Tuesday, January 20
Bari, Italy
Hicks heard Gilly Posada of the Mustang team radio from the roof of the safe house as the vans that carried Predator team rounded the corner. A minute later, the newcomers barged inside.
It had been twenty hours since Billy Murphy had gone down and Riley Covington had disappeared, and the eight Predator team members had spent all but two of those hours either on a plane or in a van. Hicks was exhausted.
Scott met them inside the door. “Guys, welcome. Jim, thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Sure. So what’s the status?”
“We’ve been working like dogs trying to get information. But first, before we get to business, why don’t you guys sit at the table? We’ve got some bread, and Kim’s cooked up some Italian sausages.”
For the first time Hicks noticed the smell of onion, garlic, and bell pepper that hung heavy in the room. He felt a twinge in his empty stomach but declined the offer with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t come here to eat, and I didn’t come here to socialize.”
“Maybe not,” Scott countered, “but you’re going to be an even bigger pain than usual if you don’t get some food in you.”
Hicks gave in. “Fine, Weatherman, serve the food.”
The members of Predator team gathered with him around the scratched table. Hicks sat at the head, then clockwise around the table sat Jay Kruse, Carlos Guitiérrez, Steve Kasay, Chris Johnson, Brad Musselman, Kyle Arsdale, and Ted Hummel.
While the plates were dished out, Hicks scanned the room disapprovingly. It was sparsely furnished and looked like it hadn’t had a good spring-cleaning since Mussolini was in power. Li, the one with the tattoos, brought over plates of food and bottles of Italian beer; the Mississippi giant, Skeeter, sat guarding the front door. “Where’s Khadi?” Hicks asked Scott.
“She’s sleeping in the near bedroom. Logan’s crashed over there somewhere too. Gilly’s scouting up on the roof.”
“What about your prisoner?”
Scott pointed to a dark corner of the large room, where a blanket covered a lumpy shape on the floor. “Mr. Scorpion was getting to be a little too high maintenance, so we shot him up with some happy juice and dropped him in the corner. He should be awake in a couple of hours. So far we haven’t been able to get much out of him.”
Hicks cut off a piece of sausage and stuffed it in his mouth. The flavor of the sauce was incredible, but the spice of the sausage had him reaching for the bottle of Peroni that Li had placed in front of him.
“Beer at four in the morning? Classy, Jim.”
Hicks followed the voice to the bedroom, where Khadi leaned against the doorway. She was still wearing her black outfit from the operation. Her hair was held up with a clip, and she hadn’t applied even what little makeup she usually wore. All eating at the table stopped momentarily as everyone took a long look at her. Khadi shifted on her feet uncomfortably, then walked to the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of Suio sparkling water and sat by Skeeter.
Hicks turned back to his sausage. “Yeah, well, it’s four in the afternoon somewhere in the world.”
“Pago Pago,” Scott said.
“What?” Hicks asked.
“Pago Pago, American Samoa. It’s four in the afternoon there.”
Hicks just looked at him.
“Hey, sometimes it’s a blessing; sometimes it’s a curse.”
“Yeah, well, what do you say you keep your curse to yourself.”
The team ate a little more in silence. Scott walked over to where al-’Aqran was bunched up on the floor. He lifted the blanket to make sure the terrorist leader was still breathing. He was. Scott dropped the covering and returned to the table.
Brad Musselman finally broke the silence. “So, how do we know the football hero isn’t dead?”
Everyone in the room tensed at the question, and Skeeter’s chair audibly shifted on the wooden floor.
“First of all, the ‘football hero’ is the operational leader of Mustang team or Mustang Two,” Scott said forcefully, “and you’ll refer to him and address him with respect accordingly. Understand?”
Musselman waved his fork in a noncommittal gesture.
“Nevertheless, it’s still a good question,” Scott continued. “The answer is that we don’t know for sure. However, we ‘borrowed’ a witness on his way home from work who told us that there was one dead guy who stayed stretched out on the street until the police came. Obviously, that was Billy. But he also said there was a second guy who was carried out of a house on another man’s shoulder. They went into al-’Aqran’s house, and our witness didn’t see either of them come out again. Our assumption is that if Riley had been killed, he would have been left for the police like Billy was.”
“Any thoughts on where he is now?” Steve Kasay asked.
Khadi answered, “About an hour ago, Tara Walsh’s contact here-the guy who told us about the mosque and al-’Aqran’s house-informed us about three warehouses that members of the Cause have been seen frequenting. Two of them are down by the port, and one is closer to the railroad tracks. We were waiting for you guys to arrive before staking those buildings out for activity. Tara’s team is also working on some satellite surveillance. We don’t want to move on one of them without being sure that Riley’s in there for fear that they’ll kill him if we choose wrong.”
“I just don’t understand how Captain America was fool enough to get himself captured,” Musselman said quietly to his plate.
In a flash Skeeter’s chair went rattling across the floor and he was racing for the man. Scott intercepted him just as Musselman jumped up to meet Skeeter’s onrush.
Hicks rose next, and he raced around the table. “Skeeter, get back to your post! Now!”
Skeeter looked at Scott, who nodded. The big man glared at Musselman, who defiantly returned the stare. Skeeter slowly turned around and found his chair, which was now missing a leg. He threw the broken chair across the room and returned to stand in his place by Khadi.
Hicks watched him all the way.
Musselman chuckled and turned to sit again.
Hicks grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “Did I say sit down?”
Musselman looked surprised. “Well… uh… no.”
“You don’t sit down until I tell you to sit down! You want to know how Covington got himself taken? I’ll tell you. He was going after one of his men. That’s what real soldiers do; they take care of their own. That’s what I would do if one of my men was lying in the middle of the street-even… you.” Hicks accentuated these last two words with his index finger poking hard into Musselman’s chest. “And what real men don’t do is sit around sipping their beers, criticizing other men’s acts of bravery. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Musselman replied.
“I said, do you understand!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now, sit!”
Musselman dropped into his chair.
Hicks continued, speaking to all who were at the table. “Listen close, because I’m only going to say this once. Effective immediately, there is no Predator team. We are all Mustangs. Do you understand that? We are all Mustang team. Take your assigned number and add eight. If you have a hard time with the math, talk to Scott.”
Now he addressed everyone in the room. “We’ve got a man out there who we’ve got to assume is alive until proved otherwise. Wherever he is, we will find him-together. And if I see any more of you bickering or fighting, you will find yourselves in two weeks’ time gathering sand samples in Somalia. Clear?”
A general murmur of assent answered Hicks.
He turned to Scott. “Get my men rotated into the watch cycle.”
“You got it, Jim.”
The veteran started back to his place at the head of the table, then stopped and looked at Musselman. “And, Scott, why don’t you start right away by putting Brad up on the roof?”
“You got it, Jim,” Scott repeated with a smile.
Hicks sat down at the table, took a long swig of his Peroni, and stuffed another bite of the spicy sausage into his mouth.
Tuesday, January 20
CTD Midwest Division Headquarters
St. Louis, Missouri
The Room of Understanding was in a flurry of activity. That was one thing Tara Walsh appreciated about her little band of misfits: they worked hard, and they were smart. Guess that’s two things, she thought and smiled to herself.
Each member of the team had given her regular progress updates-all except for Gooey, whom she pretty much left to himself. Hernandez had found out the identity of the fourth bomber-Syamsuddin Ibrahim, an Indonesian from Aceh, which accounted for some of their difficulties in tracking him down. Tara walked over to Hernandez’s workstation, where he was continuing to run facial recognition software, searching for a name for bomber one. Hernandez looked up and gave her a quick nod, then went back to what he was doing.
Tara continued toward Evie’s desk. About an hour ago, Scott had called and asked that Evie be pulled away from what she had been working on to start searching for satellite images of some buildings in Barletta. Evie had found a multitude of old shots and was now trying to reposition a bird for some real-time pictures.
“Are you having any trouble with permissions for the satellite?” Tara asked.
Evie shook her head. “No, you cleared the path pretty well. I’ll let you know if anyone starts raising a stink.”
Tara put her hand on Evie’s shoulder and then walked around the conference table to the other side of the room. Joey Williamson was the resident speed-reader at over a thousand words per minute. Tara had asked him to go back over the eyewitnesses’ statements to see if anything had been missed. Looking over his shoulder, she watched as his long index finger rapidly traced the lines down the page. Amazing, she thought as she reached around him to the dish on his desk that held chocolate-covered espresso beans. She popped a couple into her mouth and then paused.
At the end of the room was Gooey’s workstation. It was an unpleasant place for a number of reasons. First of all, Gooey seemed to have some sort of digestion problem, which caused each of them to perpetually burn scented candles at their desks. Second, the place was a pigsty. Papers and trash were spread all around his desk and on the floor. Third, he was as sloppy in his English as he was in his appearance. Every time he spoke to her, she spent most of the conversation mentally correcting his grammar. Basically, what it came down to was that he was the exact opposite of her. Everything she strove to not be, he was.
She crunched down on the espresso beans, letting the taste and aroma fill her senses, then moved toward Gooey’s desk. “How’s it going, Gooey?”
He answered with a wave of his index finger. “One minute.”
Tara began to move away before the aromatic protection of the espresso beans wore off, but Gooey said without turning around, “Seriously, wait. Just one minute.”
Tara sighed and prepared for the olfactory assault. She looked at the monitor Gooey was watching. The video was of one of the Platte River gates. Panicked people were streaming out. People were pressed up against the wrought iron bars. Gooey had a bright circle following the head of one particular person. His mouse clicked a button that recorded that segment. “Get everyone around here, Terri. I’ve got something to show you.”
Tara knew that would be a tough sell to her team. “Are you sure it’s-?”
“Tara!” Gooey said, as he spun his chair around to face her. Something in his eyes told her that this was important. “Trust me. You’re all gonna want to see this.”
“Hey, gang!” Tara called out. “Gooey’s got something he wants to show us.”
A collective groan came from the other three as they stopped what they were doing and walked toward Gooey and Tara. Evie and Hernandez took a detour to Williamson’s desk to grab a handful of beans.
Gooey addressed the gathering. “Okay, the big question is how the terrorists got the bombs into the stadium. With all the security, it’s remotely possible they could get one or two in. But six? Not gonna happen! There’s got to be another way the bomb balls made it in.
“So I’ve been following Kazemi-the Iranian guy-from the time he went into the gates at Platte River. Here he is going in about two hours before the game. Check him out. He’s carrying a souvenir football, and he strolls right past a cop with a bomb dog. Not so much as a tail wag from our canine friend. Conclusion?”
“He doesn’t have the bomb yet,” Williamson answered, popping another espresso bean into his mouth. “We’ve seen this. Can you maybe speed things along?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hang on.” The rate of Gooey’s words was increasing with his excitement. He used his mouse to forward the timeline until a wide shot of the sidelines came on. “So, how did he get the bomb? This was about an hour and forty-five minutes before game time. Way over in the corner here, Kazemi’s leaning over the railing getting his souvenir ball signed. Take a look at who’s signing it.”
A gasp escaped each of them.
Hernandez said, “I know that number! That’s-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. And look here.”
“That’s al-Midfai getting a ball signed,” Hernandez said.
“And here.”
“That’s Mahmud,” Evie said.
“And here.”
“That’s… new guy,” Williamson said.
“Ibrahim,” Hernandez helped him.
“Yeah, Ibrahim,” Williamson finished.
“All the bombers got their footballs autographed before the game by the same player. ‘But,’ you might ask, ‘how did souvenir balls magically turn into bomb balls? And if they got the bomb balls signed, why wasn’t our friend’s name sprawled across the ball that was recovered from Mahmud?’ Good questions, grasshoppers. Let’s zoom in to the signing process. Here’s our favorite player holding a football tucked under his arm and signing someone’s shirt. Here he’s signing a picture. Now here comes Mahmud, who hands our boy a football. But Mr. Butterfingers accidentally drops it. Now watch carefully… there! Presto, change-o. We have a little ball swap. And, good guy that he is, he doesn’t forget to sign the new ball.”
“He’s turned the pen around!” Hernandez called out.
“Yep, he’s flipping the pen. I guess he didn’t want his name on the bombs on the off chance one of them didn’t go off. ‘But,’ you ask, ‘how did our football friend get the bomb balls into the stadium to begin with?’”
Gooey’s penchant for asking and answering his own questions was working overtime.
“Here he is walking into the stadium with a couple of other players. Check him out; he’s pulling a standard Mustangs ball bag behind him-eight balls rolling right past security. Just like that, we’ve got our football bomb distribution problem solved. But now for the coop de grass.”
Tara held her breath. She couldn’t imagine anything being more unbelievable than what they had just seen.
Gooey used his mouse to bring up a new screen with some grainy slow-motion footage. “You guys know about the videos shot by those two Zapruder wannabes by the field manger’s office. This is thirty-six seconds prior to detonation. The guy’s holding the camera above his head, trying to capture all the freaked-out people. Now, look who slides into the shot at the bottom left. Check out the jersey; check out the pads… It’s Mr. Pen Flipper.”
“Good find, Gooey,” Tara said, “but we all know what happened to him in that tunnel.”
“Do we now? Let me zoom tight. Watch our player as he turns back toward the camera.”
“Wait! That’s not-”
“No, it’s not. My friends, meet bomber number seven, all dressed up like a football player. My guess is that he was hiding away in the field manager’s office until the fireworks started.”
“But why?” Evie asked. “It makes no sense. I mean, why go through all the trouble of a body double if you’re just going to get blown up anyway?”
“Ahhh, the key word being if, my young padawan,” Gooey answered, fully in his element and wanting to draw out the moment. “If you were going to blow yourself up, it would make no sense. But if you were not quite ready for your one-way ticket to martyrville but you wanted everyone to think you were, then it makes perfect sense. Take a look at this video from gate 5 during the postbomb mass exit. Let me zoom in real close-like to the dude in the overcoat and Mustangs hat. Look familiar?”
Williamson and Hernandez each exhaled matching expletives. Evie just stood there stunned. Tara ran across the room, picked up the phone, and dialed Scott’s secure satellite number.