“Yes,” said the imam, “it is play now, but soon, my young, fearless jihadis, it will be real, as will the blood that you spill, including, in martyrdom, your own as you make the trip to be loved by Allah.”
“Allahu akbar!” someone shouted, and the others took it up, until it grew alarmingly loud, and Andrew elbowed the enthusiastic imam, and that gentleman came to his senses and ordered silence.
The young men drew a single orange banana clip from the pouch they wore on their chest and now pivoted it into the well of the AK-74, almost in perfect syncopation, as if on drill, so that the sound of twelve clicks snapped through the space. To some ears, it was music.
Finally, each of the young men was handed a large overgarment, cheap blue gabardine overcoats formerly issued to Czech draftees that had been picked up by Andrew, XXXL, at a local surplus joint. They were easily big enough to swallow the young men and the rifles they held cradled tight across their chests or down along their sides, hands nesting on pistol grips. To look at them in this condition was to see little that suggested lethal intent: young Somali men, each handsome in that Somali way of which Somalis were so justly proud, with high, fine cheekbones, chocolate skin, a fine pelt of frizzed hair, and bright and vivid eyes, each wrapped in some garment indistinguishable from the garments worn by others of the age and cohort, Somali or whatever, pretty much the world over.
“When the Kaafi brothers are released,” the imam concluded, “then you will have your killing. No one will interrupt you, as the infidels are cowards. If they cannot bomb from afar or fire missiles, they lack the will to fight. They do not like the sight of blood or the damage a bullet may do. But you, my young lions, are hardened in battle. The destruction to flesh which you bring to them, the lakes of blood you spill until it is thick upon the floor, all of that is your contribution to the Faith and the vessel of your glory. You will avenge Osama!”
Asad thought, Who was Osama?
7:55 P.M.-8:01 P.M
Any reports from the mall?” asked Colonel Obobo, himself bathed in the glow of the TV monitor in the dark of the Incident Command trailer, as the same imagery of loading, sealing, and then taxiing was playing out.
“All quiet, sir.”
“Great,” said the colonel.
Then he felt a presence; it was Mr. Renfro leaning in quietly.
“I haven’t seen Jefferson lately,” whispered Mr. Renfro. “I don’t trust him. Maybe he’s up to something crazy. Better check on him.”
“Tell me, where’s Major Jefferson?” the colonel asked loudly.
“Sir, I haven’t seen him.”
“Commo, get me Major Jefferson.”
“Yes sir.”
The colonel put on his earphones and throat mike, just in time to hear the channel one request, “All personnel, this is Command, where is Major Jefferson? Major Jefferson, please report in, ten-four.”
The silence was ominous.
As the colonel watched, the jet began the pirouette that would place it on the proper vector for takeoff.
“Ah, Command, sorry, Jefferson here, checking in.”
“Major, where are you, please?” asked the colonel.
“Sir, I’m with the Mendota Heights SWAT commander, trying to adjudicate an argument he is having with Roseville in regards to the coffee situation. Nothing I’d thought to trouble you with, though if you want, I can return ASAP when I get it settled and brief you.”
“No, no, you handle it, Mike, I trust your judgment, you know that. If you can, get yourself to a TV and watch these bastards fly away home. Then get ready to receive the hostages.”
“Yes sir,” said Jefferson. “I’ll do that.”
“Okay,” said Cruz, “you are the wizard of America, the Mall. You know games, I don’t. You get to be the intelligence officer; I’m just the grunt. I’ll find another way.”
“Thank you, Ray,” she said.
He thought quickly.
“You got a cell?”
Of her age and generation and culture, who didn’t have a cell?
“Sure.” She took out her Nokia.
“Write the number down on my wrist.”
She did, with a Bic she had in her jeans pocket.
“I’m going back. I’ll get up there by some other way. I’ll figure it, don’t know how yet.”
But she knew how. There was only one way. He had to get back to the atrium overlooking the amusement park and risk climbing from the third-floor balcony to the fourth. Somehow, some superhero USMC goddamned way.
“When I’m ready, you go to the door and fire five or six rounds into the door jamb next to the lock, like we did before, push it open. If Geniusboy has his gunners out there waiting, they’ll run to the door to pop you coming out. Only you won’t be coming out. I will be, from some other place. I will do the popping. Then we move on to the store where he’s running this game and we get ready to deal with him. Got it?”
“I won’t let you down, Ray.”
“That’s the one thing I know for a fact.”
“So, the plane is at the runway,” Marty told Nikki over the radio. “It’ll be off in a few seconds, a minute or so at the most.”
“Got it. I don’t like it. To me, we’re trusting these guys to keep their word like, I don’t know, they’re bridge club ladies or something.”
“The Frabjous Obobo has decided. Anyhow, I have a great shot in mind. Oh, you’ll like this. This’ll get me to New York too, Mary Tyler Moore.”
“Mary Tyler Moore doesn’t have room for moochers or slackers in her organization, Marty,” said Nikki. “What’s this shot you want?”
“Well, it’ll get me a local Emmy, that’s for sure.”
“You want an Emmy, Marty? Buy some more tables at the banquet.”
“So young, so cynical.”
“Go ahead with your Gone with the Wind shot.”
“When the planes take off, I want you to have Cap’n Tom, assuming he’s still sober-”
“Hey, Marty,” cut in Tom, “I haven’t had a drink in at least three minutes.”
“Tom drops down and hovers over the big entrance there on the east side.”
“Got it.”
“You should get dramatic shots of hostages pouring out and heading toward the buses and climbing aboard. Some’ll be limping, some’ll be being helped, there’ll be crowding, but also joy and thankfulness.”
“Got it.”
“Get me faces, I want faces.”
“Faces.”
“Then the camera op pulls back, comes in tight as he cranks focus way in, and sitting in the doorwell of the WUFFchopper is new star Nikki Swagger. Ms. Scoops-R-Us herself, reporting on the hostage release. In one continuous shot. It’ll be terrific, and maybe it’ll go national.”
It was a good idea.
“Gee, you’re wonderful, Mr. Grant,” she said.
Cruz made it out the doorway and slid down the Rio Grande hallway toward the balcony over the atrium. He went prone, slithered to the metalwork, and saw, two stories down and through the screening of possibly artificial trees, the spread of hostages on the walkways of the amusement park, and the gunmen standing all around. He got a good look, through a hole in the trees, of Santa. Still dead.
He picked up his phone.
“Sniper Five, go ahead, Cruz.”
“They’ve set an ambush at the stairwell, we think. I’m going to go around it, but there’s no easy way. No nearby escalators, all the stairwells are locked. So I have to climb in plain sight from this level to the next. Can you see me?”
A pause, as McElroy worked his binoculars, and then found the marine lying on his back just off the balcony.
“Got you.”
“I need a recon. See any bad guys?”
“No, they’re all downstairs, I have no movement on any of the upper levels. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Do you have a better one?”