guards looking into the crowd from their places along the storefronts.

As she neared the entrance to the boardwalk, three, then four, then five police cars pulled up. Their doors flew open, and
the officers raced toward the crowd.

Naheed locked eyes with a security guard ahead on her left. Immediately he broke from his position and raced toward the policemen.
It’s
over,
a voice screamed in her head.
Press the button! Press
the button!

As she ran, she placed her thumb on top of the bulge in the strap.
Do it!
You’re
dead anyway! Just do it!

But as much as she willed herself, she couldn’t overcome her instinct for self-preservation. Her thumb moved off the button.

The security guard had found a policeman and was pointing at Naheed. She looked left, then right, for an avenue of escape.
Can I go
back?
she asked. But as she whirled to look behind her, a man flew into her with such force that the wind was knocked from her.

She fell backward, and her head slammed onto the wooden pier. The man dropped heavily on top of her. Stars floated in front
of Naheed’s eyes, and the ringing in her head drowned out the words her assailant was yelling at her. His knee was pressed
hard into her chest, making it difficult for her to draw a breath, and he was stretching her hands over her head. She blacked
out.

When she came to, Naheed was surrounded by police. She had been flipped over so that she was lying facedown. Handcuffs encased
her wrists.
Your life is over,
she thought.
You should have pressed the
button, you fool.

Hands forced their way under her arms, and she was hauled to her feet. Off to her right she could see the backpack with a
group of officers surrounding it. Just beyond them stood a middle-aged man wearing shorts and a torn San Francisco wharf T-shirt.
There was blood running down his leg, and a policeman was questioning him. He was staring right at her, and in that instant
she knew that he was the one who had brought her down.

The walk to the police car was complete mayhem. All around her, tourists had their digital cameras, video cameras, and cell
phones out, taking pictures of her. People screamed and cursed at her. Someone threw a plastic cup of Coke, hitting her in
the side of the face and drenching the officers on either side of her. Immediately, two of the surrounding policemen pushed
into the crowd to find the culprit.

When she finally arrived at the police cruiser, someone placed a hand on her head and pushed her into the backseat. A female
officer followed her in. When a second officer started up the car, the one next to Naheed said, “Okay, Matt, I’m going to
Mirandize her.” Then, turning to Naheed, she said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be
used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed
for you. Do you understand these rights?”

“Yes,” mumbled Naheed.

“Do you want to speak with me?”

“No.” But then a thought occurred to her. What was it she always told her friend June?
Remember who has the power.
A small glimmer of hope appeared in Naheed’s mind.
You may seem helpless now, but
remember—
information is power. And information is the one thing
you’ve
got left.
They’ve
made people disappear before in
Guantánamo
and other
places. Play your cards right, and you just might be able to disappear back
to
Grandfather’s
household.