briefing from Leopole. Then they made visual contact with Bosco and Breezy, who had just seen a young Muslim enter near the ticket counter. Marsh asked, “Is that the guy? By the Great Southwestern sign?”
“Yeah,” Bosco replied. “He’s wearing what Jim Mannock described.”
Keegan did not want to take chances. “Have you seen any other Muslim-looking guys?”
“There was a mama with some young ‘uns,” Breezy said. “They wore white turbans but I’m not sure if they were Muslims or Sikhs or something.”
Keegan’s blue eyes parsed the lobby, searching for other suspects. “Well, I don’t see anybody else right now. You guys go get some rest. Eddie and I will take it from here.”
The new team dispersed to begin surveillance, watching Target Alpha while remaining open to others. Minutes later Leopole was back on the air. “Be advised, there are multiple items in Two but they’re currently no threat. A mixed pair in Four, apparently leaving. However, a single is exiting the bus at One, north side.”
“I’m there,” Marsh replied. In a few moments he was back: “Got him. Mid thirties, heavyset, no beard, tan jacket and dark pants.”
Leopole checked his notes. “Ah, roger, Ed. That’s Target Bravo. He was tagged as escort for the primary before the shift change.”
Mohammed was back.
In Terminal One’s security office, Leopole summarized the situation for his TSA liaison. “We have two targets, both in the main lobby, ground floor. The younger one is the likely threat; the other seems to make eye contact with him about every thirty to forty minutes, wherever they are. Obviously they’re on some sort of rotation. They’ve met in two terminals now.”
Dennis Meagher watched the TV monitor, picking out the two Muslims amid the crowd. “Have they done anything unusual?”
“Target Alpha has rubbed his handkerchief on some railings and doors, but that’s it so far.” The SSI operative shrugged. “Of course, that’s all it might take to spread the virus.”
“You know I can’t initiate action against someone without probable cause.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here, Mr. Meagher.” Leopole smiled. “Deniability.”
“What do you propose, Colonel?”
“I’d like to press Alpha a bit. Let him see one of our guys obviously tailing him and watch what he does.”
Conscientious professional that he was, Supervisor Meagher declined comment.
Mission-oriented operator that he was, Frank Leopole accepted silence as consent.
“Comm check,” Leopole called.
Keegan, Marsh, Mannock, and Kim all checked in.
“Okay, here we go,” Leopole began. “Alpha’s already tagged Jim, so we’ll use him to goad the target. Terry and Eddie maintain a roving perimeter around him. Sherree, watch Target Bravo. We will not act until he breaks off again. Acknowledge.”
“Keegan, roger.”
“Marsh, roger that.”
“Mannock, right.”
“Kim, okie-dokie.”
When Mohammed left the terminal, he failed to notice the young Oriental woman tracking him.
However, Hazrat Sial immediately became aware of the towering presence of James Mannock, six meters behind him. After three abrupt direction changes, the Pakistani realized he could not lose the big infidel who had ridden the bus with him. Sial returned to the men’s room and entered a stall.
He was perspiring more freely now, and the obvious surveillance heightened the churning in his stomach. The headache was persistent, and growing worse. He felt himself failing physically; his heart beat faster to maintain blood pressure. He could walk normally, but he realized that he no longer possessed the strength to run very far.
In the rare moments when his body had permitted him some equanimity, Sial absorbed the enormous contradiction called America. The infidels’ technical marvels were plain to see: huge airplanes that spanned continents and oceans; bright, gleaming buildings of steel and glass; a communications system previously undreamt of. Yet the place was built upon determined decadence and studied stupidity. Every magazine rack paraded beautiful young women who exposed themselves to the world through a camera lens. It seemed that one-sixth of the young men slouched through life, so addled that they were incapable of wearing a cap properly.
Yet for all its varied faults and contradictions, the land that spawned the twenty-first-century Crusaders had somehow overwhelmed the world. Its mongrelized, hedonistic culture had become the global standard. How did that happen? Violent, unclean motion pictures and unhealthy fast food emporiums cropped up around the planet, including places such as Baluchistan. It was appalling. And for that transgression, America would suffer long after Hazrat Sial’s pain had ended.
His time had come.
Sial unzipped his valise and withdrew a spray bottle. He pressed the plunger twice, directing the contents onto the toilet’s handle and the lock on the door. From his pocket he drew a three-inch switchblade. Once his actions drew attention, he could fend off the Zionist lackeys long enough to spread more of his lethal essence onto doors, railings, and people.
The martyred doctor had explained that the virus did not live long outside the body, so the contaminated places had to be refreshed. Sial had widely deposited his saliva in two terminals but he remembered the big American who had so obviously dogged his trail. Had the balding giant noted the spots and cleaned them up? If so, at least he could not neutralize what was about to happen.
Sial opened the door to the stall and glanced around. Three infidels were cleansing themselves, paying him no attention. He went to the next stall, sprayed the door and the toilet, then went to the next. He was repeating the process when he heard a voice.
“Hey, man, what’re you doing?”
A Hispanic gentleman approached Sial; one of the oppressed victims of the Jewish power structure. Well, there was nothing else to be done. The living martyr raised his bottle and sprayed the pitiful wretch in the face.
Hazrat Sial dashed for the exit, determined to empty his weapon onto as many westerners as possible. There! The big, ugly American blocked his path; latex covering his hands and a respirator with goggles on his face. The hands came toward the Pakistani with surprising speed. Instinctively, Sial sprayed his enemy but the mist only struck clothing. A hand closed on his right forearm, controlling the bottle. Sial reacted instinctively, bringing his left hand up and forward. The serrated blade sliced into James Mannock’s ribs, causing the American to release his grip. Sial spun away, half turning to the right where he saw an opening near the food court.
Mannock registered a deluge of emotions: pain, anger, and fear. He felt warm blood running down his side but that did not bother him immediately.
Sial sprayed and slashed his way into the crowd. Men shouted; women screamed; children wailed. The closest people tried to flee, colliding with others. The result was a milling, noisy pandemonium.
Keegan and Marsh had staked out the restroom. Whichever way Target Alpha turned, one of the SSI men would be on him. But in the noise and confusion, neither kept sight of him. They knew that Leopole would have a god’s-eye view from the security office, but tracking the target’s movements on remote cameras and relaying the information via hand-held radios in a panicky crowd was a major challenge.
Terry Keegan motioned with his left hand, directing Eddie Marsh to loop wide to that side of the aisle. Then the senior pilot sprinted toward the center of the churning crowd.
A middle-aged woman blocked his path, sagging to her knees and holding her abdomen. Keegan veered around her, knocked over a shrieking child, and swept his eyes methodically left to right.
Opposite the men’s room entrance, Keegan noticed something odd: women fleeing the ladies’ room. He spun on his heel, shoved a rabbi out of the way, and reflexively uttered, “Excuse me, Father.”
