Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

The van reached Penn Square, and Momammed swung around the square to the right. Then, following the perimeter road around the square, he turned to the left again.

He pulled the van over to the left, just behind the Philadelphia City Hall on the east side of Penn Square, almost in front of the Market Street entryway to Penn Square.

Car horns from obnoxious Philly drivers blared in protest of the van blocking the left traffic lanes. He would have to hurry. The cops would descend upon him any moment.

He reached over to the small suitcase that was sitting in the seat next to him and popped it open.

Honk! “Hey, move over, ya lousy scumbag!” The driver shook his fist at the van.

Another driver pushed down on the horn. “Get out of the road!” another driver yelled in an obnoxious Philly accent.

Mohammed rested his thumb on the detonator. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the right, in an easterly direction toward Mecca. “Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah. Un hum del Allah.”

Crystal Tea Room at Wanamaker Building

Downtown Philadelphia

9:35 a.m.

That’s odd,” Marie mumbled aloud, looking out the window and down at the U-Haul that was blocking the traffic lane and making so much commotion behind City Hall.

A twisting in her stomach told her that something wasn’t right. Then, sudden, unexpected panic washed over her, as if forewarning her.

“April,” she instinctively called to the coworker standing nearest to the window. “Come check this out.”

The van exploded into the blinding sun. Great heat burned Marie alive, melting the flesh from her arms.

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

8:40 p.m.

Kristina sat in a chair just in front of a modest wooden desk bearing the nameplate Father Ramon. “What is your name, my child?” he continued to ask. But in the last thirty minutes since she arrived, Kristina had been too scared to answer him.

“Father, I’m terrified.”

“Yes, I can see that, but if you want the church’s help, you have to trust us enough to give us your name.”

The priest’s black eyes reflected a trusting kindness. If she could not trust this man, then whom could she trust? Somehow, she knew that she could trust him. “Kristina. Kristina Wulandari.”

“And are you from here in Jakarta?”

“Yes, Father.”

“When you came to confession, you told me that someone important was going to die?”

“Yes, Father. And then I ran for fear of my life.”

“Who, Kristina?” Their eyes locked.

“The president, Father. I was referring to President Santos. And today that happened.”

“Yes.” Father Ramon stood and ran his hand through his hair and exhaled. “We all mourn for our president. And can you tell me, Kristina, how did you know this was going to happen?”

“General Perkasa had the president killed.”

“General Perkasa?”

“Yes, Father.”

“And just how do you know this?”

“Because…” She looked down. A sudden embarrassment overcame her.

“Because what?”

“Because I was his lover. I was in his house last night when I overheard the general and some of his staff members planning in the general’s study. They thought I was asleep. But I slipped down in the middle of the night, at the bottom of the stairway, and overheard them.”

“What were they saying?”

“They were drinking and laughing and talking about how they would make many, many millions of dollars, and then they started talking about a plan to kill President Santos.”

“Did they say how they were going to kill him?”

“All I could hear was something about the president’s personal physician was going to do it in an act of martyrdom.”

Father Ramon shook his head mournfully. “Do you remember anything else they said?”

“They mentioned Vice President Magadia,” she said.

“They are going to kill him too?”

“They said they were going to capture him at Istana Bogor, and hold him and try to force him to cooperate with them. I have a feeling that if he doesn’t cooperate, they will kill him.”

The priest sat back down. “Is there anything else that you think I need to know?”

“Yes, Father. They are going to buy nuclear bombs from Pakistan and slip them into the United States and use them on America. They are planning to kill President Williams in a nuclear blast.”

Father Ramon exhaled. Then he leaned over the desk and stared at her a few minutes, as if he was trying to decide whether to believe her. “Kristina, do you have any evidence of any of this?”

“Yes, Father.” She held up the memory stick. “I have this. It is all here.”

The White House

9:50 a.m.

Mack had left the majority of the National Security Council working in the Situation Room, while he returned to the Oval Office, all in an effort to preserve some semblance of normalcy in the developing international crisis.

He had brought with him his two most trusted, yet most likely to clash Cabinet members, the secretaries of state and defense.

The secretary of state was pacing back and forth across the back of the Oval Office, arguing, as usual, against a point just made by the secretary of defense. “With all due respect to Secretary Lopez’s call to drastically beef up our forces in the region, Mr. President, I would urge caution. Our navy is already providing tanker escorts. While it’s true that we may need to move more forces in, I’m concerned about international reaction to a Persian Gulf-style buildup.”

“But, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense shot back, “they’ve just tested a nuclear device in the Halmahera Sea. One of our ships has been taken out. We’ve lost who-knows-how-many men. That’s an act of war, Mr. President. We need more carrier groups in the region.”

The secretary of defense crossed his arms. “Mr. President, we all should be outraged, and we are outraged about the fact that they tested that device, but I disagree with my colleague on whether that is an act of war. Technically, I don’t think we can say it’s an act of war unless we can show that they intended to harm our ship. If you want to get right down to it, they’ve got a stronger argument that we committed an act of war against them by our operation against Merdeka Palace.”

A buzzing from the speaker phone on the president’s desk stopped Secretary Mauney in his tracks. “Mr. President!” A panicked sound from the president’s secretary, Gayle Staff. “The national security advisor and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs are here, sir. They say it’s an emergency.”

Mack’s stomach sank immediately. “Send them in, Gayle.”

Secret Service officers flung open the doors leading into the Oval Office, and Cynthia Hewitt and Admiral Roscoe Jones came running in. Their faces signaled disaster before Cyndi Hewitt spoke.

“It’s Philadelphia, Mr. President,” Hewitt said.

“What about Philadelphia?”

“A bomb.” The national security advisor broke into tears, crying like a baby.

“What?” Mack stood, his forehead suddenly clammy.

Admiral Jones took over for Hewitt. “I’m afraid it’s nuclear, Mr. President.”

“No. No! Please!” Mack wanted to heave, to vomit. A nuclear attack on American soil! He had to calm himself. He was the president. “Talk to me, Admiral. What happened? How bad?”

“Bad, sir. Looks like an explosion in the heart of the city. Relatively small nuclear device. Seismic indicators showing about one kiloton. That’s what we call a suitcase bomb. Still, this dwarfs the magnitude of 9/11.”

“Barry.” Mack nodded to the senior Secret Service officer on the presidential detail. “Flip on CNN.”