Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

After Hours Emergencies Only: Press Buzzer Below.

“Thank you!” She pressed and held the button, igniting a long, grating buzz.

Nothing.

She pressed the buzzer again.

“May I help you?” A woman’s voice came back over the loudspeaker.

“I need to see the father.”

“Which father? We have several priests on the staff.”

“I don’t know. The one that does confession. I’ve been several times.”

“One moment, please.”

A couple of minutes passed. The woman’s voice returned. “Is there something I can help you with? We have a food pantry around the back of the church if you are in need.”

“I need the father. Now! Please tell him it’s an emergency!”

“Could I tell him what kind of emergency?”

What to do? Kristina wiped her forehead. “Tell him I am the one who said that someone is going to die. Someone important! Tell him that it happened…that it happened today!”

A pause. “Wait one moment, please.”

Now it was out. She knew. They would know that she knew. They would figure out that she was talking about the president…that she knew about the assassination. Her mind swirled like a raging windstorm. They had probably called the authorities.

The sound of a siren approached from down the highway in front of the church. A police car sped down the road. Its flashing lights swirled. Run! Now!

The police car zoomed past the church. It did not stop.

At that moment, the door opened. A man’s voice came from the dark shadows. “Sister Marguerita says you are looking for me.” She recognized the voice from the confessional booth. A figure appeared. “I’m Father Ramon. I believe we’ve spoken before.”

“I am afraid, Father. I am so afraid.”

“Please come in. This is God’s house. You are safe here.”

Northbound Interstate 95

Five miles southwest of downtown Philadelphia

9:10 a.m.

The traffic was remarkably light for this time of morning, Mohammed thought as the van curved to the left and then crossed Island Avenue, leaving the perimeter of the airport off to the right. Another curve to the left brought the van to the bridge crossing the Schuylkill River. Here, three northbound big rigs clogged the swift flow of traffic to a slow-moving bottleneck creeping onto the bridge.

In the middle of the I-95 bridge, the U-Haul came to a stop behind the eighteen-wheeler. Mohammed cursed. Then, with nowhere else to go, he realized that he was witnessing the last view of a waterway that he would ever see this side of paradise.

What a depressing sight, under the bright light of the morning sun, this vintage panorama of the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard, home of America’s Atlantic “mothball fleet.” Rusting steel hulks by the hundreds, in the form of US Navy warships, testified that America’s greatest days as a world power ended with the last century.

And the mortal blow that he would strike at the heart of the City of Brotherly Love would underscore further ineptitude of this giant cesspool’s ability to protect its infidels in its largest population centers.

He had driven this route down the wide expanses of Broad Street dozens of times in preparation for this moment. The buildings…he could see them in his sleep. To his right…the basketball arenas whose names had changed with the failed American banks they had been named for…The First Union Center which became the Wachovia Center and then the Wells Fargo Center, and behind it, the Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Philadelphia Eagles.

What a shame that martyrdom would not come there. At Lincoln Financial Field, in the midst of seventy thousand obnoxious infidels. But the martyrdom would come. Soon.

Past the sports complexes, the drive north along the southern section of Broad Street was a picture of the scum of urban decay. Abandoned, dilapidated buildings. Plywood nailed over broken glass. Windows smashed out with no plywood coverings. Drug dealers huddled in alleyways, swapping cash for cocaine. Vagrants openly urinating in back alleys. All the product of decadent America and its worship of Judeo-Christian Zionism.

Purification was coming soon. The thought brought a sudden peace to Mohammed’s soul. He stepped on the accelerator, running the yellow light at the intersection of Broad Street and Snyder Avenue.

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building

Downtown Philadelphia

9:30 a.m.

The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce was due in for its luncheon in another two-and-a-half hours. Marie Carter had already been working for two hours, along with other members of the kitchen staff, setting fine china plates and sterling silverware on the flower-adorned banquet tables.

“Ready for a smoking break?” This was the friendly voice of her supervisor and smoking pal, Sally Rawlins, who, like Marie, needed a ten-minute nicotine fix at least once every two hours to get through the day.

“I need to make a quick call,” Marie said.

“Okay, maybe I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Sally walked out of the large banquet room and into the hallway.

Marie pulled her cell phone from her purse. “No signal,” she mumbled. “What a surprise.”

Stepping over to the window, which faced the back side of historic Philadelphia City Hall, the signal bars reappeared on the screen.

She punched “1” on the speed dial, and four rings later, the sound of her own voice bellowed from the answering machine at her home eighteen miles to the east, far across the Delaware River in Berlin, New Jersey.

“You have reached the Carter residence. No one is available to take your call. Leave your name and number and we’ll get back with you.” Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

“Honey, are you there?…Are you there?…Will you pick up, please?…I guess you’re out on your jog. Listen, we’re pretty busy with a Chamber of Commerce banquet and I don’t know if I’ll be back in time to pick up the girls from school. Do you think you’d be able to help me out? Good luck with the interviews today. I know you’re going to find a job soon. Love you. Miss you. Bye-bye!”

She clamped the phone shut. Eric had been without work for nearly a year now, and every day for the last year, she had prayed that something would open. But still, nothing. Nobody wanted to hire a midlevel bank executive in his mid-thirties. Not in this economy anyway. Downsizing and corporate layoffs had taken its hard toll on so many, and she had taken this job to try and slow the bleeding.

And it wasn’t all that bad. History had always been her favorite subject in school, and she loved teaching it to her two young daughters, Amy and Sharon, whom she had home-schooled through fifth grade. But this year, when Eric lost his job, they had placed the girls in public schools while she went back to work part-time. And although neither the hours nor the work were particularly rewarding, it was nice to be able to look out at the historic Philadelphia City Hall, with a huge clock larger than London’s Big Ben. The majestic building on Penn Square had been the tallest building in the world until 1908. She was fortunate, in many ways, that if she had to work, she could at least work in the midst of a great cradle of American history. And in this, she found at least some solace and inspiration.

She checked her watch. Not enough time now for that smoking break. That was all right. She had been trying to quit anyway, and had been praying for the strength to stop. She sipped her coffee and glanced down at the bustling activity on the square.

Downtown Philadelphia

9:33 a.m.

Mohammed slowed the van as it approached the intersection of Broad and Chestnut Streets. The large clock tower of the Philadelphia City Hall loomed five hundred fifty feet in the air, rising above Penn Square just a half a block directly in front of him. On top of the clock tower stood the statue of the dead infidel William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania.