Enemy In the Room (8 page)

“But we need a long range missile delivery
system equal to this new technology,” Knox injected.

“Yes. And we have the RTI filters set to
look for anything that could lead to buying or securing one by any
means,” Kamali replied.

Mustafin continued. “On Special Operations,
of course our greatest project is the Ramadan Gifts planned for
this fall. Salim’s hard work in the Army for these many years is
about to create great results. We have one martyr for New York, and
one for Los Angeles. The destruction and confusion will be immense.
Salim has five Stinger missiles hidden in El Paso around Fort
Bliss. Everything appears to be on track.”

“Finally, we have a lot of Special Operation
political action in progress, as you know. Our trial run with this
initiative is to stop President Harper’s bill to regulate movies
and the internet. We’re well into it, and we should see results
over the next few days.”

“Good. The sooner the better,” Knox replied.
“We’re about to acquire even more assets in southern California,
and we need to squash any chance that censorship will come back.
These people want all of the thrills that their money can buy from
us. And, as long as they buy it, we might as well enjoy producing
it.” He gave them a look. They knew of his habit of “interviewing”
their youngest adult movie stars well into the night whenever he
visited the west coast.

“And as we’ve discussed, using Special
Operations for this political purpose is just a warm up. Now that
Iran and Pakistan both have the bomb, we can bring more leverage to
bear on the politicians to vote our way, and the information we
have through RTI gives us huge leverage.” He smiled. “When we bring
this pressure to bear, there will be unexpected votes from county
councils to Congress that no one will believe. So use it well. Is
that it?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Kamali, looking at
his colleague, who nodded.

Rising to signal the end of their meeting,
Knox said, “We’re in the middle of a lot of profitable projects,
and, Allah willing, about to create a great defeat for this female
Crusader President. As the Prophet instructed, we will either
defeat her or destroy her. Keep up the good work, gentlemen, and
keep me informed.”

It would be late in Tehran, but David knew
that Omid didn’t mind. So as he drove home he used his cell phone
to call the number that his IT people had helped him set up in
Estonia, which then dialed Omid’s new, clean cell phone. Omid
always worried that someone could be listening, but the USNet IT
team assured David that the system was secure, particularly with
the new phones that David had sent to Turkey, where one of Omid’s
friends had picked them up on a business trip and returned with
them to Iran. Nevertheless, Omid was rarely more specific than he
had to be with his news or his requests, and so David responded in
kind.

“Hello,” the familiar but groggy voice said
in Farsi.

“Omid. Good morning, it’s David.” He could
hear the relief as the young man switched to English.

“David! So good to hear you. Thanks for
calling.”

“Of course. Are you OK?”

“Yes, yes we are fine. Thank you.”

“Allah be praised.”

“And thank you for the New Year’s
presents.”

“They arrived OK?”

“Yes, and they are most helpful.”

“I wish I could do more to help. Please tell
me how we can.”

“You are already a great help. Thank you.
And I do have one request.”

David and Elizabeth had visited Tehran once,
many years earlier, and Omid’s emailed pictures and calls kept them
up to date on family and friends with whom they felt close. David
had never met Goli, Omid’s new wife, but he hoped to help them come
to the U.S., at least for a visit, since Omid seemed determined to
stay and bring change to Iran.

“Cousin”—as Omid always called him—“I’ve
uploaded a list of recipes that my uncle has used in his
restaurant. It’s created some friction with him—he thinks they are
family secrets. So I would like to understand better how to create
a new website in an obscure location. Can you help us?”

David looked out at the suburbs through
which he drove and thought for the hundredth time about the risk
that Omid was taking.

“Of course. Shall I have Abigail call you
tomorrow? Shall she use the next number on the list?”

“Yes, my uncle is really upset with what
we’ve done.”

“OK. We’ll do it. And I’ll fund whatever you
and Abigail agree to.”

“Thank you, Cousin.”

“It’s not much, and it’s the least I can do,
given what you and Goli do every day.”

They then traded news about their
families.

As Omid was finishing the call, he said, “A
friend was approached by some of the younger mullahs, who said that
they’re tired of the same old dinners and want new recipes, like
we’re offering.”

“Be very careful, Omid.”

“Yes. We’re checking. Thank you,
Cousin.”

“I’ll give Elizabeth, Callie and Rob your
news.”

“I hope to meet your children some day.”

“Yes. Here, at our home. And soon.”

“As Allah wills.”

“Stay safe, Omid.”

“I will, Cousin.”

FRIDAY, APRIL 15TH

Two mornings later Jamal was perspiring
heavily as he drove his office supplies delivery truck under the
arch at the entrance to the New Brighton School in northwest
London. He had made this same run for three years, and the security
guard at the gate waved him straight through. Before him was a
large grass quadrangle, full of running and jumping elementary
school students from England, the U.S. and most countries of the
world, surrounded on all four sides by the two-story stone edifice
of the historic institution.

As he glanced at the children, he knew that
some of them were the sons and daughters of Muslims, but he
recalled his imam’s instruction that since they were at this
international school, side by side with infidels, they were not
real Muslims.

Normally he drove halfway up on the left
side of the playing field, then turned under an arch between the
buildings and went around to a loading area in the back. But today,
using a schedule supplied by other Brothers working as staff at the
school, he timed his arrival to coincide with chapel for the older
students in the building to his immediate left.

So he drove part of the way to the arch,
then stopped the truck and got out. His hands were sweating, but he
thought again of the large sum of money that would arrive at his
home just two days hence—money that his parents, brothers and
sisters desperately needed. From under the seat he pulled an AK-47
assault rifle with an extra large clip, and felt in his coat for
the extra clips and the wireless trigger.

Jamal walked around the front of the truck;
the children on the playing field were in plain sight. He flipped
the selector to full automatic, raised the gun, and began shooting
the children and the few teachers who were monitoring their play.
After the first few shots, as children fell in bloody pools, others
screamed and ran away. He calmly took down the ones on the far side
of the field, ejected the spent clip, reloaded another, and kept
firing.

He and his imam had calculated that twenty
seconds should be the right amount of time to bring the maximum
number of faces to the glass windows surrounding the quadrangle.
That was about two long clips. So as the second clip emptied, Jamal
screamed, “There is no god but Allah. Muhammad is the messenger of
Allah!” and pushed the trigger on the radio in his pocket.

The truck was loaded to the top with
explosives, surrounded by ball bearings and nails. The carnage at
the school killed fifty-five students and injured two hundred.

From down the street a short message was
sent via a handheld. Within five minutes Trevor Knox had read
it.

Two hours later David had deplaned in Los
Angeles but had then stopped with several others a few feet from
the gate in front of a television screen, viewing the latest update
on the mass murder of children in suburban London, including a clip
from the statement of condolence to all of the families expressed
by President Harper to the British Prime Minister, on behalf of all
American citizens.

How incredibly senseless. What if Callie or
Rob were at that school?

Standing next to him was a well dressed
couple in their fifties who had been across the aisle from him on
the plane. They had exchanged pleasantries during the flight. The
husband now said to his wife, “Damn Muslims. Why are they always
doing this? We should send them back to the desert.”

David continued to face the screen but heard
himself say, “That McVeigh guy in Oklahoma City wasn’t a Muslim,
and he killed hundreds.”

The man turned and looked at David, seeming
to notice for the first time his slightly dark complexion. After a
pause, he said, “Uh, you’re right. It’s not just Muslims. Lots of
people are crazy. But you have to admit that the Muslims seem to
revel in it, and you never hear about any Muslim trying to stop
it.”

David turned his head slightly, not wanting
to appear confrontational. “You’re right that you almost never
hear. But there
are
Muslims trying to stop it. They just
have to be very brave to stand up to suicidal thugs with guns. Like
a German trying to stand up the Nazis.” He nodded and moved down
the concourse, pulling out his handheld to read his messages. One
of them concerned their new space in Moscow.

Friday 18:35

To: David Sawyer

From: Andrei Selivanov

Subj: Moscow Office Space

Dear Mr. Sawyer,

As you requested, we have done a preliminary
study of available space.

In general, the market is rebounding, rates
are starting to firm, but there are still ample choices of both
first and second generation space.

I understand from your assistant that you
are out of town until next week. In the interim, we have created a
site for you with summary information, exterior pictures, and
internal videos of the six most likely properties. Please go to
http.207.438.229 and log in as DSawyer, password Exec to view the
presentation. Let us know if any of these appear to be particularly
feasible, or for some reason are not suitable. We look forward to
seeing you soon in Moscow. Call or email with your input.

Andrei

Late that afternoon David parked his rental
car in an empty space about twenty yards from the townhouse in Long
Beach that he rented for Callie and her roommate. It was in a
residential area of two- and three-story homes and apartments.
Despite a long day of looking at adult movie properties, he was not
tired. Like everyone else in America, he had been following the
awful events at the school outside London, and USNet had just
identified the terrorist as an English deliveryman from an Iranian
family. Most world governments condemned the killings, but so far
the Iranian government had been silent.

He thought again of the conversation in the
airport.
Has everyone gone mad, killing children in the name of
God, or Allah, or Whomever? Surely, if there is a God, he will
punish these people, not send them to heaven. You can’t do such
things and not be punished!

He took a deep breath, rubbed his forehead,
and opened the car door. He smelled outdoor grilling and heard
children playing. From the backseat he took a bag with bread and
cheeses, locked the car and walked up the sidewalk.

The townhouse had a small front yard and a
covered doorstop. He crossed the yard, took another deep breath,
and knocked.

He heard the latch move and the door opened.
“Hi, Dad.”

He smiled. “Callie.”

She was dressed in a long blue skirt and
white top with half sleeves. They hugged, then she stood aside.

He entered the living room. A breakfast room
and kitchen were toward the back. Stairs on the right led to
bedrooms. It was a typical rental unit with furnishings from a
mid-range furniture store.

“Dad, this is Alex Spalding.”

The young man was dressed in gray slacks and
a striped shirt. “Hello, Mr. Sawyer.”

David recognized the boy from the video;
they shook hands.

“Hello, Alex.” He turned quickly. “Callie,
here, I brought some hors d’oeuvres.”

“Great.” She took the bag, looked inside and
smiled. “Let’s have some before we go out.” A dog barked next door.
“Have a seat. Would you like some water or tea?”

“Water is fine.” He moved to a cushioned
armchair across from the sofa. Callie went into the kitchen and
began filling glasses.

Alex sat on the sofa and asked, “Did you
have a good trip out?”

“Yes. Uneventful. And then a busy day.”

Callie returned with a glass for each of
them. “And what have you been doing?”

“Uh, looking at properties. The usual real
estate stuff.”

She smiled. “Good.” In the kitchen she put
the hors d’oeuvres on a plate and then placed it on the coffee
table, joining Alex on the sofa, her hands on her knees.

“Where’s Jane?” David asked.

“She’s visiting a sick uncle this
weekend—he’s not expected to live long. She told me to tell you
hello.”

“Thanks. So, I haven’t seen you since
Christmas break. How are you?”

“Great. Studying hard. Exams will be in a
little over a month. I’m rehearsing for the year-end musical. Maybe
you and Mom can come out. How was the Persian New Year?”

He smiled. “It almost killed me. The rest of
America doesn’t know about our national tradition, and so it turns
out to be many late nights followed by many early mornings.”

As Alex sliced cheese, Sawyer asked, “And,
Alex, where do you live?”

The young man turned quickly to Callie.
“About two miles away. It’s not far. But not as nice as this.” He
smiled at the older man.