Sabotage (11 page)

It took several minutes for Miller to arrive. When he got there, he gave the woman some money, which was instantly pocketed. He was too far away for Naseem to hear, but he saw her point down the hall. Grant reached him and nodded but didn’t shake his hand. He gestured for Naseem to follow him and then took him out through a back door to his car, which was parked in the fire lane just outside.

“Excuse me if I don’t know quite how to handle this meeting,” he said with little emotion in his voice.

“I understand.”

“Thank you for alerting me to the explosion in St. Louis, but it’s hard for me to say I owe my life to you,” Grant said. He handcuffed Naseem’s hands behind his back before starting the car. “I’ve got a place for us to meet. Let’s go there and establish what the hell is going on.”

Grant had gotten a room at the Hampton Inn under one of his personal credit cards that the FBI didn’t monitor, just in case. He drove fast and ignored Naseem. The man probably hated the handcuffs, but he didn’t know what other plans were in store. Grant had a look that no one would mistake for anything other than cop or serious thug. He wore sunglasses and looked used to wearing them.

Naseem was getting more nervous, which was not typical for him. He had to account for his actions. For ten years, he could have easily done so; now, it seemed like an insurmountable burden. He couldn’t make the words that would justify this senselessness, the sense of betrayal.
Such is the curse of the human
, he thought. Give a man a true reason to die, and he will. Lie to him about that reason, and nothing seems like a greater offense.

Naseem had seen Miller in plenty of pictures. In those pictures, even at the end when Grant’s life disintegrated, he looked poised and cocky, like he was in on a joke no one else got. Now, he looked older, much older. He was heavier and definitely very tired.

Miller’s eyes darted everywhere in the car all the way to the hotel as if he were expecting another explosion. Naseem finally realized he probably was, given his reputation.

“There are no additional plans for you,” Naseem said. “This is not a trap.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. That sounds great. I have no idea. It could be a trap. No matter what you say.”

The sun was tipping from day to evening, and the light took on an orange glow. Grant parked the car and walked around to the passenger side, making sure no one watched. He took the handcuffs off in one motion; most people wouldn’t have known what he was doing even if they had been paying attention.

“I’m going to give you a little bit of slack,” he said, looking into Naseem’s eyes for the first time. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Naseem nodded and clapped him on the shoulder just in case they had an audience.

They walked in. No one was in their way.

The front desk lady smiled and nodded and offered both men a bottle of water. She seemed to recognize Miller. Grant smiled and accepted the bottle as he asked her if anyone was using the conference room. She checked a piece of paper and told them they would be fine in there.

Naseem realized Miller had brought people here before. He wondered whether the receptionist made the connection to the day’s events and that he was responsible for the nightmares playing out before them.

They walked to the conference room, still sizing each other up. Miller surveyed the room. There were no hidden corners and no places to hide. He had been there before among the beige and navy colors and the utter sameness that set nothing apart from anything else. Here, Grant had sweated people they couldn’t yet bring in but no one serious or deadly. Now, he saw the room with a new set of eyes, but no danger was here.

They sat down across from each other in heavy, uncomfortable chairs.

Naseem took his notes and spread them out in front of Miller. “Here’s what you need to know.”

“Hold it. I’m in charge here.”

“You keep telling me that.” Naseem glared. He hated for infidels to scold him. Then he immediately softened. He had lost any authority for taking the high ground today.

“I’m going to ignore the tone of voice and remind you that you, in addition to your role in the largest terrorist plot in American history, also asked me for a rather large and unusual favor—one I’d say I don’t have to comply with even if I’d really be happy to do it right here.”

Grant drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “But I don’t have to. I’ll kneecap you, wait for backup, and then send you to St. Louis city jail and tell them not to kill ya. Tell ‘em what you’ve done. Those boys downtown are criminals but they’re sure as hell patriots. They’ll do that shit for free.”

Naseem knew Miller’s type, knew he had to say that, but he also knew that it was true.

“I’m here to help,” he offered. He knew how feeble it sounded. He gestured to his note pad.

This time, Grant let his attention follow.

“You’ve been a lot of help,” said Grant, his voice teeming with sarcasm. “But show me what you’ve got.”

Naseem rolled his eyes and continued with his train of thought. He had written the five places he knew for sure still had explosives: Omaha, Houston, San Antonio, Boston, Jacksonville. He had notes and diagrams and presented them to Grant.

“Why?”

“I thought I knew. I thought it was holy.”

Grant took a deep breath and regained his composure. “If you ever visit a terrorist attack after it has happened, you will know there is nothing holy that could possibly come from it.” He extended his help like a real olive branch. Grant needed his subject to cooperate, but they were wasting too much time. He needed to play nice, no matter how badly he wanted to do anything but.

“Why tell me now?”

Though he had anticipated it, the question caught Naseem off-guard. “I was duped. I was so sure I wanted to do this. Then I began to wonder. And then, just as I was ready to back out, he sent me a text saying the attacks would begin earlier than expected. It let me know he was not a true believer.” Naseem spit these words out.

Miller rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “So a Muslim killing Americans was okay, but someone else killing them wasn’t?”

Naseem glared at him. He held his gaze an uncomfortably long time. “I am willing to put up with a certain amount of ridicule,” he said, “but I have my limits.”

Despite all of Miller’s posturing, he had the weaker hand. Naseem had information. Miller could bluff all he wanted, but it was unlikely that anyone would allow him to truly harm Naseem. The terrorist was rallying and holding his own against this agent.

“Who is ‘he’?” Grant asked.

“I know him as Yankee. That is the only name I was ever given.”

“Did you meet him in person?”

“Twice.”

“Okay, why did you trust him?”

“The right people in the jihad told me to. I wanted to die. I was told to die with him and for him.”

Miller started to react and then thought better of it. This was the absolute best lead he and, as far as he knew, anyone had.

“Does he know you didn’t die?”

“I don’t think so. It was a lucky coincidence that I wasn’t right in the middle of the blast.”

“What do you want now?”

“I want Yankee dead. And then I want to die.”

Miller wasn’t going to belabor that point, but, despite his surface bluster, he wasn’t sure he could carry it out. He’d have to give this a lot of thought.

“I’ve got some latitude. The boys from DC are probably going to come at some point, and they may not be as easy to get along with. If you’ll come with me in my car, after a thorough search, we can eliminate the need for any formal arrest proceedings at this time. You can be lodged at our witness facility downtown and get debriefed.”

Naseem wanted more, but he didn’t press his luck.

“I want to be the one to bring him down,” he finally said. “Personally.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s going to happen, and, even if it does, it’s not going to happen tonight. We need this other info as well. And that’s all I’m really authorized to do.”

Naseem thought about this. He had anticipated a more rogue operation, one where he had more control and could take a more direct route to his enemy, but he was realizing more each moment he was no longer in charge.

What Miller said made sense, and, frankly, it was just starting to hit him just how tired he was. It hadn’t been his plan, but, at this point, he was fine with someone else taking the lead—as long as it led him to his target.

He nodded, just as Miller’s cell phone rang.

Miller pulled it out of his pocket and looked very puzzled. He motioned to Naseem and indicated he needed to take the call.

It was a 702 number—Las Vegas. He had heard someone he knew was in Vegas, someone he hadn’t talked to in a long time. His stomach fell. Would she really call now?

He answered the call.

“Miller.”

“Grant, this is Caitlin. I really need your help.”

T
he message went up all over Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, and, most importantly, YouTube. It was loaded from a hundred different channels. “From the creators of the chaos!” was written cheekily on the screen, a far different tone from terrorist attacks of the past; this was done with enjoyment.

The message would be unleashed in one-half hour. On the web pages, an image of a time bomb counted down the minutes. The clock didn’t move evenly. It stuttered, the seconds catching, stopping, and then flitting by like cards being shuffled. It gave the graphic a crazy feel as if not even the time could be trusted.

If everyone had not been in such a daze, it might almost have been funny: America waiting for a modern-day Dr. Evil. The public, awaiting his demands, seemed from a different era, a time when everyone watched the same networks and got the same information. But as it was, it felt like another allusion: Big Brother. Everyone was waiting to check in.

It infected everyone’s Facebook feed, taking up more and more space, and refused to be ignored. Then people started sharing on Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and all the different ways people choose to connect. It came from a thousand different variations of the same theme: Sabotage, SabotageFriend, YouSabotage, Sa-Bot.

Then the memes came. All the images associated with incessant and insipid quotes were modified: a smiling, friendly Jesus; Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka; a beautiful sunset. The types of backgrounds that carried friendly or funny messages passed back and forth.
Will you be there? Will you find out from your new leaders? Will you learn the meaning of Sabotage?

All the memes, all the sites, directed the web traffic to one URL: www.sabotageus.com.

As promised, the clunky, unsettling clock image dissolved into a black background. The background stayed black for an uncomfortably long time—long enough to make this tense, uncomfortable moment seem that much more so. Finally, a grainy image flickered on the screen.

A man appeared. He had a mustache, oiled hair, and was wearing a 70s suit that would even make Burt Reynolds blush. He was outside in bright sunlight, affected slightly by the breeze. The colors were oversaturated like a bad send-up of old network TV. His message was faint, the volume turned down low. All of America leaned in toward the screen. They turned up their volume. They got closer and closer, trying to hear what this man said.

His words were platitudes, barely audible. He muttered something about “now is the time for all good men …” stuff you would test your typing skills with. America turned up the volume again.

“BAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

America collectively had a heart attack. The sound was deafening. Half banshee scream, half heart-stopping yell. The screen now filled with a bloody, evil clown, blood dripping down his chin, screaming loudly into the computer screens across the country. This type of video was not a new concept. It was called a screamer, and there were such videos on the Internet which were meant to lure you in with benign content and low volume and then would be turned up to the highest level. But in this case, given the mass hysteria that the day had already generated, it had just sent thousands of Americans into near-cardiac arrest. The clown wasted no time, having only one message, which he delivered in a shrill, high-pitched, and indelible voice like a Saturday morning show gone awry:

Hello friends, I am Sabotage. My message is mercenary. I want your money. Your politicians won’t help, so I’ll let you do it for me. Please make sure Kenner Industries is at thirty-five by 5 pm tomorrow, Tokyo time, on the Nikkei Exchange, or lots and lots of good people will die.

Then the screen went to a ragged American flag, then an old-time static pattern, and that was it.

People returned to their websites to find new images: clowns, other evil images, burning rubble. A window opened on many screens of a child crying, first a whimper and then a full-blown forlorn howl. There were new memes for a suddenly scarier times. They substituted the clown for Willy Wonka. The clown walked the beach like a beachcomber. The clown now controlled their very lives it seemed. They delivered their simple message: double the stock price of a cruddy, outdated stock, or more people would die.