the display shifted from the current time to a preset number and began counting down. A quick scan of the wires leading out from the improvised timer showed no loose connections. Satisfied, he shut the case and sealed the top with a blob of epoxy. That should stop any prying hands for the short time needed, he thought.
The young Somali glanced up from his work. The monorail was just beginning its long arc over the crowded Disneyland parking lot. Careful to keep his hands away from the adhesive, he leaned over, set the metal case against the compartment wall at his feet, and tamped it into place.
He slid across the monorail compartment, closer to the door, and surveyed his handiwork for a brief moment. Placed below eye level, the case blended fairly well with its surroundings. It should escape immediate notice.
The train began slowing. They were almost back to the hotel.
Qalib recapped the epoxy, dropped it into his bag, and stripped off his windbreaker. That was the easiest form of disguise. Whites could rarely tell blacks apart by their facial features. The station attendants should see no immediate connection between the gray jacketed black man who’d gotten on the monorail only minutes before and the young man in a bright Mickey Mouse sweatshirt who was coming back.
When the doors slid open, the Somali walked unhurriedly toward the stairs, completely ignoring the milling crowds waiting to board. They were no longer his concern.
Ten-year-old Brian Tate mumbled a favorite swear word under his breath as his freely swinging ankles jarred painfully against that dorky raised bump that stuck out from the side of the compartment. He sneaked a fearful look toward his parents to see if they’d heard him. Nope. He relaxed. Both of them were way too busy pointing out the sights to his bratty younger brother and sister. They were crossing over that stupid submarine ride he’d taken two years ago. He sneered. You didn’t see anything cool, he thought. Just swimming pool water and some stuffed fish. Even the submarines were on tracks.
Curious now, Brian bent over to inspect the wall. His hands brushed against the bump and came away sticky. This was definitely very weird. Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the train. It was a metal box.
The ten-year-old looked up. “Hey, Dad! Check this out…”
Inside Qalib’s metal case, the timer blinked from 00:00:01 to 00:00:00.
Thirty feet over Tomorrowland, the Disneyland monorail exploded, torn from end to end by a powerful blast. A ball of fire pushing razor-edged shards of steel and aluminum roared outward in a searing, deadly tide that surged over the tightly packed people waiting in lines below and left them charred or broken and bleeding on the ground.
Most of the warped, burning remnants of the monorail were blown off the track and plunged hissing into the lagoon.
The deep, joy-filled voices of the New Hope Baptist Church choir were loud enough to be heard in the parking lot outside the whitewashed, wood-frame church. A special night service full of prayers for civic and racial peace was in full swing. Other gatherings were planned later in the week in churches of other denominations. Louisville’s religious and political leaders wanted to calm emotions that were boiling dangerously near the surface as racial attack after racial attack rocked the country.
To help keep the peace and make sure there were no ugly incidents, two officers from the Louisville police department sat in a parked patrol car outside the church.
Officer Joe Bailey listened to the music for a few moments before rolling his window shut. He grinned over at his rookie partner. “Fine singing, Hank. Mighty fine singing. Just kind of reaches down and picks your spirit right up, don’t it?”
Hank Smith nodded politely without saying anything. Music was one of the things he and the older policeman would never agree on. His own tastes ran more to U2 than to country or gospel.
The younger man turned back to the pile of routine reports on his lap. Paperwork was always the bane of any cop’s working life, especially when you had a sly old fox like Joe Bailey for a partner. Fifteen years with the Louisville police department had taught the older man every trick there was to avoiding work he didn’t enjoy. Work like filling out arrest reports in the triplicate and quadruplicate so loved by bureaucrats.
Smith sighed under his breath. At least pulling guard duty outside a church on a quiet night offered him a chance to cut into the backlog a little. For several minutes, his pen scratched steadily onward through page after page, accompanied by the faint, off-key sound of Bailey humming and by the occasional crackle of voices over their car radio.
Halfway through one report, Smith stopped, his pen poised over a blank line. He sat chewing his lower lip absentmindedly while mentally running through the rules, regulations, and legal information he’d crammed in at the academy. Finally, he gave up. He turned toward the older man. “Say, Joe, what’s the code for felonious ”
Bailey’s head exploded. Blood and bits of brain matter blew across the rookie policeman’s horrified face. The older man shuddered once and slumped sideways across the seat with his bulging eyes fixed and staring at nothing. Bright red arterial blood spilled across the papers in Smith’s lap.
The young policeman pulled his terrified gaze from the dead man at his side and turned slowly toward the shattered side window. A dark figure stood there just outside the patrol car, still, calm, and poised a faceless man dressed in black from head to toe. Smith’s eyes widened as he saw the pistol aimed at his forehead.
His mouth opened in a frantic, whispered plea. “No…”
The last thing Hank Smith saw on earth was a blinding burst of bright light.
Salah Madani lowered his silenced 9mm automatic and stared into the car’s blood-spattered front seat for a moment. Neither of the two policemen showed any signs of life.
Sure now that they were dead, the Egyptian turned away and signaled the rest of his team into action. Four men wearing the same kind of black overalls and black ski masks to hide their features darted out of an alley and loped across the parking lot toward the New Hope Church. Two of them held shotguns at the ready, guarding another pair lugging heavy, bulging backpacks.
Madani stayed by the police car ready to abort this mission at the first sign of trouble. Not that he expected any. Not now. America’s cities averaged only two full-time law enforcement officers for every thousand or so of their citizens. Spread so thinly across such a vast population, the police simply could not be everywhere and protect everyone all the time. This would be even simpler and safer than his cell’s earlier work in Dallas.
A soft whistle from the alley caught the Egyptian’s attention, and he saw another figure in black there giving him a thumbs-up signal. Antonovic had finished setting his charges ahead of schedule.
Men and women and children dressed in their Sunday best packed every pew and aisle of the New Hope Baptist Church, swaying in time with the music as they sang. Sweat beaded up on shining faces and foreheads. With so many people crowded so close together, the temperature inside was climbing rapidly, but nobody wanted to break the spell the overwhelming sense of fellowship and community by opening the church doors or windows. Perhaps later, perhaps when the minister began his oration, they would seek comfort in the cool night air. For now, though, the congregation was content to stand and shout out its joy to the Lord in hymns of praise and celebration.
None of them heard the faint, muffled thump as an explosive charge knocked out an electrical switching station two blocks away.
The power went off in a five-block radius around the New Hope Baptist Church. Streetlights and homes went dark instantly. But the loss of electricity knocked out more than lights. It also disabled fire alarms and sprinkler systems.
Inside the church itself, the hymn stumbled to a stop in the sudden darkness. Voices rose in consternation as people called out for lights or for their husbands, wives, parents, and children. Other voices urged calm and asked everyone to stand still until the electricity came back on. Two of the ushers standing in the back tried to open the main doors to let the congregation filter outside.
They were chained shut.
Seconds later, the incendiary charges Madani’s men had planted around the outside of the church began going off.
Although it was close to midnight, most of the lights in the massive FBI headquarters building were on. More bright lights shone on the streets surrounding the imposing structure. Television crews from around the world were camped out there, relaying a constant stream of reports to their viewers about the progress, or lack of progress, of the FBI’s special counterterrorist force. Normally, D.C.-area investigations were run out of the Washington
