Purpose of Evasion Read online

  Sami played things out. The options were to be shot again, and die; or, be blown up along with this building, and die. The relative hopelessness of his situation imbued his impertinence.

  “Let’s not make this Hollywood. Just shoot me again and you can take them out of my pockets yourself.”

  Tinker steadied his triangle position and raised the barrel. “I could.”

  “But you won’t.” Sami walked toward Tinker, cradling his right arm across his body, in an invisible sling. The left was still aloft as Tinker instructed and Sami nodded toward it, a gesture meant to emphasize his compliance. “You won’t shoot me again, because he might die.”

  They both looked down at Abu Muhammad on the couch. The blood had spread, and the front of his shirt was now a damp, rusty brown. He was silent, seemingly unconscious.

  “And if he dies,” Sami continued, “Then you need me. Because you need a live Muslim when the bombs go off. All the better to cover your tracks if it is me they find alive and Abu Muhammad is found with a bullet hole through him.”

  “Just put the detonators on the table.” Tinker’s expression said Sami was wrong. He could shoot him. Sami fished the four phones from his pockets, one after another. When he was done, Tinker marched him to the far corner of the room at gunpoint.

  “Stay here, facing the corner. If you turn, you’re dead. I am getting out of here alive and that means you might too, if you do what you’re told.”

  Before returning to the table, Tinker scooped up Sami’s pistol which had fallen when Sami was shot. Sami listened as his hope dwindled away. He didn’t dare turn to look. The anger was gone. He was afraid.

  Tinker walked to the couch and tried to revive Abu Muhammad.

  “Tahir!” he shouted in the old man’s face. “Can you hear me?”

  Abu Muhammad moaned.

  “Tahir, you have to sit up.” Sami heard Tinker snapping his fingers in front of the old man’s face. Slapping him. “Tahir! Come on. We’re almost there, old friend, but I need your help!”

  What help could he need? Sami was perplexed. Was Tinker that much of a coward? He would not shoot Sami. OK, pulling the trigger to end a life was not easy. Was he not prepared to blow the bombs he had built and then delivered to this building?

  “Tahir, people are back in the building now. Just as we planned! You need to tell me which detonator is for which bomb. Dammit, Tahir! Come on!”

  Tinker did not know the sequence of the detonators. Sami’s grandfather had been specific: first, they would blow a bomb at the top, then on the middle floors - two bombs, one to a side - and then the big one at ground level. Abu Muhammad had them in order when Sami arrived. But now, in and out of Sami’s pockets, replaced on the table in a jumble, Tinker could not distinguish between the identical phones.

  In the corner, Sami closed his eyes and listened.

  “Come on, Tahir! Tahir!”

  “I caaan’t…” The words came out of Sami’s grandfather in one combined exhalation. He did not have strength for words. If he didn’t get help soon, he would die. Sami would not be far behind. He was bleeding less than his grandfather, but steadily. He was lightheaded. Dizzy. He opened his eyes again, trying to orient himself to the walls and floor.

  “You son of a bitch! We’ve come too far!” Tinker shouted. He gave up on reviving the wounded imam.

  And then the world was upside down.

  ***

  Sami was face first on the carpet. Uncomfortably so. Unnaturally. He had been thrown there by the blast. The room was a kaleidoscope of swirling dust and broken glass was all around him. The window was blown out. The wall on the opposite side of the room was gone.

  Frustrated with his accomplice’s inaction, and in his haste to execute the final stage of his plan before the clock ran out, Tinker had chosen a detonator at random and blown the first bomb. It was one of the two on a middle level, placed far enough away to avoid killing the bomber in this room. But the Rebel Creek men had cut it very close.

  Tinker’s impulsiveness had been a mistake. Any doubt in the minds of the state, local and federal law enforcement waiting below was erased. The political brake that Gerald Seymour had put on aggressive action would be released. Wanting to move before he ran out of time, Tinker had started the countdown.

  Sami tried to raise himself from the push-up position, but his shoulder wailed in agony. He had to get up though. He had already concluded that if the opposite wall was blown, then the blast must have come from that direction. Tinker – standing toward the center of the room – would have gotten the worst of it.

  Sami stumbled to where the couch and table were moments ago. The couch, with the added weight of a man, had not moved far. Abu Muhammad was still drawing shallow breaths. The table had been upended, and Tinker, looking as groggy as Sami felt, was on his hands and knees trying to locate the detonators. The blast had thrown them from the table.

  Sami needed to get them first. No matter how disoriented he was, Tinker realized his own mistake just as Sami did. The cavalry was coming. If Tinker didn’t know which of the remaining detonators was which, then he would blow all three.

  Tinker was patting the floor by the couch. Sami guessed they were thrown further, and he looked to the spot on the floor where the table was standing before the blast. He knew which direction the explosion came from, and he tracked his eyes across the floor to the spot where he guessed the detonators might have been thrown. There was nothing but dust settling.

  It settled over the carpet like a heavy dusting of snow. Across the room, it settled on the shiny granite countertop of the small kitchenette. It settled on the couch, and onto the motionless form of his grandfather. His grandfather’s chest was not moving. Sami saw no sign of breath. No sign of life.

  The tableau knocked the wind from his lungs. The feeling was worse than the gunshot or the blast that knocked him unconscious. Tinker, his face inches from the floor, continued to pat and feel like he was working his way through a minefield. But Sami backpedaled into the corner. From there, he could see it all.

  He smelled the explosion and heard the wail of sirens. He was in shock, but there was something more. This is what it was like. He was living the moments his parents never had, experiencing the seconds after they were torn to pieces by another bomb in another building on another continent, detonated for the same reasons.

  The bombs had exploded for decades. In Beirut and London, left by Palestinians and Irish Nationalists. In Madrid, left by separatists Basques and revanchist Muslims. In Baghdad and Kabul, dropped by U.S. planes. If there were answers, if there was truth, it evaded him. There was only suffering and dying. In Baku and Washington, D.C. He’d seen enough. Clarity settled over him, like the dust.

  The choices were so clear, they seemed divinely communicated. If he went on, he would have to conjure with all this again. Bad people, or at least people who get bad ideas; bombs and their wreckage; the post-traumatic stress of his parents’ death and now his own shooting and bombing; and his grandfather. His abandonment. His betrayal.

  Or, he could stop here. He could sit down in this corner, cover his eyes and ears, roll into the fetal position, and wait. Wait for Tinker to stop patting the floor and find the detonators. Wait for the next explosion. Wait for the gunshot between the eyes. Wait for all the pain to go away, and he wouldn’t have to be anymore. Orphan. Gay. Muslim. Spy. Soldier. Terrorist. Grandson. Victim.

  Sami’s grandfather fought the battle for identity by rejecting any alternate interpretations of himself and embracing the radical. Sami considered seizing the opportunity to resolve the inner struggle that had defined his life by another expedient: surrender.

  The wafting chunks of drywall were gone. Only small particles floated on air that was returning to something like transparency. For the first time in minutes, Sami breathed without a grimy film coating the inside of his mouth. There was light again. Not the grimy yellow haze of the last few moments, but bright, clear sunshine.

  The new day th
at his parents never saw. They did not know before and after. There was life and then there was the bomb. Sami was left with the rest. The anger, the guilt, the depression, the trauma. The after. Life. He always felt that his story was different. That had never been a good thing.

  Until he looked down, with tears streaming down his face, and saw three detonators at his feet.

  Right there, in the spot where Tinker sequestered him, Sami saw the three devices. They were blown in this direction by the force of the blast and stopped from traveling further by the corner where Sami was confined. He scooped the dusty phones up and put them into his pockets.

  He won. He survived the bomb. He had beaten his grandfather, beaten Tinker and Seymour, beaten back hate and beaten his own past. He had the detonators.

  “I have no time to waste. This time, I will shoot.”

  Sami realized that Tinker had not been searching for the detonators. While Sami struggled with undercurrents of feeling, Tinker understood the dynamics of control. The detonators were secondary. He had been looking for the guns. The small, black Glock would have been near impossible to find. But Sami’s own Sig was in Tinker’s hand.

  Tinker leveled the gun and Sami closed his eyes. This time, Sami heard the shots clearly. Three rounds. Center mass.

  THIRTY

  NATIONAL HARBOR

  Sami’s eyes were sealed shut like a corpse, but the gunshots rang in Sami’s ears. Tinker staggered forward, as though pushed from behind. He fell to one knee, then the rest of his body crashed to the ground.

  “Let’s go! C’mon!” Sami felt hands grab him, but the voice barely registered.

  “Where are the detonators? C’mon, do you have them?” The hands pulled at him again, trying to move him from the corner where he was rooted. “Let’s go Sami, we need to get out of here.” At the mention of his name, Sami opened his eyes to see Yoda.

  The Marine still held a gun in his hand. On the floor, Tinker lay with one knee shoved up under his torso, his body contorted, and his mouth lolled open like a fish on ice. Three rounds to his vital organs had the effect Sami had expected when he shot his grandfather. Deep burgundy arterial blood was spilling from the exit wounds and onto the carpet.

  “Sami, do you have them?” Yoda could see his friend’s shock, and he spoke slowly while looking into Sami’s eyes.

  Like a child waking from a nightmare, stunned into silence by the fear that any movement or sound might rouse the beasts from his imagination, Sami did not speak. But he nodded.

  “You have them,” Yoda confirmed. He was holding Sami under the elbow now, guiding him toward the door. “All of them, right?”

  Sami cleared a heavy slab of dust-choked saliva from his throat. “Yes,” he croaked. “All three.”

  “We need to go. Are you OK to move?”

  Sami nodded.

  “They got you good, buddy.” Yoda noticed the gunshot wound to Sami’s shoulder and switched to his other arm, where he continued to lead his friend toward the door. “We’ll get you some attention, but it’s through and through. You should be OK. You’re lucky.”

  Sami didn’t respond.

  “That’s not the only way you’re lucky. If Emily hadn’t put her app on your phone, we might not have found you.”

  Sami was distracted and he tugged free of Yoda’s control. The Glock was still missing, but Sami’s Sig had fallen at the floor near Tinker’s feet. Sami picked it up. He fumbled at the small of his back but failed to reholster it. He tried and failed again.

  “I can take it.” Sami ignored Yoda’s outstretched hand.

  His focus had shifted to the couch, where his grandfather was drawing shallow breaths. He might have been roused by the trio of gunshots, perhaps imagining they were the sound of his own demise, just as Sami had. Or this might be his death rattle. Whatever the reason, he was awake now, his eyes pained but lucid. The old man’s position, askew on the couch like a ship run aground, confined his field of vision. Sami walked closer until it was clear Abu Muhammad saw his grandson.

  Sami held the gun by his right thigh and looked into the eyes of the man who left Lahore for the U.S. and built a community of worshippers, and a family. An American family. An American religious community. The American Ummah.

  Sami discovered the truth about his parents only moments ago, but that painful realization had been suppressed as he fought for life. Now it surged back. More than that, what rose was the resentment of a man made to feel unworthy. Unnatural. Dirty. Subhuman. The locus of that resentment was Abu Muhammad.

  Sami had known better than to listen to the hatred in his own home, he had known enough to leave, but his flight had always been a survival tactic. Deep down, he could not help but yearn for this man’s approbation. A Soldier. A Spy. A Muslim. A Man. Whatever he had become, whatever he mastered, Sami could not help but feel that something in him was broken because he could not be a Grandson.

  Now that he knew the truth about his parents, and about his grandfather, he could deal with the reality. Not of who he was, but what had been done to him. The wounds of his childhood could be excised. It was Abu Muhammad who was evil, because of what he had done. Not Sami, because of who he was.

  Sami raised the gun. Would it be merciful to kill the old man, to end his suffering? Sami dismissed those ideas as dramatic. It would be murder. Vengeance. For his parents and for himself. It was what brought him up to this hotel suite and it was what Abu Muhammad deserved.

  His grandfather looked up in desperation. His blood stained the couch. He drew another ragged breath, expecting it to be his last.

  Sami lowered the gun.

  He followed Yoda down the stairs. There was mayhem outside the hotel. The perfect conditions to slip away unnoticed. Like an assassin.

  EPILOGUE

  SANTA MONICA, CALIFORNIA | AUGUST

  California was far away. It had sun and beaches and other stuff Sami supposed might keep his mind occupied. He put the condo in Georgetown on Airbnb, and even with the asking price of accommodations in D.C., he rented a more expensive apartment at the beach on the way toward Malibu.

  His days began with the physical therapy Andy’s doctor prescribed after she treated his gunshot wound. Yoda was right. The bullet went through and through, mainly traumatizing the muscles connecting Sami’s shoulder and neck. He stretched every morning and then replaced his arm in a sling.

  He went to Santa Monica Pier, strolled through Pacific Park, leaned on the trusses under the roller coaster and felt it rattle his chest as it passed overhead again and again. Sun, sand, sea air and the only thing he noticed was how soft a target the park was. No security of any kind. Families clustered in lines all day, waiting for their turn on the rides, and then teenagers came at night.

  Groups. Clustered. Drop a gym bag by the Frog Hopper and another by the Ferris Wheel.

  Sami left a bag by the entrance to the Wave Runner. No one said a word. He sat on a nearby bench for ten minutes and watched. Not a second glance. A pressure cooker bomb would work well because you wanted flying shrapnel, low to the ground. More casualties and they were simple and cheap.

  At the Griffith Observatory, even as he listened to Leonard Nimoy describe the multimillion-dollar renovations, all he could think of were the vulnerabilities. No bag checks. No metal detectors. Single point of vehicular access and egress. The balconies overlooking the city were always crowded with people. This would be perfect for a small arms attack. Two or three guys with ARs. Two on the observation decks start the shooting, and one on the wide expanse of green grass out front, to pick off runners fleeing for the shelter of their cars.

  The Dodgers had a long homestand and Sami attended every night. He took great comfort from the setting. Loud and crowded, but orderly. Security in green jackets. Metal detectors standing at each gate like sentinels. But he found weaknesses. He formulated a plan. The team left for an East Coast swing and he was glad.

  He drove to Vegas on a three-day/two-night promotion at a hotel on The Strip. He didn’t
even last eight hours. The place was begging to be attacked again.

  He was amazed at how America had returned to business as usual, as though the hotel bombings had never happened. As though the places that Americans ate and played and stayed had done anything to make themselves safer. He was not in Beirut. Not in Jerusalem. Not even in London or Paris. When America saw danger ahead it didn’t stop, it accelerated. If the hit and run left carnage on the road behind or did damage to the big black SUV, that’s what insurance was for.

  This realization increased Sami’s alienation from his work and his country. That was a long time coming, and not unexpected, but another feeling overpowered that reaction and caught Sami off-guard. He was an orphan. His grandfather, his last connection to his parents, was dead. Sami was alone. He cried for hours, though he was not always sure for whom or for what.

  The aftermath of the attacks was predictable in Washington. Abu Muhammad’s role in the plot was revealed. And so was Tom Tinker’s. The networks and cable news shows let that marinate until Nielsen said America was losing interest, and then they detailed the connection to Gerald Seymour. With a gentle push from material that Sami left behind with specific instructions on when and to whom it should be released, the story broke.

  What did they know? When did they know it?

  What did the White House know and when did they know it?

  WHAT DID THE WHITE HOUSE KNOW AND WHEN DID THEY KNOW IT?

  A hurricane near Orange Beach, Alabama provided a brief distraction. But it wasn’t enough. The press corps hated the President, they hated Gerald Seymour more, and they smelled enough blood in the water for a feeding frenzy that would consume both. Less than 72 hours later, the most unorthodox of American Presidents, the man who prided himself on rejecting conventional wisdom, did the most conventionally wise thing of his presidency and threw Gerald Seymour overboard.