Blown Coverage (24 page)

Turning to the officer next to her, with an arrogant look in her eye, Naheed said, “Actually, I may want to talk. But not
to you. Bring me someone with authority. We’ll see what happens then.”

7:25 P.M. EDT

At the bottom of the escalator was an island platform with tracks running to the left and the right. Isaac walked to a subway
map and saw the faded remains of a vulgarity outlined on the plastic covering.
Just one more example of the disrespect these people have for others,
he thought with disgust. As he pretended to be examining the map, he used his peripheral vision to scan his surroundings.
There were a number of transit cops down here, too, but not like up above.

Walking down a little ways, he found an empty bench and sat down. His hand found a sticky place on the seat, and Isaac quickly
wiped it hard across his pants. The plan was to wait for the next train to arrive, activate the bomb, then join the people
leaving the train—twenty steps to the escalator, maybe forty more steps to the next escalator, then freedom. As he waited,
he closed his eyes and pictured again the statue that would one day be erected in his hometown of Bela.

“Are you okay, sir?”

Startled, Isaac opened his eyes to find a transit policeman standing next to him. “Uh, yes, officer. I was just daydreaming,”
he said, forcing a smile onto his face.

The officer returned the smile. “Yes, I find myself doing that too, sometimes. May I ask where you’re heading tonight?”

“Is there something I’ve done wrong?”

The transit cop chuckled. “No. It’s just with what happened in Philadelphia, we’re trying to be extra careful. So, where
are
you heading tonight?”

Isaac racked his brain trying to come up with a destination. “The monument,” he finally blurted out.

“The Washington Monument? Well you’re in the right spot but on the wrong side. You’ll want to take a train from the other
side of the island to Federal Center.”

Isaac congratulated himself at having guessed right. “Thank you, officer,” he said as he stood to change sides of the platform.

“Do you mind if I look in your backpack, sir? You know, just being careful,” the officer said as he slid himself between Isaac
and his bag.

A thin smile forced itself on Isaac’s face. “Is that really necessary, officer? I’m just an old man doing some sightseeing.”

“I realize that, sir, and I apologize. It’ll only take a moment.” As he said this, a train ground to a halt next to the two
men.

“Really, officer, if you’ll please just let me take my bag and go,” Isaac said, hearing the growing fear in his own voice.
He could see a tightening on the other man’s face.

One of the officer’s hands slowly moved to his gun, while the other pressed a button on a microphone that was clipped to his
shoulder. “This is Lytle. I’ve got a suspect with a suspicious bag. Request backup.” From behind Officer Lytle, Isaac could
see two officers begin running their way. “Now, sir, if you’ll just give me permission to check your bag, this will all be
over within a minute, and you’ll be on your way.”

Sweat broke out on Isaac’s forehead. There was no way to get to the bag except by going through the policeman, and within
seconds more cops would arrive. Isaac had to act quickly.

Reaching his hand into his jacket, he said, “Officer, if I can just show you my—”

“Take your hand out of your jacket,” Lytle commanded, drawing his gun at the same time Isaac drew his. Both men fired.

Officer Lytle fell back into the screaming crowd unloading from the train. Isaac dropped to his knees, pain flaring through
his chest. He tried to take a breath but received little for his efforts. Ahead he could see the other two cops closing in
on him, both with guns drawn.

With all the strength he had left, Isaac launched himself forward and fell across the black backpack. Isaac’s hand scrambled
underneath the bag, searching for the detonation trigger. One of the officers was within ten feet.
Give me success, Allah. Please grant
your servant success.

The transit cop dove through the air, but he never landed. Isaac’s hand had found the button, and with one push he sent himself
and 113 other souls to their final judgment.

CHAPTER
THIRTY
-
THREE

FRIDAY, MAY 22, 7:00 P.M. PDT SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

How did you let yourself get into this situation?
Naheed asked herself.
All your friends from back
home are married and living in nice
houses—
children
running around their feet. But would you settle for
that? No! You had to have adventure. You had to seek
glory. The little domestic lives of your friends were not
enough. Remember how you used to shake your head
so condescendingly every time you heard about one of
them settling down to family life?
“
How
nice,”
you’d
say with a smirk on your face.
“
How
ordinary.”
Well,
tonight,
they’re
tucked away in their
“
nice”
little homes
sleeping next to their
“
ordinary”
little husbands, and
you’re
here with your life ruined!

Naheed cursed herself as she looked around the room she had been placed in over an hour ago. It was all white except for the
stainless steel of the table in front of her and the three surrounding chairs—one of which she was handcuffed to. Above her,
a fluorescent tube light in the ceiling kept changing the shadows of the room as it slowly flickered its way to its death—and
with each flicker, Naheed felt the already firm band of her headache clench even tighter.

As she waited—for what, she didn’t know—her mind drifted to a late-night spy movie she had watched a few weeks ago. In it
the espionage suspect was being held in a room very similar to the one she was in now, except that the furniture was wooden.
When the goons came in to torture him, he saw that his end was near, so he bit down on a cyanide capsule that he had hidden
in his mouth and died a gruesome but quick death.
What I
wouldn’t
give to
have that option open to me,
Naheed thought, unconsciously running her tongue between her cheek and gums.

Another blast of pain grew like a mushroom cloud expanding in her head. The cloud solidified into sharp masses stabbing the
inside of her skull, and she closed her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to counteract the pressure. The place on her chest
where the Great American Hero had dropped his knee hurt with every breath she took. But that pain was tolerable. It was the
headache that left her feeling weak and nauseous.

Forcing her eyes back open, she stared defiantly at one of the three cameras that were keeping constant watch on her.
Who’s
back
there? What are they waiting for?

Trying to keep herself alert, Naheed began looking for patterns in the holes punched through the acoustic tiling that covered
the walls of the room. The strain on her eyes, though, caused another wave of pain to rush like a tsunami through her head.
Her teeth clenched as she rode the wave out.

As she forced herself to hold back the tears and look strong, the door to the room opened and three people walked in. The
first was an older man who looked like every movie stereotype of a marine drill sergeant. He was about five-seven and had
his head shaved down to the scalp. When he sat across from her, Naheed noticed that he had the hairiest arms she had ever
seen. He was wearing a red tropical print shirt that he left hanging outside his pants.

The second person reminded her of the burnouts that used to hang out around San Francisco’s Tenderloin district down at the
bottom of Nob Hill. Tall and chunky, he had a blond goatee that grew at least four inches below his chin. As opposed to the
California dapper of the first man, this one was wearing a black Deep Purple Machine Head Tour 1972 T-shirt, tattered jeans,
and sandals.

The third person Naheed recognized. “Khadi Faroughi,” she said with a wicked smile. “I’ve read about you in the newspapers.
I know people who would very much like to meet you to ask you about your betrayal of Islam.”

Naheed was gratified to see the look of surprise on Khadi’s face at being recognized.
Gain the upper hand!
But then the woman quickly composed herself and said calmly as she walked to the third chair, “Miss Yamani, I already met
your people six months ago. Actually, I only
saw
them through the lens of my sniper scope as their heads popped.”

Naheed heard a stifled laugh from the larger of the two men.
Come on, take control of the situation. Try to keep them off their guard.
“You may have seen a few, but there are many more of us. I’m sure someday you’ll meet them face-to-face when you least expect
it.”

Khadi began thumbing through the files she had carried in without bothering to reply.

Looking Naheed straight in the eyes, the older of the men asked, “Are you going to be good?”

Naheed stared back at him.

“Scott, uncuff her,” the older man said.

The burnout walked behind her and released her hands. Naheed kept her poker face, but inside she was smiling.
Obviously they want
what I have to give. Now, carefully, play it out to your advantage.
The older man was still watching her, not saying anything. Naheed decided to wait him out.

Finally, he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Miss Yamani, my name is Mr. Hicks. This is Agent Ross and apparently
you’ve already recognized Agent Faroughi. I’m sure you know that you are in a bad situation. Maybe I can make it better, maybe
I can’t. Someone told me you wanted to talk, so here I am. Talk.”

Naheed could hear in the gravelly monotone of Hicks’s voice that he wasn’t going to be a pushover.
Careful. Play this right. Obviously if
Faroughi is with them, these are experienced players.
She tried to keep a calm exterior, but inside some serious doubts were raising their ugly heads.
The only power you have is information, and when
that’s
gone,
you’re
helpless. So give just a little bit at a time, and you can keep control.

“Shouldn’t we agree to some terms before I begin sharing with you what I know?” Naheed said, angry with herself for the slight
waver in her voice.

“Terms?” Hicks said with a smile. Then he turned to Khadi and said, “Agent Faroughi, Miss Yamani would like to hear my terms.”

Still without looking up, Khadi responded, “She doesn’t want to hear your terms.”

“You don’t want to hear my terms,” the older man said, turning back to Naheed.

Don’t
let them intimidate you! Look at all the cameras in this room.
What can they do to you?
“I’m afraid I must insist on knowing what I can expect in exchange for the information that I have.” Out of the corner of
her eye, Naheed saw Khadi look at her, shake her head, then turn back down to her files. Behind her, she could hear the other
agent begin cracking his knuckles—
pop . . . pop . . . pop.

Hicks’s face reddened a bit, but his voice remained level. “Miss Yamani, I cannot promise you anything if you tell me what
you know. However, I can promise you plenty if you do not. You may have noticed that once you entered this building, the uniforms
disappeared. We are a counterterrorism agency. As such, we have a little more latitude in how we . . . How should I say it?
In how we convince suspects to cooperate with us.”

From behind her, the larger man, Scott, said, “What happens in the interrogation room stays in the interrogation room.”

“Well put, Agent Ross,” said Mr. Hicks.

Naheed’s heart was beating very rapidly now, and what had started out as internal shaking was starting to make itself known
on the outside.

Leaning back in his chair until it tilted on two legs, Hicks continued, “Let me tell you the way this usually works, since
you are so interested in knowing what you can expect. Most often I am the one directly involved in the active persuasion of
the suspect. Agent Faroughi stays near in case the uncomfortable circumstances cause a person to unconsciously revert back
to a native tongue—in your case, Arabic. Am I right?” Without waiting for an answer, he finished, “Agent Ross behind you is
a little squeamish about these things, so he will probably leave the room.”

“The sight of blood makes me feel all woozy inside,” Naheed heard from behind her.

Naheed felt powerless to stop her eyes from darting around the room, futilely looking for some avenue of escape.
Active persuasion?
Blood? How can this be happening? Is he really threatening you with
torture—
in America?
He’s
got to be bluffing! Call him on it! Keep the upper
hand!
“Listen,” she said, mustering up all the bravado she had left, “do you think I just came to this country yesterday? Do you
think I didn’t see the scandals of Gitmo, the waterboarding debates? What do you think the ACLU would say if I turned up bruised
and bloodied? What do you think the
L.A. Times
would write? I have rights. I am innocent until proven guilty. You can threaten me all you like, but I’m not talking until
I get some promises. And I’m certainly not talking to some old, bald-headed psychopath who’s got nothing to say to me except
empty threats!”

Suddenly, a finger flicked hard on the knot at the back of her head. Pain shot through her body and the room did a little
spin. Through her haze she heard a voice behind her say, “Don’t be rude to Mr. Hicks.”

Looking back at Hicks’s unchanged face through watery eyes, Naheed heard him say, “You’re making the assumption that the ACLU
or the
L.A. Times
will see you again. Or that
anyone
will see you again. You should not make assumptions in areas you know so little about. It only makes you come across as a
naive little girl. So, you’ve heard my terms, Miss Yamani. Do we talk, or does Agent Ross leave the room?”

He has got to be bluffing! But what if
he’s
not? You know the moment
he hurts you,
you’ll
tell him everything.
You’ll
fold like a leaf, you coward!

As she wrestled with her weaknesses, a fresh flood of pain burst forth from the depths of her brain and filled her head. Naheed
lowered her chin to her chest and held her breath as the wave swept through her whole body. When the misery began to subside,
reality sunk in.
How can you keep control of the situation when you can barely
even think? The only hope you have is information! Just give him a little
bit at a time. As long as you know something he
doesn’t,
you’re
useful
to him. Try to win him over with your helpfulness and your helplessness.
Turn on the waterworks and make him feel sorry for you.

“Jibril,” Naheed said, bursting into tears. Off to her right, she saw Khadi’s head pop up.

“Jibril—Allah’s messenger,” said Scott.

“Who’s Jibril?” asked Hicks.

Between sobs, she managed to say, “My contact, but I don’t think Jibril is his real name.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s tall, middle-aged, scars on his face. He has a strong Iraqi accent. I can’t tell you much more—I only met him once.”

“When was that?” Hicks asked, passing her a handkerchief from his pocket.

Inside, Naheed began smiling.
He’s
beginning to soften already.
“It was two days ago, at Union Square across from Macy’s.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I told him that I wanted out. I begged him to let me go home to Saudi Arabia. He got very angry. He threatened me. He said
that if I didn’t plant the bomb on Pier 39, he would kill me, and then he would torture and kill my parents and my brothers
and sisters. It was the same thing he had said when he forced me to leave the bomb in Hollywood.” More tears spilled from
her eyes. “I swear, Mr. Hicks, I never wanted to hurt anyone. You have to believe me. I was just so scared.”

She was relieved to see her big play working. Hicks was nodding, and she could hear compassion in his voice when he answered,
“I can understand your fear, Naheed. If this ‘Jibril’ is the man who forced you to do these things, then we definitely want
to make him suffer the consequences. You said you only met with him once. How did he usually make contact?”

“There were only a few contacts. Twice by coded text message, and three times by cell phone.”

“Cell phone?” said the man behind her. “Come on, isn’t that a little risky?”

Continuing to focus on Hicks, Naheed said, “Jibril was always good at making our conversations sound innocent—nothing to raise
any alarms.”

“Do you know the number he contacted you from?”

“No, but it’s saved on my cell phone under the name Sarah Michaels.”

“And your phone would be . . . ?” Khadi asked.

“In a Buick Century, gold, first level of the Pier 39 parking garage. I don’t know who it’s registered to.”

Hicks looked up at one of the cameras and nodded. Then looking back at her, he said, “This is good, Naheed. I appreciate your
cooperation. Are you thirsty? Can I get you something to drink?”

Hope began to fill Naheed’s heart as she shook her head.
Maybe I
can make it out of this after all. He seems to be softening up to the helpless
little girl. Just be careful and
don’t
press your luck.

“Okay, now getting back to the day in Union Station—”

“Union Square.”

“Right, Union Square,” Hicks said with an impatient wave of his hand. “Obviously I’m not from around here. So, you met there.
Did you walk? Did you sit?”

Play him, play him.
You’ve
just about got him hooked.
Naheed made herself shiver, as if the mere remembrance of that day were almost too much for her. “We sat and talked. He became
very angry. I was glad we were out in the open, because I don’t know what he would have done to me if we had been alone. I
pleaded for him to not make me do any more of his horrible acts and just let me go home. He said that after Pier 39 he would
arrange for me to get back to Saudi Arabia, and he promised they would leave me and my family alone forever.”