Sabotage (10 page)

P
resident Alexander Morgan had no idea what to do. There were not many times in his long and story-filled life this was the case. No one to name and blame, which was almost never true, and, apparently, there was no end in sight. Seventeen attacks, and the only lead whatsoever was from a disgraced agent more famous than some of his cabinet members. An agent supposedly getting tips from one of the terrorists sounded like the worst Trojan Horse scenario since, well, the first Trojan Horse.

It was dry throat, sweats, and heart pains—all-or-nothing—time. It was a Cuban Missile Crisis, a Pearl Harbor, a 9/11. The time never really came in his first seven years in office, and now it was the time that would define him.

There was no historical precedent for this and no presidential model he could turn to. Information changed the presidency more than anything else. It crippled Clinton. It befuddled Bush. Now, he had the first truly post-modern presidency in which the terrorist owned the same press opportunities as the president. Morgan was scheduled to speak to the nation in twenty minutes, and he had absolutely nothing to say. He bankrolled speechwriters who normally allowed him to say nothing very well, but, today, in his opinion, nothing seemed good enough.

The master of the political game, now toward the end of his second term, quit being quite so divisive, always his suit in trade. He wanted to strike a different tone in this situation in particular, being very careful now to craft a certain image for history to remember him by. He wanted to be bold and presidential and well aware of how these strikes, if they continued, would spur terror into the hearts of his people. The strikes were everywhere, and they were not limited to the coasts. They seemed, at this point, to be limitless, and they didn’t seem to be a political statement, unless the statement was of coercing utter anarchy.

They were in the situation room, a sleek and modern room that was in direct opposition to the staid nature of most of the White House. The vice president had been shuffled off to parts unknown, and Morgan was left with his core staff, version 2.0. He still missed the grizzled veterans he put out of their misery after the first term. He wished they were here now. He really wished for their counsel.

“What do we do with Miller?” the press secretary, a handsome dolt named Steve Sanders, asked.

Dear God, who invited him? What a stupid question. The man was talking to the terrorists and was the only one to have a nibble. He was saving lives. The president knew every PR angle known to man and knew how to spin a story, but there was clearly nothing that they could “do with Miller.” He would have to be watched closely, but, unless he unveiled a dynamite vest, they weren’t about to do a damn thing.

“We don’t have to do anything right now. He’s supposed to make contact in a short time,” he clipped his words dismissively, hoping this piss-ant would get the hint.

Sanders didn’t. “You know how this is going to look if it gets out that he’s the lead.”

The president started to open his mouth, but Vanessa stepped in, like she always did.

“I really don’t think you can worry about that right now, Steve,” said Chief of Staff Vanessa Jones, who always said what the president wanted to say, only with less volume and fewer curse words. “He saved lives in those places. I don’t know what you can do but trust it for now. Hundreds of people were saved.”

“And we can’t even tell people about it, tell them he was a hero again,” said the president. “I think that’s a bunch of bullshit.”

“We need to keep this guy around. Maybe he’ll talk to Miller. Even if it’s a hoax, we can point to the lives that were saved.”

Damn, time was short. Where was that speech? The president looked down at the computer in front of him and saw the latest carnage. He felt like he’d done nothing to stop it.

“Check your screens,” said the press secretary, trying to rally. “Howell is sending over a draft.” The aides looked at the screen. The president, who was not technologically gifted, was given an old-fashioned printed copy.

Jones got a call on her secure cell, and she stepped toward the hall to take it. The others pored over the words that the press room devised. It was trite, and the uneasy looks on the faces of those in the room gave the sense that no one liked the speech’s direction.

The president was the last to finish. His face gave it away. He exploded, glaring at Sanders. “Fucking awful. Awful and hollow. There’s nothing here! I’ve got to speak in fourteen minutes, and I’d be better off reading the ingredients off a cereal box. Tell them they have ten minutes to get me something better.”

Jones was still on the phone as she came back in. She looked ashen. She finally cut the speaker off. “I’m with the president. I’ll talk with him and get back to you.” She shook her head and disconnected the call.

“We just got word,” she said almost breathlessly. “Once the president announced that he was speaking, our new enemy announced they will be making a presentation at the same time.”

“Who,” the president glared, “is ‘they’?”

“The terrorists, Mr. President.”

The president said nothing. He threw his briefing papers high in the air and let them settle down over the room like confetti. He stood up and walked away, kicking his chair out from under him so it would surely fall behind him and topple loudly.

He was bound to speak. They had set a time. To change that time would appear weak and disorganized. But not one soul would be watching him when the enemy would be saying something at the same time. That sounded more interesting, even to him.

America’s best option at this point appeared to be a man most famous for half-nude cell phone photos. God save us, he thought as he went to collect himself.

T
hey were closing in on the 405. Joey would need to know fairly soon which way he wanted them to go. He wanted to have the driver pull off the freeway and stop, but he didn’t want some jank-ass cop pulling up to see if he could help. Better to just keep heading even if they needed to turn around eventually.

Becky was sighing loudly, which only made Joey more determined to take his fucking time. This was some shit, and he was going to deal with it like a motherfucking monastery ninja from a Kung Fu movie. Let her sigh up all the oxygen on the planet. He focused.

“Look, I get you taken care of. But I’m protecting us both here.”

Becky knew this was probably true, but she just didn’t want to be happy about it. She looked like she was about ready to cry and talk a whole lot, so Joey held up a hand.

“I gots to call my boy. Give me a minute.”

“I thought you said we couldn’t use a phone.”

“Not our normal ones. That shit’s traceable. But I got it.”

Joey remembered there was a drug phone in the limo. His people kept one phone in each limo for ordering whatever they needed: weed, hash, molly, yayo. That phone was bought at Costco or sumshit, and it wouldn’t be traceable to him. He knew Raylon’s cell phone number. It could be plugged into a thousand speed dials, and he would remember it from the street. He forever down with that boy. He didn’t want to hear his boy’s reaction, but he dialed the number anyway.

Raylon answered it on the first ring. “The fuck you doin’ leavin’ me?” Every word a question unto itself.

“Shit, man, I didn’t make that call. Marlon my driver did.” His name was Marvin. Raylon knew this, and Joey should have, too, as Marvin had worked for them for two years. But details didn’t bother Joey.

Joey was careful not to say he was sorry even though he was sure Raylon knew that was half-bullshit. It’s what he would have told Marlon, or Marvin or whatever his name was, to do in theory as well. It was just that reality was a lot scarier.

Joey needed to know one thing. “You sure you ain’t told no one about me?”

“I’m straight. Aybody straight. Whole world thinks you dead.”

“Let em think.”

“What that chick think of dis?”

“She trippin, but she be aaaight.”

Both of them eased on the street patois. When they spoke in private, they tended to get to the point.

“Who died?” Joey didn’t want to ask this.

“Brooza, Manda, anybody near the stage. Probably twenty or more. Blood was everywhere.”

Joey just shook his head. He had lost friends, seen people killed, and killed one himself. That was part of the game, but this felt like it was on him. They were there because of his show. They were his fans and friends, his entire world, and they were dead because of knowing and loving him.

This shit was heavy.

“What the fuck is up?”

Raylon was just as blown away. “No idea.”

“You got info on who booked this show?”

“Yeah, in the main e-mail. There’s a computer in that car. Password is purple69. That promoter was blowin’ up my phone.”

“Yeah, I think he wanted me dead.”

“Just like half of San Diego County, baby.”

“This ain’t about San Diego. I know that.”

They sat there, two friends who knew enough to know that was true. They said nothing for a long time.

“You good?” Joey asked, knowing the answer.

“I’m straight. What you gonna do?”

“Gonna read me some e-mails. Then I’ll decide. Call me on this phone if you need anything.”

“Got it.”

Joey rated two TVs, two motherfucking satellites, in the back. He turned one to CNN and one to MTV. CNN was all crying and bloody people. MTV was rocking Pal Joey on the screen, mean-mugging with Timbaland. The legend along the bottom of the screen indicated they were having a Pal Joey marathon. Hell yeah, he thought. There were some perks of this being dead shit—royalties.

N

aseem did as Miller told him. He told the woman who seemed to be in charge that Grant Miller sent him, and she nodded. He went to a back room, which was about as private as a train station bathroom. On the wall was a large poster of the foot with Chinese characters pointing to the smallest regions, detailing their relation to the body as a whole. The room smelled like Asian spices, and everyone smiled and gestured at him.

People walked in and out, each time nodding or smiling and trying to get some recognition from him. He kept his head down. He didn’t have a smartphone, which he had gotten used to in his time back in America, and he didn’t want to see his handiwork anyway. The people, nice as they were, didn’t know how dirty he felt. They asked him if he wanted “tay-bol massage.” He didn’t respond. He sat back and waited for Miller.

He wanted to drift off to sleep but instead spent his time remembering what he knew about Yankee. He thought of a dozen ways to protect his own skin, but, in the end, he reminded himself that six hours ago—had the plan gone the way he originally intended—he would already be dead. He needed to stay out long enough to take care of Yankee, and he needed help to do that. He had to trust someone, and, from what he knew, Miller was as good as anyone.

Muhammad, his leader, had been utterly convinced that Yankee was truly part of the cause. The man had been vetted and prepared, and the long process and numerous procedures made it unlikely that anyone could get through. But he clearly had. This seemed silly now. Naseem thought he saw it early on. Yankee didn’t have the burn. At the time, Naseem could rationalize Yankee’s icy resolve, a contrast to the ever-present, boiled-over passion he saw in most of his compatriots, as a positive trait. Now, it so clearly seemed hollow—because it was.

Naseem took the time and grabbed a notebook sitting on a shelf in the corner. He searched and found a pen behind a fake plant on a counter and started making notes: the places he knew hadn’t been hit yet and rough diagrams showing where the bombs had been planted. There was still a part of him that hated to give up the information to the Americans, but he wanted Yankee more. He wanted him for a million different reasons, needed him dead, and wanted to join him.