Inside Threat (20 page)

The force of the blow spun Quraishi around, landing him on his back. Letting his momentum carry him through a complete circle, Alavi slid the knife out of his thigh sheath, dropped to one knee, and plunged the blade deep into the rebel's neck.

“Astaghfirullah,”
Alavi whispered with his eyes closed, seeking forgiveness from Allah. With two hands, he pulled the blade out, then wiped it on the dead man's shirt. Standing up, he turned to the two men who were nearest to him. They were staring at him with eyes as big as their hamburger buns.

“Finish your meals; then clean this up, please.” They quickly nodded their assent.

To the rest of the assembled men, he said, “A cancer needs to be removed as soon as possible, or eventually it will spread to the whole body. This man has reaped what he sowed. His fate now rests in Allah's merciful hands. He missed his opportunity for martyrdom and now must wait to see what his life has earned him.
Inshallah
, he may be in paradise, or he may not. It is only for Allah to decide. I apologize for having put a damper on your celebration.”

Still holding the two bags, he walked toward the office. Through the glass in the door, he saw Saifullah and Adnan Bazzi, the third of the three team leaders, watching his approach. As he neared, Saifullah took a seat at a conference table inside the office, while Bazzi opened the door.

As soon as he entered, Alavi deposited the bags on the table and knelt before Saifullah. “Please forgive me.”

Saifullah's hand rested on his disciple's head. “You did what needed to be done. That one has been trouble from the start. It is as Allah wills. Now please, rise and eat.”

Alavi took a seat across from Saifullah, while Saliba sat to the leader's left. Bazzi already had his meal spread out at Saifullah's right.

“Are you sure you won't have my meal?” Alavi offered the imam.

Saifullah shook his head slowly. “No. I'm afraid I have my meal right here,” he said, indicating a plastic Pepcid bottle that was sitting on the table.

Alavi opened his bag and inhaled deeply the warm, heavy scent of the fries. But instead of the anticipation he usually felt at that aroma, this time it turned his stomach. And by the third packet of ketchup that he squeezed into the open lid of his cardboard burger container, he could take it no more. He pushed the meal aside—disappointed and slightly nauseated.

He saw that Saliba had done the same thing. However, Bazzi, who had the benefit of distance, continued to scarf down his meal.

“I'm sorry this unfortunate incident has stolen your appetite, my friends. You'll need your strength tomorrow.”

“We'll eat before the sun comes up in the morning, Teacher,” Alavi said. “That should give us what we need for the day.”

“Very well. Now, let us begin.”

For the next hour, the four men talked through the following day's attack, step by step, move by move. Whereas on Monday, when they first rehearsed the events, the process was choppy, awkward, with each man trying to figure out how his part fit in, now it was like a flowing narrative—a four-man recitation of a memorized presentation.

When they reached the end, Saifullah said, “
La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.
There is no power or strength except with Allah. He will determine the ultimate success of our mission. We must simply follow the plan he has given to us.

“Tomorrow, when the gunfire starts, you must observe your men closely. Most will follow the plan perfectly. However, because this is the country of their birth, there are certain things you must watch for.

“There are some who may feel the fires of revenge against past wrongs burning out of control. As a result, they may resort to unnecessary violence and cruelty. There are places for these things, but they must be controlled. Sloppiness due to unbridled aggression puts us all in danger.

“Others you must watch for signs of doubt. Many have mentally accepted the fact that these men and women are their enemies. However, when the bloodshed starts, they may begin seeing old friends or loved ones in the faces of the infidels. These are ones who can be compromised by compassion as time goes on. They are the potential chinks in our armor. We must be diligent in watching them.”

“Yes, Saifullah,” the three team leaders said in unison, while Alavi stole a glance at his discarded quarter-pounder. Time was creating a separation from his previous actions, and the hunger in his stomach was beginning to make the cold burger look more appealing. He forced himself to turn away.

“Now go and get your teams together. Rehearse the plan with them again. Watch their eyes to see which of them you may need to spend more time with. Then pray with them. At 8:30, I'll lead in prayers and give an address for the advent of Ramadan. Everyone must be in bed for lights-out at 9:30. Now go, and may God go with you.”

Alavi left the office and approached his already-assembled team. He glanced toward where the attack had taken place and was gratified to see no sign of any violence. After sitting down with his men, he looked each one in the eye. He opened his mouth to begin his speech to them but found that he had lost his train of thought. Instead, his mind was filled with the aroma, the texture, the taste of a stale quarter-pounder and cold, soggy fries.

This could turn out to be a long, hungry night.

Wednesday, September 14, 7:45 p.m. EDT

Washington, DC

“I'll let them know. . . . Love you too.”

Tara ended the call and set the handset on the kitchen counter. Riley could see just a hint of aggravation on her face, but she quickly hid it behind a smile.

“Scott says to apologize and that he'll be home in about ten minutes.”

“No problem. This way we get you all to ourselves. Right, Skeet?”

Riley turned to get an affirmation, but Skeeter never heard him. He was too engrossed in the book he was reading. The best Riley could figure out, it was about this caterpillar that just kept eating everything in sight until he made himself sick. It was Skeet's fourth time through, and he seemed to still be as fascinated with the story as baby James, who was nestled snugly in the crook of his massive dark arm.

“A salami? A lollipop? A cherry pie? That's nothing for a silly caterpillar to be eating,” Skeeter's deep voice softly rumbled across the room like the tremble of a thunderstorm heard from miles away.

“Can't get enough of seeing that,” Tara said, moving up to where Riley was seated on a stool.

“Too cool,” Riley agreed. “Reminds me of when we were in New York after the attack. We actually started something called Uncle Skeeter's Story Time, and kids from all over the refugee camp would come running each afternoon at 3:00. There would always be a big clamor over who got to sit on his lap while he read. Finally, Skeet would lift two kids out—never the same ones twice—and drop them on his legs. He'd put his arms around them, and they'd hold the book while he read—turning it to show the pictures when Skeet'd tell them to.

“It was an amazing thing to watch these kids whose lives had totally fallen apart laugh and cheer and dance around, even if just for fifteen or twenty minutes. It truly was remarkable. . . .”

Riley's voice trailed off as his mind drifted back to those terrible days. So much death, so much sorrow, so much hopelessness, so many tears. The faces of the victims—men, women, children, old, young, dead, alive, somewhere in between, dirty, bloodied, crushed—still visited him in his dreams.

The sound of a refrigerator closing snapped Riley back to the here and now. He saw that Tara had moved away from him and was laying out ingredients on the counter—onion, green pepper, olives, pepperoni, pineapple, cheese.

“Sorry, I kind of lost myself there for a minute,” Riley said, embarrassed.

Tara smiled. “Occupational hazard. Scott does the same thing.”

Riley took a knife and a green pepper and began cutting. “What about you? You spent enough years in CTD.”

“True, but I was never ops. I read about the things you guys did, but I never actually saw them.”

“You ever regret that?”

“Are you kidding? I like being able to close my eyes at night without seeing whatever it is you guys see.”

Riley smiled at Tara, but he knew his smile was hollow. He turned his head back to the cutting board. “You know, right off the top of my head I can think of about twenty-nine other topics of conversation that would be both cheerier and more interesting.”

“Hear, hear,” Tara said, dumping a can of olives into a bowl, then popping one into her mouth. “Let's talk about football.”

Riley looked up to confront Tara's laughing face. “You know, that wasn't even nice.”

“Here, help me out,” she said, tossing him a jar of pizza sauce.

Riley quickly dropped the knife and caught the jar. He was thrilled when he had seen that they were going to make homemade pizzas tonight. Not because it was necessarily his favorite meal, but because it was fun, simple, and best of all, cheap.

In the past, whenever Riley and Skeeter had come over for dinner, Tara had always felt like she had to make a big production of it. The recipes would be intricate; the ingredients would be expensive; the china would be gleaming. Tara would spend most of the night scrambling to make everything perfect, and Scott would become more and more subdued.

“I wonder what was up with Scott tonight,” Riley had said to Skeeter a few weeks ago on their way home from a dinner that probably could have earned Tara Michelin stars.

“It's the money,” Skeet said.

“What money?”

“Think about how much jing they laid out making that dinner.”

A wave of shame and anger came over Riley.
How could I have missed it? I'm such an idiot! Living in my world of way too much, I keep forgetting the struggles of those just getting by. Since Tara stopped working, they're down to one salary in the household—and a government one at that.

“Dude, you're awesome. I'm calling Scott and demanding he let us pay for the dinner tonight.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, but before he could dial Skeeter snatched the phone from his hand.

“No, you're not.”

“I'm not?”

“You're not. Come on, Pach, you're not really this clueless, are you?”

“No,” Riley responded defensively.
What the heck is Skeet getting at? Why can't I just pay for the stupid meal—I'll even throw in a little extra to help out.
“But let's just say—for argument's sake only—I was. What would you tell this hypothetically clueless, pretend Riley was the reason for not paying for dinner?”

“Because you'd embarrass them—”

“You mean, hypothetically clueless, pretend Riley would embarrass them,” Riley corrected.

“And you're not going to tell them to stop making expensive dinners because of their financial situation either.”

“I'm not? I mean, he's not? Then what, pray tell, is he going to do?”

Refusing to play along, Skeeter said, “You're going to tell them that you don't like the fact that Tara is always running around and missing the company. You spend your life eating fancy meals, and you'd just like some good, old-fashioned, everyday, real-people food.”

“Ahhh, that would probably seem like a really good plan to hypothetically clueless, pretend Riley.”

So here they were tonight, eating homemade pizzas with packaged meats, jarred sauce, and premade, store-bought dough. And Riley couldn't be happier.

Riley loosened the lid from the jar and slid it back across the counter to Tara.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“It's good to have Captain America around the house.”

“Tru dat,” Scott said as he walked from the mudroom into the kitchen. “What up, Cap?”

Riley leaped up, and they did the manly one hand shaking, one hand double-clapping the back thing. Scott next went to Tara, gave her a kiss, and whispered something to her that made her smile and give him one more kiss.

Then he moved toward Skeet and James. Holding out his arms, he said, “How's daddy's big man?”

Skeeter looked up from the book and said, “You best be talking to me, because you ain't getting the boy.”

James, who got a big smile when he saw his dad coming over, turned and laid his head on Skeet's chest when he heard the man's voice. Scott pulled up short.

“Don't worry, buddy,” Riley said. “It's like guys and the rumble of a Harley. You can't explain why, but you could waste a whole day just sitting there listening to it.”

Somewhat mollified by Riley's explanation, Scott leaned over and kissed James on the top of the head. To Skeeter he said, “You can have him now, but he's not going home with you.”

“We'll see,” Skeeter replied, turning his attention back to a new book, this one about a bear who was determined to stay awake until Christmas morning.