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Monsour Zarif tossed on his single bed, bothered by the noises on his phone, the clicking, the static. Bothered most by having seen Caller ID flashing U.S. Government. He searched for a response, if not a solution.
Finally grasping an idea, he was up forty-five minutes before dawn. As quietly as possible, he made tea in the dark and settled in his favored rocker at a window on the front side of his west-facing house. It was a bright night, stars backlighting the ridge several hundred yards away. If someone were watching, the sun’s first rays could catch a camera lens or binoculars, a reflection not detectable when the sun got higher. He sat still, not rocking, occasionally sipping his tea as the early morning slowly turned gray and the mature elms in his front yard gradually loomed into focus. Another ridgeline was behind the house. He could imagine it turning pink. Minutes passed and then it was there, light flashing off something halfway up the west ridge. Having explored the area when he moved in, Zarif knew the reflection was coming from near an old homestead. The flash became a constant reflection, then suddenly disappeared as if someone had turned a lens away from the rising sun.
Zarif’s palms were clammy. Far, far too many coincidences. The sun was just coming up, not high enough for the reflection to disappear so abruptly. And he remembered the young man at the mosque who for several weeks hinted at supporting radical jihad. Zarif had engaged him in a cautious conversation, not hinting at recruitment, nothing like he had done with Swale and others, but neither did he disapprove of the young man’s incendiary comments. If an undercover agent, had I said enough to cause suspicion? Probably not, usually not, but if they didn’t have someone better to watch, an agent could be sitting up there to justify their existence. Or maybe his recent conversations with Swale hadn’t been circumspect enough. Now, there’s no way to tell.
He shuddered, suddenly wanting to charge up to the deserted farm to assure himself no one was there. Maybe a piece of broken glass did catch the sun’s first rays for a few minutes every morning, when he typically slept. He forced himself to be calm, to think. If he found someone at the farm, he could be arrested. They would no doubt know of Swale’s visit and have a full description of his car, probably identifiable photos of him and the one called Dog. Given their brief stay, Zarif had to think they needed to keep moving, that whatever was planned would happen soon. Tipping his hand could threaten that mission. No, I must stay here as if all is right. Stay right here and prepare.
Nine a.m. – Joining the others in Swale’s room, Stickman examined Dog’s handiwork. It looked good and he offered his praise. Dog grinned with pleasure. “That plastique is going to bring down some major shit.”
Ali Foster and George Kobeisi had been out early, liberating three sets of license plates. In the motel parking lot shortly before the mission, they would find the space offering the most concealment and switch plates. They would join the rest of the crew and go to the mall early to familiarize themselves with parking, walking routes to their targets, and whatever they could learn about security. Stickman expected to encounter private security guards, possibly backed up by police. Should a serious, unexpected problem arise, the mission could be delayed or aborted. But he was confident that security would be light. Heavy security would discourage spending, God forbid.
Eleven-twenty a.m. – Stickman, Swale and Dog stood in line at Theatres of Mall of America, patiently waiting to purchase their tickets. As directed by the mall website, they parked in East Ramp, Level 5 and walked the hallway between Dick’s Last Resort and Hooter’s Restaurant to the theaters on Level 4. That was more than an hour ago, after making the short drive from their motel on I-494. Assiri, Foster and Kobeisi followed not far behind.
They had had time to get comfortable with the mall, particularly alternative routes for returning to their cars. Now they were purchasing tickets for six movies with starting times between four-ten and four-thirty-five. Movies that by five-forty-five would be chambers of death. Five-forty-five at the latest, and then only if the remote igniter failed. Five-forty-five assuming the timers in each backpack became, by default, the conduit to destruction.
The men returned to the motel, to finish packing and loading their cars. But mostly to pick up the immoral backpacks. The wait was tedious but necessary. All things being equal, Stickman reasoned, the pre-dinner movies draw the biggest crowds. They did not check out, keeping their rooms another night. Best to have them available if things go wrong, if hunkering down becomes the best option. If things go as planned, the West Coast contingent will be miles away when chaos strikes. Only Stickman will still be close to the mall – his price for the privilege of igniting the C-4, the privilege of radical jihad.
Eleven-thirty a.m. – Surveillance photos from Fargo were waiting for Special Agent in Charge Franklin Terrell when he arrived at his FBI office in Brooklyn Center, northwest of Minneapolis. Scrutinizing them had been delayed by more pressing matters. Besides, his agents in Fargo had yet to come up with a concrete lead tying Monsour Zarif to any illegal activity, let alone terrorism.
Terrell had approved the stakeout because he liked and respected the young agent who had been approached by Zarif after going undercover at the Fargo mosque. The agent had little to go on, really nothing beyond his instinct, in urging the surveillance. Terrell agreed, in part because the agent he assigned the task needed more on his plate. Then the young agent was gone, on extended leave for a family emergency.
The folder cover gave no hint that the photos could be of value, just the basic logistics of the investigation, who took them, when and where. Nevertheless, Terrell followed his thorough nature, looking at each long lens photo carefully. Two men getting out of their car, being greeted by Zarif, going in his house. Even longer shots as they left for the woods behind the house and then their return. Exiting the house, brief farewells, the men getting back in their car. But wait. Terrell squinted hard. The two men wore the same jackets they did when they arrived. As they departed, were there short strings of bulges pressing through their jackets as they bent to get in the car? Two short strings on each man? Terrell picked up a magnifying glass and peered even more intently before flipping back to the first shots. No strings of bulges. On either of them. Why weren’t they openly carrying whatever they had picked up? A chill ran through him. He called for his secretary, orders quickly piling up in his mind.
Two-fifteen p.m. – Six vans roared into Zarif’s front yard and SWAT teams poured out. A car followed closely behind, carrying the agent in charge and three others. The SWAT teams had been quickly cobbled together from law enforcement agencies in the Fargo area, scrambling to get to a staging area near Zarif’s property. Their ninety-minute response time was doubly impressive because the teams included two specialists trained to disarm explosives.
Terrell was on his way in a small plane, hoping to arrive before anything dramatic happened. He had been handed a transcript of the lunch conversation in Zarif’s house and was alarmed by the mention, though casual, of the commuter planes in Hawaii. But also, he was pleased with himself, for he had never assembled a response so quickly or decisively. He had sensed there was no choice and, as he was still barking orders, photographic specialists confirmed his gut, that Zarif’s visitors left with something concealed beneath their jackets. Who knew what, but one possibility was that they were wearing belts with pockets, filled with deadly explosives.
The SWAT teams quickly surrounded Zarif’s house and the agent in charge, Michael Bellow, pulled out a bullhorn to identify himself and demand that Zarif surrender with hands raised and empty.
“Why, why are you here?”
“To question you about any ties you may have to terrorism.”
“I am not a terrorist. You are welcome to enter my house.”
“Then come out with your hands raised.”
“I can’t. I can’t walk. My right leg is broken.”
“I could care less about your leg. Hobble or crawl if you need to. Just get out here or I’ll fire tear gas.”
“It is bad. I can see the bone. I couldn’t crawl if I wanted to.”
Bellow was not trained to talk. He was trained for combat. He weighed putting everything on hold, bringing in a negotiator, maybe someone who deals with hostage situations. But his orders warned that he could be dealing with a terrorist who was suspected of making a delivery, possibly of explosives. There was no way to know if time was short, but Terrell’s sense of urgency had come through loud and clear. Zarif must be brought in for questioning as quickly as possible.
“Last chance. Get your sorry butt out here or tear gas comes in.”
“Please ...the pain. I can’t. I want to but I can’t.”
Bellow looked at a SWAT team sergeant. “Fire the tear gas.”
Canisters crashed through the front windows of Zarif’s house, overwhelming the three floor fans Zarif had running on high. One was on either side of him and he held the third in his lap, aiming it to blow tear gas from his face as best he could. He had tied a wet towel around his face. Still, he coughed violently, eyes watering as vomit ran down his shirt front.
“Please, stop,” he called. “I can’t walk I tell you. No way. I don’t have a gun. Please believe me. Please. Your tear gas is killing me. Please.”
All right, thought Bellow. We’ve got the bastard. He turned to the SWAT team commander, ordered the demolition experts, now in body armor, to take Zarif. They would be backed up by a SWAT team, with the others moving into position at windows and the back door.
“Sir,” asked the commander, “how about bringing in a negotiator? If this guy is a terrorist it seems he’s giving up too easy. Let’s bring in more support and a trained negotiator.”
“You questioning my order?”
“No, but ...”
“Just do it!”
In their protective gear, the demolition team climbed stiffly up the steps and to the front door as the SWAT teams took position.
Bellow jumped to the porch, handgun drawn, standing to the side of the door behind the demolition team leader. “Pound on the door,” he hissed. Then yelled, “Zarif! Open the door. You are surrounded. Give up.”
“I can’t walk. I don’t have a gun.”
“Okay,” Bellow shouted. “We’re coming in. Scratch your nose wrong and you’re a dead man.”
He motioned to the demolition leader who tried the doorknob and the unlocked door swung open. From a slight crouch he took a quick glance inside, seeing a small man in his sixties sitting in a straight back chair, his right leg propped on a pillow on another chair. He was wrapped in a blanket.
“He’s just sitting there.”
“Okay,” said Bellow, still shouting. “We’re coming in. I want your hands in the air.”
He wheeled into the doorway. The last thing he saw was Zarif raising his right hand as he pressed an igniter. Violent explosions tore off the front of the house and erupted from window wells at the back and on either side. Most of the officers flattened against the frame house on either side of windows were killed instantly or horribly injured.
Terrell’s plane was just landing in Fargo when the emergency call was patched through from Zarif’s acreage. On the line was one of the agents who had arrived with Bellow. “We’ve got every damn ambulance in the county on the way,” the agent said, voice cracking, “but what we really need are fucking hearses.”
As he wired his house, Zarif carefully picked times when the window wells at the front were in shadows. Those in back and on the sides didn’t matter; the long lens couldn’t reach them. He had been careful to conceal the explosives under black plastic, like that used to keep rain out. He had wished for some of the C-4 he had given to Swale and Dog, but knew old-fashioned dynamite, purchased to blast tree stumps out, would work fine.
Three-twenty p.m. – Nearly time to go. In the bathroom of his room, Swale was reaching to shut off the radio when the urgency in the announcer’s voice stopped him.
This just in from Fargo, North Dakota. Several police officers, most of them on SWAT teams, reportedly were killed when a house they were raiding exploded. First reports are that the SWAT teams were called in on short notice to assist the FBI. The bureau reportedly was making an arrest in connection with a terrorism investigation. We’ll bring you more details as we get them.
“Damn. Poor Zarif.”
Five p.m. – Stickman walked casually toward the car where Swale and Dog waited. Assiri was at his car several spaces away. All right, thought Stickman, four back, only two to go. It’s too bad there won’t be time to hear their war stories about how things went.
An hour earlier, he had briefly faced martyrdom when a private security guard stopped him and asked to see the backpack slung over his shoulders. A trickle of sweat immediately formed between his shoulder blades and traced his spine. The guard had stepped suddenly from a boutique doorway, just feet away. He had a backup and Stickman doubted he was fast enough to get to the five-second timer inside the backpack. “Of course, officer,” he said, forcing a friendly smile. He pulled open the main zipper and held the backpack out so the officer could see inside, ready to reach under his light jacket to the holster at the small of his back. The guard opened the backpack wider and peered in at the books.
“I read In Cold Blood a long time ago,” he said, straightening.
“Me, too,” said Stickman. “The way things have been going for you guys, I thought a reminder was in order that there are some real bad guys out there.”
“Right on, man. Have a good day.”
He caught a glimpse of Dog, ticketed for the earliest movie, going in Theater 7. Stickman said, “Theater 3” as he approached the ticket taker and, small popcorn and cola in hand, entered. The lights were still up. He looked around at the half-full theater. People were scattered randomly, but it should fill in pretty well, he guessed, looking for an aisle seat. Spotting one in the back row, right side, he started up, but lost out to a man changing seats. Damn. At the opposite end of the back row the aisle seat was still empty. Stickman walked down and across and started up again. A young man, hot date in tow, also liked the idea of a back row aisle seat. All right for you, Stickman thought as he slipped past them and sat down, I’m going to sit right next to your chick and send the both of you to hell.
He put the backpack on the empty seat next to him. He wanted an opportunity to slide it under his seat and firmly against the back wall, where it would be out of sight when he left. The couple got into themselves, rubbing against the bounds of intimacy in public.
Stickman unzipped the backpack and, aided by a small flashlight, set the timer offering redundancy. A silly caution popped to mind: Never yell fire in a crowded theater. He zipped up the backpack and slid it between his legs and against the back wall, the C-4 well-positioned. The young couple – she whispering in his ear, he teasing the inside of her knee – took no notice. Anyway, stowing a backpack was no big deal. More important will be whether they take interest after he leaves and doesn’t return for a time. Whether they notice his backpack and start to worry about it. Security officials in airports and metros had driven home all too well the danger of deserted luggage. It is what it is, Stickman mentally shrugged. I just hope everyone else is doing as well.
The theater steadily filled in. An old man sat next to Stickman and promptly nodded off. Munching his popcorn, Stickman tried to picture the scene when this theater and five others exploded. Scores, maybe hundreds, of people killed instantly. Body parts flying, decapitation. Walls disintegrating and ceilings crumbling. Floors collapsing. Water pipes bursting and electrical circuits shorting, throwing terrified survivors into total darkness. Splintered seats and twisted metal and fire, flying debris and dust. Temporary silence, maybe. Fire spreading and debris settling and more dust. Moans and whimpers and cries and screams and pleading. Fires getting worse, reaching victims as they blindly wandered in the darkness. People horribly seared, in shock with shattered bones, groping down aisles, feeling their way over bodies and body parts and theater rubble creating horrible obstacles. Survivors desperately seeking a tortuous path that in a few short yards offered life-giving oxygen and safety, but yards beyond the reach of many.
A brave or foolish few struggling against the tide, fighting through the wreckage and carnage to get in – to do what? They had to know the futility of it but the call of loved ones inside proving too strong. Determined souls quickly starting the agonizingly slow process of rescue, saving some, holding others, comforting the dying and those piteously maimed. Still, hands grabbing some who could be saved, dragging out their broken bodies at sometimes fatal cost. A few arming themselves with fire extinguishers to spew weak streams of hope against the well-fueled inferno. Untrained rescuers soon hearing the sirens, a gazillion-alarm fire bringing in every emergency vehicle from miles around. Every cop joining the rescue or scrambling to locate attackers gone without description, without a trace.
And what happens in here will be just the start, he said to himself, looking around a theater nearly full. Hopefully, some of the C-4 explosions will breach walls, spreading death in hallways or maybe even the lobby where people will be checking their tickets or going to the restrooms or using a water fountain. Besides those killed or injured at the blast’s fatal edges, there will be panic, people running, or freezing in shock. Injuries from falls, tumbles on escalators, people crushed in tight spaces. Responders will add to the mayhem, bulling in as movie goers fight to get out. Fear will bring heart attacks, strokes, seizures. The confusion of parking lots looking like bumper cars, with more accidents, more injuries, more deaths.
Stickman’s imagination cataloged all that mayhem and more, with satisfaction, even as another reality crowded in. The courage of some in the face of the theater massacre would also inspire millions of people. He put the thought aside. Can’t be helped. That’s short-term. Long-term is the awful wrath, the long-term fear unleashed by C-4. Wrath and fear beyond my imagination. Long-term with a capital L. He munched his popcorn and sipped his cola and waited.
The previews started, then the movie, full of action with gunfights and car chases and plenty of explosions, which seemed fitting to Stickman. After a while he pressed a stem on his watch and, shielding the face with his hand, saw it was nearly four-fifty. Time to go. He reached under his seat to reassure himself, unnecessarily he knew, that the backpack was still there. He pardoned himself and slid by the doomed lovers.
Reaching the lobby, Stickman wondered nervously if by some weird coincidence he would bump into one or all of his colleagues as he walked from the theater. He saw how empty the lobby was and worried about six men drawing attention if they left within a few minutes of each other. He was pleased to see none of the crew.
As the outlines of Swale and Dog, waiting in the garage, came into view he heard popping sounds, like a car backfiring in the distance. He didn’t change his casual pace, but stiffened at the sound of rapid steps, someone catching up with him. He turned to face Foster, panic in his eyes, his face flushed. Stickman motioned him to slow down.
“Kobeisi, the dumb fuck, got himself shot.”
Stickman took a deep breath. “Did he get his backpack planted? Is he dead?”
“I have to believe he did, at least he didn’t have it when I bailed. He was shot bad, I think, but alive.”
“Walk slow and tell me what happened.”
Foster reached out with his hands and spread his fingers wide as if ordering himself to be calm.
“I left the theater and about halfway back saw Kobeisi ahead of me, thirty, forty yards. After a bit he started walking a little fast I thought, and then I saw a cop and two private guards a little ahead of him on the right side of the hall. Dammit, he should have just kept strolling, cool, but I think they saw him speed up. Then I see his jacket is hitched up over his holster at the back of his belt. Fuck! They’re going to see his gun if they ain’t fucking blind. I slowed to look at a sign to get my shit together. As he walked by them they saw his holster and gun. Whew, sorry ...They pulled in behind him no more than five yards away. ‘Sir,’ I heard one say, and Kobeisi turned. They had their hands on their guns and he knew he was in deep shit. He reached for his gun but snagged his hand in his jacket. When he finally got his gun out he had no chance. The cop who said sir shot twice. It looked like he took them in the stomach, at least one of them. Then there was a crowd. I stood on the edge for just a minute or so. I couldn’t hear or see Kobeisi and just eased on by.” As they reached Swale’s car Foster was a sweating wreck.
Stickman looked around. Few people were in sight, none close. “See Assiri at his car? Get him and come back here. Don’t run.”
“Give me a minute,” he told Swale and Dog as he leaned against the car.
With Assiri and Foster back, Stickman said simply, “The cops got Kobeisi. He’s gut shot and could give us up. The four of you can’t caravan. Assiri, Foster, head home. Swale, as we leave I’m going to ignite. Then drop me at my car and you and Dog head home, too. You know the routes, but it won’t be long until roads are a mess. Checkpoints. All you can do is follow your noses. We don’t know whose phones may be compromised, so no phone contact unless you’ve got something that will save someone else’s ass. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. You have done great, my friends. Thank you. Good luck.”
No one felt a need for goodbyes. They were all ready to leave. Who knew whether Kobeisi was coherent, what he was saying. Whether the cops were coming their way. Shutting down or evacuating the mall were both possibilities. Getting caught inside was a bad option. As Swale trailed Assiri’s car down through the parking garage a siren could be heard, growing louder. “That could be an ambulance for Kobeisi,” Dog said from the back seat. Stickman would rather it be a hearse, but said nothing.
“When we reach the street, drive as slow as you can,” he told Swale.
As Stickman had hatched the mission, he had wished for details on how the mall was constructed, to know if there was a liklihood or even a chance that his igniter would not work. An opportunity to test the igniter in the mall would have been even better. But he had put the plan together, assembled the crew and secured the C-4 all too quickly for a trial run. Or so it seemed. After Swale relayed the news flash about the raid near Fargo, news that neither had shared with the crew, Stickman was convinced he made the right call.
They were turning out of the garage, the igniter ready in Stickman’s hands. He was trying to judge when they were parallel to the Theatres of Mall of America. If he waited too long, went too far, missed on this pass, going back carried more risk than he wanted to think about. “Now,” he hissed through clenched teeth, and pressed the igniter. The three men strained as one to hear ...then spat out “Yes!” virtually in unison, believing a muffled clapping sound had penetrated the drone of traffic. For Dog, it was not a matter of believing. It was a certainty. The explosion was faint, but it still was the ugly roar he had heard many times in war-torn lands. A holocaust had been delivered in the name of domestic terrorism.
“For Zarif,” Swale said grimly, easing into the traffic of I-494 for the brief ride to Stickman’s car. With a nod, he was out and both cars were soon westbound. Sirens were in full throat, seemingly from all directions, and Stickman knew with certainty his ears had not deceived him. As he reached the I-35 exit to go south he could still see Swale, westbound.