Authors: Jason Elam
Blown Coverage (4 page)
TUESDAY, MAY 5, 7:05 P.M. EDT NEW YORK CITY
Summer had come early to New York. With the temperature pushing ninety, it had been all Ishaq Mustaf Khan—known by his friends
as Isaac—could do to keep himself hydrated. Shunning the highly sugared electrolyte drinks preferred by his fellow workers
on the Eudy & Sons warehouse loading docks, the fifty-three-year-old typically brought a two-liter bottle filled with a homemade
tea brew that he had grown up on in Pakistan. Usually it did the trick, but not today. Whether it was the unexpected heat
or just the fact that he was getting older, for the first time he could remember, Isaac struggled to keep up with the younger
men.
Finding an unused bay as the next shift came on, he sat down with his legs hanging off the side.
It wasn’t like this when I was young,
he thought. He absentmindedly tapped the empty two-liter against the edge of the loading bay and let his mind drift back to
his hometown. Bela was an ancient village set in the middle of a fertile plain surrounded by hills. Isaac had been something
special there. All the men had respected him for his size and strength. And all the women . . . Isaac’s mouth curved into
a small smile.
Yes, all the women.
But then came the move. Eighteen years ago he had left his home and his family to come to America. Although he had no desire
to do it, he still came without a fight.
Sometimes
Allah’s
plans are a
little different from our own.
Since that time he had endured year after year of waiting. Now, as he felt the strength of his body beginning to fade, he
wondered if his chance for glory would ever come.
Or have I simply been forgotten?
If I have, so be it. Allah knows. Allah sees.
“Isaac, there you are!”
Isaac turned to see Jimmie Holliday coming his way. Jimmie was in his early thirties but had the energy of a teenager. The
younger man dropped next to Isaac and held out a Gatorade Cool Blue. “Yeah, I know it ain’t that Pakistani potion you’re always
drinking, but you need something.”
Isaac reluctantly accepted the plastic bottle, then turned his eyes back toward the ground. “Thanks.”
“You okay? Don’t mean to be slamming you or nothing, but you were kinda dogging it today.”
Isaac took a sip of the Gatorade and grimaced at the sweetness. “Don’t ever get old, my friend.”
“Don’t worry; I don’t plan to.”
They both sat lost in their own thoughts for a moment. Then, suddenly, someone flipped Jimmie’s “on switch” again, and he
said, “Hey, me and Hector and a couple other guys are going to catch that new Jackie Chan movie. Wanna come along and see
some dudes get all chop-a-sockied?” Jimmie’s hands flailed at the air.
Isaac smiled and looked at his friend. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m just going to sit here a while longer and see if
my car will drive itself to me.”
“What? Hey, how about I run and pull your car up for you? Seriously, I can do it for you, no problem.”
“Careful, my friend, or you will insult me.”
“No . . . what . . . man, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just—”
Isaac held up his hand with a grin. “It’s a joke. You’re fine. You go. And thanks for the drink.”
Jimmie stood. “Okay. As long as you’re sure you’re all right.”
Isaac held up his hand again in response.
“Okay, man. See you tomorrow.”
6:05 P.M. CDT
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
Mohsin Ghani kicked his feet up on the corner of his new glass and hardwood executive desk. Tilting his chair back, he enjoyed
the rich smell of the futuristic-looking leather chair.
The sailboats are out in full force this evening,
Mohsin thought as he stared longingly at Lake Michigan. The only place he loved more than the law firm where he was just made
junior partner was the water—a passion born out of his early years growing up in Al Mukalla in the Hadramawt coastal region
of what was then South Yemen.
Only four more days until the weekend.
Accepted into Northwestern University as part of an international scholarship program, Mohsin had decided early on to make
the most of his chance in America. The first few years were miserable. It seemed he had to work as hard at his language skills
as he did his coursework. Eventually, though, he graduated magna cum laude and gained entrance into the University of Chicago
Law School.
That began another purgatory in his life. The international scholarship had covered his undergraduate degree only, and now
Mohsin faced $35,000 a year in tuition plus living expenses. His schedule had become one of spending his days in class, his
afternoons clerking for a local hack lawyer, his evenings waiting tables at an upscale steakhouse, and his nights studying
case law. Somehow he had survived and was recruited right out of school by the prestigious law firm of Novak, Novak, & DuCharme.
Was it worth it?
Mohsin asked himself for the hundredth time. The smell of the fresh paint, the coolness of the frosted glass under his arm,
the enormous window facing Lake Michigan, and the keys in his pocket to the little black Mercedes SLK350 Roadster all seemed
to scream, “Yes!” And Mohsin was inclined to agree with them.
There was only one event that could destroy the perfect life this thirty-two-year-old immigrant had worked so hard for. Mohsin
prayed it would never come.
Abdullah Muhammad was still sore, but the pain was well worth the story that he could now tell to his buddies. The three friends
all sat on metal benches and were in various stages of undress. Loud voices echoed off the cement and tile surrounding them,
and the steam from the showers hung heavy in the air.
“So, I’m on foot chasing this guy down Kentucky, and he is
moving
. He splits off Kentucky and starts heading down Clayton. I’m still keeping up with him pretty good, and he knows it. So,
he heads for the fences.”
“Ohhh, the fences,” said Reggie Brooks, laughing. “I hate the fences!”
“Yeah, but get this—he gets to the gate and he literally flips into the backyard. I mean, one step and over! And check this
out—I actually make eye contact with him as he’s flipping over.”
“Serious?”
“Dead! Totally freaked me out. So I’m thinking, ‘Great, I’m chasing one of those . . .’ what do you call those dudes who go
running and jumping all over buildings and parking garages and stuff?”
“Free runners?” offered Dan Elijah.
“Yeah, I’m chasing one of those free runners. So I get to the gate, and I say, ‘Forget this,’ and I crash the thing just in
time to see him flipping over the next fence. I hightail it across the yard, but while I’m doing my Abdullah the Magnificent
over the fence, I see the birdman launching into the next yard.”
“I’da just shot him,” Reggie laughed.
“Believe me, I thought about it. So we do this for a couple more yards. Then, all of a sudden after a particularly graceful
flip, the guy lets out a scream. I’m thinking, ‘Cool, the bad guy’s landed wrong and broken an ankle or something.’
“I catch up to him and look over the fence. Turns out the old lady who owns that yard is big into metal sculpture and has
built herself a little forest of very pointy evergreen trees.”
By now the three friends were laughing so hard they could barely speak. Reggie finally got enough control to ask, “Just how
big were the trees in this little forest?”
“Big enough to slice the guy’s Achilles and impale him in three separate places!”
“Ohhh,” Reggie and Dan exclaimed together.
“The guy’s lying there screaming and bleeding. I radio for medics and hop the fence, and I’m trying to calm him down a bit
while we wait for the EMTs, but I was laughing so hard I don’t think I was much help,” Abdullah laughed, rubbing his shoulder
where he had hit the gate.
“You get that checked out?” Dan asked, finally calming down.
“Nah. I’ll probably pay for it in the morning, but it’s all good.”
This was Abdullah’s fifth year with the Denver Police Department. Born and raised in Denver, he knew this city like only a
native could. When told to join the police force, he had jumped at the opportunity. What could be better than to cruise the
streets—his streets—with a gun and a whole lot of power?
Abdullah watched his friends as Dan began a story of his own. Why didn’t they understand? Why couldn’t they see how messed
up things were? There were times when Abdullah wanted to tell them everything just to see how they’d react. But he knew he
couldn’t. They were brainwashed just like everyone else.
Abdullah knew he had a special calling. And part of that calling was isolation, pretending, never letting anyone get close
enough to see who he really was.
But someday . . .
he thought.
Someday my time will come. Then my
true identity will be revealed.
4:05 P.M. PDT
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
The pepper white MINI Cooper S convertible tucked into a parking spot on the third level of the garage. Immediately, the top
began closing. Naheed Yamani checked her face in the rearview mirror, then bent her five-foot-ten-inch body through the car
door as the roof snapped into place.
49 Geary Street was one of Naheed’s favorite places. This one building held more than twenty art galleries and a number of
rare-book dealers. Naheed could spend days in here without it getting old. But today was not the day for browsing. Her friend
June Waller had an exhibition opening in just under an hour at the prestigious Vorreiter Gallery, and Naheed had promised
to be there a half hour ago to help make sure everything was just right.
The granddaughter of a Saudi prince, Naheed had always known the finer things. But life in Saudi Arabia—even a privileged
life—wasn’t for her. Six years ago, when she turned eighteen, she’d begged her grandfather to let her move to San Francisco
on the pretense of pursuing her sculpting in a place that truly appreciated art. Grandfather, always a pushover for his many
granddaughters, had happily obliged. He had set Naheed up in a Nob Hill loft that doubled as her studio and had given her
a generous allowance. So far she hadn’t sold a piece, but that was okay. Becoming a great artist really wasn’t the ultimate
purpose of her being here anyway.
Her heels clicked loudly on the tile floors as she brushed past people she didn’t know and nodded to people she did. Naheed
was used to being noticed. Her midnight black hair contrasted with her light mocha eyes in a way that often made people take
a second look. Today, her clinging designer T-shirt and skintight jeans gave two more excuses for double takes.
A friend from FiftyCrows stepped out of his gallery and grabbed Naheed’s arm. “Sweetheart, I’ve got that—”
“Sorry, can’t right now, Richard,” she said apologetically, shaking herself free of his grasp. “I’m late for June’s setup.”
Three galleries up was her destination; June stood out front. Racing up to her, out of breath, Naheed threw herself on her
friend’s mercy. “June, I’m so sorry. I just totally lost track of time.”
June was laughing. “Girl, when have you ever been
on
time
?”
“Unfortunately, that is only too true. Now, hurry, if we start setting up now we can make up for lost time.”
“Setting up? Pardon me, but this is the big time. I don’t do setup. I now have people who set me up,” June said, trying her
best to sound pretentious. Unfortunately, she was just too nice and down-to-earth to pull it off. “Actually, the gallery took
care of the layout.”
Naheed was confused. “Then why did you ask me to come down here so early?”
“What time would you have shown up if I had told you the exhibition
started
at five o’clock?”
“Four thirty?” Naheed attempted.
“You lie like a rug! You would have come rushing in here around six at the earliest.”
Naheed grinned sheepishly. “Okay, puppet-master, how are you going to manipulate my life next?”
June danced her hand above her friend’s head and said, “The puppet-master says we must go in and have a drink. Come on, my
nerves are on hyperdrive.”
The two walked arm-in-arm into the gallery and headed to what would soon be the open bar. The bartender was just polishing
the last of his glasses.
Naheed flashed her best flirty smile, put her hand on his arm, and said, “Any chance of mixing the artist and her best friend
a couple of Gibsons, two onions each?”
The bartender, looking into her eyes and then letting his gaze slowly slide down until it hit the floor, took the bait. “Can
I see a couple of IDs from you little whippersnappers?” he asked with a smile as he began mixing the drinks.
“I’m so sorry, young man,” Naheed said, playing her part to the hilt, “but I left it in my car. You’ll just have to trust
me when I tell you I’m sixty-three.”
“Wow, you sure have aged well.”
“It’s because I’m well preserved,” she said, picking up her glass. “Ta-ta.”
The two friends walked away with drinks in hand. “How do you do that?” June whispered.
Naheed knew June had always been a little jealous of her ease around men. “You just have to remember who has the power.”
As Naheed looked around the gallery, she was again struck by June’s photographs. The subjects’ eyes were what always got to
Naheed—the emptiness and pain of the eyes. June was very socially conscious, and most of her pictures were of women and children
who were victims of poverty or abuse. “You amaze me. I don’t know how you do it, but somehow you seem to capture a person’s
whole life in one photo.”
June blushed, then said, “I think it’s because I just feel them—you know, hurt with their hurts—and it somehow comes out in
the picture.”
The two continued to walk quietly, looking over the exhibit. The sound of a ring interrupted their thoughts. Reaching into
the very tight gap in her front pocket, Naheed pulled out her phone. “This is Naheed. Speak.”