The Malacca Conspiracy (36 page)

And the mortal blow that he would strike at the heart of the City of Brotherly Love would underscore further ineptitude of this giant cesspool’s ability to protect its infidels in its largest population centers.

He had driven this route down the wide expanses of Broad Street dozens of times in preparation for this moment. The buildings…he
could see them in his sleep. To his right…the basketball arenas whose names had changed with the failed American banks they had been named for…The First Union Center which became the Wachovia Center and then the Wells Fargo Center, and behind it, the Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Philadelphia Eagles.

What a shame that martyrdom would not come there. At Lincoln Financial Field, in the midst of seventy thousand obnoxious infidels. But the martyrdom would come. Soon.

Past the sports complexes, the drive north along the southern section of Broad Street was a picture of the scum of urban decay. Abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Plywood nailed over broken glass. Windows smashed out with no plywood coverings. Drug dealers huddled in alleyways, swapping cash for cocaine. Vagrants openly urinating in back alleys. All the product of decadent America and its worship of Judeo-Christian Zionism.

Purification was coming soon. The thought brought a sudden peace to Mohammed’s soul. He stepped on the accelerator, running the yellow light at the intersection of Broad Street and Snyder Avenue.

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building
Downtown Philadelphia

9:30 a.m.

T
he Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce was due in for its luncheon in another two-and-a-half hours. Marie Carter had already been working for two hours, along with other members of the kitchen staff, setting fine china plates and sterling silverware on the flower-adorned banquet tables.

“Ready for a smoking break?” This was the friendly voice of her supervisor and smoking pal, Sally Rawlins, who, like Marie, needed a ten-minute nicotine fix at least once every two hours to get through the day.

“I need to make a quick call,” Marie said.

“Okay, maybe I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Sally walked out of the large banquet room and into the hallway.

Marie pulled her cell phone from her purse. “No signal,” she mumbled. “What a surprise.”

Stepping over to the window, which faced the back side of historic Philadelphia City Hall, the signal bars reappeared on the screen.

She punched “1” on the speed dial, and four rings later, the sound of her own voice bellowed from the answering machine at her home eighteen miles to the east, far across the Delaware River in Berlin, New Jersey.

“You have reached the Carter residence. No one is available to take your call. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back with you.”
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Honey, are you there?…Are you there?…Will you pick up, please?…I guess you’re out on your jog. Listen, we’re pretty busy with a Chamber of Commerce banquet and I don’t know if I’ll be back in time to pick up the girls from school. Do you think you’d be able to help me out? Good luck with the interviews today. I know you’re going to find a job soon. Love you. Miss you. Bye-bye!”

She clamped the phone shut. Eric had been without work for nearly a year now, and every day for the last year, she had prayed that something would open. But still, nothing. Nobody wanted to hire a midlevel bank executive in his mid-thirties. Not in this economy anyway. Downsizing and corporate layoffs had taken its hard toll on so many, and she had taken this job to try and slow the bleeding.

And it wasn’t all that bad. History had always been her favorite subject in school, and she loved teaching it to her two young daughters, Amy and Sharon, whom she had home-schooled through fifth grade. But this year, when Eric lost his job, they had placed the girls in public schools while she went back to work part-time. And although neither the hours nor the work were particularly rewarding, it was nice to be able to look out at the historic Philadelphia City Hall, with a huge clock larger than London’s Big Ben. The majestic building on Penn Square had been the tallest building in the world until 1908. She was fortunate, in many ways, that if she had to work, she could at least work in the midst of a great cradle of American history. And in this, she found at least some solace and inspiration.

She checked her watch. Not enough time now for that smoking break. That was all right. She had been trying to quit anyway, and had been praying for the strength to stop. She sipped her coffee and glanced down at the bustling activity on the square.

Downtown Philadelphia

9:33 a.m.

M
ohammed slowed the van as it approached the intersection of Broad and Chestnut Streets. The large clock tower of the Philadelphia City Hall loomed five hundred fifty feet in the air, rising above Penn Square just a half a block directly in front of him. On top of the clock tower stood the statue of the dead infidel William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania.

The van reached Penn Square, and Momammed swung around the square to the right. Then, following the perimeter road around the square, he turned to the left again.

He pulled the van over to the left, just behind the Philadelphia City Hall on the east side of Penn Square, almost in front of the Market Street entryway to Penn Square.

Car horns from obnoxious Philly drivers blared in protest of the van blocking the left traffic lanes. He would have to hurry. The cops would descend upon him any moment.

He reached over to the small suitcase that was sitting in the seat next to him and popped it open.

Honk!
“Hey, move over, ya lousy scumbag!” The driver shook his fist at the van.

Another driver pushed down on the horn. “Get out of the road!” another driver yelled in an obnoxious Philly accent.

Mohammed rested his thumb on the detonator. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the right, in an easterly direction toward Mecca.
“Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah.”

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building
Downtown Philadelphia

9:35 a.m.

T
hat’s odd,” Marie mumbled aloud, looking out the window and down at the U-Haul that was blocking the traffic lane and making so much commotion behind City Hall.

A twisting in her stomach told her that something wasn’t right. Then, sudden, unexpected panic washed over her, as if forewarning her.

“April,” she instinctively called to the coworker standing nearest to the window. “Come check this out.”

The van exploded into the blinding sun. Great heat burned Marie alive, melting the flesh from her arms.

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church
Jakarta, Indonesia

8:40 p.m.

K
ristina sat in a chair just in front of a modest wooden desk bearing the nameplate Father Ramon. “What is your name, my child?” he continued to ask. But in the last thirty minutes since she arrived, Kristina had been too scared to answer him.

“Father, I’m terrified.”

“Yes, I can see that, but if you want the church’s help, you have to trust us enough to give us your name.”

The priest’s black eyes reflected a trusting kindness. If she could not trust this man, then whom could she trust? Somehow, she knew that she could trust him. “Kristina. Kristina Wulandari.”

“And are you from here in Jakarta?”

“Yes, Father.”

“When you came to confession, you told me that someone important was going to die?”

“Yes, Father. And then I ran for fear of my life.”

“Who, Kristina?” Their eyes locked.

“The president, Father. I was referring to President Santos. And today that happened.”

“Yes.” Father Ramon stood and ran his hand through his hair and exhaled. “We all mourn for our president. And can you tell me, Kristina, how did you know this was going to happen?”

“General Perkasa had the president killed.”

“General Perkasa?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And just how do you know this?”

“Because…” She looked down. A sudden embarrassment overcame her.

“Because what?”

“Because I was his lover. I was in his house last night when I overheard the general and some of his staff members planning in the general’s study. They thought I was asleep. But I slipped down in the middle of the night, at the bottom of the stairway, and overheard them.”

“What were they saying?”

“They were drinking and laughing and talking about how they would make many, many millions of dollars, and then they started talking about a plan to kill President Santos.”

“Did they say how they were going to kill him?”

“All I could hear was something about the president’s personal physician was going to do it in an act of martyrdom.”

Father Ramon shook his head mournfully. “Do you remember anything else they said?”

“They mentioned Vice President Magadia,” she said.

“They are going to kill him too?”

“They said they were going to capture him at Istana Bogor, and hold him and try to force him to cooperate with them. I have a feeling that if he doesn’t cooperate, they will kill him.”

The priest sat back down. “Is there anything else that you think I need to know?”

“Yes, Father. They are going to buy nuclear bombs from Pakistan and slip them into the United States and use them on America. They are planning to kill President Williams in a nuclear blast.”

Father Ramon exhaled. Then he leaned over the desk and stared at her a few minutes, as if he was trying to decide whether to believe her. “Kristina, do you have any evidence of any of this?”

“Yes, Father.” She held up the memory stick. “I have this. It is all here.”

The White House

9:50 a.m.

M
ack had left the majority of the National Security Council working in the Situation Room, while he returned to the Oval Office, all
in an effort to preserve some semblance of normalcy in the developing international crisis.

He had brought with him his two most trusted, yet most likely to clash Cabinet members, the secretaries of state and defense.

The secretary of state was pacing back and forth across the back of the Oval Office, arguing, as usual, against a point just made by the secretary of defense. “With all due respect to Secretary Lopez’s call to drastically beef up our forces in the region, Mr. President, I would urge caution. Our navy is already providing tanker escorts. While it’s true that we may need to move more forces in, I’m concerned about international reaction to a Persian Gulf-style buildup.”

“But, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense shot back, “they’ve just tested a nuclear device in the Halmahera Sea. One of our ships has been taken out. We’ve lost who-knows-how-many men. That’s an act of war, Mr. President. We need more carrier groups in the region.”

The secretary of defense crossed his arms. “Mr. President, we all should be outraged, and we are outraged about the fact that they tested that device, but I disagree with my colleague on whether that is an act of war. Technically, I don’t think we can say it’s an act of war unless we can show that they intended to harm our ship. If you want to get right down to it, they’ve got a stronger argument that we committed an act of war against them by our operation against Merdeka Palace.”

A buzzing from the speaker phone on the president’s desk stopped Secretary Mauney in his tracks. “Mr. President!” A panicked sound from the president’s secretary, Gayle Staff. “The national security advisor and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs are here, sir. They say it’s an emergency.”

Mack’s stomach sank immediately. “Send them in, Gayle.”

Secret Service officers flung open the doors leading into the Oval Office, and Cynthia Hewitt and Admiral Roscoe Jones came running in. Their faces signaled disaster before Cyndi Hewitt spoke.

“It’s Philadelphia, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

“What about Philadelphia?”

“A bomb.” The national security advisor broke into tears, crying like a baby.

“What?” Mack stood, his forehead suddenly clammy.

Admiral Jones took over for Hewitt. “I’m afraid it’s nuclear, Mr. President.”

“No. No! Please!” Mack wanted to heave, to vomit. A nuclear attack on American soil! He had to calm himself. He was the president. “Talk to me, Admiral. What happened? How bad?”

“Bad, sir. Looks like an explosion in the heart of the city. Relatively small nuclear device. Seismic indicators showing about one kiloton. That’s what we call a suitcase bomb. Still, this dwarfs the magnitude of 9/11.”

“Barry.” Mack nodded to the senior Secret Service officer on the presidential detail. “Flip on CNN.”

“Yes, sir.”

Images of firefighters, sirens, smoke, men, women, and children screaming—all flashed on the screen. The voice of the CNN anchor undergirded it all.

“This is Tom Miller. Again, this breaking story from Philadelphia. Tragedy. Horror.” The venerable newscaster’s voice began choking. He paused, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, and recovered. “It…appears that a large bomb, believed to be a nuclear device, has exploded in the downtown area of Philadelphia.

“There is no word from the White House or the Pentagon as of yet, but we have bone-chilling film, shot from cell phone cameras outside the city, of a blast going into the sky like a mushroom cloud. Just look…”

The screen showed a blinding burst above Philadelphia, followed by a mammoth mushroom cloud rising over the city.

“This video was taken about ten minutes ago,” Tom Miller said.

Mack stood silent. Cyndi Hewitt had restrained herself, and was wiping her running mascara with a handkerchief provided by the secretary of defense, who was standing beside her with one arm around her.