Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

7:15, 7:14.

Ali made a half turn and saw a man and a woman walking down the steps. Their eyes were also on him. He glanced at the scoreboard.

7:10, 7:09.

One of the men below him had a gun and shouted, “FBI!”

Ali closed his eyes, shouted “ Allahu akbar ”-God is great-and pressed the buttons.

Nothing happened. “FBI! Don’t move!” Ali’s eyes snapped open, and he pressed the buttons again. The man and woman above him were shouting “FBI!” Ali tried the buttons separately, then together again. Then he was grabbed from behind. He turned, yanked his body away from his attacker, and his feet slipped out from under him. Everything happened in slow motion. The people in the rows at his side were standing and pressing away from him. The tray was flying through the air. Then his head connected with the edge of a concrete step and he slid downhill backward like a boy on a sled, dazed. Ali’s head cracked against a second step, and he found himself upside down staring at the scoreboard. It read 6:52.

Someone rolled him on his stomach. He felt handcuffs snap around his wrists as his mind filled with confusion. There had been no explosions. Death had not been visited on the infidels. Then a black hood was thrown over his head and he couldn’t see.

What had gone wrong? he wondered as he was lifted by several hands and hustled up the steps. Why was he alive? Why was he not with Allah? Why were the infidels alive?

His captors were running with him now. He heard the occasional shout of “FBI!” and guessed that he was on the concourse and being carried past gawking fans. Then he heard a door open. The agents stopped identifying themselves, and he was carried down a flight of stairs. The only thing he heard for a few minutes was heavy breathing. Then the agents stopped and he was laid on the ground. He wanted to speak, but he sensed that he was better off saying nothing. Moments later, the choice was made for him. Someone rolled up his sleeve, and Ali felt a needle slip into a vein. Moments after that, everything went dark.

Keith Evans’s team had followed Ali Bashar from the concession into the stands and had kept him under surveillance until they got the signal to move. The takedown had gone off without a hitch and had ended in a staging area under the stadium, a stretch of asphalt shaded by the overhanging stands and blocked off by a high chain-link fence. While Maggie Sparks and another agent hustled Bashar into the back of a black van, Keith leaned over, rested his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths. Maggie slammed the van’s door shut, and it drove out through a break in the fence behind three other black vans, each with its own prisoner. Then she walked over to her partner and flashed a tolerant smile.

“Someone needs to spend more time in the gym.” She took hold of his elbow and he straightened up, embarrassed. “Come on, old man.”

Keith was too winded to make a witty retort. Maggie laid a calming hand on Keith’s back, and he suddenly felt better and followed her to a group of agents who were listening to Harold Johnson, a tall, balding, middle-aged black man with a rugby player’s physique.

“Good work, people,” Johnson said. “We got the lot without any casualties. Now we do the boring stuff. The Redskins are going to set us up in offices and suites around the complex as soon as the game ends. Their security people will round up the prisoners’ coworkers so we can talk to them. None of these people are considered suspects at the present time, so go easy. They’re going to be shaken up when they learn that someone they worked alongside was planning to kill them and everyone else in the stadium.”

M aggie and Keith got comfortable in the skybox the Redskins had made available for them. It had a buffet, a bar, and rows of seats that looked out at the field through a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. The Redskins had won on a last-second field goal, and the jubilant fans who occupied the suite had left a mess when they celebrated. The janitors had cleaned up the debris, and the buffet had been restocked for the agents. Keith was washing down a sandwich of cold cuts with a Coke, and Maggie was eating a salad and drinking a bottle of Evian water when the door to the luxury suite opened and a security guard stuck his head in.

“I’ve got eight people from the hot dog concession out here,” he said. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Is the person in charge of the concession here?” Keith said.

“Yeah, that’s Jose Gutierrez.”

“Okay, let’s start with him.”

Moments later, the guard ushered in a heavyset man in his forties with long black hair and a dark pockmarked face. The man’s eyes ricocheted around the room, and he was obviously nervous.

“My name is Keith Evans, Mr. Gutierrez, and this is my partner, Maggie Sparks. We’re with the FBI, and we want to thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

Keith gestured toward the food. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?”

Gutierrez shook his head. “No, thanks, but you can tell me what’s going on here.”

“Ali Bashar works at your stand, right?” Keith asked.

“Yeah, where is he?”

“Mr. Bashar is under arrest. He and several other men were planning to set off suicide bombs in the stands. Fortunately, we were able to thwart their plot.”

“You’re shitting me? Ali was going to blow the place up?”

Keith nodded.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Why don’t you sit with us and we’ll talk about it.”

Gutierrez took the seat Keith indicated.

“What can you tell us about Mr. Bashar?” Keith asked.

Gutierrez started to say something. Then he stopped and thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“Now that I think about it, not much. He was a good worker, always on time. He never complained. That’s about it.”

“Did he ever talk about his personal life? You know, what he did when he wasn’t working at the games?”

“Not that I remember.” Gutierrez shrugged. “He wasn’t around much. He sold hot dogs and drinks in the stands, so that’s where he was on game day, and we’ve only had a few home games. He told me he was a student once, but we never talked about personal stuff.”

“Did he say where he was studying?”

Gutierrez’s brow furrowed. “No, just that he was a student.”

“Do you have a copy of Ali’s job application?” Keith asked.

“No. Mr. Cooper does the hiring. I just got a call saying Ali was going to show up for an exhibition game and to give him a job hawking. Mr. Cooper owns the concession. He owns a couple. You should talk to him. I can give you his business address and phone number.”

“That would be great.”

“Is Ali crazy?” Gutierrez asked.

“He’s a jihadist, an Islamic radical like the people who brought down the Twin Towers.”

“Holy Mother.” Gutierrez shook his head. “He never said anything like that. I mean I thought he was a Muslim with that name, but he never talked crazy shit.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

“Mr. Gutierrez, was Mr. Bashar friendly with anyone in the concession stand? Is there someone he talked to more than the other workers?”

Gutierrez thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah, Ann, Ann O’Hearn. They seemed friendly.” Suddenly Gutierrez looked concerned. “But she’s no terrorist. She’s in college. This is her second year here.”

“We don’t suspect anyone in your concession of being a terrorist,” Keith assured him. “We just want to learn as much about Mr. Bashar as we can. Ann isn’t in trouble.”

Gutierrez exhaled. “That’s good. She’s a nice kid.”