January 21, 2013. 10 p.m. Washington, D.C.
The four men finished a late meal of hummus, halabi kebabs, string bean soup and melon. They were in good spirits. Ammar, the Builder, known to the world as Hector Santiago, poured some ginger tea for his three friends, all of whom were sons of Osama bin Laden. The three brothers had been schooled by their father from the time they were born to be “Abisali,” or “Warriors of the Faith.” All three traveled from Pakistan to Jordan to Morocco and finally to Mexico. They adopted Mexican names, and with their olive skin and dark curly hair, could pass well enough for Mexicans. In their early twenties, the three had entered America under F-1 visas as visiting engineering students, a skill they had picked up from their father, but they never even arrived on campus at the University of Albuquerque. They went underground, later obtaining fake social security numbers and driver’s licenses. Ultimately, they landed in Miami.
The older brother, known to the world as Francisco Perez, went to flight school, and after several years of training, obtained a job as a pilot for Corporate Jet Express in 2010. He acted as co-pilot during his probationary period for the first year, but six months ago, was being assigned his own flights as the pilot. According to his friends and neighbors, he was a devout Catholic, going to Catholic mass in Miami every Sunday. But secretly, he kept his Muslim faith and the religious rituals learned from his father long ago. The two twins, known to the world as Diego and Antonio Sanchez, went to trucking school, and after a year of training, had received their Commercial Driver’s Licenses. Each worked as an over-the-road eighteen-wheel truck driver for Fleet Trucking. They had been proud to receive their Arabic code names for this mission for the faith. The older brother, Francisco, was given the name “Altair,” Arabic for “Flying Eagle.” The twins were each known as “Al Hamal,” or “the Rams.” Earlier today, they had each received a text message from Mudabbir, the Planner. Their phase of the operation was ready.
Tomorrow would be a great day for the Prophet. Ammar regretted that he would not be able to detonate the bomb in the statue from within the church, for he longed to die as a martyr for the faith. But Mudabbir had told him detonation must be accomplished a safe distance away. Ammar had signed a lease for this house over a year ago. The house was two blocks away from St. Anthony of Padua, which was certainly within range for adequate detonation. When the detonation occurred, the Americans would not know what hit them. Their President and Vice President, all of their Supreme Court Justices, the Speaker of the House, the Majority Leader of the Senate, and half the government would be blown away in one mighty blast. The Americans’ government would be in shambles. And just then, when the imperialists were at their weakest, the three brothers would deal the death blow for Islam on the stadium in New Orleans.
On the wall behind the four men were several maps, including an architectural map of the Louisiana Superdome, showing the primary beams holding up the stadium and the walkways leading from the Superdome to the Hornets Basketball Arena. Another map showed detailed information about Highway 10, Poydras Street, and the roads and exits leading into the stadium. A third map showed a detailed map of the parking lots around the stadium. Their plan was for Altair to fly his Delta plane directly into the top of the stadium, taking out as many of the people in the stands as possible. When the survivors fled out of the stadium, the Al-Hamal brother would be ready to ram them with trucks filled with C4. The twins had rigged special machine guns which, at a moment’s notice, could be fitted onto the front of their trucks. Any guards who tried to stop them outside the stadium would be gunned down in a hail of gunfire. The hardest part of this mission was the waiting. They had waited their whole lives for this moment.
Ammar, the Builder, raised his mug of ginger tea. “My friends,” he said in Arabic. “Tomorrow is a great day. We shall cut the head off the Americans’ government tomorrow, leaving them as helpless as children. And then you three will finish what your father, our Master, started. God is great.”
“God is great!” said all three brothers, raising their mugs as well.
“I am sorry, Ammar, that we will find the virgins before you. It is a shame that you cannot die in the explosion.”
“Yes, it is a great sacrifice,” lamented Ammar. “But I am certain that the Americans will find me eventually and torture and kill me, so I will join you eventually. Just save some virgins for me!” he smiled. The four men laughed.
“The Superbowl is on February 3,” said one of the twins. “Just five days after Milad un Nabi, the Prophet’s birthday. What a fitting birthday present this will be, don’t you think?”
“Yes!” the three exclaimed. “A great birthday present indeed!”
“Who do you think Mudabbir is?” asked Altair.
“I do not know, but I get the impression that he is not Muslim,” said one of the brothers.
“Why do you say that?”
“We had our first meeting this past year at the end of July, in the middle of Ramadan, and he mentioned nothing about fasting or the holiday.”
“You may be right,” said Altair. “I get the impression he is high in their government, because he seems to know everything. For example, he told Ammar that the Secret Service did not detect the statues in their security sweep of the church. How would he know that?”
“It does not matter to me,” said Ammar. “I would take directions from the Devil himself to take out those American dogs. They wiped out my whole family, and they are going to pay for that.”
Altair patted his friend’s back in comfort. They finished their tea in quiet. After some brief discussion about what the news media would say the next day, Ammar decided he needed to get some sleep. The three brothers bid farewell to their friend. It would be the last time they would see him.
The Al Hamal brothers were driving their trucks to New York City tonight. Mudabbir had sent them a text message about an hour ago. Three Americans were arriving on a flight from Italy tonight. They would be staying at the Marriott in Times Square tonight before their scheduled flight to Los Angeles tomorrow. The Mudabbir said they needed to be killed. Apparently, they had information about their plans and may decide to go to the authorities. The Al Hamal brothers were not going to allow that. Mudabbir had sent them an MMS message on their phones with the text message. A middle-aged professor and two teenagers. The job should be very easy.
La Guardia Airport. New York City, NY
John Morse and his two children were to arrive at La Guardia Airport from Verona, Italy at 9:55 p.m. Their connecting flight was scheduled to go to Los Angeles the next morning, so Morse had made a reservation for the Marriott in Times Square. But the more he thought about it on the plane, the more he thought it was a bad idea to stay overnight in New York. Having read the final quatrains, he now knew why assassins had chased them in France. If terrorists really were planning to kill the President and bomb the Superdome, they would not hesitate to kill someone who was in a position to stop their plot. Surely, the assassins would find them in New York. The only smart play was surprise. As the plane got close to New York City, Morse looked at his notebook and read Quatrain 54:
Le Chef assistera aux obsèques du garde.
Le Constructeur cache une bombe dans la statue.
La Dame Puissante, quelque chose la retarde.
Dans l’église tous sont perdus.
The Leader will attend the funeral of the guard.
The Builder hides a bomb in the statue.
As for the Powerful Lady, something delays her.
Inside the church, all are lost.
During their long flight from Verona, Morse had been catching up on all the news in America. He learned that there would be a funeral mass tomorrow for Gil Johnston, the Secret Service agent who was assassinated on Inauguration Day at St. Anthony of Padua Church in Washington, D.C. The President and Vice President and all the Justices of the Supreme Court were scheduled to attend. He only had about twelve hours to warn them.
When they disembarked from the plane in New York, Morse led his sleepy teenagers to the Airport Gift Shop, where he bought New York Yankees hats for all of them, which they kept down low over their eyes. They huddled on the inside of a crowd making its way to the baggage area, and then quickly dashed from the crowd into the street, where they hopped on the nearest Avis bus. Morse and the teenagers looked out the windows of the bus nervously, sure that someone was coming after them, but they saw no one suspicious. Morse rented a tan Toyota Camry from the agent. He knew he would have to use a credit card, which would leave a trail, but if no one was here following them now, they could quickly disappear in the rental car. They took the keys from the Avis counter and went out to the parking lot. Morse started the engine, showed his paperwork to the Avis guard, and they gunned it out of the parking lot. Zach and Zoey looked out the back window. No one was following them.
Morse quickly turned on the car’s navigator and pointed it north towards Providence, Rhode Island, where his mother lived. He needed to get these kids out of danger immediately. The trip took a little over three hours. He filled his mother in on all the details when he arrived in Providence. He told her to go to a particular hotel and to refrain from using credit cards for now. He told his mother he would be in contact with her in a few days. The kids were sad to see their father go, but were happy to be temporarily out of danger. As Zach went down the hall of his grandmother’s house, he passed a mirror, and groaned when he saw his bald head.
At 2 a.m., Morse started the rental car up and headed back towards Washington, D.C. The navigator said the trip should take about seven hours if he drove the speed limit. That would get them in about 9 a.m. He hoped that would be enough time to stop the assassination. The Al Hamal brothers would never know that their trucks would pass within fifty feet of Morse’s rental car later that night just south of Philadelphia.
Morse pulled onto I-95. With his children now safe with their grandmother, he could turn to his next job of protecting the President. He took out his cell phone and dialed 911.
“911.”
“Yes, I have an emergency to report.”
“What is the nature of your emergency, sir?”
“I have information that there will be an assassination attempt on the President tomorrow morning.”
“Who is this, please?”
“I would rather not say.”
“And where are you calling from?”
“I would rather not say. All I can tell you is that I have credible information that assassins will attempt to kill the President tomorrow morning.”
“Sir, please hold the line. Let me speak to my supervisor.”
A few second later, a man’s voice came on the line. “
“This is Sergeant Bill Guest from the Providence Police Department. Who is this, please?”
“I would rather not say. I live in Los Angeles.”
“Why are you doing in Providence, sir?”
“I am returning from a trip to Italy.”
“You were sight-seeing in Italy?”
“Yes. And while I was there, I uncovered information that there is going to be an attempt on the President’s life tomorrow.”
“And where did you obtain this information from?”
“In Italy, from an ancient manuscript.” As soon as he said it, Morse regretted it. No one would ever believe him that a young girl living in the sixteenth century had predicted an assassination attempt tomorrow.
“Did you say a manuscript?”
“That’s not really important right now,” said Morse. “But you need to have the Secret Service do a security sweep of all the statues in St. Anthony’s church. I believe a bomb may be planted in one of the statues.”
“OK, sir, you need to tell me exactly where you are right this minute.”
“I cannot tell you that?”
“And why is that?”
“Because they are chasing us and are trying to kill us, and if I tell anyone where we are, they might try and kill me or my family.”
“And exactly who is ‘they’?”
“Why the killers of course!”
“And do these killers have names?”
“I have no idea what their names are.”
“Then how do you know they are plotting to kill the President?”
“I just do.”
“You just do?”
“Are you part of the plot, sir?”
“No, of course not! I am trying to prevent it!”
“Look, why don’t you just come down to our station house. You will be completely safe here, and then we can talk about it.”
“I am sorry, I cannot do that.”
“OK, here is what we are going to do. I am going to refer you to Homeland Security. This may take a few minutes. Do not hang up the line, do you understand?”
Morse held on the line for about thirty seconds, but then he became worried they were somehow tracing the call and triangulating his location. He didn’t know why, but out of a concern for the safety of himself and his family, he hung up. That call would simply have to do. They should be able to follow up from the information he gave them. He grimly looked down I-95 through the car window. He hoped he was doing the right thing.
Sergeant Guest was disgusted when he learned that the caller had hung up. The guy sounded like a crackpot, but you never know. He contacted Homeland Security.
“Homeland Security.”
“Yes, this is Sergeant Bill Guest from the Providence Police Department. We just got an emergency 911 call from an unidentified gentleman who says there is going to be an assassination attempt on the President’s life tomorrow.”
“Did he say where this would occur?”
“No he did not.” This was Guest’s first call to Homeland Security. Guest had momentarily forgotten about the reference to bombs in statues at a church. That omission would later prove to be critical.
“Did he say how he knew about this plot?”
“Yes, I think he said he learned it in Italy from an ancient manuscript, so I naturally thought he was a crackpot, but you never know.”
“Did he give his current location?”
“No, he did not.”
“Did you get a phone number from him?”
“Yes, we have a phone number 210-555-2478, but we could not get a location on him. Not enough time. But if he hit our dispatch center, he is somewhere in the Providence area.”
“OK, we will try and contact him. Thank you, Sergeant, for the information.”
“No problem.”
The Homeland Security operator called back Morse’s cell phone number, but Morse’s cell battery had run out. The Homeland Security operator left a message for him to call. Then the operator typed the message “CALLER FROM R.I. CLAIMS THREAT ON PRESIDENT’S LIFE TOMORROW, CLAIMS TO HAVE OBTAINED INFROMATION ON THREAT FROM ITALIAN MANUSCRIPT, PROBABLE CRAZY. NO OTHER SPECIFICS.”
Washington, D.C. 7 a.m.
At 7 a.m., Vice President Anna Scall was in her office in the White House, ready to attend the funeral of the fallen Secret Service Agent. This was a true blue American patriotic day, and not a single politician in Washington was going to miss this funeral. The Majority Leader of the Senate and the Speaker of the House, as well as all nine Supreme Court Justices, would be there. Her husband was taking her children on a ski trip to Colorado this week, so he would not be attending, however. Scall looked at herself in the mirror of the bathroom which was directly off her office. She was wearing black designer suede boots, a black pencil skirt, a white ruffled blouse, and a black Chanel jacket, with sea water gray pearls. Her long brown hair was sleekly coiffed in a low ponytail. As usual, she looked fantastic and she knew it. God, she loved being the Vice President. She applied a healthy dose of matte No. 23 authentic MAC lipstick to her plump lips and was about to leave the bathroom when her Chief of Staff, Matt Suba, appeared in the doorway, his barrel chest blocking her exit. He was wearing a $2,000 charcoal gray Armani suit, a white shirt, and red tie. He had obviously hit the tanning booth recently, for he looked much tanner than he should for January. He smiled his player smile.
“Morning, hot pants.”
“Hey, you can’t be in here,” she said coyly.
He walked towards her until he was inches away. “Oh yeah, who’s gonna make me?”
Scall put her hands on his chest. “Matt, stop. You are going to get me in trouble.”
Suba closed the bathroom door. “Nobody saw me come in and there are no cameras in here. You are the Vice President, you can do whatever you want.”
He pressed himself back against her, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her up on the vanity.
“Ichabod Crane is gone this weekend and I have not had you in two weeks,” he said. He started undoing her blouse.
“Matt, I can’t, you are going to mess me all up before the funeral.”
“Look, we will just be late for the funeral. The guy’s dead. He is not going anywhere.”
Suba took off his coat, and then his tie and undershirt, and hung them all on the door hook. He went back to Scall, who spread her legs on the vanity. Suba went between her legs and started kissing her. He knew she would not be able to resist him. After they kissed for about a minute, Suba picked up his cell phone and called Scall’s Secret Service agent.
“Bobby, this is Matt. Look, CHICKEN FRIED is tied up with some Vice Presidential business, and is going to be late for the funeral. Why don’t you guys come down and get her at around 8, OK?”
“Roger that,” said the agent.
Suba finished the call and then took off Scall’s bra and skirt, leaving her boots and thong underwear. He took off the rest of his clothes and then entered the Vice President, slamming her against the bathroom floor. None of the agents down the hall heard her moans of rapture as her Chief of Staff took her again and again. By 7:45 a.m., both the Vice President and her lover were finished and primping in the mirror, trying to make sure they each looked as polished as they had before their lovemaking session. The Secret Service agents met them at her door by 8 a.m.
“CHICKEN FRIED is en route to the driveway,” said the Secret Service Agent into his wrist. Have the car ready.”
7:22 a.m. was sunrise. Ammar, the Builder, began his last Al Fajr, the dawn prayer ritual. On his prayer rug, he prayed in the direction of Mecca, asking Allah to give him the strength to carry out his holy mission. Then he went into the bathroom and engaged in the cleansing ritual of the martyr. By 7:45 a.m., he was seated by the window with binoculars, looking out at the circus that had gathered outside St. Anthony’s church. His detonator, made out of a crude prepaid cell phone, was ready to go.
By 7:30 a.m., President Woodson and the other dignitaries were already at the church, each one trying to summon the most somber face for the deluge of cameras set up outside the small Catholic Church in Georgetown. The President and the First Lady had the front row, and behind them was the pew for the Vice President and her Chief of Staff. The next row contained the nine Supreme Court Justices, and behind them, dozens of legislators. A phalanx of uniformed Secret Service pallbearers, in uniform, proceeded solemnly across the parking lot with the coffin draped in the American flag. The coffin was brought near the altar of the church and the Secret Service agents took their seats. The pastor of St. Anthony of Padua took the lectern, ready to give comforting words to those in attendance. Behind him, the eyes of the statue of St. Anthony looked on, hiding a coat of dangerous explosives.
At 8 a.m., Morse’s rental car was barreling down the streets of Georgetown towards the church. Unfortunately, however, the police had barricaded everything within a ten-block radius. Morse drove up to the barricade and jumped out of his car. “You have to let me through. There is going to be an attack on the President’s life! They have hidden bombs in one of the statues of the church!”
The police officer at the barricade stopped him.
“Whoa. Wait a second. Let me see some ID.”
Morse hesitated, but gave him the ID.
“And how do you know there is going to be an attack on the President?”
“Trust me, I just do.”
“OK, hold on right here. Do not move.”
The policeman radioed into his shoulder mike. “Dispatch, I have a gentleman here with a California Driver’s license, name John Morse, M-O-R-S-E, license number 637488889, and he claims there is going to be an attack on the President’s life. He says there are bombs in the statues in the church. What do you want me to do?”
The dispatcher said, “Hold him there and we will investigate.”
The dispatcher then radioed one of the Metro Police officers in the parking lot of St. Anthony’s. The officer then ran over to Agent Pete Williams with the Secret Service and told him he had a man at the barricades frantically saying that the President’s life is in danger. “He says there are bombs in one of the statues of the church.”
By 7 a.m., an alert FBI agent named Jim Duncan had picked up the Homeland Security operator’s description of Morse’s message from earlier that morning, along with thirty other death threats on the President from crazies. It took about 45 minutes for the Providence Police Department to send the actual tape of the call by e-mail to the FBI agent in Washington. When Duncan listened to the tape he became concerned. Sure, the part about the manuscript sounded crazy, but he did not like the reference to bombs in statues. That sounded very specific. He picked up the phone and called his contact at Secret Service. It was 8 a.m. The funeral mass had just begun.
At 8 a.m., Secret Service Sergeant at the White House Bill Thomas got a call from Agent Duncan. He explained the tape.
“Did you guys X-ray the statues in your security sweep?”
“They must have. I am sure they had dogs in there. We also checked with the priest, and there had been no recent contractor working in there or anything.”
“Well, Bill, it is your call, but this caller is making a specific warning about bombs in statues. If it were me, I would pull everybody out of there.”
Thomas thought about it a second. The President would be mad. This was going to be a great photo op for a lot of politicians. But marketing was not his job. His job was to protect the President. He knew what he had to do. He hung up with the FBI agent. Thomas radioed the Secret Service Agent in charge of the President, Pete Williams.
“Agent Williams, this is Sergeant Thomas at the White House. I think you need to get GAMBLER and everyone out of that church NOW! We have a credible report there could be a bomb in one of the statues.” Seconds later, a Metro Police Officer ran up to Williams and told him the exact same thing. Williams jumped into action and radioed Stark Johnston, the Agent in the church protecting the President.
“Stark, get GAMBLER out of there NOW! There is a bomb in the church! Repeat, bomb in the church!”
Stark Johnston heard the words being piped into his earpiece. Johnston grabbed the startled President by the arm and he and two other agents, ran him down the main aisle of the church.
At 8:05 a.m., Vice President Anna Scall and her Chief of Staff Matt Suba arrived by limousine at one of the police barricades. They showed ID and the officer opened the barricade for them. When they were fifty feet from the driveway entrance of the Church, there was a gigantic explosive fireball emanating from St. Anthony of Padua Catholic Church. A smoke storm of bricks and wood and human flesh erupted in all directions. The Secret Service Agent driving the car did not need to be told what to do. He hit the gas and bolted away from the church, in an effort to make sure the terrorists did not get the Vice President.
“Mayday! The church where the President is has just blown up! I have CHICKEN FRIED. She is not injured. I am taking her to location Delta Bravo Charlie 773. Repeat Delta Bravo Charlie 773.” The police officer at the barricade, stunned by the smoke cloud in the distance, took a few seconds to move the barricade. The limousine powered through the space and screamed down the streets of Georgetown. Several police cars met them two blocks later and gave them safe escort to the safe location for the Vice President.
Few people know that the President, the Vice President, the Speaker of the House, the Senate Majority Leader, and the nine Justices of the Supreme Court, wear pulse monitors, either in the form of a wristband or ankle band so that Homeland Security and the Secret Service will always know if the important members of the government are alive or dead. An agent at Homeland Security’s offices in Virginia is always watching the pulse monitors. A large panel board shows a green light if the pulse is still detected and a red light if it is not. Malfunctions in the monitors, which are occasional, are always a cause of momentary panic. Agent Carvel Tefft was the agent on call this morning in charge of watching the pulse monitors. At 8:05 a.m., the green lights for everyone except the Vice President of the United States suddenly went from green to red. Agent Tefft was dumbfounded. He had never seen anything like that before. He hoped this was another system malfunction. He called his boss’ cell phone.
“Boss, we have a situation here,” he dead-panned.
Half an hour later, the Attorney General of the United States, received an urgent phone call from the Secret Service. They wanted to know if it was constitutionally required for a Supreme Court Justice to swear in the President of the United States. The Attorney General was confused why they were asking this question.
“No,” he said. “The President is just required to take an oath. Any judge, even a justice of the peace, can administer the oath. Why do you ask?”
“Turn on your TV,” said the Agent.
Vice President of the United States Anna Scall was waiting patiently in the mock courtroom of the Georgetown University Law School. A television had been wheeled into the room. They were watching the news about the explosion unfold on the television. A few minutes later, ten Secret Service agents entered the courtroom, accompanied by the Chief Justice of the United States Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit.
“Vice President Scall,” said the agent. “I regret to inform you that the President of the United States, Tim Woodson, is dead. The Chief Justice from the appellate court is here to swear you in as the next President of the United States.”
Anna Scall was speechless. The appellate judge brought a Bible over and asked her to place her hand on the holy book.
“Repeat after me,” said the justice, reading from a hastily prepared index card.
“I, Anna Scall….”
“I, Anna Scall…” she repeated. Anna Scall was about to become the first female President of the United States.
As a crestfallen John Morse stared at the black clouds in the distance, Morse recalled the prophetic words of Henriette de Nostradame:
The Leader will attend the funeral of the guard.
The Builder hides a bomb in the statue.
As for the Powerful Lady, something delays her.
Inside the church, all are lost.
Tens of thousands of miles away, in a cave in Pakistan, a young man ran with excitement with a laptop computer down the hall. “It has happened! The President is dead!” he exclaimed. “The final attack of America has begun!”
The Master looked at the laptop and, for the first time in many months, cackled loudly.