Inside Threat (35 page)

“Get back! Get back!” Scott yelled to the cops who were running up to assist the hostage to his freedom. “Everybody back behind the line! I mean everyone!”

All the members of the advance team fell back. It was obvious the man had been crying. He tried walking forward but stumbled like it was closing time and he had just stepped out through the door of the corner bar. Grabbing hold of the railing, he found his legs and gradually began to make his way down, one shaky step at a time. The envelope crumpled around the handrail and crackled as it slid down.

When he ran out of handrail, he stopped.

After taking three deep breaths, he cleared his throat and said, “My name is Tyson Bryson. I have been asked to read a statement, after which I am to be released with the promise of no harm coming to those who assist me.”

Yeah, right,
Riley thought.
Ten to one they're just trying to draw us out so they can maximize the damage.

“Everyone stay back,” Scott ordered, and Riley was relieved to hear that his friend felt the same way.

With another deep breath, Bryson opened the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. He stared at it a moment, like he was trying to decipher a secret code. Suddenly its meaning dawned on him. “Oh, no,” he said, and the paper and envelope fell from this hands.

“Down!” Scott yelled, but his command was cut short by a deafening sound.

Riley found himself thrown backward, then showered by glass from the windows of the police car he had half ducked behind. It was as if he had been hit in the chest by a home-run swing from an enormous foam bat, and he sucked in deeply, trying to replenish his air supply.

Slowly, he rolled to his side and pushed himself up to his knees. He knew that there was chaos all around him, but he had a hard time connecting with it. Everything was muffled, like when as a kid he walked around with the earflaps down on his dad's beaver fur hat.

As he surveyed the damage, he was relieved to see that it appeared to be mostly cosmetic. There were some cuts from flying glass on the faces around him, but for the most part everyone seemed to be in the same condition he was.
Thanks to Scott. If he hadn't kept everyone back, it would have been carnage.

Speaking of Scott . . . Riley used the hood of the police cruiser to pull himself to his feet and began looking for his friend. He turned toward the cathedral and immediately wished he hadn't. There wasn't much left of Tyson Bryson, but what did remain was gruesome. Riley quickly looked away.

After passing four cars and stepping over twice that many groggy cops, Riley found Scott. He was talking into his cell phone—his earpiece was nowhere to be seen.

“Say that again; I'm having a hard time hearing you.” Scott spoke at an unusually high volume. “Well, I'm sorry, but some psycho idiot just set off a body bomb about fifty feet from me. . . . Watch my words? You want me to watch my words after what you just did? Well how's this for watching my words—you can bite me, Mr. Saifullah! You and all your junior American
hajjis
who are bitter at the world just because some racist, banjo-playing inbreed pushed them down and called them a camel jockey when they were kids. You know what most people do when they get knocked down like that? They pick themselves back up and they make their lives better. That's what I did! That's what anyone with half a brain and an ounce of
huevos
does. What they don't do is feel so sorry for themselves that they take an assault rifle and shoot up a funeral! You understand?
Sie verstehen?
”

Through most of Scott's tirade, Riley was signaling for him to bring it down a notch. While he agreed with everything his friend was saying, Khadi was still in there—a fact that, judging by Scott's reaction, Saifullah had now just reminded him of.

“No, don't. . . . Please. . . . Listen, I'm sorry. I just had a bomb blow up in my face. Just . . . No, let's just . . .” Scott's face was scrunched up tight and his whole body was moving in tense, contorted motions. His fist slammed down onto the roof of a nearby cruiser, leaving a wide dent in the sheet metal. He locked eyes with Riley, and his face said it all—
Khadi!

“Please stop! I'm sorry. . . . I swear, if you hit her again, I'll be the one pulling the trigger when . . . Stop!” Scott's hand came down again, and this time he winced when it connected.

It was all Riley could do not to run for the doors of the cathedral. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hurt somebody.
Lord, please make it stop! Do something!
His complete and utter helplessness churned at his insides. It was like there was a swarm of bees filling his chest, surrounding his stomach. He squatted to the ground and was surprised to find his .44 magnum in his hand.

“Yes, I understand,” Scott said, his voice slightly calmer and his motions more subdued. “I know; I apologize. . . . Of course. Just tell me what you need.”

Scott looked to Riley and made a scribbling motion with his hand. Riley quickly felt his pockets, knowing even before he did it that he didn't have a pen. Looking around quickly, he spotted a still-dazed MPDC officer just a few feet away. He stepped over, spun her around, snatched the pen that was sticking out of her chest pocket, and ran it back to Scott.

Scott tucked the phone against his shoulder and poised the pen over his left palm. “Okay, go ahead. . . . Okay . . . Okay . . . That's it? . . . When do you want it? . . . Tomorrow, 1545. Fine . . . Yes, you have my word.” Scott shut down the phone.

“How's Khadi?” Riley asked anxiously.

“They smacked her around some,” Scott said, anger still evident in his voice.

“But at least we know she's alive.”

“Yeah, at least we know she's alive,” Scott agreed.

Relief flooded Riley.
Hope. That's all I'm asking for is hope.
“What were you writing on your hand?”

Scott looked at it as if someone else had written it on his hand and now he was trying to make sense of it. “It's a . . . a . . . It's a list—a grocery list. He said they've got supplies to last them tonight and tomorrow morning. This is what they want to have delivered tomorrow and for every day after.”

Just then, Skeeter showed up helping along an unsteady Porter. The Homeland Security secretary had a gash on his forehead and was using a handkerchief to dab the streaming blood out of his eye.

“Talk to me,” Porter said.

“Just talked with Saifullah,” Scott reported. “Got a supply list to be delivered at 1545 tomorrow. I also confirmed our cooperation for tomorrow's Internet feed.”

“Do we know when he's going hot tomorrow?” Porter asked.

Scott shook his head. “He just said to keep it open. Listen, Stanley,” Scott said. His finger was tapping Porter lightly on the chest, but his head was facing down. “I, uh . . . I'm kind of working on a thought here. I just . . . need . . .” With all the chaos going on around them, the four men stood there silently, waiting while Scott's gears churned.

Then his head popped up, and he gave Porter a look like he hadn't seen him in years. “Stanley! Listen, I need the analysis on that vest device ASAP. Everything they can give me—electronics, materials, origins, everything. And tell them I don't need it all at once—they can feed it to me piecemeal if need be. Pull all the strings you can—get the president involved if you have to. As tragic as this was for that Bryson guy, I think it's very possible that Saifullah may have just handed us our first break.”

Friday, September 16, 1:30 a.m. EDT

Khadi wasn't sure how long ago night had fallen. All she knew was that she was cold, hungry, and sore. She lifted her head slightly and tried to look around. Although the lights in the cathedral were still on, without the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, the interior of the structure had taken on a decidedly starker, grayer feel.

After the beating, she had been half led, half carried to the non-Politico group. The chairs had all been moved away previously, and everyone was sitting on the floor. As soon as she was led up, a number of the men slid back to make room for her.

A man who introduced himself as Alan Paine slipped off his jacket and made a pillow for her. He disappeared, but soon he was back with another jacket from someone else and draped it over her as a blanket.

And there she had lain for the past who-knows-how-long, slipping in and out of awareness. At one point, when she opened her eyes she found two pieces of white bread and a Dixie cup full of water.

Alan, seeing that she was awake, had encouraged her to eat the bread, but her mouth was too swollen to even think of trying to put something solid into it. Finally, he had settled for giving her a few sips of water before she had drifted off.

Now it was sometime in the middle of the night. All around her were hushed sounds—small groups of hostages talking softly, others lightly snoring, a sob, a comforting word. Every now and then, one of the terrorists would take issue with one of the hostages. If the hostage were lucky, they would just be berated. If not . . . it was usually the fist they used, but sometimes they went straight for the rifle butt.

And these are your people, Allah. Which means these are my people. I don't understand—I truly don't. How can we both be reading the same book yet come to such divergent conclusions? And then I look at someone like Alan . . .
Even now she could see him, jacketless, sitting huddled together with two other men, tucked in a tight ball trying to keep warm; low, soft, unintelligible words wafted through the night air.
They call
him
the infidel. They say
he
is the one who is against you. Yet who was the compassionate one?

She reached her hand from under the blanket and pinched off a small bit of the bread. But from the feel of it, it had gone stale hours ago, and she left the morsel on the tile without attempting it.

If tomorrow is the day I am to die, I want to make sure my eternal destiny is secure. But even now after a lifetime of following your laws and trying to do the right thing, I have no peace. Why is that? Can't you just grant me that much?

Riley has peace. I knew that from the moment I saw him after his torture in Italy. It's like he has the big picture all figured out, while I can't even figure out where my little piece of the puzzle fits. Why does his God give him that? While you give me . . . what? Tradition? Family harmony? A “maybe's” chance at heaven?

She rolled over, trying to shift the aches and pains to another side. A hand gently touched her shoulder, and Alan said, “Are you okay, Khadi? Can I get you anything?”

“An M4 carbine and a box of loaded magazines?”

Alan laughed. “Now that sounds like the Khadi Faroughi I've read about. You holler if you need anything.”

“Wait,” she said, placing her hand on his. Without looking back at him, she asked, “Alan, do you believe in God?”

“You think I could be smiling right now if I didn't?”

“What would you think if . . . ? I mean, how would I . . . ?” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Never mind. Thanks, Alan.”

Alan gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Anytime.”

His hand left her shoulder, and she heard him slide back across the tile to his little group. The low talking began again, and she found it strangely comforting.

Dear God—whichever one of you is real and is actually listening—help me to get you figured out. I want to follow you, but I just don't know who you are. Don't let me make the wrong choice. I don't think I'm going to have much time to correct it.

She let her eyes close for a moment, fully intending to continue her nocturnal spiritual wrestling. Instead, the next time she opened them color had returned to the cathedral, and by the sound of things, the terrorists were getting restless.