American Terrorist (The Rayna Tan Action Thrillers Book 1) (28 page)

“Don’t do that, Jennah, but there is a lesson for you here.”

“What’s that?”

“Never overestimate the ego of a man. Most of them would rather die than admit a woman got the better of them.”

Chapter 38
 

In a private room at San Francisco’s Evergreen Golf Club, the gourmet chef prepared a special meal. The Middle Eastern meal blended the flavors of Turkey, Syria and Lebanon, giving a new meaning to “California fusion.” Tabbouleh had almonds and turkey bacon bits mixed; a falafel had a unique texture with the addition of braised tripe; and a seeming ungodly combination of sea urchin topping couscous turned out to be a heavenly treat. Entrees included a whole snapper mixed with a blend of fresh legumes with the pièce de résistance—a whole lamb cooked over an open wood fire, spiced not only with the traditional Middle Eastern spices but savory hints of Chinese influence with hoisin and chili garlic sauce.

Meal over, it was show time. During the past year and a half, Fatima and Ahmed had rehearsed, researched and role-played for such a moment as this.
 

“That was a delicious meal, Muhammad. But you did not invite us for dinner for chit chat and we are not here simply to enjoy your outstanding hospitality,” said Ahmed.

“I appreciate your directness. I have sat in far too many meetings where nothing was said,” smiled the distinguished Muslim.

“Then let me be another step bolder. We acknowledge and accept what many of our colleagues and brethren are doing to achieve the worldwide caliphate. But we believe we have something not to replace, but to supplant their activities,” said Ahmed. “Fatima has been most strategic in its development and, in fact, is its architect. We should get her to explain.”

Muhammad emitted an involuntary gasp. Nothing, even if the table of four started levitating, could have shocked him more than the idea of a woman coming up with the plan for a major initiative, except the possibility of a man admitting and even encouraging it.

Yet, this was calculated. Tariq had told Fatima that Muhammad had five daughters. Divorcing his first wife after she produced two daughters only, his second wife had produced only daughters as well. All the children were younger than eighteen and he was the only male in the household. The girls’ out-of-control hormones were driving the imam crazy. But, on a deeper level, the religious Muhammad was troubled as to how his daughters would fit into the new world, especially in light of how so many read the Quran.

“Thanks, Ahmed and thank you, Muhammad, and thank you, Tariq, for making the introduction. As Ahmed mentioned, our father was the imam at the Mosque of Ali in al Juwat for more than three decades, and he was most conservative in his approach. Read any of his writings and you will see that. Yet, he chose to send Ahmed and me to an American college. Why? Not because his thinking became liberal, but he recognized that Muslims need to make progress as we advance to what I call ‘contemporary radicalism.’”

Fatima paused a moment to let this sink in. She saw this new buzzword intrigued not only Muhammad but Tariq.
 

Fatima continued. “What is ‘contemporary radicalism?’ At its heart, it is the movement to a worldwide caliphate using what we know to be right but applying it properly in a modern context. It is not a question of being ‘liberal’ or ‘moderate’ in theology. No, contemporary radicalism means that all the fundamentals of the Quran remain absolute but, in order to reach out to, infiltrate or destroy the infidels, some measure of situating oneself in modern culture is important.”

Fatima took a sip of tea. “If we get hung up on things like dress or drinking alcohol or women’s issues, that stymies our advance. It wastes time and it’s stupid because it’s not important. Look at Ahmed and me. If I wore a hijab and abaya to cover my body, and Ahmed wore a long-flowing
dishdasha
and a
kufi
cap or wrapped a
keffiyeh
around his head, we would be singled out as Muslims, terrorists, people to be feared almost anywhere in America. The very least is that we would draw attention to ourselves. Isn’t that true?”

Muhammad and Tariq nodded. This had certainly happened to them.

“But look at Ahmed and me now. Italian suit, French designer dress or, if we want to go casual, hoodies and T-shirts. That way, we can go anywhere and no one will notice... Dressed traditionally, I will get stopped for any reason at all. Dressed as I am now, I can carry a gun, a grenade or a cell phone to detonate a bomb and no one will pay any attention to me. Ahmed could walk into most corporate offices and negotiate a deal with better prices than if the infidel sitting across the table thought he was another raghead.”

Muhammad nodded but there was a tone of concern as he said, “That is dangerous, Fatima, one might argue blasphemous.”

“Of course it’s dangerous. Many of our own people will not agree with us but, when the results come, everyone will, as the Americans say, ‘Jump on the bandwagon,’” said Fatima.

“But what about what you called ‘women’s issues?’” asked Muhammad, growing even more interested in the discussion.

“Let me explain,” said Ahmed. “Many feel the Quran puts down women. This is not true. Many liberal Muslims feel the Quran is out of step with the times. This is not true. What is true is that many Muslims have misinterpreted the Quran and applied this wrong approach to Sharia.”

“That is not what many think. Our scholars have written about women’s roles for hundreds of years.”

Ahmed nodded. “For thousands of years, people believed the world was flat but that did not make it so. But we are not here to debate points of theology that will never be resolved. I am, we are, people of action. For me, there is no greater proof of the intelligence and ability of Muslim women to contribute than Fatima.”

Muhammad looked at Fatima. He did not see a ravishing Middle Eastern beauty, although she certainly was. He saw his daughters. All their lives, he had suppressed them because he thought that was what it meant to be a good Muslim. But now, looking at Fatima, he saw what could be, not for himself, but for them.

Fatima and Ahmed look at the silent Muhammad, hoping desperately they hadn’t overplayed their hand.

Muhammad smiled enigmatically. Was it pity? Was it hope? Was it melancholy?

“I think we can help, right, Tariq?” He turned to his friend.
 

“Muhammad, I would not have introduced them to you had I not believed in them myself.”

Muhammad nodded. “When are you going to your baseball game?” he asked Ahmed.

“Tomorrow afternoon. The game starts at two-thirty.”

“Come back when it’s over. I want to hear firsthand the results of your ‘proof of concept.’ I will bring a few friends along, too, and my daughters.” Muhammad smiled broadly. “You are our future and we will be honored to be there with you.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Muhammad,” said Fatima as she and Ahmed readied to depart.

***

It was July 3rd and there was still no definitive knowledge as to where tomorrow’s attack would take place. The only people who knew were Fatima and Ahmed, and they had disappeared into the ether. But, thanks to the young car-loving video gamer, it seemed as if the target was going to involve a baseball team.

The two local teams were the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland Athletics. Tomorrow, the Athletics were going to be in Cleveland playing the Indians and the Giants were going to be playing their archrivals, the Los Angeles Dodgers, at San Francisco’s AT&T Park.

It was going to be a two o’clock start.

“That’s got to be it,” said Julio.

Three hours later, he wasn’t so sure. He arranged for SWAT teams and bomb squads to go and thoroughly search the stadium, but there wasn’t the slightest thing out of the ordinary.

“If it’s not here, where?” asked Julio with concern in his voice.

Rayna was shocked—Julio was always confident, but having a major terrorist attack happening within the next twenty-four hours in your hood would freak the calmest person. Especially if there were no clues on how to stop it.

“What about the LA connection the boy mentioned?” asked Rayna. “Maybe he came here to finalize details.”

“I guess we’ve got to try everything.” Julio started working the phones and soon there was an anti-bomb squad sweeping through Angel Stadium in Anaheim. Just to be safe, Julio also directed that the squads go through Petco Park, a hundred and ten miles south of Los Angeles, where the San Diego Padres played.

12:00 am. It was now officially July the 4th. Nothing had blown up, but there was still no trace of any potential danger.

Five minutes later, that thought was shot to hell. Facebook, Youtube, Vimeo, Twitter and a thousand other smaller social media sites all got the same ten second video posted—an edited excerpt of the beheading video.

Over the shot of the male Christian’s head rolling on the ground was the voiceover, “We are coming after you, America. The American Muslim Militia will light up America!”

Throwing the full force of the American government and CenCom behind it, the video was shut down less than thirty seconds after it played, but the damage was done.

Happy Independence Day, America.

***

Casey, Alex and Freddy were making good time. At least they thought they were making good time because, truth be told, they had no idea where they were going. They had just about hit the Oregon border and were wondering if they were still on the right path.

They were. A text from an unknown cell phone arrived.
 

Keep going north. Throw away this phone and turn on the next one at 10.

Chapter 39
 

8 am. July 4th. Tariq had just dropped Ahmed, Fatima and their luggage at a small private airfield. There had been little conversation in the car as he noticed Fatima and Ahmed deep in thought. Today was too important and they wanted to make sure every possible scenario was covered.

The cost for the flight was twice what Ken, the pilot, normally charged. Not because it was a holiday but because his passengers wanted not only anonymity, but for this flight to be completely off-book. No records. No flight plan. No nothing. As if it never happened.
 

“So you going to tell me where we’re going?” said the pilot as the couple latched their seatbelts on.

“Seattle.”

“Nice. We’ll be there in three hours, give or take. Any place in particular?”

“Anywhere they won’t ask questions.”

“I know just the place. Buddy of mine. He’ll open up for us but he’s a bandit. Gotta warn you about that.”

“Three hundred and fifty bucks and, if he lends us a car and picks it up downtown by himself, we’ll make it seven. Cash in advance. Car doesn’t have to be fancy, as long as it works.”

The pilot made a call. “Hey, Hartley, want to make an easy seven hundred bucks? Let me drop a couple of people off at your farm and lend them Nancy’s car for a few hours... Great. Thanks, Buddy.”

The pilot clicked off the phone. “Done.”

“Thank you.”

***

At CenCom, Julio and team pored over streams of disconnected data, monitoring chats, looking at recent updates on websites, news, mosques, malcontents of any persuasion, scrutinizing for any kind of buzz. Nothing.

And the search at baseball fields was going nowhere, too. Search teams had gone through each of the California stadiums several times but there was not a hint of anything unusual. The obvious place to hide explosives would be with the fireworks for the Fourth of July festivities, but nothing at all was found in any of the boxes in the storage areas.

The distinct possibility that they were looking in the wrong place was the fear of all.

But, if it were somewhere else, where the hell was it? The only thing they could do was expand the search parameters and go over what they’d gone over already or hope that some new lead would appear.

Patty, one of the grunts at CenCom, was going stir crazy. It was her shift to monitor 911 calls and she’d been listening since midnight, trying to see if there was some semblance of a lead that might help determine where the attack was going to hit.

There had been a steady stream of calls about missing people, fires, wife beatings... all the regular stuff emergency call centers got. Usually within ten seconds, she knew whether or not to continue listening and ninety-five plus percent of the calls were genuine emergencies she didn’t need to hear.

It was that last five percent that she had to try to figure out if it was more than just a prank or crank call. She couldn’t believe that anyone would really call 911 about getting a cat out of a tree, order pizza, complain about beer being too warm, or get a Saturday night special, but they did.

She shook her head as the next call began.
 

“Hey, someone stole my van,” complained the caller.

“When did this happen, sir?” replied the call center operator.

“He stole it today.”

“It’s 10 a.m. What time did he steal it?”

“I rented it to my jackass stepson a couple of days ago and he was supposed to return it this morning. I ain’t worked in a year and I got a call to go in an hour with my one-ton truck.”

Patty’s ears perked up and she motioned for Julio to come listen.

“This is a non-emergency call. Please report this to the police as stolen property,” said the call center operator.
 

“What the f** are you guys doing? I told you someone has stolen my van,” howled the distraught and possibly inebriated man. “I even told you who it was.”

“He may be running behind schedule. Did you try his cell?”

“Of course I tried his cell. What do you think I am? An idiot? I need my damned vehicle.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but please report this to the non-emergency stolen property division.”

“Screw you.” The voice clicked off the phone.

Patty looked to Julio. “Is that a lead or a nutcase?”

“Probably both. Check it out.”

Patty looked at the monitor to get the phone number. She made a call.

“Hello,” answered Scotty in a surly voice.