“The fire control system? It has guns?”
“No, no, as in fires, fire engines, firemen. We had to interface with another firm, very delicate business. Japanese. Very arrogant people. You cannot tell them anything.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“They do have the best fire control hard- and software in the world, and they maintain their very high standard by retaining direct access to their system from Tokyo. They can monitor and troubleshoot anyplace in the world from their headquarters in Tokyo. All by nothing more sophisticated than-perhaps you have heard of this? — a telephone.”
“My God,” said Neal.
“Yes. Now I am going to give you a number to call and an engineer to talk to. They are very careful too, so I advise you to have your State Department run interference. You want to get into the system? This is how you get into the system.”
Decisions. Obobo, with Mr. Renfro’s shrewd advice, had a superb gift for making the right one. His confidence, only a little shaken by the hostility of the press conference, had reassembled itself, and now various people put various issues to him for disposition. But there were so many of them. Some could be put off or safely ignored.
Jefferson, the SWAT hotshot, wouldn’t go anywhere, he was so desperate to get the nod from Obobo to go in shooting. Of course, shoot, shoot everyone, that’s a good idea, a mall full of bodies with lakes of blood on the floor. But Jefferson, like other men of his ilk, was basically so obsessed he was stupid. He could be manipulated with flattery and attention and easily disposed of.
Other decisions: Should we leave food at the doors and pull back, in hopes that the gunmen, whoever they are, will take it in and distribute it? What about medical supplies, antidepressants or antianxiety drugs? Renfro agreed the answer to both: yes. Why not? The stress on the hostages must be godawful, not that anyone could do anything about it.
Then there was the pressure of the media. National correspondents were hammering Renfro for more info, and Renfro pointed out that if you let them feel like insiders, maybe they won’t be so rough on you. But Renfro also knew it would be ill-considered and play to the strength of the colonel’s enemies if he were seen giving one-on-ones in the crisis. So it was a thin line to be walked, and Renfro advised giving the networks brief one-on-ones but against a dynamic situation, all in standup so that it didn’t have that public relations feel to it and was more cinema verite in nature. Renfro had also arranged for the colonel to suit up in tactical gear, and the man was now resplendent in a black jumpsuit with his Beretta in a midthigh tactical holster, as well as radio gear, flashbangs, cuffs, and Danner tac boots. Now he looked the part as well.
And the frustrations! Why was he getting no meaningful intelligence? Where was the FBI on this? To get him some leverage, they had been tasked with running an investigation. They had the access to the various federal databases, and so far what had they come up with? A little something from the Geeks that Kemp had thrown at him but really constituted nothing but a big yawn, obvious stuff. So disappointing. They were supposed to set up an information central under command of a major, by which data from records, interviews of witnesses (many grabbed on the run), advice from other departments and police executives would all be collated, evaluated, prioritized, and then-the most important-brought to him, and of course it was an utter fiasco: too much information too fast, too much of it unreliable or hearsay or interpretation. So that enterprise had yet to produce anything.
Meanwhile, he was aware of the clock, spinning its inevitable way toward 6 p.m. That would make three hours since the thing had begun. Three long hours. Suppose the man inside shot six more people. Then he’d have to go before 7 p.m.; he couldn’t stay on the outside for seven at 7 p.m., then eight at 8 p.m. Why didn’t these people talk to him? Tell me what you want. Start a conversation. Let’s see where we are. Nobody does something like this and then goes silent. It doesn’t make any sense. He knew that if he could only start a dialogue, he could ultimately bring them to his side. That was one of his greatest gifts and it always served him well. His intellect, his humanity, his empathy, his compassion: those were his secret weapons; those would win the day.
“Sir,” came another voice, one of many, and he said, “Yes, yes, what is it?” then turned, his attention caught because he saw Jefferson outside talking to a TV reporter and he didn’t want to be criticized from within the command during the incident, and at the same time, he saw his PA hustling in, possibly with some new directive from the governor, and outside the window in the falling dark he saw reporters laughing and knew they were having a good one at his expense and “He wants to talk.”
— and he himself had to go to the bathroom and he hadn’t had dinner and couldn’t stay sharp without food and “Who wants to talk?”
“Him,” said the tech.
Suddenly it got very quiet.
“The fellow inside?”
“Sir, it’s a call from Mall Security Command. I’ve verified it, it’s the right number, it’s from inside all right. It’s from somebody who says he represents an outfit called Brigade Mumbai. He wants to talk, he says, or at six p.m. he’ll kill six more people.”
THREE MONTHS EARLIER
The Imam, Nadifa Aba, locked the door of his storefront mosque-Masjid Al-Taqwa-on Bedford Avenue and checked for his enemies before walking to his car.
He had many enemies. Of course the FBI, but at least they kept their distance. Then the young American black men, who thought he was a fool and mocked his dignity and laughed at his prayerfulness and liked to intimidate him with fantasy violence that ended with a blow halted an inch from his nose. When he ducked, they collapsed in laughter.
But worst of all was the Reverend Reed Hobart, of the Minnescola Avenue Baptist Church of the Redeemer, who one day decided that his God had spoken to him and it was his duty to drive the non-Christians from Minnesota. The reverend had a long history of crusades and himself was probably under FBI surveillance for links to a violent antiabortion underground, but he also had a nose for publicity and for two weeks had shown up at ten each morning for four hours of nonviolent but very loud protest outside the imam’s modest mosque.
ISLAM IS THE BUNK one placard read, and GO BACK TO GOATLAND read another, and OSAMA IS TOAST, and the worst was KORAN + MATCHES = HOME COOKIN’. To see the text desecrated like that! It filled him with rage and pain and hatred, pushing him further and further toward the violence that he felt deep in his heart. But he knew if he struck at the Reverend Hobart, with his mane of hair and his big head and his loud voice, he’d only be mocked and ridiculed. How could a believer keep his dignity in such a hellish circumstance?
But the reverend had taken the day off, and no one cursed at the imam as he walked to the car. To his right, as he passed a vacant lot, the vividly lit towers of downtown Minneapolis gleamed in the surprisingly chill August night like a nightmare. Metaphorically, of course, it was the West, hideous and tempting, all gloss, glitter, licentiousness and flesh, insolent black youth, bellowing white false holy men. He sniffed in disrespect, sending a snort of disapproving breath out into the air, purposefully not looking at the skyline of decadence, a Babylon of infidel scum.
He was a bitter man, forty-two, tall and angular like many Somalis, with bright eyes, white teeth, cheekbones like razors, and a froth of beautiful hair. He yearned for dry heat, the solitude of the desert, for quiet brightness, for the path of God’s will to be known to him, for a mission more potent than his current one, which was to enforce the Faith upon an ever-diminishing group of countrymen and observe in desolation as for every new arrival who joined, two older ones wandered off, away from the Faith, captivated by the temptation of America. Since the killing of Osama the Holy Warrior and the barbaric spectacle of celebration that ensued, the imam had been in a state of constant, fiery rage.