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A lady villain, the foreigner's clothes, and a feverish race against time… |
| Dan Sullivan scrawled rapidly in his notebook, mouth pressed thin. He glanced at his phone to check the time, nudging aside the paperback copy of The Man Who Was Thursday flipped upside down on the desk. Tuesday, May 20th. 4:30 AM. Dawn was still at least an hour away. He signed his name at the bottom of the letter, folded it, and sealed it into an envelope. On the outside he wrote: Open only in case of emergency or after 48 hours without contact. Satisfied, he stood up from his desk and went downstairs to the kitchen. His wife Reema and eleven-year-old daughter Monica were waiting at the table with breakfast. He handed Reema the envelope and sat down to eat. "Thanks, honey. I wish I could go with you like we used to." "I'll be fine on my own. I promise I'll be home by Thursday night, but if not, you know what to do." She nodded. Dan talked about the weather and other everyday things, not wanting heavy silence to upset Monica. "Can't you tell us where you're going, Dad?" "No, Peppa," Dan smiled, using her pet name. "It's top secret government stuff." "Can you tell me about it when you get home?" "That's not allowed without a security clearance." "Does Mom have one?" "Not anymore. She's an unaffiliated civilian." "What's that mean?" "It means she's your mom now, and she's too busy taking care of you to be a super stealthy sleuth like I am." Monica giggled. She quelled her questions with a spoonful of oatmeal, to Dan's relief. Later, at the door, he knelt and gave her a bear hug, wishing he didn't have to leave. "I'll miss you, Dad." "I'll miss you too, Peppa. I promise I'll be back soon." A long embrace and a kiss for Reema. She rested her head on his shoulder. "Take care of yourself," she whispered. "Of course." He slipped into his best running shoes, taking measured steps towards the car in the driveway, wary of doorbell cameras and drone surveillance. It was going to be a long day. Time was critical. *** A hundred miles later, Dan passed the Nashville city limits sign as the sky filled with light. He knew where to turn to arrive at a mostly vacant shopping center in the older part of town. Several other vehicles were pulling in at the same time. Dan swung into a parking space. He adjusted the recording device under his shirt, ran a hand through his sandy curls and stepped out. A gathering of five or six people lingered at the papered-over storefront of some long gone boutique. They were young men, of different races, slouching around, all baseball caps, t-shirts and ripped jeans. One of them, with shaggy strings of blond hair and sleepy eyes, wore jeans with the left leg dyed black and the other white. He nodded acknowledgement as Dan approached. "Heya, Matt," he said, using Dan's assumed name. "Excited about meeting the boss today?" "Sure, Kyle. Heard he's got big plans for us." "Yeah. Like, our first real mission." A jangling from within the store indicated the door was being unlocked. A man opened it, checking their ID's and waving them inside as morning sunlight poked between the alleys. The store was basically one big room. Chairs stood around a table. Everyone sat down. "Where's the boss man to start the show?" Kyle asked as the men fidgeted and mumbled. "She is here." The figure who had spoken slipped out of the stockroom, quite unlike anyone Dan had expected. They were wearing a black, full Islamic burka. A slotted veil over their face only revealed piercing blue eyes, circling the room, examining each person. Pale, slender hands rested on the back of a chair, a bulky signet ring adorning the right. Startled exclamations arose from the men seated at the table. "Hey, you ain't no crime boss!" Kyle shouted. "You're an A-rab gal. What you be doing here?" "Therein lies the twist," she responded, standing at the head of the table. "My name is Natalia Blake. I have to congratulate all of you for passing our rigorous screenings to arrive here. Welcome to the Tennessee chapter of the Society of Anarchism in America. I see an explanation is required." She cleared her throat and began, "First off, I am no Muslim. I've determined the increasing Islamic population in Middle Tennessee is an opportunity for us to exploit the gullibility of the US public in several ways. One, Islamic fundamentalists are easily blamed for any attack related to sabotage or terrorism. Two, a full burka makes the perfect disguise. Do you realize that any of you men could wear this getup, and everyone would assume you were a woman?" They exchanged glanced around the table and started laughing. "She's right," Kyle guffawed. "Never thought of that." "They say clothes make the man," Dan murmured, "I see they make all the difference…" "Indeed, they do," Natalia nodded. "Now, my plan for this unit is simple: blow up the Grand Ole Opry building." A collective gasp of surprise and admiration arose. Dan stiffened. He folded his hands on the table. "Any reason for your choice?" "It's the perfect target: a symbol of Southern US culture, which extremist Muslims abhor and any sane person would despise. There's a big concert coming up Thursday night. It'll be packed. The loss of life will be significant. If we can pull this off and get the public to believe it was an Islamist terror attack, we'll gain significant recognition among the Society of Anarchism." "We gotta hurry, then," Dan observed. "I thought it takes weeks of careful coordination to prepare an attack. We only have a couple days." "I've made arrangements in advance. It is imperative we be seen on surveillance footage, wearing our disguises. I recommend you get accustomed to them." More planning ensued, assigning different tasks to each of the members. Dan, Kyle and two others received the task of setting up explosive materials at certain areas of the building. At the close of the meeting, Natalia gave them their burkas. All were black, the most unnervingly conservative color. Donning the strange garb made the men, once loud and rough, fall into an uneasy silence. The room was full of identical, ghostly, tarped figures. Dan found it hard to breathe under the stifling layers of robes. It was a relief when Natalia told them they could resume their Western wear to leave. As they filed out, she motioned for Dan to stay behind. Her right-hand man locked the doors behind everyone and turned to stand guard. Dan felt like a fly on the wall. Natalia's eyes seemed to pierce into his soul, caught in the empty building. "You are not an anarchist," she said at last, in a low, accusatory tone. "Matt Granger. Who are you really?" "What makes you think I'm not interested in blowing up buildings?" he countered. "I made it this far, didn't I? I'm as much an anarchist as any young thug." "You stand out from the others. You're too smart for this." "You're a smart lady, for sure. I could ask why you're blowing up buildings." "I bear a grudge against humanity. People rejected me—I reject people, all their petty rules, their cheap efforts at self aggrandizement. Look at that Opry. Has anything good ever come of such wasteful nonsense?" Dan shrugged. "You expect me to play devil's advocate? I'm no more enamored of the Opry than you. Couldn't care less if we blew it up tomorrow." "Then do as you are instructed. Perhaps you are unaware of my track record. I have masterminded the destruction of dozens of buildings over the past ten years. One life more or less means nothing to me." "Indeed, ma'am." Dan moved as though he were avoiding a venomous spider, aware of her stare burning into his back as the guard dismissed him. Outside, in the blinding glare of morning, he came face to face with Kyle, loafing against a column. "Waiting for ya, man. I gotta ask you something." "Like what?" Dan wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and glanced back at the glass storefront, half-expecting to see Natalia giving him the evil eye. Kyle leaned in, whispering, "You're a secret agent, ain't you? No sweat—so am I." Dan stared blankly at the younger man. What kind of trap was he walking into? Kyle tossed the loose hair out of his face with a chuckle and produced an authentic looking ID card. Apparently, he was with the FBI. "In all seriousness, I'm not at liberty to divulge my standing with you." Dan fumbled for words. "I need to go—my time is critical." He ran to his car, leaped in and sped off, mind spinning. That a fellow investigator would choose to reveal himself precisely when the ringleader had her own suspicions, seemed too easy. Dan had attended many lesser meetings alongside Kyle and the other men. He never thought any of them were more than simple-minded oafs, looking for trouble on a massive scale. *** After endless hours of prep work, a half dozen more meetings, and two nights of hurried napping between errands and secret activities, Thursday morning saw Dan and the anarchists at the Grand Ole Opry building in their Islamic attire. Natalia was there to oversee the proceedings. "Seriously, ma'am, I think we'd be better disguised as plumbers or something," Kyle complained. "Ain't A-rab gals kinda conspicuous hanging out at the Opry? Won't someone suspect we're terrorists?" "They'll be too polite and diversity oriented to say anything," Natalia said. "Just say you're here on a cultural appreciation tour at the invitation of the governor. It's all fun and games until the detonation." Dan stifled a sleep-deprived laugh. They entered, carrying the explosives under their robes. He wondered what would motivate a woman to wear something so smothering and utterly homogenizing, especially in hot weather: religious devotion, or religious coercion? "Could be worse," he muttered to Kyle. "At least she's not asking us to be suicide bombers." Kyle snickered. "You do know none of us are really anarchists, right?" "What?" "I'm an FBI man, you're a private eye, Conan is with the CIA, Jose is from TBI… it's a sting." "I thought stings were supposed to be coordinated better than this." "We couldn't be aware of each other. It would be too risky that way. As it is, none of these explosives are active." Dan groaned. "So what are we all doing, then? Let's take off these stuffy clothes and go get some sleep." "Ah, we still have to capture Natalia." Kyle waved Dan into a meeting room off the auditorium. The other men were already seated, with their burkas piled in a corner. Dan peeled his off and added it to the pile. "We'll see what happens when she comes to look for us. So," Kyle turned towards Dan as they settled into chairs, "what were you expecting to do to prevent the bombing?" "Gather up all the materials, throw them in the back of my car, and drop it off in an undisclosed location out of harm's way." "Sounds like a clumsy plan." Before Dan could open his mouth to admit how ridiculous it did sound, Natalia burst through the door in a flurry of black garments, eyes blazing. "What's going on? Why aren't you doing your work?" They all stood up and faced her. "You might as well remove your wraps, ma'am," Kyle said. "We're investigating agents, not anarchists." "You fools," she sneered, tearing the covering off of her head to reveal a shock of frizzled brown hair and thin, angular features. "You think you'll take my secrets that easily?" Dan and Kyle moved closer. The other men slipped behind Natalia, blocking the door. She edged against the wall. "You can have my body, but I've got my soul." She held the back of her right hand up to her mouth, her oversized signet ring catching the light. Dan recognized the strange movement. He lunged forward. "No! Don't do it!" He reached out to grab her wrist and pull it away. It was too late. Her throat convulsed. She sank limp against the wall, a final twisted smile on lips fast turning blue. Dan got down on his knees to apply CPR as sirens filled the air. Someone—was it Kyle?—tried to pull him away. "Don't waste your time! The trash took itself out." "Man, how can you bring yourself to say that?" The sirens wailed louder and louder, until they screamed in Dan's head and he wondered how they were getting to the scene so quickly… *** Dan's hot, blurry eyes squinted, dazed by the spinning ceiling fan overhead. Flashing red lights flew past his living room windows as the sirens reached their crescendo pitch and began to fade. "What—where am I?" He sat up on the couch, blinking at the clock. Reema appeared from the kitchen with a steaming cup and a reassuring smile. "You fell asleep waiting for the Tylenol to kick in." She placed a hand expertly on his forehead. "Feels like the fever's going down. Here, have some chamomile tea." "Gosh, I had the weirdest dream…" Dan sipped tea and glanced at the coffee table, where Agatha Christie's The Secret Adversary lay stacked across The Man Who Was Thursday. He chuckled. It seemed clear what had influenced his fever dream. Hopefully he wouldn't have another one like it anytime soon. notes ▼ lyrics to My Car ▼ video ▼ |
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