My Kind of Town
>> Arizona Memorial Spy on spy
Muhammed Resurreccion's plan was simple. Wait until boat No. 13 reached the memorial, which he could see perfectly clear from behind this shady monkeypod tree. Then he would take three or four more minutes to walk to the van that Wilhemina had rented in her name, wipe down his prints, grab his bag, walk over to the taxi area, hail a cab. That would give Elizabeth, Rosalita and Wilhemina time to lay the bouquet of flowers in front of the marble wall that named the USS Arizona's dead.
Not until he was in the taxi would he unlock the safety on what appeared to be a normal radio-control car door locking device and push the button that would initiate the second attack on Pearl Harbor, further shatter Americans' sense of security and, most importantly, make the world take his people and their cry for independence seriously.
Commander Chuck Ryan had been in the spy biz longer than Muhammed. The Navy intelligence officer waited just outside the security check -- if you could call it that -- glancing at his watch, obviously waiting not at all patiently for someone who was egregiously late.
After a couple of minutes, he had a reason to pull on his cell phone's hands-free set and buzz Lt. Martin Luther Washington, who by now was aboard the boat, and to walk out toward the water -- behind Muhammed -- looking around for a friend who was not to be found. The boat was just pulling away from the dock when Muhammed tensed. Beyond, Ryan could see a woman stand up waving a bouquet of flowers, and then Marty's hulking form rise to meet her. Muhammed reached in his right trouser pocket.
"Marty!"
But Marty, playing tourist, was not wearing his ear-piece.
>> Make it look normal, Ryan had told him. Don't do anything to set off Muhammed. Literally. And so the moment that his gal Sandy jumped up with the flowers and started to cock her arm like a shortstop making a long throw to first, Marty was up, trying to shield her from where he knew Muhammed watched. He slid one big arm around her petite shoulders, tried to guide her down into the seat beside him, but she spun away, lunged toward the side rail.
This ain't normal, Marty thought.
Sandy tripped, stumbled, dropped the bouquet.
Marty, a former defensive end at SMU known for his quick feet, showed he had good hands too, picking the bouquet out of the air and throwing it as hard and far as he could away from the boat. But he didn't have much of an arm.
>> Ryan saw Muhammed emphatically push a radio-control car door lock and a heartbeat later the world exploded.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be emailed at dchapman@midweek.com