The Mustangs charter landed without incident at 3:16 p.m. PST in San Francisco. The plane taxied to the four luxury buses and stopped. The players, coaching staff, and guests transferred from their air transportation to their land transportation and were off.

On bus one, Riley was surprised no one had mentioned the attack yet. Several guys had their BlackBerries out and were checking the college football scores. Finally Robert Taylor, the PR man, shouted, “Unbelievable! The Mall of America was bombed!”

A few of the guys at the front of the bus spun around in their seats.

Taylor read the headline from his BlackBerry: “‘Suspected Terrorists Attack Crowded Mall of America.’ It doesn’t seem like they have a lot of information yet.”

Sal Ricci made his way to Taylor’s row and said, “That’s Minneapolis, isn’t it? My wife has some old friends there. Can you check a different Web site?”

“That’s all I’m seeing on these sites. We’ll be at the Hyatt in a few minutes; you can check the news there. In the meantime, let me call some of my network sources.” Taylor immediately started dialing numbers, while Ricci stood in the aisle leaning over his shoulder.

Ten minutes later, the buses angled into the roundabout of the hotel behind the blinking lights and sirens of the California Highway Patrol escort. Two hundred or so fans were already yelling and jockeying for position behind the roped-off barricade near the doors.

As the players bounded down the bus stairs one by one, the fans screamed even louder. The PR department surrounded Riley and Coach Burton and shielded them through the doors of the hotel. As they entered, Riley spotted a guy saying, “Oh, come on, Covington. I came all the way from El Paso. Will you…?”

Riley thought, Nice try, bud, but I can spot a seller from a mile away. At first, Riley had found it tough to tell the true fans from the memorabilia peddlers. After a while they become easier to spot with their five footballs to sign or their stack of glossies and ready black Sharpie.

As Riley cruised through the lobby, Taylor caught up with him to let him know PFL Network and NBC wanted interviews. “Robert, give me some time. I want to go see what happened in Minneapolis and then relax for a while. Come get me at six.”

Riley turned, grabbed an envelope, and looked inside for his key. The fans’ well-wishing screams turned to creative curses as he rounded the corner and quickly headed for the elevator. Riley knew that many in the disgruntled crowd would stay several more hours before they dispersed, hoping they might still get a glimpse of one of their favorite players.

The players relaxed in their rooms until about 6:00, when they made their way down to the ballroom level and jumped into a private buffet line.

The talk in line and at the tables was split between the attack on the Mall of America and the day’s college football scores. Rather than showing news updates from Minnesota, the large TV in the room was tuned to ESPN, which was airing the end of the University of Hawaii’s surprise upset over Notre Dame.

While Riley ate, he fielded questions from Garrett Widnall and Travis Marshall, who both wanted a military perspective on what had happened at the mall and what America’s response should be.

After an excellent meal of filet mignon, fried chicken, various pastas, and a massive salad bar, the players began filtering out to their position meetings. The coaching staff used these smaller group times to make sure every man knew his assignment.

A special teams meeting followed. Special teams was the black sheep of the team. It was an unspoken but well-known fact that the special teams players’ primary responsibility was simply to not mess anything up.

Immediately after the special teams meeting, the offense and defense gathered separately to finalize the game plan. Finally, the entire team met for Coach Burton’s pep talk. Then it was off to their respective rooms-no shared rooms for the Colorado Mustangs-until pregame curfew at 11:15 p.m. There wasn’t a lot of fooling around or banter by this time. The pressure had already begun to mount in anticipation of a very important game against a bitter division rival.

Saturday, December 20

CTD North Central Division Headquarters

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Jim Hicks entered Interrogation Room 3 and saw Abdel al-Hasani sitting at a stainless steel table on a stainless steel chair. The man was shirtless, his left side heavily bandaged. His left hand was covered in surgical tape. A handcuff just above the bandages was connected to a medium-gauge chain that slipped down through a hole drilled into the surface of the table and came back up through an identical hole eighteen inches to the right of the first, connecting to a cuff on his right wrist. The only piece of furniture that was not bolted to the floor was a second chair, which Hicks now sat in.

Hicks placed his knife on the table just out of Abdel’s reach and said, “Your brother was a foolish man.”

Abdel’s eyes slowly lifted to Hicks’s, then slipped back down.

The look was not what Hicks had expected. He prided himself on being able to read the eyes of those he questioned, and Abdel’s stare was filled with hopelessness mixed with a cry for help. Go slow with this one, he thought. He’s dying to talk but needs to be convinced it’s okay.

“I have to admit,” Hicks continued, “I admired Aamir’s strength and courage. But I don’t understand his actions.”

“Aamir was a true believer in the Cause,” Abdel said, not lifting his eyes from the table.

“And you, Abdel? Are you a true believer in the Cause?”

“I am a true believer in Allah. I am a true believer in the Prophet.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Abdel remained silent, his eyes burning a hole in the table.

Hicks reached for the knife, slid it into its sheath, and placed it back on the table. “Your English is very good. Where did you learn it?”

“It was part of my preparation.”

“You mean you learned an entire language just so you could come here and blow yourself up? Very impressive, but also very foolish. What a shame to waste a mind like yours on one push of a button.”

“My mind was created by Allah and for Allah,” Abdel said quietly. “I use it for what he requires of me.”

“And this attack-this attempt to rip apart the bodies of innocent women and children-is this what Allah requires of you? Or did someone else ask you to do this?”

Again the eyes, again the look, again the withdrawal.

“Abdel, you are an intelligent man, much smarter than your brother. He was convinced of the lies. He became confused about what is really black and what is really white. But you… you always had a seed of doubt, didn’t you? You always knew that something didn’t connect between your loving Allah and the murder of innocents.” Hicks’s voice continued to rise as he spoke. “Who did it, Abdel? Who took the Allah of your youth and turned him into a butcher? Who took the beauty of your childhood faith and smeared it with blood? Who convinced you to commit this atrocity? Give me a name, Abdel! I need a name!” Hicks was standing now, leaning across the table.

Abdel sat silently. Thirty seconds passed. One minute passed.

Hicks remained hovering over the man, his hands planted firmly on the table, not a muscle on his body moving. One minute thirty. Two minutes.

Suddenly, Abdel’s whole body heaved a massive sigh, as if he was releasing years of doubt and sorrow. Without looking up, in a voice barely audible, Abdel al-Hasani uttered one word: “Hakeem.”

Saturday, December 20

United States

The man unconsciously rubbed the brass medallion between his thumb and index finger. Sometimes he flipped the disk and caught it; sometimes he spun it on a table. But mostly he just rubbed it. It was like a reminder deep down in his pocket, an aid to help him think.