Exposed, page 13
A flash of shame shot through Salah’s body. “I can do it. I am a soldier,” Salah said, lifting his chin. He would not be remembered for weakness.
“That’s good, brother.” Ibrahim raised his hand. Salah clasped it, their thumbs interlocking. “Let’s pray.”
Salah found himself focusing on Ibrahim’s droning monotone. The prayer was calming.
“I have the packs. They are in the back,” Ibrahim said when it was over. He glanced around the parking lot and the four men got out. Inside the trunk, three backpacks and a jacket were carefully stored in a well in the floor.
“These two are for you,” Ibrahim said to Abdel and Jawad. They reached in and picked a backpack each, carefully putting it over their shoulders. Salah stood back and Ibrahim reached for the final pack. He held the strap for Salah to put his arm through, and when he did so, Ibrahim draped the pack over Salah’s shoulder with a thin smile.
He handed each of the men a lanyard, their security pass, and he held out the jacket for Salah. The logo of the firm that handled security for the Rogers Arena was emblazoned on the chest and the sleeve. “Fold this as I showed you earlier, lining outside, badge inside. Hold it in your arm.” Ibrahim turned to Abdel and Jawad. “Your belts and jackets are in your backpack. Don’t put them on until you are inside the building. Everything should be just as we rehearsed.”
Ibrahim’s phone rang. He answered it and listened to the voice on the other end before wordlessly disconnecting the call.
“What is it, Ibrahim?”
“The others are not coming. It is nothing. The glory will be all yours. You must go. You know what to do. Paradise awaits, my brothers. Allahu akbar.”
“Allahu akbar,” the three younger men replied.
Salah was standing now, swaying slightly as the SkyTrain smoothly navigated the tracks. He was looking out over the city. He had never lived anywhere else. In the late afternoon sunshine, Vancouver was busy but not crowded. Trees and parkland accompanied much of his ride. He looked down at children playing, people walking their dogs, the designated graffiti wall he’d hung around during his early high school years. Soon everyone would be inside watching the game.
The train was filling up rapidly. The carriage was a blur of blue, green, and white. One big guy had half his face painted blue, the other half green. A white stripe ran down the middle.
Many ethnicities were represented in the faces of his fellow passengers. At school, Salah had been good at languages, and he could hear French and German and what he suspected was Mandarin being spoken. There was no one he suspected as Muslim.
Until a few minutes ago, he saw Abdel clearly standing in the next carriage, calm and nonchalant, but now Salah could see only the back of his head. The train started off again and Salah looked above at the map of the Expo line before looking out of the window once more.
The scenery was starting to change now. They were moving into the city center. Homes and parks were replaced by billboards, tech company buildings, and luxury car showrooms. Throughout it all, the SkyTrain steadfastly progressed, unconcerned by the hopes, motivations, stories, and plans of its passengers.
The next station is Stadium-Chinatown. A female voice made the announcement from a speaker somewhere above his head. The train came to a stop and the doors slid open. He stepped out on to the platform. Salah looked to his left and saw Abdel. As he took the stairs down to ground level, Jawad was up ahead of him. They were each on their own now.
The crowd was heavy around him and soon swallowed him up. He saw Abdel overtake him and Salah quickened his pace to keep him in his sights. He lost sight of Jawad. He looked around. He knew exactly what to do. The execution of their plan had been drilled into them over hours of meetings, rehearsals, and dummy runs. Salah had gone over it so many times, that he now roamed the layout of the arena in his sleep.
He knew what was in his pack: cartridges filled with nails, screws, ball bearings and bolts, and most importantly, TATP, triacetone triperoxide, the terrorist’s explosive of choice. It was a volatile mixture of hydrogen peroxide, acetone, and hydrochloric acid, but all they had needed to make it were nail polish and bleach. Salah had bought them from his local drugstore.
TATP exploded with only slight provocation and Salah was careful to position himself among the crowd so that he couldn’t be bumped. Fuses linked the bombs so they exploded simultaneously the moment they were detonated by the switch that lay in one of the pack’s pockets.
Salah regarded the hockey fans around him. They were oblivious. They were distracted, excited about the upcoming game, anticipating a win for the home team, and possibly the Cup. They had no idea how their day would end: the pain, the terror, the destruction. Nor did they know how frantic, desolate, and stunned their loved ones would be and how, by then, Salah would be the oblivious one.
As he rounded the corner to the stadium, he saw Jawad and Abdel meet up and quietly go through a service entrance. He knew from there, they’d pick up a large trash container. Using it as cover, they would get themselves in position.
As he walked, he attempted to shrug on his jacket as he’d been taught. He put his left arm into the sleeve and moved the backpack carefully to his other shoulder. A woman about twenty walked past him laughing, the arm of the man next to her hanging around her neck.
Damn! His second arm caught inside the sleeve, and the fabric twisted around his wrist. The more he struggled, the tighter the fabric wound itself, trapping him like a Chinese finger trap. He struggled, but the sensitivity of the explosives caused him to cautiously put the pack down on an empty bench as he unraveled the contorted fabric. He rethreaded his arm into the sleeve and looked down to zip the jacket up. It was then that he caught sight of two small feet dangling over the side of the bench. He froze.
“No!” he hissed. His arm shot out. Then, more calmly, “Don’t touch that,” he said as the boy let go of the pack he’d used to pull himself up onto the bench.
“I’ve lost my daddy,” the boy said. His blue eyes stared out from under his bangs. “Mommy told me if I lost him, to go find a policeman.” Dean eyed the badge on Salah’s arm, his forehead wrinkling. “Are you a policeman?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SALAH STARED AT the boy. He knew he could turn away, but his mind raced. His arrival at the stadium coincided with the busiest time for security personnel. Passing through the staff check-in was the riskiest part of the whole plan. Being forced through a metal detector or an examination of his bag would blow the mission entirely, but this close to game time, security staff were diverted to the front of the house to expedite the bag checks of the last-minute crowd. Salah was banking on the staff check-in being empty.
But what if it weren’t?
Salah thought back to the doubt in Ibrahim’s eyes when he’d looked at him in the back of the car earlier. He looked again at the boy.
“What’s your name?”
“Dean Johnson Beresford!” Dean said. He knew his address and phone number too. He’d been practicing at school.
Salah carefully hoisted his pack on to his shoulder. “Okay, Dean. Come with me, okay?” Salah held his hand out, and wordlessly Dean slipped off the bench and took it.
Salah’s energy was amped. He focused on his breathing, deep breaths in and out, counting to four. He forced himself to walk slowly to match Dean’s pace and together they made their way across the last few hundred yards to the building that looked like a spaceship.
“Where are we going?” Dean asked.
“We’ll go inside the building and find the person who looks after lost kids.”
“Will my dad be there?”
Salah didn’t answer.
Dean tugged on his hand. “Will my dad be there?” he repeated.
“Wha — Yeah, they’ll find him for you. Put an announcement out for him or something. Come on, we need to walk a bit faster.”
Salah was walking ahead of Dean now. The boy was hanging on his hand. Salah gripped tighter, pulling him along. He was focused on the service door. He knew that behind it was a corridor that he would follow. On the left, there would be a locker room for stadium staff. On the other side of that was the staff check-in.
Dean was babbling, something about his dad and Star Wars.
“Come on!” Salah said through gritted teeth.
Dean’s head was down and he started to grizzle.
“Sorry, sorry. We’ll find your dad, no problem.” Salah bent down and in one swoop, lifted the boy on to his hip. Dean wasn’t a large boy but his knee hit Salah’s pack. Salah froze. He closed his eyes. For a split second, he considered leaving Dean where he was but almost immediately committed to the idea that Dean was insurance and good cover.
“We need to get inside the building to find the nice people who will make the announcement to find your dad. Just hang on a bit longer. It’ll be okay.”
Dean nodded and rubbed his eyes.
Salah pulled open the wide glass door to the building and turned left to walk down the corridor. It was empty. He held Dean tight so that he didn’t swing or move. He could see the non-descript gray door that led into the locker room, the corridor arcing away from him as it followed the cylindrical shape of the building.
As he got to the door, he put his hand out to touch the handle.
“Salah!”
A chill went through Salah’s body. He looked over and around the curve of the hallway. There stood a large rolling waste container. In front of it were Abdel and Jawad, their eyes wide. Abdel took two steps toward him, his arm out, palm down.
“There’s someone in there. At the security desk. You can’t go inside. It’s off. The plan is off. Abort, abort.” Abdel was whisper-shouting, his curls shaking as he shook his head, his brown eyes big and beseeching.
Salah stared at Abdel, then at Jawad uncomprehendingly. They had gone over the plan a hundred times. It was inconceivable that they would abandon it now. As Abdel’s words penetrated, the myriad injustices that Salah felt dictated the tune that his life danced to swirled in his mind. The racism, the bullying, his father’s cancer, his mother’s three jobs, their family’s poverty, his poor job prospects. He thought about the prospect of salvation, honor, pride, Paradise. It all seemed a wash.
But then he noticed Abdel again. Abdel’s aggressive swagger and his sneering contempt had disappeared now. Salah thought back to the snide remarks, the put-downs, the sense of being weak, juvenile, and unsophisticated. Dean’s foot nudged him in the hip, and Salah’s gaze hardened as he looked back at the two men. He turned his back on them, pushed the door open and made his way through to the locker room.
Gray cabinets lined the walls. A couple of empty ones stood with their doors open, keys slotted in the locks. A trash bag lay on the beige tiled floor, and a scratched wooden chair sat next to the frosted glass window to one side. There were coat hangers on the wall next to an alcove at the other end of the room. The walls were painted a steel gray that coordinated with the lockers as if a decorator with a flair for the institutional had been hired.
To the left was another alcove and a door. Salah knew that it led to the staff check-in area and the stadium proper. He hesitated as he prepared himself. He could hear low voices talking on the other side of the door. Hefting Dean to position him higher on his hip, he gripped him tightly and focused on the door. Two fat, overly warm, small hands pressed his cheeks and lips together. Salah found his brown eyes staring into Dean’s blue ones.
“I want my daddy.”
“I know. Nearly there, eh? I’m taking you to the nice lady who will look after you until your dad comes to get you, okay?”
Dean’s big blue eyes were edged with long lashes that were fair at the tips. Salah hadn’t noticed them until now. They were almost as long as his own. The boy gave an impatient huff, but he let go of Salah’s face and looked at the door. Salah grabbed the knob and opened it, his heart slamming against his chest. He walked steadily into the room.
Two men stood, each beside a machine. They were almost identical. Mid-fifties, graying hair, both stout, with bellies protruding over their pant belts. One of them hooked his thumbs into the back of his waistband and hoisted his trousers up. Around their waists hung handcuffs, a baton, and Tasers. In their lapels were pinned radios, wires winding up their necks to earpieces.
Salah nodded to the men. One of them swigged from a water bottle. He stood next to the x-ray machine, his gold badge revealing his name to be “Williams.” He was silent, except for a loud burp. The other guard who stood further back grunted. The opening into the corridor that fed access to the seating area of the stadium was behind them. The corridor was glass, and Salah could see the seats were almost full, the ice pristine for just a few more minutes before the players’ skates would slice it up.
Salah walked up to the reader mounted on the wall. He swiped his card, and as he did so, he lifted Dean an inch and dipped his head toward him.
“Lost his dad.”
Neither guard said anything. Salah’s breathing was shallow, and he could feel sweat dripping down his back. The light on the badge reader turned red.
Salah concentrated on his breathing and tried again. This time, the green light came on. Salah quickly moved off. He took the most direct route to the corridor – between the x-ray machine and the wall. He avoided the body scanner altogether. He felt the eyes of the two men on him, but they didn’t speak. Six steps and he would be in. Five, four, three, two…
“Wait.”
Salah stopped, and turned. “Hmm?”
“You want to go that way,” the burping security guard said, pointing right. “Fan Services. Angie. She’s great with lost kids. Tell her Don sent you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MALCOLM LOOKED around him. Dean couldn’t have gone far. He stood in place and swiveled, then ventured from his spot a few paces. He looked up and down the main concourse to the arena, but all he could see were people, masses of people, excitedly pounding the pavement to get to the game before it began. Among the crowd there were children, some around Dean’s age and with his coloring. Several times, Malcolm’s heart leaped only for it to dive when he realized the clothes were all wrong or he caught a glance of a face.
He ventured out further into the main current of the throng. It was gathering speed now and there were fewer and fewer spaces in between the people. Up ahead the mass was dense as spectators waited their turn to pass into the stadium.
Malcolm allowed himself to be swept up by the crowd. He was concerned he may be leaving Dean behind, but equally anxious that Dean had moved on ahead. His heart began to hammer. The crowd started to press against him. He was unable to see further than a few people ahead. The adrenaline that had slowly been building was mounting in a surge. He was beginning to panic. It was hard to breathe.
“Dean! Dean?” he called.
Malcolm pushed his way out of the heaving mass, garnering frustrated moans from the people around him as he jostled and elbowed his way through. “Sorry. Sorry, mate. Excuse me. Thanks. Dean!” He got himself outside the throng again. He looked around, but there was still no sight of his son. Malcolm plunged back into the tide of people once more.
Close to the entrance, Malcolm was forced to come to a halt. The security point was a bottleneck, and the crowd had backed up. Once more, he pushed his way through the teeming mass, this time to the front where security were checking bags and passing people through the scanner.
“I’m looking for my son. I’ve lost my son. Have you seen him?”
The security guard was focused, intent on his job. The man continued to delve into the purse of the woman standing in front of him, moving around its’ contents and peering inside. He patted the outside of her bag with both hands and zipped it up.
“Please.” Malcolm tried again, “I’ve lost my son. Have you seen him? He’s six—”
The guard looked young, in his twenties but already balding. A ring of fair hair orbited his head. He slowly looked up at Malcolm, seeming to see him for the first time. As Malcolm bit his lip, his body rigid, the guard flicked a casual hand over to the female security guard who was mirroring him on the other side of the aisle.
Malcolm rushed over. He barged in between the woman and the person whose bag she was surveying. “I need to find my son. He’s six. I’ve lost him.”
The woman was stocky, young, and stood ramrod straight, her uniform tight across her chest, her brown hair tied back. She carried a flat, black wand in her hand. She pointed it ahead of her. “Fan Services. Up the stairs, on your right. Third floor.”
Malcolm started to run.
“Push your way to the front if there’s a crowd. What’s his name?” she called out. Malcolm skidded to a stop.
“Dean.”
“Six, you say?”
Malcolm nodded.
“Alright, I’ll keep an eye out.”
Peter and Diana arrived first. The armored vehicles carrying the SWAT and counter-terrorism teams were behind and would position themselves at a distance from the stadium entrance. They were not to alert the bombers or the crowd to their presence. On command, they would form a “ring of steel” around the arena, large enough and tight enough to unleash manpower and firepower sufficient to cover just about any threat.
Suicide bombers, the most challenging of menaces, were the exception. Their ability to kill tens, hundreds, thousands inside a densely packed area exacerbated their willingness to play a zero sum game. They die, they win.
Peter watched as undercover agents infiltrated the crowd waiting to get into the stadium, their job to identify threats within it. More would move inside to mingle with the 19,000 spectators that were rinkside.
“We’re ready to lock down the outside of the building,” Stockton, the SWAT team commander told him.
“Let the crowd through. I don’t want to alert the marks if they’ve already breeched. Double down on security checks. Make sure no one gets through that shouldn’t.”
