Blown Coverage (9 page)

Naheed’s interest had been piqued. Maybe this was the ultimate adventure she had been searching for. Maybe this was the piece
of her life that had been missing—a purpose, a cause.

Soon she began spending two days a week after school at Saleh’s family compound. His parents, who helped finance a budding
terrorist group, willingly confirmed the lie that Naheed told to her father about being there to study.

For Naheed, the only drawbacks to the training were the ranting sermons with which the mullahs began each session. Despite
joining up with Allah’s army, she was not particularly religious. Of course, Naheed believed there was a God. She just didn’t
buy the fact that he was quite so unforgiving with his people.

So she had endured the preaching with an appropriately pious look on her face. She shook her fist and chanted when necessary.
She endured the lengthy, repetitive tirades because she knew that afterward would come the training—how to kill with a gun,
how to kill with a knife, how to kill with one’s hands. Naheed excelled at stealth, cunning, treachery, and violence. For
once in her short life, she felt totally alive and in her element.

Finally, the time had come when her preparation was at an end. She had far exceeded the others in her group, including Saleh.
There was no graduation ceremony;
I guess this is not really a cap and gown
kind of event,
she had thought, laughing to herself.

But there was a meeting—a very special meeting—with an old one-eyed Iraqi.

For someone who prided herself with being fearless, Naheed was terrified in this man’s presence.

“Are you ready to fight for your God?” this man had asked.

Calling on all the religious fervor she could fake, Naheed had replied, “I am ready to die for my God.
Allahu
akhbar!
”

A twinkle in the old warrior’s eye had told her that he knew her religious talk was just bluster. His next words still made
their way into Naheed’s dreams at least once a week. He had reached his damaged right hand up and lightly patted her cheek.
“Such a beautiful young woman,” he had said with a smile. “Rest assured, my dear, you will die. But whether it will be for
God or for reasons of your own, that you must decide.” The old man had then moved on to the next graduate, leaving Naheed
weak-kneed and flushed.

Three days later she had been told to go to America and build herself a life. She would be told when it was her time to act.
So she had gone to her grandfather and begged him to set her up in America. He had agreed and unknowingly placed a ticking
time bomb into the heart of the art culture in San Francisco.

What
will
be my reason for dying?

As Naheed sank deeper back into the pillows of her couch, her hand lightly touched her cheek where the old man’s hand had
been.
Is it a love for God? Is it a disdain for others? Is it because death is the
final and greatest adventure?

Whatever it is, you better spend some time thinking about it now,
she told herself,
because the time for coming up with an answer is rushing
to a close.

CHAPTER
TEN

WEDNESDAY, MAY 13, 2:30 P.M. MDT ENGLEWOOD, COLORADO

“You mean being franchised isn’t a good thing?” Khadi asked Riley. “I thought it was a compliment. Like it was their way of
saying we really, really want you.”

Riley and Khadi were enjoying the May Colorado sun in front of Caribou Coffee. Skeeter sat two tables over. Riley took a sip
from his ceramic mug, placing it back on the black metal table before answering.

“Yeah, most people think that. But in reality, most players dread it. Since I’m franchised, I’m not going to be able to become
a free agent like I was supposed to.”

“Do you really want to be a free agent? Doesn’t that mean that there’s a good likelihood that you’d be moving to another team?”

Riley sighed. He really didn’t want to talk football, especially with someone who didn’t know football. His gaze shifted to
another outdoor table where a man in running attire was sitting with his black lab stretched out next to him. Two days ago,
Riley had sat at that same table with Whitney Walker.

That had been a very enjoyable conversation. Whitney knew her football. She’d asked great questions, and she’d proven that
she could be trusted to distinguish “on the record” from “off the record.” After the two of them had talked for an hour, they’d
gone across the street to the wildlife museum and shot a quick interview for television.

It was a huge asset for a player to have a go-to media person, someone he could trust if he had information he wanted to get
out. Riley wondered if maybe Whitney could turn out to be that person for him.

Part of Riley thought he should tell Khadi about his time here with Whitney. But then he thought maybe that would end up being
more trouble than it was worth.
Why open that can of worms? It was
just an innocent
coffee—
wasn’t
it?

“The goal in free agency,” Riley continued, shaking the picture of Whitney Walker’s green eyes out of his mind, “is to start
a bidding war. That helps to drive up the terms of a player’s contract, especially his signing bonus, which is the only part
of the contract that’s really guaranteed.”

“Seriously? So a contract isn’t really a contract.”

Riley smiled. “Well, yes and no. A team can release a player at any time without having to honor future salaries. That’s why
guys want the big signing bonus. The teams have to pay that. But since I’ve been franchised, it means no signing bonus for
me, and I’m being forced into a one-year contract that only pays the average of the top five players in my position. Basically,
it’s going to cost me between five and seven million this year.”

Khadi almost spit out her mouthful of coffee. “Ouch! That’s harsh. So are you going to stay with football?”

Just then, Riley’s cell phone rang. He picked the phone off the table, quickly looked at the caller ID, and then silenced
the phone.

“I don’t know. I mean, I understand where they’re coming from. There are still a lot of question marks in my own mind about
football. I’m sure they’ve got even more. They don’t want to dump a seven-figure bonus on me and have me leave football or
end up dead in some foreign country.”

“You’re not going to end up dead in some foreign country,” Khadi corrected him.

“Sorry, I guess I’m just feeling a tad pessimistic right now. But as for football? For right now, yeah, I think I’ll stay
with it. I mean, what else is there for me? I don’t really want to go back full-time into the Air Force. And I’m not going
to go into the CTD. I’m not really the analyst type.”

“And just what is the analyst type?” asked Khadi the analyst.

“Smart and beautiful,” Riley said with an embarrassed smile. “Unfortunately, I’m just beautiful.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Then seeing Riley’s feigned look of shock, she corrected herself. “I mean, you know you’re smart.”

“But not beautiful?”

“Shut up!” Khadi said, laughing.

Riley took another sip of his coffee. “So anyway, I don’t see myself doing the analyst thing, and long-term ops holds no appeal
for me either. Too much shooting and getting shot at.”

“So, it’s football by default?”

“Looks that way.”

Khadi’s cell phone began ringing. “Feel free to get that,” Riley said as Khadi checked who was calling.

“No, it’s fine,” she said, silencing the ring. “Hey, didn’t you go visit Meg last week? How are she and Alessandra doing?”

Before he knew it, Riley told Khadi all the details of the visit, including the final few minutes of their time together.

“You know she’s interested in you,” Khadi said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, please! She’s a lonely, grieving friend.” Riley had known it was a mistake telling Khadi about the hug as soon as the
words left his mouth. But for some reason, around Khadi his mouth often took the lead while his brain played catch-up. “Seriously,
her husband’s less than five months dead. Now you’ve got her on the prowl for a replacement.”

Khadi looked at him for a moment, then said, “Riley, tell me about the things you know.”

Although he couldn’t see Khadi’s eyes clearly through her Salvatore Ferragamo sunglasses, Riley could hear their sparkle in
her voice. “What are you getting at?”

“Come on. What are the things that you are an expert in?”

Leaning back in his metal chair, Riley said, “All right, I’ll play along. Let’s see, I know a lot about professional football
defense. Military operations. Various guns and weapons. . . . Uh . . . I’ve seen all of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns
at least a dozen times each. I rock at recipes involving fire and large pieces of dead animals. . . . I do a mean Sean Connery
impersonation. And I used to be the neighborhood expert on the Justice League of America—although I’ll readily admit that
my prowess here has slipped a little over the years.”

Khadi was laughing. “Okay, other than the Sean Connery impersonation, I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Hey—”

“Riley, we’ve had this discussion before. An impersonation needs to be more than a benign hand gesture and the repetition
of the word
Scotland
. But we digress. The subject you did not mention, my dear sir, is women.”

Straightening up, Riley said, “You’re right. My oversight. I am an expert on all things female!”

“Yeah right. Just like I’m an expert in that League of Justice thing.”

“Listen, the Justice League of America was a very well-respected team of superheroes who battled evil and injustice for many
years.”

Khadi just stared at Riley.

“Well they were,” he said defensively.

Riley was saved by Khadi’s phone going off again. “Sorry,” she said as she silenced it. “So, back to my point. You have great
wisdom about a lot of things, but you’re clueless when it comes to women.”

“Fair enough. But you weren’t there when Meg gave me the hug.”

“I didn’t need to be. All I’m saying is be careful. She may be looking for more from you than you’re ready to give. At least
more than I think you’re ready to give.” Khadi now began sounding a little bit flustered. “If you
are
interested in her, there’s nothing standing in your way, since I’m . . . I mean, we’re not—”

“No, of course we’re not,” Riley jumped in trying to save her. Unfortunately, he instead found himself falling into the same
verbal pit. “I mean, not that if things were different with us it wouldn’t mean that things would be . . . uh, different with
us. But, no, I’m not interested in Meg. I’m just trying to help her and Alessandra get through this.”

“Sure, that’s what I figured. I just wanted you to know that
if
you felt, you know, different, that I wouldn’t blame you. She is a very beautiful woman,” Khadi said, leaving that last statement
hanging there as if some sort of response were required.

“Khadi,” Riley said instead.

“Yes.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“Please.”

“So . . . how about this weather?”

Riley and Khadi looked at each other silently until they both broke down laughing. Shaking his head, Riley picked up their
mugs to take them for refills, then swung by Skeeter’s table and grabbed his empty before going inside. As the air-conditioning
hit his face, he smiled and prayed,
Lord, why did You place the most perfect woman
I know so far out of my reach? It just
ain’t
right, Lord; it just
ain’t
right.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

THURSDAY, MAY 14, 12:35 P.M. EEST ISTANBUL, TURKEY

His words were directed to God, but behind his closed eyes, al-’Aqran saw someone else entirely. This man was asking him questions
in butchered Arabic spoken with an American accent, slowly, with the vowels drawn out. He was tall, well built, and was wearing
a khaki green shirt splattered with blood—al-’Aqran’s blood. Over and over, this agent of Satan kept asking the same questions:
Who is in America? Give me names! Who is in the
U.K.? Give me names! Who is in central Europe? Give
me names!

At first, al-’Aqran had responded by spitting in the man’s face or yelling curses back at him. But with each act of defiance,
a belt-wrapped hand would land across his face or a blackjack would connect with a joint. His body had screamed out in pain.
He had prayed for Allah to take his life. Eventually, the old man was so broken down that all he could do was respond to the
questions with a look of contempt.
But I never talked! Before Allah,
I swear I never talked!

Pop, Pop!
rang out like rifle shots in the quiet room. Although the other men politely gave no indication that they had noticed, al-’Aqran
silently cursed his aging body—especially the way his knees seemed to find it necessary to remind both him and anyone around
him of their constant deterioration.

Prior to his time in captivity, these percussive protestations had happened only occasionally. But now he had audible accompaniment
to his physical movements multiple times every prayer session. His joints mocked him whenever he shifted from prostrate to
kneeling. And they downright rebelled whenever he tried to rise to a standing position.

Sitting back on his heels at the end of the
Dhuhr
, or noon prayer, al-’Aqran turned to his right and muttered,
“
As Salaamu
’
alaikum wa
rahmatulaah”
to the angel over his right shoulder who was there to record all of his good deeds. He then repeated the blessing of peace—although
with a little less feeling—over his left shoulder, where the angel spying for his sinful actions resided. Someday, the lists
these two were creating would be weighed against each other on the great scale. The old man prayed that when that happened,
things would go “right.”

The prayer having ended, al-’Aqran willed himself to rise. Immediately four hands grasped his arms to ease his journey up.
Roughly, he shook them off as his anger flashed. But then words from the Koran flashed into his mind (ten years ago, he could
have recited the exact Surah and verse) and stayed his temper.
“
Today you will be
paid back with humiliation, for you were unjustly proud on
earth.”

“I am sorry, my brothers. Please—your assistance?” Al-’Aqran resigned himself to the help but pulled himself away as soon
as he was fully upright.

Babrak Zahir, the youngest of the men with him, carefully began to roll up the
sajjada
as soon as al-’Aqran stepped off of it. A gift from the five men with him, the prayer rug was colored a rich red with an intricately
embroidered black and gold outline of the
Kaaba
covering its center. Al-’Aqran used a craggy and pitted old wooden walking stick to help him shuffle his way across the faded
linoleum floor, again cursing the Americans for what they had done to his body. Coming to a small, rectangular table around
which were crammed six chairs, he took his place at the head of the table, hearing the air whistle from the bottom cushion
as he sat.

The five men with him immediately began a subtle jostling as several of them tried to maneuver themselves to the places of
honor at their leader’s right and left. The sight reminded al-’Aqran of a game he had played as a child called Dance of the
Chairs, in which the children walked around a group of chairs while someone sang. The only difference here was when the music
stopped, there would be chairs enough for everyone—just not necessarily the chairs they wanted.

Al-’Aqran closed his one good eye and thought back through the weeks since he had come to Istanbul. While it was good to get
back to his people, he could sense the general disarray that had beset the Cause since he had been gone. The days since then
had been spent in honing the leadership, reestablishing lines of communication, and preparing for the next big operation.

After the glory of the Platte River Stadium attack in Denver, Colorado, things had begun to go wrong for the Cause. Al-’Aqran
was determined to make those responsible for the organization’s black eye pay and to place the terror of the Cause back in
the heart and mind of every American.

The sound of air shooting out from the five other cushions drew his thoughts back to the meeting at hand. However, just because
the seats were taken, that didn’t mean the loud discussion had ended.

And these are my leaders?
al-’Aqran thought.
These men who
can’t
even sit around a table without an argument?

Opening his eye, he saw one man who was not participating in the bickering. Hamad bin Salih Asaf sat at the opposite end of
the table, staring at al-’Aqran with the slightest of smirks on his face.

Asaf was the one who had masterminded al-’Aqran’s rescue and the brilliant but unfortunately failed attempt on Riley Covington
in Costa Rica. Saudi-born, Asaf had been given an excellent education. Following graduation, he had fulfilled a short commitment
with the Royal Saudi Naval Forces before being recruited to the
Al Mukhabarat
Al
A’amah
.

For the next ten years, Asaf had worked in this Saudi Arabian version of the CIA. While the secrets he learned about his country
and the rest of the Middle East were helpful in his new life as part of the Cause, the greatest assets he had come away with
were connections. Asaf had ties into all the major terrorist organizations and most Middle Eastern governments. It was one
of these relationships that had allowed him to broker a deal with the Chechens through Hezbollah, despite its being a Shi’ite
organization. Asaf was the one al-’Aqran counted on to clearly analyze the economic, political, and social fallout of any
attack the Cause might be planning.

As if in direct contrast to Asaf, the man who had managed to plant his sizable bulk into the seat of honor was Kamal Hejazi,
an Egyptian who had somehow found a way to weasel himself into the upper leadership echelon during al-’Aqran’s incarceration.
As soon as Hejazi noticed al-’Aqran looking at him, a wide smile broke out on his face.

“Would you like me to call this meeting to order for you,
sayyid
?”

Rather than answer Hejazi, al-’Aqran looked back to the opposite end of the table. “Hamad, my brother, why are you so far
away from me? Come to me. I need your counsel. Kamal will gladly give up his seat for you, won’t you Kamal?”

Al-’Aqran locked eyes with Hejazi. Surprise, then anger flashed in the Egyptian’s puffy gaze. Then resignation and shame washed
out all other emotions. Hejazi answered with a slight bow. “Of course,
sayyid
. After all, a chair is just a chair.”

Al-’Aqran watched the other three men at the table as Asaf and Hejazi swapped positions. All three seemed to be diligently
studying the embedded gold glitter pattern on the faded white tabletop.

Silently, al-’Aqran assessed the leadership council of the Cause. To his left sat Arshad Hushimi, an Iraqi, al-’Aqran’s oldest
confidant, valued both for his skill with munitions and for his friendship.

Next to Hushimi was Tahir Talib, another Iraqi. Talib was in charge of communications—internally to the members of the Cause
itself, to other organizations who shared the same goals, and ultimately extending out to the media of the world.

Quickly passing over Hejazi, whose only contribution al-’Aqran could discern was contradicting and nay-saying the leadership
council’s decisions—
something
I’ll
put a stop to today if the opportunity
presents itself,
he thought—he came to Babrak Zahir. Zahir’s father, Mohammad Zahir, had packed up his family and left (not
fled
, he was always certain to insist) Afghanistan in 1996 after the Taliban took control of the capital city of Kabul. While
the elder Zahir had been no fan of President Burhanuddin Rabbani, he also hadn’t cared for the leadership of the new extremist
Islamic regime. “It’s like a stupid little ten-year-old stealing the key to his parents’ car,” he used to say. “He’ll drive
hard and fast—running over some pedestrians along the way—but eventually he’ll crash and crash hard.” His words proved prophetic
when Kabul fell to Western forces a mere five years later.

Mohammad Zahir had been al-’Aqran’s closest friend for the past ten years, ever since they had been introduced to each other
in Algeria. That friendship had abruptly ended when Zahir was killed earlier that year during the Americans’ rescue of Riley
Covington in Italy. Only the news of Hakeem Qasim’s failure in his attack in California had shaken al-’Aqran more upon his
arrival in Istanbul than had the news of his friend’s death.

Upon learning of Mohammad’s martyrdom, al-’Aqran had immediately promoted twenty-five-year-old Babrak to fill his father’s
place on the leadership council. This was not just a sentimental action. Babrak had three things that qualified him to fill
his father’s shoes—intelligence, a passionate desire for revenge, and, despite being part of the terrorism organization only
a short eight years, a hands-on kill number second only to that of al-’Aqran himself.

Finally, al-’Aqran’s assessment brought him to Asaf, just as that man scooted his chair to the table next to his leader. “What
is the latest on our assets in the United States, Hamad?”

Al-’Aqran saw Asaf shoot a quick look to Talib, who, as the communications man, should have received this question. Out of
the corner of his eye al-’Aqran saw Talib give a slight nod.
Good. At least
one man puts the Cause before his own ambitions,
he thought.

“Tahir has informed me that the chosen four have been activated and have been given their instructions,” Asaf answered.

“And the Yamani girl is among those readied?”

“As you ordered,
sayyid
.”

“Good . . . good,” al-’Aqran said, more to himself than to anyone at the table.

“Are you sure this Naheed Yamani is the right person for the job?” Hejazi’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “She seems to
me to be nothing more than a spoiled little rich girl who, when the going gets tough, will go running home to the protection
of her grandfather. We can’t afford another failure like the debacle of your protégé, Hakeem Qasim.”

All eyes turned to al-’Aqran to see how he would respond to this challenge.

At that moment, a thin, veiled woman walked up carrying a tray containing six small cups of Turkish coffee. The aroma hit
al-’Aqran as his cup was gently placed before him, and it helped to ease his growing anger. Dark brown foam formed a soft,
gritty barrier to the rich liquid underneath. In his subconscious, a clock began counting down the five minutes it would take
for the dregs to settle. One more deep inhalation, and peace returned to his mind.

Hejazi had ignored his cup and was looking defiantly at al’Aqran. The older man just smiled to himself.
His play has begun. A
little more rope,
he thought.
Just a little more rope, and this son of a goat
herder will hang himself.

Without acknowledging Hejazi’s remarks, al-’Aqran turned back to Asaf. “And our plans to bring Allah’s revenge upon Covington?”

“Also in process,
sayyid
. Right now he is surrounded by many people. We have initiated a plan to isolate him and then draw him out. If we cannot get
to him, we will find a way to have him come to us.”

A picture of Hakeem Qasim as a boy flashed in al-’Aqran’s mind. The child’s body and soul had been damaged by the American
missile that had slaughtered his parents. Al-’Aqran had taken this shattered boy and recreated Hakeem into a young man of
courage and purpose. He had instilled the concepts of honor and revenge into his mind and had taught him the skills he would
need to accomplish those goals. During those times of training together, the older man had almost come to think of Hakeem
as a son. He had so much pride and hope in the young man.

But you still sent him to his death, did you not?
he heard from the left side of his mind.
Oh, but what a glorious death it was to have been!
the right side answered back.

“May I ask you something,
sayyid
?” The tone of Hejazi’s question instantly turned up the heat again in al-’Aqran’s body.

“No, you may not,” the old man snapped.

Hejazi pressed on anyway. “A thousand pardons, but I must ask it anyway. Is this vendetta against Covington really for Allah,
or is it for you?”

“As far as you are concerned, there is no difference between the two!”

“Please,
sayyid
! Words like that are close to blasphemy! I understand your hatred against this man, but please do not equate your will with
that of our beneficent creator!” Then a condescending smile spread across his face. “Please do not be angry if I find it necessary
to press this point. I am simply concerned for you and for our organization. I know you spent a horrible time in the hands
of Satan’s minions, and may Allah greatly reward you for what you suffered. I can hardly imagine anyone coming back to leadership
so quickly, especially someone of your . . . experience. Maybe some rest is what is needed for you. Then, after a time, you
could return to us and lead us with a clearer mind and a more direct purpose.”

Al-’Aqran could see in Hejazi’s smile that the man thought he was establishing the upper hand.
Fool! Time to start tying the noose.

“While I appreciate your concern, my
Egyptian
friend, you must know that through Allah’s grace my mind is clear and my purpose is set. But since you have convinced yourself,
at least in your small, addled brain, that you have the clearer head, what would
you
have us do? Covington has brought a great dishonor against the Cause! Would you see us turn a blind eye to that?”